#I have to work on sonnets for school and I hate sonnets | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

majorblinks · 2 years

Text

for all the right reasons ((g)i-dle miyeon)

(smut, former teacher/student, public sex, facefucking, breeding kink, brief mention of blood, age gap [both consenting adults though obviously], fluff? lmfao there are feelings involved, 12k words)

Oh, it’s probably morally reprehensible, or whatever. She’s too young. She’s your student - or she was, once, and that should be enough for you to never, ever lay a hand on her, for you to file away those Bambi eyes and all that blonde hair and every soft, delicate curve of her body in a folder labeled one-way ticket to hell - that’s what it should be, but-

“You want me,” Miyeon says, the first day you two ever start. She’s smiling like the princess everyone thinks she is. “I think you’re gonna, like, die if you don’t touch me.”

She’s evil for saying it, but you’re evil, too, because she just happens to be right.

It’s a fluke, or something of the sort. Fate hates you, or some other bullshit. You’re in a bar on a weekday, and you’re not looking for company - just a little reprieve. You’re a high school language teacher and you write, sometimes. You’re here for some inspiration.

It doesn’t take long at all for you to find it: twenty minutes, thirty. You’re sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and like something choreographed from a movie scene, she walks right in.

You don’t realize who she is at first, obviously. You hear the footfalls of heels, see the swing of long hair - you’re not about to dwell on it, but she sits down right next to you, and - yep, you’re dwelling. You hear the sweet voice as she talks to the bartender, see the dainty, graceful way she moves. She’ll be your muse for the night, you decide. You tilt your head, and you drink her in instead of your whiskey.

See, she’s perfect, from the jump; that’s where it all goes wrong. She’s the kind of girl people write songs about - sonnets, scriptures - and it’s all downhill from there.

Your gaze starts at her shoes first, and that’s the first mistake - they’re ridiculous, black and patterned with butterflies, a thick, platform heel; oh, it’s a fairy, a manic pixie dream girl come to life, you can work with that - and you find the second mistake as your eyes trail up: white thigh-high stockings, lace at the top, delicate and pretty against slender, creamy thighs - a fairy and a wet dream walking, that’s a killer combination. The third’s as you reach the blue dress, patterned with white flowers: the tiny waist to go with it, the halter neckline and the sharp collarbone, and all this silky, wavy ash-blonde hair, and then-

That fourth mistake, the nail in the coffin. You look at her face and your voice gets promptly stuck in your throat.

Cho Miyeon’s been watching you watch her, and she must see the exact moment you recognize who she is, what you’ve done, because when you meet her eyes, horrified, she’s smiling.

“Oh, hey,” she says, all too casual.

“Hi,” you say, and she crosses one leg over the other in those fucking thigh-highs. You don’t look. You can’t. “Miyeon. Hi.”

Miyeon tilts her head, and that curtain of blonde hair tumbles with her - she’s blonde now, and it’s such a good look on her, and you shouldn’t be noticing how good she looks - and says, “You remember me.”

She doesn’t seem like she’s really surprised. “Of course,” you say, and immediately realize how it sounds. “I mean - it wasn’t that long ago, was it? And you were always an excellent student. A - a real joy to have in class. You know.”

You’re just saying it because you don’t know what else to say - but it’s not like it’s untrue. Every memory you have of Cho Miyeon in your class is her sitting off to the right, by the window, dark-haired and with this air of benevolent elegance, something of teenage royalty. All her classmates called her a princess - you remember that. An inside joke; here's Princess Miyeon, acing the test again, asking all the right questions, helping everyone with their assignments. It was fitting enough for you to let it slide.

Now here she is, in front of you, suiting the title more than ever. She’s so beautiful - and that’s where you stop yourself, because - really, it hasn’t been that long since she was that brunette girl in your classroom. Less than five years, certainly. Or more? Fuck, time, teaching; it all gets away from you, and she’s wearing those stockings-

Miyeon’s smile slants, turns to something more mischievous.

“I know,” she says, and it sort of feels like she’s making fun of you. Well, she’d have the right. You sound like an idiot. Just because you were her language teacher doesn’t mean you’re anywhere near eloquent. “Thanks. For the record, you were always my favorite teacher, sir.”

There’s a spin she puts on the last word - or maybe you’re imagining it. She blinks at you, sweet-faced, all doe-eyed innocence. You’re imagining it. You have to be.

“Oh,” you say, and your voice comes out odd, thick. “Well, you don’t have to call me sir anymore. It’s not like I’m still your teacher.”

“Right,” says Miyeon, eyes twinkling. “But you still are a teacher, aren’t you?”

You stare, puzzled, still thrown by her very presence. “What?”

She asks again, patiently, and you give her the answer - yes - and then out of nowhere she’s managed to coax you deeper into conversation - do you like it, what’s the best part, what’s the worst, what else are you up to - and it’s a foregone conclusion. Someone gets her a drink and she gets chattier when she’s tipsy, still sweet and friendly and gorgeous, cheeks flushing in the dim light. She talks about herself, a little - she’s in college, she’s thinking of taking a trip, she’s single. You don’t remember how you landed on that last one but once it’s out there it’s basically all over, from there.

It definitely crosses a line, between former teacher and student. It’s somewhere in there. She nudges your arm when you make her laugh, then grips it loosely when you add something that makes her laugh harder. Her hair falls in her face and you don’t push it back for her but she looks at you like she knows you want to. You forget things like she’s so much younger than you and you aren’t allowed to stare at her thighs in her stockings and wonder if her underwear matches.

She’s a perfect conversationalist like she might’ve been trained in the art form; that’s how she gets you, reels you in. She’s clever without being cutting, witty without being condescending. Princess, indeed - it’s the kindness, it’s the bright eyes and the lace. No - not the lace. You should really stop thinking about the lace-

“Hey,” Miyeon murmurs. Neither of you are fully drunk, but you’re playing into it, pretending like that’s the reason you’re crossing boundaries. Miyeon’s playing with the cuff of your sleeve. One of her ridiculous boots is balanced on the rung of your stool, brushing your ankle. “We should go to the bathroom, or something.”

She flicks her eyes up at you through her lashes, and there’s a curl to her mouth.

“Miyeon,” you say, acting like the room didn’t just get ten degrees hotter, your pants ten times more uncomfortable.

“You were wrong, before.” She leans in close, and you inhale her perfume - something sugary, intoxicating. Her lips are wet from where she’s been biting them. These are things you aren’t supposed to notice, but rules and regulations are long gone by now. “It’s been forever since you were my teacher.”

“Watch it,” you warn her, kind of sharply.

It’s a mistake, being firm with her - her eyebrows lift with clear interest. “Yes, sir,” she says, somehow self-satisfied, and leans back; it’s not far enough, and you can still smell her, can still see the pleased glint hidden in her irises.

“Miyeon.” Your throat dries up.

“Oh, come on,” she says mildly, and brushes her hands over the lace decorating her thighs. “We’re both adults now. You’re not even that much older than me. Ten years at most. Less than that, probably.” You’re staring at her stockings again and she notices. “Plus,” she continues, humor lilting her tone, “You want me.”

You can’t take her eyes off her thighs, can’t stop thinking about shoving up her dress and bending her right over the bar, can’t stop fantasizing about the faces she’d make as you fuck her, the noises, the slick sounds of her pussy. You can’t admit it, because it’d be fucked up. You can’t deny it, because you want her too bad to lie. You don’t know how you got here so fast, and-

Miyeon’s grinning like she can read your mind, and she’s close again, fingers skimming down your shirt.

“I think you’re gonna, like, die if you don’t touch me,” she says, conversationally.

She’s got it right on the money. You can’t say anything, and all of a sudden both of your hands have found the curve of her waist, and she’s out of her seat, standing between your legs. She’s an angel you’d give your whole life to worship, her blonde hair, her eyes, her body - she’s a dream, and she’s leaning in further, breath hot as she whispers in your ear.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Miyeon says, lowly, and the airiness in her voice goes straight to your dick. “The feeling’s very mutual.” You can almost hear the smirk in her words, something fanged and predatory. You might have to rethink her divinity. “You wouldn’t fucking believe how wet I am right now.”

Oh, that’s it. There are no angels in the room, here - the devil’s clever like that, hiding itself in pretty blonde princesses. You’d die to worship her, die to sin for her: it’s all the same.

“I’m right with you,” Miyeon says, steeped in suggestion, in implication - on her inflection alone you can hear how she’d sound moaning around your cock. “I wanted you to fuck me the second I saw you. If you don’t get that dick inside of me right now I think I’m gonna drop dead.”

It’s a threat, it’s a promise, it’s theatrics - and how could anyone refuse her, when she puts it like that?

“Well,” you say, and you stand, struck and burning. You’re giving in. You’re a man, you’re weak; you’re no match for the devil in a dress like that. “I’d hate for you to die so young.”

You’re playing into it, and it’s still fucked up. You’re ten years older than her, or something like that. She’s calling you sir and you’re seconds away from calling her a nickname you shouldn’t. You wanna pull her onto your lap, onto your cock, tangle your hands in her hair, get her screaming and squirting, make her yours and yours alone-

“Well,” says Miyeon, mimicking you. “Then we agree.”

She’s all of your filthiest fantasies wrapped up in one. You’re hopeless. That’s sort of how the story starts.

Miyeon drags you to the bathroom, and puts her money where her mouth is. Well, so to speak.

Actually, you’re the one using your mouth - you lock yourselves in a stall and a beat later you’re sunk to your knees, pressing Miyeon against the door. Those fucking thigh-highs, driving you insane - you grip her thighs hard, force them apart, sink your teeth into the skin right above the lace. You’ll leave bruises and you already know it. You’ll leave more.

“Fuck,” Miyeon whines, and it’s like all her bravado has waned, all at once. You shove her dress up around her waist, and you had it dead-on: her panties are white and lacy like her thigh-highs, and you can’t believe she wears shit like this casually, can’t fathom how she walks out of the house without men throwing themselves at her feet. “Fuck, fuck-“

“Dirty mouth, huh?” you mutter, and sneak a glance up at her face. Oh, that’s a vision - the way all her delicate, angelic features contort as you drag a finger across the crotch of her panties, find her so wet she’s soaking through the fabric. She’s sensitive. It’s irresistible. “Shit,” you say, and you almost laugh, but you’re too worked up to get it out. “You weren’t lying - you’re soaked, baby.”

“Obviously,” bites out Miyeon, but the frustration both drains and builds to a point as you hook your fingers in the side of her panties and pull them down around her knees. “Oh - please, please, touch me-“

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Look at that,” you say, and slip your thumb across her clit - she’s so turned on that just the graze sends her shaky, knees wobbling. One of your hands slides to her hip, steadying her. “You’ve got such a pretty pussy, Miyeon, you know that?”

It’s the praise, it’s like it kills her: Miyeon makes a high, keening noise that can’t classify as a response, and her cheeks are so red. You’ve barely touched her and she’s debauched, falling apart - “You’re so needy,” you add, enjoying the way she blushes hot. “You want me to take care of you, huh? That’s all you wanted?”

“Yes, please,” she pants, and when you slip a finger inside of her she moans so loud you’d be surprised if you two got out of this unnoticed. “Please, I just want more, I need more-“

“Be patient, princess,” you murmur, and she stills completely.

Fuck. Fuck. Well, it’s one hell of a slip-up.

Immediately you stop your finger inside of her, but then you feel her cunt clench, and she’s so, so wet - and just like that, you know.

“Miyeon,” you say, and your voice comes out gravelly.

“No,” she says, breathy, petulant. You can’t come back from this - that’s where you’re at. Your students used to call her this in your classroom. It’s sort of fucked up. It’s so fucking hot. She bucks her hips, and you’re finger-fucking her again, and she whimpers, ducking her head.

“Princess,” you start, and the cry she makes is like music, like gospel.

“Yes,” she chokes out, and you can’t believe this was the same girl leveling you with a stalemate back at the bar, challenging you toe-to-toe, weapons locked and loaded - can’t believe she’s now leaking all over your fingers, whining and desperate, begging please, please, please. Maybe you should’ve known. The brattiest girls love to get the most submissive. “Please - I need more, I need your cock - please, sir, I’ll be really good, my pussy will be so good for you, I swear-“

It’s the sir that gets you, but also everything before and after. You haven’t asked her to and she’s already begging; it’s adorable, it’s got you so hard your self-control’s rapidly slipping out of your hands.

“Alright, alright.” You’re unable to deny her anything when she talks like that, looks at you with those eyes. You rise, slowly - and then before you turn her around, grant her every wish, you take her gorgeous face in both hands and ask, “You’ll be good? You promise?”

You’re teasing her, but she’s so far gone she doesn’t even seem to notice. Miyeon nods rapidly, opens her mouth to say something - it’s not an invitation you’re about to pass up; you have to kiss her - so you do.

There’s something sweet about it, something filthy - you’ve never had a kiss so consuming and hot and wet, not during any fuck, any hook-up - and Miyeon makes small, whining sounds as you lick into her mouth, and you’ve got her cheeks in your hands, gripping firm as you kiss her. She’s tiny against you, her body all slender and slight and soft, and maybe that’s what makes it so hot; you have her like putty in your hands, like you could mold her, break her. Like you could do anything at all to her - to her mouth, her hair, her throat, her tits, her hips, thighs, cunt, ass - and she’d just let you. You kiss her and it’s like she lets you own her.

“Good girl,” you say into her mouth, and you know you do by the way she melts. “So good. I’m gonna fuck your little pussy now, okay? I’m gonna give you what you want, baby. You’ve been so patient, princess.” It’s a lie - you’ve never seen anyone so desperate - but when you flip her around and get to work on your zipper, you doubt she’ll bother with technicalities.

You slide your dick inside of her, and she collapses.

Her pussy is like heaven, and it’s the only word for it - it’s tight, but she’s so wet that you slide in like her cunt was made for you, made to form-fit your cock - maybe it was some twisted hand of fate after all, that led you here. Maybe you were always going to end up fucking her in a filthy club bathroom, calling her princess, wrapping your hand around her neck - maybe even since the first time she walked into your classroom, this was the inevitability, the only way it could ever go.

It’s a thought that’s pretty and fucked up in the same instant. Well, that’s Miyeon - well, you think, at least it fits.

She looks like an angel and she submits like one, too: knees buckling, leaning into you like she wants you to eat her alive, sink straight into her skin. You’ve got one hand on her hip and the other carding through her silky blonde hair; where she ends, where you begin - ah, it’s all the same. It’s corruption, it’s damnation - this girl never could’ve been the devil, not with this perfect pussy, not with her moans ringing out like music - and you get the feeling you’re ruining her, wrecking her. She turns her head halfway and there are tears in her gorgeous eyes, decorating her lashes. She’s never been quite so stunning.

“Fuck-“ All Miyeon’s words are slurring, loosening around the edges - you tug on her hair and if you weren’t holding her up, around your cock, around your fist, you know she’d fall right to the ground. “Thank you, sir - fuck - your cock feels so good, thank you, thank you - my pussy really needed it-“ She’s babbling, drooling, her tears smudging her eyeliner, her mascara. Her eyes squeeze shut and she clutches at the door, hands pressed flat, and lets you sheath your dick inside of her, again and again, rougher than you should be, so raw it should be criminal - her pussy is holy, or you’ve got Satan wrapped around your cock. Duality of woman; Miyeon’s got many talents and getting fucked into oblivion must top the list.

She cums; she’s too incoherent to warn you, but you feel it. You yank her hair and keep going. She’s fully crying now, pleas slipping from her mouth like wine, like water, like the way her cunt’s leaking all over you like a faucet, and you bury yourself inside of her, turn up the tap - she cums again, again-

“You like me ruining your pussy, huh?” you growl right at her ear, biting at her neck. It’s animalistic, it’s leaving your mark - well, one of them, at least. There’s her thighs, there’s how it’s not likely she’ll even be able to walk after this - okay, you’re leaving several. “Slutty little princess. You’d take whatever I’d give you - you’d let me drag you out there and fuck you in front of everybody, wouldn’t you?”

Miyeon loves the idea so much it’s like she’d give up religion entirely; you can tell by the way her back arches, by the way her whines get even less comprehensible, her perfect face crumpling in pleasure. It’s a plan for another day.

“You want everyone to know,” you hiss, “that you’re just a perfect little cocksleeve for me. I know, baby. I know.”

Oh, a face like that - you should be worshipping her, should be soft and gentle, wary of bruises and breaking - and you’re sure every other guy treats her like a goddess, something to revere and please.

For what it’s worth, you do, too - it’s just that you’re pleasing her by fucking her so hard she’s a sloppy, sobbing mess, pleading yes, sir - more, harder, fuck, fuck - you’re paying her reverence by leaning in close and saying in her ear-

“I’m gonna cum inside you, princess.” It’s not a question, not a request. Miyeon’s already nodding her head wildly, tears streaming down her cheeks - she’ll give you an answer anyway. Facets of royalty; she knows her manners, her lessons. “I’m gonna fill up that tight cunt, make that pussy cream - tell me how much you want it, baby.”

Your voice comes out through gritted teeth; the demands release harsher than the way you’re fucking her, and you think you might be tearing her pussy up, might be destroying it. She’s crying and blubbering and moaning, tripping over that tongue in her mouth trying to respond - your thumb’s fast on her clit and it’s double the stimulation, and it’s pushing her over the edge again - she puts so much effort into being good, and-

“I need it.” Miyeon reaches a hand behind herself, scrabbling blindly for your back, your ass, like she actually thinks you’ll pull out if she doesn’t beg hard enough. You’ve never seen someone so openly needy with such little coaxing - oh, your little princess. No one’s ever been able to satisfy her. “Sir, please - I need your cum inside me, I need to feel it, I need to be filled up, need you to breed me - I was really good, I deserve it-“

Her words break off, shatter on the floor; you think she cums again but you can’t be sure. It’s the words breed me that do it - that’s another thing to revisit, to play into and taunt her with, but she’s right, too: she’s been so, so good. You’ve never had a better pussy, never had something more perfect enveloping your cock - she’s sopping wet, so much you can hear it every time you thrust into her, can hear how her cunt gushes as you rail her. She’s engulfed every one of your senses - the sound of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, all silky skin and hair and a vice grip on your dick - it’s an overload, it’s overwhelming-

You bury yourself inside of her, right to the hilt, and you cum.

It’s a flash flood, wave after wave - you cum, and then a split second later it’s as if Miyeon turns to liquid herself, all her muscles giving out - and you grab her firmly around the waist, let her sink to the floor. It’s probably disgusting, it’s no place for an angel like her - but there’s nothing else to do. She spills herself into your lap, breathing hard into your shoulder, trembling like an earthquake’s just swept through her, wrecked all her bones and nerve endings like it’d decimate a city.

“Princess,” you whisper, and move her off of your cock, gently. You feel just as exhausted as she looks - you can't remember the last time you came that hard.

She doesn’t say anything, and just clutches at you tighter, pressing herself to your chest. One of your hands skates to her back, rubbing smooth circles.

“Miyeon,” you murmur, and she hides her face in your neck. “You okay?”

“Shh,” she says, lips against your skin. “Yes. Perfect. Full. I - give me - a minute.”

You get the message: she’s too well-fucked to move, to speak, to stand. “Alright, baby. Take your time.”

She hums right under your ear, tired and pleased and spent, and you cradle her slight frame in your arms, mindful of oversensitivity. You don’t know how many times she came - you’ve never seen a girl do that before, snap and start cumming over and over, clenching tight like she couldn’t stop. You’ll ask, you will. But, first-

You don’t know exactly how long it is, with Miyeon attached to you like this, the smell of sex and the sugary-sweetness of her blonde hair drenching the air: could’ve been weeks, you think, half-delirious. Eons. The world could’ve ended and you wouldn’t have changed a thing: the girl in your lap’s gotta be an angel, like you said. She has connections with a higher power. She’d handle it.

(That, or she’s got the devil on the other line, willing to bow down and serve her. Well, you’d understand. You doubt any deity could ever resist her.)

Eventually, Miyeon extricates herself from your body, slumping back against the door of the bathroom stall. She pulls her knees up, parts them - her eyes are shut, but you can see her defiled pussy, lips swollen, thick white cum drooling from her slit to the floor.

“Fuck,” you exhale without thinking, and see a small smile flicker at Miyeon’s mouth.

“Hey,” she says, and parts her legs wider. More of your semen leaks out of her. “Can you-“ Her words are still shaky, unsteady, shot through with fuck-drunk slurring. “Give me it. Your cum.”

You cock an eyebrow at her, even though her eyes are still firmly shut, sleepy. “I think I already did that, princess.”

She pouts at you, peeks open one brown Bambi eye. “No,” she says, inching towards a whine, and taps her full bottom lip. “I wanna taste it.”

Oh, she’s gonna be the death of you - but you kind of figured that out, already.

“Cumslut,” you say, and she smiles prettily, and you’d never be able to deny her a damn thing.

You take two fingers and ease them just inside her pink, puffy cunt, scooping out your own cum. Miyeon hisses air out through her teeth, on edge and tender, at every part of her, but scoots closer anyway; parts her lips, sticks her tongue out like some rabid animal, desperately, greedily in heat.

“Christ,” you mutter, and you take her chin in one hand, and feed her your cum with the other.

The moment your fingers slip past her mouth it’s like she’s been starving all day: her slick little tongue laves over your skin, curling hot and wet as she licks and sucks your cum off your fingers - and there’s no way she’s not tasting herself, it’s straight out of her pussy - and she’s blushing again, aware of her own wantonness but powerless to stop herself. Still, Miyeon makes no apologies, no take-backs for her desperation. She eats your cum off of you, swallows it down so easily.

Her white panties are tangled around her ankles, and you pull her feet into your lap, beginning to work the lacy underwear from around her ridiculous shoes. “Good?” you ask, amused, horny - but you’re past that. You’ll let her wind down.

“I am kind of a cumslut,” Miyeon says dreamily, head lolling. She rubs her thighs together, dress still shucked up around her hips. “I love your cum inside of me, sir. Feels - feels really good. All warm and-“ She’s speaking in half-sentences, still thoroughly fucked out. “Nice. And perfect.” She passes the heel of her hand over her clit and winces, raw, sore, satisfied. “Like… fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” you say, pleased at your handiwork. You finally wrestle the panties from the platform heels of her boots, stuff them in your back pocket. At first you think she doesn’t notice, but she peers up at you with those dark, irresistible eyes, and you realize she’s allowing it.

Ah, well. You’re all playing games, in the end. “Hey,” you say, switching tone to soft, wiping at her face with your knuckle. Her makeup’s a lost cause, her eyeliner smeared and lipstick a wreck from where you kissed the life out of her, from where she slobbered around your fingers, tasting your cum - her hair’s long gone, too, a disaster thanks to your tugging and pulling. She looks exactly like everything you’ve been doing to her. “You’re okay, right?”

Miyeon blinks, reaching up almost absentmindedly to place her hand on your arm, thumbing your wrist. So - maybe it’s not quite the game you thought it was. “What do you mean?” she asks, clarity returning with each flick of her fluttering lashes.

“You…” You swipe underneath her eyes. “You were crying. Like, really, really crying.”

Miyeon tilts her head, like she’s confused - but then a smile plays at the corners of her mouth, finding ground and spreading.

“Oh,” she says, startled, entertained. “You’re worried about me.”

She’s teasing you. She’s so adorable that you kind of allow it. “Old habits,” you say. “I mean - you were my student. It was in the job description.”

It’s a filthy point, and her nose scrunches, delighted. Miyeon scoots closer to you until her knees bump yours, and you’re still stroking your fingers across her high cheekbones.

“Hey,” she says, more serious. “I’m fine, I’m amazing. It’s sweet of you to worry. It’s just, like-“ You slip a hand into her hair and it’s gentle this time, caring; her chin tips, eyes closing slowly, like she’s a puppy and you’re hitting the exact right spot. “It was so intense - in the best way, obviously - and it was like… you were fucking my pussy, but I was feeling it everywhere.” Her palm drifts to her heart, rounds to a fist. She’s still smiling, nearing rueful, like she’s well aware of her own dramatics. “It was like - I think I’m in love with your cock, or something.”

“You’re cute,” you say, helpless.

“I know,” she says, and she’s looking at you again with those wide, doe-like eyes. “I think my pussy was made for you.”

It’s a dirty sentiment - and it’s one you agree with wholeheartedly, thinking of the impossibly tight, wet heat of her cunt, drinking you in, the perfect fit, the way she stretched and swore and took it - but there’s something in the sweetness in her eyes that makes you think of nuance, of hidden implications. You’ll get there, one day. You’ve barely begun.

“So,” you say, snapping the tension that’s gotten too affectionate for the moment. “You want me to breed you, huh.”

Miyeon gapes at you, then flushes pink, shifts forward so she’s almost in your lap again. “Shut up,” she says, tracing your jaw with a manicured nail. “I don’t - I don’t even know where that came from. I’m on birth control. And I’d fucking kill you if you actually got me pregnant. I just - I think the idea is hot, that’s all.”

“Alright.” You lift her hips, smoothing down her dress and placing her in your lap all in one motion. You’ve zipped up your pants, tucked away your cock - it’s like pillowtalk but you know you’ll have to wrap it up. “Just trying to see where I’m at, with you.” You settle a hand around her tiny waist, skimming her ribs. “You like being called princess, you like calling me sir, like pretending to be bred but would hate the real thing-“

“Right,” says Miyeon, suddenly sort of sleepy again, nudging her face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re a cumslut.” The words are nasty but the way you’re saying them, smoothing a hand over her hair - it’s all fondness, all feeling. Oh, you really dug yourself a hole here with this one. There’s no coming back from it. “And your pussy is incredible. And you sob like you’re dying when you get fucked good enough.”

“Yep.”

“Am I missing anything?”

Miyeon doesn’t emerge from your neck, just holds out her hand, curls it in a grabbing motion. “Phone,” she says, muffled by your collarbone.

You fish it out of your pocket, charmed. Miyeon adjusts herself in your lap, and you let your hand drop to her hip, balancing her; it’s worse, it’s all falling into place like puzzle pieces. You kiss her hair and she begins to enter her number into your phone. There’s something strangely domestic about it, and it’s such an awful idea, to think it - more damning than the sex, than the cum still dripping out of Miyeon’s pussy. It’s sweet. It’s comfortable. That’s the first - the second - the tenth problem, at least.

“There,” says Miyeon, and hands your phone back to you. “I gave you my number and texted myself.” Her eyes glitter as she tucks her knees up to your chest. “Now I’ve got your number. That means you can’t accidentally grow a guilty conscience and forget about me.”

“Thanks.” You can’t stop looking at her - she’s so gorgeous, so wrecked, your pristine little princess fucked and filled and wrapped up in your arms. “And there’s no way in hell I’d ever forget about you.”

You’re just bouncing back her own words at her, theoretically, but Miyeon beams like she knows you mean more than that. Hey, you did say she was always your best student: she knows how to read between the lines.

You’ve got a wet spot on your pants and Miyeon’s wobbling on unsteady legs, so badly that you basically have to hold her up around the waist - but your pants are black anyway, and you’ve cleaned most of the ruined makeup off of her face. There are efforts made to be presentable. Miyeon tilts her cheek into your shoulder and won’t make eye contact with anyone. The bar’s busy. You pretend not to notice, tug her closer. You grin at the bartender, who raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed - well, he should be.

It’s cold outside - you think Miyeon will freeze in her tiny dress, so you keep your arms around her, and kiss the top of her head. Miyeon smiles at you, all teeth, all tenderness. Her eyes are warm, radiant, softening every edge of the night; she stands on her tiptoes, slots her mouth to yours.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” you murmur, fingertips dancing down the curve of her back.

“Probably,” agrees Miyeon, and lets her nose brush yours. “Take me home.”

You do. She doesn’t let you into her apartment - my roommate’s a whore who will try to jump your bones, she tells you matter-of-factly, and doesn’t elaborate, so you let that one go - but you walk her to the door - you’re a gentleman - and then you pin her up against it and slip your hand up her dress, get your fingers on her clit, inside her, cover her mouth as she cums - okay, so maybe you’re not.

“I’m keeping your panties, princess,” you say, after. It’s a fair trade.

Miyeon’s cheeks are flushed pink, and you’ve never found the phrase post-orgasm glow quite so apt. “Okay,” she says, voice softer than her skin as you rub between her shoulder blades, tangling her blonde hair.

You laugh out loud. “There’s no way you’re being shy right now,” you say. “I just fucked you in public-“ You gesture out at the open night, at the occasionally passing cars- “for the second time in an hour.” Your cum from earlier is now dripping down her thighs, too, but that one’s almost too obvious to call attention to.

“A bathroom stall is not public.”

“It was a public bathroom, Miyeon. It’s in the name.”

“You’re lecturing me on semantics?” Miyeon asks, eyes narrowing, a playful slant to her lips. “What are you, my teacher?”

Oh, she loves this - and at this point, you’re too far gone to pretend you don’t kind of love it too. “Shut up,” you say, forgoing maturity, and kiss her one more time, because you have to.

It’s all such a disaster, and you already know this: because it’s too casual, too comfortable, too easy - to kiss her like you’ve got a claim to her, to cum inside her pussy like you own it. You think of framing her fluttering eyelashes and sated, tiny smile as you pull back, think of her in your bed, on your kitchen counter with her legs spread, in the passenger seat of your car with her hand wrapped around your cock. She’s got all the dirtiest parts of your imagination on lock with that face alone. It couldn’t be worse.

“I’ll see you later,” you say, suddenly breathless.

“See you,” Miyeon says, grinning at you - and you know right then that you’ll never be able to leave this alone.

You’re right. It’s a whirlwind. That same weekend, you call her, give her your address, ask her to come over - you accidentally end up on the phone for two hours before she even leaves her apartment, and nothing in the conversation ends up being about sex. You tell her about a new story you’re starting. She tells you about a class she’s taking that she hates, about a gig her friend Yuqi’s band is doing. It’s so easy to get caught up in conversation with her, to tell her about every thought that pops into your head, to listen as she tells you hers - there’s that word again. Easy. It’s bad.

Eventually, Miyeon says, “Oh, I was supposed to come over to fuck you, wasn’t I?”

It’s cute, it’s adorable, even when it shouldn’t be. “You forgot?” you ask, teasing. “I thought all this talk was just foreplay.”

“Yeah, I’m, like, dripping. Talking about how Yuqi’s gonna have to find a replacement for her notoriously flaky keyboardist really got me going.”

You never expect Miyeon to get sarcastic, to get snarky and dry, but it’s always so charming when she does. Even more charming when every time, without fail, she always follows it up with-

“Sorry.” Miyeon breathes out on a giggle, bordering bashful. She can rarely be sassy without apologizing for it immediately after. Oh, it’s her pedigree, it’s the nature of a monarch, all her humility, her politeness - she can never keep a bit running for long.

“You should be,” you say. “Get over here, princess.”

A smile seeps into her voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, my god.” There’s a loud, feminine voice on Miyeon’s end, somewhere in the background, crowing with open delight. “Cho Miyeon, are you having phone sex right now?”

“Nicha,” Miyeon says sharply, clearly scandalized.

“Oh my god.” The word’s a switch flipped: now the voice sounds equally scandalized. “You’re bringing out my government name? Is it that serious?”

Apparently, it is. “Ignore her,” Miyeon says, to you this time. “See you in fifteen minutes.”

You can’t back down from the opportunity to provoke her, especially when you’ve never quite seen her on edge, not the way she sounds right now. Whoever this Nicha person is - she knows exactly how to push Miyeon’s buttons. Well, you’ll take a page out of her book.

“Hey,” you say, grinning, “speaking of phone sex - you know, I wouldn’t be opposed-“

“Ugh!” You can practically hear Miyeon’s flustered expression through the phone, can see the pretty, flattering way she’d blush and pout and slump her shoulders. “You’re - you’re fucking impossible. Bye. Bye!”

“See you in fifteen minutes,” you echo, and laugh out loud when she huffs one more time, and hangs up the phone.

Look, your apartment’s nothing special - you’re on a teacher’s salary, for fuck’s sake. It’s serviceable, bland. You’ve got some plants, you’ve got well-kept bookshelves, you keep it clean and uncluttered. You’ve got some recessed lighting and a vintage sofa. Needless to say, your apartment’s never seen a lot of luxury. The walls, the furniture, the floors - they’re patently unused to pretty things. You don’t have the means, or the motive. It’s just you. There’s no one to impress.

Okay - until now, at least, because you’ve got-

“Oh, look at my girl.”

You’ve got your fists wrapped in blonde hair, got wet, vulgar gurgling sounds bouncing floor-to-ceiling, got the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen on her knees in front of you with your cock shoved down her throat. It’s all so new. If these walls could talk - but they can’t, so she’s all yours. You’ll live with it.

“You’re so good for me, princess. You love choking on that fucking cock, huh?”

You can’t believe Miyeon’s face: her fine eyebrows upturned, the tears streaking down her face, running dark with eyeliner, mascara - the way she’s slobbering around your cock, drooling. The way she tilts her chin back, breathes through her nose, relaxes her throat; the way she lets you grab her head and fuck her face like you’ve got the right to.

(Well, you do. She’s yours. She sure as hell feels it with your cock knocking right into her gag reflex.)

“You’re mine,” you say, and it’s so soon, so possessive. Miyeon, on her knees in front of you, a vision when she’s being fucked out and used. “This throat belongs to me, baby. I’m gonna fuck it whenever I want, okay?” You pause, give a particularly violent thrust, bite back a moan. “Don’t pretend like you don’t fucking love it.”

Miyeon’s not pretending at all, actually; she’s too far gone for that. Her top is already tugged up, her tits heaving with each wet, strangled breath, with each time you grab her skull and bury yourself into her throat - and then there’s the fact that her knees are parted, her underwear long gone, her own fingers deep inside her pussy.

No point in any pretense. It’s all out there on the table - oh, that’s an idea, bending her over every flat surface of your house; every piece of furniture can see this new, pretty thing you own - and she’s got nothing to hide. She’s so turned on just from letting you use her like your own personal fuckdoll. There’s no coming back from this, either.

It’s those Bambi eyes, wide and watery. She’s staring rapturously at you like she’d do anything for you - and only Cho Miyeon can turn a blowjob - well, a full facefuck, really - into something holy. She’s the one on her knees, sure, but there’s no other way to put it: she lets you ram your dick down her throat and you swear you’re seeing Jesus.

She’s got this expert mouth, the way she knows all the right things to do to take a cock like yours - she gags like it’s something purposeful, performative; even the way her spit dribbles down her chin seems choreographed.

“I’m gonna cum now,” you exhale, and it’s not a request, “down your fucking throat, and you’re gonna swallow it all because you’re just a hole for me to use, yeah?” You see Miyeon’s fingers moving faster in and out of her pussy, her rhythm turning sloppy, irregular - the way she gets off on being treated like your property is unbelievable, it’s godly. “Nasty fucking cumslut.” It’s a way to up the ante: she loves the praise, but she loves the degradation, too - she really will take whatever you give her and love it. “Gonna fill your throat with my cum, gonna make you fucking take it-“

You cum down her throat, buried completely, and feel her swallow over the head of your cock, gulping down all your cum. It’s a concerted effort, it’s somehow with all the focus in the world despite how she’s got her cunt stuffed with her own fingers, practically humping her own hand, leaking all over your floors - and when you slowly unsheathe yourself from Miyeon’s hot, wet mouth, her eyes fall shut, her jaw still half-open.

“Look at you,” you murmur, spent and a bit mesmerized - it wasn’t a small load, and you’re not an easy cock to take. You lower yourself to the ground next to her, stroking your thumb across the soft curve of her jaw. “Oh, princess.”

Miyeon opens her mouth, sticks out her pink tongue, shows it clean and cum-free.

You grin, a little wildly. “Good girl.”

“Thank you, sir.” You take her delicate wrist in your hand, bring her cum-slick fingers to your lips - you’ll have to get your mouth on that pussy eventually, but this’ll do for now. Miyeon doesn’t even make any effort to stand, just throws herself half in your lap, her bare thighs grazing your cock. She looks up at you with those glassy, hypnotizing eyes as you suck her own cum off of her fingers, trembling, oversensitive; you’re sure she made herself cum probably more than once. “You liked fucking my mouth?”

It’s the way she asks it, all this faux-innocence: she obviously knows you loved it and she’s just fishing for compliments. Well, you’ll indulge her.

“Of course,” you tell her, bemused by her transparency, and skim your thumb over one of her nipples, making her shiver. “You’re - you’re really good at that, you know.”

Miyeon tilts her head, tongues the corner of her red, well-fucked mouth. “At sucking cock?” Her expression shifts, takes a turn - there’s a wit hiding in the whole virtuous act she likes playing so well. “I’m just a natural, I guess. I’ve never sucked a cock before in my life.” She nods, all false humility. “That was my first time, actually.”

She’s fucking with you, but you’d probably never be able to catch it if you hadn’t picked up on at least a few of her tells by now. “Shut the fuck up,” you say, and all of a sudden you’re laughing, defenseless after your mildly world-shattering orgasm. “You’re so stupid.”

“No, you want the truth? I was a virgin before that night in the bar. You totally deflowered me.”

“Miyeon.”

“I’m being serious.” Miyeon’s smiling sweetly now, always ready to run a joke into the ground. She’s mostly naked on your lap, and she’s leaving a wet spot on your jeans from god knows how many times she came just from fingering herself, just from getting her throat fucked. It’s insane how she can still bring out this virginal angel just to mess with you. “I’m a good girl, like you said. You corrupted me. All of this sluttiness is entirely recent and completely your fault.”

“Shut up,” you complain, but you’re still laughing, and now Miyeon’s breaking character just to laugh at you, too.

“Sorry,” she says, and she’s burying her face into your neck, slightly delirious, her shoulders shaking with her giggles. “Sorry. You’re right. You caught me. I��ve been a whore this whole time.”

“I know, baby,” you tell her tolerantly, and kiss her temple, move some of the damp, unruly strands of hair off her cheeks. After a face-fuck that rough, it’s almost unfathomable that the energy between you two ends up getting too sentimental for the moment, but maybe it’s just the way things were always meant to go.

Like you said, there’s this new story you’re starting. It’s nothing long-term, nothing especially complicated. It’s about a girl, so it’s the oldest story ever told. It’s about longing, so you’re leaning into the melodrama. It’s all about the feeling, and where you’re at in your life, right now, you’ve never quite lived through the kind of love that’s in all the novels, so you’re mostly making it up, playing it by ear, pulling fiction from fantasy.

(That’s what you’ll tell yourself. It’s really too soon for it to be anything else.)

Things escalate, fast. Miyeon’s over at your place all the time. Sometimes you pick her up from some of her later classes, take her out, take her back to your apartment. They’re not dates, exactly. You both just have a love for cinema, for new bestsellers that you discuss like you’re middle-aged wine moms at a book club, getting too into it. Also, once you two get wrapped up in conversation, it’s almost impossible to just drop it there. You and Miyeon start talking and you never really stop.

It’s like you blink and suddenly you’re two months in - and it’s not like you’re in a relationship, but it’s pretty clear that you’re exclusively fooling around, and you also spend so much of your time together that you know what’d it look like to an outsider. You talk to Miyeon about pretty much everything, but you avoid any mention of making it official. You’re two months in, and she finally invites you over to her apartment.

“I know,” she says, the first time you come over. “It’s egregious. I get it.”

You haven’t even said anything, but she’s not wrong. Her apartment’s gorgeous once you see it on the inside, and way bigger than you thought it was - ridiculous, considering it’s just her and her roommate. Nothing like what you’d expect the average college student to be able to afford, but-

“My family,” Miyeon offers, by way of explanation. “They like to spoil me.” You’d kind of already known that, though. The high school you teach at is this swanky private one, and it wasn’t unusual to have the children of business tycoons, lawyers, doctors, the like - and she’d graduated from there, so it’s not quite out of left field. “And my roommate’s descended from Thai royalty, or something. She’s not exactly hurting for money, either.”

“Naturally,” you say.

So her apartment becomes fair game, too. She gives you her spare key like it’s nothing - easy access, she tells you, covers up the intimacy with innuendo. She forbids you from coming around when her roommate is home, but that ends up being a lost cause. You’re bound to have run-ins with her friends, you realize that - Miyeon’s always been exceedingly well-liked, notoriously popular - but it doesn’t fully hit you how seriously close you’ve gotten until it actually happens.

You’ve somehow managed to fuck her almost everywhere in her apartment without running into her roommate until it’s a Sunday, almost three months from that first day - and everything about you and Miyeon together is sacrilege, you know that; maybe it’s a sign - and you’re coming to take her out to this sale at your favorite bookstore, and probably fuck her in the bathroom of the coffee shop next door. It’s a toss-up, it’s all going according to plan-

That is, until you step into the kitchen, and there’s a girl standing at the counter who is decidedly not Miyeon.

“Uh,” you say. “Hello?”

The girl glances up at her phone, immediately gets this curl to her red-lipped mouth, and - oh.

This is the roommate. It’s clear, in an instant: you’ve heard how Miyeon talks about her roommate, you’ve heard her voice on the phone - you’re not a fan of using any derogatory language towards women you don’t know, so you’ll put it like this: she’s got a reputation already. She smiles at you coyly, puts her phone face-down on the counter; she’s living up to it.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, velvety. She’s got these unreasonably gorgeous eyes, accented with thick eyeliner, mascara: they’re a striking, arresting pale green, at odds with the fairness of her skin, the jet-black of her hair. “You’re Miyeon’s boyfriend, right?”

“Um,” you say, intelligently; so, that’s a label you two still haven’t discussed. You should get on that, maybe.

The girl’s smile widens, like she’s taking your hesitation as a go-ahead, a green light. Oh, this one’s trouble. You know it without even knowing her.

“Well,” she says, propping her elbows up on the kitchen counter. She’s wearing a tight, low-cut shirt - it’s insanely flattering, and, hey, you’re only human. You notice but you’ll pretend that you don’t. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Minnie.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, a little amused by the performance of it all.

Minnie tilts her head, looking you up and down. Her eyes fall half-lidded, in this sleepy, sexy way that seems unintentional, but you’re already getting the sense that nothing Minnie does is unintentional.

“Hey,” she purrs, and it already sounds like a proposition. “You’re kind of hot, you know.”

“Oh, am I?” you ask, humoring her. She’s just so obvious. It’s sort of fascinating.

“I’d say so.” Minnie rounds the counter, and she’s wearing this short skirt, legs bare and slender, all toned. Her hair brushes just past the high line of her collarbone. There's something about her that oozes sex appeal - it’s impossible to ignore.

“Just a heads-up,” she says, “if you ever get bored of Miyeon and her whole princess thing, my room’s right down the hall from hers.” Minnie smiles, devilish. There’s an irony about it that makes you wonder if it’s a genuine offer or some sort of private joke she’s making, something you’re not cool enough to be in on. “So - you know where I am.”

It’s more than slightly hilarious that you met thirty seconds ago, and she’s already offering up sex like it’s nothing - if she were less gorgeous, you’d laugh out loud, but Minnie wears her allure like jewelry, something to show off and brag about. This is definitely a girl who’s used to getting what she wants.

It doesn’t escape you that Minnie’s the polar opposite of Miyeon, who wields her beauty with all this innocence, all the false wide-eyed naïvete in the word - she’s a good girl, that’s her starring role. This girl - Minnie - nothing about her’s innocent, not in the least. Her tongue darts across her bottom lip; she looks like she’d eat you alive, if given the chance. She’s hot. She’s also not even remotely your type, because that’s obviously-

“Oh my god,” says Miyeon, rushing down the stairs, feet hitting the hardwood as she practically jumps off the last step. “Oh my god. Nicha, I swear to god, if you’re trying to fuck him right now-”

Minnie actually looks mildly pained. “Please chill with the government name.”

“You’re such a whore,” grumbles Miyeon, bounding towards you to clutch at your hand. It’s a side you’ve never seen of her: jealousy. It’s adorable, but everything she does is adorable. Miyeon glares pointedly at Minnie, tells you, “The eyes are fake. Don’t fall for it.”

“What?” you ask. Minnie blinks at you, grins.

“They’re colored contacts,” says Miyeon, scowling. “Fake. So fake. She’s not even that hot without them.”

“I’m very hot without them,” argues Minnie, but she leans back, brushing her hair over her shoulders - it’s a clear surrender, a white flag waving. She’s backing off.

“Sorry,” she says, and barely sounds like she means it, but her smile’s charming enough for her to pull it off. “Didn’t mean to be a homewrecker or whatever.”

You’re not really sure what it is, but it takes a second, and it’s like you’re looking at someone totally different. Minnie’s whole sensual persona slips away, vanishes entirely - now she’s just got her head tipped like a puppy, watching the two of you with curious eyes. Even her voice rises in pitch - so there’s the behind-the-scenes, the performance dropped. She’d probably make a killing as an actress. It’s actually almost impressive, how she can turn the seduction off and on like a switch.

“Liar,” says Miyeon, detaching herself from you, but the venom’s drained out of her voice. She goes to Minnie, winds her arms around her waist, kisses Minnie’s cheek affectionately. “She’s a natural slut,” she says to you, but now she’s smiling too. “She can’t help it.”

“It’s in my genes,” agrees Minnie, pressing her lips to the top of Miyeon’s head.

“Right,” you say. You’re getting the feeling the bickering is just a facet of Miyeon and Minnie’s friendship, because they very clearly adore each other. Oh, well. It’s cute. You won’t question it.

“And she likes to take things that belong to me,” adds Miyeon, a certain wickedness to it, a threat.

You raise your eyebrows at her; possessiveness looks great on her, but then again, so does everything. Minnie shrugs, doesn’t even bother to deny it. Clearly, it’s an old fight, a score they’ve far past settled.

“Good to know,” you say, and hardly lift a hand in Miyeon’s direction - she comes to you as easy as if you’d given her a verbal command. It’s not exactly subtle, how she slips under your arm like it’s an order she’s following.

“Oh,” says Minnie, and it sounds like oh, I get it - it’s like that. Like she’s got you two pegged instantly. Maybe she does. “You guys are dating.”

“We’re not,” says Miyeon, boredly. The disinterest’s entirely an act, but an excellent one.

“Baby, it wasn’t a question,” says Minnie, wry like she can read Miyeon’s mind. There’s something so intense about her eyes, no matter how false they might be - the way they flick from you to Miyeon, drawing lines, dynamics. You don’t know how much Miyeon has told her, but she observes the two of you like she knows everything and then some. She purses her lips, then packs it up. You’re not sure what she’s seeing when she looks at you and Miyeon but you think you’ve got an idea.

“Have a good night,” Minnie tells you, and the smile that follows is secretive, enigmatic. “And it was so great to finally meet you.”

“She seems nice,” you say.

“She’s a whore,” says Miyeon, rapid-fire, and then laughs a sudden, musical laugh. “She’s also, like, my favorite person in the world. I didn’t think you’d meet her like that - I swear I thought she wasn’t home.”

“So crazy that she thought we were dating,” you say, dryly.

“Yeah,” Miyeon replies, in your car, pretty in a pink dress as you’re taking her out. The sarcasm’s too thick to call out. You both know what game you’re playing, by now. “Who could’ve ever come to a stupid conclusion like that?”

You two are able to talk about anything, you settle on a handful of books to buy, you don’t even have to go next door because you get Miyeon’s panties off in the dark alleyway, sink to your knees and eat her out. She squeals and mewls and sucks at keeping quiet. Her pussy’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted, but you’ve learned by now that Miyeon’s the kind of girl who’s impossible to compete with.

“I’m fucking obsessed with you,” she tells you, shamelessly, as you wipe her cum off of your chin.

“Right back at you,” you say, and kiss her until she’s gasping for air. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be but with her, and you don’t have to ask - she kneels to return the favor, and you know she feels the same.

Minnie actually ends up having a running commentary on your relationship - you’ve realized by now that she’s Miyeon’s best friend, which means she doesn’t believe in boundaries, or mincing words. Case in point - well, there’s several, but you’ll settle for this one:

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Minnie, one evening, when she catches you and Miyeon on the couch in their apartment. “You two are disgusting.”

It’s a big reaction, considering you and Miyeon aren’t anywhere near having sex - you’re hotly debating the quality of an Netflix miniseries you just finished binge-watching together, discussing themes and plot points and character arcs. Miyeon’s defending it to the death, calling it camp, pulling up comparisons to cinematic masterpieces on her phone. You hate it; you’re arguing that it’s trite garbage, clinical and passionless and dumb.

“What?” says Miyeon, confused. “We’re just talking.”

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re fully clothed and everything.”

“It’s disgusting that Miyeon somehow found someone just as pretentious as she is to argue about her dumbass TV shows with,” clarifies Minnie, her arms crossed. “It’s gross. You two are gross. Like - we get it, you’re made for each other because you both take media analysis way too seriously.”

Miyeon stares at her, mouth agape. Minnie turns on her heel and walks right out, apparently too nauseated by you both to tolerate your presence any longer.

“Um,” you say, a little lost for words.

Miyeon’s discarded her phone on her coffee table, and now she’s watching you, eyes suddenly soft. You raise your eyebrows at her, can’t fight the smile at how she scoots closer to you, tucks her thighs up to her knee. “Yes?” you ask, expectantly.

“Nothing,” Miyeon says, tapping her dainty fingers along your wrist, thumb skipping across your pulse point. “But you’ve thought about it before, haven’t you?”

You don’t pretend that you don’t know what she’s talking about - you respect her too much for that. You nod, watch her throat bobs when she swallows, looks up at you carefully, like she’s trying to memorize the look on your face.

“Alright,” says Miyeon, finally. “It’s just - we kind of work, in a weird way.”

It’s cute, her restraint. You slip a hand in her hair, bring her close so you can kiss her forehead. “We kind of do,” you tell her, and you have faith that you’ll get there. It’s only a matter of time.

You’re still not really dating, but - so, it’s complicated.

It’s a Tuesday when you’re both out getting coffee together, and it’s under the pretense of sex, because it always is. Miyeon likes getting fucked where she knows she can get caught, and it’s her thing, it’s a pattern: public bathrooms, parks, alleyways, dressing rooms. There’s something so filthy about it, the juxtaposition - your perfect, pristine girl, begging for your cock in the nastiest places, biting down on your fingers to keep from screaming, walking out with cum dripping from her cunt like it’s nothing. It’s worse because nothing about her’s inconspicuous, after this - she walks out of every round looking exactly like she just had the best sex of her life, and nothing less. Everyone who sees you two together knows what you’re up to. It’s just that much hotter.

So - that’s the thing. It’s easy for you guys to spend all your free time together - between the college classes she’s taking, between the high school ones you’re teaching. You call her on lunch breaks, after you’re done for the day, say all sorts of suggestive things; she responds in kind, all dirty texts and pictures. Her pussy takes up half your photo gallery. See, it’s not romantic, at its core; it can’t be. It’s too dirty. There’s nothing sweet about it.

Except-

You’re supposed to be having a hook-up, right now. You’re supposed to be fucking her in the bathroom of this coffee shop. That was the proposition when she texted you i need your dick now with absolutely zero shame, along with pictures of her outfit, her tiny white top pulled down to expose her creamy tits, her hard nipples. That was the entire idea.

“I love that book,” Miyeon’s telling you now, splitting a slice of coffee cake with you across the table. Best laid plans, or whatever. Somehow you two always get distracted by conversation first. “Well, that’s the thing about you and me. Nobody my own age appreciates classic literature.”

“That’s such a lie,” you say, endeared. “You’re flattering me.”

“None of my friends know them front to back like you do,” she points out, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her stunning eyes are bright, her words fast and passionate - she always gets like this when she’s excited, animated, dialed up to eleven. You shouldn’t find it as adorable as you do. “Because you’ve taught them. You’ve studied them - you get all the nuance. Also, you’re old.”

She’s making fun of you. “Cool it.”

“But it’s true,” Miyeon laments, pushing buttons on purpose. “Of course you know the classics - you’re, like, ancient enough to remember when they all first came out.”

“I’m seven years older than you.” It’s been established, by now. Miyeon still gets off on the gap between you two, even though it’s nowhere near as wide as she likes to pretend it is. “Calm down.”

You’re smiling, though. Miyeon grins, takes a bite of her cake. “You get me, is my point,” she says, dropping the dramatics. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You’re supposed to be fucking her half to death in a public bathroom by now, and you probably will, after all of this. It’s just - you’re blurring lines. You’re not dating, not really. It’s just that you can talk to her for hours on end without getting bored, and sometimes all you have to do is look at her to know exactly what she’s thinking, exactly what dumb joke she’s about to make, exactly what face she’ll pull at something you say. It’s just supposed to be sex, but she’s all you ever think about. It’s nothing serious, but you get the sense she feels the same way.

“I do,” you say, softer than intended.

There’s this way Miyeon smiles at you, sometimes. It’s the same look she gets on her face when you’re watching one of her favorite movies together, something woefully pretentious and deeply romantic, something that’s bound to get her teary-eyed and laughing at the same time, curled up in your lap. Like she’s looking at something she’d never want to look away from.

“Well,” she says decisively, and under the table, her hand finds your thigh. You’ll put a pin in all those feelings. They’ll come back around eventually. “I’m glad we agree. Wanna fuck me senseless in the bathroom now?”

Even now, you’ll never be able to refuse her, but you’ll play nonchalant. “Tempting.”

“I know,” Miyeon says, doe-eyed, and her mouth tips to a smirk. She’s so sentimental until she isn’t. “You can’t resist me.”

“Nope,” you comply, giving in like it’s nothing, and then you’re tugging her right out of her seat. Well, it’s par for the course. When it’s you and her together, neither of you can keep up an act for long.

You’re not dating, and it’s not sweet, it’s not romance. It actually gets kind of extreme, there in that one-person bathroom, where you’ve got her back against the counter and one of her thighs tucked to her chest, and you’re pounding her pussy so hard it’s bordering violent. She’s sniffling, tears dribbling down her cheeks, and that’s all her signs at once: she’s only this much of a mess when she’s loving it.

“Look at you, princess,” you murmur, and she gasps into the fingers you’ve got stuffed in her mouth, drooling all over you. “You’re just addicted to this cock in that tiny little pussy, aren’t you? You’d let me keep you like this for fucking days, just being my pretty fucking cockwarmer. You’d die for it.”

Miyeon grips your wrist, spits your fingers out from between her lips. Her eyes are mesmerizing, glassy and lined with newly mussed makeup from how she’s crying - she’s become such a disaster, so fast. This is always the best part: how you wreck her, how she lets you.

“Yes,” she pants. “It’s yours, it’s all yours - feels so good, sir, my pussy belongs to you-”

“I know, baby.” You grip your hand in her silky blonde hair, and the whimper she lets out is from the pain, from the pleasure - for her, it’s the thinnest line, it’s already overlapping. “Let me keep you on my cock for a weekend, cumming in all your holes…” You lean in close, nip at her ear, yank her head back. “Imagine it,” you hum. “Imagine just being my cumdump for days, just taking load after load in that little cunt. Keeping you on my lap, all that cum inside you, plugged up by my dick…”

Miyeon knows it’s coming. You can tell how her eyes fall shut, how her tiny body trembles, how she clenches around your cock - she’s trying so hard to keep quiet and only half-succeeding. Well, you’ll push her over the edge.

“How long do you think it’d take to get you knocked up?”

“Stop,” she whimpers, but she darts a glance up at you in the mirror, eyes glimmering. You’ve got your boundaries, your safewords - you know it’s not an actual rejection.

“Stop?” you ask, and there’s danger in the way you laugh, a warning. Miyeon catches it, whines and writhes and only gets wetter. “Please. Don’t act like you don’t love the idea of me breeding that slutty fucking pussy. Cumming all the way inside your womb, filling you up with my load - you’re young, Miyeon, you know what you are.” It’s two hits in one, and she bites so hard into her bottom lip you’re shocked she’s not drawing blood. “A tight little body like this is fucking made to be bred. You’d be so fucking lucky if I got you pregnant, wouldn’t you? If I used you as a fuckhole to breed and nothing else - if I fucking owned you, made you belong to me, used you like my fucking property-”

Miyeon’s breathing stutters so badly you think she might be on the verge of hyperventilating - but you’ve also never seen her so ruined, so consumed by your cock in her, by the fantasy you’re painting. “Oh my fucking god,” she chokes out, and she keeps it as quiet as she can - you’re still in public, and the pressure’s only getting to her more, getting her hot and riled and helpless - but she’s too far gone for composure. “Oh my god. Oh, fuck-”

“Say it,” you snarl, right at her ear. “Say it, princess. I know you want to. Tell me what you want me to fucking do to you.”

There’s no stopping, no stalling - you’ve pushed her right to the edge, and she’s past pretending like she doesn’t want exactly what you’re giving her.

“I want you to breed me.” Miyeon’s sobbing, lost in the euphoria, in the very thought of it - the way she lets you break her so completely, in public where anyone would catch her: it’s criminal, it’s tugging an angel out of the sky just to fuck her down to hell. “I - just need you to fuck me, breed me, use me - do whatever you want to me, I just need you, sir, I need it - you’re right, I’m just a fuckhole, you own me, I belong to you-”

“That’s my girl.” Your hand drops to her clit just as her elbows hit the hard surface of the counter.

When she cums, now you know she draws blood - she’s got her knuckles at all her pretty white teeth, and the way her body contorts as her orgasm overwhelms her is something animalistic, feral. You’re cumming with her, but you can’t take your eyes off of Miyeon’s reflection in the mirror, off of the straps of her top hanging off her slender shoulders, the mess you’ve made of her hair, the destroyed makeup dripping from her eyes - there’s something so aesthetically flawless about the crease between her eyebrows, the heavy rise and fall of her chest, the way she spits scarlet blood into the sink in one quick, debilitated move. It’s like she’s a masterpiece, fucked out, fucked up. She's a portrait made to be ogled, observed and fawned over. Every detail’s goddamn perfect.

You catch her around the waist, slide your cock out of her as she whimpers. Her pale knuckles are beading with blood, and she’s still got some between her teeth. Miyeon turns her head again, spits, but it comes out weaker, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.

“Miyeon,” you mumble, and go for her purse on the counter instead of the paper towel dispenser - when you’ve got a girl who likes being fucked in public as much as Miyeon does, you’re a pro at damage control by now.

The sound Miyeon lets out isn’t even close to anything coherent, any full words or sentiments. You take the package of makeup wipes, pat Miyeon’s hip, turn her around. “You’re okay,” you tell her, gently getting to work at the eyeliner, the bloody spit at her lips. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay. I got you.”

Miyeon still can’t speak, but she leans her lithe body into you, lets you take her jaw in your hand. There’s something so careful about the way you clean her up, take care of her after - that’s the thing about fucking a masterpiece; there’s an upkeep to it, a science in the art.

You toss the used makeup wipes in the trash when you’re done, then spin her around, smooth your hands through her hair. “Alright,” you say, and you go for her panties, tugging them back up around her hips. Your cum will be leaking out of her the whole way home, but it’s par for the course. “How are we holding up?”

There’s always this disparity between the two of you - she can barely walk after cumming, you’re mostly functional. It’s how you work, you think. She’s your girl, your baby; it’s the point. She knows you’ve got her, no matter what you do to her.

Miyeon meets your eyes in the mirror, breathing evening out, completely spent. She curves into you, into your hand on her tiny waist, and presses her lips to your cheek.

“You already know this,” she says, voice hoarse. You flip the tap on to wash her blood out of the sink, go for a tissue in her purse. “But no one compares to you, ever.”

It shouldn’t get to you like it does, but it does.

You press the tissue to Miyeon’s bloody knuckles, kiss the high point of her wrist. “Well,” you tell her, unable to drag your gaze away from those gorgeous eyes, looking at you with all the open devotion in the world. “It’s a good thing the feeling’s mutual.”

You run into one of the employees outside the bathroom, but there’s not a line, thank god. Well, it could be worse.

The employee’s staring at the two of you like she’s suspicious but too grossly underpaid to call you on anything. “Um,” she says.

“Sorry,” you say, and pull Miyeon tight to your side, slipping the palm of your hand over her stomach. “My wife - she’s pregnant with her first. Morning sickness.” You kiss the top of Miyeon’s hair. “Takes a lot out of her.”

Miyeon’s gawking at you with wide, shocked eyes. You ignore it, smile beatifically.

It’s not a bad act, on your part. The employee says, “Oh, yeah, okay. You were just in there a while, so I was - well, congrats, on the baby.”

“Thanks,” you say politely, and slip past the employee, Miyeon tucked under your arm. “That’s kind of you, really.”

The performance comes unraveled the moment you leave the coffee shop, and Miyeon’s half-irate, slapping at your chest, wavering on unsteady legs as you step out on the sidewalk together. You grin down at her, play dumb. “What’s wrong?”

“You are so fucked in the head,” accuses Miyeon, but then she’s laughing so raucously that she almost tumbles to the concrete in her platform sandals. You steady her waist, rein her back in. “You’re so - your wife? Pregnant? You’re such a - I hate you, I seriously-”

“You seemed to like the idea when I was fucking you.”

Miyeon’s been railed a little stupid, still, so she’s sort of slow on the uptake, can’t find a good comeback. She flounders, then says, “Um, no,” and it’s the weakest lie you’ve ever heard.

“No?” You crack up, lead her towards your car. “Need me to refresh your memory?”

“Maybe,” says Miyeon slyly, not even hesitating, and you roll your eyes and open the car door for her. You’ll circle back to that plan another day.

“So,” says Miyeon, later, in the passenger seat of your car. The window’s rolled down and the wind is throwing her blonde hair into disarray, sending her cheeks pink and lips bitten from the cold. She’s a vision, but she always is. “Cockwarming weekend? Or are you just all talk?”

You risk a glance over at her, pretend like you wouldn’t stop traffic just to stare. “Don’t be a brat.”

“You love it when I’m a brat,” says Miyeon, correctly, shuffling in her seat. There are bruises on her thigh from how hard you gripped her when you fucked her, hickeys decorating the delicate rise of her collarbone. She’s filled with your cum, but that’s nothing new. “So? What do you think about next week?”

“Miyeon,” you say, unable to tell if she’s actually serious.

“I trust you’ll handle the logistics,” she says, her voice lilting, melodic, and her hand grazes your cheek, tangles into your hair. She says it like I trust you, like do whatever you want to me - I’ll let you.

It’s a dirty proposal, but she manages to sneak sweetness in there anyway. There’s sincerity, between the lines of all the filth. It’s a running theme.

“I’ll ruin you,” you warn, and it should send alarms blaring.

Miyeon smiles like they’re the best sound she’s ever heard. “Oh, no,” she says, thumbing the side of your mouth, and she’s laughing. “I think that ship has already sailed.”

You make a lot of progress, on that story of yours. There’s no real reason: it’s just that you’ve found a muse who’s always content to be right by your side, clothed or unclothed, cumming or laughing or talking, wrapped up in your sheets past all the orgasms and far into the night.

(Miyeon stays, against all odds, even when you both know she doesn’t have to. Maybe, for you, there’s just a lot of inspiration to be found in that.)

planning for a part 2... eventually... but we'll see lmao

#kpop smut #kpop fanfic #idol x male reader #gidle smut #male reader #reader insert #miyeon smut

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soft-for-them · 1 year

Text

Green first aid kit - Billy Hargrove x plus size reader

Summary: Back at school you find Billy worse for wear.

Trigger warning: This part does mention Billy's abuse and him having an injury from a fight, the fight isn't described or shown though.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

Part one - Part two - Part three

Come Monday morning Billy Hargrove wasn’t at first period History sitting near you passing notes, neither was he hanging around before class waiting for you with a big grin, nor was he slipping in after the teacher had left so he can talk to you, he was nowhere to be found at all.

Deep down you wished for him to be hiding near your locker in between the small nook where a fire extinguisher and fire alarm sits, him dressed in his denim jacket, his hair fluffy and curled. He would come up with a reason why he wasn’t there, something along the lines of hating your history teacher with all his heart or sleeping in late and missing most of the lesson. But no, when you rushed over to your locker he wasn’t there, he wasn’t anywhere.

He wasn’t in for the whole day, you knew for sure for you overheard a cheerleader bitching about it like she was entitled to flirt with Billy, like he was expected to come to school every day to flirt with only her.

To think you wore a nice peach sun dress to school just so maybe he’d see you and call you princess again.

So the next day you’re uncharacteristically angsty, every second your eyes flicking to the clock above the chalk board then to the nearest door wondering if he’d walk in all smirks and no apologies. Normally you love second period English Literature but you're too fidgety to listen in to your teacher talk about Shakespeare and sonnets, the Tuesday morning classes dragging on too long.

You are leaned into the small desks more than normal, the wood of the table pressing into your stomach more, your mind stuck on Billy fucking Hargrove’s face and not on the bold writing on the board that states you have homework due in next week.

Truly you would be lying to yourself if you said last night you didn’t have a dream of Billy, that the dream felt so real that you worried somehow it was and that something terrible had happened whilst you were sleeping. It’s stupid and frankly untrue having such a vivid dream about waking up at the bottom of a swimming pool only to be saved by Billy, the sky a dark purple, the grass coloured like burnt ash and Billy looking like the living dead could never be true.

Well you hope it never does.

If you were one of those zodiac sign, gem stone collector, ‘what time where you born?’ women then maybe you could deduce a meaning from the dream but really you’re too tired and too on edge to think up one.

Maybe you’ll ask a stoner friend about the dream’s meaning, minus mentioning Billy, then maybe you can get some answers about it.

Lunch time comes along and you feel too sick to eat any cafeteria food, so with a brief ‘goodbye’ to your small group of friends paired with a weak excuse to ditch gossip time you hurry out the double doors of the cafeteria, down the many hallways and out the nearest exit only your purse in your pockets.

Technically it’s still summer but the impending autumn winds are slowly coming in, a warm gust of air jostling your baggy jeans, bits of white thread from the rips at your knees and on the inside of your thigh blowing upwards, the sleeves to your t-shirt whipping around your chubby upper arms. Really your outfit today is the bare minimum, you’re trying to look like you’re not having a bad day, a stark opposite to yesterday’s dressed up outfit. The thigh hole in your ancient jeans are from years chub rub and the holes in the knees from before you hit puberty, younger you having to buy bigger sized jeans from the adult section thus tripping over the bottoms of them every five minutes for you were a middle schooler who hadn’t had a growth spurt yet.

The joys of being plus size am I right…

For a moment you wonder if you can sneak out and find the nearest shop to get a snack, you’re used to walking long walks in short amount of time, most days you do that because you don’t own a car. You could really go for some overly sugary candy from a gas station or a pre-packaged baguette (which you’d only eat half of, the rest of it getting crammed into your locker for later on), anything other than the grey school lunch burgers with watery ketchup or stale vending machine crisps that coast too much.

Like always there’s a decision to be made; walk to the nearest shop most certainly being late for maths after lunch or just take a breather outside on an empty stomach, not being late for the next class.

Whilst some would call you a goody two shoes for always being in all your classes, the overwhelming feeling of dread, that feeling of hunger mixed with the sickness that comes with not wanting to walk back into the school building until you feel better takes over you. Everyone gets it one way or another, the people who are too worried about attendance tend to stay in the classrooms until they explode and break down while others frequently skive off school opting to smoking weed and kiss girls to chill out. You’re of sound mind and sound idea that calming down before heading back inside is the best course of action, maybe even touching some grass will get you mind off Billy Hargrove and maybe quell the gargling nervousness in your stomach.

But then again you need to eat, that and you fucking hate maths.

So it’s decided that you’re going to the shops, the walk and food will make you feel better in no time!

Scuffed shoes pick up gravel as you walk across to the car park, a hand digging into a pocket to make sure your purse is securely in place. You’re in no rush however you do dodge around the many parked cars in a certain way to make sure no teachers see you sneaking away, not that they’d really care all that much but there’s always that one teacher who likes to snitch on students.

You walk pass familiar cars of classmates, narrowly avoiding eye contact with a band kid you know inside his car trying to make moves on his girlfriend. You clamber up and onto the grass nearing an exit to the school, hands in your pockets and eyes looking out for moving cars.

The sun shines on the exit like a place maker in a video game, so you speed up your steps to get out as fast as you can not wanting to explain to any faculty why you’re sneaking out but then you see it.

Parked underneath some over grown trees, shielded by chunky pickup trucks and station wagons borrowed from parents is a car so familiar that it makes you stop mid step. The grey 79 Camaro sits dormant and shaded, from where you stand you can see the driver’s sun visor flipped down and the car is completely turned off, the engine not revving or spluttering.

Now the right thing to do is just to carry on your walk not going over there to see if it’s actually Billy’s 79 Camaro and not somehow another Camaro some jock copying Billy has bought to seem cool but you’ve been worrying about the ‘king’ of the school for the last two days so you shift your step and head over to the low down car.

*Tap* *Tap* Tap*

You lean over somewhat, the bumper of the car pressing into your legs as you tap the wind shield of the car, a very asleep Billy Hargrove in the front seat. His denim jacket covers his face from beams of sunlight that cut through the trees through the front window, his hands balanced on his toned stomached, fingers knitted together.

You shimmy around to the driver’s side squishing in between his Camaro and the truck next to it tapping on the side window.

“Billy.” you call quietly not wanting to blow your cover to anyone else sitting in their car. You look around before banging the window some more, your knuckles hurting just a bit as you knock on the thick glass.

“Billy!” whisper shouting isn’t doing it, “BILLY!”

Your voice turns stern but almost needy, the fear in your head that someone might catch you and drag you away ever present as you bend down slightly so you’re at eye level with the sleeping man. Your body presses against the other car, your face turning sour as you stop knocking.

Stepping out from the cars, still close but no longer trying to wake up Billy, you debate whether or not you should leave a note or something like him.

You frown at the idea, firstly because you only have a purse on you but also because what would you write to him if you did have a piece of paper and a pen?

“Hey, you missed history – (y/n).” no, he never promised that he would be there, you just assumed he would be.

“Sleepy head see you at the pool. – (y/n).” no, no, no. You don’t want to seem weird, you don’t want him to think that you’re planning on going back to the pool on the weekend just for him. Anyway you have work this weekend so it’s not like you could go either way.

Maybe you could just leave you home phone…. Fucking hell no, that’s the worst idea you’ve had yet.

Really when you saw Billy’s car you didn’t go other there to flirt, really you’re just worried. Whilst your interactions with the Cali man have been all positive as of late you’ve heard things, you’ve seen the things his so called ‘friends’ do, you’ve seen his dad around town and you keep clear of him.

The family members you live with have told you about Neil Hargrove and well you do not like the sound of him one bit.

You hover around still wondering what to do before spinning around and walking away from the car, your plan to get food foiled, the frown on your face now permanent for you know you’ve wasted enough time banging on the car window that you can’t go to the shop without missing maths.

“Fuck!” you mutter, your eyes going back to the Camaro.

Now sat up, jacket off his face, his eye wide and staring right back at you, Billy Hargrove looks out of place, no thoughts in his head, not like the normal smirking flirt you’ve come to know. You raise a hand to give him a little wave which snaps him out of his momentary mind blank. He lifts a hand up back which prompts you to walk back over.

“Roll the widow down.” you say with a little hand gesture once you get to the car.

He does so.

There staring up at you with the eyes of a scared child, his baby blues so watery and wide that they look like the sad sea, his left eyelid a deep purple bruise.

His left eye must have been swollen shut at one point for his eyelid is still a bit droopy.

“Billy…”

You don’t intend your voice to be so wobbly when you say his name, your own (e/c) eyes watering up but your voice wavers and your eyes fill with salty water.

“I’m fine princess.” he barely gets out, “Just lost a fight Sunday night, that’s all.”

Fuck. You don’t want him calling you princess when he’s so sad. You selfishly want him calling you princess when his eyes are filled with mischief or even lust, not when he’s about to burst into tears.

He must think you’re pitying him for he looks away his forehead hitting the top of the steering wheel.

“Billy-“ his eyes flicker to yours, his curly blonde hair half covering the side of his face, “- I was going to walk to the shops but-“

You try to think of how to say your next words without sounding like you’re demanding a free lift from the obviously dejected man in front of you.

“-Do you want to come with me? I, well, we can share some food.”

He nods his head ‘yes’.

You don’t have a lot of money, that is clear, but today you have enough loose coins and crunched up dollar notes to pay for the things you need.

You enter the small out the way shop, the bell above the door stuck and not ringing. The shop used to be a petrol station before the chain company that owned it went bankrupt, now it’s just a shop with the worst painted parking lines you’ve ever seen.

The man behind the till tilts his head up from his newspaper, his puffy eyes staring you down as you shuffle past a rack of crisps into an aisle filled with cupboard food. The metal shelves that tower above you are packed with every kind of dry food you’d ever need. Your eyes flicker from boxed yellow pastas to dusty lidded jars of red unnamed sauces. You move along, wallet tightly in your hands as you walk down the aisle to the very back of the shop where the wall to ceiling freezers and fridges sit. For a moment you look in the freezer a frozen mac n’ cheese catching your eyes.

Whilst the family you live with do cook the odd meal for you most of the time they’re out the house so you have to cook for yourself and well, the fridge-freezer at home is very much empty at the moment. There is probably some stuff in the cupboards but normally you don’t bother with that food for the last time you ate some cupboard food (some half stale frosted flakes) you were yelled at.

It would be nice to have a warm meal tonight, even if it’s a microwave meal, but you have to go back to school and having a frozen ready meal in your bag does not sound like a good idea. You cringe at the thought of the flimsy plastic getting pierced by a rouge pencil and spilling throughout your bag.

Ew, no thank you!

Instead you walk over to the fridges filled with soft drinks.

Up close you can tell the fridges aren’t actually on, the little orange filament lights off and the drinks bone dry. It doesn’t bother you that much, you’re only planning on getting some drinks and not a whole meal of probably gone off food. Anyway, from working at shop yourself you’ve seen much worse things, you just glad that there isn’t any fuzzy mould on the bottle caps.

Quickly you open the sliding door and take out a boxed grape juice and a bottled flavoured water, the inked words ‘summer fruits’ smudged. You would love to have a milkshake right about now but you stay away from the milks on the bottom shelf, you face scrunching up in disgust.

You walk around the shop some more, not caring for any of the junk being sold. You do however find yourself at the sweets section. The little shelf is filled to the brim with colourful candy and plastic junk toys, everything from chocolate bars to lollypops shaped like diamond rings.

A small packet of hard boiled sweets catches your eyes, the red and white striped plastic bag reminiscent of the paper bags at fun fairs or cinema pick n’ mixes, the little clear window showing individually wrapped sweets in every colour known to man.

A yellowed price sticker sloppily placed over the logo says it’s only a dollar fifty so you pick the bag up to buy. You shove the bag between your fingers and the drinks, you other hand free with your wallet lodged between your arm and chest.

Slowly but surely, your eyes flickering all around to see if you’ve missed anything you might want as you arrive to the front counter.

The front counter is high up, a thick plastic pane with hand prints and unknown splashes of stuff shielding the man and the shelf filled with cigarettes from grabby hands and angry eyes of disgruntled customers. There’s a big enough a hole in the plastic that the man, a forty something year old with red irritated eyes and a bold spot a monk would be jealous of, can look at you with judging eyes whilst scanning your items.

“You better not want any alcohol Miss.” says the man. Despite his less than stellar looks he sounds more sad and fed up than judgemental or creepy, he probably get too many teenagers with fake ID’s coming in along with out of towners with visible guns on their hip.

“No alcohol just these-“ you say with an awkward smile, “-oh, but um is that for sale?”

Your eyes catch onto a flash of green hung sat snug in between a giant jug of vodka and a line of off brand cold remedies.

It’s a small first aid kit.

You point to it hoping that your finger isn’t pointing to the vodka.

“The first aid kit, yeah, it is.”

“How much?”

The man says the price making you visibly frown. The price isn’t much considering it’s a first aid kit but you’re not sure you have the right amount for it.

“I’ll take it.” you say as you place your items down and begin taking out handfuls of coins.

You know you are a dollar short as you recount your crumpled dollar bills. You look up to see that the man has already bagged your stuff including the first aid kit.

“I might have to put something back.” you sheepishly say.

“Nah, have it.” He passes you the bag, “If you’re needing a first aid kit then you’re needing it, you know? I don’t want anyone bleeding out because you were a dollar short and didn’t have it.”

“Thank you.” you’re really at a loss for words but you get you thanks out.

“I don’t own this place anyway, I only work here.” he says with the smirk of a man who often nicks a pack of smokes off the back shelf without the shop owner knowing.

You talk some more before walking out the shop, the pack of sweets already in hand, your fingers digging into the bag to find a sweet that isn’t strawberry flavoured. As soon as you pull out a bright green sweet you look up to see a pair of red rimmed steely blue eyes staring right at you.

Billy, eyes wide like a deer in the middle of a road watches intently as you walk over to his 79 Camaro (which is parked somewhat awkwardly in the wobbly lines of the parking space.) The car is parked close to the shop, right at the front of it in fact and ever since you were in the shop his gaze has been locked on the front door for the shop windows are covered in posters and adverts blocking any view of you inside he could have had.

For ten minutes Billy has been frozen still waiting for you to reappear so he can finally let out a long breath. He looks like he hasn’t blinked in the short time you were inside, his baby blues watery, the welling of tears threatening to spill once more.

“Want one?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat, the bag of sweets shoved on the centre console closer to Billy.

Billy does not say anything, he just breathes like he just run a mile his chest heaving as large amounts of air enter his lungs.

“Billy?” you ponder, your voice small and quiet, “Billy.”

His eyes snap onto yours. For a moment you see something, a glimmer of fear maybe, in his eyes before his face droops.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ you begin, your body leaning over the centre console, hands grasping onto his arms as lightly as you can, “- you’re ok, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He looks like a wounded animal.

“Billy-“ you go to say something, something that probably wouldn’t help in the long run but something so he can hear you over his very present running mind.

Before you can though his right hand shoots up and grabs your forearm, his digits digging into your soft skin.

He doesn’t know if he wants your hands off him or if he’s forcing you not to move. Billy thinks for a long time his fingers flexing and relaxing but not letting go of your arm before said hand grabs at your own hand, his longer thicker fingers intertwining with yours in a death grip.

With you other hand, which you quickly take off his arm, you rifle through your plastic bag and pull out the two drinks along with the little first aid box.

“Here, take ‘um.” With your fingers aching from clutching three things at once Billy eventually takes the drinks and the first aid kit, his eye focusing on the first aid kit especially, “I have no clue what’s in the kit but I thought you could keep it in the car if you got in another fight…”

“…How do you know it was a fight?”

“Bruises that big don’t come from bumping into corners or falling down stairs.” you should know, you’ve bumped into many table corners and tripped down the stairs too many times to count and you’ve never gotten an injury that big and angry.

The car goes silent for a while the only sounds of you trying to quietly crunch the sweets and Billy unzipping the first aid kit to look inside it. There’s the normal inside; plasters that are an odd pale peach colour, gauze and safety pins, a couple individually wrapped antiseptic wipes, old yellowing instructions printed on thin paper and a small gel compress to help with swelling and aches.

“Thank you.” Billy whispers, his hands now clutching at the green first aid kit rather than your hand.

His eyes are trained down on the cross adoring the kit, the two drinks on his lap long forgotten.

“I-I know that home life ain’t that good-“ you start, not knowing exactly where you’re going with the conversation, “- but I’m here for you.“

“You don’t know what’s going on princess, you can’t help.” Billy says now looking at you.

“But I know about your dad, that’s how you got that isn’t it?” you vaguely point to his bruised eyes.

His eyes flicker away from yours giving you the answer you didn’t want but already knew.

“I don’t know much Billy-“ you duck down to catch his eyes, a small smile forming on your pretty face, “- but I do know that I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire because men like him wouldn’t even say thank after saving them, they’d just carry on like normal hurting and breaking everything in their way.”

Billy would have smirked at your words but his eyes have gone too wide in shock.

“Why don’t we skip maths hey?” you ask grabbing his hand in a warm but tight grip.

“Sure princess.” He finally replies with a small smile.

A/N: If you want a part four please send in an ask rather than commenting for another part, this is just because asks are an easier way for me to track requests. Comments are still welcomed and requests are open!

#not proof read #billy hargrove x plus size reader #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #stranger things x reader #stranger things x plus size reader #stranger things #plus size reader #x plus size reader

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toaster-trash · 10 months

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Why do you hate Oscar Wilde?

HAHAHAHAHahhAh I’m sorry I despise that man and I’m going to take any opportunity I can to rant about it so absolutely NO harm to anyone who likes his books or his work in general, if you do, completely fair enough and by absolutely all means enjoy reading them

The AUTHOR though, so, yes, the obvious first, the man’s just a nonce through and through. I have done a lot of research into his trial, (sources being The Trial of Oscar Wilde: From the Shorthand Reports (1906), and famous-trials.com, compiled by Professor Douglas O’Linder from UMKC School of Law, mostly aligning with the shorthand translations of the testimonies from the prior source referenced, yet with a few details not included in the 1906 publication to my knowledge.) and no, the guy wasn’t just thrown in prison for being a “homosexual didn’t you know old chap?✨” but because he slept with a very large amount of young boys while he was in his 30s, some as young as sixteen or eighteen. Noncery! Who knew thatd get you thrown into prison for two years!

20 year age gap not convincing enough? Have some quotes directly from Mr. Wilde himself!

C—A man never corrupts a youth?

Wilde—I think not.

C—Nothing could corrupt him?

Wilde—If you are talking of separate ages.

C—No, sir, I am talking common sense.

W—I do not think one person influences another.

C—You don't think that flattering a young man, making love to him, in fact, would be likely to corrupt him?

W—No.

WILDE.

"I think the writer's meaning is quite unambiguous. The love he alluded to was that between an elder and younger man, as between David and Jonathan; such love as Plato made the basis of his philosophy; such as was sung in the sonnets of Shakespeare and Michael Angelo; that deep spiritual affection that was as pure as it was perfect. It pervaded great works of art like those of Michael Angelo and Shakespeare. Such as "passeth the love of woman.' It was beautiful, it was pure, it was noble, it was intellectual-this love of an elder man with his experience of life, and the younger with all the joy and hope of life before him.'

Ah, Ancient Greek comparisons. We all know how non-noncey the Ancient Greeks were.

Wilde—Yes. I would become friendly with any human being I liked.

C—How old was he?

Wilde—Really, I do not keep a census.

C—Never mind about a census. Tell me how old he was?

W—I should say he was about twenty. He was young, and that was one of his attractions.

There’s more where that came from, but feel free to do more research into the sources I referenced if you want to read more. And if hearing from Wilde himself wasn’t enough, let’s hear from some of the hotel staff from when he was staying over.

“I found it necessary to call the attention of the housekeeper to the condition of Mr. Wilde's bed. The sheets were stained in a peculiar way. On the third morning of his stay, about eleven o'clock, Mr. Wilde rang the bell for the housemaid. On answering the bell I met Mr. Wilde in the doorway of No. 361, and he told me he wanted a fire in his own room, No. 362. There I saw a boy of eighteen or nineteen years of age with dark close-cropped hair and a sallow complexion.”

“One morning on going into the room-| entered after knocking-| saw someone in bed. At first I thought it was a young lady, as I saw only the head, but afterwards I saw that it was a young man. It was someone about sixteen to eighteen years of age. Mr. Wilde was in the same room dressing himself. He told me he felt so much better that morning and that, as he was very busy, he could not stay to have the treatment. I never attended Mr. Wilde again.”

And quickly, a testimony of one of the witnesses, Edward Shelley:

Mr. Wilde's conversation was principally about books and myself. Mr. Wilde said, "Will you come into my bedroom?" I did not know what he meant. As I went into the room Mr. Wilde kissed me. He also put his arms round me. I had been taking a lot of wine. I felt insulted, degraded, and objected vigorously. Mr. Wilde said he was sorry and that he had drunk too much wine. I stayed the night and shared his bed. Mr. Wilde saw me next day and again kissed me and there was a repetition of the previous night's performance. Mr. Wilde said he could get me on, and he invited me to go with him to Brighton, Cromer and Paris, but I did not go.

As well as all that, I generally find him to be an insufferable prick who is completely submerged in his own self righteousness that every odd quote I hear from him is another case of him proclaiming his own wit and genius, and every bloody character he writes is just an excuse to project his ideas in the most up-his-own-ass way he possibly can. He’s a narcissist and a prick who uses a veil of moral superiority to get away with ranting about his own beliefs through the eyes of the antagonist. He said something alone the lines of “I wrote Lord Henry to be who the world thinks I am ;)” No, Lord Henry is WHO you are, because when you were in that bloody courtroom YOU were the one ranting about the beauty of youth in young boys and the non-existence of immorality. Painting him as the antagonist was only a half assed attempt to throw the reader off or, frankly, probably even just for shits and giggles or so he could lean back in his smoking jacket, opium-tainted cigar in hand and think about how clever he is.

So yeah, I fucking despise Oscar Wilde. Narcissistic, self righteous dickhead and nonce. And apparently anti-Semitic, although I haven’t looked into that one to confirm if it’s true, but I wouldn’t be remotely surprised. And the nerve the Irish government has to pardon him for his crimes a hundred years later 💀 “oh his pardon stood for all gay men persecuted in that time and for how far we’ve come in progress today!” Then pardon an innocent gay man who wasn’t a fucking self centred nonce, my bisexual ass was raised in a very homophobic household and I’d rather go back to listening to a hundred “homosexuality is a vile distortion of purity and virtue in the eyes of God” rants than be associated with a man like Oscar Wilde as my symbol of fucking “progress”. Frankly, I’m glad he’s dead and I hope he rots

#gothic lit #classic literature #gothic literature #goth lit #classic lit #oscar wilde #Oscar Wilde hate club #the picture of dorian gray #(sorry)#like I said if you enjoy any of his books on their own feel completely free to do so #but also please be aware of the author before posting a hundred bloody “Oscar Wilde is an icon <3 posts.

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hamliet · 9 months

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The Best Modern Romeo + Juliet

...is a subplot in The Wizards of Waverly Place. Yeah, the Disney show. I said it. In a time where Florida's taking Romeo and Juliet out of schools, we need this.

It's the only adaptation I've seen in modern day that has Juliet's personality right--her feisty, dreamy, and determined self. I was watching the whole thing going:

Juliet is strong! And smart! And funny! and Romeo is adorable and adorkable and sappy but sincere! The plot might seem obvious--a feud between vampires and wizards--but it turns out to be so much more mundane. The families hate each other because their sandwich rivals are business rivals.

Of course, in the end Justin and Juliet's love for one another enables the Russos and van Heusens to lay down their wands and put away their fangs. The way in which this happens, though, is very funnily told.

But the references and commitment to Romeo and Juliet continue even after the original subplot episodes! In fact, the story ends up almost told in reverse, which is amusing.

See, first Juliet gets trapped with Justin in a museum when the sun starts to rise. Since she'll crisp up if that happens, Justin directs her to allow herself to be controlled by the mummy, since he can take her out of the museum before she broils. He promises to come back for her. Except, after Juliet agrees and leaves with the mummy, Alex arrives to save the day. tl;dr, if Justin had waited a moment, Juliet would not have had to go with the mummy. This is a clear reference to both Romeo and Juliet's flaws in the original play (although, can you call it a flaw when they're both at great risk of dying because their city streets are basically a war zone), and also to the fact that if Romeo had just waited five more minutes before drinking the poison, Juliet would have woken up and they would have escaped.

In the original play, Juliet is encased in her family tomb. Where does the mummy take Wizards!Juliet? His tomb, where he encases her in stone. Justin eventually rescues her with Alex and Mason's help, only for things to then go very wrong, but hey, romance always stumbles in Act 2.

While Juliet is off looking her real age of like, over a thousand years old, Justin tries to move on with varying success. The one he most obvious falls for is Rosie... a reference to Romeo's first love interest, Rosaline.

In the play, Rosaline does not exist to show that Romeo is actually flaky, as cynical modern interpretations assert. Instead, Rosaline exists to be the stereotype of a passive woman. She's a direct parody of Petrarch's Laura, or Dante's Beatrice--both women whom they literally deify as spiritual guides in their poems, but in Petrarch's case he never even spoke to Laura (yeah. yeah.) and Dante never made a move on Beatrice. But their literary works hold this up as holy, because a woman who has sex? Even in matrimony? Less desirable. Less holy. The point of Romeo and Juliet is that Juliet is very human and never "less" because she marries and has sex with Romeo.

Romeo's poetry for Rosaline is deliberately cringey and uses the worst cliches of Shakespeare's time. You're supposed to groan. But Romeo's sonnet at the end of Act 1 is created with Juliet. She's literally saying a couplet, and then he says one, and so on. The poetry when Romeo speaks to and of Juliet was, in Shakespeare's day, incredibly original and stunning. In other words you're supposed to see Rosaline as Romeo being in love with love, and Juliet as the fruition of this.

Anyways. Back to Wizards. Rosie is an angel. Rosaline in the play swears herself to perpetual virginity in a holy vow (but is not a nun, so yes, Shakespeare is pointing at this like "u sure girl?"). Justin's love for Rosie is an infatuation, not real love as it is with Juliet. She's able to quickly manipulate him into bargaining with the devil to destroy the entire world because Rosie became a fallen angel. However, Rosie eventually realizes she loves Justin, truly, and that helps convince her to save Justin from himself and to move back to heaven, where she'll be his guardian angel.

Even though it's told in reverse, this entire arc references the main theme of Romeo and Juliet as a play: being human is good, and love redeems and saves the world. Even though Romeo and Juliet die, their love saves Verona. Rosie's love for Justin might not be requited, but because of it she helps Alex save the world. That she fell from heaven and found love makes her a better guardian angel in the end, not a worse one.

In the end, Juliet reunites with Justin after she's been brainwashed by said devil character, Gorog, which calls back both to the Mummy's mind control and to Justin's and Rosie's story. When Justin, Alex, and Max defeat Gorog, the spell breaks. Juliet expresses horror at what she's done and begs for forgiveness--only to find out that Justin doesn't want her to beg for it. She doesn't need to. She's there, and that's all that matters.

Okay, even besides the Romeo and Juliet arc, The Wizards of Waverly Place is pretty good for a kid's show. It's got very clever moments, and it's clearly a satire that pokes fun at Harry Potter, Twilight, Beauty and the Beast (Alex and Mason), Romeo and Juliet, Cinderella, The Mummy, Night at the Museum, Back to the Future, and more. But you can tell the writers are doing this because they love the original stories, not out of mean-spirited cynicism. It's self-aware without breaking the suspension of disbelief for viewers.

Said suspension of disbelief mostly comes from the characters, who are very well done and have good arcs. Alex and Justin's relationship is at the heart of the series, which fits because the main theme is family. Although Alex at first seems like a slacker on her way to delinquency and Justin's the model student, they are actually far more alike inside than they are different.

Both Alex and Justin know that because of the wizard competition, they only have a limited amount of time to prove themselves. Alex's philosophy is essentially "let's eat and drink and be merry for tomorrow we die/lose our wizard powers," while Justin's is "study study study and be perfect and never lose the power!" But at the heart of both is fear of a coming loss--not just of their power, but of their relationship.

They know one of them will lose powers to the other, and the foundation of their relationship especially in the earlier seasons is helping each other out with magic. It's through untangling Alex's magic-brewed disasters that Justin shows he loves Alex, and it's through asking Justin for help that the normally proud Alex shows that she loves and trusts Justin. You might call it their love language. Without it, can they still even be close?

The ending was perfect because it inverses what you'd expect. Alex goes back to help Justin, knowing that this means she won't win. Justin admits that he messed up and did not actually win, giving up his power because Alex was the rightful winner. And as a result, they are both rewarded: Alex keeps her powers, and Justin also gets to keep them via Professor Crumbs appointing Justin his successor. (Max's story was always more human-world centered, so him getting the subway shop and not his powers fit well for him, too.)

Speaking of Professor Crumbs, I liked how he and other characters like Harper (especially) and Zeke explored the family theme beyond just the Russos. Harper essentially got adopted by Alex's parents because her own parents suck, and Professor Crumbs clearly views both Justin and Alex as his proteges with a fatherly affection. Family can be blood, but it can also be made. So it was fitting that each sibling got a piece of family legacy: Alex as the Family Wizard (extended blood family), Max as the subway shop owner (human parents), and Justin as the next Professor of Magic (found family).

So yeah. If you're looking for a feel good show, this is a good one to check out!

#wizards of waverly place #alex russo #justin russo #juliet van heusen #hamliet reviews #disney #romeo and juliet

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p1x1e-sims · 1 year

Photo

Fall, 1939

“Faster!” Maggie yelled. “Swing me ‘round faster!”

Benjamin sighed, looking to Sam for help. His friend shrugged and smiled, already busy with Peter on his shoulders. It wasn’t like he would be much help anyway, Maggie was ten now and full of more energy than a hummingbird.

Ben groaned. “Alright, kid, here we go, but this is the last time, I mean it.”

Maggie laughed in victory. She was always laughing these days. The weather was nice, which meant she could be outside as much as she pleased, as long as she finished her chores, of course. School was still a drag, but she supposed it could have been worse. At least she got to see Joseph and Jack every day, and race them home after they were let out. Maggie even supposed her little brothers were becoming more tolerable. She found she didn’t mind too much when Peter followed her around, asking questions as she milked Betty and fed the chickens.

She didn’t know too much about life, but Maggie supposed it was all right.

“Again!” She yelled as Ben slowed down from his swinging.

“That’s enough, Maggie!” Her mother called from across the yard. “Let poor Benjamin rest a while.”

Ben shot Gwendoline a look of thanks as he flipped the girl over his shoulder and set her on the ground.

The wild redhead huffed and went over to her twin. “Say, let’s go swimming in the pond, Ginny.”

“No thanks. Miss Theresa said she’d help me with my cross stitch. I’ve been trying to get it right for weeks.”

Maggie huffed again and scrambled off to find a tree to climb. Ginny, meanwhile was perfectly content to sit in the shade with the ladies.

She didn’t mind climbing trees or swimming in ponds, of course. She was still a farm girl. But Ginny hated to dirty the skirt her mother had just ironed, or let her neat braids get all tangled and full of twigs. Sometimes she just liked to sit and observe.

Gwendoline used one hand to hoist up Charles, another to tap her daughter’s shoulder. “Ginny, dear, go and wrangle that chicken over by the tree line. I think Peg got loose again.”

“Alright, Mama.” Ginny skipped over to the bushes, herding the old chicken back into her coop. As she walked back, she swore she could hear voices in the trees. They must have been coming from the path.

“Pa!” She called. “Are you expecting visitors?”

“Huh?” Sam scratched his head. “None that I can recall.”

Ginny walked a bit further, trying to see the strangers. Eventually they came into view, their voices carrying into the yard.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

“Yes, I swear. We went here all the time as kids.”

“Well, you had to ask that man in town for directions-”

“It’s been a while, alright.”

The Townsends and Zimmermans caught sight of the two wandering women as they walked into the yard. One tall and dark, wearing trousers instead of a dress. The other a bit shorter, looking around nervously. They bickered with one another, but affection in their voices was obvious. Sam could hardly believe his eyes.

“Eleanor?” He called out. “Leah?”

The women’s heads perked up. They laughed and hurried on over to Sam and Benjamin. The men caught their cousins in a fierce hug.

Once they saw the women’s faces, they were sure it was them. Neither Sam nor Ben had seen either of the women in years. After Leah’s trip to Selvadora, she immediately began her work as an archeologist. Her adventures all over the world had left no time for trips back home, though they made for exciting letters. Eleanor had bounced from city to city, working on poems and novels and journals. Sam had read some of them, most of the poems were lovesick little sonnets that were obviously about Leah. A bit gushy, but he could appreciate the bittersweet sentiments of two lovers being separated.

Though it seemed they had finally found their way back to one another.

Sam pulled back from hug, grabbing his cousin by the shoulders. “You should have told us you were coming!”

“Oh, I know, I’m so sorry,” Eleanor wrung her hands together. “It just happened so suddenly. I hadn’t planned on any of this until just a few weeks ago.”

“It’s my fault, Sam.” Leah patted her old friend on the arm. “I only just returned from Europe last month. Once I found Ellie and the subject of our dearest cousins came up-” She smiled and nudged Ben. “We realized that you lot have been quite out of the loop lately.”

Gwen sighed. “You’re right about that. We only hear news when we go down to the village, and even then it’s old and insignificant. So tell us, dear, I’m dying for some gossip.”

Leah looked around, awkward all of a sudden. “Uh, Sam,” she pulled him to the side, talking in low tones.

“What’s wrong, it can’t be all that bad, right?” Sam gave his usual smile, trying to perk his friend up. But Leah wouldn’t budge.

“Sam, there’s a reason I left Europe so early. You might be secluded, but I’m sure you’re aware of what’s brewing overseas.”

“Oh.” It all clicked in Sam’s mind.

He looked over to his family. Maggie was sitting on a tree branch, laughing as she dropped leaves on her sister’s head. Ginny hadn’t noticed yet, focused on her cross stitching. Peter was stomping around the mud barefoot, and Charles was clinging to Gwendoline’s leg. Lovely Gwendoline, who hadn’t ever known real hardship. Or heartache.

“We should go inside,” Sam called to the others. “Girls, stay out here and watch the little ones.”

“What’s wrong, daddy?” Maggie called from her branch.

“Nothing you need to worry about, darling. You’ll be all right.”

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#sims #sims 4 #ts4 #sims challenge #sims blog #simblr #decades challenge #sims historical #1940s #townsend legacy #LETS GO LESBIANS RAHHHHHH #also haiiii im back I know its been months im sorry #anyways who wants angst!#I have to use that war mod and if sam or ben dies I might literally cry ab it #my pixel families are so personal to me

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astermath · 8 months

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hey! how has your day been? i hate school sm rn i have to write a sonnet and it took literally forever like i love writing but only when i actually like doing it yk? anyway i hope you’re doing good i love you’re work and just you so i hope you have a lovely night or day! bye bye! 💗

well i just woke up rn actually lmao, but yesterday was pretty hectic. I woke up at 6 in the morning to get ready for school, I arrived, only to find out I was there 4 HOURS EARLY because of a miscommunication on the school’s behalf. i was so pissed but also just so stressed. the afternoon was fine tho, i liked meeting my classmates, our group is so diverse, i like it a lot.

also i’ve never written a sonnet 😭 is that like a poem of some sorts?

#aster replies #anon

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catkittens · 11 months

Text

Talbot Baines Reed: The Poetry Club

During one of my terms at G— (and in speaking of that famous old school it is quite unnecessary to mention more than the first letter of its name) a serious epidemic broke out. It affected chiefly the lower half of the upper school, and during the brief period of its duration it assumed so malignant a type that it is still a marvel to me how any one of its victims ever survived it. The medical and other authorities were utterly incompetent to deal with it. In fact—incredible as it may seem—they deliberately ignored its existence, and left the sufferers to pull through as and how they could. Had it been an ordinary outbreak, as, for instance, scarlatina or diphtheria, or even measles, they would have cleared the school between two “call-overs,” and had us all either in the infirmary or in four-wheelers at our parents’ doors. But just because they had not got this—the most destructive kind of all epidemics—down on their list of infectious disorders, they chose to disregard it utterly, and leave us all to sink or swim, without even calling in the doctor to see us or giving our people at home the option of withdrawing us from our infected surroundings.

I love the old place too well to dwell further on this gross case of neglect. The present authorities no doubt would not repeat the error of their predecessors. Should they be tempted to do so, I trust the present harrowing revelation may be in time to avert the repetition of the calamity of which I was not only a witness but a victim.

The fact is, in the term to which I allude, we fellows in the upper Fifth and lower Sixth took to writing poetry! I don’t know how the distemper broke out, or who brought it to G—. Certain it is we all took it, some worse than others; and had not the Christmas holidays happily intervened to scatter us and so reduce the perils of the contagion, the results might have been worse even than they were.

Now, one poet in a school is bad enough; and two usually make a place very uncomfortable for any ordinarily constituted person. But at G— it was not a case of one poet or even two. There were twenty of us, if there was one, and we each of us considered our claim to the laurel wreath paramount. Indeed, like the bards of old, we fell to the most unseemly contentions, and hated one another as only poets can hate.

It was my tragic lot to act as hon. secretary to the “Poetry Club,” which constituted the hospital, so to speak in which our disease worked out its course during that melancholy term. Why they selected me, it is not for me to inquire. Some of my friends assured me afterwards that it was because, having no pretensions or even capacity to be a poet myself, I was looked upon as the only impartial member of our afflicted fraternity. No doubt they thought it a good reason. Had I known it at the time I should have repudiated the base insinuation with scorn. For I humbly conceived that I was a poet of the first water; and had indeed corrected a great many mistakes in Wordsworth and other writers, and written fifty-six or fifty-seven sonnets before ever the club was thought of. And Stray himself, who was accounted our Laureate, had only written thirty-four, and they averaged quite a line less than mine!

Be that as it may, I was secretary of the club, and to that circumstance the reader is indebted for the treat to which I am about to admit him. For in my official capacity I became custodian of not a few of the poetical aspirations of our members; and as, after the abatement of the disease, they none of them demanded back their handiwork—if poetry can ever be called handiwork—these effusions have remained in my charge ever since.

Some of them are far too sacred and tender for publication, and of others, at this distance of time, I confess I can make nothing at all. But there lies a batch before me which will serve as a specimen of our talents, and can hardly hurt the feelings of any one responsible for their production.

Our club, as I have said, was highly competitive in its operations. It by no means contented us each to follow his own course and woo his own muse. No, we all set our caps at the same muse and tried to cut one another out. If I happened to write an ode to a blackbird—and I wrote four or five—every one else must write an ode to a blackbird too; until the luckless songster must have hated the sound of its own name.

It was no easy work finding fit subjects for these poetic competitions. But the papers lying here before me remind me at least of one which excited great interest and keen rivalry. Complaints had been made that the club had hitherto devoted itself almost altogether to abstract rhapsodies, and had omitted the cultivation of itself in the epic or heroic side of its genius. On the other hand, the abstract rhapsodists protested that any one could write ballads, and that the subject to be chosen should at least be such as would admit of any treatment. One member suggested we should try the fifth proposition of the first book of Euclid, as being both abstract and historical—but he was deemed to be a scoffer. Eventually Stray said, why not take a simple nursery rhyme and work upon it, just as musicians take some simple melody as the theme of their great compositions?

It was a good idea, and after some consideration—for we had most of us forgotten our nursery rhymes—we fixed upon the tragical history of “Jack and Jill;” and decided to deal with it.

The understanding was that we might treat it any way we liked except—notable exception—in prose!

And so we went off to our studies and gave ourselves up to our inspirations. The result, the reader shall judge of for himself. Only he shall never know the real names of the poets; nor will anything induce me to disclose which particular production was the performance of the humble Author of this veritable narrative.

I will select the specimens haphazard, and distinguish them only by their numbers.

Number 1 was a follower of the classic models, and rendered the story in Homeric fashion.

Attend, ye Nine! and aid me, while I sing The cruel fate of two whom heaven’s dread king Hurled headlong to their doom. Scarce had the sun His blazing course for one brief hour run When Jack arose and radiant climbed the mount To where beneath the summit sprang the fount. Nor went he single; Jill, the beauteous maid, Danced at his side, and took his proffered aid. Together went they, pail in hand, and sang Their love songs till the leafy valleys rang. Alas! the fount scarce reached, the heedless swain Turned on his foot and slipped and turned again. Then fell he headlong: and the woe-struck maid, Jealous of his fell doom, a moment stayed And watched him; then to the depths she rushed And shared his fate. Behold them, mangled, crushed. Weep, oh my muse! for Jack, for Jill your tears outpour, For hand-in-hand they’ll climb the hill no more.

After this somewhat severe version of the story it is a relief to turn to the lighter rendering of the same affecting theme by Number 2. Number 2 was evidently an admirer of that species of poetry which begins everything at the wrong end, and seems to expect the reader to assist the poet in understanding what it is the latter is driving at.

What’s the matter, Jack? Lost your head, poor wight! I always told you the block wasn’t screwed on too tight. Tumbled? Is that it? It’s a mercy you lit on your head. Nothing brittle in that;—if you’d come on your feet instead— Broke it? No, never! You have? I knew it was slightly cracked: Never mind that there was nought to come out—that’s a comforting fact! What! two of you? Who is the other? Not Jill, I declare! Is her head cracked too? On my word, you’re a pair. Have I seen a pail lying about? Why, no, I have not. Pails don’t grow wild on this hill—that is, that I wot. Oh, you dropped it, you did? Oh, I see, ’twas your pail, And it tumbled you both o’er the rock? That’s your tale. It may turn up somewhere, perhaps. So you fell Off the edge of the path that leads up to the well? Well, all’s well that ends well, at least so ’tis said; But next time you’d better stay down, and try to fall uphill instead.

Some of us at the time thought highly of this performance. I remember one fellow saying that Number 2 seemed to have caught the spirit of Mr Browning without his vagueness, which was a very great compliment.

Number 3’s poetry ran chiefly in dramatic lines. He therefore boldly threw the narrative into dialogue form:—

Shepherdess.—Alas, my Jack is dead!

Shepherd.—I mourn for lovely Jill.

Both.—A common fate o’ertook them on the hill.

Shepherdess.—I watched them go—him and the hateful minx.

Shepherd.—I smiled to mark his footsteps on the brinks.

Both.—Cruel deceiver he/she! shameless intriguer she/he!

Shepherdess.—’Twas she who lured him o’er the cruel ledge.

Shepherd.—’Twas he who basely dragged her to the edge.

Both.—Oh! faithless he/she! oh! monstrous traitor she/he!

Shepherdess.—Her fate no tongue shall mourn, no eye shall weep; Shepherd.—His doom was all deserved upon the steep.

Both.—Oh! hapless he/she! oh! wicked wicked she/he!

Shepherdess.—Take warning, Shepherd; trust no faithless Jill.

Shepherd.—Nor you, fair nymph, with Jack e’er climb a hill.

Both.—Oh, woe is me! and woe, oh woe is thee!

Shepherdess.—With thee, poor youth, I fain would shed a tear.

Shepherd.—Maiden, with thee I’d sit and weep a year.

Both.—Wouldst thou but smile, I too would dry mine eye; Nay, let’s do both, and laugh here till we cry.

Number 4 was a specimen of the simple ditty style which leaves nothing unexplained, and never goes out of its course for the sake of a well-turned phrase.

When Jack was twelve and Jill was ten Their mother said, “My dear children, I want you both to take the pail We bought last week from Mr Gale, And fill it full of water clear, And don’t be long away, do you hear?” Then Master Jack and Sister Jill Raced gaily up the Primrose Hill, And filled the pail up to the top, And tried not spill a single drop. But sad to tell, just half way down Jack tripped upon a hidden stone, And tumbled down and cut his head So badly that it nearly bled. And Jill was so alarmed that she. Let drop the pail immediately And fell down too, and sprained her hand, And had to go to Dr Bland And get it looked to; while poor Jack Was put to bed upon his back.

Number 4 regarded his performance with a certain amount of pride. He said it was after the manner of Wordsworth, and was a protest against the inflated style of most modern poetry, which seemed to have for its sole object to conceal its meaning from the reader. We had a good specimen of this kind of writing from Number 5, who wrote in blank verse, as he said, “after the German.”

I know not why—why seek to know? Is not All life a problem? and the tiniest pulse Beats with a throb which the remotest star Feels in its orbit? Why ask me? Rather say Whence these vague yearnings, whither swells this heart, Like some wild floweret leaping at the dawn? ’Tis not for me, ’tis not for thee to tell, But Time shall be our teacher, and his voice Shall fall unheard, unheeded in the midst! Still art thou doubtful? Then arise and sing Into the Empyrean vault, while I Drift in the vagueness of the Ambrosian night.

We none of us dared inquire of Number 5 what was the particular bearing of these masterly lines upon the history of Jack and Jill. I can picture the smile of pitying contempt with which such a preposterous question would have been met. And I observe by the figures noted at the back of this poem that it received very few marks short of the highest award.

Number 6 posed as democratic poet, who appealed to the ear of the populace in terms to which they are best accustomed.

’Twas a lovely day in August, at the top of Ludgate Hill I met a gay young couple, and I think I see them still; They were drinking at the fountain to cool their parching lips, And they said to one another, looking up between their sips— Chorus—I’d sooner have it hot, love; I’d rather have it hot; It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not? They took a four-wheel growler for a drive all round the town, And told the knowing cabby not to let his gee-gee down; But they’d scarcely got to Fleet Street when their off-hind-wheel went bang, And they pitched on to the kerb-stone, while the crowd around them sang— Chorus—I’m glad you’ve got it hot, love; I’m pleased you’ve got it hot; It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not? Moral. Now all you gay young couples, list to my fond appeal, Beware of four-wheel growlers with spokes in their off-hind-wheel; And when you go up Ludgate Hill, all on a summer day, Don’t drink much at the fountain; or if you do, I say— Be sure and take it hot, love; be sure and take it hot; It’s nicer with the chill off—much nicer, is it not?

This poem was not highly marked, although Number 6 confessed he had sat up all night writing it. He thought we had missed the underlying philosophy of his version, and was sorry for it. As he said, the first essential of a poem is that it should be read, and he believed no one could deny that he had at least written up to that requirement.

There was a more serious moral hidden in Number 7’s version, which was stated to be on the models of the early sonnets:—

Two lovers on one common errand bound, One common fate o’erwhelms; and so, me-seems, A fable have we of our daily round, Who in these groves of learning here are found Climbing Parnassus’ slopes. Our aim is one, And one the path by which we strive to soar; Yet, truer still, or ere the prize be won, A common ruin hurls us to our doom. ’Twere best we parted, you and I; so, Fate, Baulked of her double prey, may seek in vain, And miss us both upon the shadowy plain.

The writer of Number 8 I always suspected of being a borrower of other people’s ideas. In fact it seemed as if he must have had “A Thousand and One Gems” open before him while he was at work, and to have drawn liberally from its pages.

The way was long, the night was cold, And Jack and Jill were young and bold. “Try not the hill,” the old man said, “Dark lowers the tempest overhead.” A voice replied far up the height, “We’ve many a step to walk this night.” Ah, luckless speech! ah, bootless boast! Two minutes more and they were lost. Who would not weep for Jack and Jill? They died, though much against their will. And the birds of the air all fell sobbing and sighing As they heard of these two unfortunates dying.

The concluding line (which was the only original one in the poem) was specially weak, and Number 8, I observe, only received one vote, and that was probably given by himself.

But, for originality and humour, Number 9’s version was the most distinguished of the lot. With it I conclude, and if I may express an unbiassed opinion, many years after the memorable contest, I consider it far and away the best version of the story of Jack and Jill I have ever met with.

Jack and Jill Went up a hill To fetch a pail of water, Jack fell down And broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.

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