#I just hate that the quality goes down when I post

[kaarnalaiva]

I got stripes 🌞🌞🌞

// do not add captions please

[one-piece-aus]

What would marriage life would be like with the seven warlords?

This is an old anon request, I do apologize for not getting to it sooner but here we go

What Marriage Life Would Be Like With the Seven Warlords (Headcanons)

It's pretty chill being married to Mihawk

Y'all just vibe in a mansion on an isolated island

I imagine Mihawk is a person of quality time and acts of service so the two of you would often spend time together

Whether it's reading in your library or cooking dinner for each other, every moment you do together and action you do for him is cherished in Mihawk's heart, even if he doesn't mention it

He makes sure you're healthy and well (eating properly, making sure you get your sleep)

This man will be able to instantly tell if your state is the slightest bit off and will not hesitate to voice his concern

He is not opposed to having children, the idea might amuse him

In fact, after Zoro and Perona had made their appearance, Mihawk grew fond of the idea taking care of his own child, even if they would be irritating at times

Btw, Zoro and Perona think you two act like an old married couple ❤

Only way this would be possible is if you are someone like Luffy

She might not understand exactly what marriage life means but she will do her best to make you happy

She is going to cook for you and feed you

She will bathe you and make sure you have the best clothes to wear

And she will order the best doctors to bring you back to your best health if you get sick

She is taking ✨amazing✨ care of you

The two of you are just living the life of luxury regardless of where you choose to live because you two are together and happy

You will not have kids (for a number of reasons that I will not get into because this is supposed to be a fun post)

Alright, I had no idea what to do for Moria so I asked @ask-the-night-crowl for these headcanons, thank you again Snugs

In a marriage, Moria would totally rely on his partner to fulfill all the duties he has/ should be responsible for. Granted, the other mysterious four already take over most of those, but someone has to keep them all in check.

His spouse better not be aversed by his crew, because for as much as he says he doesn't care about these idiots, he would also face death to protect them.

Unless him and his s/o have known eachother for a pretty long time, he'll try to keep them at an arm's length. Not necessarily because they don't have good enough of a connection, but the idea of loss is always on his mind.

He doesn't mind affection. In fact, he'll back-handedly seek it out by annoying his s/o until they give him attention if he so desires. He's pretty much like an oversized cat.

On the other hand, you'll also have to be prepared not to see him for days on end, because of his sleeping habits (Again, like a cat).

But in that time, cuddling with him is totally fine, because once that man is out, he sleeps like a rock.

His frequent nightmares might lead to the conclusion that comforting him would be the answer. But he hates the idea of being treated as weak as that and would much rather appreaciate the mere presence of his s/o when he wakes up next to them.

In contrast, he'll offer the same to his s/o when they feel down and would have an immediate (even petty) grudge against anyone harming them.

Staying in with him at a fireplace, drinking fancy wines and making fun of the other warlords would be his favorite way to spend time when he's awake for once.

If the spouse is good at cooking, you can bet they'll become his personal chef - after all, love goes through the stomach amirite.

If you're marrying Doffy, his family comes as a package deal, you can't have him without it, that being said, he expects you to get along with them (you can tolerate them instead but just don't let him notice)

Of course, he will expect you to take care of Baby 5, Buffalo, and Dellinger as if they were your children, he is open to making blood offsprings, but never put them before him

Doffy is your number 1 priority, whatever he says goes

But just because he's demanding doesn't mean he won't show you affection, in fact, most of his demands is just him wanting to give or receive affection

You are showed in gifts and luxury, he is the king of Dressrosa afterall, your word has every weight as his own since your are his queen

He is proud to show off his spouse, you are his most prized possession after all

However, you are more than just a trophy, after the loss of his dear mother and brother, he holds you close and tells you how dear you are to him every night

You are often woken up in the middle of the night due to his rustling from nightmares, just hold him to calm him down

Crocodile keeps you in the dark about his work, for all you know, he is a casino owner in Alabasta that keeps the people safe from pirates since he's a warlord

He takes you out for a stroll around in the evening, outside to admire the stars, or in the casino where your every need is met

He doesn't show affection in public but his gestures do show you belong to him and no one else

He keeps you company in bed at night until you fall asleep but when you wake up, he is not there, he's working as always

When see him next, he'll have a gift for you, an apology for not being able to always be around as he is a very busy man, but he'll make it up to you

I imagine it would be comfortable, like little cottage in nature kind of comfy

You both would wake up in the morning with a nice cup of tea

Your place would be clean and organized

You'd receive lots of comforting hugs and cuddles

Life would be peaceful

Until strawhat crew comes knocking on your door

Don't quite have any ideas for Kuma so... This is end, I hope you enjoy anon, and thank you for requesting

[capslocked]

STARLET

male reader x cho miyeon

part 1 of another name up in lights

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second photo is what gets people talking. 

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

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

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

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

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

Lights the internet on fire for a minute.

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

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

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

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

You hate Miyeon, and Miyeon hates you.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

“The part is interesting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon sniffles, blinks a few times, and nods.

-

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

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

She knows it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna make you beg, Miyeon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you said, almost. 

“—amazing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she does. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

The least unusual thing happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you at the grocery?”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What color?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Sex sells. Suggestion is priceless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, collect yourself. “I am.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers tighten in her hair, grip, pull. 

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

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

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

“Tell me what you want, Miyeon.”

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

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

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

“You,” she rasps, “all of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

No, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon drops her arm and tilts her head quizzically. 

“What do you think of the script?” 

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

“That’s the one.”

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

“I’ll take what pity I can get.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuqi,” Sana groans.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That really never gets old.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon says emptily, “you’re overreacting.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, kind of sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I,” Yuqi starts— 

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

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

Kisses you right in front of her.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, high expectations?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mnnph.

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

Mmnnppph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I will.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gets jealous, Yuqi’s trying to explain, in between the sounds of you fucking her open and raw. You hesitate. Like you haven’t always had that effect on people, blossomed into blessing, complexed into curse. You reach your hand up Yuqi’s ribs, her chest, around her throat, and let your words bite at her ear: “oh, I think you will too.”

-

“I get hate mail,” you tell Miyeon. You’re on set the following week, ducking out of the path of a mic boom that is swinging way too fucking low, and there’s this story trending that heavily suggests you and Miyeon are knocking boots and it has a few disheartened fans absolutely outraged. “Like physical hate mail, in envelopes and stamped and everything.”

“It’s because of the stubble,” she says, rubbing a finger under your jaw. The girl in charge of costuming is adamant that beard prosthetics are lazy and cheap and you are neither. Even if you need it for only one scene. “It makes you look…”

“Uncouth?”

“Rakish,” she says, blinking. And as an afterthought: “Like, of all your thoughts, the one you have of pulling my shirt up and kissing at my tits until they’re sore is somehow the least vulgar.” 

Her shoulders pull up into the slightest shrug. “I mean I’m into it,” she adds.

“That’s not fair,” you tell her, “I’m not considering anything like that.”

Miyeon pulls you aside and up one of set’s staircases to nowhere, fingers warm at the crook of your elbow, and says, “well, it’s all I can fucking think about.”

-

Take a second for some personal reflection: you’ve never really tried to make a habit of anything and at the same time been successful. When it happens, it just kind of happens. We are what we repeatedly do.

In a way, it all started in public, this thing between you and Miyeon. Your roots are here, out with the blurs of passing people, daring to be seen, to be recognized, to be identified. You had long thought—and think, you do, particularly when doing the unthinkable—that a girl like Miyeon would steer away from the prospect; fucking you instead in private, comfort realized in the security of drawn curtains and shuttered blinds. A stark contrast to the part of your lives lived out in the open, subject to scrutiny and skepticism, unguarded from microscopic observation.

She only has everything to lose, you understand. And you aren’t more than a few paces behind her either. Reckless, she’s muttering while you sink to your knees and get your fingers up her skirt, so reckless—like this whole thing isn’t her idea.

The crazy part about all this that you actually do get caught. Not just one time either. 

You’ll bring it up in discussion with Soyeon later, when you run into her at the movie’s premier event and you’ve realized the value of having a good confidant:

“I literally told you one thing,” she’ll say, hands on her hips and looking like the mother that has to call the school, has to call the parent of the window you’d shattered with a baseball. It’ll all be highly disappointing. You are unbelievable—is what she won’t be able to say, even though she’ll really, really want to—I told you not to sleep with Miyeon and you slept with Miyeon why would you sleep with Miyeon you absolute moron.

-

There’s the time on set: in a fucking storage closet of all places. You’ve got Miyeon laid back on a table, fucking her slowly. Her panties are in her mouth, and the toes of her foot are curling against your cheek. It starts with a kiss, which most people might consider poetic, just your lips against a heel, the narrow bend of her arch to where she’s got her delicate toes perfectly colored in pastel white; Miyeon’s too cock-addled to do anything like comment on the fact you take them between your lips, slowly, and again, sucking, kissing her feet until she laughs at the way it tickles.

“Oh my god,” a voice says. One of the production assistants. “Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry.”

-

There’s the time in the woods near where you’re shooting a few of the outdoor scenes. You’re stepping out of a tall brush, and Miyeon’s cheeks are so red, glistening in sweat and cum and there’s a technician running an extension cord to god knows where to hook up more lights to the rigging.

“Um,” he says, just staring and unwinding more cord.

“We were looking for her earring,” you tell him.

“In the fucking woods?” He laughs out loud, just this self-amused grunt of a laugh. “Did you find it?”

You actually can’t look him in the eye, and Miyeon is just standing there, mortified. Your forehead creases a puzzled line and you say, with absolute conviction: yes.

-

“Jesus christ, Miyeon.” You swivel on your stool in your dressing room. Think possibly to kneel, but you know what might happen if she sees you on your knees, supplicating.

Let the record show, you and Miyeon are on day six of your self-imposed moratorium—the ban that prohibits the two of you fucking eachother at work, so it’s not like it’s the fastest capitulation in the world either.

Miyeon does a spin, pleated hem of a navy blue plaid skirt flaring out to the sides—how do I look?

There are answers in your throat, no doubt—like sin, like fantasy, like a submissive, fuckable fantasy. Like it should be illegal.

“Uh—I mean,” you nearly stammer, massaging your thumb into your temple. It’s certainly not natural for you to be here, on the back foot, and it has Miyeon’s mouth slanting into a predictable smirk. In an almost inexcusably banal act, she puts a fingernail to her teeth and shimmies her waist so that you’re lost to the moment, tracking how the skirt’s fabric ruffles between her legs.

Is it the fact that some maniac in costume has gone and put her in a school uniform?

Yes. 

That's a great deal of what’s going on here, which is a whole fucking lot. Is it the way her shoulders vanish in a tailored blazer with a nostalgia-inducing insignia above the breast pocket—her fingers poking out from the cuffs and toying at the lapels? Is it that the dress shirt beneath it is made of the cheapest cotton one could find (because the thing doesn’t really need to hold up over multiple washes) so you can see how her stomach flattens, that gentle rise in her chest, the sharp angle of her collarbones, all when the light catches it just right? There’s the stockings, dress shoes, a fucking ribbon in her hair and you’re ignoring the fact that the tie around her neck is a little loose and you might be able spin it over her shoulders and tighten your grip and—

“Cute, right?” She skips across the room and perches on your knee. Really selling it.

“I’m curious,” you say, looking for a narrow gap, something to stow away into, something that might take your mind off the fact that when you look at Miyeon, you’re transposing and overlaying images of an eleventh grade crush, and that’s not a mood you were prepared to be whipped into at just the flash of blue plaid and a charcoal blazer. “When was the last time you wore a ribbon in your hair?” 

“Oh gosh.” One corner of Miyeon’s mouth frowns, ruminating. She hovers her hand up to her ponytail, twisting it gently until it bounces back into place. “It’s been such a long time actually, I don’t know, seventeen, eighteen years old?”

Okay, that’s certainly not helping. A more direct approach, perhaps: “what are you doing, Miyeon?”

“Oh,” she says, nonchalant, because isn’t it obvious, “I’m here to get fucked.”

This is trouble, and among other things, a perversion, you think, but your mouth is too dry to say any of that, and Miyeon leans in and places her fingers beneath your jaw. Tilts your chin and presses her lips to yours, gentle, feather-light.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand.

Shifting slightly, the inside of Miyeon’s thigh presses to the outside of yours, only ever the slightest movement, and it has you sighing into her mouth. It’s impossible to decide whether you ought admire her confidence or find fault with her gall. She’s a delightful lapful—and a handful, and a mouthful—so you’ll flirt with danger, abandon those last vestiges of inhibition, and lean into the former rather than the latter.

Miyeon’s breath lands against your lips, hitching as the kiss breaks.

“Look,” you say, lip smacking back into place when she finally lets it free. There’s a response, bubbling up from your gut, because on one hand, this is the exact kind of impropriety you were hoping to avoid. And on the other, well, nothing ventured, nothing lost—you suppose. Your eyes are flicking to the top buttons of her shirt, collar agape and that gentle invitation of cleavage snuck behind it.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon says, inches from your face, and she starts to laugh. “You have grays in your beard.”

“No there aren’t.”

“I’m serious.” She wraps her hand around your cheeks, and twists your face to the vanity mirror, like it’d be helpful. “Look,” she says, twice, pulling her lip between her teeth and staring at your reflection.

“Those are stress grays,” you amend, before turning back and shifting her weight more comfortably into your lap, soft thighs straddling yours. “Just to be clear, I’m barely any older than you are.”

“Older,” she says, smiling.

“Don’t have to dwell on it.”

“I mean there’s a silver lining to that though.” Miyeon’s fingers are spread across your face, thumbs gently rubbing into your cheekbones. She’s close enough for you to forget her manager is going to come looking for her at some point or another. “Just means I can call you daddy, and it won’t be weird.”

“Uh.”

“You know,” she adds, sliding her fingers over your ears and pressing a kiss into your jaw, “while we’re doing it.”

“No, I understood that part.” You give her another once over and firm your hands on her waist to stop her from grinding her hips any further into yours. “I’m not sure it’s age that potentially makes it weird.”

“Come on,” she says, letting her voice slip into that slightly deepened register that suggests not only will she disobey you, but you’ll love every second of it. “I know you love to play with me.”

“It’s not a trick question. What are you asking for here, Miyeon?”

“Sex,” she says.

“Yes,” you answer, blinking back at her, expression skeptical. “I was there for that part of the conversation. It was about sixty seconds ago, if I recall.”

She lifts your chin, looks straight in your eyes, and asks, “and?”

“I’m just trying to puzzle out what you're telling me.” You slide your fingertips past the waist of her skirt and onto her ass. The quiet hum of satisfaction in Miyeon’s throat says you’re getting warmer. “What it is you want.”

“Any ideas?” she presses again, the lilt in her voice filling you with hundreds—the countenance behind it providing even more. Her hips grind into you further, bucking toward your waist and silencing the anxious distance between you.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Your hand snakes around the curve of Miyeon’s ass, down to where her underwear feels hot and unmistakably damp, where you can feel the shape of her lips through the fabric and the heat smoldering between them. There’s a tiny wanton whine from her throat when you circle your fingers; a sharp draw of air past her teeth when you apply a little more pressure. “Want my fingers inside of you? Hmm?”

Miyeon nods almost immediately.

You kiss her. Slide your mouth over her lips and recognize the strawberry in her lip gloss and hold onto your exhale, breathing the same air. Her eyes open first, lashes brushing yours. “You want me to fuck you, Miyeon.”

“Want you to tell me what to do,” she says, and without even running the word experimentally around her mouth, without testing its taste or the way it feels on her tongue, she fixes her dark brilliant eyes on you, saying, “want daddy to tell me what to do.”

You’ve got all this about nature and nurture running amuck in your head to the backdrop of the sound of a large cable snapping. It’s dangerous. It’s not like you, you’re not the type, you’re telling yourself, and a lot of other rubbish that isn’t concerned by the fact that Miyeon’s here, fucking dressed like this, ponytail bobbing, ribbon in her hair begging to come undone—

Lock the door, you say to her, and she does. Turn around. Take your jacket off, and she pauses first, before twisting her arms from the sleeves and folding it neatly over the back of a chair. You’ve got a hand outstretched as she walks toward you; your panties, hand them over, and she reaches down beneath her skirt, rolling her underwear down her smooth thighs, her calves, eyes never once leaving yours—watching you watch her. 

Sit.

Touch yourself. 

Slowly; slower—

It’s almost ridiculous. You’ve hardly even laid a hand on her, and she’s got her eyes looking up at you like you’d just set all her biological clocks an hour forward, cranked up to ten-minutes-to-midnight, and replaced all her coherent thoughts with just one simple thing: how bad she needs you to cum in her cunt.

She’s settled at the front of the vanity counter, feet against your chest, head tilting back against the mirror, and she’s gently slapping her own pussy with the pads of her fingers, covered and wet in her own anticipation. Your hands are nothing like hers—these slender, delicate things—and it’s driving her up the wall. You’re spreading her thighs, opening her up, bringing the roughness in your fingers, the heel of your palm so close. Miyeon can’t help it.

“You’re such a slut,” you tell her, watching her shove one, two fingers past the glistening lips her pussy—biting back a laugh as she starts to fuck herself slowly for you. “And already this fucking wet.”

Miyeon just smiles, eyes hooded and looking at you with such perfectly sinful intent. “I thought that’s how daddy likes his little girl.”

(Don’t get it confused: it’s never been a challenge to play a character, to be someone you are not, to emotionally identify and aspire to the details of a part. But this is different. This is seamless. This is you leaning into that space, living in it, loving it. A physical part of you. Genuine and true.)

You grapple Miyeon’s wrist, pulling her hand away from the want of her pussy, denying her all of that friction. She whines, but puts up little to no fuss when you bring her hand to her face and clear your voice of anything that doesn’t inspire authority—deliver an order, sternly, with her fingers in her mouth, suck.

“Here’s a lesson.” You click your tongue as she closes her eyes and sets her jaw in motion to clean her own slick off her nails, her knuckles. “The only thing that goes in my princess’s cunt, is daddy’s cock.”

“In that case,” Miyeon says around her fingers still between her lips, a smile spreading across all of her perfected features—voice lilting, reeling you in, sinking its teeth into your skin: I think daddy’s going to have to punish me.

Oh, you’re one step ahead of her, thinking of all the ways how, and the sound of your zipper coming undone makes Miyeon's eyes go wide with want, with need. Her petite, perfect, fuckable body still locked away behind fabric, she starts hiking her skirt even higher up her hips, lazily unfastening the buttons of her shirt. 

You tell her to put her feet together, wrapping a grip onto her stockings and pulling her legs closed—twisting them to the side and letting her heels clack together over your shoulder. The gentle motion of your thumb between her thighs gets her sucking a sharp draw of air. Always so vocal Miyeon is at the slightest provocation.

Your cock is harder than it’s ever, ever been; harder yet as you tease it at the folds of Miyeon’s entrance, pushing it against sensitive skin and earning you pleased little chirrups from deep in her chest, repeating, “yes, yes, yes—”

She’s only halfway down the buttons on her shirt, collar gaping open and lolling to the sides of her soft shoulders, sliding partway downway her arms, and then it’s that fucking tie still loosely hanging around her neck—so impossibly irresistable. The motion is practiced, near effortless: you slip right into the tight embrace of her creaming cunt. When she makes it through the length of a heavy breath through pursed lips, you sink even in further.

“Oh, this pussy is fucking incredible,” you sputter, voice come to reckon with the fucking bind that is Miyeon’s body, coiling beneath your weight the deeper you cock reaches inside her. “I don’t know that I could ever punish you. Maybe I should just spoil you, princess; get on my knees and make you cum on my mouth instead—”

“No.”

“What was that?” you coax, fucking into her cunt slowly, and your little girl growls at you. You can’t help but chuckle, making a tight grasp of the tie around her neck, and start to twist. 

Miyeon’s flushed all over, eyes glassy, but emblazoned still, a spark of defiance in those deep shimmering pools that makes her all the more alluring. Her lashes flutter—whole body tensing in response—as your thighs crash into her, cock deep inside the tight grip of her cunt.

She feels amazing.

“Yes, please,” she tells you, huffing out the words and changing her tune as you begin to let her have you, let her revel in the determined rhythm of you fucking her like she’s come to expect. “God, yes, daddy please…”

It’s so easy to fuck Miyeon—muscle memory and learned behavior—so easy to sink your fingers into her ass, her thighs, her tits, wrap your arms around her waist and start fucking her so quickly it has her pussy so wet it’s not even slowing you down in the slightest when you pull harder on the tie around her neck, draw her writhing body into you, and start to use her.

“You’re fucking, god, you’re fucking tearing me open,” she tells you with her brows sinking over eyes screwed shut, “it feels so fucking good—tell me, do you like fucking me? Do you like fucking your little slut?

“Fucking love it,” you whisper against her ear.

It doesn’t even cross your mind for a second, whether she wanted to be fucked like this, wanted to be used and choked and pounded so hard her legs buckled and her muscles ached and she could barely remember her own name—she landed in your lap, flirted with this danger, both of you immediately aware of what all it entailed. 

Miyeon didn’t just invite it, the girl fucking craves it.

Just like this, she’s muttering, voice barely rasping into anything audible under the weight of your grip, fuck your little slut just like this—bathing your cock in the delicious cream and slick of her pussy so that you might fuck it all back into her. When she starts moving like this, body shaking in quakes and quivers, voice woven into her mewls and moans, you know she’s so fucking close, only in want of a little encouragement—

“There you go, good girl,” you breathe against her lips, kissing them abruptly, before letting her weight fall back to the vanity counter with just the slightest release of the tie in your fist. “Cum for me, princess, I know you want to—know you want to cum all over daddy’s cock. You’re practically sobbing for me, baby. Go ahead, just cum.”

Sheltered somewhere in quiet of those sloppy, wet, lewd sounds, the score of your cock sliding in and out of Miyeon, is the strangled cry that sneaks out of her throat, gasping: “cumming, I’m fucking cumming, please, I—god.”

Accentuated by the fact that her arms are still halfway trapped in the cotton of her shirt, she can’t do a thing from underneath you. She’s near trapped under the weight, the sheer tempo of at which you’re ruining her cunt. You’re ripping your name in moans and prayers off her lips and she can hardly move beyond that slight squirm in your arms, writhe in the way you mold her to you, overcome in pleasure at how she’s left so full, perfectly remade to the shape of your cock.

Her fingers are splayed across your ribs, holding you, bracing against you, and none of it’s anything you haven’t told her before—so pretty, take it so well, your cunt’s perfect, you’re perfect, so good sweetheart—but in aggregate, taking the length your cock, taking all of you, she shatters apart.

Your hands are on her cheeks, thumbing strands of tousled hair ever-so-gently back into place, and you’re feeling the way her skin burns bright red, feeling the way she gasps for air in shallow pants, feeling her cunt clench hard around you. It’s the moments like these, where she’s delicate to touch, soothed only by your lips pressed to the tip of her nose, her forehead—finding comfort in the arm she swings over your shoulders—she’s so wildly beautiful. 

“So fucking—” She lets her voice even out, and after multiple attempts, gets the words she wants in the right order: “so good, how do—so fucking good baby, how do you want? Cum. How do you want to cum?”

“Could fucking paint your pretty face,” you tell her, moving your hips back to life and fucking into her soaked, messy cunt slowly. The way you push a kiss into her soft lips—now wet and slightly swollen from how she’d been biting them—is a little at odds with the suggestion.

“Ha. I think I get it,” Miyeon starts, the shy smile filling her mouth taking over the shape of her ragged huffs and pants, “we throw daddy around a few times, and suddenly you’re afraid to cum inside me, is that it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s not it at all.” The fact that she’s recovered an ounce of resolve, chip steadily reappearing on her shoulder, is nothing more than a facade, and you’re drawing back the curtain, finding her body still wracked, plenty malleable, puddied and easy to manipulate with a firm grip around her waist. “Let me show you.”

“And just what is it that I’m—” 

Miyeon’s voice breaks almost immediately as you turn her over in your hands. Her knuckles hit the vanity counter and her legs wobble where they land precariously on the floor. She’s so wet and well-fucked that the mess you’d made of her cunt is effortless to slip back into. You allow her more, pushing in as deep as you’ll go, faster than she can blink, faster she can think to protest. It’s the angle that makes her back arch with surprised, sudden pleasure. The depth that makes her eyes shut tight, a gasp not quite making it past her lips. 

Watch.

She can see it all, in the perimeter of fluorescent bulbs, reflection staring back at her. The way her porcelain skin lights aflame. There’s sweat beading across her forehead, blonde hair darkening at its roots. Her lips are parted slightly, tender swell cushioning the bite of her teeth—her eyes are hooded, chin tilting, and she’s watching herself moan and curse as you start to fuck her. She’s perfect, and she knows she’s perfect.

You pull her skirt forward over the round of her ass, fingers sunk into the soft skin, and fuck her harder, until the counter is shaking with it, until she’s crying out, any concept of shame or embarrassment long forgotten. 

“Oh, please,” she starts, settling into your cadence, feeling delighted at the way you fill her.

Her fingers are white-knuckled as she clings to the edge of the counter, and in between breathless little noises, these sharp gasps and whines or another, between the unyielding motions of your cock in her cunt, she writhes.

“Please, please, please, please make me cum again,” she barely manages, blathering and stuttering over her own words. “Please use this little cunt, fucking use me, fuck me, fill me—”

“Anything for my princess,” you say, and after pressing a long row of kisses into the curve of her spine—a heavy kiss of your lips into the sharp edge of her shoulder—you bring a hand to the back of her neck, the slippery-smooth locks of hair already bundled and begging for your fist, becoming your grip.

“Oh my god,” Miyeon mutters, watching her body bend to your will, arching backward into your cock and becoming flush all over. Her eyes flick up to yours, begging you to fill her deeper, fuck her faster, fuck her harder. “Daddy please…”

The way her cunt sleeves onto your cock is so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight, especially when the fingers woven in her hair flex taut—and so does she—how could you ever think to do anything but?

You pull harder on her hair, tension building in the curving bow of her body, arching further and further into submission. Her face is close enough for you to kiss, to lean into her ear, to whisper, “Miyeon, baby, I’m going to make you cum again. Gonna make you cum all over my cock. Be a good girl for me and take it.”

Miyeon’s voice is flooded, drenched and soaked in meek cries. More so by the minute. She’s whining and gasping and fighting for air like she hasn’t been coached a thousand times on how to keep a clean image. Beyond the curses and filth, the nonsensical string of obscenities falling off Miyeon’s lips, it’s gratitude: “thank you, thank you, thank you, please keep fucking me, please just use me—”

It’s obscene, filthy, it’s practically pornographic–-all framed for her to see. Miyeon’s costume is still barely clinging to her tiny frame, coming off in pieces. And you’re sliding your hand across her smooth stomach, up her ribs and hooking fingers between the cups of her bra, until it comes down far enough around her waist that it simply unclasps and falls to the floor. Every time bring your hips forward, fuck your cock harder into her cunt, you track the movement of her body in the mirror: shoulders lurching, mouth gasping, tits shaking—Miyeon recoiling. 

Even the ribbon in her hair can’t stand against the intensity of it, untangling from her ponytail and falling to the counter, defeated.

Beauty is a picture in motion, and Miyeon is nothing if not elegant. You slow your pace to admire her, hands at her breasts, her waist, still holding firm around her hair and curling her body into your control. She whines louder when you kiss her temple, rasping against the sweat building in her hair. “Make yourself cum for me baby, fuck your little cunt on my cock until you cum again.”

“God,” Miyeon rasps, nodding slightly against you with her eyes carefully fixed on her reflection, and she starts to roll her hips—fucking herself and choking back a whimper every time she finds where it’s mind-numbingly sensitive, where she’s wet and needy and begging for the hard shape of your cock. It’s unbelievable how desperate she ruts against you, grinding her way to her own release.

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re reaching a hand down to her cunt, the hot mess between her legs, and you’re slipping your fingers around where your cock is inside her, skating your thumb across her aching lips, barely touching her clit—

“I’m gonna cum,” she moans out, breathless, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

A final kiss at the hot skin beside her temple, your nose in her hair—drowning in the sweet stench of her sweat, her sex—you’re telling her, “I know I am princess,” and when you release the grip you’ve made of her hair, Miyeon collapses, palms flat over the countertop.

It’s hard to miss, all written on Miyeon’s reflection in front of you, cheeks exquisitely red, lips slacking as she cums, brows twisting together and eyes heavily lidded—and that’s just what you can see. You fuck her quivering cunt, thrusts coaxed into this reckless chase as she spasms around you—holding tight to her waist, fucking her faster and faster until your cock is aching and you’re hunched over her, telling her what she’s been dying to hear: “I'm so close to cumming in your cunt sweetheart, you'll be so filled up and perfect that way, princess.”

There’s no mistaking it. Pleasure palpable in the reflection in front of you, eyes smoldering and holding onto you. The hold she has on your cock, the vice that is her cunt around you—it shouldn’t even be possible to feel this fucking amazing—is far and away too good for you to do anything else: you grab her hips, fuck hard and fast into Miyeon’s sopping cunt, and on a thrust deep and unrelenting, you let go. You can barely even register the way your cock pulsates, firing shot after shot into her tight hole.

Miyeon’s still stuttering and gasping for breath when she feels your cum pool inside her. Even like this, wracked, writhing, and barely held together, she’s breathtaking.

“God, fuck, it’s so good,” she cries out, face still spun in pleasure, in ecstasy, feeling you spill more and more inside her. “Can feel you cumming so much, daddy.”

And that’s how you stay, pouring want and jittery contentment into the air by way of your ragged breathing alone, for the remainder of the minute, the hour, what ultimately ends up feeling far too short. 

Her knees buckle and if you weren’t still pressing bruises into her hips, she’d sink to the floor, a hot mess, a real meltdown of a girl. So she remains right where she is as you soften slowly inside of her, until she has to nudge you off. And as you finally pull out, there’s cum still leaking from your slit, and you catch a glimpse of more leaking out from between her soft, reddened thighs, just a few drops that land on the floor, enough to make something inside you tighten with want.

You kiss her one last time, and say, “c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

-

“You need to come up with a better excuse than I needed to get fucked for when you show up like you are to costume,” you say a few minutes later, dabbing at Miyeon’s forehead with a handtowel. “They won’t be too thrilled with me messing up their handiwork.”

Miyeon leans forward in your lap, reaching around your shoulders and placing kisses into the broad shape of your shoulder. “I love the way you mess me up.”

You almost open your mouth again, to lodge a complaint, but nothing comes out.

(You’ve long avoided looking backward, the introspective stuff, the kind of thinking that makes your heart begin to ache in all sorts and manners of cliche. It’s difficult to look straight at the image, to take it in all at once—so full of regret and missed chances.

But for the first time in as long as you can remember, you believe in the things you’re afraid to say. As though you’re more than the weight of all your memories, that the darkness can remind you of where light can be. This is not the end of you, you remember, this is the beginning.

As though you fell so you could land next to her.)

-

It hits you in the middle of a workday. Nothing cathartic or dramatic about it like you’ve come to expect. Dramatic lighting, theatrical score, the meticulous scripting from a team of writers—there’s none of that; which is how you know it’s real.

Miyeon’s watching herself on the monitor. 

And there’s a part of it, you’ve come to understand, that never quite goes away, like listening to how your voice plays back on a recording, the uncertainty, those pangs of doubt—but you wonder, if perhaps, Miyeon can manage to enthrall and captivate even the greatest cynic, quiet her own insecurities and enchant even herself. She nods every now and again, wets her lips with her tongue when she hears her delivery, and furrows her brow. 

It’s not like that.

The sort of girl whose kisses can spin straw to gold—taste of liquor when she’s not even had any to drink—Cassis, juniper berries, gumdrops, sugar cane and molasses, all soft and steamy and sugary sweet. Quote, unquote. That’s what you said.

Don’t—

Please look at me when I tell you I love you. Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed, you will never be lovelier than you are now, we will never be here again.

The whole studio is watching it: the triumph of your lips on hers, holding her softly and kissing her like if you closed your fingers she might shatter into a million pieces. All they did was hold the camera, and it saw what it saw.

Miyeon looks at you, rubs your knuckles with her thumb and says, “you don’t like it.”

Something’s off.

“You think we need one more take?”

(It doesn’t really make sense—the fact that you can’t put a finger on it is bothering you more than anything else. It’s clean, perfect even; smells like a swimming pool: a bleached sea salt, a flower with chemical petals; and not in a good way. Looked at from another perspective, the scene is just as it’s written, as it was rehearsed, but you’re hesitating. And you don’t know why.)

“You think we need one more,” Miyeon says again, inquisitive.

You make a face, and Miyeon squeezes your fingers.

“Yeah. Okay. You think we need one more.”

“I suppose,” you say mildly, “if it’s not too much of a hassle.”

It’s not as simple as that. At least the way you see it. It rarely is. A better guy could probably recognize what it is you’re feeling and put it into words, but you are not a better guy. Spend too much time living on the words of characters and in the confines of a scene, you start to lose sense of the bigger picture. There’s you—outside of the frame, strangely unfamiliar at times, unknowable right now. There’s Miyeon, and she’s not just gorgeous and perfect like everyone knows her to be; she’s gorgeous and perfect to you.

“Here’s what I think,” Miyeon starts, staring straight through you, a pulsing rush of longing—the whisper, irresistible, magic that could make the sanest man go mad. You just want to hear me say I love you one more time.

Everyone’s eyes are glued to the monitors, witness to the story that is you and her, but you’re looking at Miyeon, directly at her, for once not even lost in the details—simply lost in everything, like a stone down a well. It does scare you. That of all things, she might be right.

-

The incident, as it will later be known, is more realistically a sequence of events, but no one has ever been interested in anything other than how it ends. 

(It's always the changes we don’t ask for that change everything.)

There are just a handful of scenes and shots that need to be filmed on location on an island in the Maldives, one that is just about everything you’ve grown to resent. Garishly extravagant resort, beaches of white sand so combed and manicured they yearn to be trampled, and the only locals in sight are either changing sheets or caked up in makeup and hanging around the hotel bar from the twilight hours of the evening and into the early morning. A real lovely place, you admit, maybe you’ll come back never.

It’s as if the universe cashes in on your bad karma all at once via the series of unfortunate events: your flight’s delayed, a storm turns a three hour layover into a two day nightmare, your bags get lost. And the moment you step onto the tarmac, the heat punches you right in the gut, and upon curling over in defeat, the humidity figures it’ll kick you right in the head—this all, by the way, before you find out the air conditioning in your room is fucked beyond repair and the hotel staff have no interest in helping you fix it.

When a series of mistakes has you shooting a scene over and over until you’re pretty sure it’s fruitless—that the exhaustion has brought you to your knees—you quickly find yourself starting to slip.

Miyeon’s standing next to the director, watching the scene playback, and hearing her say, “that’s better,” while everything that could ever go wrong in the history of linear time is happening is the best part of this whole debacle, if anything, for its raw comedic value.

The absolute worst of it, however, is the gaggle of bumbling entertainment journalists (the lowest of the low) following in the production’s wake. There’s a lot a ground to cover: the movie’s nearing completion, the premieres, the fact that everyone thinks you’re screwing Miyeon, the fact that you actually are—

How has working with your co-stars, Miyeon in particular, bettered your understanding of what it means to be an actor? The insinuation, if it’s even an undertone enough to call it that, you do find insulting.

Though it’s hardly the question that trips you up. It’s trifling. And when you force a smile, everyone takes your pandering at face value. Now whether it’s out of envy, confusion, plain old cynicism, possibly a mixture of the three, or just because the part of your brain associated with temperance and self control is melting at the current head index of a million and two, is unclear.

But you fuck up.

It’s under your breath, out of the corner of your mouth. It’s not even directed at anyone in particular. The challenge here—the thing that will come to ruin you in about one media cycle—is that the damn microphone clipped to your shirt is still absolutely live, and it’s broadcasting every thought that should stay quiet:

Acting? From Miyeon? Hah. Swallowing cum maybe… but acting?

You fuck up bad.

[meryldian]

⭑ ࣪˖ 2023 Bill Kaulitz NSFW Headcanons pt.2 ˖ ࣪⭑

Second part to *this* post

AN: I promised a part 2 so here you go!! I made this very quickly as I was excited to post it but I promise that the quality is at the same level or even better than the first !! ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Next up I’ll mostly be focusing on the third part of my growing up with Devilish/TH series as well as some requests!

BY THE WAY: Would anyone be interested if I made a taglist?

~ Enjoy now ~

Alright, we left this at Oral.

@ilovebill-and-gustav made a really good point about Bill’s acrylics on this post that I SO agree with!! (Go check out her blog btw! Her writing is so good!! Always a breath of fresh air.)

So. As he often has acrylics on, he prioritizes oral. Which is honestly such a treat!

Bill will quite literally make out with your pussy. Never goes straight to the clit or tongue-fucking. He likes to take his sweet time.

Starts off by kissing down your navel, tracing it down with the tip of his tongue, moving onto your inner thighs and around it, he’ll give you a good flat tongue lick before starting.

He likes sucking on your lips and teasing your entrance, getting you as riled up as he can before attacking your clit. He loves how such a small body part can bring you so much pleasure.

His tongue piercing might be gone but his head game is just as good without it.

He gets so into it, moans into you because the simple act of pleasuring you arouses him so much.

Might grind into the mattress if he’s very needy that day.

Eating you out for breakfast is one of his favourite things to do.

I don’t know if you’ve seen his house but, his bedroom is completely surrounded by windows so imagine the dim orange light at sunrise illuminating your cozy bedroom and reflecting on Bill’s blonde locks as he’s giving you head.

I talked about his liking for hair pulling on the first part but, in this scenario you should play with/caress his pretty hair instead.

This is hot-

Be as loud as you need, wrap your legs around his head, he loves it all. Will stretch an arm up to fondle your chest and drag it down to hold you down by the waist as his thumb caresses it in circles. His other arm will be wrapped around your thigh, or fingering you if his nails are short, or sometimes masturbating.

Also likes to hold your hand, interwining your fingers while he devours your vulva. (I hate this word sm for no reason)

He won’t be wasting a single drop of you. Cum on his face and he will lick it all up.

Kisses your swollen clit once he’s done because you were just so good for him.

Bill prefers giving but will never say no to a good blowjob.

He can get so loud. Something I very much headcanon is that no matter how many years pass he can’t control himself with you. He’s just so in love and needs you so bad.

Surprisingly he’s more dominant when he’s giving you head.

When you blow him he gets pretty submissive.

Will start begging if you’ve been teasing him for too long.

Repeats his pleads in a soft and breathy voice.

His moans are heavenly.

Will grab your hair and push you down only if you allow him to touch you, he’s your good boy after all.

No really, praise him it gets him going.

He may be your slut but he at least wants to know he’s doing good at it.

And oh he’s big. But we all know it.

He enjoys when you swallow but loves to cum on your breats even more.

Speaking of breasts, he loves, loves, to fondle them while you jerk him off. Pulls at your nipples, squeezes them in his hand, caresses them.

Will suck on them if his face is close enough. Then lick up your sternum til he reaches your collarbones and neck.

No matter how old he gets, he still thinks hickies are cute as hell and will shamelessly mark you.

Back to his nails, you will inevitably end up with scratches.

Sometimes on your hips from when he guides your pace as you ride him, sometimes down your back after you’ve pegged him into the sunset, sometimes both-

He accidentally scratched your face once and immediately stopped everything to hold you in his arms and kiss all over your cheeks as he apologized :(

He loves to have you sitting on his lap during his insta and tiktok lives because it gives him easy access to tease you.

Naughty fucker.

But don’t forget you can also work him up ;) grinding on him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and caressing down his ear and neck.

You guys have made up some shitty excuse to quit the live and fuck more than once.

Mutual masturbation!! Especially on lazy sundays, before you get ready for your dinner date.

Or on sunny thursday afternoons before your weekly dinner at Nobu. (Source: Kaulitz Hills)

You’ll be coddled up in bed, sloppily kissing as you work on yourselves, occasionally helping out the other.

Bill likes to play with your clit as you fuck yourself with a dildo and he jacks off.

And trying new vibrators on you, preferably tied up, seing how many vibration levels you can take.

If he can’t finger you while you give him a handjob he’ll have a wand pressed to your clit.

You’ve definitely 69’ed a couple times in your relationship.

You can’t tell me that Bill doesn’t love oral.

He enjoys sensory deprivation. Mostly blindfolds on either of you. He absolutely loves the idea of being at your partner’s mercy, unaware of what they’ll do next.

With Bill it’s simple, the more he grows accostumed to a relationship, the more open to kinks he gets.

So if you’re long-term, you would experiment so many kinks, toys, locations, et cetera with him.

Take your time to communicate with him about what you enjoy, Bill LOVES communication. (As anyone should omg)

He enjoys getting wild and rough too, some choking here and there is always a good way to spice it up.

He definitely enjoys spanking, especially on himself.

There’s something when he sees your handprint or whip marks on his bum.

Get ready to be dicked down for an hour straight as round two.

Dim lights, silk sheets and a nice playlist muffled by the sound of Bill’s hips hitting against your pelvis.

After night outs, Bill will leave your high heels on when he strips you down. He thinks they’re so sexy and make your legs look heavenly.

Run your heel down his chest and stomach when you’re on your back in bed, and watch how hard he gets.

Bill is also so babygirl, he loves when you pick him up or when you have him sit on your lap.

Run your hands up his thighs when you make out it makes him weak.

Grab his ass

Lift him onto the kitchen counter and get between his legs.

He loves to run his hands under your shirt and bra when you do this.

His kitchen is just so perfect in every way, including (especially) for fucking.

He’s taken you many times on his kitchen island as you wait for your cookies to bake.

Thank GOD your house is on a hill and your neighbors can’t see through your many, many, many windows.

But you’ve been walked in on by Tom and Devon (Devon is a close friend of the twins as well as 1/2 to Tom’s dj project « Wedding Cake » if you didn’t know »

Anywhere in your house is a good sex spot honestly.

Living room by the stone fireplace? Oh yes. Outside in your beautiful terrace? Risky and spicy. The studio? Fuck yes. The round swing chair in the living room? Sounds like a challenge, let’s do it.

Imagine fogging up the glass of his little vocal recording room at his home-studio. Sits you on the stool and has your legs wide open. One on his shoulder, one pressed up against the wall as he pounds into you. Tilting your head up by your chin and holding eye-contact.

He recorded the audio once and saved it for himself. So when you’re away from one-another on work trips he’s got something to get off on.

Speaking of getting off, he also has some scandalous polaroids of you two going at it. He thinks it’s so much more romantic than filming a sex tape.

One’s a photo of you trying on some new lingerie, moving onto one of him pounding into you as he squeezes your breast, you on your side with your glistening pussy waiting for him, a faceless photo of you two standing as you give him a handjob, your hand wrapped firmly around his dick as you pound him with your favorite strap, and many many more. He keeps them like relics.

Oh and just to show you how romantic this guy is. He may be in Berlin filming a show while you’re still in LA and he will literally send you letters expressing how needy for you he is.

On another note:

Bill will deadass stop if your pets walk in. He could not care less when tom, the guys or a friend walks in but you guys’s pets??? No. He refuses to scar them for life.

He loves to switch positions and try new angles, some of his favorites are the pretzel, every type of missionary, spooning, any variation of cowgirl, lotus and more.

He loves intimate positions where he can see your pretty face. If there’s something Bill loves to do when having sex with you is kissing you.

In his podcast he’s mentioned that he considers kissing as such a romantic act, that he prefers not to kiss in a casual sex scenario. So now that he has you, feel special for how much he loves to make out with you.

Has you cockwarm him during slow and steamy makeout sessions.

Sometimes he’s a little shit and will get you all worked up just to pull out and go on with his day normally. Not even mentionning sex as he leaves you there all hot and bothered.

SHOWERING TOGETHER.

It can start all sweetly, washing each other and singing some old Devilish songs til someone decides to fuck for fun.

Shower sex is never as good as it seems but you guys still have a fun time. You laugh a lot, it’s your most careless sex.

Trying not to slip.

King of aftercare.

After you go down from your highs he will always brush your hair back, kiss you and tell you he loves you.

After some sweet moments it’s time to clean yourselves off.

If you have enough energy to shower it’ll be so sweet. Holding each other under the water. Washing each other’s hairs and backs. Kissing any marks you’ve left.

If you’re too tired Bill will always help out by wiping you down with a warm cloth. Giving you some sweet little pecks while he does it and sharing smiles and jokes.

Plz do the same for him, he would feel so loved.

Cleaning you guys’s toys is always a bonding experience. You may have some comments on how much you creamed it or how Bill thinks he should use it next time.

If you ever happen to tighten your strap too hard and it leaves marks Bill will take the time to trace and kiss them one by one. He’s fascinated that you put so much into making him feel good.

Loves to order some junk food and watch some bad reality TV after as you cuddle. Sharing a well deserved glass of wine, with funky facemasks on and matching satin pajamas.

Sometimes you give yourselves mani-pedis if you’re still energized.

Once you’re ready to go to bed he’s so sweet.

He will trace down your back and around your tattoos (if you have any) with his nails softly, telling you how well you did and how much he loves you.

Loves to fall asleep holding you, having your weight on his chest helps to calm him down.

I’m so in love with him it’s criminal

Ah!! I enjoyed writing these so much! ִ ࣪𖤐 I genuinely think 2023 Bill is such a gem of a man, reader is reeaaall lucky to have him (lmao) ~~~

I hope this pleased you!! Take care, drink water, eat well and live every second ₊˚⊹♡

- Meryl

[tvx6000]

☆ talk to me

genre: fluff, angst (?), hurt/comfort

pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader

warnings: anxiety, cussing, conflict(?), crying blah blah

wc: 1770

t-note: i don't mean to make this a trend in my posts.....but i hate this fic lollsloslso TT first and foremost it's completely not my style of wirting, capitalization and all. but I found this unfinished with a completely different storyline and though hmmm this could be worth posting. ngl the quality of writing decreases as you read i feel like :3 the end is kind rushed (?), i couldn't figure out how to resolve it. please send me any feedback you have, as well as any requests!!

You both were at an award show. Hyunjin had on this gorgeous jet black suit, decked out in YSL accessories. His hair and makeup were done special that night, the stylist spending a few extra moments on each feature, and you honestly didn’t think you'd ever been more in love with him.

You were both sitting at a small table, while the rest of the boys were socializing with other idols. You both had just been given the green light on announcing your relationship, and Hyunjin wasted no time. Probably minutes after he received the call, he went straight to twitter to post a selfie of you two,

“my muse :)”

It’d been a few weeks since then, and soon enough came your first outing as an official couple, this award show. Your anxiety was at an all time high – though when was it not – and Hyunjin had been extra attentive and sweet to you all day, your happiness and comfort being most important to him.

But soon enough, you couldn’t stop the pit of guilt laced bile forming in your stomach. This was his special night, and here you were acting like a baby. I mean, really Y/n? You couldn’t have waited till-

“Baby?”

Suddenly your mind went silent for a second, and you realized your lover was trying to bring you back.

“Your eyes look cloudy baby what’s wrong? Do you need to step out for a minute?”

The pit starts to bubble extra hard.

Trying your best to put on a smile – although it comes out a little wobbly – “Of course not! I’m fine honey, just a little jittery waiting for the awards to be announced.”

It was a decent lie, but the execution was terrible and you both knew it.

“Babe…….” He questioned with his eyebrows raised skeptically.

“I’m fine Jinnie, I promise.”

His shoulders seemed to slack a little at that last part, though you could tell he was still on edge.

“Okay….I’m gonna go get us some water, don’t hesitate to come find me if anything at all happens. I mean it.” He stated sternly

“Cross my heart hope to die” You replied with a soft smile

And as heavy as your heart was, you still couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on him as he walked away.

Wow…….He’s really yours.

Soon enough, it came time for the awards. Hyunjin was back by your side, the other boys in seats right next to him. His hand holding yours as the awards were announced.

“And Fan Favorite Boy Group of the Year goes to……… JYPE’s Stray Kids!!”

You couldn’t help but break into the widest grin you’d ever smiled as the boys stood up to go accept their award. 

They were so talented, and they’d worked relentlessly so this win didn’t come as a surprise to you. They deserved it.

But what did come as a surprise to you, is when Hyunjin was about to walk away, he turned, leaned down, and planted a firm kiss right on your mouth. Now in the moment, you acted natural, kissing back and smiling then waving him off. But as soon as you were certain there were no cameras on you. Your smile dropped and your heart started racing. 

Oh god, what would everyone think? They’re gonna talk about how unprofessional that was, and how the boys don’t deserve that award. Fuck this is all my fault, I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. I shouldn’t be here.

And unfortunately, right as you got up to excuse yourself, you didn’t notice the boys giving their individual thank you’s, and Hyunjin watching you run off with a look of hurt, worry, and betrayal plastered on his face.

To anyone else, your thoughts sounded completely irrational, but anxiety isn’t rational. And they took over your legs before you could think about it any further.

You don’t know how long you’ve been in the bathroom. It feels like it’s been a few minutes, but as you hear several rounds of applause, and soon enough rapid frantic knocking on the door, you know you’ve been in there far too long.

“Baby? Y/n? Babe please I know you’re in there?........Baby what happened?”

Fuck. You don’t know. You’re suddenly hit with a huge wave of humiliation and guilt. You know you couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. So with two quick swipes under your eyes, you swing the door open to see your Jinnie standing there, eyes glazed over, and out of breath – did he run here?

“Oh my god Y/n you had me worried fucking sick. What happened baby? You just ran off and I-”

“I’m fine Jinnie.”

You stated as firmly as you could in the moment. You felt a sharp pain in your chest as a look of hurt flashed across his face. You walked straight past him and beelined for the door you all came through. You just wanted to get home.

You soon heard harsh footsteps behind you, you could tell he was angry. Fuck.

You soon saw Leeknow waiting by the limo, and as you approached he shot you a look of concern and confusion, almost wordlessly asking you ‘are you okay?’. You mustered up a small smile of reassurance and climbed into the limo. This was going to be the longest ride of your life.

The whole way home, Hyunjin wouldn’t even look at you. Though you were trying to exactly grab his attention, his expression stayed the same the whole ride. Nonchalant. Too nonchalant  for your liking. You know you deserved it but he looks so calm, you’d think nothing would’ve happened at all. And suddenly, the dull ache in your heart became a sharp, shooting pain.

You soon made it home, rushing out the car with a hasty goodbye and jogging to your door. Not even bothering to drop anything besides your shoes at the door, you rushed upstairs to the bathroom.

There’s no way Hyunjin would wanna talk to you right now…so what should you do? Maybe if you go to bed quick enough, you can sleep this all away, as if it was a bad dream. So that’s what you begin to do.

You strip out of your bordering uncomfortable dress and take the pins out of your hair, and get into the shower.

As you let the water run over you, you began to think. 

How can I apologize for this? A regular “Sorry, I love you” can’t fix this. No, Hyunjin deserves better than that. He deserves better than me. God I hope he doesn’t break up with me, I don’t know what I’d do. He’s been really quiet, and I haven’t heard anything upstairs. Oh no what if he left? What if-

You hastily finish washing and all but leap out of the shower. After haphazardly drying off and throwing on a (his) t-shirt and underwear, you quickly pad downstairs.

As you descend the stairs you notice the silence that has taken over your home. It’s almost as if you're the only one home, and that scares you.

“Jinnie?” you almost whisper into the space.

Nothing.

Your heart starts to race and you feel like crying,

“Hyunjin?” you call as you roam throughout the downstairs.

He’s not here. You start to panic, looking frantically around for your phone, and just as the first tear falls and you start to bolt upstairs, you hear the door unlocking.

You spin around, and there he is. When did he change?

As he walks in with a bag and takes off his shoes, you freeze. You don’t know if you were ready for this conversation yet.

“Hi” He mumbles as he sets everything down on the counter.

“Where were you?” You force out, the weight in your chest making it hard to speak.

“I picked up some food for dinner, since neither of us-” He stops as he looks up at you, hair pulled back so he has a clear line of sight.

“What is it? Why are you crying?”

“I’m sorry.” you say with a wobbly voice

“I’m really really sorry I don’t know what my problem was earlier”

He stares at you for a long moment. Or maybe it was just for a second, you aren’t completely present.

“It’s okay baby. I was upset earlier but now I just wanna make sure you’re fed and figure out what’s wro-”

“No Jinnie I really mean it I don’t know what was wrong earlier but I swear to you it will never happen again” You said through heaving breaths- wait, heaving? When did you start crying?

“Hey hey hey baby it is fine. I promise you I’m not upset. Something was obviously wrong and I don’t blame you. At all.”

He swiftly moved toward you and wrapped you up in a hug.

“I know you get anxious sometimes, and it can cause miscommunication. But that’s why I need you to talk to me baby. Please. I know life can be a lot. Especially when my career is involved, but I need to know that you know you are my top priority always. And all I want is for you to feel happy and safe. So when I know that you don’t but you won’t let me help you, I start to feel a little helpless.”

He pauses and brings a hand to cradle the back of your head,

“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, and I like to say it comes naturally. Like I was born to do it. But unfortunately, I can’t read your mind. So please. Help me help you baby. Let me help you”

He presses multiple kisses to the top of your head and that was the straw that broke the camel's back. You start to sob. Heavy, achy, cries but he can make out the few words you're saying.

“I love you Jinnie I’m sorry, I’ll always tell you what’s wrong I promise” You say punctuating with a long loud sniffle.

He squeezes you, “My sweet girl….I love you so much more”

He pulls away, “Let’s eat before it gets cold”

As he begins to walk and you follow, he dramatically sighs,

“I must say though…..I gave quite the speech…can’t believe you missed it baby”

As he looks up from the food, he sees your eyes tearing up once again,

“Oh my goodness baby, I was joking I’m sorry” He says as he pulls you in for another hug

He kisses your cheek and breathes out, “What will I do with you baby?”

thank u for reading :3

[lust444men]

someone asked for more thoughts on spencer reid but I fr posted it before I was ready. so to the person who said "I need more of your thoughts on spencer reid", here ya are! <3 fluff, thas it.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

he likes loves sitting with you on the plane, teaching you chess if you don't already know it, playing with you in chess, simpling his moves so the game lasts longer, playing poker w u and folding with a four of a kind in his hand knowing you only have a two pair, purely just so he can see your cheesy smile as you scoop all the pretzels and m&ms into your bowl, giggling and boasting that you "once again beat the spencer reid at poker" and teasing him that he shouldn't be banned from casinos in Las Vegas if he always plays as bad.

I feel like when he's around u, his world just completely stops and he drops everything if he can. you work with him? he's always trying to get hotch to team you guys together, just so he knows your safe. he'd hate for anything to happen to u!! he'd simply blame himself.

you look tired with all your paper work? he's bringing your exact coffee order he obviously memorised, and he's taking half of your files when you're not looking so he can help!! he an act of service and quality time kinda guy - I mean, he works in the fbi, that's so obviously acts of service.

Spencer is suspicious for a moment but he will always turn back to you, trying his hardest not to smile at your happy face as you eat your winnings, playing the sore laser and grumbling a "I'll win next time", simply hoping you don't see the crack of a smile as he boxes up the cards.

whoevers next to him(usually Rossi or derek) will give him a little "I know what you just did" smirk, glancing between you two.

when spence goes "??what?" upon seeing the look, they'll just shrug and say a small "nothing." and go back to doing what they were before, subtly smiling still at your chemistry.

if you don't work with him, he's always texting you during cases, calling you whilst the team sends him on a coffee run or late nights at the hotel. he enjoys your routinely scoldings you give him when he calls you late at night, telling him "you should be asleep! you're gonna damage that boy genius brain of yours and what good is that to anybody? sleep, spence!!"

god, he just smiles at your grumpy grumbles. he always says he's gonna go to sleep after - but you both know that's never true. he always stays up, trying to figure out the case, but God you make it so hard for him to focus! your pretty face, room-lighting smile - you ruin his focus in the best way possible.

if an unsub targeted you, he'd never forgive himself. even if you didn't get hurt! it'd be his fault, he brought you into his world. anyone he had in his world, ended up hurt. the minute they went after you though, the case became personal. hotch obviously did try to stop him, but spencer didn't care. he'd walk in line of fire for you, and that just might be the case.

he'd desperately try to talk down the unsub and once he was arrested(or shot), he'd hold onto you and never let you go, mumbling soft apologies into your hair as he rubbed your back, feeling it tense from the adrenaline of having a gun to your head.

if he missed dates, or god forbid anniversaries because of a case, he'd be filled with dread and guilt. sending you flowers, favourite foods, bringing your coffee by your house every morning, and if you didn't want to see him, he'd leave it outside your door with a little note.

when you finally forgive him, understanding it wasn't his fault, he's thanking you like his life depends on it.

he gives you his scarves on cold nights, buys you a matching one.

"hows your wife?" when she sees her son, a big grin on her face. eventually spencer just smiles with her, nodding.

he's nervous about introducing you to his mother, but she absolutely adores you, grabbing and smooshing your cheeks and saying "where have you been my sons whole life?!" sometimes due to her illness, she'll forget you're just his girlfriend, and she'll always ask

"my wife is good, mom."

© LUST444MEN 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.

[the-s1lly-corner]

tadc cast with a s/o who hates touch.

BUT when they finally get comfortable with the characters they get soooo touchy (as in hugs ,hand holding etc)

Sorry if i didnt make myself clear

And thank you for your work!! ;)

TADC cast x reader who's warming up to touch!

So sorry for taking so long to get to this anon <\3!! I recently went back to writing on mobile due to back pain from sitting at my computer and it's really done a number on my efficiency <\3

That said I hope you enjoy!

Side note does anyone know any tips on how to soothe sore throats? Preferably not with honey because honey naoes my throat swell and itch 😭😭

This post ended up being waaaaaay longer than I first intended so I hope yall are ready to eat up

LAST MINUTE NOTE I misread/misinterpreted this as "reader finally taking a step towards initiating affection for the first time" and not "they're already comfortable and LOVE touch" I am so so dumb but I already have this written <\3 I hope you enjoy this regardless anon 😭😭😭

CAINE:

I think Caine would struggle with the no touching thing especially since I see him being very affectionate both verbally and physically. That said I do think he eventually gets the hang of it and stops himself from throwing his arms around you for a hug... he amps up the verbal affirmations to make up for it though! He doesnt wanna make you unhappy so hes gonna respect your boundaries and take things slow!

As for when you start easing yourself into it, I think he would try to not make a big deal out of it, as not to risk embarrassing you. As someone who doesnt like touch as well as being hesitant to initiate it, I think I wouldnt want a big hoorah about it you know? But that's just me

He does subtly know hes proud of you for being able to take that step, even if you two are only holding hands via linking your pinkies together

POMNI:

I dont think pomni would be crazy about touch imo, she seems like the type to seize up when you touch her without warning. And I'm not saying that as something to be ashamed of because honestly me too. So I think this is one where you both need to have heavy communication in order to push past that and get used to touching one another ! Team work makes the dream work or however the saying goes

That said imagine you two grab each others hands bc something startles you/you both run from something (be it a prank from jax or an IHA or an abstracted) and you both just

Stare down at your interlocked hands. Experimentally squeezing each other before both relaxing into it

I think that would be a cute idea

RAGATHA:

Just like caine she is so so understanding. But unlike caine, she doesnt struggle all that much with trying go restrain from giving you physical affection. Ragatha naturally shows her love through quality time and gift giving, so she doesnt often feel the urge to wrap her arms around you, much less unprompted. Especially with your discomfort in mind

In the event that you come over to her, maybe lay your head on her shoulder while shes reading, I think she would stiffen up a little out of surprise, before gently leaning her heads against yours. Its nice, its quiet, and its comfortable. You two both peacefully exist like that for a while... good thing you guys probably dont have organs because ragathas heart would be pounding so fast, shes just so proud of you that the adrenaline kind of gets to her

JAX:

I think this might be the main one where there may be conflict.

Not because jax belittles your discomfort or tries to push the boundaries. No, I dont think he would, especially when you two get serious. Like would he probably poke you in the beginning before realizing it genuinely brings great discomfort? Yes. Would he stop when he finds out it's an issue for you? Also yes. Again, hes an asshole but I dont think he would be outright ab*sive

No, the reason why I think kay there may be conflict is because behind closed doors, jax can be very clingy and physically touchy, he would want to lay on top of you and hold you and that kind of stuff. That one ask with clingy jax hcs changed me

I think, if you ever try to initiate touch first he would say something kind of mean before he can stop himself. "About time" or something. Like he means it lightheartedly but like. He immediately regrets it, especially since that can just be so... eidkcmc.. when you're trying to come out of your shell in regards to something

Easily has the worst reaction, make him sleep on the metaphorical couch

I think he would do anything to fix that though, you're his lil bun afterall

KINGER:

Kinger is big on touch, he likes handholding and putting his hand on your shoulder. But ultimately he would respect you and not touch you.. honestly kinger can be the same way depending on the day. Either he hates touch and doesnt want anyone or anything touching him, or he needs to be held in order to keep his mind set straight. Poor guy. He just like me frfr.

Honestly gets a little spooked when you gently set your head on his lap, announcing you're going to take a nap while you two hang out in the pillow fort. Kind of gives a soft and surprised "oh!" Before going as still as a statue. Does he stay put? Does he run his hand through your hair? Does he keep up his bug ramble? Does he pipe down?

Ultimately he sits there quietly while you sleep

Expects that to be a one time thing, but he notices you're slowly becoming more physically affectionate. He outwardly shows his support and pride for you

ZOOBLE:

Another one who doesnt really like touch, but instead of it being a discomfort it's just a "I dont like it" thing you know? I mean what did you expect? Zooble doesnt interact much with people unless they're forced to, so it makes sense that touch isnt their thing. So this actually works out very well for you two.

Just like the pomni segment, you guys are going to have to do a lot of communication in regards to introducing stuff like cuddling and hand holding ect into the relationship and finding what works for you while keeping both parties satisfied. I think in the end zooble would be supportive, and even try to esse themselves into the whole thing. So you dont have to do it alone, you know?

GANGLE:

Honestly I think shes too shy and/or unconfident to initiate physical affection herself so the topic never really came up. Which... is a bit odd since it regards a comfort thing for you as well as gangle possibly thinking that you dont enjoy her company; assuming you never really tell her that touch brings you discomfort

But because we love healthy stuff here, let's assume you guys set down boundaries and stuff before getting together

I still think gangle would have some teeny tiny feeling that they arent the best for you. She knows its unfair to think that for both of you, but like. Its one of those nagging mean voices we all have/get at some point, you know?

Probably lets out a little squeak when you slowly wrap one of her arms around your hand and wrist. Kind of just stands there frozen. Too scared to speak up or move, fearing she would ruin the moment

Honestly I think gangle isnt used to touch (that isnt neutral or in passing), so this is going to be a little experience for her. You're both in this together now, basically

[ch3rryfunk]

HEYYY I'm pretty new to reaching out to accounts but so far everyone has been an absolute gem! I've thought about posting my small stories that have gathered dust in my notes but also never really got the courage to ACTUALLY posting them ☠️

THAT ASIDE, what are some of your Leon headcanons? It could be the most random things like how I think he hates chewing sounds or probably doesn't know how to tie a tie.

Hope that makes sense-

Hi!! 💖 Thanks for reaching out!! You should definitely post them, I bet they’re really good :•) but i totally get what you mean, just take your time!!

☆*:.｡.

Random Leon S Kennedy head cannons.

Life & Hobbies

☆ He doesn’t know how to cook. I think that’s something we can all agree on but yeah, he knows how to make simple things but not too elaborate. He just never had time for cooking, so why bother learning?

☆ He actually loves dogs, despite having seen the scariest, most dangerous undead dogs in almost every mission he’s had.

☆ Leon CAN’T drive. He never learned about driver’s ed. He only got his license because it was required to get into the cop academy. He just gets into a vehicle, says a prayer, and off he goes.

☆ He likes Jeeps and bikes though!

☆ Enjoys reading books in his spare time.

☆ loves listening to music but can’t keep up with the newer artists, so he mainly listens to alternative 90s music or grungier songs. (He was a teen in the 90s, after all.)

☆ One thing about Leon is that he LOVES cold weather and winter because he gets to wear more jackets and show them off. He probably has a whole jacket collection.

☆ He acts silly when he gets drunk. He laughs a lot and his face gets red.

☆ Dislikes smoking.

☆ Leon likes taking care of his hair, he’s been sporting the same hairstyle for years so when he needs a trim he makes sure to find the perfect hairstylist. He might run a background check, he’s so extra.

☆ His favorite holiday is Christmas. (Not Halloween, he’s seen too many monsters already. Give him a break. He also likes giving gifts lowkey.)

☆ When he’s feeling stressed he’ll usually get nightmares, so he sleeps with the light on sometimes.

☆ Loves helping people, and kids too. They remind him of Sherry.

☆ Sometimes, he’ll feel lonely. Deep down, he’s afraid of getting too close to people because he’s afraid of losing them to another outbreak or something worse.

☆ He sometimes gives himself a pep talk when he starts feeling down. He just needs to keep moving forward.

Love life

☆ He hasn’t been in a relationship in a long time, and even though he’s not exactly clueless or inexperienced his teenage years don’t compare to his adult ones. Relationships are different now, he feels like he’s got a lot to learn. specially since he has trust issues. He takes his time to get to know his future s/o,

☆ He likes hugs but isn’t used to them so he never goes to give one first. (He will in the future though)

☆ Quality time!!!

☆ Leon is committed to learning about all the things his s/o loves, enjoys, and wants. He’s the type of guy to remember something his s/o told him ONCE, months ago.

☆ He loves taking his s/o out to dinner, it’s one of his favorite things to do. He makes sure nothing will interrupt his date.

☆ He isn’t a jealous guy, I’m sure. But he’s terrified of losing his s/o.

☆ Loves slow kisses.

☆ As well as embracing his s/o and making sure they feel protected.

☆ Loves nicknames and OBVIOUSLY calling them sexy.

☆ Has a hate/love relationship with teasing. He enjoys it but gets quite needy after some time. He likes to be the one teasing though, every once in a while.

☆ Love language is quality time, giving gifts and cuddling. He’ll always make sure his s/o is happy and well. 💞

sorry this was short, i’ll make more head cannons in the future!

[outro-jo]

dating kim mingyu

pairing: kim mingyu x reader

type: headcanon

summary: my thoughts on dating kim mingyu

warnings: none really

masterlist | info

———————————

certified simp but tries to be chill about it

biggest love languages: gifts, quality time, and a sprinkle of physical touch

he can’t stand walking anywhere and your hand isn’t in his

puts you on his lap when y’all are sitting

has to bring you ~something~ every time he sees you

every date he brings you either a bouquet or a simple flower

never forgets an anniversary or sometimes makes one up as an excuse to spoil you 

HE LOVES TO SEE YOU IN HIS HOODIES

he’ll deadass buy more hoodies to put new ones in a rotation to start wearing so you can have as many of his old ones as you want

he also loves to see you in his tshirts and nothing else

so like i said he’s a simp, but he likes to act like he’s all nonchalant and not as all 😍🤩😍🤩😍 for you as he actually is

but the boys catch him like smiling real big over you when you text him or giving you heart eyes when you’re talking and not paying attention to him and call him out

loves giving you piggy back rides

can’t argue with you like fr

y’all playfully bicker and banter but when it comes to the real shit he just can’t do it

literally anything for you

loves taking you on trips 

fancy dinners with like the whole shibang of he sends an outfit to your apartment and a car to pick you up

he’s not crazy about being overly affectionate with pda

he’s more into subtle affection

resting his head on your shoulder or rubbing up and down up your arm 

but he ALWAYS has to have a hello and goodbye kiss 

when it’s just the two of you tho he’s all over you

he LOVES cuddling

he generally goes for being the big spoon but when he’s really stressed, tired, or sick he wants to be babied a bit more

has soooo many photos of you both on his phone and physical photos from film cameras

also has recorded footage on reels from where he was playing around with video cameras

you’re the first person he goes to with ideas to flesh them out 

also the biggest supporter of your dreams

never misses an occasion for you i.e. graduation, job celebration, etc

even if he has to leave early or sneak away from work, he’d gonna be there with a big bouquet of flowers

wants you both to be close to your respective families if you can

he loves hearing when you spend time with his parents or sister

if your family is in a different country, he’ll try to go back to see them as much as y’all can

if you have issues with your family or you aren’t close, he’ll do everything he can to support you and help you find your found family through him

he is SO protective of you

he hates to see you upset or crying especially if the hate comments get to you

the worst is when he can’t say or do anything about it so he just tries to show how in love he is with you

or it’s a passive aggressive post with some song lyrics 😂

but you’re the love of his life and he’ll do anything for you

love to bring you to shows and sit you in the best seat 

his favorite thing is to find you in the crowd

of course you help him out by making a sign with a flirty little message

also tries to bring you to set and performances whenever he can

[mmani-e]

Another post! This time featuring what the antagonists for my AU might look like. While Akane and Nekomaru are locked in the rest is up to changes in the future. Kyoko and Celestia were put on a poll but the results I believe I didn't set up properly, so now I'm amending that somewhat. I drew both sets in these sketches, and when enough time has passed I'll set up another poll, properly this time on strawpoll.

As for some design explanations and lore you can check under the cut :)

Kyoko and Makoto I believe are pretty straightforward here, I gave Kyoko a neckerchief that goes pretty far down to give her that sort of upper class educated look, while Makoto I gave a smart little jacket. There's only so far you can go with the normal boy, but I also made his hair fluffier and nicer. His ahoge is there but it's normally combed back, and only springs to full life when he's in murder mode.

Kyoko joined her dad in leaving the tradition of detective work behind and entered the business world where she used her analytical mind to be the best damn stock investor in the world, while definitely something she excels at it's not something she finds particularly fulfilling.

Makoto is a wholesome, normal dude who loves writing books about wholesome stories with good endings, while his family was and still is normal, he was captured once by unscrupulous scientists wanting to explore Despair and its mysterious qualities. Makoto never gave in, but in his suffering developed an alter ego who was grimly invested in justice above all else.

Sparkling Justice is a night haunter, who exclusively goes around killing murderers and evildoers against Makoto's wishes. Choosing to right any injustice he sees in the world, allowing for happy endings for the victims, surely?

I went hard with celes and hifumi a long time ago in previous designs, so here they are with similar designs as I gave them before. Hifumi wears a suit vest, and a button-up underneath while still keeping his bag... which may or may not be more than just a simple bag...

Celestia was born a normal kid and absolutely hated that life, so when a relative of hers from Europe visited she begged them and her family to go with them and she did. She grew up exploring Europe, and would propose money-making schemes to her family abroad and would eventually be able to fund the glamorous lifestyle she always thought she deserved.

Hifumi is just a writer-focused version of himself, though with a particular love for action-romance novels and fiction rather than strictly heart-melting novels like Touko. He's a sweet boy but very weird and horny for Celestia, so he's completely useless around her. He's basically a tool... just like...

ROBO-JUSTICE is a serial killer known for their modus operandi of targeting particularly attractive and very mean women with hammers or blunt force trauma. This alter was formed after one particularly awful night of bullying resulting in Hifumi getting thrown into an abandoned industrial park and nearly dying from exposure to wires and sharp metal. Despite this though, it is almost entirely subservient to Celestia whenever it surfaces from Hifumi's mind.

Akane and Nekomaru I've already drawn before, but I think it'd be nice to give some of the backstory I've planned for them.

Akane is a well-meaning, brash, and reckless person whose freakish natural strength pairs with a luck that does everything except help her directly. Random and unpredictable, Akane desperately tries everything she can to get into extremely unpredictable and dangerous situation for her luck to grace those around her with the best outcome from her misfortune, even if it means hurting a lot of people in the process.

Nekomaru was inspired by the nonstop hard work he saw the nurses had to do when they were treating his heart condition. So inspired that he made it his solemn vow to join them whatever it took, leading him to become the ultimate nurse. He would, however, be the first of his classmates to fall to the despair of the mastermind, as his well-meaning nature drew him into a trap he could not predict.

For Rantaro and Tenko I took inspiration from M. Bison(Dictator) and Criss Angel specifically. These are the most experimental designs I have as you can tell, but I plan on working on them a lot.

Tenko's story involves her becoming the head of her little "dojo" and straight up turning it into a cult, with her as the ultimate supreme leader and the greatest fighter in the world.

Rantaro started off doing magic for her sisters, and got so good at making them happy that one of them introduced his magic act to the world through sites like youtube, causing him to become a sensation drooled over by millions of girls around the world.

[peachy-dove]

Sakazuki Akainu X Chubby!GN!Reader Headcanons sfw/Nsfw

CW: MDNI 18+ Content, Daddy kink, Akainu, tbh this is completely self indulgent I just need more Akainu content.

(Tumblr completely ate half of this post I’ve had to come back and fix stuff so if it seems like I added some stuff I did)

SFW:

→ Akainu has always been quite the stern and hard man, not much cracks him to show more than just two general emotions but something about you just does it for him

→ For him you’re just the sweetest thing he’s ever laid eyes on and you’re just so enticing to him

→ For him I think you’d have to either be a civilian or part of the WG or part of the Marines for him to fall for you, his sense of justice just wouldn’t allow for anything else.

→ He doesn’t always get a lot of time for himself but he enjoys your presence even when he’s busy, just sitting near him while he sits at his desk getting work done is good enough for him

→ I feel like his love languages are Quality time and acts of service more than anything

→ He enjoys talking walks with you and even decided on a vacation for you both to a cabin in the woods so that he could take a hiking trip with you! Just the two of you in nature enjoying the quiet and being near each other it’s when he’s the most relaxed.

→ He does not relax often, he's always tense as hell, please give this man a break.

→ kiss his forehead and rub his shoulders and he’s putty in your hands, he’ll become the softest man in the world with you. He’ll lean into your touch sighing and gasping at the soft kisses you left along his collar bone.Akainu will pull you into his lap and nuzzle into your hair as he feels the weight of the day come off his shoulders

→ Sakazuki will rub his hands up and down your sides squeezing and pinching where he can, he absolutely loves your body. Anyone says a thing and they will not live to see tomorrow.

→ he’s a sucker for your hips and how he can grab and squeeze

→ Date nights are once a month, he loves to see you dressed up. It makes him slightly blush anytime you put on nice clothes. He just adores you more than usual. Like I said he just can’t get enough of you, you mesmerize him.

→ He loves your kisses he won’t admit it but your kisses make him melt and heat up inside more than his devil fruit (so cheesy ik)

→ he’s the type when he’s home to wake up at 6am no matter the occasion- it will take a lot to get him to sleep in, or he would have to have had a really bad week.

→ teasing him with Kizaru is your usual pass time and as much as he says he hates it.. He doesn’t don’t stop, he gets pouty.

→ Gets jealous very easy

→ He WILL give the silent treatment, he's extremely petty so he needs lots of reassurance, if it’s a lower rank marine guaranteed they are either demoted or gonna be pushed around by him forever.

→ I like to think he’s a gift giver too, especially as an apology because he’s not good with words.

NSFW:

→ Very much a dom/top. I can see him letting you top him every now and again but never too often.

→ very much loves receiving head more than giving, will have you cockwarm him with your mouth under his desk. He loves the little gags you make when he bucks his hips into your throat :3

-when he goes dow on you it’s literal heaven, I would like to think he’s very skilled at giving head, his tongue work is amazing and isn’t afraid to get messy

-adores when he goes down on you and your tummy/fupa is resting on his forehead <3

- Sakazuki is rough, everything about him is rough and hard, but he makes up for it with the foreplay, he starts out soft fingering your hole slowly stretching you out to fit his girthy cock, spitting on your hole and pinching your nipples and leaving marks along your neck

-Loves it when you ride him, he gets to see you in all of your glory, not an inch of you hidden from him as he watches you bounce and his dick disappear in and out of your soaked and stretched hole

-Loves when you’re in missionary and your thick warm thighs wrap around his body and bring him closer to you and pushing his cock deeper

- King of back shots don’t @ me, I know this man can deliver some leg quivering strokes that will have you begging for more. Almost cums immediately when he sees and feels the way your ass claps back on his dick. It makes him try to fuck you deeper and hit that spot to make you go dumb >:3

→ he believes in deep and long strokes that make your legs give and you can feel him in your tummy

→ you can’t convince me he doesn’t have a daddy kink i will die on this hill.

→ isn’t against toys but don’t expect him to bring them in all the time, he’s not against using them on himself as well. I can see him liking vibrators and/or vibrating cock rings.

→ sit on his face sit on his face sit on his face sit on his face sit on his face sit on hi-

Overall this man needs you to sit on his face and he adores tf outta you I have so many more Akainu and other one piece character thoughts plz request stuff in my inbox i will give more!

[unholycringebirther]

Would wear a crab costume to attract your Yandere mate?

YANDERE MEN X GN!CRAB SUIT!READER [FANFICTION/DRABBLES]

SUMMARY: I hate how you say that as if there is another way, what have y’all been doing??

WARNINGS: CRAB, HORNY THOUGHTS, MINORS DNI

CHARACTERS: SUNNY DAY JACK, ALAN ORION AND JOHN DOE.

[A/N: I wrote this at literally (not even being dramatic) 3:22 AM so don’t be expecting too much quality 😀 I could’ve re-written it, but I’m in writers block and I’m not spending any longer on a post this kinky]

[PROLOGUE]

I slipped on the cursed onesie, the soft fabric sliding against my skin surprisingly smoothly.

When I turn to look at myself in the bathroom mirror, my lips twitch in the stomach-hurting way I hold back my laughter at the sight infront of me, not that I don’t look incredible, it’s just the cherry red fabric of the crab suit doesn’t cut the most flattering look with its shapeless form.

With a grin, I hold up the claw mitts that my hands press into, taking a moment to admire myself.

It was the score of the century, and I didn’t even buy it myself, an old friend was cleaning out her garage and I’d offered my help, aiming to catch up with her while we sorted, and then this masterpiece pulled itself out of the wreckage like a diamond in the rough.

We fooled around with it for more than a few moments, and at the end of the day, when we were both sweaty and still chuckling, she asked if I wanted to take it home.

Of course I said yes, who do you think I am? Oh right, I’m you.

And now, here I stand, dawning the crab onesie while posing theatrically, my face almost splitting at the force of my grin, my hands making puppets as I shift the fabric to make pinching motions.

Distracted, I almost jump out of my skin when I hear the fridge door close, and that jogs my memory enough to turn that large indulgent grin more mischievous, and perhaps a tad curious.

My boyfriend was home, and here I was, dressed as a crab, it’s pretty much fate.

[SUNNY DAY JACK]

I open the door, all of my teeth bared in the smile I wear.

Jack’s in the kitchen, and judging by the alluring smell of pancakes and the sizzle of the frying pan, I can easily guess what he’s doing, which means he’s probably distracted.

I keep my footsteps light to avoid alerting him of my presence, there he stands, unassuming and whistling a cheery kids tune, I flash a campy villain face before launching forwards.

I wrap my arms around him waist, shouting slightly as I hold his firm body against mine, he jerks slightly before whipping his head around.

The smile he gives me is one of a man happy to see me, but hasn’t fully taken my glorious fit in yet.

I can see it in his dark, dark brown eyes when he finally realises, and he starts laughing, confused but cheerful, “Sunshine? What’re you wearing?” He shifts around until he’s facing me, taking in the obnoxiously red outfit.

“What do you mean, Jack?” I feign naivety, before pretending to notice and look down at my outfit, the ridiculously oversized onesie threatening to break my character and make me laugh, “Do you not like it?”

He laughs again, tipping his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, “No, no.” He starts, simmering down his laugh until it’s a giggle in his voice, “You look very nice, sunspot!”

“Where did you, uh, where’d you get this?” He plucks gently at the sleeve, and his voice goes high as he struggles to choke down more laughter.

“Why, Only the finest clothing place on this earth!” I put on a snooty voice, pretending to be one of those rich white women on the shows playing late at night, “My friends garage.”

Something changes in his eyes at the last comment, but it’s gone before I can place it.

“Ah, is that clean?” He looks a little concerned now, humor still plagues his eyes and voice but it melts slightly as he inspects the costume a little more diligently, “Friends shouldn’t give each other things that could be dangerous for your health, sunshine!”

I did wash it, but now that he puts it like that, I don’t know how long the onesie has been rotting in that box, and I look down at my red arms to inspect a little more for myself.

“I don’t doubt you tried to clean it, sunspot,” he tuts, but the disappointment in his eyes aren’t aimed towards me, “I think it’s great to give your friends gifts, and they don’t have to be brand new, but I don’t think it’s very nice to repay all your hard work helping them clean with a dirty onesie that could be very dangerous for your health!”

I squirm slightly, the image of years worth of germs crawling all over the fabric that’s currently on my body, he’s right, that IS kind of gross.

But it isn’t as gross as the smell of burnt pancake mix, Jack turns around to fuss over the burning liquid with a few apologies thrown over his shoulder while I turn to go change, intent in throwing out the gift.

Then a thought hits me, how did he know we were cleaning? Maybe I told him and just didn’t remember, though I really don’t think I did.

Whatever, it doesn’t really matter.

[ALAN ORION]

Alan’s been staying over more than usual lately, it’s time he discovers what I do here all day.

I stomp out of my room like a pleased goblin, the fabric rustling as I shuffle towards the living room where Alan is seated on the couch, staring fixedly at the T.V as a rebooted version of an old clown show is currently broadcasting.

“Ohhh Alannnn!~” I call out in a singsong voice, and I can see him perk up at the sound before turning his head, “How do I look?!”

He stares for a moment, those black and white eyes taking in the sight for a few beats, and I can barely wrangle back my laughter as I can practically see the rusted gears turning in his head.

“Ah,” He finally seems to regain himself, and he smiles a adorably confused smile, “You look great, doe-eyes!”

And the worst part? He seems to be telling the truth, he’s always supported whatever I’ve chosen to wear, growling off any perverted eyes if it happens to be more risqué than normal, he really doesn’t like anybody else looking.

And now here he is, faced with the most provocative outfit of all, a giant crab onesie curtesy of my friends garage.

I can’t hold back my chuckle any longer, the constant twitch of my lips giving way to a bright, giggly smile.

He gets up, walking over to me and pulling me to his chest, kissing my cheek before looking down again, the hesitation in his voice letting me know he’s still completely lost, “Y-You look very pretty in red!”

My laughter gets caught in my throat, and I lean in to kiss him on the lips, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, tipping my head down into his neck to hide my smile when the giant, obnoxious claws brush his neck.

He keeps adjusting his arms, clearly trying to situate himself comfortably against the cotton-filled add ons of the crab legs that are situated on my sides.

Clearly, as he pressed kisses into my neck, most likely soon to be bites, the crab seduction has worked.

[JOHN DOE]

Most partners get lingerie to surprise their partner, and now, I’m one of them.

I shuffle out of my room, laughter escaping me in peels as I run down the hallway, into the trippy abyss of the kitchen where my boyfriend sat, raw chicken molded into a hotdog in-front of him.

I open my mouth to question him about the odd choice of food, momentarily forgetting about the outfit, and about why he looks like he was about to dip in in gravy when his comically large eyes widen.

Hearts burn in his eyes, literally, those small black pupils shifting and melting into hot red hearts.

“Dearest!” His voice sounds excited, and I can feel the air change, sweetening almost,  and he immediately drops his wheat bread chicken-dog into the pot of gravy, rushing over to embrace me, “You look great!”

He nuzzled into my neck, and my face almost gets consumed by his messy black hair that almost seems to move towards me like a magnetic pull, kissing and nibbling against the exposed skin.

Laughing, I can feel the shape of his wide grin against my shoulder until he pulls back slightly, to look down at me, almost purring at the sight of my crab fit.

His hands roam all along my back, constantly brushing against the plush legs sewn onto the onesie.

He’s staring, he always stares, those heart-pupils never leaving you for a second as he feels around the costume, the symbol on his shirt melting and changing from a heart to a smiley face in a almost dream like way.

If you’re wondering what happens next, it’s all kid friendly hugs and nothing else :-)

[crystalyssa35]

A General Guide to Writing Well, Now, & Consistently

In all my years writing, I have struggled with keeping writing as a fun and healthy habit. It took me five years (and many instances of writer's block and giving up) to actually have a basic set of guidelines to keep my writing going...

And I would like to share these "rules" with you all today!

Now, a bit of a disclaimer: developing the quality of your writing skills comes with time, research, and thinking. It may sound frustrating to hear, and you may hear it often, but the only way to get better at writing is to write and read often. Many times, just by jotting a silly thought down or reading fanfiction, you can spawn ideas without realizing it.

Now, to the list of tips that (I hope) will help you on your writing endeavors!

If you are not having fun writing your story, your readers will not have fun reading it. It sounds silly, but it's true! If you're enjoying your writing, you're more likely to write more and input more ideas into it!

Even if you have people to check your works, reread them on your own anyway. This may be a little frustrating tip for some, but let me tell you: I used to HATE checking my own stuff. The worst way I learned that personally checking it is a necessity was when my aunt checked it and pointed out tens of mistakes within my grammar, storyline, and characters. Check yo work, it will save you a LOT of embarrassment in the future.

Write anything. Read everything. As ambiguous and obscure as it will sound, it makes sense with context. As I mentioned before, the only way to get better at writing is to write and read often. Write anything your mind desires, that's simple enough. But read EVERYTHING; not only books, blogs, and articles, but also games, texts with friends, billboards, pictures with text, and (sorry, students) even homework as well. You'll be surprised how much your vocabulary expands when you actually pay attention to anything that is written (for me, it was video games. Seven-year old me knew vocabulary that I was taught in seventh grade because of it). And on that note...

Research what you don't know. Please, this one is genuinely important (I'm biased because it's one of my pet peeves). This includes words you don't know the definition of, spelling, and even generic, real-life information you want to add into your stories (e.g. I actually spent four hours researching how gemstones are categorized for my sci-fi story: Eco-Adstrum). Unfortunately, sometimes researching and fact-checking your ideas before writing them down can prove to be unmotivating, especially when you're wrong. But, it's always good to stay optimistic and be creative enough to twist the actual fact to mold it to your stories. Unless you're writing non-fiction, then maybe don't do that last bit.

If you have no ideas, keep wiggling your pencil. To those that recognize that phrase, yes, it is not my own. This is a piece of writing from former Tumblr user "officialtheonite" (I was only able to find the post because it has been reblogged multiple times) and their fifth grade writing teacher. Essentially, even if you have no ideas, keep writing. Write ANYTHING, even if it doesn't make sense. You will always be able to double-check it later and you will save yourself a lot of wasted time sitting around trying to stir the soup in your brain.

Balance the usage of your names and pronouns. To this day, I still struggle with this. I tend to use an abundance of pronouns when I'm referring to a character, so much so that sometimes, it becomes unclear on if we are still talking about aforementioned character or if we're talking about a different character entirely. Use names when the focus or action of a character is on stage; use pronouns if we are still talking about said character (even if we are talking about the same character, make sure you at least reiterate their name when there's a new paragraph).

I'll be editing and reworking this list as time goes on. I hope these tips can be of use so some of you all. Feel free to ask me any questions if needed. Enjoy writing and keep at it! I believe in you all!

[ghostlyforxst]

GENDER: GENDER NEUTRAL READER

WARNING: YANDERE TENDENCIES AND MENTIONS OF ABUSE

CHARACTER: SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA

A/n- I apologize for not posting, I had to take a break to recuperate. Though I'm back and have a new story coming!

Affection — how do they show their love and affection?

Tsundere at heart, Sanemi isn't touchy unless he is punching or kicking angrily. Though, quality time and gift giving are his affections.

Blood — how messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Barbarous, will ruthlessly strangle or impale the threatening person. Sanemi has no tolerance for people or demons when it comes to you, you are his top priority.

Cruelty — how would they treat their darling once abducted?

Even how feral and insensitive Sanemi can act, Sanemi is tender and caring beneath his calloused surface. When around you those traits are exposed. He can be caring, relaxed, and attentive.

Darling — aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Though he's more considerate towards you but eventually he'll want to get intimate with you, forceful or not. Besides that, forcing you to give affection and forcing you to become a housewife/husband.

Exposed — how vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Rarely, only because he doesn't want you to abuse his sensitive side.

Fight — how would they feel if their darling fought back?

Irritated, he'll start cursing and manhandling you. He hates it, he wants you to come willingly, and wants to comfort you but doesn't know how to deal with your distressed attitude.

Game — is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No, Sanemi is serious and he is serious with your relationship. He hates and gets frustrated from your attempts to escape.

Hell — what would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

He had forgotten to secure the door before leaving for the mission. Noticing this, you made a run for it. Just as you exit out the door, you collide into Sanemi. You shitted yourself, almost literally, as he stared down at you furiously.

"Where the hell are you going!?" Sanemi seethed, shoving you back and onto your bottom.

"..."

"Quiet now, huh!?" He sneered, shadowing you.

He'd gotten abusive, smacking you and degrading you. Assuring you that everyone would believe you're deranged if you ratted him out, that you'll never be able to leave him.

Ideals — what kind of future do they have in mind for their darling?

After riding the demons, Sanemi would love to wed you and later on have kids with you.

Jealousy — do they get jealous? How do they handle it?

Obviously, Sanemi hates when people's attention is on you. Sending a warning glare at the person firstly but if the person's ogling or flirtatious comments doesn't falter, then they become food for the demons.

Rough-jealous sex or plenty of affection will soothe his envy attitude.

Kisses — how do they act around or with their darling?

Calm and blithe, a simp, only if you behave; though if you misbehave, he is forceful and selfish. Even if he isn't giving physical affection, he is in arm's reach distant listening to you. He'll prepare your favorite meal or purchase your needs and wants.

Love letters — how would they go about approaching their darling?

Small conversations, a simple how you are doing before taking his leave. Progressing to more words over time and the two of you do not have to exchange words, he's content in your presence.

Mask — are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

He's a lot more tender with you than he is in front of his coworkers, but he is still that stubborn and foolhardy man at times.

Naughty — how would they punish their darling?

Without a doubt, he does not tolerate you misbehaving. He goes farther than verbally attacking you: slapping you, degrading you, isolating you, and breaking bones if bad enough.

Oppression — how many rights would they take away from their darling?

Sanemi steals the majority of your freedoms, and the only one you pretty much got is being able to go outside but only to the vicinity of his estate. If you go farther than that, he considers it an attempt to escape.

Patience — how patient are they with their darling?

Depending on his days, if he feels irritable then he can be snappy and stand offish towards you. But on particular days that he is untroubled then he has patience that no one has seen.

Quite — if their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Sanemi is enraged if you successfully escape, cursing loudly and preparing to throw hands with everyone. He spends his free-time searching for you. With how much he travels, it would be rather hard to stay hidden. You better hope he doesn't find you because there will be hell to pay.

Sanemi goes into shock if you pass; his face is stoic in front of his peers but within and behind closed doors, he is grieving hard. He becomes more rash and abrasive than he was before, giving people and demons hell now that the person who eased his aggressive side is gone.

Regret — would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling?

Sanemi is aware that what he is doing is wrong, but he can't find the reason to care. You're his, and no matter how resentful you are towards him he is happy that you are in his grasp.

Stigma — what brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Your sweet, patient, and easygoing nature reminded Sanemi of Kanae, he missed that and he wanted that again—even though you weren't her but he loved all of you. When you came from a mission with crucial injuries, near fatal, he was emotionally distressed. He kidnapped you to protect you, he doesn't want to lose you like the others.

Tears — how do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Distressed, frustrated, and panicked. He doesn't know how to comfort people in these types of situations, and he comes off as angry when he is panicking and trying to figure out how to comfort you—he hates seeing you this way.

Unique — would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

He is more violent than a typical yandere, he is also very possessive.

Vice — what weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Take the time when he is on a mission. For being one of the strongest hashiras, Sanemi is sent on lengthy missions and is rather busy.

Wit’s end — would they ever hurt their darling?

Yes, when he's blinded by anger he'll hit you or hurt your feelings.

Xoanon — how much would they revere or worship their darling?

To a certain extent, he worships you but he also wants you to worship him as well.

Yearn — how long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

For a while actually, for a couple of months he'll become acquainted with you before you get seriously injured and he kidnaps you.

Zenith — would they ever break their darling?

Maybe unintentionally, it could be one of those times when he gets violent and you become emotional and mentally dead.

[novabl]

God, the chapter hasn't even come out yet and people are already starting to demonize Doumeki. I'm really sorry, and it's probably not a popular opinion, but I really don't understand how Doumeki is supposed to know what's going on in Yashiro's head. He feels one thing, but says and does something completely different. We know that. Yes. But Doumeki can't read minds. Yashiro's body says yes. But in words, Yashiro also behaves sarcastic, cold and sometimes cruel towards Doumeki. Nothing changed. It's difficult to understand what's going on in a person's head. To believe that he loves you and if you open up to him again, this time he won’t leave you and you won’t get a bullet from him? Of course, I’m also annoyed by this whole situation and I want them to have a normal conversation! But to really demonize Doumeki... I can understand his behavior. How can I fully understand Yashiro's behavior. Yoneda wrote Doumeki as more than just a love interest. She created an interesting character with many good and bad qualities. With his own past and with his own traumas. Both Yashiro and Doumeki have huge trust issues. The fact that Yashiro is reflecting is already great progress!!! Doumeki keeps to himself but gives Yashiro space. They both go towards each other! Yes, not as quickly as we would like, but still. eh. It just upsets me that it feels like fans are ready to just destroy Doumeki for even the slightest bit of negative feelings towards Yashiro. As if Doumeki has no right to be jealous, offended, insolent... This makes me so frustrated(

Yeah, I understand this feeling well. I am not sure if you ever came across my blog a few months ago but I actually started out as almost a Doumeki defense blog lol. Most of my posts were about Doumeki’s pov because I felt there was a lot of harshness towards him. Ultimately I think the main issue those people have against Doumeki is that they don’t like Doumeki outside of being Yashiro’s love interest. That means Doumeki is not allowed to be a fully fleshed out character with his own insecurities and issues; he just needs to be whatever Yashiro needs him to be and he should know that even without any communication from Yashiro. Doumeki is supposed to be Yashiro’s lover, therapist and emotional whipping boy. A large part of the issue maybe certain interpretations of them as characters where there is a belief that Doumeki is this jealous, possessive man who only cares about having Yashiro at his side and Yashiro is the selfless one who only cares about doing what is best for Doumeki have influenced how we view their actions. We believe the worst of Doumeki while Yashiro is only at his mercy. The thing is Doumeki is acting in a way that Yashiro wanted in the past and pushing down his own desires to do it. He is not exactly happy with this arrangement either. Even when he was sweet, sensitive Doumeki, there was a lot of criticism towards him. There was even criticism of him for expressing he wants Yashiro to want only him. Doumeki is trying the best he can but Yashiro’s trauma goes beyond him. He can’t heal Yashiro nor should he be expected to. He also shouldn’t be expected to constantly sacrifice his own needs and desires for Yashiro and to never express any negative emotion about Yashiro’s actions. That is not an equal relationship. Some people have so much empathy for Yashiro but almost none for Doumeki. The most interesting thing is that if you even suggest Doumeki and Yashiro separate, those people would also hate that idea because Yashiro’s happiness is so reliant on Doumeki. I feel your frustration, anon. I feel like I can rant about this forever.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Justice for Barty Crouch Jr: Part 1/2

(Part 2)

This is a bit of a weird theory, and I'll confess, some of the evidence is not all that conclusive. But I didn't see anyone mention anything about this anywhere else...

When I reread the books recently, I noticed I really liked Mad-Eye Moody in Goblet of Fire. Moody in the fourth book is actually one of my favorite characters, he makes the top 10. But then I reached Order of the Phoenix and realized (again) that I hate Moody's guts.

The only conclusion I could draw was that I really liked Barty Crouch Jr. because, Moody in book 4, wasn't really Moody. So, I went back to Goblet of Fire to try and find out who Barty is, how his behavior as Moody, differed from the real deal in the later books, and why I liked him when I didn't like the real Moody.

And let's just say, I came to some interesting conclusions...

This post ended up being pretty long, so I've divided it up into two. But my thesis is:

Barty was a Death eater, but he didn't torture the Longbottoms.

He didn't want Harry to be hurt during the Tornoment and actually cared about him.

And I can prove it!

Reasons for Doubt

When reviewing all the scenes of Barty Jr, it was made clear pretty quickly that Barty wasn't really trying to fool anyone. Actually, he seemed to be actively sabotaging himself.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl. An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, “Moody, old man ... what a thing to say!” “We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”

(Goblet of Fire, page 279)

From the very beginning, Barty is outright telling everyone what happened. And exactly how:

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament. ... I’m guessing they submitted Potter’s name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category. ...” “You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” said Karkaroff coldly, “and a very ingenious theory it is — though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously. ...”

(Goblet of Fire, pages 279-280)

He goes as far as to explain how he got Harry into the tournament. To the point even Karkaroff thinks it's strange Moody would bother putting so much thought into it. And he's right, it is super strange.

Barty shouldn't be explaining that to the people he is supposedly trying to deceive. It's so incredibly revealing and counterproductive. And it's not that Barty is stupid, he shows he is both intelligent and competent to a degree it's clear that if he really wanted to not be discovered he wouldn't be (he transfigured his father's corpse to a bone and buried it in the forest when he didn't wish to be found out, clearly, he can get away with murder when he wants to). So why all of this? Why try so hard to tell them exactly what's going on? Why is he showing his hand?

It won't be out of character for Moody to not mention all of it. He could not go into as much detail easily. But, he chooses to go into detail about the very method he used to get Harry chosen for the tournament. Like he's trying to get himself caught.

“So . . . whoever conjured the Dark Mark . . .” said Hermione slowly, “were they doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?” “Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” said Mr. Weasley. “But I’ll tell you this . . . it was only the Death Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Death Eater once, even if they’re not now. . . .

(Goblet of Fire, page 143)

This is an earlier note from Hermione, and I agree with her 100%. The goal of Barty when casting the Dark Mark isn't clear. We know he is a marked Death Eater, but so are Regulus and Snape. We know not all Death Eaters agreed with everything they did, and some of them had regrets. And it's kind of interesting this idea that Barty cast the Dark Mark to scare the attackers off was planted this early in the book.

“What — what are you doing?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air. “Teaching,” said Moody. “Teach — Moody, is that a student?” shrieked Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms. “Yep,” said Moody.

(Goblet of Fire, page 206)

I wanted to add this scene just because of the "yep" as his response to McGonagall, but this entire conversation, actually is noteworthy. Why? Well, the mannerism.

Moody whom we meet in book 5 and onwards doesn't speak or act like this. The mannerisms and speech patterns we see in this conversation are 100% Barty Crouch Jr. And this isn't the only scene in which his own mannerisms peek through because he isn't putting much effort into his act.

Here are some examples of how Moody talks in book 5, for comparison:

“Well, congratulations,” said Moody, still glaring at Ron with his normal eye, “authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have appointed you. . . .”

(Order of the Pheonix, page 169)

“Yeah, well,” said Moody, “there’s something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that.” “Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning,” whispered Mrs. Weasley. “ ’Course he’s worried,” growled Moody. “The boy’s seeing things from inside You-Know-Who’s snake. . . . Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who’s possessing him —”

(Order of the Pheonix, page 491)

He's more gruff, more blunt, more paranoid. He isn't as gentle with Harry and Ron as Barty was (I'll showcase some of these moments later). And he shows full faith in Dumbledore's decisions. Something, Barty doesn't do even when pretending to be Moody.

Some Background

I want to talk about Barty's trial and Azkaban sentence for a bit, along with his relationship with his father as it explains a lot about him as a character...

and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his straw-colored hair all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her seat, whimpering into her handkerchief. Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face. “You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass judgment on you, for a crime so heinous —” “Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair. “Father . . . please . . .” “— that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son’s voice. “We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —” “Father, I didn’t!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I didn’t, I swear it, Father, don’t send me back to the dementors —”

(Goblet of Fire, page 594)

Does this look like a hardened Death Eater who was happy to torture the Longbottoms and proud to serve his lord?

No, this is a terrified nineteen-year-old kid who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.

Barty continues and calls:

“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward. “Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me!”

...

“No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!”

(Goblet of Fire, page 595)

Barty calls this as Bellatrix and the Lestranges are completely calm, taking credit for torturing the Longbottoms. Shouting at Crouch Sr, that Voldemort would return. Barty isn't doing that, he isn't the fanatic Death Eaters, he's a scared boy:

But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Harry could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle. “I’m your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I’m your son!” “You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!” The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed. “Take them away!” Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. “Take them away, and may they rot there!” “Father! Father, I wasn’t involved! No! No! Father, please!”

(Goblet of Fire, page 596)

Barty keeps swearing he wasn't involved and that he didn't do it. that it wasn't him. Compared to how calm the three Lestranges are — it's clear something's up.

I think Barty is telling the truth here. I think he really didn't torture the Longbottoms.

Barty was still acting as a scared boy, just like in his trial, even in front of only dementors and Death Eaters, when there was no need to act. He is described by Sirius when he arrived in Azkaban:

I saw the dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars in my cell door. He can’t have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though . . . they all went quiet in the end . . . except when they shrieked in their sleep. . . .

(Goblet of Fire, page 528)

Barty was young and scared and kept to the same behavior even with no audience to convince — which means it wasn't a lie. It wasn't an act. He really didn't do it.

Sirius talks a little bit about Braty's childhood, his relationship with Crouch Sr and the events leading up to his trial:

“Crouch’s own son was caught with a group of Death Eaters who’d managed to talk their way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to find Voldemort and return him to power.”

...

“Nasty little shock for old Barty, I’d imagine. Should have spent a bit more time at home with his family, shouldn’t he? Ought to have left the office early once in a while . . . gotten to know his own son.” He began to wolf down large pieces of bread. “Was his son a Death Eater?” said Harry. “No idea,” said Sirius, still stuffing down bread. “I was in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is mostly stuff I’ve found out since I got out. The boy was definitely caught in the company of people I’d bet my life were Death Eaters — but he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the house-elf.”

...

“...Crouch’s fatherly affection stretched just far enough to give his son a trial, and by all accounts, it wasn’t much more than an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the boy . . . then he sent him straight to Azkaban.”

(Goblet of Fire, page 528)

Barty, at the time of his trial and sentence, wasn't even for sure a Death Eater. He wasn't actually caught doing anything, he was caught with Death Eaters who escaped an Azkaban sentence, which means Death Eaters other than the Lestranges. This means he wasn't even caught on the scene of the Longbottoms torture, but somewhere else and unrelated. It proves even more that Barty was innocent regarding the torture of Frank and Alice.

We know he was a Death Eater because he could cast the Dark Mark. But, I think he wasn't involved in torturing the Longbottoms or anyone, for that matter. I don't think he had it in him before Azkaban and years of torment by his father.

The other thing of note is Crouch's treatment of his son. He was an absent father, caring more for his ministry position than his family. And we see later in GoF that Barty despises his father. I think he disliked him even before being kept under the imperious curse for years. I think that's what pushed Barty to become a Death Eater, it was something to spite his father. To create a distance between them.

His murder of his father during GoF is probably the only murder he wanted a part of. Actually, his father is the only person we know he killed. He didn't get the chance to kill the real Moody, and he never killed anyone else.

Once the boy [Barty Jr] had died, people started feeling a bit more sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray. The conclusion was that his father never cared much for him

(Goblet of Fire, page 529)

More from Sirius that strengthens my former point. Barty joined the Death Eaters, in large to go against his father.

This vendetta against his father is the main reason I believe Barty chooses this plan to aid Voldemort. Well, there are some other reasons, but using the tournament is a good way for him to mess with his father's reputation. That same reputation that was more important to him than his own son.

As a Teacher and Mentor

A lot of fans like to say Remus Lupin was the best DADA teacher Harry had, I'd actually argue it was Moody (aka Barty). I'm saying that because Barty-as-Moody was the one who taught Harry many of the techniques and approaches he keeps going back to in the books.

The constant vigilance that saves him multiple times is from Barty, not the real Moody.

His resistance to the imperious curse.

When Harry quotes Moody in his head under certain situations for the advice he was given, it's not advice from the real Moody but from Barty:

He raised the cup to his lips and then, just as suddenly, lowered it. One of the horrible painted kittens behind Umbridge had great round blue eyes just like Mad-Eye Moody’s magical one, and it had just occurred to Harry what Mad-Eye would say if he ever heard that Harry had drunk anything offered by a known enemy

(Order of the Phoenix, page 630)

This above quote is based on Barty's advice in GoF, not the real Moody.

Barty made Harry think of becoming an auror. He was the one who convinced him he could become one:

“You ever thought of a career as an Auror, Potter?” “No,” said Harry, taken aback. “You want to consider it,” said Moody, nodding and looking at Harry thoughtfully. “Yes, indeed . . . and incidentally . . . I’m guessing you weren’t just taking that egg for a walk tonight?” “Er — no,” said Harry, grinning. “I’ve been working out the clue.” Moody winked at him, his magical eye going haywire again. “Nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas, Potter. . . . See you in the morning. . . .”

(Goblet of Fire, pages 477-478)

Barty did more for Harry's self-esteem than any other teacher.

“Now, that’s more like it!” growled Moody’s voice, and suddenly, Harry felt the empty, echoing feeling in his head disappear. He remembered exactly what was happening, and the pain in his knees seemed to double. “Look at that, you lot ... Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention — watch his eyes, that’s where you see it — very good, Potter, very good indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling you!”

(Goblet of Fire, page 232)

In the above scene, Barty is delighted by Harry's resistance of the imperious. He is so proud and fond. I already mentioned and will continue showing how Barty did very little acting when he pretended to be Moody, as such, I don't think he's pretending here either. I think he actually is delighted.

And, I mean, think about it, why would a servant loyal to Voldemort teach Harry Potter how to resist the imperius? Why would he keep practicing with him throughout the year to make sure he was good at it? Why make sure Harry knows people would want to control him and he should make it hard for them?

The only conclusion I can come to is that he is trying to help Harry from a limited position. Why and How will be discussed later.

Neville was standing alone, halfway up the passage, staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same horrified, wide-eyed look he had worn when Moody had demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse. “Neville?” Hermione said gently. “Neville, what — ?” But an odd clunking noise sounded behind them, and they turned to see Professor Moody limping toward them. All four of them fell silent, watching him apprehensively, but when he spoke, it was in a much lower and gentler growl than they had yet heard. “It’s all right, sonny,” he said to Neville. “Why don’t you come up to my office? Come on . . . we can have a cup of tea. ...” Neville looked even more frightened at the prospect of tea with Moody. He neither moved nor spoke. Moody turned his magical eye upon Harry. “You all right, are you, Potter?” “Yes,” said Harry, almost defiantly. Moody’s blue eye quivered slightly in its socket as it surveyed Harry. Then he said, “You’ve got to know. It seems harsh, maybe, but you’ve got to know. No point pretending ... well ... come on, Longbottom, I’ve got some books that might interest you.”

(Goblet of Fire, page 219)

And he wasn't only the best DADA teacher for Harry, he was the best teacher for Neville too. He actually helped the son of the Longbottoms he was sent to Azkaban for torturing.

Just, he is the only adult attempting to build up Neville's confidence in himself and his abilities. He encourages Neville's love of Herbology and doesn't ridicule him like most other adults in Neville's life.

Also in the above quote, he clearly wants to tell Harry more. "but you’ve got to know", he says. He is trying to prepare Harry for what's to come. Why would he do that if he wants him dead?

As a Defender of Harry

To continue off Barty actually steps up to defend Harry a lot throughout the book. Even at times, he won't necessarily have to. I mean, the real Moody was never this protective of Harry. Sure, he kept him safe, but he didn't really care for Harry's feelings and self-esteem. Barty did.

“Yeah, that’s Harry Potter,” said a growling voice from behind them. Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-Eye Moody was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang headmaster. The color drained from Karkaroff’s face as Harry watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear came over him

(Goblet of Fire, page 258)

He's scaring Karkaroff and the Durmstrang students away from Harry. The moment before this quote had the Durmstrang students and Karkaroff noticing Harry for the first time as they were leaving the Great Hall on the day they arrived at Hogwarts. They all freeze and stare at Harry, knowing his story and probably about to ask him questions, it's not like Karkaroff would've done anything in the Great Hall. But Moody (Barty) steps in to fend off Harry's discomfort! Hes not even in actual physical danger! Just discomfort!

Harry hesitated. He’d been afraid of this — but he hadn’t told Cedric, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Moody, that Hagrid had broken the rules. “It’s all right,” said Moody, sitting down and stretching out his wooden leg with a groan. “Cheating’s a traditional part of the Tri-wizard Tournament and always has been.” “I didn’t cheat,” said Harry sharply. “It was — a sort of accident that I found out.” Moody grinned. “I wasn’t accusing you, laddie. I’ve been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime won’t be. They’ll have told their champions everything they can. They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They’d like to prove he’s only human.”

(Goblet of Fire, pages 343-344)

Moody is glad Harry knows about the dragons, and that could be explained by wanting him to win so he could get to the graveyard (that plan had so many problems in it that I'll get to later) but that isn't the only thing he reveals here. He calls out Dumbledore and his attitude. He shows his dislike towards Dumbledore and his moral flexibility regarding cheating - two things the real Moody will never say. And he would definitely not phrase them like this. This whole conversation — that's all Barty.

Barty, who is actually encouraging Harry and belittling Dumbledore.

That sentence about proving Dumbledore's human, I think Barty shares that feeling. He agrees with the other headmasters on that. Even if he hates Karkaroff's guts.

Because he actually does hate all the Death Eaters that got away genuinely, but not for the same reasons as, let's say, Bellatrix. Bellatrix dislikes them for their lack of loyalty to their lord; Barty hates them out of envy.

Barty was sent to Azkaban for his mark even if he never tortured or killed anyone. And these other Death Eaters, ones he might know killed or tortured, got out scott-free. He was fought alongside them and still sent to the dementors instead of being let go. And he is bitter.

Also, important to remember, that a year in Azkaban and then twelve years under the Imperius curse didn't leave him unscathed. He is not mentally or emotionally well or anything close to it when we meet him in the books.

“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is — play to your strengths.” “I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. “Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best at?”

(Goblet of Fire, page 344)

I love this scene. Like, this is the first ever time an adult with authority, a teacher, tells Harry how great he is. I talked about the fact Harry is clever and magically powerful but has really low self-esteem. And Barty actually argues with him. Bart (as Moody) makes him believe he could become something. That he has things he is good at.

One of this book's antagonists is the first person to tell Harry he has strengths. That's just all levels of messed up.

It shows Barty Crouch Jr actually does more for Harry's emotional well-being than any other professor he had. More than McGonagall, more than Lupin. Actually, the only adult who tries to help Harry with more care than Barty, is Sirius Black, Harry's godfather. It's just insane that Barty, a Death Eater, actually understood Harry and went out of his way to help with his insecurities and make him comfortable more than Molly Weasley did.

Now, let's talk about the Farret Incident because it's interesting too. both regarding his defense of Harry and his hatred of the Death Eaters that got away.

“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, pointing his wand at the ferret again — it flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward once more. “I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growled Moody as the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in pain. “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do. ...”

(Goblet of Fire, page 205)

Barty steps in to defend Harry because he does it a lot. It's why I placed this moment in this section. One would expect someone who wants Harry to die to not mind if he was cursed a bit, it's not like Draco was about to kill him, but no, he defends him even when no one sees him there.

But specifically in this incident, I want to mention how personal he gets about this. Barty's disdain towards the Death Eaters that escaped Azkaban is very real and very dangerous to Draco. He's furious they didn't need to spend a year in hell on earth only to then be enslaved by a curse for 12 years by their father who kept them like a dirty secret in the basement.

As I mentioned above, I don't think Barty is mentally sound, but I think he genuinely cares about Harry and didn't torture the Longbottoms.

In the next post, I go through the final scene of Barty in the book, and explain the whole plan Barty had.

Part 2 >>