#-> if you connect dots it's. not deep i just have (a brain)

[saltlog]

enabling asks as a test because i cannot reply. to replies mistake of my own making. i may have 2 trigun blogs and egrhhghgh💧

[chaotic-birds]

silly kitty

Jason's forced to use the only bandaids you have at home.

🩹 G/AUs: fluff, est. relt. 🩹 TW: blood, gn!reader but is called cute/adorable/pretty 🩹 WC: 1.6k 🩹 A/N: I've combined my (strange) love for bandaids and Jason Todd in one fic... also inspired by all the fanart of Jason with bandaids on his face 🥺 he's so cute i wanna eat him nomnomnom

this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty!

masterlist

Jason wakes startled.

He senses eyes on him which makes him jackknife up and reach for his gun. Though before he pulls it out, your face registers in his brain.

You’re staring down at him with a frown.

“What is that?” you ask, beating him to his own question.

“What is what?” he asks, still tired. He rubs a hand over his face to try to wake up.

“That.” You point to his face.

“My… face?”

You huff and connect your finger to his cheek.

“You’re bleeding on our couch,” you say.

Jason frowns. He hadn’t meant to get blood on the furniture. He didn’t even realize he was still bleeding.

“So, to answer your question: A scratch.”

You grab his shoulders and pull him into a seating position. When he’s situated, you leave for the bathroom. You come back holding something in one hand and a damp rag in another.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks, gaze moving up as you stand in front of him.

“Playing doctor,” you simply reply.

“I’m fine—”

“Hush,” you command.

He does.

His eyes stare into yours as you gently wipe away the small amount of blood. His hands rise to your hips, giving them a massage while you work.

He shouldn’t be surprised. This isn’t the first, nor the last, time you’ve fretted over a simple cut. Sure, the cut on his face was more than a paper cut, but it wasn’t deep enough to get stitches or anything.

“This was the only one they had at the store the other day,” you explain as you gently adhere a bandaid to his cheek.

Jason’s brows scrunch in confusion. He’s not sure exactly what you’re talking about.

Once done, you take a small step back to assess his face.

“That was the only one, babe,” he says, knowing you’re looking for more injuries.

Then an odd smile creeps on your lips and before he can question it, you’re pulling your phone from your back pocket with one hand and cupping his chin with the other.

You tilt his face up and give the lower part of his cheeks a squeeze—avoiding his bandaid.

Jason sits still in utter puzzlement, staring up at you. He can feel his cheeks squish and his lips pout at your action. Then he hears the click of the camera.

“What was that about?” he asks. His voice is slightly muffled since you’re still holding onto him.

You giggle staring at your phone.

Without answering, you lean down and peck his puckered lips.

“Your job to clean the couch,” you reply instead and saunter off to the bedroom.

Jason watches you and tries to understand what just happened.

The sleepiness from before soon washes over him. He’s about to lay back down when your words ring in his ears. He needs to clean the couch.

Grumbling, he pushes off the cushion and moves to the bathroom to grab a wet cloth.

As he’s about to exit, he catches his reflection in the mirror.

He scoffs lightly.

On his cheek is a Hello Kitty bandaid.

The cat’s face is repeated over a pink polka dot pattern.

He takes a detour and pushes open the bedroom door. You’re sat on the bed, laptop on your lap.

Hearing the door open, you glance up. You bite back a laugh.

“Seriously?” he huffs, although not mad.

You shrug. “I told you that’s all they had.”

“The cut’s not that bad. I don’t need this on,” he points to the pink and white bandaid.

You set your laptop to the side and slide out of bed. You grab his wrist that’s lifted and give him a glare.

“You take off that bandaid and I’ll redecorate this entire apartment with Hello Kitty merch, plaster Hello Kitty stickers on your helmet, and make it known to the world that Red Hood adores the silly cat.”

Jason stares at you. He tries really hard not to smile because he knows you’re threatening him. But holy fuck do you look cute mad.

“I’m serious, Jay!” you exclaim and give his wrist a little shake.

“I won’t take it off,” he concedes.

You tilt your chin up in victory. A smile grows.

Jason’s heart flips.

He thinks you’re so adorable. Way more than the damn cat he has on his face.

You quickly lean in and kiss his lips then the bandaid.

“Good boy,” you tease with a wink and climb into bed again.

Your focus stays off him but he can tell you’re doing that on purpose. Jason almost joins you in bed when he feels something wet hit his thigh.

Right… the couch.

Jason lingers in the doorway. You’re still ignoring him, but there’s a small smile on your face that he wants to wipe away with his mouth. Shaking his head to rid the temptation, he leaves to clean up the mess on the couch.

When Jason takes his helmet off in the batcave after patrol, snickers erupt around him.

“What?” he grumbles.

He stares at his family who eyes him with mirth. No one says anything for a few seconds.

“You, uh,” Dick begins to say as he tries to suppress his laughter. “You got a thing for cute little cats now?”

“What?” Jason huffs and runs a hand through his helmet hair.

“I knew he was a softie on the inside,” Stephanie says, her gaze flickering down slightly.

“I bet he loves red because it’s close to pink,” Damian pipes up.

Jason narrows his eyes.

“You wearing pink undies too?” Dick asks.

It’s then it finally clicks.

He reaches up to tear the stupid bandaid from his face, but then your victory smile flashes in his mind.

He curses under his breath and flips them all the bird instead.

Laughter fills the cave.

Jason shakes his head and goes to his motorcycle.

“Wait,” Stephanie says between laughs. “What about our meeting?”

“Let him go, he probably misses his Hello Kitty stuffie,” Tim says.

Jason scowls in Tim’s direction as he climbs on his motorcycle. He leaves without a word, but their laughter echoes in his mind. He’s chucking that Hello Kitty bandage box in the nearby dumpster tomorrow.

When he gets home, he finds you asleep. He tries to be quiet while getting ready for bed, but you stir awake anyway as soon as he slides under the covers.

Your eyes barely peel open and Jason smiles at the sight.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he murmurs and wraps his arms around you.

You snuggle against his chest.

“You’re still wearing it.” Jason hears you mumble.

“You told me not to take it off,” he chuckles.

“Hm, yeah,” you reply with a smile, falling back to sleep.

Jason holds you tight. He recalls the teasing he got from his siblings, but knowing the silly bandaid made you smile was worth it.

The next morning, he sees your phone light up with a notification on the counter while he cooks. He takes one peek, not really caring to see the alert, but the light catches his attention. Just as the screen fades to black, he sees the picture you took yesterday.

Jason taps on the screen and stares down at himself. He looks ridiculous wearing a confused expression with puffy cheeks and pouting lips.

“What is it?” you ask while coming up behind him. You snuggle into his side, tapping your phone to see what got his focus.

“You couldn’t have chosen a better picture of me?” he asks.

You laugh, clearing the YouTube notification to see the picture in all its glory.

“I love it,” you smile then look at him. “I love you.”

You lean in and steal what was meant to be a short kiss, but Jason’s hand holds you in place.

“Hm, Jay—” You try to pull away.

“What?” he mutters against your lips, holding you tighter.

You push his chest until you finally free yourself.

“The eggs.”

Jason glances at his pan and sees his once fluffy eggs are now dark and shriveled.

“Fuck,” he sighs and turns off the stove.

“Was that the last of them?” you ask while he tosses the burnt eggs in the trash.

He nods with a frown.

“No worries,” you say. Jason hears you move about the kitchen.

He leaves the pan in the sink, making a mental note to clean it later, before turning and leaning against the counter to look at you. You’re smiling and holding up two cereal boxes. There are bowls, spoons, and milk on the counter behind you.

“Which one?” you ask.

A wave of affection suddenly washes over Jason. Whether it be from the domestic morning, or your cute stance with your pretty smile, he’s not sure. He just knows he can’t hold it in.

“The one in the middle,” he says and takes one step to close the distance.

“What? I’m not ce—” you begin to argue, but Jason kisses you passionately as he lifts you onto the counter.

You try to set down the boxes, however, one manages to slip off the edge and fall to the floor.

Jason doesn’t care one bit and keeps you in place. His mouth moves against yours quickly, hands slipping beneath your shirt to rub your bare skin.

Your hands raise to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. When one of them grazes the Hello Kitty bandaid, you smile and giggle against his mouth.

Jason can’t help but chuckle and pull you even closer, chests flushed with each other with your legs wrapped around him.

Maybe he’ll have to keep the Hello Kitty bandages after all.

A/N: If anyone wants to draw the pic reader took... PLEASE FEEL FREE TO AND TAG ME OMFG. the image in my head of it is TO DIE FOR CUTE. anyway, i'll shut up now. i just luv him ur honor *weeps*

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

[mooooonnnzz]

holy shit world/insure made me sob. would you consider doing a part two ? i’m imagining stan and ford telling dipper and mable childhood stories with the reader. they’re vague about it, saying stuff like “they aren’t here anymore” so the twins just think read died. then reading coming back through the portal and they connect the dots. omfg i’m obsessed with this concept.

Word/Insured Part 2

Stanford Pines x Sibling!Reader/Stanley Pines x Sibling!Reader

☆ GUESS WHO FINISSHHHEDDDD!!!

☆ this'll have 2 parts so it's easier to digest, since it's lawnngg so if it abruptly ends, that's just me splitting it

☆ 4,5k words

☆ gender-neutral reader

☆ possible tw: drinking to cope, mentions of suicide, gagging and descriptive chewing? and just angst

☆ srry this lowk kinda took long to write both keyboard and mouse just died on me when i was writing this so i had to find an old keyboard oops

☆ if this does well, i'm considering on making hcs of reader adjusting back to their home dimensions and diving deep into the twins n their trauma !!

☆ that's all. i hope you all enjoy! :3

✶ Stan and Ford hadn’t talked to each other since your disappearance. The anger and hatred that Stan held onto was enough to deter him from even granting a glance at Ford who tirelessly tried to get Stan to talk to him. He’d begin the conversation with ideas he’s thought through the night prior, ideas that most likely secured a chance on bringing you back. But Stan wanted nothing to do with him. His head was shrouded with your screams, the way you yelled out for Stan instilled such a soul-crushing guilt on Stan; he wasn’t sure he’d properly function as a normal human being after this. Not to mention, you and Stan were two peas in a pod, spending 10 years together after the collapse of their family truly brought the pair together, closer than they’d ever thought they would be. And now Stan is going through the same grief he felt when he was kicked out of the house, Ford doing nothing but sparing a sorrowful glance to him as he shouted for his brother, anticipating Ford to do something; to clean his name and everything would go back to normal. But instead, he turned his back on him. The situations were massively different but the pain was eerily still the same. 

✶ Stan would spend majority of his nights clutching your belongings close to his chest. He didn’t care if it looked weird, those were the only things that he had left of you at the moment. Nights were spent crying himself to sleep, envisioning different scenarios where he had caught onto your wrist and pulled you back to the ground, where it was safe, where he was there to protect you. He couldn’t let his mind linger on the idea of you being stranded in another dimension, helpless and lost, not knowing what to do or where to go. The mere thought of it sends his heart crumbling down to his palms, all shredded and shattered beyond repair. He was your big brother, he was supposed to protect you. To keep you safe from harm's way, he betrayed that very promise by leading you to the place where you were taken away from him too soon. And that alone gutted him. Ford would hear Stan sobbing into the night and all he did was lay there in his bed, submitting himself to the torture to hear his brother’s wretched cries. Because, this was his fault. Stan wasn’t shy to tell him that almost every waking moment of the day when he has the chance. The guilt haunts him.

✶ Verbal arguments were pretty common between the pair. Stan mainly started them when he was pulled out of the haze he was in and roughly back to reality. A reality where you weren’t around anymore and that irked him, because who else was at fault other than his idiotic brother? “Do you ever wonder how more lively this house would have been if ya hadn’t pushed [Name] inside the portal?” His tone was harsh. They carried thick venom to them, his words permanently burning their way into Ford’s brain. “Not this again,” Ford’s heart quivered. He had just recollected himself from yesterday's fight and now Stan wants to barrel through another one? Ford avoided Stan’s glaring eye contact. “Stanley, I told you many times before. I’m sorry! I’m sorry for screwing up, I’m sorry for being the reason why [Name] isn’t here anymore.” Ford’s head tilted back, his eyes staring longingly at the ceiling. “You don’t know how much this eats at me, Stanley.” He blinks away the tears threatening to escape, his head lowering back down to meet Stan’s fiery stare. “But I beg of you, please. Don’t hate me for it. I can’t lose you again, not after losing [Name].” The look in Ford’s eyes was something Stan would never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He looked so broken, so shattered, the shell of someone who once was a prodigy at everything he touched was now crushed to bits; pieces of him scattered, lost to time. Stanley’s anger faded into a mellow irritation. Shifting his hands awkwardly on his chest, his face softened ever so slightly. “Fine,” He grumbled, rushing past Ford, their shoulders roughly rocking against each other. Ford sniffed, wiping the tears off his face. This was a new development. A spark of hope flickered in Ford. 

✶ Alcohol and cigars were Stan’s life vest. He’d rob a few packs of beer and down them within two days. It wasn’t healthy, but at least it distracted him from everything that was happening, right? Stan was pretty much drunk every day, and if he wasn’t, he was out on the porch smoking cigars, hoping that one day Ford would find him dead on the floor with beer cans surrounding him, his last moments spent thinking about how much he missed you. Stan wasn’t an angry drunk much to Ford’s surprise, considering how he spent his times where he was sober yelling at Ford, rather he’d rot away on the couch or floor, silently crying to himself in a puddle of his own tears. Many times Ford would have to pick up Stan, rest him on the couch and try to sober him up. And it wasn’t an easy task to do, picking up Stan with his weak arms was a workout for Ford. “Why couldn’t I save them?” Stank drunkenly babbled out, his head swaying side to side. “Don’t move too much, Stanley. You’ll give yourself a headache.” Ford warned, propping his head up with a pillow. “If I wasn’t so slow, [Name] would still be here.” Stan hiccups, his eyes glistening with tears. No matter how many times Ford hears Stan painfully talking about you, it still hurts the same and even more. “It’s not your fault, Stan.” Ford said, pulling a blanket up to his chest. “It’s not yours either.” Stan’s hand patted Ford on his face, thinking that it was his head. When Stan pulled his hands away, tears were streaking down Ford’s cheek. Hearing Stan tell him that it wasn’t his fault healed a piece of him and that quickly triggered the waterworks. “There, there, brother.” Stan patted Ford’s back as he sobbed into his hands. “It’s not my fault,” He repeated in loud sobs. “It’s not your fault.” Stan echoes. 

✶ Ford handled his grief and stress by huddling himself in the lab, isolating himself from Stan’s drunken state and researching his work. Trying to find loopholes that he can tie them close with a workaround, with a quick fix that would bring you back. Cans of beer were discarded around his lab, just the same as upstairs. But he wasn’t downing beers like Stan, he chugged one or two to dull out the ache in his heart, to keep it from distracting him. He knew when to stop and limit himself. He wasn’t dependent on alcohol. Sleep was something Ford considered useless. That would only distract him from his work, from his progress. Stan walked into the lab, puffing a gray smoke of air out onto the air. Your absence has bestowed so much despair onto the pair and he hadn’t realized until this very moment. Walking over to Ford, he placed a hand on his back. He was messily sleeping on top of his work, glasses hanging off his face, mouth open, drool dribbling down to his arms and paper. His dark circles were so dark and he was unshaven, chin stubbly with hair. Has he been getting any sleep? He wouldn’t know because he’s always drinking the day away. Stan internally groaned at himself. Not only has been neglecting himself, he’s been neglecting his brother. Burning out the cigar, he grabbed a blanket from upstairs and draped it over Ford. “Sleep tight, Stanford.” He said, gingerly squeezing his arm. Stan sat right next to him, wanting to keep him company and dozed off. When morning came, Ford awoke to Stan’s head colliding with his chair. For that one morning, Stan’s snores were music to his ears. 

✶ “S-Stanley!” Ford’s body lunges up from the couch when he sees Stan briskly pass by him and into the kitchen. “I-I’ve done some research and I-I think I found a way to get [Name] back!” He stumbles over his words, the lack of sleep weighing heavily on his foggy brain. The only thing that is keeping him up as of now is coffee he had been taking in shots for the past few days. The way he moves is fidgety and erratically and Stan takes notice of that. Pouring a cup of coffee for himself in a mug, he leans his back against the counter. “You need sleep, Stanford.” He brings the rim of the mug to his lips, his eyes never leaving Ford’s trembling figure as he takes a big gulp from his coffee. Ford couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Stan spoke to him! It was measly four words, but that’s more than he has ever said in the past five months, that wasn’t angry nonsensical words that were being thrown at him or depressing drunken babbling. “No, there’s so much to be done.” Ford runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “You need to hear me out. We need to find the other two–” Stan shushes him. “I won’t talk to you until ya sleep, Stanford. Don’t you bother trying to back out from this.” He looks at Ford with a stern expression, almost the same one Mom wore whenever he warned Ford to not do anything stupid in the backyard with Stan. “B-But!” Stan doesn’t hear his weak objections, he’s already out of the kitchen before Ford can conjure a good enough excuse. With a groan, Ford trips over his own feet while he makes his way back to the couch. Pushing all his research and books off the couch and onto the floor, he topples over the couch. When his head crashes on the soft plush of his sofa, his body automatically shuts off, revealing how dangerously tired he was. His eyes fluttered close and it didn’t take long for him to crash out on the couch. Stan came in to check on Ford and was pleasantly pleased to see his twin at last getting the rest he deserved. 

✶ Clinking his fork idly on the ceramic plate, Stan watched Ford make breakfast. Originally Stan was going to prepare breakfast, but Ford saw he was cooking and pushed him out of the kitchen, telling him that it was “his treat,” Stan couldn’t even utter a single word to him. He just wanted simple scrambled eggs and toast and now he’s left to fear for his life as Ford concocts a science experiment for his breakfast. “And for you breakfast, Stanley.” Ford swoops in, leaning forward as he shuffles the plate of food onto the table. “Scrambled eggs and buttered toast,” Ford smiles knowingly, placing his breakfast down. He had the same breakfast but the crust of his toast was cut off. “I don’t even know why I doubted you.” Stan scoops up the scrambled eggs with his fork and shoves it in his mouth with giddy excitement, a display of emotions Ford hadn’t seen in over 10 years. Who knew a simple breakfast would get him so happy? “Still being a baby about the crust?” He points to Ford’s crustless buttered toast with his fork, mouth muffled with food still being chewed in his mouth. Ford cringes at the sight of mashed up food in Stan’s mouth, suppressing a gag as he nods his head. “Chew your food before talking, Stanley! We’re not kids anymore.” He rasps out, his palm covering his mouth, his body shuddering with full body heaves. “Alright, alright!” With a loud gulp, he swallows his scrambled eggs. “Happy now?” Said Stan with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe not,” Using his other hand, Ford pushes the plate of eggs away. “Don’t want to eat anymore,” Stan shrugs, pouring the scrambled eggs on the plate. “More for me!” As Stan is chowing down on his eggs, Ford regains his composure. Though, he couldn’t watch Stan eat his eggs without the image of the yellow goopy food in his mouth so he averted his gaze to his hands. 

✶ “[Name] sure had grown up the last time I saw them.” This was Ford’s feeble attempt at sprouting a conversation with Stan, but he soon regretted what he said when he realized the fragility of the topic. Stan blinks, stunned. A beat passes and Ford’s ready to divert the conversation to another topic when Stan replies with a weird look on his face Ford can’t quite catch. “Well, yeah,” Stan looks off to the side. Ford lets out a breath of relief, Stan wasn’t upset at the mention of you. “They left with me when you and Dad kicked me out and we haven’t seen each other since then.” There’s a distant look in his eyes when he speaks, his words carrying a light anger to them ever so slightly. “How were th–” Stan shoots up, the chair skidding behind him. “Just because we’re all chummy now doesn’t mean you get to ask all about [Name].” The sudden shift in his emotions slapped Ford right in his face. “I’m sorry.” Ford whispers. Stan clicks his tongue, uttering to himself before shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry.” Stan rubs the sides of his head with his fingers. “Let’s not talk about them right now, okay? I don’t think I’m ready yet.” Stan pulls the chair to him and sits down. He rests his head on his fist, eyebrows pinched together with a long frown on his face. “I didn’t mean to blow up on ya like that.” Stan looks Ford in the eyes, and he could see the sincere sadness swimming in his eyes. “It’s okay, Stanley. Why don’t we talk about what you do for a living?” With that, they eased themselves into a comfortable conversation, with a few hiccups here and there, but in the end, the twins both had a soft smile adoring their faces.

✶ The repairing of the portal was a stepping stone that repaired Ford’s and Stan’s relationship. They weren’t going to lie and say that their relationship now was perfect, they still had their moments of anger and differences, but with a lot and a lot of patience, their bond was soon regaining its spark. “Whaddya think, poindexter?” Stan slapped a sloppily written plan on how to fix the portal in front of Ford. “What is this?” Ford looked at the piece of paper like it was garbage. “A plan to fix the portal, isn’t it obvious?” Stan snatched his paper back up, eyes speedily reading his work, doubting his work. “Stanley, that is unnecessary. I have the blueprints to fix the portal.” Discarding his plan, he slapped his hands enthusiastically, rubbing them together. “Alright! So where are they?” Ford sucks in a breath. “In the other journals.” Stan nodded his head slowly, as if that information was already obvious. “And where are the other journals?” Ford coughs into his fist, speedily saying; “I hid them.” Stan looks at him weirdly. “Can’t we just unhide them?” Ford rubs a hand up against his prickly cheek. “That’s the thing. I may or may not remember where I hid them.” Closing his eyes, he braced for the gust of angry yelling. “you WHAT?!” Stan’s hands flew to the side of his head. “How do you forget where you put them?!” Stan made a mental note to mark down how many times Ford screwed up, so far he has two. He has a long way to go before he could be anywhere near Stan’s record. “I was in a flurry of panic! I wasn’t thinking straight.” Stan groaned, smacking his face with his hand. “Was it at least in Gravity Falls?” Stan had his fingers crossed. “Yes, obviously.” A triumph “Yes!” leaves Stan. “Okay, let’s get digging then!” 

✶ Stan severely underestimated how truly difficult it would be finding one of the books in a forest that seemed like it stretched out for miles. Every turn looks the same and whenever he’d think he’s making progress, he’s right back where he started, at least he thinks he is. Frustrated, he bangs his head on a tree. The sound of metal clanging rang in his ears and shook through the tree. He groaned, holding his head with one hand as he curiously examined the possible metal tree. “Stanley!” Ford came running to Stan’s side, panting heavily. He wasn’t used to running for more than 5 seconds, and that was evidently proven with his flushed face and out of breath wheezes. “This tree is metal,” Stan notes, taking a few steps back, winding his leg back and hammering his shoe into the tree. The tree simply shook, the metal sound nowhere to be heard. “What?” Stan can feel his brain heating up, he couldn’t make any sense of this. The tree he kicked felt like a tree, not some metal contraption. It was only when he knocked his head—An idea springs to mind. Leaning his head back, he slammed his head on the tree. Shocked noises sputter out of Ford as he watches Stan rub the sore spot in his head. “There’s something here,” He gestures to the general area where he smashed his head in. “I can see that!” Ford walks up to the tree, knuckles gently knocking on the metal plate that was disguised as a tree. His hands move around the tree, searching for a way to open the plate. His fingers snag on an elevated piece of tree and with his fingertips, he swings it open, revealing a control panel. The memories of constructing this rush to his mind. “I remember now!” He flips a switch, his head turning over to where the large log rested. In front of it, a patch of grass was pulled back to unravel the hidden place where book three was. Ford eagerly snatched the book in his hands, showcasing it to Stan. “Great job, Stanford!” He claps Ford’s back. “So where’s the other one, you remember?” Unfortunately for the both of them, Ford doesn’t remember. He had seemed to bury most of his memories after meeting Bill Cipher, anything beyond that point was an empty mess for him.

✶ With the two books in hand, they managed to tinker and repair the damage to their best efforts. After each exhausting night in the lab, he’d attempt to pull the lever in hopes that whatever they did that day would work and to their utter disappointment, it never dislodge from its spot. “Man,” Stan wipes his forehead with his forearm, sweat glistening on his arm. “For a brainiac like you, I would’ve never imagined you being terrible at building this!” Stan barked with a laugh. Ford scoffed, his attention laser focused on fixing a part of the machine. “How did you manage to build the portal in the first place?” Stan wondered, the flashlight he was using to help Ford see what he was doing began to steer away. “Stanley,” Ford snapped. “The light!” Stan jolted up in surprise, the light quickly going back to Ford. “Sorry,” He sheepishly said. “But seriously, how did you build this?” He looked at Ford curiously. “I had an assistant.” Ford mumbled, a leak of oil dotting his clothes. He hissed, grabbing a tool off the ground to fix whatever started leaking. “Had? What happened?” Ford hummed happily. He had fixed the leak. Placing the tool back down to the floor, he directed his attention to Stan. “He quit.” Ford scratched his head, unintentionally smearing oil on his cheek with his hand. “Why?” Stan tossed him a piece of clean cloth, silently motioning to his cheek. Ford took it, wiping his cheek with the cloth. “He, uh,” If Ford told Stan that he went inside the portal momentarily and came out completely traumatized, Stan would go berserk on him knowing that you went inside the exact portal that mentally ruined Fiddleford. Ford did not want to go back to the arguing and suffocating silence so he lied. “He just thought what I was doing was unethical.” That wasn’t a complete and total lie, but it was far from the truth. Stan bought the lie fortunately for Ford. “Glad at least someone had the brain to call a quits!” 

✶ Before they knew it, they were tremendously low on money. Stan was the unfortunate one to discover this revelation. On a quick supply run, Stan had gone to the grocery store and stock up on some food. When the cashier rang up him, totaling his price to 30 dollars, Stan had pulled out a penny, paper clip and a wrapper. Mentally cursing Ford for spending all his money on unnecessary science stuff, he weakly smiled at the cashier. “Can you hold onto my groceries for a quick second?” The cashier nodded their, a big bright smile on their face. “Of course, stranger!” And right when Stan was going to snag the groceries bags in his hurried rush, a woman spoke from behind him. “Hey, that’s no stranger! That must be the mysterious science guy in the woods!” She points, gathering a crowd around Stan. “Ah, no. That’s my nerdy twin brother.” Stan says, causing the crowd to coo in interest. “There’s two of them?” Someone in the crowd asked. “He probably cloned himself just so he could do two things at once!” Someone else said. “That’s probably what happened. I’ve heard strange stories about that old shack.” Toby Determined spoke up. “Yeah! Mysterious lights and spooky experiments!” Daryl added. “Gosh, I’d pay anything to see what kind of shenanigans you get up in there!” Pa said. Susan perked up at that. “Oh, me too! Do you ever give tours?” 

✶ A sly smirked pulled to Stan’s face. He had the perfect idea. “Yes, I do give tours! Ten…no-no fifteen bucks a person!” The crowd erupts in cheers, waving their green bills around. “Is it possible we get to see the man of mystery himself?” Susan questions. “Hmm, I’m not sure.” Stan eluded them to think that there was no possible way to get to Ford to gauge their reactions. And what they gave him sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. “You know what?” The crowd lightens up with hope. “Fifty bucks if you all want to see the man of mystery himself!” Another boisterous cheer from the crowd. “And what did you say your name was, twin of mister mystery?” Stan smiled proudly. “Stanley, Stanley Pines.”

✶ The crowd bustles into the shack, ooo’s and aaa’a left their mouths in awe of the place. “Step right up folks to a world of,” he pauses for a moment thinking. “A world of enchantment!” He gestures to all the wild findings. Grabbing a dial box with two antennae, he showcases it to the crowd. “Behold! The um, nerdy science box.” Susan looked at it with interest. The device rumbled to life and zapped her in the eye, rendering it closed. “Ah, my eye!” She covers her closed eye, stumbling back. “Uh, I can assure you, that is no way permanent!” He offers an uneasy smile. “I paid sixty five dollars for this!?” With Susan’s comment, the whole crowd erupted in complaints. Quickly thinking, he grabs a skeleton and makes a half-assed joke where the last customers didn’t make it out alive. The crowd laughs at his horrible joke and Stan smiles. “What is with all this ruckus?” Ford walks in, irritation evident on his face. “Is that him?” Someone excitedly shrieks from the crowd. “Oh my god, it is! Take my money!” Wads of dollar bills get thrown at Stan who was making a great effort to make sure he caught all of them. “Stanley, what did you do!”

✶ After answering a few questions he was coaxed into, (they stroked his ego), he kicked them out, accidentally saying that they could return another time before closing the door, smacking himself in the head. “What was that?” Stan turned over to Ford,  buckets of money shoved inside into his shirt. “I got us money! And look how much we got!” He pulls a ten dollar bill from his stack in his shirt. “Stanford, this the best thing that’s ever happened to us so far.” Ford looks at him, unsure. “I’m not a fan of ripping people off,” Stan’s hands fall to his sides. “It’s their choice to throw money at me like a madman. Listen, if we get more money, we can stock up on good materials to fix the portal, like really good parts and we can finally bring [Name] back.” Ford stewed in his thoughts for a little more. He hated to admit, but Stan was right. With a little more money, they could be sailing straight to victory with a higher chance of your return. Ford let out a defeated sigh. “Fine, but I don’t want you to mess with my stuff, got it?” Stan beamed brightly. “I promise!” He broke that later on. 

✶ Gradually, the scary shed in the woods turned into a tourist spot people would frequent. Together, they advertised the shack by plastering various signs and posters all over the woods. They even went as far to tape advertisements onto people’s windows. Ford wanted to use actual beasts he had found in the woods to show to people, but in the end they all ran away, horrified for their lives. Ford was respectfully peeved because when he’d glance over to Stan, he had somehow had the crowd hanging on to every word that spilled out of his mouth. And when he’d show the crudely sewed animal he had made within five minutes before the tour started, they all gasped in delight, their money flying to him. “How do you do it?” Ford asks as Stan closes the door, reveling in the pool of money he had made. “I just say whatever comes to mind.” Stan shrugs. “But none of your stories make any sense logically! How did they believe in a half beaver half bat?” He gestures to the taxidermy animal. The beady eyes were slowly sliding off its face, leaving a trail of glue. “Hey, the people love to spend their money on things that are obviously fake, weirdly enough.” The door rattles with a knock. “Wanna take this next crowd? I gotta sort this money.” Against his will, not really, Ford opens the door and flashes an award winning smile he had learned from Stan. Cash was already being shoved in his face. At least he earns money for looking good. Ford attempted Stan’s whole shtick and to his very surprise it worked! It wasn’t as good as Stan’s performance, but it worked well enough that people were swarming him with cash. His bitterness from before was quickly washed over and he continued on his act. When the crowd dispersed, satisfied with their tour. Stan was there in the middle, clapping widely. “That was some good acting there, Ford!” Ford smiled, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m only doing this cause we need the money.” 

Taglist: @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @lovexsage, @teddycricketdream, @theilluminatidragonqueen, @raventeen @cedarmoonzz if you wanna be added to my taglist, dm me or comment! <3

Next ->

[starmocha]

I For You Zayne/Reader | 3372 words | Masterlist | AO3 Lazy morning with Zayne. A/N: I love my sweetie darling honey baby snookums-pookie Zayne so much. Happy birthday to our precious doctor who deserves the whole universe and more. 🥹❤️ MDNI.

You awoke from your deep sleep, feeling the bed shifting with the sudden added weight. You looked up groggily, bleary eyes attempting to adjust to the dark bedroom.

“Go back to sleep,” you heard Zayne’s soft voice murmuring, the familiar and comforting crisp scents of his shampoo and body wash wafted in the air. It smelled like mint. Your sleep-addled brain started connecting the dots, realizing Zayne must have just gotten home from the hospital not too long ago. You started to wake up more fully once it finally clicked in your head that Zayne was finally home after finishing the recent grueling schedule for the week.

“You’re home,” you said, getting up and kneeling on the bed as you watched him settled in next to you. Your heart skipped a beat when he leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on your lips, apologizing quietly for disturbing your sleep. You shook your head and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m glad you woke me up.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, chuckling softly as his own arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you down to lay next to him. He pressed his lips to your forehead. “It’s still dark out. Go back to sleep, darling.”

You peeked over at the clock on his nightstand and noticed it was almost six in the morning. “You sleep,” you told him, “I’ve rested enough. I can go do some chores while you sleep.”

As the last word left your mouth, Zayne tightened his hold around you, pulling you closer to his body to prevent you from leaving. You whined a little when his sudden action caused your slip dress to rise up above your thighs, but Zayne didn’t seem to care, his hold on you unyielding even as you attempted to fix your dress. He quieted you with a gentle kiss to your head. “It’s Sunday,” he said, “The chores can wait.”

Zayne yawned, his eyes looking heavier. He nuzzled his cheek against your hair. “Stay with me,” he murmured drowsily.

You gave in to Zayne’s insistence, staying until he fell asleep, which didn’t actually take long. He had pushed his body to the extreme, prioritizing others over himself without a thought or any hesitation. Now that he finally had a quiet moment to himself, to finally lay down to rest, his body gave in helplessly to the exhaustion from a week of overwork. On top of that, with your soft body and comforting warmth next to him, Zayne had drifted off to a deep sleep sooner than expected.

You peered up curiously, examining his sleeping face. This was your chance.

When you tried to leave, however, Zayne unconsciously tightened his hold, keeping your body pressed firmly against his. You sighed with a smile. You nuzzled your cheek against his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his sleepshirt and his warm embrace comforting you as well.

You listened to his soft breathing as he slept, but you yourself was now more awake and alert than before. Sleep was not coming back to claim you, but you were fine with that. You had already planned beforehand that today you would spend the morning tidying the house and doing some chores while Zayne rested. You had even planned out all the meals you would prepare for him on his rare day off.

You cracked a smile, already giddy over what you had planned for breakfast. Before you could enact your plan, though, you needed to find a way to leave Zayne’s iron embrace, which in all honesty, was not the worst problem to have crossed your path. Any other day, you would have welcomed this situation, but today you were set on your plan to pamper and spoil Zayne. You stayed with him an extra fifteen minutes, feeling his hold on you loosening as he fell into a deeper slumber.

You could hear Zayne softly snoring. You lightly poked his cheek. He remained asleep. You smiled.

Taking this chance, you carefully pried yourself from his embrace and stealthily rolled out of bed. You landed on your feet lightly, but you still froze in place, keeping your eyes glued on him to make sure he was still asleep. Zayne answered you with his light snores and you breathed out in relief. You snuck out of the room and freshened up in the guest bathroom before you began tackling your self-imposed list of chores.

For the next two hours, you had straightened out the living room, tidied Zayne’s work desk, and started on a load of neglected laundry. By eight, the sun had already risen and you opened the living room curtain to let the warm sunshine into Zayne’s monochromatic home.

You smiled. Now onto your favorite part of the to-do list: making breakfast.

You hummed happily to yourself as you made your way into the kitchen and gathered all of the necessary ingredients to make French toasts. A sweet breakfast for the sweetest man in your life.

You beaten a couple of eggs with milk, adding a generous helping of sugar, a pinch of salt, a drizzle of vanilla, and a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg. The warm scent of the spices already found their way to your nose, filling you with joy as you placed some thick-cut day-old brioche bread into the egg custard. You made sure the bread soaked up as much of the custard as possible before transferring it to a hot pan with melted butter. The light sizzles filled the air with the rich buttery scent, making your stomach rumbled in anticipation. You vaguely wondered if Zayne could smell the food you were making for him.

Once fully browned on both sides, you transferred two toasts over to a plate, placing one flat while the second leaned on the bottom toast at an angle. Satisfied with the position, you continued your plating, adding a pat of cold butter on the warm toast. You scattered an assortment of different brightly-colored berries all over the plate and finished with a generous dusting of powdered sugar.

You brought the finished plate over to a bamboo tray, adding alongside it a mug of freshly-brewed coffee and a glass of orange juice. You also placed a bottle of maple syrup on the tray, well certain that your sweet-toothed boyfriend would enjoy adding more sweetness to his liking.

You practically skipped to Zayne’s bedroom with the tray of food, excited to see his reaction. As you nudged the semi-closed bedroom door open with your hip, you could see Zayne was starting to stir.

Zayne’s arm reached over to your side of the bed, feeling only the empty space. His eyes were still closed, but you could see the frustrated creases on his face. He started to wake up, opening his eyes slowly. He frowned when his eyes registered the empty space next to him.

“Good morning,” you greeted him, placing the tray on the nightstand. Zayne turned over to look at you and the food in surprise.

“You did this?”

You sat down on the edge of the bed as Zayne sat up, leaning back against the headboard. You reached up and touched his cheek. “Today I am spoiling you,” you told him, smiling as his eyes seemed to widen even further in surprise.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he told you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. You noticed his eyes reflected differently from what he had said. You could see the depths of gratitude and adoration in his gorgeous green eyes and it made you feel tickled pink, pleased that you could bring him this small amount of joy.

“I know,” you answered, “But I wanted to. You deserve to be pampered.”

You almost giggled when you noticed the faintest red on his ears.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, leaning down and capturing your lips, surprising you momentarily before you responded, deepening the kiss further. You gasped in surprise when he pulled you back into bed, keeping you close to his body. You looked up curiously, meeting his cool, calm gaze.

“Zayne—y-your breakfast…” your brain was malfunctioning as you locked eyes with him, feeling his right hand skimming down your body.

He wore the faintest smirk on his face as he pulled you to him with your back pressed to his chest. You gasped again as his hand reached down under your nightgown, searching for your intimate area. You covered your mouth to suppress a cry when he slipped his hand into your panties, fingers already feeling you.

“I’ll enjoy breakfast later,” he promised, kissing your cheek, “Right now…I just want to enjoy you, darling.”

With his other free hand, he pried your hand away from your mouth, chiding you gently, “I want to listen to your pretty voice.” Before you could even voice your protest, Zayne was already tugging your panties down. He slipped his fingers in pass your lips, smiling when you immediately bucked against his hand with a startled moan. “Want to hear you make these sweet sounds for me—because of me…”

You clenched around his fingers with a moan, your face pressed into the pillow. “Oh, Zayne…”

“Yes, darling?”

You gripped the pillow helplessly, needing something to hold onto as Zayne pulled you firmly to him. Your cheeks rosy, expression becoming more and more aroused as you could feel his cock hardening against your ass while he worked his fingers in and out of you, his thumb finding your clit to circle and tease, drawing out more of the sweet noises he desired from you.

“Zayne—your fingers!” You unconsciously thrusted into his hand, needing more of him, more of this sweet pleasure he was giving you.

“Hmm?” Zayne looked down at you with a smirk, enjoying the sight of his beloved coming undone by him. His face leaned closer to your ear, his husky whisper made you trembled, made you feel an ache in the pit of your belly. “Do you feel good, darling?”

“Y—yes!”

“Good,” he murmured, “I want you to feel good.”

He kissed your neck deeply, his lips lingering, the warmth of his breath and the words he spoke making you shivered with desire. “You’re always so good to me, so I want you to feel the same.”

His pacing increased, expert fingers already knowing where you’re most sensitive, where just the slightest touch could have you arching up, shamelessly thrusting into his hand for your release.

“Ah, Zayne, don’t—I’m going to cum!” You held onto the pillow tighter, nails already snagging along the fabric of the pillowcase. You buried your face into the pillow, gasping and whimpering, voice growing a pitch higher as you felt that oncoming tightening in your core.

“Go ahead,” he whispered, his voice still soft and gentle while yours was frantic and pleading. “I want you to cum, want you to cum all over my fingers like the good girl you are.”

“Ohh…Zayne…” You writhed against him, desperate to hear more of him—feel more of him.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you, darling?”

“Ye—yes!”

“My good girl?”

“Yes, yes, Zayne! Yours! Always yours! Ahh—” You cried and sobbed into the pillow, eyes squeezed tightly shut, your only thought was the feeling of your climax, the feeling of Zayne’s fingers still inside you, still easing you back down from your high. You could hear Zayne hissed quietly as you clenched tightly around his fingers, coating them with your release. When he had finally withdrew his fingers, you barely registered it, barely registered that he had also turned you so could lay on your back. Seconds passed before you finally opened your eyes again. Immediately, you felt a tight coil in your belly, your cheeks burning hot as you watched him licked and sucked his fingers clean of you.

He smiled.

“Z-Zayne…” your voice was feeble—whether it was weakened from your pleasurable cries just moments ago, from watching him sucked your juice off his fingers so deliciously, or just the way he smiled at you with so much affections, you weren’t sure anymore.

You sighed happily when his hand caressed your cheek, his face leaning in close. His breath was so warm against your lips as he spoke softly, “Are you still going to spoil me today?”

You nodded immediately despite not knowing his intentions with his question. When you realized what he had meant, your eyes widened in shock as he immediately had you spread out in front of him, his hardened cock already free from its confine and resting heavily in his hand as he leisurely stroked himself.

“N-no, Zayne! I’m not ready!”

“You’re still so wet,” he murmured, guiding himself to your entrance, pleased when you let out a whimper at feeling just the tip pressing into you. He husked lowly, “I think you’re plenty ready for me, darling.”

You leaned back, fingers already digging into the bedsheets as more and more of him entered. You whined softly and pleaded with him.

“Shh, I’ll be gentle, let you get used to me…”

Your hips bucked against him, your body still overly sensitive from your recent climax just mere moments ago. You let out a shaky gasp as you took him in, feeling every glorious inch of him stretching and filling your sensitive pussy. You panted, moaning weakly, “Ohhh, Zayne, it’s too much…Ah-ahh…!”

He kissed your forehead, reassuring you gently, “You can take me, you always do.” His soft voice wrapped around you, filling you with warmth and comfort. He smiled as he could feel you relaxing as he fully penetrated you, bottoming out with a low moan. He claimed your lips, greedily and shamelessly stealing several kisses from you. “You’re so good to me, aren’t you, darling?”

You nodded instinctively, your lust-hazed mind unable to fully think of anything other than Zayne and the feel of him buried so deep inside you. You moaned as he pulled out and then thrusted back in, his rhythm was slow, deliberate, his intent was to have you savor the feel of him, to draw out your time together.

The way you kept saying his name, kept pleading and moaning for him—because of him—made his chest tightened. In this whole wide world, in this lifetime and the next, he wanted no one else but you, and to be wanted in the same way by you, he knew he was blessed to have this love all to himself.

“Let’s take our time, darling,” he murmured, his large hand finding yours, fingers intertwining as he pressed both your hands deeper into the mattress. His forehead rested against yours, his heavy body close to yours—everything of his, yours. When he spoke, you could feel his warm breath caressing your lips again, “I just want to be with you…feel you like this…”

“Mmmm…Zayne…”

His lips seized yours, swallowing all of your words and sounds for himself. You moaned into his mouth, feeling his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly when your legs hooked around his waist, pulling him in deeper. Zayne was willing to be selfless in all other aspects of his life, but when it came to you, he wanted everything of yours to be his and his alone. It seemed only you could make him behave so selfishly, to rebel so willingly, to fall so helplessly—only you. For you.

“Darling…”

You welcomed the long, slow kisses, his languid, fluid movements, the feel of his body covering yours, taking you for himself as if you were the most prized treasure in the world. His soft murmurs of love and praises were so intoxicating, almost hypnotizing, even, like you were falling under his spell. It was almost like he wanted to make you forget all others, forget the world outside this room, and let your thoughts be consumed with only him.

“Feels so good…so good to me…” his lazy words tumbled freely out of his mouth as he branded your neck and shoulder with his kisses. He had let go of your hand, bringing his to cup your face. He caressed your cheek gently, watching as you gazed up at him with rosy cheeks and mouth parting with soft pants and gasps as you took in his slow thrusts. You held your eyes with his, both reflecting different sentiments.

He smirked a little, seeing the conflict in your eyes from wanting to enjoy this slow tender moment a little longer to needing him to fuck you harder and make a mess of you. “You’re so pretty like this, darling,” he said, bringing his hands down to grip your hips. His calloused hands held you firmly while he pulled out and then slammed back into you harder than before, surprising you into crying out his name.

Zayne’s heavy panting rang in your ears, mixing with your own needy moans as you felt his movements becoming faster, rougher. You met his thrusts, the sudden shift in pacing broke the restraints you both held earlier. When he leaned down closer, your arms encircled around his neck, gasping as he lifted you higher off the bed, your legs locked tightly around his waist. You cried into the crook of his neck, feeling all of him penetrating you so deeply over and over and over again.

“Yes…yes…yes…oh, god, Zayne…!”

“Getting so tight,” he grunted, holding you closer to him, pounding into you quicker, his own release was also near. Your nails scraped along his back, urging him more and more. His soft curses got lost amidst your pleading cries.

“Please…I’m gonna…ahh…I’m gonna cum again…Za—”

You cried into his shoulder, nails digging into his back, scratching and clawing as you held on helplessly while he continued to plumbed into you, taking you past the point of no return as he was desperate for his own approaching release.

Your back hit the soft mattress, his body heavy on yours, lips and tongue and teeth marking you up, hands fumbling along your body, feeling all that was his as he rocked into you, rammed into you, chasing after his release. You moaned when he pushed your nightgown up above your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, groaning deeply when your fingers tangled into his soft hair, tugging at him, too overwhelmed and stimulated to even register your own actions.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more of his sudden aggressive treatment, he stilled and emptied into you hot and fast. Your eyes closed, lost in the feeling of him filling you so wonderfully, his seed spilling out of you, dripping down your thighs.

Your head felt clouded, lost amidst the residual lust-filled haze. You could still hear Zayne’s soft panting, feel him softening inside you, feel the lingering aftershocks of your orgasm. You whimpered when you felt him pulling out, felt him laying down heavy next to you, dragging you back into his arms.

The warm sunlight filtered in through a crack in the curtain. Distantly, you heard birds chirping, a passing car, idle chatters of walkers and dogs barking. Zayne’s gentle voice instantly cut through, drowning out the other noises as he brought your attention back to the present—back to him.

You opened your eyes, seeing the beautiful green and yellow in his eyes gazing back at you so sweetly, so lovely. “Thank you,” Zayne said, soft, gentle lips brushed against yours, “Thank you…for loving me.”

Your heart skipped several beats. You wanted to echo the same words back to him, wanted him to know your feelings mirrored his, but a strong wave of exhaustion hit you suddenly, your body completely drained of energy to fight back. You could feel sleep was coming back to claim you soon. You could barely keep your heavy eyes open.

Wrapped in his arms, secured in his warmth, you mumbled sleepily against his chest, “Your breakfast is cold…”

He chuckled, amused by your silly innocuous thought. He nuzzled his cheek against the top of your head, his arms holding you firmly to him, his hand rubbing soothing circles along your back to lull you to sleep faster. “Trust me, darling, my appetite has been satisfied…”

[victoria-grimesss]

tear you apart - part III

Part one: here    Part two: here 

masterlist

-> Pairing: König x fem!reader

-> Words: 4.1k

-> Warning: MDNI!, the mask stays ON, unprotected sex, semi-rough sex, König is a giver and a worshiper, some jealousy, mushy feelings, fluff, things are getting cute!!

-> A/N: thank you 100 followers yippee!! masterlist is in the works, let me know if you like the direction this is going and I'm open for any storyline suggestions :) 

You were standing in the courtyard, skipping breakfast today since you just weren’t feeling it.

The ice on the ground had recently been salted so you didn’t slip this time around. The mountain-scape to the north of the base was picturesque and you enjoyed coming out to this area for seclusion and clean air. 

You slipped on a thick black scarf today to conceal the evidence of last night and to help with the fact the heating unit in your dorm section went out overnight so you made sure to bundle up extra. It would have been easier to warm up if König was in bed with you but alas he wasn't. 

It was the morning after your rendezvous with König and to say you were sore was an understatement. The marks he left were scorched on your skin. It pained you to drag yourself to the shower after that night, washing away the smell of him on you. You examined yourself afterward and he was not delicate with his placement. Dark purple marks dotted your jawline and down your neck. Teeth marks are evident too. Purple painted your hips in the same shape of his fingers and if you concentrated hard enough you could still feel his grasp on you. You thought deeply of that night as you took in a deep breath of cold air, butterflies danced in your stomach and the embers of that night flickered within you. 

“Hey Y/N!! Funny seeing you here!” Bennet, one of the new recruits you befriended recently, was walking toward you while warming his hands. He was alright looking, he would be handsome if your brain wasn't already preoccupied replaying the unholy things König had done to you the previous night and thinking of the other things he could do to you.

“It’s quite cold out here, you actually like it?” He has that picturesque crest bright white smile and he's clean shaven, his eyes stay locked on your lips for a bit too long and you shuffle your feet bringing the scarf up to your mouth to breath heat into it.

“I don’t mind it, it's refreshing out here. Easy to relax, gets a bit much inside sometimes.”

He laughs, it’s light and he's everything opposite of konig. He's soft where König is hard, and light where he is deep. 

“Not used to such close quarters? It’s not all that bad right? Pretty girls like you make it much easier.” 

Oh.

He's flirting. 

You assumed he wasn't out here for friendly conversation after all, I guess he didn't hear word of the noises coming from the colonel's office the other night and that someone had seen you exit.

“Look Bennet-”

“Enjoying the weather?” His voice booms as the door slams open, his shoulders are back and his head held high. You’ve become conditioned into becoming tense with anticipation just at the sound of his voice.

He walks over, you wonder how long he was watching before he busted out of the door, did he see Bennet flash his hollywood smile at you like a bird flashes his feather during courting season? He seems wound up, tense and his eyes are dark.

Bennet straightens his back, greeting his superior, not knowing of the connection the two of you have. Your eyes bounce between the two. 

“Colonel sir, I was just speaking to my friend Y/N-”

“Were you now? I could swear you had-” he moves his arm, his sleeve slipping from his watch and he brings the watch to his face. “-Bathroom and laundry duty at about this hour, soldier? Or am I mistaken?” König stands at his full height, towering over Bennet and bringing both arms to cross his chest.

“No, sir you’re not I was just-”

“You will do your job and do as you're told, you'd be best to stick to it yea?” He’s mean and gritty but you like it. He asserts his authority without forgiveness and you assume that's why he has the rank and position he does. His gaze never leaves Bennet, the other man shrinking under his spotlight.

“Yes, of course sir.” Bennet shuffles off, your gaze is on the door he left in and the courtyard is silent. There's a long pause and it feels like time has frozen.

You hear König take a deep inhale and slowly release the exhale.

Then he turns his body so it faces you completely.

He’s equipped himself with all his gear today and he looks massive as usual.

“Mein süßes Mädchen you look lovely today.” 

“König, that was quite crass how you treated Bennet, he's a friend of mine.”

His eyes visibly roll,

“I know you come out here to clear your heads and for that you need solitude my love.” 

“Well you’re out here so I can't clear my head now can I?”

“I thought my company would be enriching for your experience.” His eyes crinkle and you meet them, admiring how the black paint around his eyes makes his blue eyes brighter.

“Your company is always very enriching.” You mean this in more than one way of course. If the others at base knew that you talked so casually with the colonel they would be shocked, yes he can be intimidating when needed but sometimes he is sweet.

“You certainly seemed to enjoy your visit to my office, I hope the grand tour met your standards.”

“They most definitely did, and then some.” You blush, bringing the scarf to your mouth again to warm yourself.

He tilts his head at your action.

“You hide the marks I gave to you?” 

“Well, I’m not sure you wanted the others to know that we’re ya know… sleeping together.”

He scoffs,

“I would love everyone to see them, it is a visible mark of my admiration to you, my loyalty to you. If others have problems with it they can take it up with me yea?”

His hand makes its way to your cheek and he cups it in his palm, your eyes close and admire the way you can easily sink into his touch so easily.

He moves his hand from your cheek to the scarf, unraveling it and he takes a deep breath when he reveals the many marks he scattered on you. The scarf stays in his grasp and he takes your chin in his grasp with his forefinger and thumb turning your heads up to him. His eyes are dark again as he looks upon you.

“You are beautiful, I will only be upset for a moment when these marks vanish because it gives me a reason to scatter you with even more next time.” 

His romantic words never fail to erupt butterflies within you and you are still astonished at how he can be such different men, a violent soldier, a soft romantic, and a starved lover.  

He clears his throat, hands moving from your chin to your shoulder and down your arm until he gathers your hand in his. He moves your hand under his mask and kisses your fingers gently, his eyes never leaving yours and you get a feel for his lips on your skin and you shiver but not from the cold this time.

“It pains me to leave you Schatz but I will see you later, don't go messing around with other boys alright? They’re no good for you.” 

“I wouldn't dream of it.” You smile and part ways, this day could not go any slower.

—

Never had you had a hard time concentrating before, you’re a trained soldier and damn good at your job, you’ve taken out squads of men with no alarm raised or suspicion drawn but the only thing on your mind as you’re in the gym is König. König, König, König. He’s like a parasite, digging and infesting in your brain, ruining all other men and options for you. It's only him now.

You try to avoid the stares in the gym, the workout top you wear hides very little of the bruises and lingering teeth marks and you just try to tune out the side eyes and lingering looks. 

As your workout ends you make your way to the locker-room and Bennet once again invades your vision.

“Hey Y/N- oh shit, someone really did a number on you! Didn't know a girl like you was into all that.” He winks and his eyes are only on the marks not looking you in the eyes.

“Oh these, yea well ya know how it is, girls got needs.” You give a halfhearted laugh just wanting to shower.

“Oh I know very well, if you ever need help with those needs I can definitely help you with those.” He's smirking and you grow sour at these unwanted words, about to tell him off when a hand slams onto his shoulder.

“I appreciate your concern, but her needs are well taken care of in my hands, right Schatz.” He always comes to you right when you need him and his eyes are so dark and his grip on Bennet’s shoulder is so tight the clothes are heavily wrinkled under his hand. Bennet’s eyes are wide as they race from you to König.

“I-um I didn't know you were with him.”

“It’s an honest mistake, she’s a very pretty girl and a wonderful lover. I am extremely lucky to have her. But I’ll let you know if you ever speak to her in this manner again I won't hesitate to crush you alright?”

Bennet's face has gone pale and he scurries off once König releases him, holding his shoulder as he leaves.

“König.”

“Come with me.”

He gives no room for argument. He grabs your hands and whisks you away out of the gym. You have to walk at double speed to keep up with his pace.

“König, I need to shower.” You try to protest but he keeps walking.

“I will have you as you are, you think a little sweat will deter me?” His voice is deep and you know seeing another man pester you twice in the same day has sparked some kind of primal urge within him. You have no complaints either way.

“Where are we going?” The twists and turns of the base make you dizzy and he moves with such speed you've gone into a trace following him blindly just watching the way he knows this place like the back of his hand. 

“Quiet, you'll know soon enough.”

People sure have a staring problem around here because they stare you down as he leads you down the halls.

You finally reach the door and he opens it and ushers you in quickly closing it and slamming you against the door. 

Your heart is racing again as it does when he's around and his hands can't seem to be still upon you; they trace the lengths of your hips to your waist, bringing you closer to him each time.

“Meine Taube forgive me but I must have you, you understand right? All of them stare, they wish to be in my position but I know none of them could touch you as I do, feel you as I do.” 

You stare through your lashes up at him and he discards his helmet leaving his mask and the rest of his gear on.

“I would never have anyone as how I have you, how I let you have me.” 

He groans, leaning over you and his head rests on your shoulder before he lifts his mask just above the peak of his nose, exposing his jaw and lips to you. You’re left silenced and before you can think to utter a sound his lips crash to yours and he consumes your moans and whines as if he's starved.

His hands become crazed and he holds your hips and lifts you so you wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck. 

He groans as he grinds his hips into yours, your back pressed against the door and your hand wanders under his mask from behind and you grip his hair tugging it forcefully. He pulls back from your lips at that moment and you get a good look at his lips. They're parted and kiss swollen, he's panting and the stubble on his jawline sends another wave of heat downwards.

He smirks and you can see the sharpness of his canine teeth, you can practically feel them already.

“See something you like?” You meet his eyes and your face darkens.

“I see a lot of things I like.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours and he continues his assault until he locks his lips onto your neck once again biting, licking, and sucking with no abandonment. You throw your head back, hitting the door but you feel no pain or really anything besides him and the heat radiating from between your legs.

“Lets get the prinzessin somewhere more comfortable yea?” He carries you the distance to his bed and in the short walk you see he has a much bigger bed than provided to the rest of the troops, makes sense, you doubt he can even fit into the regular sized ones. His bedding looks comfortable, the bed made neatly and everything in his room is neat and pristine. Up to code.

He lays you down onto the bed and you sink into it, you nearly moan at how comfortable it is.

“Not fair you get such a comfortable mattress and I’m subjected to a damn near plywood board.”

He laughs in between kisses as he unbuttons your shirt.

“Liebling you will never see your bed again, I must implore you spend your nights in mine.”

He sucks and kisses down your chest reaching behind you and undoing your bra clasp with one hand and throwing it far across the room.

“I-I would have a much better time sleeping here. I wouldn't mind that.”

“We wouldn't do much sleeping.”

Oh. So bold.

You throw your head back as he cups one breast and latches his mouth to the other.

“I’m sorry my love, I didn't get to indulge you in this last time.” He kisses again. “But I swear no where will be left untouched on you, I’ll have to be killed to be parted from you.”

You hands grasp anywhere they can as he continues his ministrations and you grasp his shirt.

“Take this off, now.”

He leans back on his knees and stares down at you, eyes heavy with lust.

“Your wish is my command.” He strips himself of the chest gear and shirt in record time and his chest is heaving as he leans atop of you again. His dog tags dangling over you, catching the spare light in the room. His mouth kisses down your stomach, the cool metal of the tags freezing after his searing lips, and unbuttons your pants sliding the zipper down with his teeth. You feel his hot breath on the front of your panties and the sight of him is ponographic.

“Oh god König I’m going to fucking explode if you dont hurry it the fuck up.” You groan and twist your hips to get him to do something, anything.

“Schatz you are too hasty, you are like artwork. I need to admire you as you are and appreciate what lies before me. Be patient and you will be heavily rewarded.” He strips your pants off maintaining eye contact the whole time and kisses from the band of your panties all the way back to your lips and he kisses sweetly this time touching the now exposed thighs and places his whole hand on your heat cupping it in his hand and he groans once more. 

“You make my self control crumble you know that?” He traces his fingers up and down your core sliding your panties to the side to continue the motion.

“I cannot help myself when I’m around you, you could say the most awful things to me and I would still kiss the ground you walk on.”

“I would never say anything mean to you König, never.” He kisses your lips and you bite his lower lip as he leans back.

“I know you wouldn't, that's why I keep you all to myself.”

He slips a finger in and you clench around him, growing hotter and panting heavier. You move a hand down his broad expansive chest, scars littering it as proof of the man he is, of the hard work he's done. You cup him as well, stroke him over his pants and he sucks in a breath his movements of his fingers stutter.

“Liebling, Scheiße”

You look at him innocently as you unbutton and unzip his pants, releasing him from his boxers and taking him in your hand.

“What? I’m not doing anything.” You smile and stroke him lightly, his hips thrust into your hand and his eyes lock onto yours like you're treading thin ice.

Your thumb circles the tip collecting the leak that sprouts from him and he shudders again.

His fingers work on you faster and your hand gets uncoordinated on him and your vision starts to go hazy.

He hums, clearly pleased with his work on you.

“What wrong soldier, having trouble concentrating?” He laughs and you don't hear him anymore as you reach your peak, your hand that's not gripping him carving nail marks into his shoulder.

He draws two more orgasms from you with his fingers alone, you can imagine his fingers are pruned now with how soaked he's managed to make you. Your mind has been melted, remolded and melted again. You had let go of your grasp on him to hold tightly to his shoulder but he didn't seem to care, his mind was only on preparing you for the main event. His tip was leaking and had made a sizable puddle on your midsection.

“You think you’re ready for me now mein liebling?” He holds himself in his hand tracing the tip across your core and you scoot yourself closer to him trying to inch him in, he holds you hip in place.

“You heard me? You ready my dear?”

“Yes König, just get on with it, I can't wait any longer.” 

“Of course my love.” He leans down to capture your lips and at the same time your tongues meet he enters you and it's the most lovely feeling you've ever felt. A tear slips down your cheek and if the sun exploded right now you would have no care in the world.

He sinks fully and brushes hair from your face, kissing your cheek and moves his hips out then back in to start a good rhythm. You both groan at the initial feeling and your hands move under his mask that has now dropped back down over his face to cup his jawline. He moves his head in your hand and kisses your palm, his eyes heavy on you, eyelids droopy and pupils dilated so wide his eye color would be perceived as black and not their original blue color. 

You moan softly and the hand that was braced holding himself has moved to your hip and you look between the two of you and observe the way you connect. You can feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten up once again. König is insatiable, he dives into your heat with no sign of stopping, each breath whine and moan that escapes your lips only adds to his stamina and pleasure. He starts to speed his thrusts and the metal bars of the bed start a rhythmic banging against the wall, if you weren't so drunk off of him right now you would feel back for the neighbor but you don't care right now and can only think of König as he fills your vision. The new marks on your body sting and the way he grips your hip has you dripping on him and you can hear the evidence and you know he can too.

“You are a goddess incarnate, you know that. Like a siren I am drawn back to you each time I leave you. You pull me back into you so deliciously I cannot ever leave, I could spend all eternity inside you and never grow bored.”

His words tighten the coil within you even more and you throw your head back, drawing more and more like into his back and he growls.

“Yes Liebling, use me to express your pleasure, take it out on me and I shall give it back to you a thousand times. I can feel you getting closer, do not hold back on me.”

He's harsh now with his movements and he's getting closer too, he's moved your legs to his shoulder and he's delved even deeper into you and you nearly, no you do scream his name, and it's loud.

“König, I'm close, don't stop.” He continues his abuse and his thrusts grow unrhythmic. He bends over you, your head is thrashing side to side as you near your limit and he holds your head steady in his large grip making you look straight at him. His dog tags sway in front of your vision like a metronome keeping you in this trance-like state of euphoria.

“Look at me. Good girl, go ahead and make a mess.” He fucks you through your orgasm and he follows right behind you, thrusting deep and you both are locked in a gaze. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you take a deep breath in and let it out, deflating under his gaze and your brain feels mushy.

König shifts, “My love, darling.”

He snaps his fingers in front of your face. His eyes crinkled again and if his eyes could be heart shaped they definitely would be right about now.

“There she is.” He places your legs back on the bed and removes himself carefully kissing you hard on the lips and again on the cheek before he gets up and once again cleans you up, he's topless but in the heat of the moment he never did take off his boots or pants. 

“Thank you.” You say, your voice horse as he's cleaning you up and providing you with clean panties and one of his shirts to wear.

“You don't need to thank me darling, I enjoy taking care of you. You truly deserve it.”

You get up and change into his shirt, it pools on you but it smells of him.

“Beautiful, you should wear my clothes more often.” He watches you like a hawk as you stumble to the bathroom, legs feeling like jelly.

“If shirts 5x my size were part of the military dress code I would take your words into consideration.” 

You hear him laugh as you close the bathroom door and relieve yourself, looking in the mirror you look utterly destroyed, you smooth over your hair and splash your face with water, taking the time to brush your teeth as well.

His bathroom is pristine and smells like citrus, another green flag, he knows how to keep clean.

“I used your toothbrush if that’s alright.” You stop in your tracks, he's striped down to only his boxers and mask. He’s built like a greek god but he’s got some thickness along with his muscle you assume at his age he's just grown more sturdy.

“You’re going to catch flies if you keep your mouth open like that, lay with me. Relax.” He’s laid back on a pillow, only the light of his bedside lamp illuminates the room and he's made a small nest of pillows on your side.

You nestle yourself in the crook of his arm and he wraps his arm around you kissing the top of your head and humming softly a song you don't know.

“Did you mean those things you said, it wasn't just your brain turned to sex mode right?” You beat yourself a bit for plaguing him with the job of reassuring you of his feelings but you want to know his feelings are true.

His hold on you gets a bit tighter.

“I have never felt more sure about something in my life, you have come into my life so suddenly and I will move mountains to keep you in it. I told you I will worship the ground you walk on so let me show you.” He kisses your face in multiple places and all your worries melt away with his touch.

His words glaze over your brain like honey and butterflies erupt from it in droves, you have never even seen this man's full face yet you are so sure you would devote yourself fully to him as he says he will do for you. You fall asleep to the sound of him humming and have never felt more at peace.

[samkerrworshipper]

initiation pt.3 | barca femeni x reader

warnings: smut 18+ minors dni.

pt.1 -> pt.2

it’s not valentines here anymore but for yall who are/are not celebrating i hope this makes ur day a little bit cheekier ;)

I promise u the freaky stuff is coming but this is the buffer for that lol

Instead of waking up to a warm embrace of Keira and Lucy, you wake up to an empty bed. It takes you a few seconds to take in your surroundings, your body is tangled up in sheets and a duvet. The room is mostly dark besides some light coming in from under the door. You allow yourself to take a deep breath, breathing in the cool air around you and slowly waking yourself up. The ache between your legs is the first thing you feel, it wraps your thighs up like a warm hug and it reignites the previous desire in you as the memories of what you’d experienced only a few hours ago flash through your mind.

If it wasn’t for the bed you were in and the faint sound of moans through the walls of the house you’d probably be a little bit more concerned about your surroundings, but instead the environment you are in only brightens your mood.

It’s definitely not an unpleasant way to wake up, you absorb your surroundings and listen with a light head and fuzzy thoughts as you stretch out across the extremely comfortable mattress, bathing in the absolute serenity that you can feel across your whole body and soul. You’ve been thinking about this night since Lucy had told you about it days ago, stressing about all the different possibilities and things that could happen.

You never, not even in your craziest and wildest dream could have ever concocted some kind of idea that would come anything close to what you’d experienced in the last few hours. From the sounds of it, something was still happening and you’d be damned if you missed out on any of it, so even though it pained you to leave the bed that probably had a thread count higher than the amount of money in your bank account, it was with the hopes that you would get to experience something that was far better than any bed.

You are still as naked as ever, your whole body completely bare as you pushed yourself off the mattress and with unsteady legs onto the floor boards. The combination of the post-orgasm bliss and few hours of rest maKe you feel better than ever and without any struggle you made it to the closed door of the bedroom.

Your skin pricked up, little dots forming against your skin as your exposed body began to feel the effects of being in a room with a fan and aircon on.

You could have taken a sheet or blanket with you as coverage, but you figured that by the noises being produced your companions would be in a similar state of undress and even if they weren’t it wasn’t like they would see anything they already hadn’t.

The hallway you stepped into was empty. Although there were little thready moans coming out from some of the rooms beside your one. Because Lucy had practically carried you into the room you struggled to remember what way to go but you managed to trail your way back to the main room by following the noise that was being emitted.

The sight this time was completely different from beforehand and it took your eyes a little bit to adjust.

There were some people missing, although your brain was still too fogged up to really take account of people, just what was happening around you.

The first sight that catches your eyes is Keira, who has so many hands on her that it’s hard to tell who is who.

Ingrid is the first person you spot, mainly because she’s the least entwined in Keira’s body. She’s got the same strap on that she wore earlier when she was pounding into you, except this time it's being brutally thrusted into Keira’s throat. It’s a pretty sight, Keira’s drool and slobber all over her chin as she repeatedly gags on the strap. Frido is the second person you spot, mainly because her and Ingrid are pretty much next to eachother, the two bestfriends connected by their lips, although it’s not what captures your attention, instead you’re eyes are glued to the suctioned dildo that Frido is riding, her knees bent against the floor, pushing up and down. Your eyes don’t focus on her long, instead searching around Keira. It’s harder to figure out who is behind her, but it’s a process of elimination and spotting different heads of hair and hands. Keira is on all fours with Aitana’s mouth slurping at her from below and Marta’s fingers soundly fucking her from behind. Keira looks so blissed out, like she’s floating on a cloud of dopamine so strong that it could rival drugs.

On the couch is Alexia and Mapi, the two best friends lazily making out whilst their bodies grind down against each other in perfect synchronisation.

Before this, you were fairly sure that scissoring was a social construct, but watching Mapi and Alexia’s hips jolt out again and again is making you reconsider your beliefs.

Lucy, Ona, Jenni and Caro are on the bed, and it’s a sight that you can’t even begin to comprehend.

Ona is laid down on her back on the bed, Jenni grinding down on top of her face whilst Lucy and Caro are down the other end of Ona. At first, you think the two older players are taking both of Ona’s holes, but after a few seconds, and an angle change when Ona’s hips buck, your jaw drops in realisation that the Norwegian and English player are both fucking in and out of the same hole.

Your eyes almost bulge out of your head, you can feel the arousal re building inside you as you watch Caro and Lucy brutally fuck into Ona, pretty much using her to get themselves off. Ona’s body is boneless and unmoving beside her hips which every few thrusts cant up to buck upwards.

You can’t take your eyes off of the sight, it might be rude to stare but in your opinion it would be rude not to admire the complete erotic beauty that is unfolding before your eyes.

“Hola chica.”

The words are directed at you, forcing your eyes away from Ona and to Mapi, whose head has craned backwards to look at you from her spot on top of Alexia’s lap.

There is a thin sheen of sweat across her forrid, her eyes are full of lust and she looks positively feral.

You smile at her, too terrified that if you open up your mouth you’ll say something wrong or let out one of the moans that have built up in your gut from watching Ona.

Your eyes drifted back to Keira on the floor, all three of her holes being used, quite literally having her brains fucked out.

It’s not something that you’ve ever directly desired, but right now it’s all that’s in your mind, you aren’t quite sure if you could handle it, you’ve never taken more then two fingers in your asshole and too be fucked in both fo your other holes at the same time seems like over kill, but watching Keira suddenly makes you so intrigued and suddenly attracted to what she’s enduring.

You don’t know where to go or look, but Mapi ushers you over with her hand and your brain can’t ignore her, so you put one foot in front of the other until you are standing directly in front of the two women.

Alexia smiles at you, her hands are resting on Mapi’s hips, gently helping her to grind against Ale, there isn’t much fervour or energy to it, from what you can tell, it can’t possibly be stimulating enough to put either of them anywhere near the edge, your either wrong or they just don’t mind. There are red splotches up and down Alexia’s chest, little dots and tiny teeth marks that are splattered out across Alexia’s chest and neck.

Mapi has some darker, purple marks across her neck, less than Alexia but far more noticeable.

“How’d you sleep bebita? You feeling rested and up for some more fun?”

It’s bewildering to you how level headed Mapi is considering the situation she’s in. You think about how you would behave if you were in her situation and you are fairly certain it wouldn’t be anywhere near as composed.

“Hoping I didn’t miss out on much.”

Mapi smirks, her lips parting and letting out a breathy moan as Alexia pulls her hips down harder, trying to get her own friction against her clit.

“I’m sure we can find some ways for you to make up for lost time. Come sit down next to Ale, I’m sure she’ll be able to wake you up.”

You drop your body down beside Alexia on the couch, unsure what to do but much happier with the closer proximity.

“Look at Kei, look at how good she’s being, would you like to be used like that?”

Alexia leans down to whisper the words into your ear, her voice low and drawn out.

You bite your lip, happy to let your eyes stray back to Keira, Ingrid is no longer in her mouth and Marta is no longer in her ass, instead Keira is now bouncing up and down on Ingrid’s strap, Ingrid jack-hammering into her with absolutely no mercy.

Keira looks pretty fucked out, you’ve got a better view of her face and body now that it’s not so occupied with so many hands and people.

Her mouth is permanently open, deep moans leaving her mouth every time Ingrid thrusts up into her, the other thing that catches your eye is the way that Keira’s tits bounce up and down with every single movement, her nipples are risen and hard and her right breast has a big red mark on the side of it.

Keira’s eyes are glazed over, but there’s still some form of cheekiness behind them, just from the sight of her you can tell that she’s having the most fun that you’ve seen her have in months, that she’s so incredibly at peace with Ingrid all over her.

One of Alexia’s hands fall from Mapi’s hip, down to you knee first, gently coaxing your legs apart before trailing her hand up.

You look down for a few seconds, before Alexia’s mouth is back pressed against your ears.

“Look at Oni, she’s been such a brat tonight, look how’s she’s getting fucked, look at all those bruises on her, you don’t want that do you? Don’t want to be filled up but on the edge all night, right? Little Oni thought it would be smart co cum without permission so now she has to deal with Lucia and Caro stretching her out with no relief. You don’t want that do you? You’ll be our good girl, sí?”

Your eyes lift up to Ona, her body being brutally used by Lucy, Jenni and Caro. Her pussy is still being stretched by the two women, and to think that she’s going through it without any finish is eye opening to you and also terrifying.

“Yes, Ale.”

Alexia smirks against your earlobe, her lips opening to suck down on the skin whilst her hand trailed up and down the bottom of your stomach.

“Such a good girl, so perfect, so well behaved.”

Alexia’s hand creeps down further, her lips tugging on your earlobe whilst she cups your mound, her ring and middle finger dipping between your folds for half a second to collect some of the wetness.

Alexia pulls it up to your face and after a particularly harsh nip to your ear that has your lips falling open, and Alexia’s fingers in your mouth.

Without any prompting, you suck your taste off of her, the salty and slightly sweet flavour welcome on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Alexia’s fingers are too big for your mouth, something you begin to realise as she slowly attempts to push her fingers in deeper.

By the time they’re at the back of your mouth you’re struggling to breathe, having to switch to your nasal passage to take in oxygen. By the time they’ve hit the back of your throat you are trying your hardest not to gag and to suck on them. Alexia’s lips are a distraction, her mouth has worked its way down from your earlobe and to the sensitive spot on your neck. Your moans are muffled by Alexia’s fingers, two thirds of her fingers as deep in your mouth as they can get.

It’s when your jaw relaxes for the two first knuckles that she decides it's the perfect time to force the final third in.

You gag almost immediately, your throat tightening and struggling to accommodate the extra length that your throat didn’t have the room for.

You tried to slacken your jaw, tried to relax your throat, it was obvious though that Alexia’s fingers were too long.

You are so desperate to please her, to prove that you are her good girl, that you will do anything that she wants or asks you to do, so you don’t end up with a fate similar to Ona’s, so even though you are gagging and struggling to breathe properly you push through, sucking on Alexia’s fingers just as she’d ordered.

Your own drool is dripping down your jaw, you’re certain of it, it’s something that you can’t afford to care or think about though, your focus is solely on Alexia’s fingers and mouth.

Just as you’ve begun to feel slightly lightheaded from the shallow bits of oxygen that you are managing to intake Alexia’s fingers are pulled from your mouth, and whilst you are occupied with gasping for air and Alexia’s fingers shoot right down to inbetween your legs.

Your body lurches at the sudden contact, hips chasing Alexia’s hand desperately.

Alexia allows the movement, her fingers trace the outside of your lips, never even coming close to touching you where you need her most.

“Look at Mapi, look at how desperate she is, using me for her own pleasure. All because of you bebita, all because of how worked up you got her earlier, she’s such a filthy whore for you, isn’t that right Maria?”

Mapi’s head rocks forward to look at you, a big smirk on her face, telling you that what Alexia is saying is true, that some part of whatever she’s experiencing is due to you.

“Are you going to make her come before you hand her off or are you going to make her wait.”

Mapi’s eyes stay locked to your own, even though it’s clear the question isn’t meant for you.

Alexia removes her mouth from your neck, just to stare at you in deliberation out of her peripherals.

“What do you think? Should we reward our good girl, or make her wait? You’d look so pretty coming all over my fingers bebita, but maybe I should make you wait for Lucia? Just so I can watch you get fucked out by her.”

You aren’t sure what you want, with Alexia putting both offers out on the table and making them both sound good, you’re too focused on Alexia’s hand dipping in and out of your pussy to truly comprehend what’s being said.

When Alexia’s fingertips finally make contact with your clit everything you’d begun to process is completely erased from your brain, every single one of your brain cells is completely captured by the sensation of Alexia’s slicked fingers finally touching you where you’ve been so desperately needing her.

“How does she feel bebita, she touching you where you need it?”

You nod your head at Mapi, more than happy to deal with a little bit of teasing if it means that you continue getting what you want.

When Alexia’s fingers migrate further down, her roughened palm moving down with her fingers to grind down against your clit as her fingers tease your hole you moan, louder than you think you ever have.

Alexia’s palm is wonderful, but her fingers slowly slipping into your hole, inch by inch similar to how they did your mouth, is indescribable.

You’re still tight and oversensitive from your previous orgasms, so every single move, every twitch of Alexia’s hand sends shocks through you.

Her pace is similar to the pace that Mapi has set on top of her, fast but thorough, Mapi’s hips gyrating against down against Alexia haphazardly, but with obvious amounts of detail, she’s searching for the friction against her clit, and she knows where she has to angle herself to find it.

Alexia pushes her palm down against your clit, forcing your legs as wide as she can from her spot beside you, her head cocked to the side so she has a good angle of both Mapi and you.

“Watch Oni bebita, that’ll be you soon enough, once she’s had the brat fucked out of her it’ll be your turn. That’s what happens to little sluts who think they know better, who think that they will get away with being disobedient. You’re a good girl though, and if you keep acting like one I’m sure Jenni and Lucia will be happy to reward you, in fact, if you keep being good for me I’m sure that we can sort out any kind of reward you’d like, how does that sound?”

Your eyes lift up to Ona, it’s a struggle to keep them open with Alexia’s constant pace in and out of you but for the sake of obeying Alexia, you do as she’s asked and watch Ona.

Jenni’s no longer balanced on top of her face, now she’s lying to the side of Ona, her hands pinching down on her nipples so hard that there are tears in Ona’s eyes over the torture she’s being subjected to.

Lucy and Caro are no longer pounding into Ona, instead they’ve both pulled out and Lucy’s strap has been thrown to the side, she’s currently being fucked by Caro, right in front of Ona’s eyes, just another form of teasing thrown her way you assume.

“Tell me what you want as a reward, bebita, anything you want you can have.”

It feels like Alexia is offering you the whole world, and yet you can’t even begin to formulate what it is that you want, because there are infinite possibilities and different scenarios that you want to try, but there is one thing that springs to the forefront of your mind, something that’s been buried deep in your mind ever since Keira’s lips had touched yours for the first time just a couple of hours ago.

“Wanna sit on Kei’s face.”

Alexia’s eyebrows raise in intrigue.

“Do you now? Well you prove to me that you can be good and I certainly think that can be arranged, now how about you focus a little bit harder on my fingers so I can focus a little bit more on Maria here, aprobado?”

You nod your head furiously, grinding your hips down onto Alexia’s fingers with motivation.

“No cumming without permission bebita, let me know when you’re close.”

You nod at Alexia, honestly too consumed with the feeling of Alexia’s finger tips repetitively hitting the walls of your insides. When she angles them just right, the pads of her two fingers brushing against your sweet spot, your spine shudders, all the wonderful sensations spreading out across your body.

Alexia’s fingers, whilst they may have struggled to fit in your mouth, they have absolutely zero problems fucking in and out of your pussy, your hole is practically sucking them in with every thrust, trying it’s very hardest to cling onto the feeling of Alexia.

With her palm pushing down against your clit, and your eyes on Keira, it doesn’t take you long to get close to the edge. Keira’s body is limp, her back pressed to Ingrid’s front whilst Ingrid fucks her brutally in reverse cowgirl.

When Keira screams, her own orgasm taking over, you are completely enthralled by the sight, everyone in the rooms seems to be. The noises leaving Keira’s mouth are so loud and so erotic, if you tried you could probably orgasm purely off of them.

Ingrid’s pace slows, but doesn’t come to a full stop, the Norwegian bouncing Keira up and down slowly, holding onto her hips and helping her to ride out her high.

Mapi apparently, isn’t far behind her, the Zaragozan’s moans suddenly becoming a lot quicker and louder, before you miss anything you pull your eyes from Keira, receiving immediate gratification in the form of Mapi, whose hips are stalled, her clit pressed down against Alexia’s as her body and coil in her stomach shatter.

It’s a rare moment where you see Alexia’s confident and composed facade fall. Alexia is beaming, pressing soft kisses to Mapi’s collar bone well before her orgasm hits, murmuring soft spanish words into her skin, very subtly thrusting her own hips up into Mapi, giving her a longer orgasm and something more to rut down against.

“Alexia-I’m close.”

With all the noises and people around you, it’s hard for you not to be on the edge. Alexia’s hand stops immediately, her palm lifting from your clit and fingers slowly withdrawing. It’s sad, being in a room full of people experiencing pleasure and having yours revoked, although you thank the lords that you aren’t Ona, that you aren’t being subjected to the pure pain and hell that she’s being put through.

You also suppose that if Ona wasn’t somewhat okay with it then it wouldn’t be happening, and if she was truly in pain she would safe word. That thought only seems to make you more aroused, the realisation that Ona, to some extent, is getting off on what she’s experiencing.

“Such a good job, bebita, letting me know when you're close. Once Keira has come down I’m sure she’ll have no problems fulfilling that little reward of yours.”

———————————————————————

lol i’m not one to normally leave things at a cliff hanger buttttttt yk gotta keep yall coming back somehow lol xoxo

[capslocked]

STARLET

male reader x cho miyeon

part 1 of another name up in lights

28k words (special thanks to @passingnotions for helping make all my work possible)

“I would rather throw up,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth, “than do another take of this scene with you.” “Okay.” Miyeon tilts her chin. The lights begin to dim over the blonde hair she has falling over an upturned brow. “Then throw up.”

It takes a few beats—while production staff scurry about the tense silence rolling through the studio—for everything to fall perfectly still.

Miyeon takes a deep breath, and whispers: “I can get you a bucket.”

“Action!” (The one where Miyeon ruins your career, and you ruin her too.)

- That first time the two of you are photographed together, it’s wholly unremarkable. The entirety of the cast is in frame, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the banner at the presser and pretending that someone had just whispered something worthy of a belly laugh into your ears. Cho Miyeon hangs delicately off your arm, hand wrapped just above your elbow, and all of you are at your most jovial—looking like you’re simply having the most wonderful time, smiles wide and beaming. Because if that isn’t part of the act. You sell the characters, the fiction, the drama even when the cameras aren’t rolling.

The second photo is what gets people talking. 

Anyone with half a brain ought to know that if you were sincerely seeing your co-star, an untruth that the general public is apparently beyond happy to eat up, you wouldn’t be so careless to post up outside a small cafe. Certainly not at a trendy place aside one of the busiest streets in the city, but these tabloids are rabid. Like a head injury, that self-condemning desire to get clicks and hits at any cost has long clouded their ability to think, and so it gets plastered right there on the front page of every rag in the industry. Don’t get it confused, the photo looks good. It’s got allure and mischief written all over it. And that’s exactly what you’re going for.

Miyeon’s hair is up, tied into a messy bun, because she’d have hated to obfuscate the work that her floral shoulderless dress was not doing in hiding from the world the most immaculate pair of collarbones you’d ever seen. Then in her hands—between her teeth—she fiddles with the earpiece of her sunglasses, shooting you with the clearest, most flagrant fuck me now eyes that only a blind person might not pick up on (doubtful still). And you’re there, smirking back at her, for even if a photo tells a whole story, this one really only ever needed a sentence: sparks flying, the two of you really hit it off. 

It’s a point of contention later—several times actually—but regardless of how you feel, the girl can act.

Now the image that really gets the media whipped into a frenzy is a lot less polished. It’s grainy and the lighting is poor and in a change of pace, the quality of the photo would lead you to believe that it wasn’t premeditated. Which, unfortunately, is exactly how it goes down.

Even still, it's all framed perfectly, infamously, a straight-up disaster. Miyeon is immediately recognizable, unabashedly blonde and gorgeous as ever. You’ve got your mouth on hers and the problems absolutely do not end there: her back is flush against the bricks of the alley, pinned under your weight, and yes, your hands are busy. One up her skirt, the other in her shirt, she’s blushing into you, and you wouldn’t know from the photo, but she’s got her fingers working at your belt and as a collection, it’s all utterly shameless. Everything up to that point had been muted in subtext; both of you know the value of intrigue, the art of letting everyone else connect the dots—this, however, unintentionally becomes a phenomenon.

Lights the internet on fire for a minute.

The shocking part of all this, what ends up being labeled a calamity by people whose opinions actually concern you, is the photo that you assume will haunt you forever and follow you to your grave isn’t even the one where you’re making out with the starlet du jour in the harsh yellow of an exterior floodlight—in the relaxed wickedness only two AM might ever know. No, it’s this photo, the press’s favorite, given how it shows up everywhere. Miyeon’s holding the award for best actress in a lead role in one hand, knuckles tight around the podium microphone with her other. She’s radiant. She’s flustering. She’s breathtaking. She even trips up on her words in a way that’s endearing. And every fool with a blog is infatuated by all of it.

Your own thoughts on the matter aside, the most neutral and economic way to describe it is unintentionally funny. You were with her when she picked out that silver sequin evening dress, sparkling in the demand of stage lights and camera flashes. It spills from where the garment ties around her neck over the lines of her body as if it has no bias itself for any form or structure, only curving on its journey to her feet at the behest of where her breasts sloped down from her collarbones, the flare of her hips just below her waist. She’s the spitting image of perfection, a damn icon—the headlines are supposed to be about her—but there you are: tucked into the corner, in a sea of faces all justifiably mesmerized by the beauty that walked delicately onto the stage and adorably needed to adjust the microphone stand down to her height. 

As It turns out, the absolute displeasure in your scowl isn’t any less captivating. Envious. Spiteful. Arrogant. You catch some serious flak for it.

For months, it ends up being the subject of commentary online, in print, on television—your names on the tips of everyone’s tongues. All with their own theories, but no one manages to guess the truth for a long time, because no one could even begin to believe it:

You hate Miyeon, and Miyeon hates you.

-

Oh, there are plenty of clues, if you aren’t already keenly aware of it, that your career is slowly sliding into obscurity. Years ago, walking into your agent's office was an event: eyes widened and turned to you immediately. The quiet smiles, the blushing, the batting of eyelashes. The pomp and circumstance of the agency’s biggest client strolling into Soyeon’s office like you were crossing the Rubicon into the streets of Rome. It was glorious and it always meant something big was about to happen.

To be clear, you’re not saying you need the attention, but today, no one even offers to take your coat, which is a shame, because it’s been raining biblically for the past week, and there’s puddles in your shoes, squeaking obnoxiously as you parade unceremoniously through a row of desks. Even so, sounding like a dog’s chew toy, it’s sheer and utter avoidance—eyes glued to monitors and unlifted from scribbled notes as though you’re simply another courier delivering a parcel (which hey, in all honesty, someone like that might even have some of that magical potential). 

“Hold up. What do you mean they’re passing me up?” you ask, eyes narrowed and leaning forward in your seat so that the blatant abandonment of all your grace and charm doesn’t get lost in translation across the length of Soyeon’s desk. “That part had my fucking name on it.”

“It did.” Soyeon drums her pen against her keyboard. Comes close to making a face. “And now it has someone else’s name on it. Someone the studio trusts.”

“Oh, for christ’s sake, he’s twelve years older than me. The character is supposed to be thirty, not a dinosaur in a Kingsman suit.” 

“It’s the silver fox thing. He markets easily to women.”

“And I don’t?” you stammer out, and Soyeon lifts an eyebrow. “Only a date night staple for almost a decade, Soyeon. Can you honestly sit there and say I wouldn’t play it better? The man plays nothing but himself in every role. Every. Single. Role.”

“Well, it just so happens that he brings people to the theater in droves,” Soyeon snaps back before you have the chance to say anything you could possibly regret. “Look, I told you I have good news and bad news, and it sounds like you’ve figured out the bad news already.”

“Oh please don’t tell me it’s charity.” You wave your hand flippantly. “We’re not doing this.” 

Discount parts for struggling actors. If they were worth more than the paper in the scripts they were printed on, Soyeon would’ve been negotiating them this very moment. 

There’s a lot about it to unpack, your fall from grace. You aren’t bringing in commissions, directors aren’t lining up in front of the firm to shove their scripts in front of your nose, and your last few films are better remembered for the comedic value of their scathing reviews than the actual screenplay or cinematography.

One such review of your most recent work, an ill-fated screen adaptation of Blood Meridian that had ‘studio interference’ written all over it right from its woeful inception, reads: I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the implied sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the subliminal insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it.

There are plenty more just like it, and plenty worse, but it’s never done you any good, mentally, to sift through them.

“Really. I’m serious, these parts aren’t bad.” 

Soyeon has enough confidence in her voice to sound convincing, but you’ve also never heard her come across any different. You catch yourself pausing to think about it, which is a clear tell that you’re perhaps nearing wit’s end, considering you’re not one to shy away from blurting out the first thought that forms half-coherent into your head.

“Now, they’re not what you’re looking for, admittedly, but I just think with a little luck, they could end up being a fortuitous move,” she adds.

“Go on, pitch,” you say, before sinking a little lower into your chair because even though it pains you to agree with her, she’s right.

“If you’ll dismount from your high horse for a moment,” Soyeon starts, waiting for you to finish rolling your eyes, “the Coens called again—”

“I’m not.”

“The part is interesting.”

“The part is small, it’s side-cast. Don’t sugarcoat it. I’m not taking one of their rescue-shelter-for-the-has-been supporting roles. That’s the equivalent of throwing in the towel.”

“It’s done wonders for careers in worse shape than yours, to be candid.”

“Careful,” you warn her, lifting your chin and glaring—a look you are definitely not known for—but if there’s anyone in the industry who could hold her own, deflect your best, and make you feel foolish for thinking you could cross swords and come out unscathed, it’s Jeon Soyeon.

“May I remind you that I’ve been nominated for best actor three times? That no one in their right mind predicted any of those movies to be any good? I’ve got talent. Let’s not sit around and pretend like I need to be put on life support here. I’m capable.”

Soyeon just steeples her fingers together. “I don’t need the reminder. I made that exact point in a call with a producer this morning, but it’s hard to get people to look past the fact that some of your recent choices have been—”

“If you’re going to say I told you so,” you grumble, letting out a sharp sigh, “let’s get it over with.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just pushes a folder across the desk and into your hands like she’s betraying national secrets to a foreign adversary. “Listen, don’t walk out in disgust. At least not right away.”

It takes only a moment. You recognize what’s going on here immediately. “Soyeon.”

“I know. I know. I know.” She waves her hand. “But hear me out, give it a chance.”

“It’s a rom-com, Soyeon.” “I’m plenty aware of what it is.” “I can see it already: smart, sophisticated, funny.” It takes a lot not to curl your lip. And then it fucking curls anyway. “I thought… I thought I had climbed out of the depths of romantic-comedy-hell, Soyeon. This is like suggesting that I get back into a relationship with an abuser.”

“I know, but this one actually is different,” she says, and you take a moment to remember you’ve always respected her honesty, paid her for it, and should’ve probably listened to it on more than one occasion. It’s the reason you’re here of all places. 

“You’d kill the part,” she adds. “You spent years killing parts just like it. There’s no shame in that. And the director’s asked for you, specifically. By name. She’s willing to double your asking price.”

So maybe your eyes widen at that, even if it’s the absolute worst way to admit defeat, that you’re just as talentless as you’ve always feared: retreating back to the comfort of the role, all that expertise in acting with—no scratch that, acting at—some barely legal starlet ready to show a little skin to get ahead. 

(That’s the nature of the game, and it’s your roots, unfortunately, but it’s safe, and if the money is there, then better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.) “Ah, yeah okay, well here’s the thing: they’ve already decided on the female lead.” You lean forward, like you’d have to listen to this next part in a whisper, because anything louder than that would make it too difficult to bear. “And?” Soyeon clicks her tongue, runs her thumb across her lips, thinking of how to soften the blow. “I mean she isn’t what you’d call an actress, exactly.” “What the hell does that mean, exactly?” “Cho Miyeon,” she starts, and you’re actually just sitting there, tasting at something in your mouth like it’ll help you make sense of it, if only for the reason that you’re not quite sure who that is. “She’s, uh, well, she’s a popstar, you see.” “Oh you’re not kidding.”

There’s a sincerity that lives somewhere in Soyeon’s lack of any expression at all, perfect poker-face armed and readied. You have to squint to really take it in. Heavens.

-

Exactly how much Soyeon actually knew about this girl, you’ll never know. She claimed first that they met through a mutual friend who does publicity work for another studio, and on a separate occasion saying that they went to school together, determinedly avoiding anything like names or corroborating details. Of course you believed her, because how were you supposed to know any different?

“Wait, you mean like actual royalty?” you ask a few days later, after Soyeon explains Miyeon’s nickname to you, because in this industry, it’s really not that ridiculous a question. 

“It’s just a running gag,” she says casually, and you both watch the waiter wordlessly grate pepper into her salad until Soyeon puts a hand up.

“So,” you continue, incredulous, “it’s supposed to be funny?”

“Look, it’s a whole thing.” Soyeon picks up her fork, but doesn’t quite end up doing anything with it. “I promise she’s only half the disaster you think she is.”

“Then do me a favor: kick my shin when I’m supposed to laugh.”

“Do yourself a favor, and try to be a little amiable.”

“You say that like I don’t know how to be charming,” you deadpan, sipping at your coffee while Soyeon’s glare stands its ground.

It’s nothing official, but Soyeon had organized a script reading. The Director is off in some foreign land scouting for the perfect beach with perfectly white sand on an island that already has enough problems, and tells you in three separate text messages to just read the fucking script. You’re groaning, rolling your eyes, and then, curled up next to the fireplace in your readers at three in the morning, it hits you—like really hits you. And you’re shocked, mostly, that there's brilliance in these pages. It’s not the kind of flick you expected, the kind that has journalists at the Atlantic, real writers with academic chops and know-how, publishing articles with titles like: Why Are Romantic Comedies So Bad?

Which, hey, isn’t that a great question. There are a couple of answers, you imagine. You haven’t read the piece of course; you’re the last person that would ever need to. But perhaps among the most fundamental obligations for the genre is that there must be some degree of obstacle, a challenge to nuptial bliss that the hero and heroine must overcome, all before the story’s happily-ever-after. And, to put it simply, such obstacles have only gotten harder and harder to come by. They used to lie in heaps and piles on the ground, ripe for the picking: parental disapproval, difference in social class, unfulfilled promises, the classic and creatively bankrupt friendship-blossoming-into-romance. Nowadays there’s quite literally nothing new under the sun.

So take that all into account, and then add in the fact that you’ve got your hands on something innovative and creative and tasteful—it’s insulting, absurd even, that you’d hamstring the movie by shooting one of the leads out of a cannon and into the hands of a novice who may or may not be able to act her way out of a paper bag. The part calls for subtlety, not the ham-handedness and dramatic stylings of a girl whose experience with the camera extends to knowing when and when not to wink.

Only here’s the thing, it’s not absurd. Like at all. Because enter Cho Miyeon.

She appears in profile first, before pulling a chair out from the table and taking a seat all with the confidence of someone who’d probably be welcome at any table, anytime, anywhere. And almost immediately, you’ve got the answer to those hundred different questions of why. Why a rookie? Why a pop idol? Why ‘princess?’ 

Well, see, on a basic level, she’s fucking breathtaking.

The devil’s in the details if you aren’t disarmed completely at a glance. Dignified, regal, royal, this girl has it all, and then some. Her hair frames her face as though it were in any need of succor, perfectly messed and ash-blonde and tumbling effortless down her shoulders. She flutters her lashes; her lips part, close again in a way that is oddly captivating; and she gets a tilt in her chin that’s worth a thousand words (most of them admittedly, jesus, fuck, and my god). It’s like she not only understands every cliche in the book—but she’s gone out of her way to make them hers. “Miyeon,” she says, voice gentle and saccharine sweet, extending her hand towards you. 

It dawns on you that there’s a certain authority that comes about from saying your own name, even when you know no one has ever needed it—contrast to the way her hand fits in yours, dainty fingers, wrist flawlessly delicate; she’s five-two, arguably five-three in her socks and you’re the one who could crush her. Even so, it’s your mouth that runs dry. You’re catching your breath, and you have to clear your throat to even return the favor.

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” she adds. 

“Oh,” you start, shifting gears, getting ready to lie straight through your teeth, “me as well.” It’s shamelessly performative. And Soyeon knows that. The wince she struggles to hold back from across the table is hard not to notice.

But then so is Miyeon, your eyes trailing down her body like a palpable touch over every curve.

Black mini skirt, pre-torn sheer tights, a pair of knee-high combat boots with a hell of a heel on them, and you’re just realizing you can see how perfectly flat her tummy is, peeking out beneath where the hem of her shirt decides to taper for the betterment of mankind. Ah, you get it, so apparently idols really do dress like that—anything and everything to tell you, keep your eyes on me now.

The feet of your chair scrape loud on the floor as you stand on your feet. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Alright,” Soyeon tuts as she stabs at her salad, “let’s dial it back.”

It takes two tries to meet her eyes properly, these beautifully dark and dangerous things, but Miyeon just blinks at you, quirks her lips gently into a small smile. And you smile right back, just a little, because maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

-

It isn’t anything like the romance Miyeon will later make it out to be. 

Even though sure, you’re both there laughing, blushing and coy—all of it enough to make the characters in the script look even-keeled, something a little more sane. “Please, it’s called chemistry,” you begin crafting excuses toward your agent when Miyeon takes a phone call on the terrace. “I have it with everyone.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. But be careful, there’s nothing noble about what’s going on here. 

“Sorry,” Miyeon apologizes, like she’d ever need to, pulling her chair right up next to yours. “Where were we?”

Just the part where the characters realize everything they’ve ever been looking for is right there in front of them. You spit the pen cap out of your mouth to answer: “the epiphany.”

For what it’s worth, the actual work to be done goes smoother than you expect. Sure, the initial delivery is rough around the edges and in need of a little tender love and care, but that’s far more than what you’d been prepared to give Miyeon credit for.

Not too long after, Miyeon suggests splitting a bottle of wine, something light and sparkling. It goes down easy.

Soyeon figures it’s time to fabricate some way to gracefully exit this whole thing, fingers tapping wildly at her phone, when you and Miyeon start touching each other. It’s subtle at first: she leans over your shoulder when you point something out in the script, pulls back a curtain of blonde hair right back over her ear before brushing up against you, lingers just long enough so that she can flick her eyes up to yours—doesn’t even care to look away whenever you catch her staring. And that’s just what can be seen above the table.

With a coat tucked under her armpit and her belongings all hastily gathered, Soyeon turns her face back over her shoulder one last time; she’s glaring, opening her mouth to say something but decides against it at the last moment. You get the message: don’t sleep with her.

You simply wave her off. Hide your own disappointment that she thinks you’d even need the reminder, because you would never.

“I guess I'm really looking forward to it,” Miyeon says, once the sun’s finished its daily dive into the horizon—once there’s only a mess of papers and empty wine glasses trailing in your wake. 

(The restaurant’s in the middle of whipping itself into shape before a slew of dinner reservations come through. It feels rude to camp out at a table any longer.)

Miyeon turns to you, standing with a hand on her hip like the two of you are neighbors who share a mailbox, and says, “think it could be fun.”

Oh, surely you’ve done a better job at masking a grin. Miyeon picks up on it instantly.

“I’m serious,” she adds, letting the timbre of her voice shift into this juxtaposition of suggestion and naivety that has you doing a double take, mentally. Because the lines in her picture perfect face are so very easy to latch onto—even if you’ve never seen anyone as perfectly sculpted as her, you can’t shake the feeling that all humans ought to come out looking like this—but at the same time, there’s something that lies beneath the surface, something undoubtedly complex, something that quietly chides you for having such untoward thoughts of a subject so innocent and docile.

“I’m not trying to take the air out of your sails or anything,” you say as you guide her through the door, hand pressing at the small of her back, “but these shoots can end up being a lot less enjoyable than they look.” “Of course,” Miyeon says, laughing, because here she is, the rookie, and it’s all very natural for her to appeal to some innate desire in you to come off as the authority on anything—film, stardom, the lack thereof, navigating life as a young pretty thing, the authority you’d discover in bending her over your kitchen counters—to some extent, she has you at least a little figured out. “What I mean is I’m looking forward to working with you.”

You watch her smile slant, shift quietly towards something more suggestive when you slip your coat around her shoulders—it’s a foregone conclusion, not that either of you are willing to look it straight in the face.

What you should have done is grabbed your phone and called her a car; there’s thousands of them in this city. What you should've done is driven home, alone. That’s all it should have been. Just some starlet you charmed for an evening to get your career back in order. Nothing more, nothing more. And instead of getting her for a few months plus change, you get her for life. This should’ve been extra clear when she leaned up against the passenger side door of your car, and found a new angle, something she’d only to that point allow to muse about your idle thoughts:

“And here I was, thinking you were just someone playing a part. Only ever a romantic for the camera.” 

You can’t even say it all happens so fast. 

Not when you take in consideration how you watch Miyeon delicately, slowly, purposefully grab a fistful of your shirt, balling it between her fingers, and begin to twist. This is probably where you’ll start, you think, when you explain it all in a tell-all book long past the age of your youth. Because, oh, what a pleasant surprise. She’s perfect. Flawless. A natural. You can’t keep your eyes away from her, and she’d have it no other way.

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” you ask, if only to resist the urge to pull her in.

“Well, I suppose I’ve got a few ideas,” she says, and there’s a glimmer at the surface of her eyes, dark and intelligent and flashing with something like danger, something like the worst decision you’ve made in years. And that’s saying a lot. “But I’d like to think you can show me.”

You give her a practiced smile, stretching just right, careful, careless, carefree. Trust me, that smile says. It’s a scene from a movie, one of many. It’s familiar. You’ve been here, with weapons in a caliber all of your own, and Miyeon’s cheeks start to ever-so-perfectly redden, porcelain skin come aflame. 

“You know,” you say, making your voice drawl until Miyeon shuffles her weight between her feet, “if it was up to the writers, I’d kiss you here.”

“If it was up to me,” Miyeon starts, chin up at you like a challenge, “I’d let you.”

The way Miyeon explains it later is that you duck your head and hold your lips next to hers just long enough to let your next breath make her swoon, all before interrupting her with a hungry exhale and an open mouth pressing into hers. A hard, biting kiss that sends shivers down her spine. That you angle your mouths just right so your tongues can slip together, so you might sweep this girl right off her feet and into your arms—if Miyeon has a face that has fantasy written all over it, then so do you, and she says you ought to know what it does it to people. She’ll be half right. 

Only when you lean into her and start filing away those mental notes of how perfect her tiny waist fits in your hands, you pause at the sound of a cricket chirping, a reminder of the neighborhood around you.

“Not out here,” you murmur, casting a wary eye over her shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

Miyeon sniffles, blinks a few times, and nods.

-

Really, it starts with you. A month before you begin shooting, you suffer from a little insanity of your own. Miyeon’s got the second boot only halfway off her foot, lit up in the soft darkness of your foyer, when you take hold of her. 

It’s not like you figured this was your last chance for happiness—swallowing down the gasp that comes off Miyeon’s lips like it were your only shot at tasting heaven—but that’s exactly how you kiss her. Mouth open and hot and heavy against hers. It’s hard to explain, and it doesn’t quite add up; you’ve got your Furies, your own personal pantheon, the girls you’ve most dreamed about and had running through your thoughts—who’d eventually find their way between your sheets in some manner or another, melting in your hands. But somehow, Miyeon’s different, you convince yourself. Or she does rather, starting with her tongue sliding languidly against yours before she decides to bite down on the swell of your lower lip. It hurts. 

She knows it hurts.

“Watch it,” you say, coming off kind of harsh, before you can realize what all is going on here. Before you come to the understanding that she’s untouchable, priceless, that you can’t afford to break her—and that it’s precisely what she wants out of you.

“What?” she asks, the corners of her mouth slanted up ever so slightly. “You’ve got nice lips.”

How you’ll ever be able to forget someone like her, you haven’t a single clue, because Miyeon uncovers and undresses you down right to the bare soul. Your mouths crash again, just enough subdued to keep your teeth from clicking together like you’ve never done this before—like you’re reading her, getting lost in a new paradox: the intrigue of her tongue caressing yours, the familiarity of her thumb rubbing circles into your back. There’s the Miyeon that was cracking wise and sipping wine with you an hour ago, and now there’s this.

“So, how are we doing this?” she asks, breaths wet and heavy as she fidgets with the button on your pants. “How do you want me?” “Well.” You’re sliding a hand up her stomach, across her ribs, until you hit the silky fabric beneath her shirt. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking here.” “Don’t play dumb.” Miyeon looks you straight in the eye, and she’s close enough that you can count the flecks of gold dancing in her irises. Brows furrowed for a second, she ends up indulging you anyway: “I’m asking how you want to fuck me?”

Every turn in her voice sinks deeper, reels you in further, coaxes you into shoving her to the wall between the door and a coat rack. The way she yelps first in surprise as her back hits the hard surface, whimpering later in delight at the grip your hands make onto her hips, it gives you the sense that she’s flustered, unable to come off as anything beyond embarrassingly forward and drowning in anticipation—

“Miyeon,” you say, slowly, getting a good read on just how much she likes hearing you say her name. That it’ll kill her, you figure, when you’re fucking her with slow, deep, deliberate strokes—once she’s inches within cumming and falling apart and it’s arriving right in her ear. “What do you think?” That lands even more pointed somehow. More dangerous than you could have ever predicted, the charm and practiced charisma in your voice coming out in lethal force: “Maybe, oh let’s see… should I fuck you right here?”

Miyeon starts with her fingertips across your scalp before threading them through your hair. “Well,” she says, teasing the callback, drawing the syllable out as though running it conceptually through her head. “If that isn’t a spectacular idea, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah,” you murmur into the delicate skin under her jaw, and after lifting off her shirt and tossing it aside, she kisses you with a consuming, needy kind of hunger one more time. Until you’re both just out of breath. “I think so too.” Miyeon dips her fingers into the waist of your pants before anything else. Function of the fact that men’s clothing is so straightforward and predictable, she’s able to shimmy them down off your hips until they hang unceremoniously around your thighs. “Um,” she says, sinking her teeth into her lip a moment, right after curling her fingers around your cock, “you’re like, really hard, you know that?”

“I was going to mention it earlier. You’re kinda my type.”

She leans into you, sighing a little into your neck. “Which is?”

“Oh, you know,” you say nonchalantly. “Pretty. Small. Ruinable. That sort of thing.”

“Right.” With a jerk of her wrist, Miyeon brings your cockhead flush against her stomach—pumps you there leisurely. “Wouldn’t want Soyeon thinking you were planning on ruining me.”

“Quick learner,” you murmur, bunching her skirt up over the rise of her hips.

“Well, we’re really not so different, you and me.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t know what she’s saying—you’re you—storied, seasoned, and only heeding right now to the wail of torn fabric. There’s a hole in her tights already, and your fingers work fast. Rip, tear, threads screeching undone. “I’m curious to hear what all gives you that impression.” 

“The way I see it, we both know what we want,” she says, unashamed, and the sound that escapes her mouth sounds a lot like a hiccup, some little hopeful noise or another, swallowing for air at the touches skating across her underwear, where it’s soaked and hot and begging. “Suppose that’s true.” “Not afraid to go for it either.” She tightens her grip around your cock, squeezing like she’s waiting for you to tell her to stop and running her thumb across your slit. “Won’t settle for anything less than you—”

“A word of advice,” you start, and the authority in your voice makes her melt just a little further in your grip. “From someone who’s not so different… A little flexibility goes a long way, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” It’s smug, the way she says it. Her eyes are heavy, hooded—honing the perfect hue of haughty as she drags her panties to the side. “I’m nothing if not a little flexible.” You bend from your knees, because Miyeon is tiny where she stands, up against drywall with her dainty arms thrown over your shoulders. And in a way, she’s right: you see the parallels, cut from the same cloth, the two strained noises or another buzzing in your throat indistinguishable when you hook your hand around her thigh, raise it, and barely slide yourself inside her, just an inch.

Miyeon’s mouth opens like she’s going to speak, and then hovers there, brows turning and knitting together—something you more than understand, because you’re on the verge of losing your mind too. She’s wet and slick with heat and so fucking inviting that you think the world might end if you don’t bury yourself into her this very second. Not that there isn’t near commensurate satisfaction in drawing out the moment, you fast discover, teasing mercilessly until you can hear Miyeon’s frustration. Her eyes shut tight, and her breath becomes ragged as you allow her another inch—almost keening when you pull back before pushing your cock into her cunt again, fucking her open slowly.

It’s only when you hear her beg please, please, please that you sink all the way in.

And she feels amazing. Tight and hot and clinging, she sleeves onto you like a glove. Immaculate enough to chip away at your positions regarding fate, the ridiculous notion that under the stars there was a girl out there for you, that you’re in orbit with some inevitable conclusion and her name is fucking Cho Miyeon. So outright sinful that you still need a beat to come to terms with it, and you make an effort to voice that: “Fucking hell, Miyeon.”

She lets out a whiny, punched out breath, tilting her chin to the ceiling and revealing the long column of her throat to you like an invitation, though you press your lips to her temple first, the taste of her skin and the sweat aside her brow like wine—sweet and woozy and intoxicating. There’s the rise and fall of her breathing against your chest, your fingers spread out across her creamy skin, and a sudden jerk from her hips, as if to bring you back to the present.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon gasps as your hips are drawn back again. 

Only this time you’ve got the soft cheek of her ass spilling through your fingers. Waning self-control. Even less reservation about pulling her right back onto your cock. And though you’re mostly silent each time you work your entire length back into her, Miyeon is anything but—all these appreciative noises coming from low in her throat.

It might be the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed: the way she darts her tongue out to wet her lips, how her breath hitches when you move, each and every sound she makes as you fuck wildly into her cunt—slamming in, in, in, and you can hear her begin to whimper, feel her caressing the curve of your ass with her… ankle? She tugs on you, grips you, and does whatever she can to keep you deep inside her. As though you’d ever, ever stop.

“I can’t,” Miyeon starts, and it’s nearly comedic—you’d be in fits if you weren’t delicately unraveling this girl in your hands, taking her apart piece by piece, blow by blow. The poise in her voice is gone; what’s left is shattered, unrecognizable mostly. Even those dignified lines in her face start to twist and wobble, threaten to come undone. “Please, I need… oh, please make me cum. I need to cum on your cock.” “Breathe,” you tell her, feeling her slip a little against the wall, puddling further in your grip. It surprises you, the way your words come out like the crush of gravel beneath a boot, and it grips at something within Miyeon too, clues her in on how much she needs you—sucking air in through her teeth and sinking her face into your shoulder. The lines that mark where you end and Miyeon start are quickly eroding, boundary become meaningless. “I know you want to cum, but I need you to breathe for me, Miyeon.”

Her palms are damp with sweat, wrung around the back of your neck, hair sticking to her forehead and darkening in a beam of pale moonlight, not to mention what you hear: harder, faster, more—the needy requests make it sound like she’s almost sobbing. 

“I promise, I promise,” you whisper into her mouth, “I’ll do anything for you. But first, I’m going to use this tight little cunt—gonna make a mess of you.”

Your fingers dig into her soft skin, tighter, tighter; you’ll leave bruises, marks, fingerprints, all this damage she’ll trace back to you—evidence that’ll queue memories like a roll of film, bring her right back to how you have her mewling and moaning at the end of your cock, tears welling on her lashes and mascara running dark beneath her eyes.

 “Fuck,” slips out of her, nearly pouting like it’s your fault, that she’d never curse in front of anyone and here she is, teeth gritted—because, god, she’s all coiled muscle, tightened around your cock and meltdown imminent—you get your fingers under her chin and tilt her head to you.

“Gonna make you beg, Miyeon.”

“I… fuck…” Her voice gets locked up in her throat, choking back on something that turns into a wail when you adjust your angle, hit deeper, fuck harder—“I can’t,” she whispers, “I can’t,” but you keep fucking into her tight hole, nowhere close to letting up.

There’s just something so fascinating about a girl like this, a girl like Miyeon, with a gaze that inspires all this admiration and idolatry. It ought to pierce right through somebody like you and leave you for dead, bring you to your knees, but you’re nothing like she expected; you’re everything she hoped. So instead, as you watch her gasping mouth that was coyly smiling in your favor all afternoon; her small tits spilling forward when you lift up her bra; how she’s slumped back against the wall, relaxed and trusting you implicitly to carry her weight for as long as it takes; the shadowy place where your cock is drenched, glistening and disappearing between her thighs—oh, Jesus, is that a visual—it all clicks in your head: Miyeon is so, so astonishingly submissive. 

Whether it’s the fingers at her throat, or the grip hooking under her thigh, the one thing that’s clear is this: you’re using Miyeon. Fucking her within inches of irrevocably falling apart. You, the hammer; her, the nail—pounding her further into the drywall until she’s quivering and moaning and gasping into your mouth. Oh, the places you’ll pin her. You’re relentless, merciless; it’s the fact that she gets off on it that’ll stick with you. For a long time.

“Gonna make you beg for it, princess,” you amend, lips now pressing into Miyeon’s ear, and she immediately shudders apart.

It’s filthy is the thing: you’re railing the girl with deep, harsh strokes, and Miyeon’s pussy is  writhing in both protest and penury. She’s so creamed you can hear it through all the sounds of skin on skin, the percussive soundtrack of your thighs slamming up into hers. Each squelch, the wet sinful sound of it—it’s how you know your cock is making a total mess of her wrecked cunt. More and more each time it fills her and brings her that much closer to toe-curling-climax. 

Let me, she breathes against you, barely held together. The hand you have under her asscheek is doing most of the heavy lifting. “Please let me cum, please, please, please let me fucking cum all over this cock, I need to cum on this perfect cock, oh my god—”

When Miyeon finally turns up at you, she’s biting down on her bottom lip again. Her head tilts a bit, something deep and pleading in those big, brown eyes, and it almost, almost makes you feel guilty. Nearly ashamed that this delicate little thing had fallen into your lap and your knee-jerk reaction was to fuck her so hard she started to wail, cracking at the seams.

“Your cock,” she blurts out, breath jagged and uneven, “is amazing. You are—”

Like you said, almost. 

“—amazing.”

There’s nothing you can say to that, is there?

“Again… want to… again…” she demands of you, like she’s in any position to be making any. Her hands are all over you, finally undressing you, and all things considered, you don’t have the heart to tell her no. You’re hoping that never becomes a problem.

Miyeon scoops up easily enough into your arms after her orgasm had knocked the architecture right out of her legs, wobbling against the wall and almost sliding to the floor. And It all plays out again, just minutes later, after you set her on a barstool in your kitchen and slip back inside her. Sure, it’s a different setting, but you recognize it for what it is: the same story, with the same characters and the same ending, the one where you’ve got your cock fucking hard and fast into her cunt.

“Fucking, oh my god…” she rasps, just a waving white flag short of total surrender. “You’re going to make me fucking cum again. Yes, yes, yes—”

Until everything seemingly comes undone at once. And it quickly turns into stuttering cries of please and fuck and need it and all sorts of things you’ll have to promise you never heard, filth unfitting for a perfect mouth like Miyeon’s—the one now curving into that unforgettable shape while she chokes back on moans and mewls. It hits her like a brick, and her head rolls back as she groans, furrowing her brows and screwing her eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s the fact that she’s so sweet, so docile, and all at the flick of a switch. Just moments after you’ve bottomed out in her pussy—after you’ve sent her higher and higher to where she’s reduced to nothing like the royalty everyone expects of her: needy, begging. 

It’s whiplash really, from callous and cruel to caring and soft in a matter of seconds. Your foreheads come together while you catch your breath. That’s an image all in itself. And when she laughs slightly, there are the quiet tremors, the spasms of her diaphragm clenching around you. It’s hard to tell what’s going through her head, before she covers the exhausted huffs out of your mouth with a kiss that lives in the gray area between sweet and harsh and consuming. Fuck. You’d stay here forever.

(Forever ends up being a hell of a lot shorter than you expect. Because Miyeon takes to cumming on your cock like water takes to paper.)

“Wanna ride,” she tells you, breath having caught up to her and wiping sweat from her brow—something like an inciting incident, taking the two of you all the way to the living room. 

She doesn’t outright tell you that she wants you to just hold her down and fucking use her, but she doesn’t last long on top of you either, leaning back from your lap with her hands hooked around your neck and dragging you forward, until you’re once again spilling over her, pounding her hot, sopping cunt like she needs. 

You’re cautious, usually—responsible. It isn’t like you, really. The excuse you’ll settle into later is that Miyeon’s cunt is impossibly vice-tight when you make her cum a third time. She’s in the midst of being swallowed up in the cushions of your sofa, the soles of her cute little feet pointed skyward, knees folded to her shoulders and pressed under your weight while you make sure she’s well fucked through the apex of it all.

“Good girl,” you tell her—the praise cutting straight to her final lifelines, tearing them to ribbons and leaving them for dead—and you’re shifting the angle, the depth to try and get her to scream the exact same way she did the first time. “Go ahead Miyeon—cum for me, princess. You’re going to fucking cum all over this cock again.”

And she does. Hard.

Quivering. Squirming even, she comes apart, fucked deep and hard into the springs of a chaise lounge and leaving stains on leather that won’t ever quite go away. Though it doesn’t manage to arrive with anything like an announcement, as it had before, heralded by curses and the elegant simplicity of meekly choking out the word cumming through a fit of gasps and hiccups. Her voice now is so fragmented, so utterly debauched and ruined, that she only manages to husk out a pathetic whine.

“So fucking pretty, Miyeon,” you rasp, watching the blush sear right across her nose, “so gorgeous when you cum for me. And god, this fucking pussy…”

The hands on the clock spin out, numbers running forward and back, and you’re long past the point of temperance. Each stroke in and out of Miyeon’s tight, throbbing, well-fucked cunt twists further at the knot in your stomach, the edge of your own, eager to indulge your fair share of recklessness: “Miyeon, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum.”

Miyeon understands immediately. She’s whimpering, nodding, sinking her fingers into your back—it’s not even a question. “Inside me,” she repeats, several times, until you’re hilted completely in her pussy. It’s hot, sweltering, perfect, and you can’t bring yourself to care that you’re pressing a handprint into her thigh so hard that it hurts. That the sounds leaking out of your throat aren’t anything particularly becoming or that you’re fucking your cum deeper into her cunt with each waning thrust or that you’re not sure if you ever had a better fuck.

“Fuck,” you groan, slumping on top of her petite frame once you’re completely finished. So thoroughly milked and drained.

Miyeon brings her small hands up and cups your face. Just stares like you’ve got something stuck to it. Her gaze drops to your lips—and you’re left thinking for a moment that she’s going to kiss you again, though it never does arrive.

“Hey,” you say finally, panting. Both of you are heaving restless. Everytime her chest rises into you, you’re acutely aware of how her small breasts feel against you, her heart still racing as your softening cock is still warm inside her. “You’re staring.”

“Well, I was going to mention it earlier,” she starts, fluttering her lashes and pressing her lips to the crook of your neck, “but you’re kinda my type too.”

-

The least unusual thing happens.

And if you end up thinking for even a moment that Miyeon is being sincere when she suggests you exchange numbers, you haven’t been paying attention. “You know,” she says, sitting in your lap and tapping her number into your phone, “for work.”

“Ah, of course,” you answer, willing to be fooled, if only just a little, “for work.” 

- Narratively, it’s all out of order: the banal text messages, the playful back and forth, the coy innuendos, the precarious game of being interested without asking too many questions. Both of you are quite content to play your cards close to your chest as though she doesn't know how good your fingers feel in her cunt or that you’re somehow not aware of the small freckle on the seam of her pelvis, another on the inside of her left thigh. That’s just how it goes. But it’s fine, you figure. Especially when you compare it to the alternative: of taking things too fast and careening straight off a cliff. To where, historically, you've burned up in a violent supernova of messy hookups and drunk calls and regrets you’ll carry with you into the next life.

A nice change of pace, if nothing else.And it’s hardly anything unusual either, or at least until you’re standing in the grocery checkout line a few days later. Miyeon decides enough with all that about the rules of engagement. She’s going to call you:

“I was planning on swinging by in a bit to grab my watch,” she starts, and you can make out another voice, maybe a friend? A roommate? in the background of the call, getting shh’d by Miyeon before she continues, “I left it in your bathroom. I think. Maybe on the bedside table.”

“Yeah, I was going back and forth on deciding whether that was purposeful or not.” “Accidental. I swear.”

“Still a little convenient though, isn’t it?” “Nothing convenient about not having my watch.” She laughs out loud. Maybe it’s a bit of vanity on your part to make assumptions, but you’ve got her pieced together, at least a little. Everyone else already reveres and adores her—it’s the fact that you’ll level with her, that she loves a proper challenge.

“Well, I won’t be back for quite a bit. I’m running a few errands.” You smile at the lady at the register. She’s halfway into figuring out who you are.

“Why don’t you do me a favor then… bring it with you to the press event on Friday?”

“Now that’s a surprise,” you tell her. “I’d figure you’d take the chance at face value, to get yourself back over to my place either way.”

“Look, if you’re going to make me need an excuse to sleep with you… let’s put our heads together and come up with something later.”

Oh, of course. Let’s, she says, really leaning into the plurality of it, hoping it’s something you can get used to. And given the fact you figure that Cho Miyeon has never been hard pressed to be anyone’s favorite anything, she is incredibly optimistic you’ll see just how sweet of a deal that all is. You’re answering the woman behind the register first: “paper bags are fine.”

“Are you at the grocery?”

“I am.”

“Sounds fun.” she says, after a considerable pause—the length of which tells you she’d rather dip into the mundane with you than hang up. “What’d you get?” “Breakfast cereal, bananas,” you tell her, staring straight into the conversational deadend. If only you knew any writers. You clear your throat, but Miyeon beats you to it, pulling the emergency ripcord: “What would you do if I was there with you?”

“Dunno,” you start, “take you to the bathroom maybe. Go down on you until you cum.”

At this point the cashier has put it all together. She recognizes you, and is unsure whether to be shocked or disgusted or what, so she just hands you your receipt as you shoot your near-award-winning smile back at her and gather your things.

Miyeon laughs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re horrendous at phone sex?”

“I’ve never had phone sex,” you tell her, “seems like a waste of time when you could be instead, you know–”

“Okay,” she interrupts you, “first off, it’s like the first rule in the geneva convention of phone sex: you’re supposed to ask me what I’m wearing. And just for your information, I’m wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt.”

“What color?”

“Yikes. So bad at this; you’re supposed to tell me to start taking it off. It’s a gray shirt, the pants are blue. What are you wearing?”

“A pair of khakis. And a sweater.” “Great. Take them off, slowly.” “Miyeon, I’m in the middle of a parking lot.”

“Okay prude, then you tell me what to do.”

You end up listening to Miyeon from the front seat of your car for almost half the hour. There’s a wistful hum from the other end of the phone every time you tell her what to do with her hand, walk her through every area of her body you want her to touch and how. You let her know about the finger you’re tracing over your own pants and she can’t help but let a soft noise out at the thought of it.

“If you invited me over for dinner right now,” she says after she cums, slightly out of breath, “I wouldn’t say no.”

You stifle a laugh. It’s folklore at this point, but there’s wisdom in it surely, so you’ll lean into that old rite of passage and play hard to get. Love is all about the complications, all the ways it can go wrong: endless rules and customs to observe, obstacles you’re determined to put in the way.

“Oh princess,” you start, knowing exactly how it’ll land in her ear, what it’ll do to her. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

-

The press event itself is simple and straightforward. There’s only ever going to be a singular moment during a movie’s production where no one in the cast wants to murder someone else and it’s in that brief period of time before filming starts. So grab onto that by the horns and show the media what a fun time this is all going to be. Go team, go. 

It’s the same series of questions as always: how did this cast come together, what do you think of the scripts, how is this going to be a challenge for you, what are you looking forward to, etc.

You’ve been through this song and dance enough times now to keep your answers evasive and beguiling, because at the end of the day, it’s the most productive way to do anything in this industry. It’s routine. It’s practiced. But the thing you notice almost right away, is just how infatuated the press is with the girl at the end of the table, how they heel almost immediately to her every gesture, the way Miyeon answers questions all with the confidence of someone’s who’s been at it for ages, but with the doe-eyed blinking naivety of a starlet ready to bare it all. You have to consider that part of the reason the media ends up so hot on Miyeon’s trail is all that god-given wit and charisma and charm. She’ll make fun of herself and her group mates and her co-stars and the staff, and she’ll tease the press and give them shit in a way that makes you feel as though there’s this cool, gorgeous, very important girl who’s noticing you and liking you enough to give you shit. Then sometimes she’ll wink for no reason at all, or she’ll get that flip of her hair over her shoulder just right that you think to yourself: wow, that’s an idol.

It doesn't mean a whole lot to you now, though you’ll be wringing your wrists about it later, but the takeaway here is this: Miyeon is universally loved. Full stop.

Please root for me, she says, again and again. All the stuff she’s supposed to say. I’ll do my best to make everyone happy. And she looks down the table, right at you, when she says: “My co-stars are all so wonderful and I’m so lucky to have them here with me, I’ll go ahead and thank them in advance for taking such good care of me.”

-

The press release is worth nothing to anyone with only the opinions of a bunch of attractive people paid to be on television. What it needs is photos. Specifically the ones where Miyeon hangs off your arm like you two are just a little bit more than meets the eye.

Sex sells. Suggestion is priceless.

So you’re standing there, grinning, wide and open, practiced and sure, toward the army of photographers. You look good. You know you look good. You’d know you look good even if Soyeon hadn’t crossed paths with you behind the stage just a few minutes ago and said, “wow, you look hot,” and “if I was any bit straight, I’d bang you right here.” Though it definitely helped. The exact shade of charcoal on your suit jacket is engineered to make your skin glow, and your hair is coiffed just right so that it sits effortless. You didn’t grow up imagining you’d have hairdressers or a stylist or for god sakes ever be wearing tailor-fit suits that cost someone else a fortune, but that’s how this all works. A rag-tag militia dedicated to making it look both like you’d just rolled out of bed and that’s only how things were ever meant to be—it’s your whole deal, all with the comprehensive appeal of a mischievous smile. The first flash, and you can feel your whole soul dilate in response. Hey! Look over here for me. Click. Click. Click. Raise your chin—hands at your sides—hold that for me—perfect. Click. Click. Click. It’s calming in a way. All the piercing lights, the clattering of camera shutters. The feeling that never grows stale is seeped in the familiarity of it all; your roots are here. It’s home. And there’s something unique about the blur of lights, something hard to put your finger on exactly, that it feels like the perfect backdrop to just zone out in. And the fact that you can’t really hear those anxious, gnawing thoughts in your head over all the shouting, the chattering, the commotion—boy, that feels good too. Though what you can hear is all the cameras turn, in unison. Something like a premonition.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen Cho Miyeon. You know how she looks in and out of her underwear, the way her blonde hair sits on her porcelain shoulders, how she’s all curves and pointed angles in the right places; you’ve seen her up close. Hell, she’d already taken your breath away, which in some regards is completely unfair, now considering that you haven’t any more breath to give. 

She doesn’t care; she’ll leave you asphyxiated, with a smile. Perfectly. It makes it feel like every smile you’ve seen before are just failed attempts. Like this is the real deal. Click. Click. Click.

The thing that has you lost for words is that it’s hard to know where exactly to start. Not only is Miyeon drop dead gorgeous, but here she is, pretending that she’s finding all that out for the very first time, blush burning across her cheeks like she’s not used to the attention. Her hair is pinned up, delicately placed into a perfect bun, wispy blonde strands falling aside her ears. And a pair of long, dangling earrings reflect the camera flashes aimed in her direction, scattering the light in every which way. Then it’s the fucking dress: it’s skintight, champagne, which is a good color on anyone, spectacular on her. You can’t let your eyes dip down all the way through the plunging neckline or you’d be staring at her midriff and thinking just how badly you want to undo the whole thing; pull gently on the tie at the back and let it all slump to the floor; get on top of her and have her cursing. Make her hot and flustered and moaning your name until you shoot a hot load all over that fucking tummy. Jesus. Fuck.

“Hey stranger,” she says, with restrained delivery, still smiling at the wall of flashing lights as she hooks her hand under your elbow.

“You’re late.” Maybe—just maybe—if you can somehow manage to find anything to be at fault, you can keep your thoughts as innocent as her doe-eyed countenance. She tilts her head, pulls back her soft, sweeping hair over one shoulder, and when she gets her eyes on you… god, it’s a tall order.

“Do you have any idea?” she asks, starting in half sentences because there’s not a lot of time between poses. Everyone’s looking at her, looking at the combined-unit, the you-and-her, and demanding more. “Just how hard it is to slip into something like this? I swear to god, I think I’m still holding that first breath.”

“Hey,” you whisper, clasping your fingers together. “You look great.”

“Of course I do.” Her other hand is at your waist, gentle and misleading, much like the rest of her. “Just about any girl would look good next to you.”

Falling is just not the correct term, to be precise. Too clumsy. Hardly does what’s going on here any justice. This is a meticulous process wherein Miyeon delicately binds and traps your heart into love—maybe even the platonic ideal of the femme fatale, and you’ll take twenty, thirty paces into quicksand before you realize you’re trapped, waist deep, unable to move, totally and proper fucked.

“Here,” she says, tugging gently on your arm until you’re hunched over slightly, ear sitting perfectly at her lips where they begin to part, whispering: “This will drive them crazy. Just this little private conversation. They’ll be guessing what I’m telling you here, right now, for weeks.”

You laugh as you watch everyone with a camera scoot to the edge of their seats, expecting something unexpected. On the off chance they’ll get lucky and catch the shape of that murmur out your mouth: “And what exactly is it that you’re telling me here?” “I’m curious,” she starts, “how bad do you think I want you right now?”

Oh. You register your whole body shifting its weight onto the other foot. Twice, the muscles in your legs tensing when she wets her lips with her tongue. A problem, maybe. Your eyes dart about because you’re in front of all these witnesses, and the instinctual urge from somewhere deep and unruly in your head amounts to something like a death wish: to get your hands on her in public, to throw caution to the wind and let her have access to you under all this scrutiny. It’s automatic; you’re leaning back on old habits; humor’s never failed a face like yours. “What, like on a scale of one to ten?”

She leans back, takes both your hands in hers and just grins. “I heard there’s sort of an afterparty later. You going?”

You swallow, collect yourself. “I am.”

“Yeah?” Miyeon’s lip pulls up at the corner, smirk cocked, ready to fire, and her eyes are sparkling, literally; every flash of a camera fills her dark irises with a sharp glister of gold. It’s actually kind of mesmerizing. “Me too.”

“Maybe I'll see you there,” you tell her, leading her to the stage exit.

“Hm, maybe,” she says, and she rubs a few circles into the back of your knuckles. “Though it’d be a sure thing if we go together, wouldn’t it?”

-

Truth be told, you never make it to the afterparty. You get sidetracked. You get distracted.

“Feels so good, oh my god.” Miyeon’s jaw clenches, teeth together so tight you can feel her body tense up. “So deep, so good, so, fuck—”

What Miyeon is ultimately trying to do in the backseat of your car is ride you hard and fast to the point where she’s mixing up her words, gasping for air, and blathering filth and obscenity from her pretty lips. Until her legs lock up and her eyes shut tight before cumming all over your waist. So yeah, the charcoal slacks end up being a little fortuitous.

She bucks into you hard, holding her weight with two hands on your chest, though she can’t bounce up and down on your cock like she’d much prefer. The way her clit rubs against you as she ruts into your hips like a wild animal feels awesome, even better for her, you reckon, but that’s no substitute for the heavensent sensation she gets running down her spine when you fill her starved cunt repeatedly with long, deep strokes. It’s cramped and awkward and your knees and elbows knock and scrape and she’s taking that frustration out on you. As best she can without hitting her head on the ceiling of the car.

You can certainly appreciate the irony of it. Because you’ve got the poster girl for a disney princess in a state of half-dress (half-undress? under duress? it’s not entirely clear), the champagne hem of that dignified gown bunched up around her hips, furling in supplication, and she’s fucking you in pretty much the least elegant fashion possible.

“God dammit,” she spits out before sinking her teeth into her lower lip, as you offer to help her grind on top of you with two handprints sunk firm into the round of her tight little ass.

It’s clumsy and uncouth, though still, riding you amounts to a religious experience for Miyeon, given the way her cunt is quivering, torrentially wet, and so, so, so hot. Clenching on you in something like worship, in adoration. She should probably be more embarrassed about some of the noises she’s making. They’re high-pitched, whining, desperate even. You can’t quite hear what she’s saying—not over the hollow echo of your sex through the small cabin of the car—but there are only so many iterations of, oh my god, please, fuck, faster, harder, need it, right there, faster, I, ah, ohmygod.

“Baby,” you whisper, wrapping an arm around Miyeon's waist and sinking you both further into the seat. “Fuck, I cannot believe this pussy; you’re so tight, fuck—”

She’s still smiling, though it’s absolutely devilish. Maybe that’s the praise she lives for. Everyone’s already telling her she’s gorgeous, that she’s talented, that she's beautiful inside and out, but she just simply can’t get enough of it: how you’ll slap her ass so hard she yelps and growl against her throat, cum in her cunt and tell her she’s perfect.“Want your cum, baby,” she murmurs, cheeks aflame, lips again parting open, “I want to watch you cum in me.”

“Miyeon,” you groan, “such a good fucking girl for me,” and she just nods, like a fantasy come to life.

She lifts herself up again. Comes crashing down. Good fucking god. Every little roll of her hips is a touch more agonizing than the last; she feels so fucking incredible around you that it all betokens danger. You’re buried so deep inside her that if let go of the breath you’re holding you would drown in the heat of her cunt, the velvety touch of her skin, the fact that she smells fucking amazing—all worked up and starting to sweat.

“Can you?” she asks, propping up the tall heel of her shoe onto the seat and trying to ride up and down your shaft just a bit faster, a little harder. You pull at her dress again, twisting it in your hand until you can see where your cock disappears between the creases of her thighs and into the warm embrace of her cunt. She’s fucking you reckless and sucking sharp gasps of air past her teeth, asking, “do you think you can cum like this?”

“You want me to finish in your pussy that bad, Miyeon?” you ask, shifting slightly in the space beneath her. “Want it so much, want to feel it,” she starts to pant, words disappearing in wet exhalation every time her thighs come spilling onto yours. “Want to feel your cock throb in my pussy, want to feel you fill me up.”

Even accounting for the fact that she’s so small on top of you and even easier to manipulate with nothing more than the firm grasp you have on her waist, it’s a whole ordeal to maneuver about the cramped backseat. Especially considering Miyeon would rather die than feel your cock leave her cunt. She lets out a needy whine, like you’ve done her some sort of injustice, when you find a hand under her shoulder and start to move. “Please…” she groans, grabbing desperately at the collar of your shirt. Searching hard for the unrealized potential of the tie around your neck.

You twist and turn, slide and shimmy until you’ve got Miyeon’s arms pinned behind her back, wrists trapped in your fingers and her svelte frame arching into you. It’s a little precarious, and it takes a few tries to find any sort of rhythm—holding her in place and gliding up into where she’s soaked and aching—but the moment you start slipping your cock up into her cunt, it dawns on you: you can absolutely cum like this. She’s so mind-numbingly tight, so hot, so easy to use; it’s not a challenge. Not in the slightest.

“Oh my god.” She cuts off those incredible noises, breath hitching in her throat. She doesn’t have an inkling of how to react; there’s no way around it. Not when you’re fucking her—truly fucking her—within an inch of her life and pulling her small body down onto your cock harder, faster, faster. Again, again.

Miyeon’s hair is the first thing begging to be ruined. Delicately fixed and pristinely manicured. Gentle waves tumbling over her shoulder as you trace your fingers up the curve of her spine, knead at the back of her neck, and thread into a handful of those ash-blonde locks. 

“Fuck.” Her whole body melts into you, and her voice is seeped in lust and need and want: “right there, right there, right there—”

Your fingers tighten in her hair, grip, pull. 

“Feel good?” you whisper into her neck, all this soft pale skin begging for a press of your lips.

“It feels—I, fuck.” Miyeon just stutters, eyes watering and chest heaving through all these incoherent breaths as you drive her to silence. Fuck her to submission.

“Princess,” you start, bringing your other hand up to her cheek. It’s the small details that truly send her: the thumb wiping away at the small tears on her long lashes, how you tuck a few misplaced wisps of golden hair behind her ear, dominance soft and doting—it’s not just the fact that you’ll pull her apart; it’s that you’re the one putting her back together. That’ll never be a secret she keeps from you, you figure, because she’s reduced to a whimpering, shuddering mess when you take her lips softly in yours. A chaste, gentle, unscripted kiss. Unbecoming of the reality that has you currently fucking raw and senseless into her creaming cunt.

“Tell me what you want, Miyeon.”

Sure, you’ve got in your hands the script of sin and innocence, and you’ll settle into an assigned part, a role to play. Though to be truthful, you just simply can’t help yourself. She’s delightful. The whispers out your mouth sink once more against her skin, sweaty and red and hot to the touch. She whines like your words cut right to the bone, lethal. Your hips come up, hilting deep in her cunt, and it’s enough to shake an earring loose and into the depths between the seats; you’ll spend a literal lifetime looking for it later. Her breath hitches, regressing to huffs and sharp draws of air when you drag your cock just along the right spot, apparently.

“Please, please, please,” she begs finally, sputtering with the waning energy of air escaping a balloon.

“I want to know what you need from me,” you tell her, letting your voice come out in such tantalizing fashion that it’s the kind of thing that could coerce the truth out of anyone.

“You,” she rasps, “all of you.”

How quick she turns to putty, muscles softening and tensing all at once. And you’re generously allowing her to take more, capitulating to her pleas of right there and harder please, pushing in as deep as you’ll go. You soothe her when she shudders and quakes—just a broad hand at her back—helping her adjust to you.

“Shit, Miyeon, you look perfect like this,” you mutter, watching the small tears that come from the corners of her hooded eyes. “Can’t get over how gorgeous you look taking me.”

Those small hums and moans leaving through closed lips are all she can muster. She clutches ahold of you even tighter, feeling the sharp bloom of everything trickle closer and closer like a dam about to break.

“Is that what you like to hear, princess?” you ask, fucking her right through her own orgasm and realizing it’s hopeless; you’re going to fall in love again and again with that pink stain in her cheeks. “Do you want to be my cumslut? Let me use your pussy whenever I want. You’re so tight and wet for me, Miyeon. You want my cock all the time, don’t you?” 

Some of it—maybe all of it—hits hard. She starts to shake. You’re fucking her cunt, steady and resolute, even as she fucking collapses, and her lips part like she’s going to wail, though never makes a sound.

“Words,” you order, breathless. “Oh…” It’s slow at first, that steady stream of fuck and please spilling out of her—curses flowing as easily as the air she breathes. You’ve got her at your complete control, a seeming extension of your will, and she presses her forehead to yours, gasping, “want to feel you fucking cum in me. Please do it, do it, I need to feel you, I want your fucking cum in me so bad. Please, please, please fucking make me yours. Do it, need you to use this little pussy and cum.”

You’re deep inside Miyeon, clutching hard around her waist and pulling down on it as you vault over the proverbial edge. Breathing heavy into her chest as you fuck all this hot cum into her cunt. She keeps rolling her hips, slowly, as if by instinct, to ride everything out of you, until you’re yanked back to the here and now.

“Oh my god,” she coos. Because it’d be impossible to not notice, leaking out of her and onto her thighs. 

“Miyeon.” The next sound that comes out of you is near indescribable: gravelly and plucked from deep in your throat. 

“So, so much for me,” she adds with a hint of exultation, running her fingers through your hair. 

Some part of you expected her to perhaps be more resilient, put up some semblence of a fight, but this is Miyeon, you realize—the roughness in your voice, the gentle touch of your fingers, the severity of an open palm, your lips at her throat—she loves it. Her hands are soon again cupping at your face, tongue reaching into your mouth. And she shudders at the way your cock slides out of her pussy.

“Messy,” you murmur into her kiss, quietly, and you hear her swallow when you skate your finger over her hips and down her stomach, tracing gently at the place you were pressed together, thoroughly covered in your cum, her slick.

“Uh.” Miyeon makes a face. Wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

“Oh please,” you say as she cuddles up to you as far as the backseat of your car will allow. “You know you love it.”

-

Here’s the thing you fail to realize about a girl like her, a girl like Miyeon:

She’s more than just the physical, than the sum of her parts. She’s a feeling.

Oh, there’s plenty about the ways you touch her, the way her hand fits into yours, her hair running silky smooth between your fingers—how you can leave bruises on her thighs and marks on her neck, or reduce her to a whimpering mess with nothing but a firm grip. She laughs and it’s something that moves you to your core. She’s easy to admire from afar. And even easier up close, where you can appreciate the mastery in those brushstrokes.

But pay attention to how your blood drains from your cheeks, how the world stutters on its axis when you look at her. Because you can’t help but feel like you’re living life the way it’s portrayed in fiction when you do. Like you’re slipping into a world where no matter how insurmountable the odds, the good guy always wins.

-

“It’s all bullshit, that’s what it is,” someone is telling you with an almost unsettling confidence, even though their voice is shaky and ever-so-slurred with drink.

You’re sitting there, slightly listless, on one of the stools at a four-top, busy zoning out at the neon smirnoff sign behind the bartender like it might move if you look away for even a second. Your fingers are tapping on the table, and the fact that you can’t taste the kick in your heavily doctored gin and tonic means you’re already drunk. Probably. You’ll have to thank Miyeon later.

“Hey,” the someone starts again, “are you even listening to me?” It’s a little deep, raspy, but it sounds like it belongs to a girl.

No, you think.

“Sorry,” you say after blinking a few times and pulling yourself away from the sign. The girl sitting next to you frowns. “Have we met?”

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, handing her a beer and setting her own drink down on the table. It’s pink and full of ice and in a ridiculous looking piece of glassware.

It goes without saying that you couldn’t show up to the main event—late, attached at the hip, and with Miyeon’s hair all disheveled and half-repaired like you two were fucking in secrecy—so Miyeon pitches the idea to you while you’re in the middle of wiping cum off your pants with napkins from the glove compartment: If you’re interested, there’s a bar nearby. My friends are there, it’s quiet but it’s nothing too pretentious.

“And you met Sana earlier,” Miyeon adds, lifting her chin in the direction toward the girl buried in her phone, tapping away furiously at a series of text messages—the way she hasn’t looked up in minutes and how her drink is nearly untouched implies some sort of drama. 

It’s kinda weird—you’re realizing you might have a type: they’re all some sort of blonde. Shockingly easy to look at too. With bodies that could fill a nighttime of fantasy, and supposedly somehow they’re best friends? Look, you’ve never seen two pretty best friends; it grinds against cosmic law, ain’t one of them supposed to be not so pretty? (Though maybe the rules are different when you land on odd numbers? If it isn’t all a little perplexing.)

“Know each other from work,” Miyeon explains, holding her hair back from her face and barely touching her lips to the rim of her glass.

“Uh.” Yuqi pops the top of the bottle off against the side of the table. “And we live together.” “Roommates?” you ask, carefully trying to keep your tone from sounding judgemental, and Miyeon gives you a solemn nod. There’ll be time to pry later.

“Look,” Sana says, only after finally putting her phone face down in front of her. There’s a story there. Maybe you’ll hear the end of it. “I’m not saying I’m proud of this attitude, okay, but that’s the truth: I make judgments based on what drink people order.” 

She fixes her eyes on you, and god, she’s gorgeous. It’s a different kind of beauty, a lot less subtle, way more in your face, and she knows she can get away with it. (Though it’s the patented hundred-megawatt smile of hers that’ll stick with you.)

“Like if you were drinking a cosmo or whatever the hell it is Miyeon’s got—”

“What?” Yuqi scoffs, and her eyebrow turns when she sees Miyeon wrap her arm around yours. “And just like that he’s not sexy or sophisticated, smart or virile? Is that it?” “I suppose…” Sana twists her lip between her teeth. “Maybe it’s context?”

“No, that makes sense,” you say, and you dab at a ring of condensation on the table with a bar napkin. “Like I wouldn’t hesitate to take a cosmo if I was stranded in an airport in February and the planes are getting de-iced and the pilots are deciding whether to take off or go home.”

“I’d order a double,” Miyeon says, and you swear she’s closer to you each time you check.

“So then tell us, what’s the quintessential manly drink then?” Yuqi asks, skeptical, and a little disappointed to even be entertaining the question. “If pink cosmos are on one end of the spectrum…” “Dunno.” Sana crosses her legs, and rubs at her chin. “I suppose anything that comes in one of those squat, burly glasses.”

“The kind that real men hurl across the bar at another man’s head,” you deadpan.

“Oh my god.” Sana springs forward in her seat, and her gaze pins you to where you’re sitting. “You get it. Do I know you from somewhere? I swear you’ve got a face that’s familiar.” “Maybe I just got one of those faces,” you tell her, and Miyeon squeezes her fingers gently around your knee. 

“Maybe.” Sana tilts her head, letting out a mostly unentertained chuckle, dry and humorless. You can see the gears slowly churning in her head.

Yuqi’s got her bottle turned up nearly perpendicular to the ceiling, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—it’s all oddly charming—and she just lets out a wistful sigh. “Someone should make a movie, an old western maybe, where someone flings an oversized martini glass. You could start a movement.”

You’re not really thinking about anything in particular when the conversation ebbs and flows, except that you’re content; buzzed with the bitters in your drink; and the ephemeral touches of the hand in your lap, gentle, curious, teasing. There’s something laid back about being in Miyeon’s company that draws you in, something effortless, like the world seems less maliciously unfriendly, even if she ends up managing to embarrass you in a game of billiards. She finds the table at the end of the bar and readies a flip comment while rubbing chalk into the end of a pool cue. You watch as it leaves white streaks all over her chic dress, and you’re kind of enamored by the fact she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re sure you’ve played before?” she ribs, pulling a hairpin from her clutch, and clipping it to the hair at one temple to keep it from interfering with her game.

“Aren’t you a wealth of talents,” you say, in admiration.

“Do you mean, appearances can be deceiving?” she asks while sizing up a shot, grins—a smile that suggests mischief, which is normal, except that this one invites you to be part of it. “I think you might be putting words in my mouth.” 

“Oh,” she says, and with her lovely, slender, fingers pressing onto the green baize, she sockets three shots in a row. Misses on the fourth. “So now you don’t like me putting things in your mouth, is that it?”

“Hm,” you say, ignoring the obvious bait and lining up a shot. “This is going to be a weird question.”

Miyeon drops her arm and tilts her head quizzically. 

“What do you think of the script?” 

“The one that has us heartbroken and lost and wandering until we rediscover love is right where we left it?” 

“That’s the one.”

Miyeon covers her mouth to laugh when you take your shot and it misses in such grand fashion that you can’t help but hang your head. “It’s the dress shirt,” she says to comfort you.

“I’ll take what pity I can get.”

You’re watching Miyeon in action—hair carefully swept back, earrings sparkling, and heels set firmly on the floor—all together rather enchanting. She makes several more shots, aimed with perfect precision and seriousness, before finally answering you: “dunno, seems a little psychotic.”

“I mean that’s the thing about romance,” you begin, “there’d be no story if the writers weren’t at least a little psychotic.”

“Oh by the way.” Yuqi’s voice booms at that moment, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer: “I’ve gotta take Sana home. She’s late to getting plowed by her new manager. I’ll catch you later.”

“That isn’t—” Sana huffs, pinches at the bridge of her nose, and stops herself short, before reapproaching it in a more bracing way. “I’m telling you he gets all worked up whenever I’m out drinking this late.” 

“Worked up, huh?” Yuqi grins at a parody of a smile, and turns to you, laughing. “That’s how she likes him.”

“Yuqi,” Sana groans.

Miyeon rests her cue up on the table and crosses her arms, smirking in your direction. “Life imitates art, right?

-

“You’ve got a girl here, don’t you?” Minnie asks, at nine in the morning and standing in your living room. It reminds you of the fact that you have a meeting on your calendar on today’s date between you and your agency’s lawyer at nine in the morning.

She's not some expert sleuth. At least, not as far as you're aware. It could be one of any number of things that tips her off: Miyeon’s heels are in your foyer, her champagne dress folded neatly over the back of your couch, or maybe it’s the pair of underwear that landed perfectly on the corner of your television. What it is not, however, is the reddening outline of Miyeon’s lips on your Adam's apple; you’re doing a pretty good job of coyly covering that up with your palm.

“I mean yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

“I don’t know if you could’ve answered that more ominously.” Minnie laughs, shuffling past where you stand in the door frame and setting her bag down on your kitchen island, surveying the mess in your apartment. She stands before you, wearing all black and looking down her nose at you.

(She’d pretty much cornered the market on wearing all black and looking down her nose at you, and you always take a moment to marvel that anyone could live on the earth only twenty-some odd years and manage to wear all black and look down their nose at you with such timeless self-assurance.)

“If you need her to sign an NDA, I’ll have to swing back by the office to pick up the proper paperwork.” “I don’t need her to sign an NDA,” you say, turning on water from the faucet and filling a kettle. The hand you have running through your hair helps you remember that you are still very poorly put together: a mess of bedhead, t-shirt, underwear, and only a singular sock to your name. Not that it matters, you suppose. Minnie’s seen you worse.

“Wow. Things must be getting serious, huh.” Minnie drums her fingers on the counter. “Well whatever it is, I’ve got stuff for you to sign.”

“I thought we walked through all the contract boilerplate already.” “We did.” “And?” “Contracts change.” The pen she has in her fingers, scanning over a stack of papers, is poised. Her slow nod studious, blandly puzzled. “That’s why you need me.”

“Now if that isn’t an unfortunate truth,” you say, and Minnie raises an eyebrow. “Good change or bad change?”

“Depends. Have you met Cho Miyeon, the other lead? She’s cute, blonde.” Minnie hovers her hand an inch in front of her nose. “About yea high.” 

“A few times,” you answer, sorta truthfully.

Minnie tilts her head, and licks her thumb to flip through the first couple pages in the stack. “Well, the producers want you two to be seen. Together. Somewhere high profile and suggestive.”

“Okay.” You’re pouring hot water from the kettle over coffee grounds and a filter when you realize you have no idea what that’s about. You voice as much: “I have no idea what that means.”

“Well, here’s the general thought: they figure they can get some free marketing, brush up a little media buzz, get people talking about this movie if some paps snap some pictures of you two where it looks like you’re—”

“Where it looks like we’re dating. Okay, sure, wonderful.”

“Your words, not mine—or the producers, legally.” You fall silent, thinking: there’s no such thing as fairytales, it was bound to happen, a trip up, a snag, a snare. You know, in essence, it’s trouble.

“Um.” Your shoulders drop. “The producers want a scandal, Minnie.” “Again, I’m not legally allowed to call it that.” She shakes her head, before putting something down on a lined memo pad with great industry. “And if that’s your assessment, you came to it all on your own with no help from me.”

But yes, she mouths to you silently. You got it, aren’t you clever, now play along.

“Does this not feel like shaking a hornet’s nest?” you ask her. “Surely there’s a better way to go about receiving death threats; she’s a damn idol.”

“She certainly is,” Minnie says, passing you the pen and giving you her practiced professional-but-still-definitely-sardonic-smile that always manages to emote, please don’t be difficult. If she’s hoping it inspires confidence, it does not. “Sign the new contract.”

You’ve got plenty of reasons to have reservations, but here’s a fun fact not a lot of people know: there’s a part of you perfectly content shutting up and doing what you’re told. Maybe it’s something about pretty girls with dark eyes, long legs and a curl in their lip that upstages anything like subtlety—an Achilles heel of sorts. Except instead of your mother forgetting to bathe your feet in the river styx, you’ve just got some mother issues in general.

“There,” Minnie says, watching you initial on the dotted line. “Was that so hard? Someday, you’ll look back and think, yeah, that’s where it all goes to shit.

-

Three weeks into filming, you make good on your promise.

It would have been neater, perhaps, if all the sneaking around and impropriety caught up with you and used this moment as a catalyst: if, filled with embarrassment, you owned up to everything that was going on between you. Might’ve saved you some hurt.

You watch Miyeon’s hand shoot up to her mouth only to find whimpers leaking out from beneath her palm.

What if all those cameras had instead gotten pictures of you and Miyeon here, in the restroom of a cafe that Miyeon swore up and down would be crawling with paparazzi—where Miyeon had dragged you by the wrist halfway through a bottle of dry chardonnay, locked the door behind her, and flicked the skirt of a her floral dress up over her hips. Imagine the way it would look: you on your knees, face buried between Miyeon’s legs— 

“I swear… your fucking mouth,” Miyeon murmurs, fingers running through your hair. 

—all you know is that it would have been a different kind of disaster.

“Oh,” she moans, and you swallow heavily at the sight of her above you, following the movement in her face: every wince, every flinch, pleasure absolute and wringing her dry. She’s pretty as always, eyes dark and twinkling under the cool fluorescent lights. It’s that damn blush again, and you’re convinced eating Miyeon out feels like the most normal thing in the universe, like you’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times more. Just listen to how Miyeon’s breath stutters when you lap softly at the heat between her lips, lifting her hood and swirling her clit once, twice, before bringing the narrow point of your tongue back to the shallow depth of her aching entrance. She shudders at all how you tease her, slick pooling in your mouth, down your chin; a pinched off moan filling the bathroom when you add another finger inside her. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” she says, gasping out on top of an embarrassed little sigh each time time she bucks against the touch of your hand. You spread her lips, get your tongue flatter, deeper, and she drops her shoulders, laughing in that high-pitched skittery way she does when she’s struggling not to cum all over you with her eyes clenched shut.

It’s a sight to behold: Miyeon twisting her brows and biting into her lower lip—chewing off all the lip-gloss you know she just put on because you watched her make a show of it at the table like it was the most delicate thing in the world. She looks soft, docile even, and hums out a wistful note when you squeeze your hand into her thigh. Swallows back a moan when you reach up and knead at her chest. Yeah, she is soft. Tender and malleable and perfect. How easily you keep her pinned in place with just a flex of your wrist.

“Now would you look at that, princess,” slips out of you, totally carefree, lifting your lips from her pussy and wiping the wet from your chin. She sways slightly, and you’re leaning into her space, voice nearly coming out breathy and flooded as hers, asking, “You’re so wet, Miyeon. How do you want me to make you cum? On my fingers?”

Miyeon just sighs, lust and need glittering in her eyes. If there’s anything you’ve picked up from all of this so far, from all the raunchy sex, every manner in which she’s puddled in your grip, all the times she’s begged for you to hold her down and rail her—more than anything else, Miyeon loves, loves, loves to be teased. 

But it’s the way her smile stretches, just perfectly, or even just one glance from those doleful eyes—fuck, goddamnit, one day I am really going to fucking die written into the shy curve of her lips—you’re never quite that cruel. Her panties are dropped to the floor and hanging around her ankle, soaked, ruined, but that doesn’t mean she needs to be too; you bring your lips back to her pussy. Fingertips curling up against that spot that drives her up the wall and your tongue running laps around her swollen clit.

“Oh, like that,” Miyeon whines, barely able to make any noises louder than a whimper, “just like that, please, yes, like that—”

And then you catch the aching swell of her clit between your lips. Slowly, start to suck.

“God,” she breathes out, still writhing from the fingers you have inside her, your thumb rubbing against wet, slippery skin, right how you’ve learned she likes it. And she gasps, head rolled back, brows furrowed up: “Oh, yes, oh God, you — you’re perfect. It’s — ”

That really never gets old.

Everything stills for a moment. Everything besides your fingers fucking her quietly while her orgasm quakes through her. She’s catching her breath, staring at you—skin dewy with sweat and chest heaving. Her warmth wraps around you, surrounds you, and you’d be content to stay like this forever, pressing kisses into her stomach and never, ever letting go.

That is until she looks at you, lashes fluttering, as if she’s trying to gauge your emotions. Until she speaks. “I want it,” she gasps, breath steadying, “I want your cock.”

She knows you, right down to the basics: you can never deny her anything.

-

(You’re being cautious—covering your tracks, you convince yourself—but then there’s all this evidence to the contrary, no shortage of close calls, times where you’re so nearly caught: Miyeon’s lithe, tight body grinding desperately against yours in a costume closet or her dressing room or in the backseat of your car; the way she keens when you slip your fingers inside her, how she wails in delight when you really fuck her in earnest; you cutting off those unabashed moans with your mouth or your hand or even just two fingers shoved between her lips so she might have something to bite down on.

It’s this whole thing, the sneaking around, the indiscretion—Miyeon loves it. And the danger of it all become something like a siren’s call, you are just as attracted to the idea too, that you’re masking who you are in the dark, just past drawn curtains and under fitted sheets.

“Wow, I never noticed, but you guys are, like, weirdly close,” Soyeon says once, sometime near the beginning, and perhaps when you’d begun to stare a little too obviously as Miyeon was tying her hair back. It has you both laughing off the observation as something trivial, like Soyeon was the odd one out for noticing anything at all. But fast forward a few hours, and you’re sprawled out on a set of hotel linens, having a laugh again all while Miyeon fucks herself on your hard cock, delighted at how easy it is to conceal everything in plain sight.)

-

“Um,” Yuqi says, walking into the living room of Miyeon’s apartment with her laptop precariously perched on her forearm.

You’re out there on a Wednesday, hanging out, kissing Miyeon every now and again, but talking mostly. The rationalization is that you’re practicing and memorizing lines, ironing out kinks that aren’t really there. Which is all how you know things are getting out of control, if not among the other hints: Miyeon’s added a spare toothbrush in the cup on your bathroom vanity, a pile of women’s laundry atop your washing machine that never grows any smaller, beauty products under the sink, and there’s all those damn bobby pins that show up in every corner of your apartment. “It’s just casual”, you overhear her say once, on the phone with Sana, and you do your best to never, ever think about it.

“You idiots, you’re trending.” Yuqi sits down on the sofa next to you, not at all disconcerted that you’ve got your hand in the ends of Miyeon’s hair or that she’s practically sitting in your lap. You learn pretty quick that Yuqi feels like she belongs anywhere. In some ways, that’s her charm. “And?” Miyeon asks, dismissive.

“Are you both insane?” Yuqi turns her laptop around so you can read her feed.

There’s a series of pictures on the screen attached to a headline that starts with breaking in bold capital letters, like its only true purpose is to fuck up the internet. Your eyes start on Miyeon first, the tilt of her chin, her fingers floating across her collarbones, smile radiant—looking at you the way she always does when she’s mentally undressing you. Fortunately, she’s still perfectly made up, hair tied up above her shoulders and the mascara under her eyes not quite yet running; this photo is before you made a mess of all that, gotten her moaning your name in the restroom. You’ve got your hand at the back of your neck, and you’re laughing. The glint in your eye screams complicity. 

Miyeon says emptily, “you’re overreacting.” 

Yuqi’s frown deepens fractionally, but you’re putting the pieces together. It’s pretty unhinged.

 “Christ,” you start, “get a look at some of these retweets: I’m just thinking of what those kids would look like, the genetic payout; fuuuuuuck I need to see that sextape.” You laugh. “Look, this one just says: sex.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, cheek nearly pressed against yours. “Here’s one: how much do you wanna bet Miyeon tops when they—”

Yuqi bursts out laughing, clearly almost snorts, and you both raise an eyebrow at her. “What? This girl here isn’t topping anyone.”

“Shut it.” Miyeon rubs her hand at her chin, turns her eyes up at you, and without an ounce of irony continues, “How much do you wanna bet? That these are your fans.”

Yeah, probably not, you think. “I’m sorry. Do you have any idea how my demographic skews? Not like your fans who are…” Miyeon’s face lights up. “Are delightful?” “Have a sock at home with Miyeon’s name on it?” Yuqi chimes in, grinning. “I mean if somebody wants to make a puppet of me,” Miyeon says, practically huffing out the words, “that’s not really any of your concern.”

Yuqi makes a face. You watch as she slowly twirls one of those long waves of pink hair around her finger (strawberry blonde, Miyeon called it, and you don’t know shit all about that, but it does sound pretty, so that fits, you guess). It goes all the way down to her waist, and you’ve noticed, possibly for a second or third time, that she looks killer in a pair of high cut jeans—what all with the long legs and an ass that more than plenty fills them out, she could be peddling denim on a Levi’s catalog.

“What should be your concern,” Yuqi says, “is that the internet thinks you’re getting railed on the regular.” It’s quick—blink and you’d have missed it—her eyes lingering for a moment on your expression before she lifts her chin and laughs, dryly, almost nervously to fill the silence. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

-

Yuqi’s expertise, first and foremost, is talking. Go ahead, take a moment to consider how wildly dangerous that is, for a girl with a face like hers and a body like that to be good at talking. Every so often you catch her staring at you with her huge, beautiful eyes, these deep pools of pure anthracite; the sort of charming that keeps you smiling and laughing without even knowing why. She’s equal parts badmash and coquettish, you realize, and somewhere in the seamlessness with which she swaps between the two is a hint that both are facades. (That there exists a third Yuqi, the one who determines which mask is appropriate for which occasion but who is otherwise veiled, obscured, entirely impossible to know.)

Whatever your theory for it, the charm, the innuendos, the suggestion, it all gets dialed up to eleven.

Yuqi suggests you stay for dinner in a way that is impossible to refuse, and Miyeon grumbles something inaudible, but you think you’re able to piece it together: this is a regular thing for them. Miyeon and you haven’t talked numbers or cleared up the bodycount, haven’t talked about anything serious at all—the most incriminating thing between you being Miyeon laying her head on your chest, cunt still full of your cum, saying, I’m really glad I met you—of all of Miyeon’s princes-in-waiting, you’d be a fool to think you were the first. And you’re willing to wager Yuqi’s done all this before.

“Hey, how do you take your whiskey?” she asks, pouring olive oil over a bowl of cherry tomatoes and chopping a sprig of fresh basil. If Miyeon wasn’t glaring at her, the quirk in Yuqi’s lip has you swearing she would’ve thrown a wink in your direction. Just for good measure.

“Neat is fine,” you tell her, and Miyeon rolls her eyes. -

It’s actually not true that Yuqi kisses you first. Not the whole truth anyway. “Hard to explain it in words, huh?” she asks, leaning into your space and nearly pushing you over the back of the sofa. Her knee is between your thighs, pressing up on your crotch in a way that feels good and threatening. She knows that’s the only thing she needs to keep you in place, so she leaves her hands at her chest, fingers toying with the top button of her shirt—ruminations of whether to unbutton it herself or wait for you to finally tear the whole thing off her.

(There’s a million different ways you could do this, but you’re perfectly content seeing how this plays out.)

“With just a few of them that is,” Miyeon says, drying her hands with a towel at the kitchen sink.

“Oh,” Yuqi starts, and her lips twist into an approximation of a smile. “You’re saying you two don’t have a label.”

“We’re coworkers technically,” you tell her, faux-casual, like it doesn’t beg twenty more questions.

“I don’t know; the internet thinks you guys are in fucking love.” Yuqi’s fingers come to a decision: slipping the button out of place with a little effort and resting at the next one down. Her neck is pale and tender and you’re only pulling away long enough from the glint in her big gorgeous eyes to know you want to get your lips on it. “And you’re telling me you wouldn’t be jealous—even a little—if I started sucking his cock.” 

She gets jealous easy, is how Yuqi explains it to you, freeing an ounce of soft cleavage, a sneak of black lace with another button. Look, it’s just chemistry—you have it with everyone. Who can fault you for it?

“Hm.” Miyeon shrugs, looking put upon, and leans back against the counter where she spends a long moment with her arms crossed, before running her thumb across her chin. “Can I mention something?” “Anything for our princess,” Yuqi says, finally touching you. Just two fingers at your sternum. “Right?” “Why is it you’re never the one bringing anyone home?”

“I’m not a slut,” Yuqi says, straight-faced, and Miyeon’s whole expression goes awry. That’s probably where she seals her fate.

Not that you think for a second Yuqi had recused herself from the attention of boys, girls—none of it in short supply—and for all her “fidelity”, you refuse to believe the things she does with her words are unintentional, that her talent for seduction is somehow innate, something god-given.

“How can you be so sure?” you ask, fingers threading through Yuqi’s hair until she tilts up her chin and smiles.

Eventually there comes a moment where Miyeon meanders around the kitchen island and gets a hold of you. Figuratively and literally; eyes hardened on you in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen before. 

Mine, is what she’s telling Yuqi in no ambiguous terms, hands hooking into the waist of your pants.  

“Tell me something,” Yuqi starts with your name on her lips, “does she beg for it? When you’re fucking her, does she whine and cry until she’s collapsed and panting? Really, I’m curious. Does she look at you with those pretty eyes and plead for you to pump her full of cum?”

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, kind of sharply.

To be clear, you’re not totally without blame here either, seeing the opportunity as it appears, seizing it for yourself—and you say the words as you think them: “it’s kind of her thing, I guess.”

“Total cumslut, right?” Yuqi’s hands are all over your arms, your chest, and you’re spread in both directions, reaching around Miyeon’s waist, and toying at the tight fit of Yuqi’s jeans. She leans forward a little, side-eyeing the way Miyeon’s lip ever so slightly curls when she enters that anxious proximity a breath's distance away from you, whispering: “I’m nothing like that, I’m so much better.”

“You’ve got a real mouth on you,” Miyeon tells her, watching her shirt fall down her petite shoulders. “You know that?” Yuqi’s eyes are flaring hot, dripping with untoward intent, and they stay on you just long enough for her to make certain you’re paying attention before she turns to Miyeon. “I know you love this mouth.”

You realized it long before dinner, it’s true, probably long before today: Yuqi likes you, which, at present, is pretty obvious. She likes it when you smile, likes it when you rub your hand at the nape of your neck and laugh at her witty one-liners, likes it when you ruffle your hair just like you’ve done in front of the camera your whole life. Yuqi likes you just as Yuqi likes Miyeon, and she’s twisting her hand at your shirt tighter yet, hoping one of you might just kiss her. “Miyeon,” you say after an inhale, commanding tone right where you left it, and it’s comical how fast both girls heel. Isn’t that good to know. Filing it away in a mental folder of sorts, you straighten yourself onto your feet, slowly. The thing that ends up flipping the table—the thing that has Miyeon’s expression of general discontent rally to something a little more impending—is just how much taller you are than Yuqi. And when that hits her, swallow visible through the hollow of her throat, there’s a waver in that deadly expression of hers, a weakness, something you can exploit. Your hand finds purchase under Yuqi’s jaw, gently, and you tilt her face toward you like you’re about to kiss her. Only instead, you run your thumb across her lower lip and say, “I don’t blame you, her mouth is gorgeous.”

“And?” Yuqi finds her composure quickly. “What do you want this mouth to do?”

 “Oh, Yuqi,” Miyeon says, malice hidden under a voice tender and semi-sweet, before you can think to prepare an answer. She’s twisting Yuqi’s bra strap between her fingers as it comes down around her shoulder. “I want you to get me ready for his cock.”

“I,” Yuqi starts— 

“Hm?” Miyeon asks, and that’s a pitch in her voice you’ve never heard. You’re looking over both of them enigmatically, ready to walk away from this with a clear picture of who Yuqi is, obviously, but then it’s the expression on Miyeon’s face—so unbothered, so lewdly satisfied, you have to know more.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m just gonna watch.” Yuqi reaches up on her toes before Miyeon can react. 

Kisses you right in front of her.

-

It’s not really clear to you who, if anyone, is piloting this thing, only that it’s moving at near out of control speeds. And even though Miyeon’s bed isn’t even quite big enough to hold you all, that ends up doing little to slow either of them down. 

Miyeon is between your legs, preening a few strands of glossy hair back behind her ear that have real determination to keep falling in front of her face. You’d offer to help, to get your hands in it and pull tight, but you’ve come upon an acquired taste for the blowjob Miyeon’s barely giving you right now. A masterwork in its own right: a certain finesse in each flick of her tongue, the soft cushion of her pouty lips, the way every gentle kiss finds you that much fucking harder in her fingers. She drags her tongue up, tastes the pre-cum weeping from your cock. Just smiles like she knows how bad you want hold her tight and fuck her throat. The glint in her doe-like eyes tells you that you will.

She gets it. Terror lives in anticipation, not the bang. That sanguine expectation of pleasure becomes pleasure in of itself. Her instincts tell her to tease, tell her to kiss and lick; only when you’re finally shuddering a wet breath through your teeth, does she part her lips around the head of your cock and start to suck.

She takes in an inch, maybe another. Slides her tongue slowly under your cock, and christ, her mouth feels fucking amazing.

You sigh like you’re stepping into a hot bath, and Miyeon’s satisfaction is equally palpable: corners of her mouth stretching around you into a pretty little smirk, something you’re more than happy to feel running up and down your cock until she slacks her jaw and takes you in full, past her soft, wet lips.

Though when finally you look up, you realize Yuqi’s barely on the bed actually—just one knee and it looks precarious—unfazed that she’s spilling off the end; working her hands into the bottom of Miyeon’s skirt like she’s done it a thousand times. She drags her underwear down her thighs, and Yuqi reminds you that she’s got the exact kind of wicked streak that’ll never let an opportunity go to waste:

“Oh,” she says, head up over Miyeon’s ass, blinking in admiration, “she’s even buying new lingerie for you, huh? I didn’t realize how head over heels—”

“Jesus Christ.” Miyeon’s lips are still half complicating themselves with your cock; she pumps her slender fingers around you in consolation, and murmurs, “do you ever fuck? Or you all tease.”

“Well if you insist,” Yuqi purrs, a mean tilt to her voice—because in the end, she knows that she wants to; that with her small body right between you, like this, there's plenty of her to share; that when it comes to Miyeon, there always is. “Hm,” she hums, slipping a finger or two inside Miyeon’s pussy. Your vision of it being the way Miyeon’s face twists delightfully, eyebrows sewn together in a perfect discord with the rest of her angelic features. “Baby, you’re so wet—”

“She loves the attention,” you say, and Miyeon’s eyes track yours while she lowers her lips slowly down your shaft once more. “If I had to guess, the only thing better than me fucking her perfect little cunt, is if there’s an audience there to watch it.” Your hand rests below Miyeon’s ear, fingers kneading at the back of her neck and guiding her just enough so that her tongue is flat and slick where you want it. “Isn’t that right, princess?”

Yuqi separates her lips from Miyeon’s asscheek, that heavy, open-mouthed kiss at the curve of creamy skin coming to an end just long enough to catch you smirking. She’s fucking the girl’s cunt open with her fingers, slowly, reminding Miyeon that she doesn’t have it confused—that she knows she’s nothing like the princess everyone believes her to be, that she’s so much more. “Always such a good slut, baby. Go on, show me how you take that cock.” “How about you come over here,” you tell Yuqi, before looking back at Miyeon’s eyes, innocent and blinking like she isn’t taking you in and out between her tightly-sealed lips. “Help me cum in her throat.” At that, you feel Miyeon’s jaw slack open even further, and the fingers she has corkscrewing around you find room at your hips instead. It’s hard to get over how perfectly submissive she can be, the way this always plays out; you’ve never needed anything like safewords, because Miyeon trusts you implicitly. Trusts that you’d never, ever hurt her. Trusts that you’ll get your hard cock in her and fuck her until her knees are wobbling and she’s practically unable to walk. Trusts that you won’t even hesitate when she asks for more. Yuqi lands a few more kisses at Miyeon’s cunt, along her ass, and then, without warning, sinks her teeth into all that soft, pliable skin. Miyeon winces, something you can feel, a sharp moan becoming sealed in against your cock and leaking slightly between her lips like it’s the drool running down your shaft. Apparently the image of you firing off a salvo of cum deep in Miyeon’s throat is as hot as it sounds, because Yuqi is grinning like a cheshire cat as she slides off the bed. “I just hope you realize you’re on the docket for quite a lot here.”

“What’s that, high expectations?”

“A lot more than a throatpie,” Yuqi says, hopping onto the bed next to where you’re sitting, where you’re slowly fucking Miyeon’s mouth. Each time you lift her face up and down the length of your cock, you feel the back of her throat, start to catalog the noises she makes as she starts to slobber onto you.

“Yeah,” you say, fisting a second hand into Miyeon’s hair. “I was kind of counting on it.”

“Go figure.” Yuqi’s voice is low and raspy, right into your junction where your shoulder meets your neck. She reaches an arm around you, leaving ephemeral kisses at your jaw, your cheek, getting her lips right next to your ear, where she whispers, “you’re actually kinda depraved.”

“Well, welcome to showbiz, I guess.” “Hm,” Yuqi says, watching you shudder as her fingers arrive around the base of your cock, fucking you with them in tandem as you sleeve yourself in out of Miyeon’s hot mouth like she’s some toy to be used, to be fucked, to be ruined.

Your mouth opens and closes, twice, before sputtering, “I’m actually—”

“One of the normal ones?” Yuqi tightens her grip. She’s picking up all that slick drool and precum where it threatens to leak onto your waist, and it makes her touch every bit as life-endingly-incredible as the tight fit of Miyeon’s mouth. The combination of which has you groaning audibly.

“Yeah, sure,” you breathe, “something like that.” 

“And a narcissist too.” Yuqi pulls at your face to unstick your gaze from the sight of your cock disappearing between Miyeon’s soft, pretty lips. You recognize the touch of her hand as it wanders down to your balls, gently, but still very much present. And right after the silence stretches, just a little too far, she says, “aren’t you two just perfect for eachother.”

Yuqi kisses you hard. These sweltering, stinging, asphyxiating kisses that grab at your lips with no intention of letting go, and everything becomes oddly quiet. All you can hear, outside of those messy, strangled sounds from Miyeon’s throat as you fuck your cock into it, is the dull pulse of blood rushing through your head. It’s as if the two of them are pleasure in resonance, channeling onto the same wavelength: Miyeon’s tongue is doing just about fucking everything each time you pull your throbbing cock out of her throat, and she slips it past her lips—starts lapping—when you weave your fingers in her hair even tighter. She gets messier, sloppier, her composure fading like it’s the mascara beneath her eyes. You can feel the flutter of her lashes against your waist right as you pull her mouth back down your shaft. It’s hot and wet and you don’t even realize you start bucking your hips, dragging Miyeon’s lips around your cock quickly, quicker, quicker—

“God,” you mutter, final threads torn apart, and that’s the exact reaction that has Yuqi smiling against your teeth, whispering into your lips, can feel you fucking throbbing. Cum in her for me, cum in her throat. Cum.

Mnnph.

Yeah, that’ll push you right to the edge, teetering. In freefall, actually, jaw snapping shut first—fingers shortly after—you tug hard at where you’ve gathered slipshod pigtails of shimmering, silky-smooth hair, and Miyeon quite nearly chokes as you release everything into her mouth, deluge-like. You’re going to make a mess, you think. You’ll make more.

Mmnnppph.

Okay, it’s filthy is what it is; the sounds of it alone are fucking filthy. That seal of soft lips around you starts to break, leaving you with the flood of cum and spit spilling down your cock and into Yuqi’s fingers as Miyeon gasps at an overwhelmingly desperate draw of air. The struggle to swallow you down is beyond unreasonable, but she brings her mouth back onto you again—closes her eyes and sucks. 

“All of it,” Yuqi whispers still. That’s the kick, and your whole body commits to sighing as she jerks your cock into the wet heat of Miyeon’s mouth. She twists gently, pumping, pulling, fucking every last bit of tension out of your muscles and draining it thoroughly into Miyeon’s throat.

(So that’s what you like, is how you think Yuqi says it, eyes studying your torn expression in equal parts apathy and awe.

She licks your cum off the sharp edge of her knuckles, from between her fingers, and she glances down at where Miyeon is still lapping her tongue at sensitive skin and sucking and cleaning you between her lips. Her lipstick is smeared, makeup running, with tears visible at the ends of her lashes, her cheeks still burning hot and embered. Miyeon looks perfect in many ways, but only flawless in one.)

“Good lord.” Yuqi’s eyes are creased in laughter near the end of your recovery, lighting fast and pulling you over Miyeon’s delicate frame. It’s the kind of laughter that’s genuine and contagious. Sweetly harmonic.

Calling you to join in while you glide your cock between Miyeon’s thighs and press the small of her back into her mattress until she’s practically prone to the bed, tight little ass angled up, proffering, and simply begging for you to pound away. 

“And I mean this in the most respectful way possible,” Yuqi says, with a hair tie between her teeth and fixing back her long waves into something more manageable, hoping it might be something you can pull and yank. What’s the saying—a brave man dies once, but a coward ought to know that Yuqi will always, always, always get what she wants.

“You two are actually really fuckin’ weird.” Her eyes are smoldering, lips quirked into a careless little grin. “I love it.”

-

“Alright, I’m going to have to ask,” Miyeon says, “do I need to be worried about this?”

Someone probably should be. The realization you’re hurdling into is that there exists both a waking up with Yuqi and a waking up with Yuqi, much in the same way there exists both a sleeping with Yuqi and a sleeping with Yuqi.

The three of you do first wake up together, just this ridiculous tangle of limbs that really only has one realistic conclusion, and when Miyeon reminds you—bent over the bathroom sink minutes later and cumming on Yuqi’s fingers—she has to be at the studio in an hour to refilm a few of her over-the-shoulders shots, and it’s not fair that you get to laze around all day, and that her manager is literally going to be here to pick her up any minute, Yuqi and you do the most natural thing in the world. You continue waking up.

You wake up in the shower, on the kitchen island, back again in Miyeon’s room since it’s already kind of fucked up anyway; Yuqi wakes you up all while her knuckles turn white around the door handle of the refrigerator, the back of the living room sofa, and it’s not really that convincing when she turns to Miyeon, one eye shut tight, and tells her, “no, not at all.”

Because when you try to voice something similar, your words get caught pretty deep in your throat, stuck and unmoving. That's become pretty familiar. It’s all pretty fucked, actually.

Yuqi’s on her knees in front of you, fist tight around your cock and jerking all this hot cum onto her face. There’s sin tucked everywhere into these pages. Particularly on her nose, her lips, her cheek, bisecting one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows. You have your proclivities. The tendency toward destruction, toward ruin, and what is Yuqi if not a gorgeous masterpiece begging for someone, anyone to be just a little destructive and ruinous. She flinches every time it hits her, pumping her fingers around your cock again until a rope of creamy white flies right into her pink hair. 

We’re fine, is what you tell Miyeon, huffing and repeating yourself: “We’re fine, I’ll catch you later.”

Miyeon crosses her arms, and that’s when it becomes a little clearer. The juxtaposition here is striking and immediate: black heels, black leggings, pencil skirt, prim and pressed white-collared shirt, the cute little suit jacket that fits barely over her dainty shoulders—she’s dressed head to toe in business casual like she’s about to put in eight hours hole-punching or making copies or writing emails and it’s so effortlessly sexy that the only thing that could possibly distract you from it—

“He’ll be fine,” Yuqi says, not even chagrined in the slightest that she’s fucking covered in cum. You watch her stand up, wipe her eyelashes free of mess with the back of her forearm, and start leading you to the window with her wrist still flexing out tiny motions around your cock. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Just a reminder,” Miyeon shouts, even-pitch and tone slightly indignant, which makes a lot of sense. “You promised you’d sit in for my line reads.”

“And I will.” 

It’s almost idiotic—here you are, the expert in the room, a professional in spinning ludicrous little lies, purveyor of fantasy and fiction and fuck if it’s not obvious that you’re planning on fucking Yuqi’s pretty little cunt until you’re both forgetting how to function. Miyeon reads that from across the room. From where the stench of sex is so heavy it’s probably hitting her too.

“Oh relax princess,” Yuqi says to her, and her lips slant to something more mischievous. Her shoulders are slumped back against the pane of glass and she’s rubbing the head of your cock through the soaked folds of her pussy. Neither of you are in search of ideas, for inspiration. Want for nothing. You’ll fucking ruin this little cunt—get me screaming and so addled I can’t speak straight, Yuqi’s telling you with just the corner of her mouth, curling. 

You grab hold of Yuqi, grappling with her for a moment before you spin her around in your hands—until her tits are plastered onto the window. It’s a show of force, a drill in shock and awe admittedly, but also you’ve got two perfect rows of bite marks above your collarbone. Honest to god, a full dental record, right in your shoulder. You sense the inspiration in it. Yuqi fucks like there’s inspiration in it, like she’s trying to kill you, in a way, but you’re paid for maintaining an image just a tad more wholesome than that. Ideally with a little less blood where a camera could catch it.

“Jesus christ,” Miyeon says, tapping away at her phone. “You guys are gross.”

“He promised. Didn’t he?” Yuqi mutters against the pane, the condensation in her breath fogging immediately. If that isn’t a perfect preview of what you’ll do to her. Perfectly premeditated by the way she fucking keens when you slip back inside her tight cunt. And Miyeon is very unimpressed with all of it: “Yeah okay, whatever, I don’t care, stay hydrated or something. I’m going to wait downstairs.”

“Told you,” Yuqi purrs, grinning all over you, in the breadth of quiet that the door leaves slamming shut behind Miyeon—stage exit, fade to black; you know that sometimes the magic of film isn’t what’s shown on camera, but rather what isn’t. 

“Told me what?” you ask, still enthralled by how Yuqi is so small underneath you, how when you’re both reaching for control, you don’t really even care if she beats you to the draw.

She gets jealous, Yuqi’s trying to explain, in between the sounds of you fucking her open and raw. You hesitate. Like you haven’t always had that effect on people, blossomed into blessing, complexed into curse. You reach your hand up Yuqi’s ribs, her chest, around her throat, and let your words bite at her ear: “oh, I think you will too.”

-

“I get hate mail,” you tell Miyeon. You’re on set the following week, ducking out of the path of a mic boom that is swinging way too fucking low, and there’s this story trending that heavily suggests you and Miyeon are knocking boots and it has a few disheartened fans absolutely outraged. “Like physical hate mail, in envelopes and stamped and everything.”

“It’s because of the stubble,” she says, rubbing a finger under your jaw. The girl in charge of costuming is adamant that beard prosthetics are lazy and cheap and you are neither. Even if you need it for only one scene. “It makes you look…”

“Uncouth?”

“Rakish,” she says, blinking. And as an afterthought: “Like, of all your thoughts, the one you have of pulling my shirt up and kissing at my tits until they’re sore is somehow the least vulgar.” 

Her shoulders pull up into the slightest shrug. “I mean I’m into it,” she adds.

“That’s not fair,” you tell her, “I’m not considering anything like that.”

Miyeon pulls you aside and up one of set’s staircases to nowhere, fingers warm at the crook of your elbow, and says, “well, it’s all I can fucking think about.”

-

Take a second for some personal reflection: you’ve never really tried to make a habit of anything and at the same time been successful. When it happens, it just kind of happens. We are what we repeatedly do.

In a way, it all started in public, this thing between you and Miyeon. Your roots are here, out with the blurs of passing people, daring to be seen, to be recognized, to be identified. You had long thought—and think, you do, particularly when doing the unthinkable—that a girl like Miyeon would steer away from the prospect; fucking you instead in private, comfort realized in the security of drawn curtains and shuttered blinds. A stark contrast to the part of your lives lived out in the open, subject to scrutiny and skepticism, unguarded from microscopic observation.

She only has everything to lose, you understand. And you aren’t more than a few paces behind her either. Reckless, she’s muttering while you sink to your knees and get your fingers up her skirt, so reckless—like this whole thing isn’t her idea.

The crazy part about all this that you actually do get caught. Not just one time either. 

You’ll bring it up in discussion with Soyeon later, when you run into her at the movie’s premier event and you’ve realized the value of having a good confidant:

“I literally told you one thing,” she’ll say, hands on her hips and looking like the mother that has to call the school, has to call the parent of the window you’d shattered with a baseball. It’ll all be highly disappointing. You are unbelievable—is what she won’t be able to say, even though she’ll really, really want to—I told you not to sleep with Miyeon and you slept with Miyeon why would you sleep with Miyeon you absolute moron.

-

There’s the time on set: in a fucking storage closet of all places. You’ve got Miyeon laid back on a table, fucking her slowly. Her panties are in her mouth, and the toes of her foot are curling against your cheek. It starts with a kiss, which most people might consider poetic, just your lips against a heel, the narrow bend of her arch to where she’s got her delicate toes perfectly colored in pastel white; Miyeon’s too cock-addled to do anything like comment on the fact you take them between your lips, slowly, and again, sucking, kissing her feet until she laughs at the way it tickles.

“Oh my god,” a voice says. One of the production assistants. “Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry.”

-

There’s the time in the woods near where you’re shooting a few of the outdoor scenes. You’re stepping out of a tall brush, and Miyeon’s cheeks are so red, glistening in sweat and cum and there’s a technician running an extension cord to god knows where to hook up more lights to the rigging.

“Um,” he says, just staring and unwinding more cord.

“We were looking for her earring,” you tell him.

“In the fucking woods?” He laughs out loud, just this self-amused grunt of a laugh. “Did you find it?”

You actually can’t look him in the eye, and Miyeon is just standing there, mortified. Your forehead creases a puzzled line and you say, with absolute conviction: yes.

-

“Jesus christ, Miyeon.” You swivel on your stool in your dressing room. Think possibly to kneel, but you know what might happen if she sees you on your knees, supplicating.

Let the record show, you and Miyeon are on day six of your self-imposed moratorium—the ban that prohibits the two of you fucking eachother at work, so it’s not like it’s the fastest capitulation in the world either.

Miyeon does a spin, pleated hem of a navy blue plaid skirt flaring out to the sides—how do I look?

There are answers in your throat, no doubt—like sin, like fantasy, like a submissive, fuckable fantasy. Like it should be illegal.

“Uh—I mean,” you nearly stammer, massaging your thumb into your temple. It’s certainly not natural for you to be here, on the back foot, and it has Miyeon’s mouth slanting into a predictable smirk. In an almost inexcusably banal act, she puts a fingernail to her teeth and shimmies her waist so that you’re lost to the moment, tracking how the skirt’s fabric ruffles between her legs.

Is it the fact that some maniac in costume has gone and put her in a school uniform?

Yes. 

That's a great deal of what’s going on here, which is a whole fucking lot. Is it the way her shoulders vanish in a tailored blazer with a nostalgia-inducing insignia above the breast pocket—her fingers poking out from the cuffs and toying at the lapels? Is it that the dress shirt beneath it is made of the cheapest cotton one could find (because the thing doesn’t really need to hold up over multiple washes) so you can see how her stomach flattens, that gentle rise in her chest, the sharp angle of her collarbones, all when the light catches it just right? There’s the stockings, dress shoes, a fucking ribbon in her hair and you’re ignoring the fact that the tie around her neck is a little loose and you might be able spin it over her shoulders and tighten your grip and—

“Cute, right?” She skips across the room and perches on your knee. Really selling it.

“I’m curious,” you say, looking for a narrow gap, something to stow away into, something that might take your mind off the fact that when you look at Miyeon, you’re transposing and overlaying images of an eleventh grade crush, and that’s not a mood you were prepared to be whipped into at just the flash of blue plaid and a charcoal blazer. “When was the last time you wore a ribbon in your hair?” 

“Oh gosh.” One corner of Miyeon’s mouth frowns, ruminating. She hovers her hand up to her ponytail, twisting it gently until it bounces back into place. “It’s been such a long time actually, I don’t know, seventeen, eighteen years old?”

Okay, that’s certainly not helping. A more direct approach, perhaps: “what are you doing, Miyeon?”

“Oh,” she says, nonchalant, because isn’t it obvious, “I’m here to get fucked.”

This is trouble, and among other things, a perversion, you think, but your mouth is too dry to say any of that, and Miyeon leans in and places her fingers beneath your jaw. Tilts your chin and presses her lips to yours, gentle, feather-light.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand.

Shifting slightly, the inside of Miyeon’s thigh presses to the outside of yours, only ever the slightest movement, and it has you sighing into her mouth. It’s impossible to decide whether you ought admire her confidence or find fault with her gall. She’s a delightful lapful—and a handful, and a mouthful—so you’ll flirt with danger, abandon those last vestiges of inhibition, and lean into the former rather than the latter.

Miyeon’s breath lands against your lips, hitching as the kiss breaks.

“Look,” you say, lip smacking back into place when she finally lets it free. There’s a response, bubbling up from your gut, because on one hand, this is the exact kind of impropriety you were hoping to avoid. And on the other, well, nothing ventured, nothing lost—you suppose. Your eyes are flicking to the top buttons of her shirt, collar agape and that gentle invitation of cleavage snuck behind it.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon says, inches from your face, and she starts to laugh. “You have grays in your beard.”

“No there aren’t.”

“I’m serious.” She wraps her hand around your cheeks, and twists your face to the vanity mirror, like it’d be helpful. “Look,” she says, twice, pulling her lip between her teeth and staring at your reflection.

“Those are stress grays,” you amend, before turning back and shifting her weight more comfortably into your lap, soft thighs straddling yours. “Just to be clear, I’m barely any older than you are.”

“Older,” she says, smiling.

“Don’t have to dwell on it.”

“I mean there’s a silver lining to that though.” Miyeon’s fingers are spread across your face, thumbs gently rubbing into your cheekbones. She’s close enough for you to forget her manager is going to come looking for her at some point or another. “Just means I can call you daddy, and it won’t be weird.”

“Uh.”

“You know,” she adds, sliding her fingers over your ears and pressing a kiss into your jaw, “while we’re doing it.”

“No, I understood that part.” You give her another once over and firm your hands on her waist to stop her from grinding her hips any further into yours. “I’m not sure it’s age that potentially makes it weird.”

“Come on,” she says, letting her voice slip into that slightly deepened register that suggests not only will she disobey you, but you’ll love every second of it. “I know you love to play with me.”

“It’s not a trick question. What are you asking for here, Miyeon?”

“Sex,” she says.

“Yes,” you answer, blinking back at her, expression skeptical. “I was there for that part of the conversation. It was about sixty seconds ago, if I recall.”

She lifts your chin, looks straight in your eyes, and asks, “and?”

“I’m just trying to puzzle out what you're telling me.” You slide your fingertips past the waist of her skirt and onto her ass. The quiet hum of satisfaction in Miyeon’s throat says you’re getting warmer. “What it is you want.”

“Any ideas?” she presses again, the lilt in her voice filling you with hundreds—the countenance behind it providing even more. Her hips grind into you further, bucking toward your waist and silencing the anxious distance between you.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Your hand snakes around the curve of Miyeon’s ass, down to where her underwear feels hot and unmistakably damp, where you can feel the shape of her lips through the fabric and the heat smoldering between them. There’s a tiny wanton whine from her throat when you circle your fingers; a sharp draw of air past her teeth when you apply a little more pressure. “Want my fingers inside of you? Hmm?”

Miyeon nods almost immediately.

You kiss her. Slide your mouth over her lips and recognize the strawberry in her lip gloss and hold onto your exhale, breathing the same air. Her eyes open first, lashes brushing yours. “You want me to fuck you, Miyeon.”

“Want you to tell me what to do,” she says, and without even running the word experimentally around her mouth, without testing its taste or the way it feels on her tongue, she fixes her dark brilliant eyes on you, saying, “want daddy to tell me what to do.”

You’ve got all this about nature and nurture running amuck in your head to the backdrop of the sound of a large cable snapping. It’s dangerous. It’s not like you, you’re not the type, you’re telling yourself, and a lot of other rubbish that isn’t concerned by the fact that Miyeon’s here, fucking dressed like this, ponytail bobbing, ribbon in her hair begging to come undone—

Lock the door, you say to her, and she does. Turn around. Take your jacket off, and she pauses first, before twisting her arms from the sleeves and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. You’ve got a hand outstretched as she walks toward you; your panties, hand them over, and she reaches down beneath her skirt, rolling her underwear down her smooth thighs, her calves, eyes never once leaving yours—watching you watch her. 

Sit.

Touch yourself. 

Slowly; slower—

It’s almost ridiculous. You’ve hardly even laid a hand on her, and she’s got her eyes looking up at you like you’d just set all her biological clocks an hour forward, cranked up to ten-minutes-to-midnight, and replaced all her coherent thoughts with just one simple thing: how bad she needs you to cum in her cunt.

She’s settled at the front of the vanity counter, feet against your chest, head tilting back against the mirror, and she’s gently slapping her own pussy with the pads of her fingers, covered and wet in her own anticipation. Your hands are nothing like hers—these slender, delicate things—and it’s driving her up the wall. You’re spreading her thighs, opening her up, bringing the roughness in your fingers, the heel of your palm so close. Miyeon can’t help it.

“You’re such a slut,” you tell her, watching her shove one, two fingers past the glistening lips her pussy—biting back a laugh as she starts to fuck herself slowly for you. “And already this fucking wet.”

Miyeon just smiles, eyes hooded and looking at you with such perfectly sinful intent. “I thought that’s how daddy likes his little girl.”

(Don’t get it confused: it’s never been a challenge to play a character, to be someone you are not, to emotionally identify and aspire to the details of a part. But this is different. This is seamless. This is you leaning into that space, living in it, loving it. A physical part of you. Genuine and true.)

You grapple Miyeon’s wrist, pulling her hand away from the want of her pussy, denying her all of that friction. She whines, but puts up little to no fuss when you bring her hand to her face and clear your voice of anything that doesn’t inspire authority—deliver an order, sternly, with her fingers in her mouth, suck.

“Here’s a lesson.” You click your tongue as she closes her eyes and sets her jaw in motion to clean her own slick off her nails, her knuckles. “The only thing that goes in my princess’s cunt, is daddy’s cock.”

“In that case,” Miyeon says around her fingers still between her lips, a smile spreading across all of her perfected features—voice lilting, reeling you in, sinking its teeth into your skin: I think daddy’s going to have to punish me.

Oh, you’re one step ahead of her, thinking of all the ways how, and the sound of your zipper coming undone makes Miyeon's eyes go wide with want, with need. Her petite, perfect, fuckable body still locked away behind fabric, she starts hiking her skirt even higher up her hips, lazily unfastening the buttons of her shirt. 

You tell her to put her feet together, wrapping a grip onto her stockings and pulling her legs closed—twisting them to the side and letting her heels clack together over your shoulder. The gentle motion of your thumb between her thighs gets her sucking a sharp draw of air. Always so vocal Miyeon is at the slightest provocation.

Your cock is harder than it’s ever, ever been; harder yet as you tease it at the folds of Miyeon’s entrance, pushing it against sensitive skin and earning you pleased little chirrups from deep in her chest, repeating, “yes, yes, yes—”

She’s only halfway down the buttons on her shirt, collar gaping open and lolling to the sides of her soft shoulders, sliding partway downway her arms, and then it’s that fucking tie still loosely hanging around her neck—so impossibly irresistable. The motion is practiced, near effortless: you slip right into the tight embrace of her creaming cunt. When she makes it through the length of a heavy breath through pursed lips, you sink even in further.

“Oh, this pussy is fucking incredible,” you sputter, voice come to reckon with the fucking bind that is Miyeon’s body, coiling beneath your weight the deeper you cock reaches inside her. “I don’t know that I could ever punish you. Maybe I should just spoil you, princess; get on my knees and make you cum on my mouth instead—”

“No.”

“What was that?” you coax, fucking into her cunt slowly, and your little girl growls at you. You can’t help but chuckle, making a tight grasp of the tie around her neck, and start to twist. 

Miyeon’s flushed all over, eyes glassy, but emblazoned still, a spark of defiance in those deep shimmering pools that makes her all the more alluring. Her lashes flutter—whole body tensing in response—as your thighs crash into her, cock deep inside the tight grip of her cunt.

She feels amazing.

“Yes, please,” she tells you, huffing out the words and changing her tune as you begin to let her have you, let her revel in the determined rhythm of you fucking her like she’s come to expect. “God, yes, daddy please…”

It’s so easy to fuck Miyeon—muscle memory and learned behavior—so easy to sink your fingers into her ass, her thighs, her tits, wrap your arms around her waist and start fucking her so quickly it has her pussy so wet it’s not even slowing you down in the slightest when you pull harder on the tie around her neck, draw her writhing body into you, and start to use her.

“You’re fucking, god, you’re fucking tearing me open,” she tells you with her brows sinking over eyes screwed shut, “it feels so fucking good—tell me, do you like fucking me? Do you like fucking your little slut?

“Fucking love it,” you whisper against her ear.

It doesn’t even cross your mind for a second, whether she wanted to be fucked like this, wanted to be used and choked and pounded so hard her legs buckled and her muscles ached and she could barely remember her own name—she landed in your lap, flirted with this danger, both of you immediately aware of what all it entailed. 

Miyeon didn’t just invite it, the girl fucking craves it.

Just like this, she’s muttering, voice barely rasping into anything audible under the weight of your grip, fuck your little slut just like this—bathing your cock in the delicious cream and slick of her pussy so that you might fuck it all back into her. When she starts moving like this, body shaking in quakes and quivers, voice woven into her mewls and moans, you know she’s so fucking close, only in want of a little encouragement—

“There you go, good girl,” you breathe against her lips, kissing them abruptly, before letting her weight fall back to the vanity counter with just the slightest release of the tie in your fist. “Cum for me, princess, I know you want to—know you want to cum all over daddy’s cock. You’re practically sobbing for me, baby. Go ahead, just cum.”

Sheltered somewhere in quiet of those sloppy, wet, lewd sounds, the score of your cock sliding in and out of Miyeon, is the strangled cry that sneaks out of her throat, gasping: “cumming, I’m fucking cumming, please, I—god.”

Accentuated by the fact that her arms are still halfway trapped in the cotton of her shirt, she can’t do a thing from underneath you. She’s near trapped under the weight, the sheer tempo of at which you’re ruining her cunt. You’re ripping your name in moans and prayers off her lips and she can hardly move beyond that slight squirm in your arms, writhe in the way you mold her to you, overcome in pleasure at how she’s left so full, perfectly remade to the shape of your cock.

Her fingers are splayed across your ribs, holding you, bracing against you, and none of it’s anything you haven’t told her before—so pretty, take it so well, your cunt’s perfect, you’re perfect, so good sweetheart—but in aggregate, taking the length your cock, taking all of you, she shatters apart.

Your hands are on her cheeks, thumbing strands of tousled hair ever-so-gently back into place, and you’re feeling the way her skin burns bright red, feeling the way she gasps for air in shallow pants, feeling her cunt clench hard around you. It’s the moments like these, where she’s delicate to touch, soothed only by your lips pressed to the tip of her nose, her forehead—finding comfort in the arm she swings over your shoulders—she’s so wildly beautiful. 

“So fucking—” She lets her voice even out, and after multiple attempts, gets the words she wants in the right order: “so good, how do—so fucking good baby, how do you want? Cum. How do you want to cum?”

“Could fucking paint your pretty face,” you tell her, moving your hips back to life and fucking into her soaked, messy cunt slowly. The way you push a kiss into her soft lips—now wet and slightly swollen from how she’d been biting them—is a little at odds with the suggestion.

“Ha. I think I get it,” Miyeon starts, the shy smile filling her mouth taking over the shape of her ragged huffs and pants, “we throw daddy around a few times, and suddenly you’re afraid to cum inside me, is that it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s not it at all.” The fact that she’s recovered an ounce of resolve, chip steadily reappearing on her shoulder, is nothing more than a facade, and you’re drawing back the curtain, finding her body still wracked, plenty malleable, puddied and easy to manipulate with a firm grip around her waist. “Let me show you.”

“And just what is it that I’m—” 

Miyeon’s voice breaks almost immediately as you turn her over in your hands. Her knuckles hit the vanity counter and her legs wobble where they land precariously on the floor. She’s so wet and well-fucked that the mess you’d made of her cunt is effortless to slip back into. You allow her more, pushing in as deep as you’ll go, faster than she can blink, faster she can think to protest. It’s the angle that makes her back arch with surprised, sudden pleasure. The depth that makes her eyes shut tight, a gasp not quite making it past her lips. 

Watch.

She can see it all, in the perimeter of fluorescent bulbs, reflection staring back at her. The way her porcelain skin lights aflame. There’s sweat beading across her forehead, blonde hair darkening at its roots. Her lips are parted slightly, tender swell cushioning the bite of her teeth—her eyes are hooded, chin tilting, and she’s watching herself moan and curse as you start to fuck her. She’s perfect, and she knows she’s perfect.

You pull her skirt forward over the round of her ass, fingers sunk into the soft skin, and fuck her harder, until the counter is shaking with it, until she’s crying out, any concept of shame or embarrassment long forgotten. 

“Oh, please,” she starts, settling into your cadence, feeling delighted at the way you fill her.

Her fingers are white-knuckled as she clings to the edge of the counter, and in between breathless little noises, these sharp gasps and whines or another, between the unyielding motions of your cock in her cunt, she writhes.

“Please, please, please, please make me cum again,” she barely manages, blathering and stuttering over her own words. “Please use this little cunt, fucking use me, fuck me, fill me—”

“Anything for my princess,” you say, and after pressing a long row of kisses into the curve of her spine—a heavy kiss of your lips into the sharp edge of her shoulder—you bring a hand to the back of her neck, the slippery-smooth locks of hair already bundled and begging for your fist, becoming your grip.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon mutters, watching her body bend to your will, arching backward into your cock and becoming flush all over. Her eyes flick up to yours, begging you to fill her deeper, fuck her faster, fuck her harder. “Daddy please…”

The way her cunt sleeves onto your cock is so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight, especially when the fingers woven in her hair flex taut—and so does she—how could you ever think to do anything but?

You pull harder on her hair, tension building in the curving bow of her body, arching further and further into submission. Her face is close enough for you to kiss, to lean into her ear, to whisper, “Miyeon, baby, I’m going to make you cum again. Gonna make you cum all over my cock. Be a good girl for me and take it.”

Miyeon’s voice is flooded, drenched and soaked in meek cries. More so by the minute. She’s whining and gasping and fighting for air like she hasn’t been coached a thousand times on how to keep a clean image. Beyond the curses and filth, the nonsensical string of obscenities falling off Miyeon’s lips, it’s gratitude: “thank you, thank you, thank you, please keep fucking me, please just use me—”

It’s obscene, filthy, it’s practically pornographic–-all framed for her to see. Miyeon’s costume is still barely clinging to her tiny frame, coming off in pieces. And you’re sliding your hand across her smooth stomach, up her ribs and hooking fingers between the cups of her bra, until it comes down far enough around her waist that it simply unclasps and falls to the floor. Every time bring your hips forward, fuck your cock harder into her cunt, you track the movement of her body in the mirror: shoulders lurching, mouth gasping, tits shaking—Miyeon recoiling. 

Even the ribbon in her hair can’t stand against the intensity of it, untangling from her ponytail and falling to the counter, defeated.

Beauty is a picture in motion, and Miyeon is nothing if not elegant. You slow your pace to admire her, hands at her breasts, her waist, still holding firm around her hair and curling her body into your control. She whines louder when you kiss her temple, rasping against the sweat building in her hair. “Make yourself cum for me baby, fuck your little cunt on my cock until you cum again.”

“God,” Miyeon rasps, nodding slightly against you with her eyes carefully fixed on her reflection, and she starts to roll her hips—fucking herself and choking back a whimper every time she finds where it’s mind-numbingly sensitive, where she’s wet and needy and begging for the hard shape of your cock. It’s unbelievable how desperate she ruts against you, grinding her way to her own release.

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re reaching a hand down to her cunt, the hot mess between her legs, and you’re slipping your fingers around where your cock is inside her, skating your thumb across her aching lips, barely touching her clit—

“I’m gonna cum,” she moans out, breathless, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

A final kiss at the hot skin beside her temple, your nose in her hair—drowning in the sweet stench of her sweat, her sex—you’re telling her, “I know I am princess,” and when you release the grip you’ve made of her hair, Miyeon collapses, palms flat over the countertop.

It’s hard to miss, all written on Miyeon’s reflection in front of you, cheeks exquisitely red, lips slacking as she cums, brows twisting together and eyes heavily lidded—and that’s just what you can see. You fuck her quivering cunt, thrusts coaxed into this reckless chase as she spasms around you—holding tight to her waist, fucking her faster and faster until your cock is aching and you’re hunched over her, telling her what she’s been dying to hear: “I'm so close to cumming in your cunt sweetheart, you'll be so filled up and perfect that way, princess.”

There’s no mistaking it. Pleasure palpable in the reflection in front of you, eyes smoldering and holding onto you. The hold she has on your cock, the vice that is her cunt around you—it shouldn’t even be possible to feel this fucking amazing—is far and away too good for you to do anything else: you grab her hips, fuck hard and fast into Miyeon’s sopping cunt, and on a thrust deep and unrelenting, you let go. You can barely even register the way your cock pulsates, firing shot after shot into her tight hole.

Miyeon’s still stuttering and gasping for breath when she feels your cum pool inside her. Even like this, wracked, writhing, and barely held together, she’s breathtaking.

“God, fuck, it’s so good,” she cries out, face still spun in pleasure, in ecstasy, feeling you spill more and more inside her. “Can feel you cumming so much, daddy.”

And that’s how you stay, pouring want and jittery contentment into the air by way of your ragged breathing alone, for the remainder of the minute, the hour, what ultimately ends up feeling far too short. 

Her knees buckle and if you weren’t still pressing bruises into her hips, she’d sink to the floor, a hot mess, a real meltdown of a girl. So she remains right where she is as you soften slowly inside of her, until she has to nudge you off. And as you finally pull out, there’s cum still leaking from your slit, and you catch a glimpse of more leaking out from between her soft, reddened thighs, just a few drops that land on the floor, enough to make something inside you tighten with want.

You kiss her one last time, and say, “c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

-

“You need to come up with a better excuse than I needed to get fucked for when you show up like you are to costume,” you say a few minutes later, dabbing at Miyeon’s forehead with a handtowel. “They won’t be too thrilled with me messing up their handiwork.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, reaching around your shoulders and placing kisses into the broad shape of your shoulder. “I love the way you mess me up.”

You almost open your mouth again, to lodge a complaint, but nothing comes out.

(You’ve long avoided looking backward, the introspective stuff, the kind of thinking that makes your heart begin to ache in all sorts and manners of cliche. It’s difficult to look straight at the image, to take it in all at once—so full of regret and missed chances.

But for the first time in as long as you can remember, you believe in the things you’re afraid to say. As though you’re more than the weight of all your memories, that the darkness can remind you of where light can be. This is not the end of you, you remember, this is the beginning.

As though you fell so you could land next to her.)

-

It hits you in the middle of a workday. Nothing cathartic or dramatic about it like you’ve come to expect. Dramatic lighting, theatrical score, the meticulous scripting from a team of writers—there’s none of that; which is how you know it’s real.

Miyeon’s watching herself on the monitor. 

And there’s a part of it, you’ve come to understand, that never quite goes away, like listening to how your voice plays back on a recording, the uncertainty, those pangs of doubt—but you wonder, if perhaps, Miyeon can manage to enthrall and captivate even the greatest cynic, quiet her own insecurities and enchant even herself. She nods every now and again, wets her lips with her tongue when she hears her delivery, and furrows her brow. 

It’s not like that.

The sort of girl whose kisses can spin straw to gold—taste of liquor when she’s not even had any to drink—Cassis, juniper berries, gumdrops, sugar cane and molasses, all soft and steamy and sugary sweet. Quote, unquote. That’s what you said.

Don’t—

Please look at me when I tell you I love you. Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed, you will never be lovelier than you are now, we will never be here again.

The whole studio is watching it: the triumph of your lips on hers, holding her softly and kissing her like if you closed your fingers she might shatter into a million pieces. All they did was hold the camera, and it saw what it saw.

Miyeon looks at you, rubs your knuckles with her thumb and says, “you don’t like it.”

Something’s off.

“You think we need one more take?”

(It doesn’t really make sense—the fact that you can’t put a finger on it is bothering you more than anything else. It’s clean, perfect even; smells like a swimming pool: a bleached sea salt, a flower with chemical petals; and not in a good way. Looked at from another perspective, the scene is just as it’s written, as it was rehearsed, but you’re hesitating. And you don’t know why.)

“You think we need one more,” Miyeon says again, inquisitive.

You make a face, and Miyeon squeezes your fingers.

“Yeah. Okay. You think we need one more.”

“I suppose,” you say mildly, “if it’s not too much of a hassle.”

It’s not as simple as that. At least the way you see it. It rarely is. A better guy could probably recognize what it is you’re feeling and put it into words, but you are not a better guy. Spend too much time living on the words of characters and in the confines of a scene, you start to lose sense of the bigger picture. There’s you—outside of the frame, strangely unfamiliar at times, unknowable right now. There’s Miyeon, and she’s not just gorgeous and perfect like everyone knows her to be; she’s gorgeous and perfect to you.

“Here’s what I think,” Miyeon starts, staring straight through you, a pulsing rush of longing—the whisper, irresistible, magic that could make the sanest man go mad. You just want to hear me say I love you one more time.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to the monitors, witness to the story that is you and her, but you’re looking at Miyeon, directly at her, for once not even lost in the details—simply lost in everything, like a stone down a well. It does scare you. That of all things, she might be right.

-

The incident, as it will later be known, is more realistically a sequence of events, but no one has ever been interested in anything other than how it ends. 

(It's always the changes we don’t ask for that change everything.)

There are just a handful of scenes and shots that need to be filmed on location on an island in the Maldives, one that is just about everything you’ve grown to resent. Garishly extravagant resort, beaches of white sand so combed and manicured they yearn to be trampled, and the only locals in sight are either changing sheets or caked up in makeup and hanging around the hotel bar from the twilight hours of the evening and into the early morning. A real lovely place, you admit, maybe you’ll come back never.

It’s as if the universe cashes in on your bad karma all at once via the series of unfortunate events: your flight’s delayed, a storm turns a three hour layover into a two day nightmare, your bags get lost. And the moment you step onto the tarmac, the heat punches you right in the gut, and upon curling over in defeat, the humidity figures it’ll kick you right in the head—this all, by the way, before you find out the air conditioning in your room is fucked beyond repair and the hotel staff have no interest in helping you fix it.

When a series of mistakes has you shooting a scene over and over until you’re pretty sure it’s fruitless—that the exhaustion has brought you to your knees—you quickly find yourself starting to slip.

Miyeon’s standing next to the director, watching the scene playback, and hearing her say, “that’s better,” while everything that could ever go wrong in the history of linear time is happening is the best part of this whole debacle, if anything, for its raw comedic value.

The absolute worst of it, however, is the gaggle of bumbling entertainment journalists (the lowest of the low) following in the production’s wake. There’s a lot a ground to cover: the movie’s nearing completion, the premieres, the fact that everyone thinks you’re screwing Miyeon, the fact that you actually are—

How has working with your co-stars, Miyeon in particular, bettered your understanding of what it means to be an actor? The insinuation, if it’s even an undertone enough to call it that, you do find insulting.

Though it’s hardly the question that trips you up. It’s trifling. And when you force a smile, everyone takes your pandering at face value. Now whether it’s out of envy, confusion, plain old cynicism, possibly a mixture of the three, or just because the part of your brain associated with temperance and self control is melting at the current head index of a million and two, is unclear.

But you fuck up.

It’s under your breath, out of the corner of your mouth. It’s not even directed at anyone in particular. The challenge here—the thing that will come to ruin you in about one media cycle—is that the damn microphone clipped to your shirt is still absolutely live, and it’s broadcasting every thought that should stay quiet:

Acting? From Miyeon? Hah. Swallowing cum maybe… but acting?

You fuck up bad.

[jemiswumbo]

you be tails, i’ll be sonic (18+)

twitch streamer!luke x reader

part one

authors note: hi hi i’m back with a highly requested part two!! i loved making the graphics for this chapter lol. hope you all enjoy!!!

title is from you be tails, i’ll be sonic by a day to remember. lyrics have no relation to the fanfic, but it IS an absolute banger. anthem. bop. classic.

tags/warnings: smau elements. nsfw elements - MDNI. not proofread. use of y/n.

Over on the desk, Luke’s phone would not stop vibrating.

For the last hour, you’d managed to ignore it, as you were too preoccupied by Luke fucking you with no remorse. Now, as you lay spent and naked and cuddled together until the blankets, the sound was driving you insane.

“Luke,” you whined, burying your face into the crook of his neck (which was now littered with red and purple hickies). “Please shut your phone off.”

Luke chuckled beside you, running a hand through your messy hair. “I will in a minute, I’ll probably have to tweet an explanation for why I shut off my stream so suddenly.”

“Okay. That’s fair,” You decided. Luke leaned over and stretched out his arm, grasping the phone from his desk. He snuggled back in beside you and you watched as he scrolled through a flood of notifications.

The first app he opened was discord, where his gamer friends were chatting in their private server about Luke’s random disconnection.

“Thank god one of my friends was able to figure it out.” Luke murmured, causing you to giggling. Annabeth was, by far, the smartest of the group. Most days it seemed like she was the only one with a working brain cell. You and her got along great, as you worked to keep the boys and thalia in check. They loved to cause a scene or do some dumb shit no matter where they went. It was tons of fun and always entertaining, but also nerve wracking. If they ever caused too big of a scene, someone could takes pictures or videos, upload them… as some of the most popular twitch streamers, everyone would be recognized instantly.

Except for you.

You (by choice) remained out of the spotlight. You loved Luke dearly and desperately wanted to make your relationship public, but the thought of having hundreds of thousands of eyes watching you, loving you, hating you…. it was scary. And you weren’t delusional — you knew, one day, you’d have to step into the public eye. You just didn’t know when you’d be ready.

Luke wrapped up the Discord conversation with his friends and switched over to Twitter, where tons of his fans were talking about his disconnection. You took a deep breath to clear your head, and read some of the tweets on his phone screen.

“Your fans are so goofy,” You said, pressing a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “So… what’s the move? Wifi crashed? Rage quit? Oh my god, what if you confirm Boner Theory?!”

“Jesus, never in my life,” Luke groaned. “I’ll just say it was my wifi. Unless….”

Your eyes widened. You sat up, not caring that the bed sheet fell to your lap, exposing your naked chest. Your heartbeat was definitely exceeding a normal BPM reading. “Baby.. I love you. So much. And I would love to be public. I would love to be your date to the Streamer Awards, and support you at Twitch Con, and cheer you on during your Fortnite tournaments…. But I just don’t think I’m ready.”

“Hey, hey,” Luke sat up, too, enveloping you in his strong, muscled arms and squeezing you tight. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. But you know I respect your choices and would never pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I know,” You sighed, relishing in the warm embrace, and the feeling of your bare chest pressed against his. You swore he could feel how fast your heart was racing. “But also, you can’t say we’re dating now. Boner Theory is a thing, babe. Surely, at least one of your fans would connect the dots.”

Luke laughed and pulled away from the hug, taking a moment to press and long and loving kiss to your head. He smiled at you, his brown eyes sparkling. “You’re so perfect, you know that?”

You shoved him away. “Okay. Tweet something, so we can go watch a movie and smoke and have more sex.”

“Okay, okay,” Luke said, kissing you again and sending some half assed tweet out to his fans. He shut off his phone and grinned. “Let’s order take out, too.”

*************************************

A few weeks later…

*************************************

It was, officially, your one year anniversary of dating Luke Castellan.

You were beyond happy, and over the moon excited for the special dinner you had both planned for the evening. Luke had surprised you with reservations to your all time favourite restaurant. You were going to surprise him afterwards with a brand new lingerie set. It was going to be perfect.

The only, only thing that was making you nervous was the fact that you’d decided today was the day.

You were going to tell Luke, tonight at dinner, that you were ready to go public.

After the whole Boner Theory ordeal, you’d spent countless nights and hours debating your previous decision to keep your relationship private. You knew it was going to have to happen eventually. You also didn’t mind his fan girls; but deep down you got giddy over the thought of showing them all he was taken and he was yours. It would feel so good. And you wouldn’t have to stay out of photos when you hung out with Luke, Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and Thalia. You could go to events with him. You could come up behind him while he was streaming to drop off a coffee or food or kiss his cheek without worrying about it.

There were cons, of course. Most of the debating revolved around the cons, and whether or not it was truly worth it. After all these weeks, you decided it was worth it. You were one hundred percent ready.

You spent the few hours before dinner having an everything shower, doing your best makeup, curling your hair, and choosing an outfit. It helped keep your mind occupied and the stress at bay.

Around 7pm, Luke texted saying he was outside of your apartment. You grabbed your purse and slid on a pair of black heels before racing out the door.

Luke’s car was not hard to miss. He had chosen to pick you up in his bright red McLaren, since it was a super special occasion. He typically never took it out of his garage as it was insanely expensive and just downright beautiful.

You gave him a little twirl on your walk over to the passenger seat, not missing the impressed grin he flashed at your from inside. You hopped in the car and didn’t hesitate to lean over and place a kiss to his lips. He presented you a huge bouquet of fresh, dark red roses. You gasped and clutched the bouquet in your arms, kissing his cheek and expressing your gratitude.

“You look stunning,” Luke said, eyeing you up, clearly in awe. You laughed and blushed, enjoying the praise. “Seriously. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” You retorted, besrt racing at the sight of his gorgeous features. He was dressed up, wearing a sharp grey suit with a dark with a black button up beneath. He was so good looking, you simply swooned just from his smile alone. The smell of the roses made you feel like you were on cloud nine.

The drive to the restaurant was quick. The waiter showed you to your table, which was secluded in the back corner and shrouded by a wall and some pretty plants. The lights were dimmed and candles were lit. Luke ordered an expensive bottle of wine, which you both shared and sipped on while waiting for the food to arrive. It was now or never.

“Okay, baby,” You started, dabbing your napkin to your lips. “I’ve thought long and hard about this. But I think I’m ready to go public with our relationship.”

Across the table, Luke’s eyes widened and he spluttered, mid sip. He coughed into the back of his hand and you bit your lip nervously, waiting for his response.

“Are you sure, angel?” Luke asked, reaching out to take your hand in his. He rubbed his thumb against your skin in comfort. “Once we go public we can never go back. My fans will know who you are.”

“I know,” You said, firmly. You offered him a warm smile. “Like I said, I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I’m ready. Definitely, totally ready.”

“Well in that case, I’ve had an Instagram post drafted for like, the last three months. I can finally post it!” Luke said, picking his phone up from the corner of the table.

You smacked his arm in playful angry, failing to suppress the smile making it way to your cheeks. “You are so dumb. They better be cute pictures, at least.”

“They are, I swear!” Luke laughed. “Cute caption, too. You promise you’re okay with me posting it?”

“Yes, Luke. I promise.” You took his hand again, letting out a shaky breath and trying to muster some courage. “I know it’s only been a year of dating, but I can whole heartedly say you are my best friend in the whole world. I love you. I truly do see us being together forever. So I want to make it public now, on our terms.”

“I love you, too, baby.” Luke said with an attractive grin. You blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear shyly, whilst he set up his Instagram post. After a few silent moments, he flashed you a triumphant thumbs up. “There, it’s posted. I tagged you, too.”

You ignored the buzzing of your own phone, choosing to flip it to silent mode. “Happy Anniversary, my love.”

Luke smiled at you, once again taking your hand in his. With utmost sincerity and his heart of gold, he replied, “Happy Anniversary to you too, angel.”

a/n: thank you all for reading, hope you enjoy!! again this is not proofread. part 3 with the streamer awards??? 👀👀

taglist: @augustiscoquette

[delulujuls]

saudade | as12

funny how you can miss someone you never met, right? my heart was aching today a lot and i cried even more while writing this so yes, it is long and it is sad, so you decide if you wanna read this or not. if you do, please enjoy if its even possible to enjoy bawling your eyes out lol

oh ayrton, you will always be missed

summary: during senna's funeral y/n has flashes of their shared past and what they could have together

warnings: for sure its intense, 5.6k words of pure sadness, thats it basically

pairing: fem!mclaren!driver x ayrton senna

It was a warm, pleasant day. The beginning of may didn't disappoint with the weather at all. A light, warm breeze swayed the flexible branches, on which fresh leaves were green. The sun was pleasantly warm, but it wasn't unbearable heat. Birdsong could be heard, but so could crying. On this day, mourners outnumbered the blossoming buds on the trees.

A crowd of people had gathered in front of the church, but it was nothing compared to the crowds still on their way. Everyone was dressed in black, and the only point of color in the black mass was a yellow dot, which from a bird's eye view resembled a sunflower petal, thrown onto the black, fertile soil. It was a helmet, a yellow racing helmet, which no one gathered there needed to be introduced to. In trembling hands, a young girl held it, never once moving it away from her chest. She held it against herself so tightly, as if she wanted to feel the warmth emanating from it, but it radiated coldness, like the inside of the church she was about to enter, barely able to keep herself on her feet.

Inside the chapel, it hadn't yet become crowded; the military made sure that the family and friends entered the church first. Inside, there was a grave silence, broken only by the occasional blowing of noses into tissues or a stifled sob.

The girl was aware of what was happening, she knew where she was and why she was there. However, her brain stubbornly avoided connecting the dots and completely pushed the facts out of her consciousness. If it had, she would probably have thrown the held helmet deep into the church, and it would have stopped only when it hit the wooden, solid coffin. The girl's gaze never once lifted towards her.

"Y/N, can you hear me?," the girl flinched when Ron's words reached her for the umpteenth time, "You know you don't have to be here, we can be outside."

The girl blinked several times, and at that very moment, her brain stopped pushing away the facts. Ron held her arm, his eyes swollen, his face even redder than usual. She herself pressed the helmet to her chest, so tightly that only when she moved it away from herself a little was she able to fully breathe. She raised her eyes and looked around. She stood in the front row of benches, where at the very top, just in front of the altar steps, stood the coffin. A large, carefully ironed Brazilian flag lay on it, its freely hanging ends touching the fresh flowers lying beneath it.

"Y/N…," the man began again, this time quieter. He saw tears in the girl's eyes, and he was about to continue, but she pressed the helmet tighter to her chest and started walking forward. She only moved the helmet away from herself when she placed it on the coffin. Y/N fell to her knees and began to sob, pressing her forehead against the hard lid. However, the lid of the coffin wasn't the only thing that separated her from her friend. The worst was death.

It was a brisk february morning. Silverstone Circuit had not yet woken up, there was no deafening roar of engines in the background, and the smell of burnt rubber didn't hang in the air.

Although it wasn't a race day and only a handful of people were milling around the facility, unlike the tens of thousands who usually flooded in for the weekend races, this day was expected to be exciting and full of emotions too.

Certainly, it was so for the 23-year-old Theodore Racing driver, who, sitting in the passenger seat on her way to the circuit, nervously picked at her nails. However, she should now be referred to as the "former Theodore Racing driver" because on this day, she had a test day at McLaren, with whom she signed a contract two weeks ago. In the past two months, the girl's life had changed dramatically. A few days after her birthday, she became the European Formula 3 World Champion, winning the title by just one point. One! The fact that she was so young and the only woman to rise so high meant that many people had their eyes on her and followed her every move. However, most people who hadn't seen her driving at over 200 kilometers per hour thought that being a woman automatically disqualified her from the sport. Ron Dennis, the head of McLaren, was familiar with her skills, though, and seeing how well she performed in the lower levels, he decided to take a risk and give her a chance. One of his proteges, however, wasn't so sure about this decision.

"Girl? You want to replace Prost with a girl?"

Senna, upon hearing the candidate to replace Alain, who, after five years of dealing with him, decided to quit and move away from McLaren, only shook his head.

"Yes, that's exactly what I plan to do," Ron lit a cigarette and shifted his gaze from the car to the disgusted face of the Brazilian, "Maybe she'll calm you down a bit. It's a miracle I found anyone to take Prost's place, no one wants to work with you!"

Ayrton snorted and shook his head again, unable to believe that his boss wanted to do something so idiotic. Silence fell in the garage, none of the mechanics intended to interrupt their conversation. Just like everyone else in the team agreed with Ron that it was a miracle to find anyone willing to take Prost's place, the same majority couldn't imagine a woman starting to race in Formula 1. Especially alongside a driver like Senna.

"A few races, and she'll quit on her own," the Brazilian muttered, "You'll see."

"Pray that she likes you and wants to race for us."

When the car stopped in the gravel parking lot, the girl got out and put on her sunglasses. Tom, her manager and a close friend of her father, just glanced at her and rubbed her back. He knew perfectly well how stressed she was. No one would be prepared for so much in such a short time.

"Everything will be fine."

"You don't have to say that."

He sighed and just pointed with his hand towards the entrance to the facility, letting her through the glass doors. He didn't convince himself too much. Shortly after, after receiving the appropriate instructions, they reached the paddock. Here, the sun didn't glare in her eyes, so the girl took off her glasses, looking around. An empty Silverstone was something unheard of.

"Good morning, welcome, good to see you,"

Ron, standing in front of the garage, as soon as he noticed the girl, broke off from the conversation with one of the mechanics and smiled at her, shaking her hand. She showed up for the tests, so he thought she deserved a shot. Maybe this would work.

The girl made an effort to smile and nodded at him. Fortunately, she didn't have to engage in a conversation with him because he was immediately engaged by her manager. She was glad that in moments like this, someone else could spare her from meaningless chatter.

"Good morning."

She greeted, approaching the car where a few men were working on the wheels, wing, and cockpit. Some of them spoke up, while the rest just nodded at her. She immediately felt unwelcome, and barely a minute had passed since she appeared in the garage. However, this was nothing new to her, she would lie if she said she was surprised. But the most important thing for her was that Ron treated her as an equal, or at least didn't make her feel like she didn't belong here. That gave her a sense of comfort. She didn't need a crowd standing behind her; she only needed two people who had her back.

The girl slowly walked around the car. The new, ready-for-the-season MP4/4 looked very good. Next to the car marked with her number stood another, practically identical, differing only in the number painted in red on the front.

However, the owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, at least not in sight. Y/N hadn't had the opportunity to meet Ayrton personally. The drivers' presentation with the car was scheduled for the end of the month, so it was quite likely that until then, she would have time to mentally prepare herself. She knew Ayrton from stories; she could watch his battles both on and off the track on television, the domestic war he waged with Alain Prost which ended with the Frenchman's departure to Ferrari.

Y/N knew she would have to face many things, one of which was Senna.

"Ready?"

Ron's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, he held a helmet and jumpsuit for her in his hand. She nodded and took the items from him, going to change. When she returned, she took her place in the cockpit, and after some time, when everything was ready, she followed the instructions and took her place on the track. She took a deep breath and clenched her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the start lights. When they went out, the girl sped off with squealing tires and the roar of the engine.

Ron and Tom stood next to each other, watching her movements on small monitors. After some time, the mechanics also began to glance at the monitors, seemingly more interested in whether she hadn't crashed yet than in her results. What surprised them was the sight on one of the displays showing her current lap time, which now stood at 1.38.412 seconds. Ron smiled and shook his head in amazement. The young girl was incredible.

The car itself wasn't handling badly. Besides feeling like a huge boat, to which she was definitely too small, it was actually a well-engineered machine. A few more laps, and she should be able to tame it completely. Although this fact was reassuring. When the girl spotted the checkered flag, she obediently pulled into the garage. She turned off the engine and unfastened her seatbelts, but she didn't get out of the car or take off her helmet because Ron was already beside her, hugging her tightly.

"Young lady, you flew in that car!" The man helped her out of the car, and she took off her helmet and balaclava, taking out the earplugs. "I told you, you did amazingly. Unbelievable lap time, great driving."

The girl wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and blew a strand of wet hair from her forehead.

"It's a really good car, sir."

"A good car without a good driver is just a good car, and a good car with a great driver is a masterful car," Ron shook her hand again, "Brilliant job."

The girl returned his smile, and when she glanced at Tom standing a few steps away, he was also smiling, his smile was the kind of "I told you so."

Y/N gave appropriate feedback to the mechanics and strategists, who now seemed to pay attention to her significantly more than when she first appeared in the garage that morning. Their faces still tried to remain impassive, but nevertheless, they noted everything she had to say. When it was all over, the girl went to change. She washed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror, clenching her hands on the cold sink. She did it.

When she managed to cool down and calm herself down a bit, clutching her helmet under her arm and holding her jumpsuit in the other hand, shortly after she left the bathroom. Suddenly, she bumped into someone, and that someone turned out to be someone she sincerely didn't want to meet that day.

"Watch where you're going."

Senna muttered, holding a lit cigarette between his lips. He gave her a quick glance and disappeared through the doorway, his jumpsuit rustling as he walked away.

The girl squeezed her helmet tighter under her arm and returned to the garage, putting things back in place. After receiving the last praise and handshake from Ron, she said goodbye and left the paddock with Tom. Ayrton pretended to be too busy preparing for the start, so he didn't honor her with even a single glance. When he heard Ron praising her driving, he only snorted under his breath and shook his head. When the garage fell silent again, Ayrton took his place in the car, getting ready to drive.

"1.38.412"

Senna looked up when Ron spoke above his head.

"1.38.412," he repeated calmly, "The lap time of a twenty-three-year-old after her first drive in a Formula 1 car."

The Brazilian snorted and lowered his gaze, putting earplugs in his ears.

"I hope you'll be better than the girl."

Ayrton didn't hear his words anymore because he put on his balaclava and helmet. He didn't believe the girl had achieved such a lap time. And even if she did, it only spoke of the car's capabilities, not her skills. Senna hoped he would be faster by at least a few seconds. He had been racing in Formula 1 for almost five years; he was incredibly fast, and above all, he was a man!

When the tests ended, and he returned to the garage, satisfied with himself and his driving, the first thing he did was to look for Ron's reaction, wanting to see his expression when he rubbed his nose in it. However, the Brit looked at him indulgently, and Senna, not knowing what he meant, quickly tried to free himself from the seat belts. The Brit simply turned the monitor towards him and pointed with his finger at something that, according to Ayrton, was a big mistake.

Between him and the girl, there was a difference of a few seconds, indeed. But Ayrton was slower.

When Senna freed himself from the car, hastily took off his helmet and balaclava, and removed the earplugs, he was about to say something when Ron stopped him, pressing a cassette to his chest.

"Here, watch it tonight and see how the twenty-three-year-old beat you."

Ayrton squeezed the cassette in his hand and only watched him leave, unable to utter a word. It was some kind of absurdity!

Absurd or not, Senna spent the evening in front of the TV. He sat on the couch, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He frowned and carefully watched the recording from the camera placed in her cockpit. He saw how she aggressively entered corners, braking as late as possible, and how quickly she stepped on the gas when the centrifugal forces stopped working. He took a drag and blew smoke from his mouth, rewinding the tape from the beginning, just as it ended. The recording lasted twenty minutes, and he watched it for the seventh time, counting each lap on his stopwatch. Every time, the result was the same.

He couldn't wrap his head around what she had done, but he decided to consider it just a stroke of luck. She had a better day; he had a slightly worse one. Moreover, it wasn't the testing session or even the qualifying rounds that determined the winner, but the race itself. Driving on an empty track without rivals wanting to take your position was one thing, but racing in a competition where everyone wanted to beat you was a completely different matter. If someone had told Ayrton then that four years later, that girl would shed tears at his funeral, he would have told them to fuck themselves.

Y/N felt a strong arm around her waist, trying to lift her. Ron's heart broke seeing her in such a state. However, he couldn't help her even if he wanted to.

"Y/N, please…," he began, but she shook her head, overcome with tears. Wet stains of tears were visible on the flag covering the coffin. The girl was trembling all over, it was a miracle she could breathe. Since the accident, it seemed like Y/N was handling the tragedy very well, just being sad and quiet. No one had any idea what was yet to come. Everyone who saw Y/N by the coffin, this sight of a broken girl, felt nothing but sympathy. The bond she had formed with Ayrton seemed stronger and much richer in emotions than any he had with any of his partners. Ayrton wasn't just her teammate, he wasn't just a friend or sometimes her biggest enemy. From the very beginning, Y/N mattered to him, and if he said otherwise, he was simply lying.

The official skills assessment test for the girl was scheduled to take place less than three weeks after her first visit to the McLaren garage. Now, however, an official presentation awaited her at the reception hosted by the team. One evening at the company headquarters, a banquet was held, attended by far more people than initially anticipated. Most of them were journalists who had to announce to the world the phenomenon that was a woman at the top level of motor racing.

"It's more crowded here than I thought," the girl admitted when she entered the team headquarters with Tom by her side.

"Everyone is curious about you. There are even a couple of journalists from Australia, believe it or not," Tom said.

She looked at him in shock. "And they flew here specifically for this presentation?"

He smiled and nodded. "They'll be talking to kangaroos and kiwi birds about you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. And it worked because she giggled at his words. However, her smile faded when she noticed Ron talking to Ayrton and two other men in suits.

"Everything will be fine. You did well on the tests, so you'll do well here too," he said softly, rubbing her arm when he noticed her expression.

"There weren't any sharks in suits and piranhas with cameras there," Tom was about to add some words of encouragement when Ron spotted them and raised his hand with a glass in it, trying to get their attention. They approached him, and he greeted them, introducing them to the directors. Ayrton, standing aside, was mindful of how many people were now watching him and wondering if his new teammate would share Prost's fate. However, the Brazilian had no intention of making an effort for gestures he didn't intend. Nevertheless, courtesy demanded it, so he extended his hand, which she hesitantly shook.

"Senna," he said, his Brazilian accent strongly evident in his last name. "Welcome to the team."

The girl introduced herself as well, but it was hard for her to maintain eye contact. Not because he was almost half a head taller, but because of the confidence emanating from him. It was his team, his place, and his time, and she was just a guest. There was no room for discussion.

Fortunately, the awkward situation was soon interrupted as the drivers and management were invited onstage. Ayrton gestured for the girl to go ahead, and she began to walk in front of him.

"I hope you don't grip the wheel as weakly as you do hands," he murmured behind her, quietly enough so no one else would hear, but loud enough for her to hear his words.

Y/N lowered her gaze, feeling a wave of heat wash over her. Even if she wanted to respond, she couldn't. He caught her completely off guard.

As they stepped onto the small stage, they stood behind one of the cars prepared for this season. The girl intertwined her fingers behind her back and straightened up, standing next to Ayrton. He might play his stupid games on her, but she had no intention of showing that she would easily give in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and almost believed that his comment had gone unnoticed, but her cheeks were flushed. Normally, he would probably snort under his breath, but now he kept his composure.

After a few words from Ron and the board members, the floor was given to the drivers. The two of them remained on stage, each with a microphone in hand. Now it was time for the media, for their pressing questions and burning issues.

Ayrton sat relaxed, almost bored. His legs were bent at the knees, slightly apart. One hand was around his waist, resting his elbow on it, holding the microphone in the other hand. He answered questions briefly and to the point, not dwelling more than necessary. His attire alone indicated that today's banquet was just a formality; he wore a suit, but instead of a shirt, he had a white T-shirt, and on his feet were sports shoes.

Despite her best efforts not to stress out, Y/N was far from as calm as Ayrton. She sat up straight, one leg crossed over the other. Although her red dress practically touched the floor, she glanced occasionally to make sure nothing was out of place. She felt like every move, even the smallest one, was being watched and analyzed. She felt she wasn't focusing on the content of the questions but on how she appeared.

The girl blinked several times, trying to find a sensible answer to the question that had been directed at her a few seconds ago.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked, feeling a bit embarrassed about her inattention. Ayrton, however, heard the question well.

"I asked if you think you're good enough to compete with men or if you're just here for publicity? Racing is still a male-dominated sport, and it seems like you're just trying to prove something rather than compete," the man in glasses squeezed the voice recorder in his hand and looked at her expectantly. Seeing her confusion, he sighed, "I see you're not too bright, so let me ask directly - do you really think you belong here? Do you have what it takes to keep up with the boys on the track?"

The girl panicked a little; this question completely threw her off guard. Emotions overwhelmed her, and she couldn't utter a word. But there was someone who could speak and had an exceptionally sharp tongue.

"I see that, Mr. - again, for whom are you writing?" Ayrton spoke up, furrowing his brows.

"John Ruffleck, Guardian."

"Ah, of course, the Guardian," the man clicked his tongue indulgently. "Clearly, you are the one that didn't shine with intelligence, asking last year's Formula 3 world champion if she fits in here." Y/N was shocked to hear that Ayrton stood up for her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Despite still sitting calmly, the Brazilian was ready for a verbal battle. "If I fit in here, then the 23-year-old who set a better lap time than me during the tests also fits."

Ayrton bluntly silenced the journalist, who merely muttered a quiet "Thank you" and lowered his head.

Several more questions were thrown in by Ayrton, steering the conversation away from sexist undertones. By the end of the conference, there were no more questions about sexist issues. The drivers got up from their seats, and Y/N turned off her microphone, placing it on the sound table as Senna did the same.

"Thank you," she said, looking at him. He also looked at her, but this time his expression didn't express annoyance or boredom, as it did two times before when their eyes met.

"Don't thank me," he said, taking two glasses of champagne from the waitress. "You are allow to drink, right?" he asked before handing her one of them. She nodded and took the glass from him. "Don't thank me, just learn to counter such nonsense. If they're rude, we can be rude too."

Y/N took a big sip of champagne. Her mouth was dry from nerves.

"I don't want to be rude, it's not proper," she said.

"Not proper?" Senna scoffed. "Because you're a girl?"

"Because they'll think poorly of me"

"Do you really care what that bunch of idiots thinks?"

The girl lowered her gaze. Ayrton was right.

Did she really care? She was a driver; she was supposed to deliver good results. She wasn't supposed to please the audience.

She was about to reply when Ron approached them, cursing the Guardian journalist's stupidity. He was so caught up that he didn't even notice Ayrton sending the girl a final glance and then finishing his champagne, taking out cigarettes from his back pocket, and walking away towards the exit. Y/N only watched him go. At that moment, neither of them had any idea how much she would learn from Ayrton, or that he would gladly take on the role of a teacher himself. No one would have even thought of it then.

When Ron managed to lift the shaken girl, she reached for her helmet again and pressed it to her chest. When she looked up, across from her, on the other side of the coffin, she saw a man in a wheelchair. Frank Williams looked at her in silence, but his gaze was apologetic, his face sad, and his eyes looked like he hadn't slept for days.

"Why?" Y/N whispered, but she wasn't sure if anything managed to leave her lips. Williams didn't need to hear her; her eyes said it all. Even if he couldn't hear her question or look into her swollen, tear-filled eyes, he would know perfectly well that she blamed him for his death. "Why, Frank? Why?" Maybe even more than she blamed God.

"If you can hold on to me for longer than five seconds, I'll let you pass," Ayrton said, exhaling smoke. He sat on one of the crates outside McLaren's garage, wearing sunglasses. The weather for the upcoming race looked exceptionally good, but Senna wouldn't mind rain.

"Are you challenging me?" the girl asked, squinting and looking at him against the light. They were sitting outside, where it was quieter, as the mechanics worked inside the garage.

"Why would I?" the man chuckled, taking another drag. Seeing her uncertainty, he offered her a cigarette, trying to reassure her with his gesture.

Y/N took the cigarette and inhaled the smoke, which tickled her throat, making her cough. She wrinkled her nose and after a moment handed him back the cigarette.

"Don't you want to test my braking skills and eliminate me from the race?"

Ayrton laughed and shook his head. "So, I do have a bad reputation after all."

"Definitely not the best," the girl said softly, smiling uncertainly. Ayrton playfully nudged the crate she was sitting on with his foot. He genuinely liked this girl; in fact, he could and wanted to work with her. Now he was even willing to let her win the race if she showed that she could keep up with him. She had demonstrated many times that she could drive at an exceptionally high level, so Senna was willing to show some humanity and let her achieve her first victory, especially on home turf. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, taking off his cap and placing it on her head, pulling it down over her eyes.

"Five seconds," he repeated, walking away as she adjusted the cap on her head.

The girl decided to take up the challenge, realizing that such an opportunity might never come again. Ayrton and collaboration? They were complete opposites after all. Y/N, who started the next day from the last place on the podium, managed to fight her way up to second place at the beginning of the race. She spent the next forty laps chasing after Ayrton, wondering if there was any point in chasing him if she couldn't overtake him. Seeing his familiar helmet in the side mirror, Ayrton smiled. He added a bit more throttle and began counting to five, but the girl's car didn't seem to be falling back. When the agreed time was up, much to everyone's disbelief, both on the track and in front of the TVs, Senna slowed down and obediently let her pass. Unable to believe her own eyes, the girl pressed the gas and took the lead, crossing the finish line with him.

She only believed in her victory when Ayrton offered her his hand and helped her onto the podium.

"Five seconds," he said, smiling at her.

"Five seconds," she replied, returning the smile.

How much she would give to see Ayrton again, even for five seconds. To be able to hug him for five seconds, see his smile. Five seconds now would last like an eternity, for which she would pay any price.

The church was filled with people, mostly family and friends, individuals directly connected to Ayrton. The remaining people were outside, surrounding the church, also gathering along the main road. There were talks of crowds, thousands who came to bid farewell to their hero. They too would give much to see Ayrton even for five seconds. Whole, alive, before the Imola accident.

Y/N held the helmet on her knees, looking at it with vacant eyes. She ran her fingers along the edges, tracing the stickers and sponsor names. She squeezed the soft padding inside. She closed her eyelids. Five seconds.

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Ayrton said, loud enough to make the girl jump. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a bikini top, with his helmet on her head, visor down. She waved a piece of cardboard towards the grill, trying to ignite it better and not wanting the smoke to get in her eyes, deciding to use whatever she had at hand. And hoping Ayrton wouldn't get mad that she used his helmet for this.

The man smiled and shook his head, placing the wood he held in his hands next to the grill. Standing next to the girl, he lifted the visor and looked into her eyes. She looked at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It suits you," Senna interrupted, smiling. "Possibly even more than me."

"Do you think so?"

The man nodded. His hair, damp from swimming in the lake, fell onto his forehead, and his brown eyes sparkled. Ayrton had been looking at Y/N like this for some time, in a way that many would describe as tender. Certainly, the girl wasn't just a teammate to him, as who would invite a teammate to their hometown to meet their closest family. Certainly not Ayrton.

"I love you, Y/N,"

He confessed as he lay on the jetty, gazing at the starry sky, where there was no trace of the hot Brazilian sun anymore.

The girl laughed and took a sip of beer, lying next to him and leaning on his arm. Both were drunk, so she was sure Ayrton was joking. However, when his confession was met with silence and he turned to look at her, his face was deadly serious.

"I mean it, Y/N. I love you,"

"You can't love me, you have a girlfriend," she replied, still laughing. There was no way he was serious.

Ayrton got up and without a word, kissed her, wanting to prove his words. When he pulled away after a moment, there was no smile on the girl's face. He was about to say something again, but she touched his cheek and returned the kiss, and he pulled her closer, holding her tightly in his arms. That night, they would find out how much they meant to each other.

Senna meant a lot to the girl, there was no doubt about it. He also meant unimaginable things to all those who took part in the funeral ceremonies, not only in Brazil itself but worldwide. It might have seemed like the world had lost an incredible man, someone who in life had already become a legend. Who would have thought that this living, almost mystical legend was just a man? A man who is mortal. Surely no one looked at Senna that way. Certainly not Frank Williams, who eventually decided to agree and accept Ayrton into his team, bearing an incredible burden now. Senna was supposed to lift his team to great heights, and his tragic death dealt a blow, not so much personal as it was business-related. However, at that moment, that mattered least.

Y/N and Ayrton sat at the kitchen table, eating a late dinner in silence. They were in their shared home in Europe, but for the past few months, the walls of the house seemed to be becoming more alien with each passing day. The atmosphere was as thick as it is now, when none of the people sitting at the table even bothered to steal a glance.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go to Williams?"

The girl asked, stirring the contents of her plate with her fork. Ayrton tightened his grip on the glass and took a few sips from it.

"Ayrton-", "Why did I have to tell you?" he entered her words and looked at her, "Just to make you try to stop me?

Y/N blinked several times. She was shocked. She had the impression that the man sitting opposite was a complete stranger and someone she had never known before.

"To stop you? I'm your girlfriend, I should be the first to know about your plans, not hear from strangers."

"Did it change anything? Did something happen that you didn't find out from me?"

"Yes!" she shouted, slamming her hand on the table. She was so done with all of this. "I'm fed up with you treating me like an enemy for several weeks!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" he stood up, leaning over and pointing his finger at her. "You have no idea how much I had to do to get that offer, how much it cost me!"

"I have no idea, because you don't tell me anything!" she also stood up, pushing his hand away, which he was aiming at her face, "Fame has gone to your head, you're acting like a complete idi-" She didn't get to finish because Ayrton slapped her across the face. He didn't realize when his open hand met her cheek. Y/N grabbed her cheek and looked at him in shock. At the moment of the strike, he also seemed to snap out of it, as if he had been hit himself.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," he said calmly, trying to approach her, but she backed away a few steps, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

"But you did," she said with a trembling voice, tears welling up in her eyes, "I don't recognize you anymore, Ayrton".

As the funeral rites began, the last thing on Y/N's mind was their recent arguments, of which there had been plenty lately. Nonetheless, since the incident when he raised his hand to her, Senna understood he had crossed a line. The only upside of the whole situation was that they had started talking again, and Ayrton had come to realize that Y/N was not his enemy. Yes, on the track, the girl might be someone he now had to defeat even more than usual, but she was still his friend, his girlfriend, his partner. Speaking of partners, many women appeared at the funeral, but four of them spent exceptionally long periods by the coffin. They had a lot in common, yet none of them deigned to exchange glances. Each of Ayrton's partners, even today, on such a dramatic day, looked at her as if she were an enemy. Viviane made sure none of them sat on the bench where the family was seated. Y/N belonged to the family. She didn't intrude, Ayrton invited her himself.

"Maybe you should take a break?" Sid Watkins persistently tried to persuade Ayrton and Y/N to withdraw from the upcoming race. "Two weeks, you'll come back to Monaco in better shape, with lighter minds."

Senna sat on one of the crates behind the Williams garage, elbows resting on his knees. Y/N repeatedly wiped her tear-streaked cheeks, trembling hand holding a cigarette. An hour ago, the qualifying session for tomorrow's race was interrupted by Roland Ratzerberger's serious accident. The man was taken to the hospital, but many said he was taken from the track already dead.

"This shouldn't have happened, there shouldn't have been talk of such an accident," the girl repeated, almost hysterical. She was in tremendous shock, having witnessed the accident herself as she was the one who followed Ratzerberger's car.

"They need to cancel the race," Senna said dryly, his gaze fixed on a point in front of him. "We can't race here, not after something like this."

"And if they don't cancel?" Sid looked from Ayrton to Y/N. "Will you race in such a state? You won't sleep over this until tomorrow."

"If they don't cancel, we'll race for him. I'll drive the best I can to honor him with a victory," Ayrton decided, raising his gaze and looking the doctor in the eyes.

"You like fishing, right? Why don't you go back to Brazil, catch some fish, relax. If you want, I'll come with you, I could use it too."

Senna rubbed his face with his hands, intertwining his fingers and pressing them against his lips. Again, he fell silent. He knew they couldn't not race; he certainly couldn't afford to tell Frank after months of effort that he wouldn't start tomorrow. He couldn't do that.

"I don't want to race," Y/N admitted, shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ayrton, he, Roland-" the man rose without a word and hugged her tightly. He enveloped her in a strong embrace, stroking her hair. Watkins saw that Senna was thinking intensely. And no matter what he said or did to convince him to skip the race, he would do it his own way.

"Think about it, Ayrton. Just think about it," he said one last time. Senna looked him in the eyes and nodded in silence.

Late in the afternoon, Ayrton and Y/N returned to the hotel. They didn't talk much; Y/N occasionally wiped her eyes with a tissue. Ayrton held her hand a lot. When they lay in bed, Senna laid on her stomach, wrapping his arm around her waist. The girl began to run her fingers through his damp hair.

"I don't want to start tomorrow, Y/N," he said softly. He was facing away from her, she couldn't see that he was crying too. "I have a bad feeling."

"You know nobody can force you to do it," she said calmly, her other hand stroking his cheek. "Maybe Watkins is right? Let's fly to your parents, spend time with the kids. It's been two months since you've seen them."

"I can't," he said, wiping his face with his hand. "I can't, nobody needs a driver who doesn't race."

"Ayrton—" "Just hold me," he interrupted, sitting up. The girl obeyed his command, sitting between his legs and hugging him tightly. Both were silent; Y/N tenderly stroked his head and tense back.

"This will be my last season," he said, not moving an inch from her. "I've done enough; I don't need more. I want to focus on something else, on more important things."

"On what, my love?" she asked gently, still stroking his hair.

"I want to be a dad,"

Senna surprised her with this confession. The girl smiled.

"Would you like to have a son or a daughter?"

"A daughter, oh, how I'd love a daughter," he said, pulling away to look at her face. "Would you like to have a child with me? And become my wife?"

Y/N smiled and nodded. "You know I would."

Ayrton returned her smile and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply.

"Te amo, querido,"

"I love you too, Ayrton. And i will always do."

"And i will always do," Y/N said qiuetly, watching as the coffin slowly descends into the ground. Nothing can destroy such love, certainly not death.

[sirenmoth]

Monster Mash - Drider

CW: Bondage, body worship, vaginal fingering, restraints, cum smearing, scent marking, scent marking via cum, spider anatomy, cum insertion, (i promise it makes sense), (literally looked up if spiders have dicks and how spider sex works)

Monster Mash Masterlist

<- Previous || Next ->

Legs sore and trembling like a newborn fawn learning to walk for the first time since opening its eyes, sleep still heavy and ever present on your mind as you try and traverse the massive manor you all share using the walls as support, still as naked as the day you were born. The sudden sound of quickly fast approaching scuttling footsteps and a pair of drow arms around your bruised waist alert you of a new presence as you are lifted into the air.

The relief you feel once you are off your feet, legs no longer shaking to keep you up-right, as the drider carries you away and towards his web, gently placing you into the centre like an ornate piece of porcelain, closing your eyes and letting yourself sink down into the sticky mass of string below. Your mind barely registers your limbs being moved around, lovingly and carefully being tied and secured in place by the driders own silk.

Eight spider legs and a set of drow arms come into peripheral vision as the drider climbs into his own web, taking his spot between your spread legs. Eight sets of eyes, six spider and two drow, borrow deep into your skull, never once looking away as the drider takes in his work.

A soft chitter echoes in your brain, "Still awake, my dear?" A breathy chuckle follows his question, "We are far from done, I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun." He says, nipping at the bite marks on your neck and shoulders, his silver snow-white hair falls over his shoulders, the light from the window casting a dull halo around it. "He just loves to ruin you for us, doesn't he, takes all the run out of it." None of them used each other's name, a way of showing their still burning distaste for each other.

The drider starts to rearrange your limbs once more, moving you this way and that until he finds the perfect positions for you to be relaxed and comfort, and for him to worship you and love you. Once your arms are resecured and restrained once again by his soft silk string, he moved onto your legs, replacing them, so your knees were pulled up close to your legs and spread open as wide as they could be. Small click and chirps of approval leave the drider mouth as he works, clearly pleased with his work and your compliance.

With your arms above and legs spread, nothing was left to the imagine, more than it usually was. You lie your head back into the web, the room the drider picked and claimed as his nest was always warm, despite being in a drafty attic, must be all the tightly-packed webbing the covers every corner and wall.

He covers your body with his, his torso slotting between your immobile legs, his spider legs curls under his spider abdomen as his drow arms trace the marks that dot your body left behind by the vampire, tiny hisses and grumbles can be heard every time he examines and assesses a new one.

"He does this on purpose, knows how sore you get after he feed, knows we have to go easy or wait until you heal enough." He tsks as he traces a bruising mark on your hip, "Don't worry, my darling light, I'll be gentle. Make this all about you." The drider kisses a huge mark where your neck and your shoulder conjoin, a bright red now turned blue-ish purple hue, carefully places his hands on your damaged thighs, lightly kneading the flesh, mindful of the bloomed bruises and healing bites that litter your skin.

Rolling your head to the side as your drider leaves a trail of kisses up your neck, his mandibles that sit where his drow half connects to the spider half move lightly, the small fangs at the ends of them gracefully dancing along your lower abdomen just above your cunt, careful not to puncture your skin. Soft kisses are placed just below your left ear, like the drider is trying to fix the marks your vampire lover left.

Those eight eyes always looking in your direction whenever you are near, no matter what either you two are doing, observing your action. He worships you like he would his drider queen, but only you have the pleasures of begging with him.

Little butterfly kisses are pressed against your temple and check, a small distraction while his finger trail downwards towards your dripping slit, tapping your clit with featherlight touches, you softly whimper at the feeling, mind still foggy from sleep and the soft silk webbing underneath was only adding to your delirious mindset. Unable to move due to the strands of silk that weave over and under your legs, you can only lay there and take it as the driders move lower, teasing your entrance. Twitching and squirming as the drider timidly plays with you.

You are like a fly, stuck in a spider's web, waiting in anticipation as the spider plays with you until it decides to devour you. Slowly, the drider slides three fingers into you with no warning, your body accepting him with ease. He pushes and pulls and presses at the sensitive nerve deep inside you, calculated strokes to make you fall apart all over again but to ensure you aren't hurt, the drider mandibles toy with your clit, nibbling and nipping at the exposed nerve while he studies you expressions, watching you moan and whimper, watching your attempts to squirm as you beg for more, for him to move faster.

Your drider takes pleasure in treating you like the most precious thing in the world, something that could break so easily, and he found joy in making you break while he had you tied up like this and his fingers deep inside you as your mind shatters in pleasure, sometimes he would use one of the toys you have, though him and the other eight never understood why you have toys when you have them, all you had to was ask, and they'd let you ride them or fuck you, or you fuck them, until you were satisfied. They do admit it is fun using the toys on you while they do their thing, they never use them as they do nothing for them.

One of the driders hands cups your left breast, squeezing the mound of flesh and pulling at the nipple between his fingers, tugging after each squeeze to create an unwavering, rhythmic sensation that sends euphoric shockwaves through your body. His fingers and hand move in opposite tandem of each other, when his fingers pull out his hand squeezes, slow and calculated, as he leaves small barely noticeable marks over the previous ones.

"So soft, your skin feels like the finest silk ever to exist," the drider mutters into your neck before biting over a mark the vampire left, "and all only for me." They all shared their own and mutual possession over you, displayed through the words they spoke while having a few fingers or a cock, sometimes cocks, pumping inside you, trying to outdo each other with their mark and claims.

Your whimpering and moaning only fanned the flame, the drider fingers sped up to a leg-shaking pace, or what would be if you could move your legs.

Low hums as the drider worships you and your moans fill his web as he coaxes you to cum on his fingers, "That's it, my darling, cum all over my fingers, mark me as yours." The squeezes on your breast grew more aggressive as his fingers move impossibly faster, the butterfly kisses turn into bites. You scream as you cum hard around his fingers as he curls them just right to hit your g-spot, your hole tightening as the mandibles stop their tweaking on your clit, resting against it as you catch your breath.

"So good, looked so pretty for me, so beautiful." The drider remarks, pulling his fingers out to admire your mess, mesmerized by the glimmer of white slick coating his fingers and the way it caught in the light. Bringing the slick covered fingers up to his mouth, he runs his tongue over the digits while keeping eye contact with you. Once he deems his fingers clean enough, he leans over you, "Lay back now, going to reposition you." He whispers into your right ear, you can do nothing but submit as he readjusts you, pulling you lower half high, so your sopping entrance lines up with his clicking mandibles, another chip and soft click once he finds the right placement.

You feel one of the fangs tracing your cunt, flinching at it as it runs up and down, collecting your cum. The drider pins you down under his drow half so he can work undisturbed, one of his hands stays put, playing with your hair while the other collects some of his own cum, letting it drip and run down your body, painting white streak with it across your skin as you try and piece together what the drider has planned. "Going to make you smell like me once I'm done, both inside and out, you'd look so breathtaking dripping with my cum."

Another kiss pressed just behind your ear, "See them try and get rid of my claim now."

One fang carefully slips into you, barely more than a few centimetres, while the other recoils in on itself, his free hand exploring your body like it's brand new to him all over again. The wetness between your thigh grows, you lift your head to watch as the fang that recoiled in returns with a clump of drider cum, pushing it into your gummy walls, quickly the drider reinserts his fingers back into you, forcing the large goop of white substance further into you, only retreating when the opposite fang wants to add its own ball of cum to the mix.

Your head falls back onto the web as your lover repeats the same process, the mixture of slick building between your thigh runs down and pass your ass, onto the web below to combine with the silk, making it near impossible to tell what's web and what's not. "Cum for me again, my love, I know you can do it." The drider murmurs, forcing your dreary head back up to watch as one of the mandibles insert another large goop of seman into you, the drider picks up what didn't make it in and smears it on to your skin. You watch as fangs switch, left right, left, right, the drider re-entering the same three fingers back into you between the pattern, fingering his cum far into you.

Your legs shake in the restraints, your hole clamping down on the drider fingers as your mouth falls open in a silent scream of ecstasy as you cum hard on his fingers, the drider slows down until he deems his cum is deep enough, only then does he pull his fingers out. More kisses are left on your cheeks and the hand comes up from your cunt to stroke your hip, your cum joining to the messy streak on you, the driders warmth bleeds into your own as you both lay chest to chest with each other, staying in this position even after you've both calmed down, his arms around you and his legs under his abdomen.

"Hey, are you going to untie me now? My limbs are going numb."

"Oh right. Sorry, my love."

[speedycoffeedelight]

An Animalistic Disaster

Summery: You finally realise the truth behind these animals

Masterlist

CH-10 : New forms revealed

Charlie and Vaggie both felt the weird sensation from before. Of their bodies being mashed together and remade. Once the light subsided they were shocked to feel a pair of arms and legs again. And both of them not being so small anymore. Charlie and Vaggie both looked at each other.

Charlie still had her milkish white skin with red hues on her cheeks. But they were less extreme. She now had baby blue eyes. On top of her long blond hair was a pair of horns. Her height had shrunk into normal human height as well. She had hooves instead of normal feet. She was still wearing the dress before she got turned into a sheep. But she could feel a hole behind her dress as well as a tail coming out from it.

On the other hand Vaggie's skin was much darker then Charlie's and she had long brown hair that almost looked black. She also had light brown eyes. She had two antenna's that sprouted from her hair. She did shirnk a bit but not as much as Charlie. There was a eye patch covering her lost eye.

They both looked over to their middle where you sat dumfounded. All three of you were so close you guys were practically hugging each other. You finally decided to break the silence and talk.

"W-who are you guys..?"

You were still blushing from the close proximity of them. It didn't help the fact they looked so breathtakingly gorgeous. Their faces looked really familiar to you but you just couldn't put your head around it.

Charlie took a deep breath as she decided to answer you. "I'm Charlie, Charlie Morningstar. I'm the sheep that has been staying with you all these time" Then she looked over at Vaggie. "This is Vaggie, the moth" Vaggie awkwardly smiled and waved to you.

Your jaw practically fell open from shock. Your brain finally connected the dots on why they looked so familiar. "Wait, wait...you mean like Charlie and Vaggie from Hazbin hotel?? The cartoon show?"

"Yes it seems like it. It looks like we're cartoon characters in this world " Vaggie said. "Can you explain to us why that is? It might have a way for us to go back!" She added quickly.

"Hold on now Vaggie. Let her calm down first. She still doesn't know what's going on. It must be a lot to take for her at once.." Charlie said sympatheticly looking at your still shocked expressions.

"Hold on then, if you guys are the ewe and the moth...does that mean.." you looked over to the animals that came to your room. "That deer is definitely Alastor without a doubt" Alastor nodded his head. " The cat and the snake is Husk and Pentious.." they nodded in affirmation. " Spider is Angel..the puppy...the puppy must be Niffty since she cleans so lot!" Niffty barked happily. "And lastly this squirrel should be Cheeri based on the recent nut event"

"You got them all correct! You're really smart!" Charlie said happily. "Please don't get mad or kick us out. We may be demons but we won't harm you!" Charlie said with pleading eyes.

"Speaking of demons, why do we look like this?" Vaggie said looking at her and Charlie again. "That isn't how we looked like before" she said while touching the antenna on her head. "It must be some kind of new form of ours. Some kinda...human-animal hybrid form!" Charlie answered. "At least we can now communicate with her now"

"Okay, this is great..the animals that have been invading my home for like the past week are the characters of my favourite cartoon show...wow I'm really going crazy now aren't I?" You asked looking around the room and laughing a bit. "I'm probably dreaming right? I'll wake up soon and you guys will be gone"

"It's not a dream (y/n), I can promise you that. All the days we spent together are real" Vaggie said softly before putting her hand on your shoulder.

"Fuck it, I don't care if you guys are real or not" you said finally accepting your situation with a newfound ecstatic expression "I have a lot of things I want to say to you guys" You looked at Charlie first.

"Charlie my sweet adorable demon belle, you're baby and I'll protect you at all costs" you said looking at Charlie with pure adoration, making Charlie blush and look away. "Vaggie and Cherri, you're both a bad bitch and I respect you! Keep girlbossing always"  Vaggie and Cherri both gave you a big smile.

"As for Angel.." you said looking at the spider " I love you and I'm sorry for everything you've gone through. I wish to hug you if I could. I swear if I find Valentino in front of me someday I'll fucking strangle him with my own hands" you said the last part with venom in your voice.

Angel didn't know what to say. It was to be expected that you knew a lot about them. He thought you'll say some simping shit for him as he saw before. He didn't like to admit it but hearing your pure kind words warmed a part in his heart.

"Husk, my favourite grumpy kitty cat. Man, I vibe you most of the time. I want to get a drink made by you someday and get drunk with you" Husk mewoed back.

"Husk said if he becomes 'humans' like us, he'll grant your wish" Charlie translated it for you making you smile.

"Pentious, you're the literal definition of boy failure and I love you. I can't wait to see more of your chaotic self in future" you said cooing at him. 'What'ss a boy failure? ' He was confused but happy with your compliment.

"Now for Alastor...." You said looking at the deer. Alastor smirked as he readied himself for your showers of praises and swooning.

"You're a stinky ass deer"

Cue the record screech.

"You tormented me a lot these past days!Now It finally all makes sense!"

Angel was dying laughing in the background as Alastor's eye twitched in anger.

"But even with all of these, I love your charisma and your unique personality in the show. I love your dark sense of humour and your radio voice. I'm quite captivated by it" you said smiling a little.

Alastor's grin came back. Of course you loved him, he knew that already from before. But that doesn't mean he wasn't offended by the first part.

"Thank you for your kind words (y/n), you don't know how much it means to us" Charlie said smiling widely.

"I hate to break this sweet moment..but (y/n), could you please tell us more about our show...? The 'Hazbin Hotel'? " Vaggie chimed in. All of them turned to look at you. You inhaled a deep breath in. How do you exactly explain to someone they come from a show?

"Hazbin hotel is an adult cartoon animation from its creator Vivienne. That's where you guys are from" you said awkwardly scratching your neck.

"So..is she the one who made us..?" Vaggie asked.

"Yes, you, your backstory, the world, everything. There's only one episode out for now but season 1 is dropping very soon" you paused, letting them take the information in.

"Have I been just a part of someone's imagination this whole time..?" Vaggie asked looking at her hands. "All the things, all the pains I felt...were they not real?" Charlie looked sadly at Vaggie and pulled her closer for a hug. Almost everyone in the room felt the same as Vaggie.

You sort of expected this existential crisis to happen. "No, it's very much real, I promise you" you said as you put your hand over Vaggie's and gave her a comforting smile.

"If it wasn't real, you guys wouldn't be here. You guys being here is the proof that it's as real as it can get"

"Hell, all of these makes me feel like I'm not real either! I feel like some kind of weird cliché protagonist of some stupid wattpad or ao3 fanfics that I read. But that's not true right?" You turned to look at everyone.

"I'm right here, I'm real and you guys are too. It goes for all your feelings and experiences as well"

"(Y/n) thank you..." Charlie said now holding your hand while sniffing a little. "You don't know how much it means to hear that" she said teary eyed.

"It's my pleasure, I should also show you the things that are released. You guys would understand more if you saw those" you said while moving up to get your laptop from the table "Also how did you guys end up here?"

"It's a long story...." Charlie started. "I'll say it this time Hun, rest for now" Vaggie said cutting her off, she knew Charlie still felt guilty for this mess. So she decided to tell it instead. She started telling you as you opened up the pilot episode on YouTube .

"Damn, I understand now. But how did you guys turn human again? Well mostly human?" You asked.

"We don't know either! Me and Vaggie were just,uh,having a totally normal conversation and then we suddenly turned into this!" Charlie said while blushing. She didn't dare reveal what they were talking about.

"Uh-huh....riggght...also here's the pilot episode!" You said finally starting to play it.

Charlie and Vaggie sat next to you on both sides, making you blush a little. Niffty sat on your lap while Angel, Husk and Cherri sat in front of you guys since they were small. And Alastor stood while resting his head on top of yours.

Firstly came Charlie's singing about heaven and crying, which she was a bit embarrassed about.

'let me know when you come back with something creative to call me you sack of poorly packaged horse shit!'

'Heh! That line still rocks' Angel said while laughing alongside Cherri.

Meanwhile Vaggie and Alastor was more keen on noticing every single detail they could find from it. Then the scene switched to Pentious.

'Look everyone, That'sss mee!! I look so sstylish in here!'

'And there's me rocking your shit old man! Hahaha!'

It was then time for the interview of Charlie. Charlie covered her face with her hands beside you, already knowing how that would turn out while you patted her back.

'oh, harder daddy~'

'son?'

This part never failed to make you laugh. Even Husk laughed at this part seeing Angel's confused face.

'Jokes are funny, I made you look sad.. like an orphan! With no arms or legs..with progeria!'

'Hah! Now that was a nice description!' Alastor said before laughing. Making Husk look at him with 'wtf is wrong with you face'

'hel-'

'-lo'

'Hey Vaggie?'

'what?'

'The radio demon...is at the door'

Now this was Alastor's turn. "Ohh, there's my creepy boy" you squealed holding Niffty. Alastor raised an eye brow at being called your 'creepy boy' but decided to just keep watching.

'Oh Vaggie, I didn't know you thought so highly of me! Why I'm flattered!' Alastor said with a shit eating grin as Vaggie was explaining Alastor's past to Angel in the show. "Shut it you pompous bastard" Vaggie grumbled beside you. You couldn't hear what Alastor said but you assumed it was one of his snarky remarks.

'And what can you do my effeminate fellow?'

'I can suck your dick'

'Hah! No!'

You practically mimiced the voices as it was being said. You heard this joke various times already. Charlie laughed looking at your expressions while mimicking. You looked quite adorable, she thought fondly.

Finally Husk and Niffty got brought in. 'Ooh!!look!!look!! It's me! I'm cleaning hehehe...' Niffty said barking from your lap. And Husk sighed remembering how he lost the winning game cause of him.

'You thought it would be some kinda big fucking ride just to pull me outta nowhere? You think I'm some kinda fucking clown??'

'maybe!'

You couldn't hide your giggle at that. "I'm really sorry Husk but it was just funny" you said while giving him a headpat. Husk just let you pet him this time while grumbling about how shitty alastor is.

"Also everyone, notice how husk is the only one without any pants in this episode" you said while giggling.

This caused Husk's eyes to widen as he looked back at his cartoon character carefully. He indeed wasn't wearing any pants. 'Ohh,husky~ I didn't know you were into stuffs like this~' Angel cooed at Husk while teasing him. Alastor's eye brows furrowed at such indecency.

"How come we never noticed this unusuality back then?" Vaggie asked looking at you. "How did we just think Husk not wearing pants was normal?"

You shrugged. "Don't ask me, I don't have a clue either " you said resuming the episode.

Alastor's song began to play, 'Inside of every demon is a lot cause'. In middle of it you looked at Alastor "I'm never going to forget the fact that you slapped Vaggie's ass canonically"

"He did what??" Charlie glared. "Slapped Vaggie's ass, look here" you went back to that time again and showed it. 'Damn smiles I never knew you had it in ya!' Angel said laughing while Vaggie groaned.

'I only did that to mess with miss Vaggie. I assure you I had no other intentions' Alastor said to a very angry looking Charlie. "You shouldn't have done it in the first place! " Charlie pouted while crossing her arms.

Finally the ending came with Sir Pentious getting extremely overpowered by Alastor.

'My egg boysss...I miss them..'

"So this was Hazbin Hotel! Next up we have 'Addict', a music video featuring Angel Dust and Cherri" you said looking at the pair.

"But I want to ask if you're ready first Angel..." You asked softly, knowing what was about to be shown.

Angel's breath hitched in his throat. Cherri gave him a sympathetic look. Angel didn't know how to feel about this.

'I....'

[mooooonnnzz]

Can you PLEASE write about being stans daughter!!!! I read about being ford's and now I need to know about having stan as your dad 🩷🩷

Love You Forever and Forever

Stanley Pines x child/teen!reader

ᥬ✿ stanley goes by his actual name instead of stanford

ᥬ✿ 3,7k words oops

ᥬ✿ fem reader!

ᥬ✿ requests r still oppennn :3

ᥬ✿ book of bill website spoilers kinda? would u consider one of stans shame a spoil?

ᥬ✿ tw stans drinking alcohol is mentioned but in past tense!

ᥬ✿ mention of fords dad fic it makes sense when u read it

Stan wasn’t typically someone who wanted kids. He would have occasional drifting thoughts about how he’d have stories to tell for days if he had a little kid of his own. Those thoughts didn’t hold much meaning to them, they were just a little fantasy he would delve into whenever he had the chance. It seems like the universe heard his "calls" and being the reckless fool he is, he managed to get a woman he briefly fooled around with pregnant. 

How did he find that out? 

One day during the slow hours of the Mystery Shack, a knock was heard. Stan groaned, who could be knocking at his door? Shoving the newly counted dollar bills in his pocket, he grabbed his 8-ball-themed cane, in case he had to beat someone with it, and walked to the door. Pulling it open, there before him stood a beautiful woman. A moment of recognition sparked in his brain, but he was quickly blinded by her beauty and that feeling was instantly forgotten. The smell of her rich perfume filled Stan’s nostrils. Upon smelling the potent perfume, four words circled his brain. ‘Pretty Babe Who Has Money’

Leaning on his cane, he flashed a smug yellow-toothed smile at the woman. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing this deep in the woods?” 

“That won’t work on me a second time, Stanley Pines.” She growled, glaring at him so deeply he could feel her glare in his soul. Stan’s relaxed attitude was quick to dry up. “S-Second time? Do I know you?” 

“As expected,” She mutters to herself, rolling her eyes. “I’m just going to cut to the chase here, Stan.” Shifting the baby that was settled on her hip, she cleared her throat. “I don’t care that you stole money from me, that’s fine. Whatever,” she says with a shrug. “But as for karma, I give you back your baby.” 

The color drains from Stan’s face. “Hah, baby?” Stan uncomfortably chuckled. He opened his mouth to question where the baby was when it was quite literally right in his face. His jaw goes slack at the sight of his supposed baby sleeping soundly on her shoulder. “Look, lady. You got the wrong guy!” He pushed the door, but before it could fully close the woman shoved her foot in between the door. “Don’t do this to me, Stan. Or I will leave this baby on your porch and leave.” She threatens, kicking the door open with her heel. “Take the baby so we’re even.”

“I don’t even know who you are. For all I know, you could be lying to me.” Stan said, closing his eyes and lifting his chin up in defiance. 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” She scoffed. “Barbara, Barabara Smith.” 

That’s when the dots started connecting for Stan. Memories of him and Barabara resurface in his mind. That's why he felt that twinge of familiarity when he saw her. “It’s all coming back to you now, huh?” She rested a hand on her hip, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor. 

“Barbara!” Stan smiled awkwardly, finally remembering the woman who stood before him. “H-How have you been?” He uncomfortably laughed, trying to alleviate the tension that swallowed them whole. “Oh, I’m just swell.” Her eyes narrowed angrily at him. 

“So, about the baby…!” He leaned towards her, pulling a roll of cash from his pocket. “Why don’t I pay you a few hundred bucks and you can take the baby, how’s about that?” 

“You’re despicable, Stanley Pines.” She said with a deep scowl. 

Shoving the baby to his chest, she slammed the door shut. A blubbering mess of words spilled out of Stan in shock. In a quick flash, he opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The woman was already in her car and sliding her keys into the ignition. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep the baby?” He yelled over the loud rumbling of her car, covering the baby's ear to block out the loud noises. 

As she backed out of her parking spot, she rolled down her window and stuck a middle finger to Stan before driving off; leaving a cloud of dust behind her path. Stan sighed. What just happened? 

Walking back into the shack defeated, he looked at the baby who awoke in his arms. “Guess you're stuck with me, kid.” 

ꨄ︎ Having no knowledge of how to take care of a baby surely did make taking care of you hard. Unlike Ford, he doesn’t spend countless hours researching and reading books about babies to gain at least some understanding. Instead, he faces the situation head-on with little to no insight on how to take care of you. “Alright, kid.” He says, slapping his hands together. “Let’s figure out a way to take care of you.” He stares at you sitting on the sofa chair for a minute or so, waiting for you to cry, laugh, or even let out a sound. Unfortunately for Stan, all you did was stare back at him with your big eyes. “Are you gonna do anything…?” He scratches his cheek. Moments go by and still nothing comes out of you. Stan is left stumped, completely and utterly stumped. But does this convince him to finally grab a book and actually do something that benefits him? Absolutely not! He instead forms a plan in his head. He leaves the living room and has you all by yourself for a second. You don’t budge. All you did was stare thoughtlessly at the doorway where he left. Peeking his head into the living room, he saw your face brighten up. “Huh,” He says, surprised. He wasn’t expecting that to work. Drawing his head back, out the corner of his eye, he saw your smile falter. Peeking his head back in, you smiled, laughing in joy. Needless to say, Stan was amused and continued this game of peekaboo with you until a herd of customers crowded the front porch. 

ꨄ︎ Feeding you wasn’t too hard! He did consider feeding you brown beef, but after reading the ingredients that were on the can, he decided against it. What he chose to do was to feed you what he had for breakfast. He had eggs for breakfast? Then he’d make scrambled eggs and give them to you. He didn’t have a high chair so he just sat you on the table and let you eat from his plate. He didn’t mind that you made a mess with your food. He found it rather endearing. “Good food, kid?” He’d ask you after every meal. “Yah!” You gurgled out, mouth full of breakfast. “Woah, careful. Don’t want you choking on your food.” At some point, during a quick run to the grocery store, he found some baby food and a high chair. He purchased them and when he arrived home, he couldn’t stop blabbering to you. “I completely forgot they had baby food at the stores,” Stan said, smacking his head with the underside of his hand. “Did you know?” He looks over to you. You responded with a smile. “Good to know I wasn’t the only crazy one here.” He walks over to you and picks you up, setting you down on the high chair. “Does this make you feel fancy?” He grabs baby food and with the spoon that came with it, he scooped it up and fed it to you. Luckily for him, you weren’t extremely picky on your food. You’d eat just about anything he would hand you. “You like my cooking better than this junk,” He would say after feeding you the baby food. “Right, kid?”

ꨄ︎ He would be lying if he didn’t find himself completely attached to you by the second day. He thought it couldn’t get worse, but during work, when he was showcasing all these different fake monsters to the tourists; all he could think about was your little chubby face and your cute laugh. There would be times when he’d close the shack early, just so he could spend some time with you. “A little birdie told me that you were missing me.” He said, picking up from your crib. “Isn’t that right, sweet pea?” He worked around this issue by implementing you in his museum of mysterious monsters. “Behold!” He pulled back the curtains, revealing you in a little sheep costume. “Half human baby, half sheep!” The crowd aw's at your cuteness. “The baby baa’s like a sheep when you throw money at her!” 

ꨄ︎ Picking out clothes was something he prided himself in. He would deck you down in the cutest dress and purposefully stroll down the street with you in his arms for people to coo and aww at you and him. “Your daughter is so cute!” Someone would say and you’d be sleeping on his shoulder, rocking a cute bow on your head that he bought you. “Oh, I know. She has my cuteness.” Stan proudly said. He meant that sentence with all of his soul. Yes, you do have his cuteness and if anyone else told him otherwise, he will argue back. 

ꨄ︎ Teaching you how to walk was one of the many prideful moments he had with you. Slightly crouched down, he held onto your little hands. You wobbled around, not accustomed to using your feet. “This is gonna be trial and error, kid. But as long as you’re with me, it’s going to be easy peasy.” Taking a cautious step back, he watches as you lift your leg up. Stan’s lit up, your foot stomping down on the ground. “Good, good. Now your other foot.” With your other foot, you raised it up. Shifting from side to side, you let out a scared babble. “It’s okay, sweet pea. I got you. No need to worry.” He assured you. Hearing his soothing words motivated you to continue on. With a deep breath, you moved your foot forward and stomped down. Pure delight and joy drummed through Stan’s body as he scooped you up from the floor and carefully embraced you. “That’s my girl!” he cheered happily.

ꨄ︎ The first time you called him Dad was when he was watching TV and you were on your playmat, playing with all the toys Stan bought you. The TV displayed a daughter and father, and you took notice of how she kept calling him Dad. Connecting two and two, you flipped back and forth to Stan and the TV. For a few minutes you were humming out words and Stan would smile at you and call you a cutie. At some point, he figured out what you were trying to say and picked you up. Putting you on his lap, he looked at you expectantly, hanging on to every single noise and gurgle you made. “What are you trying to say, sweet pea?” Chewing on your fingers you finally managed to say Dad. “Dada!” Stan is solid as a statue. Did you just call him Dad? He doesn’t process it fully at first but when you decide to say it again, tears begin to well up in his eyes. “I’m not crying, pea. I just got some of your baby spit in my eye!” He gave you extra snacks that day, and maybe every other day after that. 

ꨄ︎ Your first birthday was one to remember, for him at least. Initially, he was going to invite the whole town over to celebrate such a big milestone, but he was rudely reminded of a memory when he tried to celebrate his own birthday and no one even bothered to show up. So he kept it between you and him. At first, he attempted to make your cake but when that ended in shambles he chose to go to the store and buy you a cake. Bringing you along, he buckled you into your car seat. Starting up his car, he started driving into the road. While driving Stan couldn’t remember the last time he was so excited to do something. How long has it been since he’s felt pure joy in his life? Since he had company that was equally happy to be around him. He can’t remember a life without you and that scares him, but just a quick glance at you calms his nerves and he feels at peace. He never knew how much of an effect you’d have on him. Stepping out of the car and into the supermarket, he searched. Pushing the cart that had you in it, he looked at you when he reached the cakes. “Which one do you want, pumpkin?” With a back-and-forth conversation that had him do most of the talking, he decided on a small vanilla cake that had strawberry frosting slathered on it. He placed it inside the cart and continued strolling on. At some point, he picked up some balloons and candles. “Should I buy you a happy birthday banner?” He said as he put the packet inside the cart. After purchasing all of the birthday items, he left the store and drove home. Setting up the decorations for him was a blast. And soon enough, the whole kitchen was gorgeously decorated for your birthday. Placing you in the high chair, he gave you a tiny piece of cake. “Happy birthday, sweetie.” His party hat was drooping sideways along with yours. “Thank you for showing me unconditional love.” He planted a kiss on your forehead. 

ꨄ︎ Years went by and suddenly Stan was crouching down on the floor, slipping your backpack on you for your first day of school. “You ready for school, sweet pea?” Stan asked. You spun around, a small pout sprouting on your lips. “No,” You kicked a rock that was on the floor, fear and anxiety crackling through your small body. “I’m scared.” You admitted. Your vision was blotted with tears, your heart breaking at the thought of being separated from your dad for such a long time. “I’m gonna be so far away from you.” You sniffled, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. “Oh, come here.” A frown is so deeply etched on Stan’s face he worries that after this, he’d have a permanent frown on his face. Encasing you in a hug, he slowly ran his hand down your hair. “You’re gonna be okay, pumpkin.” He pressed a kiss on your temple. “You’re a Pines for Christ's sake, and we survive anything, don’t we?” You pull away from the hug, wiping off your tears with your sleeve. “Remember that I’ll always be there for you, okay? No matter the distance.” His hand cusps your cheek and on instinct, you lean your hand into his palm. “Mhm,” You sniffle, your hands wrapping around his finger. “And hey, if you don’t like it there, you can fake being sick and I’ll pick you up, alright pumpkin?” The idea of faking an illness just so you could be back in the comforts of your home made the anxiety of going to school die down a bit. You had an escape plan! “When I get back from school can we rob people of their money?” A surprised laugh bellowed out of Stan. “Sure, pumpkin. You can make me a sea monkey and make them believe we actually caught it, how’s that sound?” You nodded your head with a smile. And with that, he drove you to school. When he reached the school, saying goodbye to you tugged at his heartstrings. He couldn’t bear to see you go. With a tearful hug and a kiss on the head, you were off. Stan cried on the way home. The whole day, he was so distressed he didn't even bother to open the shack. When he picked you up from school, he asked you about your day. "I don't like school."

ꨄ︎ Stan could never say no to you, it was practically impossible to muster out the word. So when you asked to stay home from school because you weren’t feeling well, he said yes with no hesitation. You want this doll you saw at the mall, of course! Everything you wanted, you’d get. And did it hurt Stan’s pocket from time to time, but after getting over the initial shock of how much he spent on you, your reaction to getting what you wanted was enough for Stan to look past that. 

ꨄ︎ Summerween was creeping and soon the houses were decorated with skeletons and zombies, melon lanterns littered the town at night and kids were rushing to the nearest costume store to snag a costume of their own. Originally, Stan spent his Summerween scaring children off one by one with a multitude of tricks up his sleeve. But ever since you implemented yourself in his life, he hasn’t done that tradition in over 8 years. Instead, he’d dress up with you. You wanted to be Boo from Monsters Inc? Then he’d be Sully to match with you. Beauty from Beauty and the Beast? Then he’ll be Beast. Photos of each costume were plastered on the billboard in his room. His favorite costume was when you were a baby, he dressed you up as Rapunzel and he was the tower. The compliments he received from that costume were insane. It was enough to fuel him into entering a costume competition and shockingly enough, he won! 

ꨄ︎ Snowball fights in the winter is an activity you and Stan can never pass up on. You could be innocently building a tiny little snowman when you feel a snowball hit your back and slide down your jacket. Looking behind you, you could see Stan whistling to himself as he pretended to occupy himself with the snow. When he clumped the snow together, he shot a glance over your way. What he wasn’t expecting was to see you gone from your spot. His stomach drops, were you snatched by some rando in the woods when he wasn’t looking? Dropping his snowball he called out your name. Each time you didn’t respond, his heart sank more and more. “Pumpkin? Answer me plea—“ A snowball pelted right into his face. Sputtering out in disbelief, he wiped his hand down his face. A burst of laughter came from you and you happily clapped your hands together. “Did I get you?” Stan rolls his eyes playfully and before you knew it, a snowball was being shot towards you. You tried running away but you were too slow. The snowball hit you straight on the back causing you to fall face first on snow. Popping your head up, you laugh loudly. “Dad, that’s so unfair.” He scooped you up, wiping the snow off your face with his mitten. “Get used to it, I play unfair, pumpkin.” 

ꨄ︎ When Soos came along, it was a playdate every day at the Mystery Shack. He was just ten and you were eight, not too far apart in age, you and him got along fairly well. When Stan would be wasting his time away on the TV, he’d get a gut feeling something was amiss. All the time. And whenever he’d go looking for you and Soos, he would either find you and Soos taking apart some part of the house or making a mess of things. However, there would be times when he benefited from the mess. It was crazy enough that he was able to convince people that a monster had come into his house and wrecked the entire place. That gained him a few hundred bucks while it lasted.

ꨄ︎ Soon enough, you were old enough to work alongside Stan and help him with tourists. Back then, you used to create the attraction by gluing taxidermy animals together. Now, you do both! You lead people around, show them a few tourist attractions, scam them with their money, and get away with it. On the side, you work together with Soos to create new abominations that keep more people coming into the shack. After a while, Wendy tagged along and the three of you ruled the shack, kinda. On slow days, you and Wendy chilled on the roof, drinking pit colas and sharing stories with each other. Sometimes Soos would join, but most of the time he’d be too busy fixing something that broke. “Dude,” Wendy began, closing the magazine she was reading and setting it down on the table. “I sometimes like, completely forget that you're Stan’s daughter. How’s that for you?” She asked, resting her chin on her palms. “Eh,” You swiped the mop you had in hand back and forth. “It’s not so bad.” You said with a shrug. “It’s actually pretty fun.” Leaning on the mop, a memory from early childhood sparked in your memory. “You know, back when I was like, what? one through three? Dad had me as a tourist attraction.” You say with a fond smile. “What! No way.” Wendy chuckled out. “What did he disguise you as?” You thought for a moment, tapping a finger on your chin. “I think a lamb?” Another laugh leaves Wendy. “No way, that’s actually so cute.” 

ꨄ︎ “Dad, do you ever wonder how different life would be if Mom never came over here to give me to you?” Stan, without hesitation, replies, “Yeah. Sometimes I do.” Scratching his back, he locked the front door of the shack. You and Stan were currently closing up the shack for the night. “Like, what do you think about?” You ask, closing the blinds. “How calmer my life would be.” You scoff, shoving him. “Be serious, Dad!” You huffed out, walking over to the kitchen with him following. “You want me to be honest?” He plops himself on the couch that has his buttcheeks indented in them. “Yeah, duh. That’s why I’m asking.” You open the fridge and grab a pit cola. “Honestly, you were a gift in disguise.” He says. “Without you, I don’t know where I’d be.” He scratches his chin, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’d most likely be drinking myself to sleep.” You frowned. “You don’t mean that, do you?” Stan looks off to the side, he’s never admitted that to you before, or to anyone. “That’s what I used to do before I met you, sweet pea.” Walking over to Stan, you wrap your arms around him. “Well, I’m glad you opened the door that day.” You hold him closer. “Me too, Pumpkin, me too.”

i absolutely love writing dad fics for stan and ford ohmg

[wannabehockeygf]

Melting - Clayton Keller

"So you'll smile at everything I say, You got some soft lips and some pearly whites, I wanna touch them in the dead of night, Your smile ignites just like a candlelight, Then somehow, I know everything's alright."

*** request: i smushed the two requests I got today together, so it's #2 "Five more minutes?" plus #11 "You fell asleep on me, I didn't want to wake you up." another prompt requested was smutty, which I am happy to do, but you should probably re-request. summary: a mediocre first date turns into something more intimate word count: 4.1k pairing: clayton keller x fem!reader warnings: none just teeth rotting fluff! notes: - I love my man clayton more than anyone else. i will always be happy to do any requests for him. - saw one of my grades grade drop from 92 to 76 today so I needed a full reset and I guess that reset was writing fluff! - based in Arizona because I'm still in denial

italics represent flashback

gif creds: keller-clayton i gave up putting gifs in my fics a while ago but LOOK AT HIM I JUST WANNA KISS HIS FACE ALL OVER. *** The last thing you remember was standing on that tenth hole of the mini-golf course, wondering if it was socially acceptable to call an Uber in the middle of a first date. Mini-golfing had felt more like a middle-school field trip than an actual adult date. And if your performance had been any indication, you weren’t exactly “fun at parties” material. By hole six, you were already praying for the windmill to sweep you off your feet and put you out of your misery.

You weren’t trying to be dramatic, but let’s be honest—you sucked. Badly. You didn’t just miss the hole; you missed the general direction. The ball took off like it had a personal vendetta against you, disappearing into the bushes half the time. By the tenth hole, you were seriously considering feigning a headache, or better yet, an existential crisis, to bail early. Maybe there was a black hole you could throw yourself into.

That’s when Clayton saved you.

Well, saved might’ve been a strong word. He asked, “Do you wanna ditch this whole thing and go back to my place?”

Cue all your alarms going off at once. Yeah, you knew exactly what that meant. First date, cozy house, late-night drinks—he wasn’t subtle. You were supposed to say no, laugh it off, maybe suggest a different venue.

Instead, you heard yourself agree.

You thought you’d stay for a bit, make a polite exit before things got weird. But then, you ended up at his house—a stupidly nice one, complete with a pool, basketball court, and palm trees that looked straight out of a vacation ad. Like, was this guy a finance bro? Or did he have one of those mysterious jobs where he’s always "working on something big?" Either way, it felt excessive.

Then came the wine. Hesitation turned into a sip, which turned into three glasses, and somewhere between one of his stories about traveling to Europe and your sarcastic commentary, you ended up on his lap, his hands–

“Am I the asshole for-”

Immediately, the noise cuts out, and you hear a soft curse coming from… under you? “Shit!” Clayton hisses, taking a deep breath which you feel completely. 

You stir, blinking against the sunlight spilling in through unfamiliar curtains. For a second, you can’t quite place where you are. Your brain is doing that sluggish, half-awake thing where it refuses to connect dots. All you know is that you’re warm, too warm, and there’s something solid beneath you.

Wait, why is your pillow breathing?

Your eyes snap open fully, and sure enough, there’s Clayton—underneath you. You’re sprawled across his chest like some kind of human blanket, legs tangled with his, your face smushed into the crook of his neck. Casual. Totally normal. Just your typical Saturday morning human pretzel situation.

Oh god.

Panic prickles up your spine, and you stay perfectly still, trying to figure out how you got here. You remember the mini-golf—barely—and the way you’d been one sad swing away from asking if he had a time machine to rewind you out of the entire evening. Then there was his house, the wine, his stupidly perfect jawline. And… oh right, that situation.

Your mind goes from zero to a hundred in seconds, racing to catch up with reality. You’re on top of him. Like, full-body contact, face-in-his-neck, can-feel-his-breath-on-your-skin kind of on top of him. Oh god, what the hell happened last night? Did you…? No. No, you remember now. Mostly. You didn’t sleep with him. Right?

You chance a glance at his phone screen out of the corner of your eye, and yup—he’s casually scrolling through TikTok like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like you're not literally draped across him like some kind of half-conscious sloth. The soft, muffled sound of a Reddit story video plays from his phone, but it's drowned out by the thunderous beat of your pulse in your ears. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath you, steady, calm, like you didn’t just wake up using him as a human mattress.

How long have you been like this? How long has he been awake? He’s obviously been up long enough to decide that reaching for his phone was preferable to trying to extricate himself from your limpet-like hold. You mentally groan. So, what now? Do you play it off? Pretend to still be asleep until he leaves? Just roll off him dramatically and flee the house?

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to vanish into thin air, but no such luck. You're still here, still on top of him, still melting into the soft heat of his skin.

How the hell did this happen?

And then, like a bad movie montage, it all comes flooding back. He’d pulled you onto his lap, his hands steady on your hips as if they’d always been there. The warmth of his touch had sent shivers down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was the wine or something else entirely making your head spin. You could still feel the smooth drag of his palm as it slipped under your shirt, fingers teasing along the curve of your back. Your heart had been racing so fast you were pretty sure he could hear it.

“You’re—uh—comfortable?” you’d asked, your voice coming out breathier than you’d intended.

Clayton had chuckled, that low, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip in ways you weren’t proud of. “Very.” And then, without another word, his lips were on yours, soft but insistent, like he was waiting for you to tell him no.

But you hadn’t. At least, not at first.

Instead, you'd leaned into him, your hands slipping into his hair, tangling in the soft strands as the kiss deepened. He tasted like wine and something sweeter, something that made your brain go a little fuzzy around the edges. You could feel the heat building between you, the way his fingers dug into your hips just a little harder, pulling you against him until you were practically straddling him.

For a moment, it had felt like this was exactly where you were supposed to be—right here, in his lap, his mouth on yours, and your body pressing into his like it was the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. But then—then something in your brain had clicked back on, the fog lifting just enough for you to realize what was happening.

Your heart had stuttered. You’re definitely not in the right headspace for this

You’d pulled back, breathing hard, your forehead resting against his. “I—um—maybe we should…” You hadn’t known how to finish the sentence, and your words had tumbled out in a mess of half-started thoughts and awkward pauses. Clayton had stilled, his hands dropping from your waist instantly, his eyes searching yours with something like understanding.

“Yeah, of course,” he’d said, his voice soft, and you could tell he wasn’t mad, wasn’t pushing. He just…stopped.

And that’s where the details get a little blurry. You must have fallen asleep after that, the wine and the tension finally catching up to you.

And now, here you are, waking up on top of him like some kind of oversized cat, his phone buzzing softly beneath your ear as he doom scrolls some more.

You shift, just slightly, testing the waters. His hand, the one not holding his phone, brushes absently against your back in response. A lazy, absent-minded gesture, like he’s forgotten you’re there but also somehow hasn’t.

Is this... normal for him? Just scrolling through TikTok with a girl sprawled across him like he’s some sort of makeshift mattress? Maybe this is his thing. Maybe you’ve entered some weird new level of dating etiquette where waking up on top of your date is a normal, acceptable thing that people do.

You finally muster up the courage to move, rolling onto your side—slowly, carefully, like you’re disarming a bomb. Clayton’s arm, previously draped across your back, falls away, and you find yourself sitting next to him instead of on top of him. Progress.

He glances over, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since you’ve woken up. There’s no awkwardness, no tension, just a soft smile that somehow makes you want to crawl back into the crook of his neck and stay there forever.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice still rough from sleep, and you can feel it in your bones.

Oh god, you think. You are so screwed.

“Hey,” you mumble back, trying to sound casual but knowing full well your voice betrays you. Your throat is dry, and you really, really wish you could just dissolve into the couch.

Clayton lifts his phone. “You fell asleep pretty quick after the wine,” he says, like he’s giving you a status report. “Didn’t want to move.”

Oh no, that's fine, I love waking up like a koala in a tree, clung to a guy I barely know. It’s totally my thing, you think, but what comes out is a garbled, “Thanks. Uh, yeah. Long day.”

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck and spreading to your cheeks. The mini-golf disaster, the wine, the whole making-out-on-his-lap thing—it all feels like some weird fever dream. But here you are, awake, on his couch, and somehow still alive.

“Well,” he says, stretching slightly and glancing at the time on his phone, “if you want coffee or breakfast or anything… no rush.” There’s something about the way he says it, all nonchalant, that makes you think he’s done this before. You wish you could bottle up that confidence and chug it like an espresso shot. But then he continues, “Or… you could come back here?”

You stare at him for a beat, trying to process what just came out of his mouth. Come back here? Like, back to the human pretzel situation you’d just barely escaped from? There’s no way he’s serious. But when you look at him, his face is soft, his eyes sleepy in a way that makes your heart do an embarrassing little flip.

You blink, your brain scrambling for a response. You could say no. You could grab your things and make a polite-but-hasty exit, chalking this whole thing up to “well, that happened.” But then he shifts slightly, his hand still resting casually on the couch, so close to yours that the warmth of his skin is almost tangible. His voice is soft when he speaks again, barely above a murmur.

“Five more minutes?”

Oh. Oh, that’s unfair. He’s not playing fair. You can practically feel your resolve slipping through your fingers like sand. Five minutes? What kind of heartless person says no to that?

You glance down at his hand, at the way his fingers twitch just slightly like he's waiting for you to move. It’s such a simple invitation, but for some reason, it feels like the world’s biggest decision. Your internal monologue is in full gear, screaming at you to think this through, but your body betrays you almost immediately. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re leaning back into him, your head finding its way to the curve of his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You can feel his breath catch just a little as you settle against him, and for a second, the room feels heavier, like the air itself is thicker. His arm instinctively comes around you, gentle but steady, pulling you just a fraction closer. His warmth seeps into your skin, and you’re not sure if it’s the leftover wine fuzzing your thoughts or the fact that you’ve somehow wound up here, in this moment, but for once, your brain doesn’t race to catch up. It just… stops.

His heartbeat is slow, steady, beneath your ear, and you feel like you’re floating in this weird bubble of peace, suspended between the moment you just left and the one you’re trying to make sense of now. His hand rests lightly on your back, his thumb absentmindedly tracing a soft pattern that sends tiny sparks up your spine. The room is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of the sheets as he shifts to get more comfortable.

You can feel the weight of his chin resting against the top of your head, and it’s such a small thing, such a casual, barely-there gesture, but it feels like everything. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, the softness of the moment. This isn’t what you expected—hell, none of this is what you expected—but here you are, breathing him in, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep. You can feel the vibrations of it in your bones, deep and gentle, as if he’s scared of breaking the stillness.

You nod, but it’s not enough, not when your face is pressed into his shirt. “Yeah,” you manage to mumble, your voice muffled by the fabric. “I’m okay.”

More than okay, actually.

He hums softly in response, the sound a low rumble that makes you feel like you could stay like this forever. And maybe that’s what scares you. How easy this is. How comfortable it feels to be wrapped up in him like this, even after the absolute chaos of the night before. You can’t remember the last time you felt this… safe.

There’s a part of you that wants to analyze every little detail—wants to pick apart why you’re so comfortable in his arms, why you’re not sprinting for the door, why your heart is doing this stupid fluttery thing every time he shifts even the slightest bit. But instead, you let yourself just be.

For once, your brain doesn’t go into overdrive. For once, it doesn’t matter what happens next, or what the mini-golf fiasco meant, or whether you’ll see him again after this. All that matters is the quiet, the warmth of his chest under your cheek, and the way his fingers trail lazy circles on your back.

You’ve only known him for, what, a handful of hours? Yet somehow, this moment feels like the calmest you’ve been in a long time.

His phone buzzes again, and you feel him shift slightly beneath you, but he doesn’t check it. Instead, he tightens his hold on you just a bit, his arm pulling you closer until you’re tucked into him so securely that it’s almost hard to tell where you end and he begins. But suddenly, it starts to feel slightly suffocating, and you can’t help but try to ease the tension, even if it’s in a weird way. “I’m guessing you don’t go on dates often?” you try to joke, but it sounds largely breathy.

Clayton stiffens for a moment, like he’s been caught off guard by your question. You can feel it in the way his chest stops its steady rhythm under your cheek. The hand that had been tracing lazy circles on your back pauses mid-motion. For a split second, the comfortable cocoon of warmth and quiet you’d both been wrapped in feels like it’s stretched a little too thin, like the moment might crack under the weight of the question.

Then, he lets out this weird, choked laugh. It’s not exactly a hearty chuckle, more like the sound someone makes when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar and aren’t sure how to explain themselves. You shift, lifting your head slightly to look at him, and when you do, you’re met with a sight that almost makes you snort. Clayton—mister “I-have-a-stupidly-nice-house-and-know-exactly-what-to-do-with-my-hands-like-it’s-no-big-deal”—is blushing.

Blushing.

His cheeks are a shade of pink that would’ve been adorable under any other circumstance. But seeing him like this? The guy who confidently pulled you onto his lap last night and didn’t even blink? Yeah, it’s throwing you off, and the tiny, embarrassed laugh that bubbles out of you isn’t helping.

“I—uh—what?” He stammers, shifting awkwardly beneath you. His arm, the one that had been holding you so comfortably, suddenly feels unsure of itself, hovering like he’s debating whether to pull you closer or shove a pillow between you to create some much-needed distance.

You blink up at him, trying to hide your amusement. “The date. I mean… you don’t seem like the ‘mini-golf-and-wine’ type.”

His blush deepens, and he clears his throat, his gaze darting away from yours like he’s desperately searching for an escape route. “Yeah, well, uh… I don’t really do this often.”

You peek up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Not often, or not at all?"

He chuckles nervously, and it's not that smooth, rumbly laugh from last night. It's more like an awkward, I’m-really-not-used-to-this kind of sound. “Not at all?” he says, but it comes out like a question. His face flushes just a little, and you can’t help but smile at the fact that, despite owning a house straight out of a Malibu dream, he's clearly not as suave as he seemed.

“Wait, seriously?” You shift slightly, trying to get a better look at him, but this only makes him more flustered. His hand, which had been resting casually on your back, retreats to his side like it’s suddenly self-conscious. “But you have this”—you gesture vaguely at his ridiculous house, the pool you vaguely remember seeing through his sliding glass doors—"and you don’t date?"

Clayton looks like he wants to sink into the couch and disappear. He rubs his face with his free hand, groaning softly. “Yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense.” He hesitates, glancing at you before continuing, “I’m just… busy, I guess. Work and stuff.”

“Oh, work and stuff, how mysterious,” you tease, unable to resist poking fun at the vague excuse. “You make it sound like you’re Batman or something. Got a secret crime-fighting career on the side?”

His laugh this time is real, shaking off some of the tension. “If only. I mean, I could rock a cape…”

You grin, glad to see him relax, even just a little. “So, what’s the deal then? You have this nice house, you’ve clearly got some kind of job that lets you travel to Europe, and yet… no time to date?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you some kind of super-busy finance bro who’s married to the grind?”

Clayton cringes, but there’s a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “No, no finance bro stuff. Just… um… sports?”

You stare at him, blinking slowly as the realization hits. "Wait… sports?" Your voice comes out more confused than you intended, and it lingers in the air between the two of you. Clayton shifts, his expression growing a little more sheepish, like he’s just admitted to something far more embarrassing. You raise an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

"Yeah," he finally mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work out the tension. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, but, uh… hockey. NHL, actually.”

You blink again, processing the words as they hang there. Hockey. NHL. Him.

“Wait, like… you’re a professional hockey player?" you ask, almost breathless. Your heart stumbles for a moment, and you try not to make a big deal out of it, but the surprise is clear in your voice. He nods, awkwardly.

"Yeah, but it’s not like I go around telling people that." He glances at you, gauging your reaction. His cheeks turn back to a faint pink, and suddenly, his earlier confidence from last night seems to vanish.

You squint at him, tilting your head. "Wait, so... you just let me ramble about mini-golf without dropping that bomb? Was this like a test or something?"

His eyes widen, and he waves his hands defensively, nearly knocking over the throw pillow. “No, no! It wasn’t a test!” His voice is frantic, trying to backpedal from your accusation. “I swear! I didn’t think it was relevant… I just—” He stops, rubbing his temples like he’s regretting this entire conversation. “It’s been a while, okay? I’m just… I’m just glad to have someone warm here for once that isn’t my dog.”

That soft confession hits you harder than you expected. The vulnerability in his words sinks into the quiet between you, and you find yourself melting into the moment. You smile softly, shifting in his arms to look up at him fully. There’s a warmth blooming in your chest, and it has nothing to do with the cozy blanket wrapped around you.

A professional hockey player? You’d barely noticed his muscles last night, all lean and casual under his t-shirt, too distracted by the chaos of mini-golf and his awkwardly charming attempts at flirting–better than your other Hinge dates. Now, though, the pieces are falling into place—his house, the sleek car, the fact that he was clearly trying so hard to make a good impression despite his obvious nerves. He wasn’t trying to hide his life from you… he was just so genuinely out of practice that he didn’t know how to navigate it.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, your forehead still resting lightly against his shoulder as you tilt your head up. His face is flushed, and he’s staring down at you like he’s expecting you to bolt at any second.

You let out a breath, your fingers absently tracing the hem of his shirt where it’s bunched around your waist. “You really should’ve led with that, you know,” you tease, your voice light as you try to keep things from getting too serious. “Might’ve saved us both a lot of confusion.”

Clayton groans, burying his face in his hands for a second before dropping them back to his sides in defeat. “Yeah, well… I didn’t want to, like, make it weird,” he mutters, his blush creeping back up his neck. “I just—god, I’m really bad at this, huh?”

You can’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Nah, you’re not that bad,” you reply, your voice gentle. “Just… out of practice.”

The silence that follows is easy, the weight of his chin resting on top of your head once more as you both settle into the moment. His arm eventually returns to its place around you, his fingers grazing your back in slow, lazy circles, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him again. It’s so soft, so quiet. It’s almost too perfect, really, like you’ve stumbled into some kind of dream you didn’t even know you wanted.

He clears his throat after a beat, his voice hesitant. “So… if I’m this bad at dating,” he says slowly, “Does that mean I’m not getting a second one?”

You blink, surprised, and tilt your head up to look at him again. His eyes are soft, full of that quiet vulnerability from before, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest. You weren’t expecting that, weren’t expecting him to be so earnest about wanting to see you again.

You open your mouth to respond, but your brain falters for a second. A second date? After everything last night? After finding out he’s an NHL player, of all things? But then his gaze catches yours, and there’s something in his eyes that makes it hard to say anything but yes.

“Well,” you say slowly, your lips curving into a teasing smile, “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious.

“On whether or not our next date involves fewer golf clubs and more dogs.”

His face lights up, a real, boyish grin spreading across his features, and he lets out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders melting away. “Yeah, I can definitely do that,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up your back to rest just between your shoulder blades. He pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “You’ll have to meet him first, though. He’s got final approval.”

You chuckle softly, the sound muffled against his chest. “Well, let’s hope I make a good impression, then.”

There’s another pause, and you feel his breath catch just a little as he presses his chin against the crown of your head again. “You’ve already made one,” he says quietly, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

Your heart skips, your chest tightening in a way that feels both exhilarating and terrifying. There’s a softness here, a tenderness that you didn’t expect, and it’s seeping into the space between you like warm sunlight through a window. You’re not sure what this is yet, not sure where it’s going or what it means, but for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you have to know. You’re just… here, in the moment, wrapped up in him and the warmth of his arms, and that’s enough.

Maybe it’s more than enough.

[potatoqueenpal]

Yall I'm SO SORRY for dipping on you I have no ideas and I'm still fighting to get my avior fic back.

Have filler till I think of more angst

I present to you: Shaw Pack and Mates: Incorrect quotes

Sam, filling out legal paperwork: Were you guys born AMAB or AFAB?

Sweetheart : Bold of you to assume I was born at all.

Baabe: I personally was created in a lab.

Angel: I just straight up spawned.

Sam: We call that a traumatic experience.

Sam, turning to Baabe: Not a "bruh moment".

Sam, turning to Angel: Not "sadge".

Sam, turning to Sweetheart : And DEFINITELY not an "oof LMAO".

Asher: Knock, knock.

Baabe: Who's there?

Asher: Boo!

Baabe: Boo who?

Asher: Why are you crying?

Baabe: I'm not crying.

Asher: Hello notcrying, I'm Asher.

Milo: Angel, you look deep in thought. What’s wrong?

Angel: Did you know you can look at any object and know what it’s like to lick it? Even if you’ve never touched it before?

Milo: I’m never asking you anything ever again.

David: There's nothing worse than people using big words they don't understand.

Milo: I photosynthesize with this.

Sweetheart: I’m this close to falling in love with Milo.

Asher: Your fingertips are touching.

Sweetheart: Exactly.

Asher, spraying a melted cutting board with a tiny water gun: We gotta cool this bitch down. Cool it down.

Sweetheart : I actually just put the cutting board in the oven...

Baabe, visibly confused: Okay, so they decided to put the cutting board in the oven?

Asher, spraying Sweetheart : You FUCKING DUMBASS!

Sweetheart : Dude, I forgot-

Asher: OH MY FUCKING GOD! We're trying to make Chicken Alfredo right now, and you fucking MELT the cutting board in the oven at 400 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT!?

Sam: *Watching in complete confusion while trying to process this whole situation.*

Asher: In your opinion, what is the height of stupidity?

David, turning to Darlin': How tall are you?

Angel: Sam said its my turn with the brain cell.

Asher: Square up.

Sam: And what do we say when someone refuses your offer?

Sweetheart : Suck it, boomer!

Sam: I don't know who "Boomer" is, but no.

Asher: *spits mouthful of blood onto floor* You’ve become far more powerful since we last crossed paths.

Dentist: Please stop, there’s literally a sink right next to you.

Baabe: I think my guardian angel drinks.

David: How did none of you hear what I just said?!

Milo: I've been zoned out for the past two and a half hours.

Asher: I got distracted halfway through.

Darlin': Ignoring you was a conscious decision.

Asher: Consider the fundraising over! Your hero has arrived!

Sam: Uhh… where did you get so much money from, Asher?

Asher: Well, you know, I’m pretty good at numbers. I just crunched them, I stretched them, I analyzed my accounts, I timed the market-

*police sirens start to wail in the background*

Sam: DID YOU ROB A BANK?!

Asher: Oh, come on, Sam, do you really think so little of me? *opens the bag as purple dye explodes on their face*

Sam:

Asher: …it was a credit union.

Angel: Tell them to eat shit, David.

David: Tell them yourself.

Angel: Eat shit, asshole. Fall of your horse.

Milo, gardening: Hey, can you bring me the hoe?

Darlin': Yeah, sure.

*A few minutes later*

Darlin': Here you go.

Milo:

Darlin':

Baabe: Why am I here?

Angel: Guess what I'm about to get!

David: On my nerves.

Sweetheart : That's a nice arguement, Milo Why don't you back it up with a source?

Milo: My source is that I made it the fuck up!

Sam: Aww, what's your cat's name?

Milo: Aggro.

Sam, yelling to Baabe: TRY AGGRO!

Baabe, on the computer: DIDN'T WORK!

Milo:

Sam: What's your favorite number?

Angel: I’m so jetlagged I can’t even regrender my chorf.

*Everyone stares at Angel*

Angel: I don’t even know what I was trying to say.

Angel: I've connected the two dots.

David: You didn't connect shit.

Angel: I've connected them.

And now, wholesome (amd flirty) ship incoreect quotes:

｡･ﾟﾟ･　　･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･　　･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･ﾟﾟ･　　･ﾟﾟ･｡｡･

David : Do you want to explain the text you sent me last night?

Angel: It was autocorrect.

David : Autocorrect wrote "You're so hot. Please step on me."?

Angel: Yes.

Angel: You are the love of my life and I would do anything within reason to make you happy.

David : I would be happy if you ate, stayed hydrated and got a reasonable amount of sleep.

Angel: I said within reason, David . How about I murder that guy?

David : So murder is in reason but proper self care isn't?

Angel: Well, duh. What kind of question is that?

Angel: Hey, wanna take a shower with me?

David : I have a gun on that nightstand beside the bed. If I ever say no to that question, I want you to take it out and shoot me because I’ve obviously gone crazy.

Angel: There are 20 letters in the alphabet, right?

David : Nope, there's 26.

Angel: Ah, I must have forgotten U, R, A, Q, T.

David : Aww, that's cute, but you're still missing one.

Angel: So give me the D.

Angel: Hey, I’m getting in the shower. Wanna help me out?

David : ...Have you never taken a shower before?

David, sweating: Angel, there’s something I need to ask you-

Angel: Finally! You’re proposing!

David: How’d you know?

Angel: David, you’ve dropped the ring five times during dinner.

Angel: I even picked it up once.

David: I want to kiss you.

Angel, not paying attention: What?

David: I said if you die, I wont miss you.

Baabe: I’ve been dropping them the most insanely obvious hints for like a year now. No response.

Asher: Wow. They sound stupid.

Baabe: But they’re not. They’re really smart actually. Just dense.

Asher: Maybe you need to be more obvious? Like, I don’t know… “Hey! I love you!”

Baabe: I guess you’re right. Hey Asher, I love you.

Asher: See! Just say that!

Baabe: Holy fucking shit.

Asher: If that flies over their head then, sorry Baabe, but they're too dumb for you.

Baabe: Asher.

Baabe: You know my motto: carpe diem, carpe noctem, carpe coles.

Asher: Seize the day, seize the night, what’s the last one?

Baabe: Seize the dick.

Asher: We have a problem.

Baabe: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

Baabe: I'm trash.

Asher: As someone who's environmentally conscious, it's my duty to pick you up. Does 7 work for you?

Baabe:

Baabe: You smooth motherfucker.

Baabe: And yes it does.

Asher: Sorry I’m late, I was doing things.

Baabe: Hi, I’m ‘things’.

Asher: Valentine’s day is just a consumerist holiday that holds no real value other than drive people insane buying heart shaped chocolates for their significant others and pos-

Baabe: I wrote you a poem.

Asher, already crying: You did?

Milo: Being gay is a constant battle between "I wish to sit on a window bench with my lover, our legs tangling as we listen to the birds" and "Hey, let's go throw rocks at fascists" and I think that's very sexy of us.

Sweetheart : If the window's open and you time it right, you can do both.

Milo: I fell—

Sweetheart : From heaven?

Milo: No, I literally fell—

Sweetheart : In love with me the moment you saw me?

Milo: MY ARM IS BROKEN!

Sweetheart : Okay, but do you think I'm pretty? Be honest.

Milo: Okay, but what if we went to dinner not as friends this time?

Sweetheart : AS ENEMIES?!

Milo:

Milo walking into the kitchen and seeing all their limes peeled: Sweetheart , I love you but, what the h-e-double FUCK.

Sweetheart , sipping coffee happily: I love you too :)

Sweetheart : I don't know how to tell you this, but... I love you.

Milo: That's great, Sweetheart . Especially considering the fact we've been together for 6 fucking years.

Sweetheart : I’m in love with you.

Milo: We called off the prank war last night at midnight, dork.

Sweetheart : I know.

Milo: Ah. Okay. Um. Cool. Neat. Very cool. Cool. Cool. Coolcoolcool-

Sweetheart: I was going to suggest we do Marilyn Monroe and JFK roleplay, but I’d get way too into it.

Milo: What- how?

Sweetheart: You’d be like “come to bed … Mr. President” and I’d be like, “I need to increase the amount of American military advisors in South Vietnam by a factor of 18.”

Milo: Wait, what's going on? Are we all talking about how hot Sweetheart is? Because Sweetheart is a straight up sexual fox riding a red-hot nuclear bombshell right toward the yowza plaza in the heart of Babe City, Assachusetts, U S A. The last A just stands for more ass.

Sam: The stars are so beautiful...

Darlin': They're just giant balls of gas.

Sam: You know what, if you're just going to ruin this, then-

Darlin': And yet none of them are as huge as my love for you.

Sam: Oh...

Darlin': Wow, Sam, you want to hold my hand before marriage? How awfully lewd of you.

Sam: We literally slept together yesterday.

Darlin': That's NOTHING compared to the lewdness of holding hands.

Sam: I love you.

Darlin', not paying attention: What was that?

Sam: I said I’m selling you to the zOo-

Darlin': Well, Sam and I finally did it!

The rest of the squad: *gasps, shocked expressions, etc.*

Darlin': That's right... We kissed!

Darlin': What are you in the mood for?

Sam: World domination.

Darlin': That's a bit ambitious.

Sam: You are my world.

Darlin': Aww...

Sam:

Darlin':

Sam:

Darlin': OH.

Darlin': I have feelings for you.

Sam: Why? What's wrong with you? Are you sure you're okay?

Waiter: What would you like?

Darlin': Bring a milkshake with two straws.

Sam: *blushes*

Darlin': *puts both straws in their mouth* Watch how fast I can drink this!!

Darlin': You got a date yet Sam?

Sam: No...

Darlin': Well you do now! Get your ass up and hold my hand!

Darlin': Are we fighting or flirting?

Sam: I'm pinning you against a wall with my hand around your neck-

Darlin': Your point?

Darlin': I don't need to go to bed. I'm not tired, I'll be fine.

Sam: But, darling, I'll be so lonely without you. Come curl up in my arms so I can feel whole again.

Darlin': O-oh. Well. Are you trying to seduce me into healthy sleeping patterns??

Sam: Is it working?

Sam: We should get you to a doctor for a check up immediately. What if it happens again, and there isn’t anyone around to help you? What if it’s congenital? Oh my God! Was it me? Did I hurt you?

Darlin': …You realize any other person that made their partner pass out in bed would simply feel really proud of themselves, right?

Sam: Since we're in a relationship now, your clothes are my clothes too. Don't ask me why I have your shirt on, this is our shirt.

Darlin': Fine, but when I come strutting in with your fuzzy socks I don't want to hear shit.

Darlin': Come to dinner tonight. I can’t cook, but I’ll bring plenty of free wine.

Sam: Marry me.

Darlin': This date is boring!

Sam: This isn't a date. I said I was going to the store.

Darlin': Then why did you invite me?

Sam: I didnt, I specifically said "don't come with me," then you said, "fuck you Sam I'll do whatever I want!

(This is long as fuuuuck and took me a good hour, but it was fun)

[sebsbarnes]

love and grief || tangerine

tangerine x f!reader

summary: you knew no matter how often you two spat with the other, said you hated each other, hell, even nearly killed the other, you two were connected in some weird unexplainable manner.

warnings: death, violence, injuries, language

word count: 2.4k+

a/n: i needed to create spade, reader's sidekick, to make this work...he has no dialogue but their relationship is equivalent to tangerine and lemon. NOT RLLY EDITED

tangerine masterlist

his large hands wrapped themselves around your neck slamming you onto the counter. immediately you started losing air, desperately scratching at his fingers attempting to pry them open. small black dots began to cloud your vision as you squirmed underneath him, legs flailing.

"i can't lie love, you look pretty hot with my hands around your neck. too bad we aren't in a bed," he smirked through gritted teeth, the vein pulsating in his neck.

"well...a floor...might work...just...as good," you managed to squeak out, hands still pressed deeply on your neck. attempting to pry his fingers off did no good and with little time left before you passed out you grabbed his elbows, harshly pushing them up causing them to hyperextend. tangerine's grip immediately released as he shouted in agony. you quickly sat up on the counter, reaching over to him and grabbing his neck, slamming him to the ground. tangerine was now in your position just moments ago as you straddled the man while squeezing his neck.

"don't worry babe, i'll try not to give you rug burn," you winked pushing further onto his neck.

"mm charming," he grunted, face turning a deep shade of red.

he tried removing your hands by pulling at your forearms but you weren't budging. you had your hands locked and your feet locked under his thighs. had this been any other circumstance...like on his bedroom floor...you may have enjoyed this view of him but alas this was a circumstance far from that. tangerine was so close to passing out and just in an instance the whole dynamic changed. it was too late to register the sound of the door opening behind you. not a moment later you shrieked in pain pulling back from tangerine's neck to hold your upper arm that was now searing in pain. you looked at your trembling hand that was now coated in blood. taking this opportunity tangerine threw, literally threw, your body to the side smashing into the cabinets. you choked and your brain was frantically worrying about the loss of air and the torn up skin on your arm to even realize tangerine was now brutally fighting ladybug.

the saying goes the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but with ladybug that didn't apply. you loathed him. and although you hated tangerine you hated ladybug more and given the opportunity to fight him with someone as strong as tangerine...fuck yeah you'd take that chance.

ladybug had just slammed tangerine's head causing disorientation and while ladybug's back was to you you stalked over, gripping his scalp and dragging his body to the ground. you assumed the position from earlier, now choking out ladybug.

"y'know it's quite hot seein' ya dominate anotha' man," jested tangerine. surprised by his remark you stared at him with wide eyes but this left you vulnerable and ladybug now took advantage of your distracted state and lifted his leg kneeing you in the spine. your jaw was then met with his fist which made your teeth rattle. you were fuming.

the two of you stood up and you grabbed the center of ladybug's t-shirt and shoved him backwards into tangerine who held his arms back. some assassins had their go-to methods of fighting or torture. you? well you always had a pair of pliers handy. an odd thing perhaps but they were so....versatile. they always illicit some sort of fear and that's exactly what it was doing as you had one hand bringing the pliers to ladybug's teeth and the other gripping his jaw open. he was pleading and begging as you got closer.

"well shit love i didn't know how hardcore you were," tangerine said pulling his face as far as possible from the tool.

"keep coming onto me and i'll rip that tongue out of your pretty mouth," you hissed.

tangerine couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face, "but then how would i be able to taste you darlin'?"

before you could pluck ladybug's teeth out and before you could rip tangerine's tongue out there was a loud commotion from a few cars up. tangerine and you both dropped ladybug (disappointedly since you were looking forward to beating the shithead) and bounded for the source. in your soul you knew something was wrong. immediately your breath quickened and legs fastened. tangerine silently observed you as he walked in tangent. he sensed the anxiety radiating off your body and he could only assume you thought something was wrong with spade. he couldn’t fathom anything besides an injury to spade, the two of you were way too skilled at your job to sustain serious injuries let alone something worse. but he was proven wrong.

the door slid open and tangerine watched as your body skidded. he grabbed underneath your armpits to steady you. it was blood, everywhere. you were rigid. it was your worse nightmare. it was spade dead.

he was propped against the wall in between the seats of the train, a giant gash across his neck. you kneeled beside his body grabbing at the collar of his shirt, "what the fuck spade," you whimpered, "what the fuck happened."

your hands and lips were trembling but you couldn't react more. no, not with tangerine around and not with the other killers on the train. you couldn't show any weakness. to you there was no such thing...at least that's what you kept trying to convince yourself.

"y/n...," tangerine spoke softly he wasn't really sure what to say. what do you even say to someone in a situation like this? the relationship you had with spade is like the relationship he had with lemon. the thought of being in your position made him nauseous, but even knowing you are in this position made him nauseous. the whole field of assassins... or whatever you want to call it...knew the two of you were enemies, pure hatred. but you both knew that the little quips and occasional touches were far from hatred.

"we should keep moving," you sounded robotic.

immediately you stood hiding your face and started walking away, tangerine trailing behind. he hesitantly brought a hand up to you shoulder to comfort you but his fingers merely ghosted your skin as he stopped himself. you kneeled next to spade not even a minute. there was no time to think, no time to mourn, no time to say goodbye. you were trying so hard to act normal but you were far from it. teeth were grinding together, nails digging into your palms, flared nostrils, eyes burning holes into anything you glanced at. he was gone just like that. you kept trying to swallow back the tears. 'not now' is all you could think. but the world felt like it was collapsing. it felt as though the you and the sky were colliding. the stars coming to engulf you in their flames and bury you deep within the earth's surface. rocks and sand crushed your body further and further into the center of the earth until it was complete darkness and the only sign of life was the sound of your heart slowly beating.

unbeknownst to you, while in your grief stricken daydream, tangerine was no longer following behind you. paying his absence no mind you continued to follow the small droplets of blood on the floor. you had convinced yourself it was someone else's blood and not spade's.

the door whizzed open and there stood a man, not just any man, the white death. he was holding a long blade which you desperately tried to ignore the blood on it. his smug demeanor made you want to carve his lips off his face. but you stayed still, waiting for him to say something.

"i figured the briefcase was gone," he boomed fiddling with the blade.

"yeah well fuck the briefcase i couldn't even begin to tell ya where the fuck it was last."

"it's a shame i ran into your brother first. he was just...collateral damage. i wished to find you first but," he tsked, "that didn't happen now did it? seems like you can only blame yourself for his death. it's almost as if you were the one holding the blade, right? if you managed to keep the briefcase safe and secure and arrive in kyoto he would be here with us now, hm?" it was the first time in your life you felt defeated. you had no energy to muster up to fight nor did you want to but that didn't matter as he charged towards you, blade swinging out.

you ducked underneath the blade, grabbing his arm and slinging him against the seats. the knife you had on you was much smaller and it took getting a lot closer to try and attack. when the white death stumbled onto the seat he was leaned over and you took the knife dragging it diagonally across the length of his back. in response he swung his arm at you, the butt of the long knife hit you in the mouth that was now pouring blood. the two of you continued fighting back and forth nonstop for awhile, both blades dancing around each other occasionally marking each other with a new wound. for an old man he sure had a lot of stamina and it was starting to become hard to ignore the bullet wound ladybug had caused to your arm. the white dead punched you in the ear which made a loud ringing noise that was painful to bear, he then took his boot and kicked you in the center of your stomach and you flew to the floor. weakly you managed to crawl to your knees.

"just do it already, just kill me," you laughed in defeat throwing your weapons to the side. you looked crazed, the blood from your mouth covered your teeth and left a stain running down your chin. you had a long gash to your jaw that trailed up towards your temple. you looked far from okay.

"what are you waiting for?' you taunted him, "there's nothing else left for me here so do it you dick. i'm begging. i'm the one that should be dead."

before the white death had the opportunity, the glass from the door behind you shattered and he inhaled sharply before the knife fell to the floor and he grabbed his neck that was now bleeding profusely. you were like a deer in headlights, frozen in place watching as the man before you collapsed to the ground no longer posing a threat. you fell forward onto your hands heaving out a cry.

"please just kill me," you whispered over and over again waiting for the person behind you to end it all. instead you felt your body being rotated around and you came face to face with tangerine. his blue eyes frantically scanning over your face.

on the way towards the commotion lemon called tangerine letting him know he had found ladybug and a young girl and 'dealt with the matter' which is what caused tangerine to sidetrack himself away from you. when he managed to catch up is when he saw the white death towering over your hunched body and before he could attempt to harm you even more tangerine took out his gun and aimed it at the man.

tangerine had heard your pleads to the white death. he saw your shaking frame, the wickedness yet defeat in your tone. you were giving up and in the years of knowing you, tangerine had never witnessed such a sight. he had never seen you raise the white flag in a fight nor even entertain the idea that someone could ever defeat and kill you. this wasn't the fighter he knew, but he knew that seeing your brother dead was the cause of this and he didn't blame you. his chest felt constricted as he rushed to your side in any attempt to mend you.

"hey. hey... hey! focus on me," tangerine said gripping your face slightly shaking your head, "i'm here. you aren't dying today."

"he's gone," you broke, looking into tangerine's eyes which were laced with emotion, "like... really gone."

"i know, love. i'm so fuckin' sorry, i am," tangerine whispered mournfully, cradling your severely injured body.

"please," your voice barely a whisper pleaded as you grabbed the knife you had thrown to the side and gestured it towards tangerine.

tangerine swallowed so hard it hurt, "absolutely not," he said gripping the knife and tossing it back to the side. you let your eyes close, lips trembling as tangerine picked up your frame.

"we're getting off this train, okay?" tangerine declared into your hair.

with the white death gone, his men no longer breathing, the briefcase long gone, and a very battered tangerine and lemon, the three of you essentially crawled out of the bullet train when it made it's final stop in kyoto. you limped onto the platform with a bleeding arm and face and pivoted away from tangerine and lemon who were a few steps ahead of you.

"where are you goin'?" tangerine asked baffled.

"wherever i can," you muttered lazily gesturing towards the stairs.

tangerine ran his tongue across his teeth, rolling up one of his white sleeves, "very funny love."

tangerine sauntered over to you picking you up forcing you to wrap your legs around his torso. you didn't want the help. you didn't want to feel hopeless. you didn't need the twins to sulk with you and take care of you. but you couldn't help but ease into tangerine's arms. you didn't want to admit it but they were comfortable... and familiar. you've been in this position before, legs tangled around his body, his strong arms gripping your frame. less clothes were involved those times and lips were feverishly kissing the other. but you liked this as much as it pained you to admit, it was nice being vulnerable in his arms. you knew no matter how often you two spat with the other, said you hated each other, hell, even nearly killed the other, you two were connected in some weird unexplainable manner.

so, you let him. you let tangerine carry you through the station, into an awaiting car. he'd lean your head onto his shoulder and play absentmindedly with your fingers. he hated hospitals but he wanted to get you the best medical attention. he sat by your side as you were cleaned and stitched up and then he would take you back to his house. few words spoken. he would make you tea and bring you clothes, the bed sheets and covers pulled back as you lay down and tucked you in. he'd let you cry into his arms and grieve your brother and he would be there each day moving forward.

[leilani-lily]

~Oh Deer~ (Chapter 1)

... So this idea for an Alastor x reader (kinda?) story popped in my brain, and has refused to leave me no matter how hard I try.

Have I written fanfiction recently? Hell no.

Do I even know how to write for an AroAce character? No but I'm gonna do my damndest to represent him properly (and also relying on outer sources so I'm not offending anyone).

Do I feel like a complete fool for being sucked back into the fanfiction world and re-entering with a freakin Hazbin Hotel fic? ABSOOOO-FREAKIN-LUTELY.

But here we are. The writing gods have spoken. And they have declared that I write this story out so my poor brain can focus on other things like work.

Figured I'd share so it's just not on my computer all lonely. Will be a slow burn so fair warning. Let's be real, the deer boi needs love. But not overly romantic love. Just, someone he ends up really caring about and becoming his favourite.

SYNOPSIS: AroAce! Alastor x Chef!Singer! Reader. The hotel is looking to hire a chef to prepare meals for the staff/guests. Somehow you're hired and you begin your new life. And somehow end up becoming close to a certain Radio Demon. Word Count: 1.8 K

Chapter 1 under the cut. Enjoy I guess? ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ok, deep breaths y/n. Remember to smile.

You felt your lips curl up into a strained grin as if to fight off the nerves in your chest, your grip tightening on the flyer in your fist. This could go either two ways. One, you get the job and are able to live a life of somewhat normality. Or two, you get hung from the tippy top of the building by your own intestines. With your legs chopped off. And one of your arms sticking out of your ass.

Gotta love Hell and it’s creative subjects.

You shake your head out of those terrible thoughts, surely it wouldn’t be that bad?? When you saw the original broadcast on the 666 News, you couldn’t stop thinking how nice the Princess of Hell actually was. And building an entire hotel to help her subjects reform into something better was, perhaps a little optimistic in your opinion, but it made you admire her gumption and her love for her subjects.

So later when you found the flyer in search of a chef at the very same establishment the princess was hoping to fill… well, it somehow managed to get you all the way here. Standing at the doorsteps of the very lonely looking hotel on the hill. 

You had to admit it wasn’t the look you had imagined, but hey, this was Hell. You had seen worse. And everyone has to start somewhere. Including yourself, arm still poised ready to knock yet not yet making the motion.

You felt so stupid, you had been standing here for almost 10 minutes now just trying to get the courage to enter the damn building. You sigh to yourself and shake out the jitters. Alright, let’s just do this. Once again, you smile, puff out your chest and raise your arm high in the air, ready to strike with a newfound courage.

“Well folks, looks like the little lady is finally ready to take the leap! Will she follow through with her actions? Or will she choke and back out of the fight? Let’s tune in and find out~”

You felt your heart nearly leap out of your chest as you whip your head around to look behind you. A tall demon clad in red and ruby eyes stood behind you, a wickedly wide grin filling his face as he points what appears to be a microphone in your direction. You stare at it dumbly, then make eye contact with him again. He remains poised, half lidded eyes seeming to hold a sparkle of impish joy. His eyes flicker from you, to your raised arm, and back to you. After a embarrassingly long time of connecting the dots, you finally extend your arm closer to the door, never breaking focus on the demon behind you (you can't help but notice he raises his microphone even closer to you), and give the door a good solid knock.

“AND SHE’S DONE IT FOLKS, what a display!!” He pulls the microphone back to himself, as you continue to stare dumbfounded “The form, the elegance, it could almost make a grown Imp cry. Let's give her a hand people.” He begins to clap as a roar of applause plays from… somewhere.

You couldn’t tell if this guy was being sarcastic or genuine, but the whole absurdity of it all, plus the bundle of nerves you were feeling earlier, seemed to bubble up inside of you and you couldn't help a little snort escape. The red demon’s grin widened as he ceases his clapping, stepping closer to you as you continue to giggle.

“Ahhh now isn’t that better. A much nicer smile than the one you were faking earlier. Besides, there’s no need to be so shy my dear. This hotel is always happy to accept wayward demons looking for reformation!”

Upon hearing his words, you turn to face him and put your hands up “Oh nono, I’m not here to-”

“Ohoho~! and what’s this you have here?” Before you can finish your sentence, the tall demon ripped the flyer out of your hand and inspected it quickly, before turning back to you. His half-lidded gaze was now round with surprise, his grin becoming even wider (which you didn’t even think was possible).

“So THAT explains the nerves from before! And here I was just thinking you were a timid little thing. But a business woman! Now that I can admire.” He smiles at you almost impressed and leans in closer, your noses almost touching.

“Tell me my dear, can you make a good jambalaya? Or perhaps a hearty gumbo with cornbread on the side~?”

You were so flustered with the speed of everything happening (plus the close proximity of this demon you had just met certainly didn’t help). All you could manage was a jumbled “Uhh, well yes I-!”

“WONDERFULLLL~!" He straightens up again and you sigh with relief. “I’ll be sure to test you on such skills. But for now we should-”

The front doors of the hotel suddenly burst open and a short gray female stands before you, with long silvery hair and an eyepatch. She looks at you for a moment, before turning her gaze at the red demon and giving him a scowl.

“Alastor, what the HELL took you so long, you should’ve been back ages ago. And quit creeping out new potential clients.” Her gaze adverts back to you, expression softening ever so slightly, “Seriously, if he’s bothering you-” “Oh Vaggie my dear, no need to be so hostile. I was simply going over business with our newest chef!” he brings his long fingers up behind your shoulder and pulls you in close against his chest, making you yelp a moment before regaining composure. You could sense this so-called 'Vaggie' demon tense, eyes flickering between the two of you. You felt as if your brain was sputtering to catch up with the current conversation (he WORKS here??!)  before finally realizing what he had just called you. You sneak a look at him, and he gives you a quick wink before focusing back on the female before him. 

“Now be a doll and have Nifty tidy up one of the rooms, preferably one of a reasonable size and close to the kitchen. And call upon Charlie as well, she’ll DEFINITELY want to meet our newest addition!”

The female in front of you shot a glare at Alastor (you quickly noted these two did not seem to get along), but then flicked her gaze back at you. After a moment, she sighed and turned back into the building as she followed the male demon’s orders. You couldn’t help but notice how Alastor’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly as a chuckle escaped his lips, static humming ever so louder in amusement. He himself began to walk into the hotel, guiding you along with him.

"Now then. We’ll have to introduce you to everyone, as well as get you to fill in the proper paperwork, give you a proper tour of the place and-!”

“Wait wait,” you stop walking, causing him to halt. You notice a slight twitch in his eye and his hand squeezes you for a moment. He doesn’t like to be interrupted, duly noted. You take a breath.

“Sorry, uh for interrupting” That seemed to please him. “But does this mean… I got the job?? You don’t need a resume or a test or…?”

Alastor let out a guffaw of amusement “Why of course my dear! As long as you remain true to your word of being able to cook a good New Orleans dish, that’s all the proof I’ll need! There hasn’t been many a demon coming here interested in the job, so I say your timing couldn’t be more perfect!”

Well that was the easiest damn interview you’ve ever done. You felt yourself exhale a sigh of relief as you smile up to the tall demon. 

“Wow, that’s… that’s amazing, thank you so much.” He gave you a half lidded smirk, clearly enjoying being praised “So… does this make you my boss, Mr…?” 

You heard the sound of a record screech as his eyes widened in surprise. Hand finally leaving your shoulder and placing it on his own chest he began to laugh heartilly, a laugh track playing in the background. You stood there confused for a moment before he finally responded.

“Ohhh my goodness me, my mother would be rolling in her grave if she ever heard about this. How rude of me to be so forward without properly introducing myself!” One minute he was standing right beside you, and then the next he had sunken like a shadow into the floor, only to appear in front of you a few steps ahead. With grace and suave you didn’t realize he possessed, he gave a small hand flourish before bowing in front of you.

“I am Alastor, also known as the Radio Demon. I happen to be the Hotel’s Facility Manager, but you’ll find Miss Morningstar is the real ringleader around here,” You notice the corner of his lip twitch at that last remark, but you pay no mind to it. “If you ever have any questions or concerns, do not hesitate to reach out to me.” You smile and dip yourself in your own little curtsy as he straightens up.

“My name is y/n, and I’ll be sure to do my best to serve you and this hotel, sir.” Alastor seemed to hum with approval as he looks down at you. “I guess I just have one more question for you, if that’s alright.” 

“Why of course dear y/n, whatever would it be?”

“Well, I uh…” You feel yourself becoming flustered at the question, and the radio demon seemed to notice. Cocking a head to the side, he takes a step forward, opening his arms into a friendly gesture.

“Come now dearest, you can ask me anything! If we’re going to be working together, we have to be honest with each other~” You look up at him and sigh, knowing he was right. With a gulp you straighten your back and wear a serious expression.

“How long did you see me standing by the door?” 

Alastors face didn’t waver, it was hard to tell what was going on in his mind. Then his smile grew into what looked like an amused, smug expression before answering.

“The whole time.”

You groaned and felt your head slap against your hand, making Alastor burst into laughter yet again at your expense. He was there watching the entire time?? Satan’s Ass you felt like such an idiot. Was he waiting for you to move so he could get in the building?? The more you thought about it the more you wanted to sink into the floor and die, for a 2nd time. The radio demon wiped a stray tear from his eye.

“Ohhhh y/n, what a riot you are. I can already tell that this is going to be fun~”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

First chapter hoorayyy ♡〜٩( ˃▿˂ )۶〜♡ Not sure how often I'll be updating, hopefully soon as I'm currently inspired. Thanks for reading thus far!FIRST (You're here!) PREVIOUS (Doesn't exist ( • ᴗ - ) ✧) NEXT