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hueseok · 9 months ago

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it was always you.

for as long as you remember, you’ve always had the fattest crush on your childhood friend, jeon jungkook. it never blossomed into something more though, because that’s what happens when life naturally takes it course—you grow up, you move on, and you pretend that those feelings never existed in order to maintain the good friendship that remained between the two of you over the years.

so when he visits you after work one day, asking you to marry him, you do everything you can to refuse, because the reason he’s asking you isn’t due to the fact that he finally realized that he loved you after all this time, but because he thinks he’s doing you a big favor.

or at least, that’s what you think.

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 13.2k

rating: 18+

content: fluff, semi-angst, childhood friends to lovers au, pining au | ft. naval aviator!jungkook + brother’s best friend!jungkook; professor!reader + editor!reader | inspired by purple hearts

warning/s: swearing, potentially wrong medical & military information (i’m sorry but i tried to do as much research i can 😭), mentions of having type 1 diabetes, making out, heavy petting, implied sexual content: oral (f. receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (this is only fiction!)

MINI PLAYLIST: ♫ die with a smile — lady gaga, bruno mars ♫ juno — sabrina carpenter ♫ selfish — *nsync ♫ nandito na ako — benj pangilinan, angela ken

opening note. omg this is my first full length fic in two damn years i think??? certainly took a long time before i had the motivation to write again but i hope y'all like this! to my og readers who still keep up with my shenanigans, this one's for you 🥹💗

“Any questions?”

A boy wearing half-rimmed glasses raises his hand and you gesture for him to speak. “Can we get an extension on the Save the Cat project due tomorrow?”

You sigh, just as several of your students begin agreeing with him and muttering reasons of their own why the extension should be approved. It’s the week before finals, and you’re aware that the class must be packed with assignments and projects for several of their classes because of it, hence the rather last minute request. They look tired and pleading, a complete reflection of how you were when you were the one in their position nearly a decade ago, begging for an extension from a professor who you thought was kind enough to be swayed with the proposition.

You scan the crowd. “How many of you are at least 70% with it, hm?”

More than half of the class raises their hands.

“Okay, that’s honestly unexpected,” you say, pleased to know that they aren’t slacking on your subject. “Does Monday sound good? That’s three more days, to be fair. I don’t want to extend it further because I have to read everyone’s work and you guys know I don’t like rushing it before turning in your final grade.”

A chorus of relief and thanks echoed in the room, all of your students either dramatically sinking in their chair or erupting in an animated conversation with their seatmate or making crying faces to portray how grateful they are.

“Thank you so much, Ms. ____!”

“I love you, Ms. ____!”

“Ms. ____, I will offer my first child to you,” one theatrically adds and you smile a bit, rolling your eyes at students like this one who is now opting to flatter you way too much for your act of kindness.

“Alright, alright. Just get it done and I’m expecting quality work, okay? Class dismissed.”

The whole class begins to gather their things at the cue and you don’t stay there a minute longer after your announcement, exiting the lecture hall to head to the faculty room where you’re certain half of the teaching staff have gone home already. It’s already 8:47 p.m., and all you want to do is head home to get the rest you deserve after an eventful day.

There was a time that having a schedule from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. wasn’t the norm for you. You used to value work life balance so much—it was even a nonnegotiable you used to say in interviews, saying that if you didn’t get enough rest within the week, then the job most likely wasn’t for you. But things have been very different for the past months; you have definitely grown out of that mindset due to the fact that you’re simply in need of another source of income to pay for your monthly rent, utility bills, and now your medication. You’re in a stage of your life wherein you consider working part time as a professor was a blessing rather than a big nuisance.

Making a right turn to where the hallway to the faculty room is, you’re too busy rearranging the papers inside the folder you’re holding to notice a man sitting on the bench placed just beside the entrance. He notices you the second you appear in his line of vision though; he straightens his posture and proceeds on standing up immediately upon seeing you closer, calling your name softly when you failed to look at his direction, too preoccupied with the thought of finally coming home that you’re oblivious that the man trying to catch your attention is Jeon Jungkook.

“____,” he calls again and this time you notice him, your eyes widening instantly.

“Holy shi—” You stop yourself from finishing that sentence. “Jungkook?”

He grins. “Hey, lamb chop.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet an old friend?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughs, following suit to you who’s already giggling just by his presence alone, outstretching his arms then. “You gonna hug me or what?”

You beam and step forward to embrace him. He returns it without hesitation, muscular arms circling around you and squeezing tightly that it lifts you up from the ground for a quick second. The faint smell of fabric conditioner on his clothes enters your nostrils and you feel like a teenager again, warmth rushing to your face while your heart hammers loudly in your chest. Regardless of how old the both of you are, you think your hopeless crush on the guy will forever live on and constantly transform you into a middle school girl whenever opportunities like these to have him near arise. You’re just happy you’ve trained yourself to be better at hiding it now compared to when you were younger.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in base or wherever it is that you’re designated?” you ask, the first to let go from the hug.

“Actually, I returned from deployment three days ago. I’m on leave for two weeks.”

“Wow. Two weeks, huh?”

“Yep. It’s the longest break I’ve gotten in a while.”

“That’s good. Everybody needs a break from time to time.”

“Says the girl has a day job and a night job.” He points out with a smirk; your heart does a little leap at how handsome he looks doing that. “When the hell did you get into teaching, by the way? I never pegged you to be the kind who can tolerate it. You hate kids.”

“You’ll find yourself tolerating lots of things in this economy.” You snort. “And my students aren’t kids. They’re in college.”

“Yeah, which you graduated from six years ago. Still technically kids.”

“Are you seriously jabbing at my age when you’re two years older than I am?”

He rolls his eyes at that one, an indication that you won the argument. “Anyway,” he starts again and you grin, “I didn’t come here to compare how old we are—”

“You didn’t?”

He sends you a look. Your grin gets even wider.

“I’m here because I was hoping to treat you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” you repeat, not masking the surprise from your voice.

Let’s get the facts straight before we proceed to this conversation.

It isn’t a lie when you say that you and Jungkook are great friends. You have been since you were 7 and your family just moved into the house next to theirs. He was a natural playmate, a companion when you couldn’t tolerate the antics of your older brother, the boy who looked out for you aside from said older brother, and the person you’ve shared significant history with throughout your youth that you can never seem to forget nor disregard.

It’s just that you never deemed that you were great enough friends for him to go out of his way and visit you at your workplace, offering to treat you for dinner. Gestures like that were reserved for your older brother, Seowon, who’s the same age as he is and who you’re sure is considered as his best friend. Compared to them, yours and Jungkook’s dynamic shifted slightly after graduating from college. What once was a really close friendship turned into a casual one, with mostly just teasing, light talks, and the occasional welfare checks at times you hear certain news from the other that’s worth speaking directly about.

At the mention of that, realization dawns on you on why he must be here.

“Jungkook…” You’re trying not to sound mad but you can’t hide the exasperation from your voice. “That’s not the real reason you’re here.”

“Of course, it is. Why else would I be here?”

“He told you, didn’t he?” you ask, not willing to drag this out. “You’re just going to give me another lecture that I definitely don’t need.”

Jungkook frowns, like he’s dismayed that you caught on pretty swiftly.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” You pressed.

“He meant well, ____.”

You scowl. To remark that Seowon is unnecessarily nosy and coddling would be an understatement. That man hasn’t left you alone the second he was aware of your condition. Usually, whenever he gets into his ‘big brother tendencies’, his girlfriend Winnie steps in and helps you lay him off your back. However, it’s different this time; no matter how much you reinstill your independence and insist that you’re fine, it’s like you’re talking to a wall.

“What exactly did you hear from him?” you query.

He seems hesitant in answering that. “That you got diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.”

You wince.

“Look,” he steps forward towards you, “I wasn’t going to bring it up unless you did, okay? I’m just here because I’m genuinely worried about you and I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Worry doesn’t vanish magically just because someone says so.”

“Well, it should—because I’m fine.”

“You sure? I heard that you’re struggling to buy insulin among other things you’re having a hard time paying.”

“Fuck. Seowon told you that too? That’s private.”

“My parents know. He just filled me in because he wants you to have as much support as you can get.”

“I don’t need that. I’m an adult. I’ve lived by myself for years. I can fend for myself just fine.”

“It doesn’t look like it from what I’ve been hearing.”

“All you’re hearing is a warped and exaggerated version of the story told by Seowon who won’t listen to a word I say.” You huff. “I’m fine and I’ve been doing everything I can, alright? I’m taking care of myself. I’m going to the doctor whenever I need to. I’m making ends meet, buying treatment for this goddamn disease and regulating my sugar levels all the fucking time. Why do you think I’ve been working two jobs for the past year? It’s because I’m doing everything I can to stay alive.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, he only remains gazing at you.

“If you’re here to offer me money or whatever because of what he said,” you add, already embarrassed that you can’t even look at him anymore, “then I don’t want it.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” he says.

“Then are you really just here to treat me to dinner?” you question sarcastically.

He laughs and you dare return your eyes at him, catching him peering at you with a fond expression. “Yes. It’s my way of doing a welfare check.”

“Welfare check.” You echo with squinted eyes. “Well, in that case, here I am—alive and healthy.”

“I can see that, and I’m glad.” He smiles. “But I need more than just seeing you. I need a conversation and an apology.”

“An apology?”

“For being the last person to know about your condition.”

“And we’re still talking about that apparently.” You mutter under your breath. “Sorry. I didn’t think that you wanted to know.”

“Of course, I would have wanted to know. It’s you we’re talking about here.”

Something about how he said you causes your lips to twitch as you fight off a smile. This isn’t a good time to dive into your romantic feelings for your childhood crush, but when he’s letting go of lines like that which are sure to have your heart soaring out of your chest, it’s hard to keep on a cool and unfazed facade. You just convince yourself that he sees you as a little sister and that’s why he’s so worried; you should already be past your ‘delulu’ phase at this age to be affected by such statements.

“I didn’t want to add to your worries,” you reason. “You already have your life to think about. Add to the fact that you’re a naval aviator—so you literally have your own life first to think about.”

“I can make space for you.”

Is he flirting? Is this a normal thing to say between friends?

You blink. “Okay, uh, that’s… that’s completely up to you, I guess.”

“I just like knowing those things first hand. It makes me worry less.”

“Got it. Next time I learn I’m dying, I’ll tell you.”

“____,” he says your name in warning, and you know he’s serious.

“Sorry.” You heat up. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass.”

“I promise that’ll be the last time I make a dark joke, Lieutenant.”

Jungkook’s nostrils flare. You prevent yourself from grinning like a fool again in success of getting on his nerves.

“Are you done here? Because I’m hungry and would really like to get going now.” He changes the subject and gestures to the faculty.

“Yeah. I’ll just get my things and then I can get out of here.”

“Great. You’re letting me take you to dinner, right?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Fine.” You deadpan.

This time, he’s the one who’s beaming at you. “I’ll wait for you here and we can go.”

“Okay.”

****

When Jungkook discovered that you had type 1 diabetes through a phone call with Seowon, he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, ignoring the snores of his squadmates and overthinking what’s supposed to happen to you now that you had an autoimmune disease which he was told didn’t have a cure. He was assured that you were okay despite it, that there was medication to treat it, and that you had access to them and have been very careful with your lifestyle due to the diagnosis ever since.

He still couldn’t be put to ease though. As ridiculous as it may sound, he had this overwhelming realization that life truly was short, that you had to make certain decisions all the time because you need to adjust to what the universe is only willing to give you. It was funny coming from a person who risked his life for a living. He thinks that perhaps he never understood the philosophy of the quote ‘time is gold’ until he had a loved one on the same trajectory, always one step closer to possible death.

And so that same night, he decided to file a leave for two weeks, effective immediately after his deployment.

He wasn’t sure what his game plan was exactly in filing that two-week leave. Was he supposed to barge in your life and force you to let him take care of you? Was he supposed to demand why you ended up having diabetes? Was he supposed to act as a big brother like your actual big brother because he was that worried about you? But if Jungkook was going to be truthful, he already had an idea on what he wanted to do in the back of his head—he just didn’t want to execute it because it was absolutely insane.

Until he heard Seowon suggest it himself when they met up at a bar to share a drink together.

“She would never say yes,” Jungkook said, beyond doubt that you won’t be persuaded that easily with a plan like that.

Seowon made a face. “I know. That girl is so hyper independent—she’d rather die than accept help.” He scoffed. “She needs it though. It’ll help with her medication and she won’t have to pay rent for that shit apartment she’s living in. Plus, she'll actually get the chance to take care of her body if she’s not juggling two jobs to have sufficient income.”

“You’re right.” Jungkook shrugged.

“You’ll do it then?”

He took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. I’d do anything for ____, you know that.”

“Even as crazy as marrying her?”

“Sure.”

Seowon stared at him, narrowing his eyes and morphing his expression into a teasing one. “Are you sure you’re not just considering this because it’s a perfect excuse to marry my sister? I know you like her.”

“I don’t like her.”

“You’re in love with her.”

“I don’t—” Jungkook began to deny but Seowon was staring him down. “Fuck you, man. Don’t make me some kind of pervert who’s trying to lock her into marriage because he likes her. You’re the one who brought the idea up.”

Seowon laughed out loud. “I know, I just can’t believe you’d agree. It’ll benefit ____, that’s for sure—you, on the other hand? It’s career suicide.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay with the thought that she’ll be okay.”

“Because you love her, man.” Seowon pushed. “Why on earth would you consider this if you weren’t? It’s a fraudulent marriage. You’ll be thrown in the brig and be dishonorably discharged if you get caught.”

“We don’t even know if she’ll agree to this whole thing. You said it yourself, she would never say yes.”

“Yeah, unless maybe you’re the one who tries to persuade her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to buy her a ring and kneel down before her or something?”

“That can work.”

“What?” Jungkook laughed.

Seowon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how she’s been crushing on you since we were kids.”

He barked out a laugh again. That he knew; it was impossible not to when a lot of friends and cousins kept on teasing you before, especially at instances Jungkook was in the very same vicinity. “We’re not kids anymore and I barely see her though.”

“Still, it ought to count to something. It raises the chances of her agreeing.”

“You’re really cool with me marrying your sister, Won?” Jungkook asked.

Seowon placed down the beer bottle he’s consuming on the counter. “Yeah. You’re a good guy. You’re not perfect, but I know you enough to know that you won’t do anything that will purposely hurt her. Besides, if this sham marriage ends up to be a real relationship and then for some reason, you fuck up and decide to break her heart—I’ll easily know what to do, where to find you, and then I’ll do everything I can to fuck you up.”

Jungkook pressed his lips together to stifle a chuckle.

“Noted.”

****

It’s always been a big wonder to you how no matter how long it’s been since you saw each other, it still feels like no time has passed between you and Jungkook. You think that’s why you can never get over him; he always had this comforting and familiar aura that you appreciate—something that you sought for in every other person that you liked. Maybe it was impractical, maybe it was the reason you can never hold a relationship for more than two years, but unless you gain the courage to confront your feelings and tell Jungkook about it, then you constantly dispel any doubts you might have whether this was good for you or not.

You don’t want to lose him. Admitting that you harbored romantic feelings for him would just make it awkward for everyone: your brother, your family, and then his family. You don’t think you can ever trade his smile, the sound of his laughter, and all the good things about him for anything in the world.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asks.

You choke on your drink, having just poured yourself and Jungkook a glass of water after the server arrived with the pitcher. You’re in a Japanese restaurant near the university, aware that the cuisine was a favorite for the both of you hence why it’s what you recommended when he asked where you wanted to dine. The place is packed with people from the workforce and students; you’re thankful that you don’t see any of your students within the mix.

“We’re getting straight to it, huh?” you say.

Jungkook smirks. “I’m just making sure I’m not upsetting a boyfriend by meeting you tonight.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not upsetting anyone.”

He nods in understanding. You don’t want to add more meaning to his actions for the evening but he seems glad about the information.

“How about you?” you ask back. “Are you dating anyone?”

The ends of his mouth lift a bit upwards. “Nope.”

“Why? You don’t have the time for it?”

“Precisely.”

“It must be really hard dating when you’re in the Navy then.”

“Kinda. We’re away a lot and stationed in different places most of the time. It can get really dangerous for us too and people don’t like the stress that comes with that.”

You bob. “Does it get lonely?”

“Sometimes, but when you’re on duty, you don’t get to think about those things.” He chuckles. “Besides, I don’t know if this sounds fucked up or not—but it can get exciting. Flying a plane can be fun, you know. Not to mention that it helps when you’re surrounded by good men in your squadron.”

“You’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.”

“And you’ve always been a scaredy-cat.”

You scoff at the declaration. “No, I’m not.”

“Remember when Seowon and I forced you to ride that ship in the amusement park that sways left to right and as it goes on it falls from a higher standpoint?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you do, and Jungkook knows you do, it’s evident by how your expression is trying to feign innocence. That memory is your villain origin story; the whole pretext of why you refuse to ever visit the amusement park or ride an exhilarating ride again. Yet you can’t help but recall that it’s one of the rare instances wherein you got to hold Jungkook’s hand when you two were younger, as his hand was the one you were clinging for dear life when it happened while the other was too busy slapping Seowon in irritation.

He snickers, appearing like he’s replaying the scene in his head. “We should do that again with Seowon during my break.”

“Hell no.”

“I thought you weren’t a scaredy-cat?” He challenges.

“I’m not.” You give him a kittenish glare. “But I am busy. I have to send the final manuscript of this book I’m editing to the chief editor next week and it’s about to be finals week for my students as well.”

He fakes a shiver. “I don’t know how you can do two jobs like that, ____. Truly.”

“You work as a naval aviator so I’d say we’re pretty even.”

The waiter arrives with your orders not long after, and you and Jungkook carry on with your conversation, jumping from topic to topic without difficulty. You’re not certain when was the last time you saw each other like this to have so much to talk about—was it last Christmas? Or was it more recent or longer than that? Nevertheless, it feels good and you find yourself blushing multiple times throughout the night, whether it’s because of how his words can have two meanings or how his eyes are staring at you so intensely whenever you’re the one who’s talking.

You like the undivided attention, the back and forth that’s occurring as you discourse, the subtle touches one of you does when something funny arises, how your knees are touching underneath the table. You wonder what’s so different with this encounter that the energy feels so bizarre in a good way? As far as you’re concerned, you’re positive that you’re acting like you always have in his presence—lively, smiley, sarcastic—and aside from the little touches of flirting here and there, Jungkook’s acting like he always has too.

When dinner was done, Jungkook offered to drive you home. You obliged, no longer in the mood to annoy him for you were tired to make the effort. Before stepping outside the restaurant however, you excused yourself to the restroom first, checking your blood sugar with the glucose meter you brought along wherever you went. It’s a hassle but it’s necessary, largely because you’re still in the middle of saving up for the insulin pump that would help you regulate your sugar levels easier.

After administering yourself with the insulin injection you have, you spend a few more seconds inside the enclosed room. You should be past the point of feeling sorry for yourself, but it’s times like this wherein you’re with a loved one that the dejection hits and you wish that you’re in a better predicament than you are right now. You’re close to being broke, you’re overworked, you’re somehow fatigued all the fucking time—those factors aren’t soothing your worries at all. It’s a miracle how you manage to keep an optimistic mind amidst everything.

“Ready to go?” Jungkook smiles at you once you’re back at the table and you nod, clutching your bag tighter against your body and following him to his car.

He drives you to your place, turning the radio on, and letting it play while the both of you sit in silence. You’re both tired and you almost even sleep during the ride. It’s only when Jungkook gently shakes you awake that you realize that you’ve arrived in front of your apartment building.

“I’ll walk you up,” he insists as you’re unbuckling the seatbelt.

“That’s no need, Kook.”

“Of course, it is,” he says. “I’ll walk you up. That’s nonnegotiable.”

So, you allow him.

It takes five minutes tops to reach the door leading to your apartment. As you rummage through your bag to grab your keys, Jungkook patiently stands there, occasionally glancing around the hallway and even smiling when the old lady that resided in the same floor got out of her room to throw out the trash. He receives a smile in return which you notice and grin fondly at.

“Well, this is me.” You turn to him, done unlocking your door. “I’d invite you inside but you should probably get going. It’s quite a long drive back home.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out a chuckle. “Hey, tonight was fun. It made me realize how I missed you.”

Your brain temporarily malfunctions; you force yourself to recover quickly. “Me too. I had fun tonight. Maybe we should do this again whenever you’re on a break.”

“Agreed.”

You flash him a smile. “You can go now. Goodnight.”

Jungkook nods, however doesn’t move a muscle. He’s looking at you, like really looking at you, his eyes moving from one feature to another, as if he’s memorizing your face or having a hard time arranging the words he wants to say. You guess it’s the latter, familiar with a tongue-tied Jungkook that it takes you a few good seconds before you’re demanding why he’s impersonating a mannequin.

“There’s something I want to say,” that’s what he utters and you almost snort due to your assumption being right.

“Okay…” The smile is still on your lips. “What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t get mad first.”

“Well, if you’re making me promise that then it’s probably worth being mad about.”

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“That’s not convincing at all.”

“It’s just…” He begins and trails, biting his lower lip, “it’s… it’s why I went here. Why I went here to see and meet you, I mean.”

You unconsciously recoil at the revelation. It’s certainly a rookie mistake to believe that there was no ulterior motive in Jungkook meeting you today. You just didn’t reckon you’d actually be truly disappointed at that—at the idea that he just didn’t randomly decide to visit and be with you earlier until now.

You draw a long breath. “Well, I knew you weren’t just feeling generous and wanted to treat me to dinner out of nowhere.”

There’s a pause and then he resumes. “Just—before I say it, you have to hear me out, okay? You have to let me explain before you berate me.”

“I can’t promise that either.”

“You have to.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because what I’m about to say is for your own sake. You know I always have your best interest at heart, don’t you?”

You wrinkle your forehead in further confusion. “Can you just get on with it? The vagueness is making me more annoyed.”

“I just don’t want you to misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand what?”

“What I—and Seowon—genuinely think is the best option.”

“Oh, and Seowon is in on this too?” You bellow. “Have you and Seowon just been conspiring behind my back the whole time?”

“Calm down.” Jungkook puts his hands on your shoulders, a chuckle inevitably escaping him. “I’m sorry for dragging it out. You should know I’m high key afraid of you, that’s why.”

“You should be.” You grumble.

Another chuckle, but he’s back to appearing anxious. You want to shout that this isn’t healthy, that you’re close to giving him a real reason to be afraid of you—yet once he blurts the confession out, you’re speechless, gawking at him and staggering backwards in complete shock. Perhaps you would have bolted as far away from him as possible if not for his solid grasp.

“What?” You hiss.

He swallows hard.

“I want you to marry me, ____.”

You don’t bolt away running. You shake off his hold on you though, and before he gets another word in, you’re hastily rushing inside your apartment and slamming the door to his face.

****

Jungkook was your first kiss.

It happened in a game of truth and dare. You were at a party of a mutual friend and when the bottle miserably pointed in Jungkook’s direction, the person who was tasked to think of his dare when it was his pick said that he dared him to do 7 minutes in heaven with you.

He profusely refused at first, especially since Seowon was in the same party, but everybody began booing and next thing you know, Jungkook was agreeing as long as it was fine with you. When you nodded to make your consent apparent, your friends were quick to shove you both in the closet, some of them pulling Seowon back who was complaining how it wasn’t right to bully you into doing 7 minutes in heaven with Jungkook. They calmed him down once they bullied him into agreeing too.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Jungkook told you in the darkness, his breath fawning over your face. “You don’t have to feel pressured. It’s just a stupid game.”

You blushed.

Secretly, you were hoping that he’d kiss you or touch you. Who didn’t want to do anything with their crush at the age of 15? A lot can happen in 7 minutes. You were aware that sometimes people made out, went as far as third base, and although you didn’t want to go that far with Jungkook, you wanted something to happen while you were stuck in this small closet with him. There weren’t a lot of instances that put both of you in this kind of situation; you wished that you were brave enough to ask him to kiss you or do the first move yourself.

5 minutes in, Jungkook turned towards you.

“Is it true that Taehyung kissed you last week?”

You whipped your head so fast that you might have given yourself whiplash. “That’s—that’s not true. Where did you hear that?”

“During homeroom. Some girls were talking about it.”

Your cheeks burned. “Oh.”

“So, it’s not true?”

“No.” You shook your head. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” You laughed weakly.

It was his turn to seem stunned. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet?”

You shook your head again, then realized he might not see you doing so. “Not yet.”

“Want me to change that?” he asked, grinning.

He said that with a boyish grin and teasing tone, but you sucked at social cues (plus, you really couldn’t see shit that much) that you started nodding.

“Okay,” you told him.

“Huh?”

“You can kiss me.”

“Oh, oh, shit—I didn’t—” He was blabbering, about to take back what he offered. “I mean, I was just joking but—”

You widen your eyes. “You were? Oh my God, I’m sorry, I thought you were—”

“No, it was my fault. That was a little out of line for me. I’m sorry.” He was laughing and you felt like burying yourself 6 feet under. “It was a stupid thing to say. But if you want me to kiss you, it’s cool.”

“It is?” Hope sparked within you.

“Yeah. It’ll just be a peck anyway.” You can tell he was smiling through his voice. “Just don’t tell Seowon because he might punch me in the face for kissing his sister.”

You cackled. “Deal.”

56 seconds before the 7 minutes were up, Jungkook leaned down to match your level and placed his lips on yours.

****

You’re seething with rage, the embodiment of Godzilla, channeling the God of War, Ares, in your body; you harshly press Seowon’s number on your phone to call him and he answers after three rings.

“What’s up?”

“I will fucking murder you,” you snarl.

A beat. You hear shuffling. Then he answers, “you already talked with Jungkook?”

The nonchalance and calmness in his voice drives you to be more frustrated than you already are. “Yes, I have! What is wrong with you? Why would you plant that idea on his head?” You yell, not caring that your walls are thin and that your voice can probably be heard by the couple that lived next door. You’re feeling a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and every negative emotion that exists at the moment. You’re comparable to a bull who just saw the color red.

“____, it won’t be a big deal if you don’t make it to be.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“Did you even let Jungkook explain?”

“I don’t need him to spell everything out. I know why he’s asking me to marry him.”

“Then you know too that it’d be good for you.”

“Marrying him won’t be good for me.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t!”

“You’ll get health insurance benefits that you don’t get with your current jobs. You can pay less rent once you move in at Jungkook’s place—there’s a huge chance he won’t even let you pay him while you stay there too. He’s away most of the time anyway, so staying there wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, you can start studying for a masters degree like you’ve always wanted.”

You groan. “Not like this. This is crazy.”

“The both of you can divorce once you’ve saved up a little. It really isn’t that complicated.”

“It’s a sham marriage!”

“It’s a sham marriage with Jungkook.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Are you sure? Your grade school diary might disagree.”

“Oh my God, that’s fucking low of you to bring that up. You just gave me another reason to hate you.” You stomp around the living room, acting like a teenager because of your brother’s behavior. This isn’t the first time he revealed that he’s read your diary before; that doesn’t mean it’s less infuriating to be reminded that he has. “I swear, you better fucking sleeping with one eye open tonight. I’m choking you to death.”

Seowon laughs out loud. “Just marry him. He’s surprisingly amicable with the idea.”

“That’s because you’re pressuring him! I bet you and Mom devised this entire thing together.”

“Mom doesn’t know. To be fair, she’d probably have the same reaction as you. It’s all me and Jungkook.”

“Wow. You have two brains and yet none of you thought this was goddamn stupid?”

“It’s not stupid. It’s genius if you come to think of it,” he says. “Jungkook just wants to help you, dude. He wants to make sure you’ll be okay and all that shit. You’re the reason he filed for a two-week leave, did he tell you?”

Your heart does that jumping thing again. “No.”

“Well, he did. He’s on a break for two weeks because he wants to convince you to marry him and actually marry you within that time frame.”

“This is nuts.” You sigh, finally flopping down the sofa and rubbing your face with your free hand. “The both of you are nuts. How are you okay with this?”

“It’s Jungkook. I trust him. Don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, I just—” you cut yourself off and frown, “I just feel like it’s unfair for him. I’m marrying him because of military spouse benefits and what does he get?”

There’s a long pause, and you almost check your phone to see whether Seowon has already hung up on you or not.

“It’s better that Jungkook answers that question,” he tells you finally.

“Why? You can’t answer it on behalf of him?”

“Something like that.” You can imagine him shrugging. “All I know is that he’s genuinely concerned about your health and your financial status right now. So, just think about it, okay?”

“God, fuck it, fine. I’ll think about it.” You grimace.

You hang up and glance at the door.

You don’t think the conversation you just had with Seowon took that much time. The initial rush you had upon having your longtime crush propose to you is wearing off and you’re realizing that it was a dick move to literally slam the door right in Jungkook’s face earlier, leading you to stand up from your seat and look through the peephole to check if he’s still there.

He isn’t, which you sigh in relief at.

As you lean against the door and regulate your breathing, you think how funny it is that Seowon is right about one thing—and that was grade school you would have been delighted at the thought of getting married to Jungkook. He’s your dream guy; your parents loved him, his parents loved you, the both of you got along very well, and his personality and looks are everything that you’re looking for in a partner. It sucks that you live in a world where the only reason he wants to marry you is because he’s afraid you’ll die because of self-neglect.

Your phone pings and you unlock the screen to look at the message that flashes on it.

Jungkook: hey, seowon just messaged me to say that you two already talked Jungkook: i’m sorry for jumping on you with a topic like that… Jungkook: i’m shit at confrontation lol Jungkook: also it’s the first time i’m proposing so give me some slack

You scoff at his audacity to joke about it this soon.

You: it’s okay You: i’m sorry too for what i did You: the answer is no btw

Jungkook: already??? Jungkook: let’s talk about it first

You: no need You: i don’t want to marry you

Jungkook: oof that’s harsh

You: sorry not sorry?

He doesn’t respond and you think you’re safe. Maybe Jungkook does take no for an answer and you’re confused because you’re a little disappointed that he’s not falling on his knees, begging you to marry him like what your imagination is supplying you.

However, after you took a shower and went to check your phone again, you see that Jungkook messaged you a few minutes ago in response to your last message.

Jungkook: give me 10 days and i’ll change your mind

You have the urge to go take a shower again because of how hot your body is feeling at the statement.

You: hate to break it to you but you’re not matthew mcconaughey

Jungkook: 🤣🤣🤣

****

It’s not part of Jungkook’s branding to chase a woman. Typically, women chase him; they chase him in every city and country that he gets stationed in, flirting with him and hoping that they’ll get the chance to take him home for the night for a mindblowing one-night stand. They never succeed though, for despite their pretty faces and sultry gestures, Jungkook only smiles and declines every offer, saying that he had a girl waiting back home that he loved very much.

He used to think that he only used that as an excuse because he’s not the type to hook up with every attractive girl he meets. There are times when he succumbs, when he gives into the temptation of a little fun, especially after a life threatening or highly stressful mission—but most of the time, he thinks he declines and use that pronouncement of his because his mind reverts him to the idea of you, to what would happen if he just gained the balls to ask you out.

Evidently, although asking you out and asking you to marry him are two completely different things, he’s a bit afraid that your answer will always be a hard no. It’s what you’ve been literally spelling out to him since the day he presented the idea, regardless of how he’s trying his best in swooning you or explaining how this is the perfect plan to help you gain an upper hand with your diagnosis.

“I’ll file a restraining order against you, I’m serious,” you say to him when he appears yet again outside the faculty room, waiting for you to gather your things and head home. You’re wearing a white button up shirt and pinstripe wide leg trousers, an outfit combination that he ogles at before he goes down to business.

“You wouldn’t.” He glares at you. He gestures for you to let him take your backpack, and despite what you said, you let him. “Also, what the fuck is in this thing? You’ll break your back if you keep using this.” He swings your backpack on one shoulder.

You laugh. “My laptop, its charger, a couple of notebooks, books, pens, then the outputs of my students.”

“Aren’t they supposed to submit virtually? What happened to Google Classroom?”

“I still use it, but sometimes I like to have their work printed out so I can write the comments better. How do you know Google Classroom?”

“I have a squadronmate whose kid uses it for class.”

“Ah.” You nod in understanding.

You two continue walking forward.

This has been your program for the past few days. Jungkook goes to the university you work at, he’ll wait outside, you’ll threaten him with something ridiculous, he’ll take your bag, he’ll offer to take you to dinner, you’ll decline, and then he’ll drive you home anyways. Before that routine ends, he’ll lean on your door frame and give you his best puppy eyes, asking you to marry him for the sake of your welfare, and you’ll scowl at him, insisting that you don’t need his help to survive.

“Dinner?” he asks, right on schedule.

You glance at him. “No. I want to go home and sleep for 12 hours.”

“Busy day?”

“Yep.”

“You know, if you marry me, you won’t have to work two jobs and overexert yourself.”

He doesn’t need to turn to you to know that you’re giving him a dirty look. “I won’t marry you, Jungkook.”

“Why not?”

“Because marriage doesn’t work that way.”

“It does. Billionaires do it all the time. The mafia does it too. It’s always been some kind of transaction.”

“Well, if I marry you, what do you get?”

“The assurance you’re taken care of.”

“That’s cheesy.”

You share a laugh and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’ll be fine as long as you are.”

He waits for you to quip back a reply, flickering his eyes to you when it takes longer than usual. Instead of the sneer he’s expecting, you appear to be flustered, an expression that is very recognizable for him who’s known you since forever—an expression that makes it too obvious for Jungkook that the crush you had on him that he thought has been long gone was still there. He’s been seeing it a lot lately, particularly when he’s uttering lines that sound flirtatious on purpose; he’s positive that you’ll threaten to kill him when you discover that he basks on the fact that he can still make you all flustered and cute, which encourages him to do and say anything that would elicit a reaction from you. Was it unethical to seduce you into marrying him? He might have to rethink that part too.

Reaching the parking lot, he unlocks the doors to his vehicle and places your bag inside the backseat. He watches you walk around the car, about to go to the passenger’s side, but then you wobble a bit and his attempt to get inside is instantly forgotten.

“Hey,” he strides to where you are, gazing at you as you now hold onto the hood, “you alright?”

You raise your chin up. “Kook, can you get my bag?”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s swinging the door again and getting your bag from the other end of the backseat while you get on the passenger’s seat, keeping the door wide and placing your legs outside, your feet planted on the concrete.

“What do you need?” he asks, crouching in front of you and zipping the bag open.

“Glucometer.”

He halts. “What does that look like?”

“It’s in the yellow bag. There.” You point at it right when he rummages through a certain part.

He brings it out and you take it from his grasp. Your movements are sluggish but he can discern that you’re doing your best not to be too slow; he’d present to help but he knows that he might prolong what you’re doing due to his cluelessness, so he just observes, noting how you’re pricking your finger with a device and then pressing it lightly to the glucometer which shows that your blood sugar is low.

“Apple juice,” you mutter to him and he finds it faster than the last one.

You grab the juice pouch from his grasp, prying the straw attached on the back, pushing its end for it to pop out of its plastic cover—then your hand shakes, preventing you from continuing and punching in the straw properly.

“Let me do it,” he says.

You don’t fight him, you just slump against the seat as Jungkook picks up from where you left, and the moment he does the job and guides the straw to your awaiting lips, a long exhale through your nose escapes you.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers. He didn’t notice that he was holding his breath the entire duration of the scene.

Another sigh. “Better.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

You seem to hesitate. “Not a lot. Just when life gets a bit too hectic.”

“____—”

“Just take me home.” You don’t give him the chance to lecture you. “Please, Jungkook.”

Defeated, he nods. “Alright.”

“Thank you.”

He helps you position yourself properly on the passenger’s seat. “But we’re talking about this at your place.”

Before you can protest, he closes the door.

****

Lee Hyunwoo was the name of the guy that you brought home for Christmas Eve eight years ago. It was the first time that you did, and Jungkook hated how Hyunwoo was considerably handsome, intelligent, and kind—the exact kind of person he always imagined you deserved.

In the short time Hyunwoo spent with theirs and your family that night, everybody loved him and was already inviting him to the next gathering, all the while Jungkook avoided him at every cost, puzzled by this strong dislike he was feeling for your guest. He was annoyed at the manner in which Hyunwoo had an arm around your waist the entire evening, how you grinned up to him, eyes sparkling and all that shit. Hell, you used to look at him like that.

“Honey, can you get the mango float we have in our freezer?” Jungkook heard your mother tell you, and without thinking, he stood up from his chair and made a beeline to where you were, telling you he’d accompany you to your house.

“That’s fine,” you told him. “It’s literally next door.”

“Yeah, but it might be heavy.”

“It’s not.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

You rolled your eyes and agreed then, excusing yourself from Hyunwoo who was in an engaged conversation with Seowon. The pair were geeking out because of their mutual love for the MCU and the next film slated to be released the following year.

Upon arriving at your home, you dashed to the kitchen with Jungkook trudging behind you. He wasn’t sure what his next course of action should be now; all he wanted was some alone time with you, away from the presence of that college boyfriend of yours, but now that he had that, he couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to say or do. He wasn’t even sure why he was feeling a bit jealous—was it because of that saying? Wherein people are bound to want what they can’t have? Or was it that you only appreciate what you had when you’ve already lost it?

“How long have you and Hyunwoo been dating?” he asked, leaning against the counter as you pulled your freezer open.

“Four months, I think.”

“Four months? And you already brought him home?”

You snorted at his tone. “His family is in another country so I thought it’d be nice to invite him.”

“You must really like him then.”

“Yeah, but I’m not in love with him or anything.” You placed the mango float on the space beside Jungkook on the counter. “He’s nice, and he likes me too.”

“Does he treat you well?”

You flashed your eyes at him, amusement dancing in them. “What’s with that question?”

“What’s with it?”

“Nothing, it’s just that…” you trailed, a smirk etched on your face. “Wait a minute, are you… you can’t possibly—” Jungkook was widening his eyes, ready to deny your accusation once you questioned whether he was jealous of Hyunwoo or not— “are you pulling an overprotective brother skit on me, Kook?”

Fuck, thank God, he thought.

“I prefer ‘overprotective friend skit’,” he said.

“That doesn’t have a nice ring to it.”

“But I’m not your brother.”

“You don’t have to be, I’m just saying that you and Seowon have been acting similar since Hyunwoo and I arrived.”

“Nonsense. Seowon likes him.”

“Oh, so you don’t?”

He pressed his lips into a tight line.

“Did you just admit that you don’t like Hyunwoo?” you asked, chuckling. He was grateful that you didn’t seem to be offended by it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”

“Instead you implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You kinda did.”

He heard you laugh and he couldn’t help but allow himself to laugh as well.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe I’m just not used to you dating anyone. You are chronically single.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong.” You snorted and picked up from the mango float, marching back to his house and gesturing for him to follow you.

He did, no words spoken between the both of you once more. Though when you were entering their place again, with Jungkook holding the door open for you, he mentioned something he never reckoned he’d have the guts to mention out loud.

“When you open my gift,” he began, “don’t do it in front of Hyunwoo, okay?”

“Why not?” You weren’t paying attention to where you were going, intrigued by his warning.

“He might not like it. You’ll see.”

That night, at the comfort of your bedroom, Hyunwoo nowhere near but instead sleeping at the coach downstairs in your living room, you opened Jungkook’s gift and saw that it was a necklace with your birth flower as its pendant.

You smiled, rolling your eyes to yourself, and slept with that giddy look never leaving your face.

****

“Not so fast,” Jungkook grunts.

Did he think that you were going to be less difficult since he was helpful earlier? Yeah, he did. He likes to think that if it wasn’t for him, you would have taken longer in feeding yourself with apple juice, so he at least wanted a thank you in the form of your willingness to have an adult conversation with him tonight. However, that clearly isn’t the case because when he walked you up to your apartment like he always did, you’re attempting to lock him out, shutting the door as fast as you can once you’re inside, thus trying to prevent him from initiating that talk he wanted the two of you to have.

“Seriously?” He successfully pries the door open and you scowl at him.

“Jungkook—”

“No, you don’t get to reason your way out of this. I’m done hearing you out. It’s your turn to listen to me.” He steps inside your apartment.

You groan, striding to the sofa and throwing your bag there. “You can’t force me to marry you.”

“Is marrying me so fucking bad that you can’t get over it for health insurance benefits that can really help you?” He demands, infuriated.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“You can get arrested!” you exclaim. “And so can I! Does that not freak you out?”

“We’ll only get arrested if we get caught.”

“I’m not willing to take the risk.”

“I’m not willing to see you die.”

You scoff out a laugh. “Who the fuck said anything about dying? I’m not dying.”

“You almost passed out on me. You almost—”

“It’s an error on my part, I admit.” You sigh. “When I get busy and preoccupied, sometimes I forget to check my sugar levels regularly throughout the day. I’m sorry.”

“And you expect to be convinced that you have everything handled?”

“God, I’m not a child. Stop treating me like I can’t do shit for myself.”

“Please, ___,” he approaches you with the most pleading expression he can muster, and he watches as your hard expression crumbles, “just accept my help. It’s really not a big deal—you won’t even see me often, so keeping up with the whole marriage ploy wouldn’t be difficult. We’ll divorce in two years, we can pretend we never got married after that.”

“You just don’t get it, don’t you?”

“What do I not get? If you think I don’t understand something, then explain it to me—”

“I can’t marry you,” you say. You do so like it’s final, like there’s no point in arguing with you because he can never change your stand on this. As he’s pleading with his eyes to urge you to agree, you’re communicating with your eyes in a similar way that’s wishing he would just drop this. “It’s wrong.”

His eyebrows furrow. “This isn’t the time to go on your high horse and decide what’s wrong and what’s not. It’s a fraudulent marriage—of course, it’ll be wrong to some degree.”

“No, I mean…” You turn away from him, rubbing your face in exhaustion. “It’d be wrong of me to marry you. I’m taking advantage of you if I do, and I don’t like that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, frustration worsening at the childlike excuse. Surely, you weren’t that naive, were you? “You’re not. I’m not doing this against my own will. Besides, we get extra pay just for being married. If it makes you feel better, I won’t split it with you.”

“That won’t make me feel better.”

“Then what will?”

You flop down on the coach and lean back, closing your eyes. He knows he’s being a pain in the ass but he can’t just stand here and do nothing. He thinks he’s already come too far in convincing you, he isn’t going to back out now. Every single day spent together, he can feel you warming up to the idea of marrying him for health insurance. Your connection and entirety of your relationship has been off the charts recently that it’ll be harder for him not to be assured that before he leaves for his job, you’ll be taken care off.

Jungkook goes to the spot beside you, sitting down. Your knees bump together, he keeps on gazing at you, waiting for you to focus on him; a minute passes and his gaze moves to your hand that’s laying on the small space between you.

Without overthinking, he stretches out and clasps it, allowing his fingers to play with yours that finally captures your attention. The moment he glances up, he sees that you’re staring at him and he doesn’t let go, he even smiles, a quiet promise that he’s always willing to listen to whatever you want to tell him.

You hesitantly smile back. “You know,” your eyes train back to your intertwined fingers, Jungkook reveling in the warmth of your skin, gaining more confidence in acting out his feelings, “there was a time wherein I would have said yes immediately if you asked me to marry you.”

He smirks, can’t deny how hearing that inflates his ego a bit although this route in the conversation isn’t where he expected to go. “What changed?”

“For one, I grew up.”

“Ouch.”

You laugh. Then you stay quiet for a while before speaking. “Can I confess something?”

That piques his interest. “Anything.”

“But you have to promise not to make fun of me.”

“That’s impossible.” He teases. “What is it?”

You stall, readjusting your position so that you can directly face him. Jungkook doesn’t let go of your hand, he keeps it in his grasp, his thumb rubbing along the expanse of your knuckles.

“I like you, Jungkook. I really really do,” you finally say and he blinks, startled.

It shouldn’t surprise him, considering that it’s been long established that he knew of your crush already, though he doesn’t seem to have anticipated for you to boldly admit it when all these years, it’s only been some kind of unspoken understanding that neither of you downright acknowledged.

You continue speaking. “In fact, I like you so much that maybe it developed into love at some point—I’m not sure. I’m at this stage of no longer being afraid of what I feel, I think? Most of the time, I just let it occur like it’s something so natural. Like it’s a feeling that I can never get away from? Like whatever I do, there’s no way to shake you.” You chuckle half-heartedly. “Though never in a million years would I have thought that I’d confess all of this. What for anyway? I don’t want you to be burdened with what my teenage heart couldn’t rub out.”

His mind is racing; hundred thoughts, hundred scenarios, hundred experiences he’s spent with you since the day you met. Jungkook never realized how much he needed you to say that you liked him—that maybe you even loved him—until he heard it from your very mouth that you did, causing every inhibition and doubt he had to vanish. Now, he only wants to engulf you in an embrace and shout Yes, I feel the same way! Sorry for being a fucking corward and not doing this first!

He would have done all of that in a flash if it didn’t appear that you still had something to say. Based on your rather constipated posture and the hand he’s holding that’s becoming clammy, he discerns that you’re just in the first part of what you wanted to admit.

“Actually, that’s also why I can’t let myself marry you,” you say. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know… it feels really icky somehow. I feel like I’m holding you hostage, or that I’m tricking you because of an ulterior motive, or that I’m defying the laws of the universe by having the chance to marry you. I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to marry you if it means I’ll only get to do so because you think you’re doing me a huge favor. I don’t want to be your charity case, Kook—I deserve to be more than that, you know? I’m not traditional or whatever but if it’s not for love, I’m not keen on getting married.” You abruptly pull away from his clutch, embarrassment washing on your features by what you stated. “Plus, two years might not be that long but what happens when you meet someone and you like her? How can you explain that you’re only married to me because I need it for my medication? It’ll just be unnecessarily messy. I don’t want to hold you back from those kinds of things. I don’t want to be a hindrance.”

That’s his cue. That’s when he knows he’s supposed to kiss you and take your breath away, to admit that he’s certain that he has loved you since that one time when he was in the Naval Academy and although the training was hard as fuck, the thought of you gave him strength and he didn’t want to see anyone as much as he wanted to see you after—that when you and Seowon visited him, that familiar urge to have you alone was all he felt the entire time, solidifying the idea that perhaps he didn’t just see you as a friend.

“You’re unbelievably dense, ___,” he murmurs, smirking at the play of events, and you glance at him, expression showing disbelief that he’s somehow treating this matter lightly.

“What?”

“Do you honestly think I go around and offer marriage to every woman out there who can benefit from being a military spouse? Do you think I’m that generous? I’m not. I wouldn’t ask anyone to marry me for the same reason if they weren’t important to me—or if I didn’t like them. I’m not that much of a saint,” he adds. “I mean, I’m taking a two-week break to convince you to marry me. I’m spending time with you every single day. I’m driving for almost an hour and a half, enduring the traffic to get from my apartment to the university you work in to do that—and you think this is because I want to be charitable?”

Silence. Your forehead wrinkles. He thinks you’re still not getting the point.

“I’m in love with you, ____,” Jungkook says.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re opening your mouth, then closing it, then opening it again, then pressing it into a thin line. He thinks you look cute, being taken aback like this, and he’s wishing that he’s done this sooner so that the last five days of him chasing you around like a lost puppy was spent with talking more about what’s possibly waiting for yours and his relationship next.

“Are you serious?” you ask after what seems like forever. “Or are you just saying that because you’re that desperate to have me on board with the whole fraudulent marriage thing?”

“God—” He’s inching closer to you now, laughing, watching your lips twitch at his reaction— “I’m convinced that you were born into this earth to drive me fucking crazy.”

And just like that, he no longer restrains himself from kissing you.

It takes you a few good seconds before you will yourself to move. You can’t seem to process the reality of Jungkook admitting that he was in love with you and then taking the liberty to plant his lips on yours. You’re not complaining, of course, but you are a bit overwhelmed that it literally makes you freeze, unaware of what you’re supposed to do now that your fantasies are coming into life.

However, once you feel him angle his head to the side, doing so to deepen the kiss, your reflexes kick in and you’re kissing him back, encircling your arms around his neck and leaning towards him, Jungkook sighing in what appears to be relief. He grips your hips to support you as you try to straddle him, but your movements are so clumsy that you end up sprawling against his chest instead, perched on a leg of his that provides pleasure on the spot you need him the most. He chuckles at your lack of gracefulness, gliding his lips to your cheek and down to your jaw, nipping.

“This okay?” he whispers with a palm drifting to your bottom.

You nod and Jungkook’s mouth is back on yours in an instant. He squeezes your ass, takes his time in fondling with it, cheekily slapping whenever you get brave yourself and push your tongue past his lips, before he skims his hand lower to your thigh and signals for you to mount him. Upon being properly sat on his lap, you get an immediate feel of his hard length through his jeans, prompting your imagination to run wild and induce the filthiest things he can do to you if neither of you stops.

“Holy shit,” he curses, your kisses roaming to the base of his throat where you lap and suck.

It becomes a dirty pattern for a while. The both of you will take a brief pause from making out to remove a piece of clothing or kiss every other exposed skin there is: the cheek, the jaw, the neck, the collarbones, the shoulders. Then one of you hauls the other back for another passionate kiss, hands skating everywhere on your bodies, sounds of arousal echoing inside the room; you’re starting to get lightheaded but you’re positive it’s not because of your sugar levels running low.

“I hate that it took us so long to get to this point,” he mutters.

You grin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the man—I should have confessed long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. ‘Was afraid to lose you, I guess.” He draws his head back and admires your blissed out expression. “But then when Seowon told me you had diabetes, I panicked and thought that I might lose you either way.”

You go back to making out, Jungkook guiding your hips in grinding on his clothed length. It’s addictive—the intimate feel of him, how he’s not shy in making sure you know how much he’s craving to be as close to you as you are to him. You think you can spend the whole night just doing this and be okay with it.

“Fuck, Kook,” you groan against his mouth, a hand descending to his stomach and to his manhood, “you’re so… so fuckin’ hard.”

You’re palming him now, tracing the erection evident under his boxers.

He lets out a grunt. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

“Do you… do you want me—” You’re breathless, not able to continue whatever it is that you want to say.

He understands you just fine though. “No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t do anything.”

You’re not sure what Jungkook means by that. How are you supposed to do nothing when you want to do everything to him? You soon comprehend what he means when he guides you to lay down on the sofa, when his lips skim lower and lower, passing your breasts, giving them the attention they deserve, until he goes lower than that and discards your underwear, kissing you in between your legs.

It’s like he’s releasing all the pent up emotions he’s been keeping all these years. His tongue and fingers are relentless, his voice is telling you that he’s eager to coax an orgasm out of you, and as he lifts himself up to return to his previous position, face hovering yours, you’re positive that he’ll get everything he wants because without a doubt you’ll give him everything he wants from you too. Hell, if he uses this opportunity to ask you to marry him again, you might answer yes straight away, no longer bearing in mind the worries you expressed to him earlier.

Although did that even matter anymore? Jungkook said he loved you. He said you drove him crazy. You never thought you’d come to see the day he’d utter those words but here you are. The man of your dreams is kissing you, pleasing you, and looking damn enthusiastic as he does all of that.

“Last chance to stop me,” Jungkook teases. His eyes are glassy and you can feel his cock nudging on your thigh.

You giggle, bringing his head closer to press another long kiss on those pink and plump lips of his. “Please never stop.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Please do.”

After this night, you’re certain that you’ll never allow yourself to be with another man aside from Jungkook. At the back of your head, you always thought that you were his, regardless if that wasn’t true or that there was no real relationship to prove that—however, at this moment, as he thrusts in and out languidly, you unquestionably know that you are. You belong to him now and he belongs to you; he lets you know through his love-filled gaze, his passionate kisses, and the manner wherein he moans your name.

“I love you,” he says, like he’s still in deep longing for your touch and affection.

You hum, tangling your fingers through the strands of his hair. “I love you, Kook.” You stare at his eyes. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”

A boyish grin erupts on his features.

Time passes by quickly. In a few more of his kisses, of the intoxicating slam of his hips, of his seductive whimpers, you’re coming beneath him, Jungkook pulling out and jerking his length until he too comes, his seed landing on the base of your tummy. You have the nerve to giggle at that, grinning at him with low-lidded eyes, and Jungkook hastily wipes his cum off your skin, attacking you with another passionate kiss that leaves you breathless.

“There’s no way you’re not marrying me after this,” he murmurs.

You teasingly graze your teeth on his bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”

He groans. “Don’t think about it. Just say yes.”

“At least let me sleep on it, Kook.”

“Fuck—fine.” He grabs your sides and pulls you flush against his body. “Guess I’ll have to keep on convincing you until you agree.”

****

“God, why is this so difficult?” Jungkook whines, keeping you in his embrace, head tucked between your cheek and shoulder.

The air is very humid and Jungkook’s in his naval aviator uniform, which doesn’t look cool in a sense that air is properly flowing through the material. He doesn’t care though, doesn’t care that it’s sticking to his skin as he refuses to let you go, not even when you complain playfully.

“Kook, I’m fucking sweaty.”

“I don’t care.”

You laugh.

He’s leaving to return to his duty and you’re here with him outside the base before he enters, being with him until the last possible minute because that’s how much of a good wife you are.

Yes, you and Jungkook did get married. Three days ago in fact, at the city hall’s courtroom. Neither of you invited your parents; they didn’t know about the occasion and you refused to tell them, afraid that they may be critical about yours and his choices when they discover the true reason why you’re rushing to be wed. The only people that remained to be aware of it was Seowon and his girlfriend, Winnie, who served as the witnesses, which was fine by you. In your understanding, this was just for the papers and your health, and not the real deal yet to be celebrated lavishly.

“I’ll propose to you again after a couple of years,” Jungkook promised after the ceremony. “Let’s renew our vows and I’ll give you an amazing wedding.”

You would have told him that there was no need, but who were you kidding? You did want a proper wedding with Jungkook. The previous week didn’t even feel like you were newlyweds. Yes, the both of you compacted all of the dates you could have if one of you weren’t such a chicken in five days, and yes, though the honeymoon stage was experienced and practiced—it was only because you were a new couple who after years of hiding their feelings for one another, was now finally free to express it as much as they desired.

“Call me everyday?” you ask when he finally pulls back, Jungkook pecking your lips one more time.

“Definitely.” He smiles. “Visit me whenever possible?”

“Of course.” You kiss him too.

His smile transforms into a grin. “Take care of yourself, alright? Keep me updated all the time. No sugarcoating allowed.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Rolling his eyes, he gives you another kiss and engulfs you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground that causes you to giggle.

“Okay, pack it up, love birds!” Seowon shouts.

The two of you turn to your brother who’s leaning on his car, the vehicle that was used to transport the three of you today. You’re still in the middle of moving your belongings at Jungkook’s place and Seowon was kind enough to volunteer helping, always dubious that you could do stuff on your own. Despite your reluctance, you let him assist you, mostly because you’re trying to make a conscious effort in not upsetting him again.

Let’s just say that when the judge hailed you husband and wife at the civil wedding, Seowon wasn’t thrilled to see that the kiss shared between you and Jungkook wasn’t as fake as the supposed sham marriage, leading him to the conclusion that in the middle of Jungkook’s ruse of convincing you to be his wife, something must have happened that led to your approval and that rather 18+ rated kiss. Mostly though, he’s just offended that neither of you thought of telling him that you were an official couple before the wedding.

Jungkook unwillingly places you down.

“I think I need to go,” you say.

He nods with a sigh. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” You affectionately caress his cheek, bringing his face down for the very very very last kiss.

He leans into it. “Fuck, I don’t want to leave.”

“Seriously—hurry up!” Seowon shouts and you pull back.

“I will kill him,” you tell Jungkook.

“He’s your brother,” he says. “And now, my brother-in-law, so I can’t let you do that.”

“That might be your very first red flag, Jungkook, insinuating that you’re choosing my brother over me.” You cross your arms. “Tell me, if the both of us were drowning, would you save me or Seowon?”

“You,” he answers without missing a beat.

You narrow your eyes. “Is that the truth?”

“Of course. Seowon would probably undrown himself anyway and you’re shit at swimming. It’s an easy choice.”

You punch him hard on the shoulder and he feigns hurt, snickering. “For the record, I don’t think anyone can ‘undrown’ themselves—but fine, you pass the test.”

Jungkook faces Seowon’s direction and does a final salute, your brother returning it swiftly, and just like that, you and him share your last farewells. You watch as he goes through the entrance of the base and sends you a wave of goodbye; you weakly copy the gesture and stand there for a few seconds, just watching him fade from your view the further he trudges inside. You don’t think saying goodbye to him ever felt this heavy, and you blame it on the fact that after all this is the first time you’re saying goodbye to him with the assurance that he loves you too—and that alone weighs millions.

You spin on your heel and go to Seowon who’s already in the driver’s seat. As soon as you get in and wear your seat belt, he’s giving you a dirty look.

“What?” you ask.

“Please never do that in front of me again.”

His statement makes you smirk. “Why? Didn’t you want this?”

“Want what?”

“Me and Jungkook to be together.”

“When on earth did I say that?”

“You previously admitted that you were lowkey playing cupid by suggesting that Jungkook marry me for health insurance.”

A short pause. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you two reenact a porno every fucking time.”

“We’re not—”

“You are. Don’t deny it.” He grumbles. “God, every time I see you two, it’s like I’m Ross from that one Friends episode where he accidentally sees Monica and Chandler doing it from the window of his apartment.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” You laugh. “In my defense, you haven’t seen me and Jungkook actually do the deed so—”

“Wait, so the two of you have?”

Your expression drops. His tone is approaching older brother protectiveness territory and you’re quick to attempt diffusing the situation. “I will not dive into that. All I’m going to say is that I’m a grown adult and so is Jungkook.”

He grimaces before starting the engine. “Yeah, never dive into that. I don’t need to hear the details.”

You share a laugh and then silence fills the car.

You press your lips together, looking at him while he backs out from the parking spot. “Hey, thanks, by the way. For driving today, and for offering to help me later, and maybe for also never minding your own business.”

You recall how Seowon was the one who couldn’t stop worrying about you and finding a solution when you told your family that you had type 1 diabetes. Your parents were concerned, they pestered you for months to force you to accept financial assistance from them, but they gave up soon after. Seowon though? He never did. He persisted through every outburst you had; he tolerated your bitchiness and your dirty looks all the time. Out of everyone in your life, you always felt like regardless of how stubborn and prideful you could be, Seowon was worse—in the best way possible.

A crooked smile illuminates his face. “You’re my kid sister. It’s my job to never let you experience peace in your whole life.”

You scoff. “Well, you’re damn great at what you do.”

When you reach Jungkook’s apartment, unloading the boxes and arranging your stuff to its designated places, your heart swells in happiness as the reality sinks in that your life is heading in the right direction after months of feeling hopeless. It drives you to be more thankful to the little things, to the people who were always by your side, to your previous circumstance that although wasn’t ideal was still manageable. A lot don’t get to have that kind of privilege and you promise yourself that you’ll make an effort to find more things to be grateful about from this day forward.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Seowon approaches in the middle of you arranging your books on Jungkook’s near to empty shelf, “Winnie wanted to give you this. She would have handed it over herself but she’s going to be busy for the next few days.”

You take the frame from his hand and see that it’s the picture Winnie took of you and Jungkook after the ceremony. It’s in the restaurant that you ate at to celebrate the civil wedding. Jungkook was grinning at you with an arm around on the backrest of your chair, you were leaning towards him, smiling at the camera—and the absolute selling point of why this was the best picture ever taken was because of how cake icing was scattered on your faces, places on spots in an artistic manner like it was planted there on purpose for the picture and not because the both of you were being silly that instance.

You think it showcases your relationship with Jungkook marvelously. It’s playful, it’s sweet, and most of all, it demonstrates how you two are clearly great friends.

“This is so beautiful, Seowon,” you say.

You immediately send Winnie a heartfelt thank you message for the gift and continue to take a photo of the frame, sending it to Jungkook as well.

Once you hit send, you type out a message to accompany it.

You: look how cute we look 🥹

You’re certain it’ll take hours before he replies so you keep your phone again, going back to staring at the picture which is now placed on one of the shelves. It’s the sole picture frame you have with Jungkook. In fact, it’s the only picture that Jungkook has in his apartment, and you like to think that this might be the mark of the new beginning you’ll have with him. Even though your relationship wouldn’t be traditionally explored given his occupation and how he’s most likely going to be away a lot, you don’t mind.

If there’s one thing you really believe in, it’s that waiting for Jungkook—whether consciously or unconsciously—always brings out the best outcomes.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

#jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagines #bts #bts imagines #bts x reader #bts drabbles #jungkook drabbles #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x you #bts x you #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jeon jungkook fanfiction

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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic

💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.

Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.

The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.

"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."

You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.

"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.

You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.

When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.

"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."

Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.

"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."

"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"

The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.

"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."

Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.

"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.

Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."

"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"

"Your Highness—"

"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."

Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.

"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.

"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."

But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.

"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."

The silence on the other end stretches too long.

"Mom?"

"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."

Your stomach drops. "No. No way."

"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."

The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."

"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."

Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."

"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.

"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."

You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.

"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."

Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.

Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."

"Mom, I can't just—"

"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."

The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.

"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."

But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.

"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."

"That life being...?"

"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."

Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."

"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.

"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."

Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."

"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"

"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."

"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"

Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."

You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.

"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."

You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."

Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."

But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.

"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."

She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."

Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.

"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.

"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."

You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.

You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.

"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."

Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."

"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.

"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."

That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?

"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.

"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."

"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."

The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.

"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"

"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."

Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.

A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.

"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."

"My... what now?"

"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."

Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."

Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"

You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.

"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."

Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"

"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?

Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."

Something inside you finally snaps.

"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.

"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"

You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.

"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"

You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.

"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"

Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"

"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"

Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.

"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"

You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.

"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"

Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"

"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."

You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.

"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."

The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.

"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."

The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.

"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.

"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"

After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.

"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.

"What's wrong with them?" you demand.

"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.

"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."

But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.

"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."

You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.

The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."

The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."

You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.

"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.

"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."

If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."

"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."

A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.

"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."

"And if I renounce?"

"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."

No pressure or anything.

"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."

You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"

"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."

"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"

"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.

"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."

Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."

"And if I hate them all?"

"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."

"Seriously? I just got here!"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"

Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."

You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.

"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."

The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.

"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."

"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"

Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."

"No pressure there."

The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.

"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.

"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.

"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.

The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."

Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.

Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.

You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.

"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"

The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.

Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.

"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."

Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."

"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."

Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.

"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."

When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.

"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."

You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."

Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.

"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."

Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.

It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.

"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."

You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."

"A useful background for your new role," he comments.

"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."

"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.

After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.

The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.

"You seem overwhelmed."

You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"

"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.

"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."

"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.

"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."

"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"

The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.

"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."

It's the most human thing he's said all evening.

"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.

"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."

You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.

"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.

The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"

"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."

"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.

You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."

"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."

"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.

"You're very direct," he observes.

"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."

"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."

"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.

He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.

"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.

The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.

Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."

As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.

Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."

"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.

As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."

You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?

Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.

You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.

A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.

"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."

You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."

There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."

Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.

"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.

The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.

"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"

"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.

Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."

A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.

"How did they know...?"

"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."

You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."

Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."

"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.

"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."

You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.

"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."

"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."

You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.

"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."

"My what now?"

"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."

You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"

"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."

Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.

"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"

Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."

It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.

"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.

"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."

The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.

"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."

Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."

"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."

"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.

The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.

"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.

"I like the green one," you interject.

Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.

"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.

"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"

Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."

The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.

"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."

You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.

"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."

"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."

You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"

"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."

This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.

"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.

"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."

The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.

"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."

"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.

"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."

Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"

"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."

Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.

The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.

You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.

"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.

A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."

He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."

You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."

The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.

As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.

He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."

The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."

Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."

"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.

Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."

Great. More pressure.

Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.

"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."

"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."

You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.

"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.

During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.

"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.

"What's stopping you?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."

He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."

"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.

"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."

"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"

His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"

He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."

"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.

"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"

"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."

Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."

Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."

"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.

He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."

The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.

"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.

"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."

"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."

You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.

"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."

"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"

Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."

You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."

"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."

She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.

"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."

"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."

That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.

The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.

Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.

The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.

You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"

You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.

"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."

"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.

"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."

"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."

"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."

"The Queen is a perceptive woman."

You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"

"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."

"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.

"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."

He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"

"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."

He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."

"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.

"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."

"Like what?"

He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."

You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"

"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."

"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.

To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."

Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."

"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.

"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."

You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.

"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."

"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"

"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."

"Noble aims," he observes.

"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.

"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."

The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."

"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"

His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.

"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.

The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.

"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."

"How personal?" you press, heart racing.

Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.

You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.

"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

"That was..." he begins.

"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.

He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."

"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."

"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."

"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."

The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."

"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."

The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.

"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."

"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.

In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.

You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.

It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.

"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."

He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."

"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.

"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.

Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.

"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."

"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.

His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."

The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.

"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."

"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."

"And the real self?"

His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."

The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.

The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.

"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.

"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For what?"

"To meet you," he says simply.

Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."

"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."

"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."

The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.

After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."

"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."

The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."

"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.

Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.

Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.

Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J

Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.

It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.

You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.

The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.

You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.

Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.

The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.

When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.

"You came," he says simply.

"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"

"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."

He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"

"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."

"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.

"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."

"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.

He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."

The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.

Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."

"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.

His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."

So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.

"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."

"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.

"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."

You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"

"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."

As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.

"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."

"Neither have I," you confess.

This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.

His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.

This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.

Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.

Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."

You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.

His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.

"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.

Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.

"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.

"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."

You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"

His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."

The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.

Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."

His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."

"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."

He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."

"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."

"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."

The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.

"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."

"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.

His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."

"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.

His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."

The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."

He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."

"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."

The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.

"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."

"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."

"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring."

The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.

You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.

It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.

Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.

"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.

Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:

Y/N, Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one. This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon. The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined... Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.

The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.

"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."

"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."

You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.

The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.

"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.

"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.

She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."

There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.

"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."

"No pressure," you mutter.

"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."

The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.

You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.

You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.

And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.

His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.

"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.

The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.

"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."

"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."

"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.

His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."

The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.

Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.

He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"

You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."

His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.

"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."

"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."

"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."

"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"

His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."

The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.

"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.

The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.

Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.

During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.

You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"

You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.

"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."

He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."

"Yet here you are," you point out.

"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."

You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."

You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."

"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."

"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.

He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."

Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.

"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."

"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."

"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.

He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"

You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...

"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.

He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.

The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.

The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.

"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."

"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."

"Even in Astoria?"

"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."

You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."

A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."

"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.

Jay's silence answers your question.

"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."

"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."

The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.

"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.

His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."

The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."

"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."

He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."

"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.

His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."

The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."

He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.

"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."

"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."

Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."

"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"

The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"

Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.

The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.

"Jay," you say softly.

He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.

This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.

When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

"Even during our dances?" you tease.

"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."

You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."

"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."

"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.

He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me," you challenge.

He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.

"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."

"I was a mess," you remind him.

"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"

His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."

"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."

"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."

"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."

The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.

When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."

His eyes search yours. "But?"

"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."

"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.

"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."

"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."

"And until then?" you ask.

"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."

"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"

"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."

He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.

Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.

"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.

"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.

Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.

"Where?"

"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."

Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.

"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."

The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.

Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.

He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.

Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.

"I won't," you whisper.

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.

Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.

"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.

That's all it takes.

Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.

He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.

Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.

His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.

"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.

You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.

Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.

His control snaps.

His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.

"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.

Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.

Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.

"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."

His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.

"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.

He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.

"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.

"Jay—"

"Louder."

"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.

"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.

And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.

"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.

You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.

"Not yet," you whisper.

And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.

The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Your Highness?"

You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.

"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."

You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.

"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."

You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."

"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"

"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."

"Grandfather?"

She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."

You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."

"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."

The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.

"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.

Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."

You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.

"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.

Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."

"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."

Your head snaps up. "You've known?"

"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."

For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.

"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."

"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."

"That's not very helpful," you point out.

To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."

"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.

"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."

Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."

With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.

"One more thing, Y/N."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."

She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.

The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.

Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J

The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.

By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.

"Your Highness."

The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"

His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."

Your stomach drops. "For how long?"

"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."

"How?" You've been so careful.

"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."

"That's..."

"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."

You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"

"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"

The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."

"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."

"But you're still leaving."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."

"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"

Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."

The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.

"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?

"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."

Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"

"My own choice," he says simply.

You both know what that means. Who that means.

"When do you leave?" you ask.

"Tomorrow morning."

So soon. Too soon.

"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."

"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."

You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"

He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."

The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"

"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."

"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.

"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."

"Even if that means..."

"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.

You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.

"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."

Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"

"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."

You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."

A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."

"I prefer you," you correct softly.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.

"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.

The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.

The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.

"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.

"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."

He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."

"A reluctant one," you remind him.

"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."

His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"

"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."

He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."

"And?"

"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."

"But you don't think he will," you observe.

Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."

"So what happens if he refuses?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."

Your heart quickens. "What decision?"

"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."

The implications of this statement hang between you.

"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."

"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."

A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."

"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.

His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."

His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.

"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."

Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."

"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."

"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"

"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."

"And if they press me?"

"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."

You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."

"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."

The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."

"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.

"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."

It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.

"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."

"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."

You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."

The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."

"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.

"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."

Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.

Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."

"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.

The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.

"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."

You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.

"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."

Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."

"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."

Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.

"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"

All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.

"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."

The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"

"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."

This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.

"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."

"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."

The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."

It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."

The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.

"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."

You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."

"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"

"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."

"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"

Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."

Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.

On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.

Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.

The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.

For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.

The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.

The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.

Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.

"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."

"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"

Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.

Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.

When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."

"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."

He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."

"Your father?" you prompt.

Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."

Your heart sinks. "Oh."

"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."

"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.

"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."

"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."

"Which was?"

His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."

You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"

"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."

"And?" you press, heart pounding.

A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."

"That's... good?"

"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."

He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."

"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"

"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."

Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.

"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."

"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.

"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.

He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."

Tears blur your vision as he continues.

"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."

He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.

"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"

The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.

"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."

He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."

You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."

His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.

Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.

A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.

and they lived happily ever after

the end.

fin.

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltiloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @m3wkledreamy @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @yunjiiin @adoredbyjay @wheretheheckis-ssaki @flawlessapollo6 @stwrlightt @jaeyunsbimbo @fateismoonstruck @kiikiisblog @bbsantc @xeee334 @cherrybeomm @merwdusa @urmomdotcom5678

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friendlycursedspaceotter · 2 years ago

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was thumbnailing on MS paint for a final exam and this happened?

not half bad

i'm going to refine her a bit but hello

am i like, not terrible at art?

#my artwork #thumbnail #ms paint #not like i was trying #finals are coming up #and two of them are reflections #one is an art project #and it's not even for an art class

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majestyeverlasting · 2 months ago

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𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

This piece contains 18+ content Based on this lovely request pairing joel miller x female reader summary when the winds of change scatter the buds of a new, forbidden love, they bloom anew after the end of the world [wc 8k] contains pre & post-outbreak world, dbf age-gap relationship, fluff, smut, mentions of death, angst, hopeful ending

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

“I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there'll always be the person I am tonight.”

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night

Jakarta, Indonesia. An aerial view of a sea of skyscrapers shining in the night. Joel blinks drowsily as he spams the channel button several numbers ahead. If he lingered a second longer, he would’ve seen the overseas news coverage shift to a bustling hospital ward.

A black and white Western plays now; two cowboys fire their weapons in a quick draw. Gunfire from surrounding spectators ensues in a crisp, rapid spray. Sarah pads down the stairs just as a wounded man tumbles backwards over a second-story balcony.

“Dad?” she murmurs.

Joel mutes the movie at her tone. “Everything okay? What’s up?”

She nervously plays with one of her springy curls. “I forgot I had a project due tomorrow,” she says. Joel blinks a few times as if he misheard her. “For Ms. Johnson’s science class. We have to make a 3D plant cell model.”

That prompts him to sit up from his reclined position, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Sarah Noelle.”

“The substitute teacher forgot to remind us today,” she reasons.

“C’mere.” She shuffles closer with big, doe eyes. “I ask if you’ve got homework every day after school, and what did you tell me earlier this evening? Bet you knew about this a week ago.” When her face falls even more, Joel resists his knee-jerk reaction to backtrack and comfort her.

“You gotta stay on top of stuff like this, bug,” he says. “Today it’s a project, but tomorrow it’s rent or a write-up for your job. Can’t hold off on stuff till the last minute.”

“I’m sorry.”

His knees pop as he pushes to his feet. “Don’t gotta apologize,” he says lightly. “We got supplies here?”

“Just stuff like crayons and markers,” she says.

Joel’s chest deflates with a heavy sigh, and Sarah bites her lip as he runs a hand through his hair. There’s more annoyance in his eyes than frustration, but she can understand that. It’s a quarter past nine, and it’s been a long day.

He grabs his phone and hands it to her. After years of owning a BlackBerry, he’d finally switched to an iPhone.

“See what places are open.” She nods gratefully. “And I ain’t mad at ya, alright? We all forget things sometimes.”

Sarah watches as he heads upstairs to change out of his pajama pants. As soon as he disappears, she taps into the message app.

Joel (9:17 PM) Are you awake?

You (9:19 PM) Sarah?

Joel (9:19 PM) Yeah it’s me! I forgot I had a project due!!! You know about plant cells right?

You (9:20 PM) Loaded question. I know enough, lol.

Joel (9:21 PM) Can you come help?? We’re about to go out for supplies

The night air is warm. Sarah trails Joel to the truck but doesn’t get in after rounding to her side. He watches her through the window as he starts the engine. She’s staring next door to Cal’s house, and he doesn’t know why until you slip out the front door, ready for an adventure.

It’s September now, and they’d attended your graduation back in May.

You’d moved back in with your dad a week ago. The two of you had butt heads in the time leading up to your college departure, and you didn’t see a lot of each other during those four years. You were finally starting to come back around. So much of his strictness and rigidity was born out of love, even if that truth got muddled along the way.

Not only was the move a means of saving money and rekindling your relationship, but Austin had way more opportunities than the college town you left.

Joel’s eyes fall on you as you slide into the passenger seat, all nonchalance and ease. A pleasant, floral scent drifts his way when you bend forward to set your purse on the floor.

“Long time no see, stranger,” you say.

“Guess somebody got phoned as backup,” Joel says as he pulls out of the driveway, one arm resting on the center console.

“Can’t blame a girl for employing all her resources.” You peek back at Sarah and share a smile.

Joel huffs an amused sound. “Cal asleep yet?”

“He’s hanging on by a thread,” you say. “Told him I was going out to smoke pot at the lake like old times.”

Sarah snorts at that, and Joel meets her gaze in the rearview with an unimpressed look.

“Dad, I’m twelve, not two.”

“Y'all are gonna make me go gray.”

“What are you, forty-five, forty-six?" you ask. "I’m pretty sure that’s already starting to happen.” You reach over to playfully twirl a strand of hair at the nape of his neck.

His shoulders square as he fights a shiver. Sarah is none the wiser as her laughter carries from the backseat.

•••

Broad-shouldered in the dim light of the kitchen, Joel stands at the sink, washing dried glue from his hands as he hums a low tune. The gentle rush of the water prevents him from hearing you as you tiptoe up behind him. Sarah went to bed fifteen minutes ago when the two of you insisted you’d handle cleanup. All things considered, the cell model turned out decent for such a late notice.

Joel jerks when you poke a finger into his side. You’re fixed with an exasperated glare as you withdraw your touch with an innocent smile. Then, foolishly, he redirects his gaze back to the sink. You promptly deliver a poke to his other side that makes him curl in on himself.

“Would you quit that?” he asks, voice tight with the threat of a laugh.

“No.”

Even then, he smiles as he dries his hands. You rest your forearms on the island and watch. When his eyes find yours, there’s a weight to your gaze. Joel doesn’t fight against the flutter in his gut. It’d been a couple of years since he had.

“Thanks for comin’ over for her,” he says.

“You know I’ve always gotta pull through for my little bestie.”

Joel chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck, eyes roving over you. “Never got to properly ask how you’ve been settling in,” he says. “Got stuck talkin’ about chloroplasts and ribosomes all night.”

“And the endoplasmic reticulum,” you quip.

“Can’t forget the good ole ER.”

The two of you share a hushed laugh. The crinkles around Joel’s eyes make your chest expand with a warmth that no longer feels so wrong.

“I’m good, though,” you say. “Even though I have no idea what the hell I’m doing half the time.” The air shifts as you sigh.

“I don’t think any of us do,” Joel hums.

“It’ll get better,” he assures. “Wish I could tell you when, but one day you’ll look around and realize you’ve got a better grasp on things.” He thinks for a moment. “On who you are and who you wanna be.”

The gruff honesty of Joel’s words makes it easy to believe him.

After a few quiet beats, he twists an arm behind himself to scratch a tricky spot on his back. Unfortunately, his inflexibility hinders him.

Wordless, you step up alongside him and raise your hand to rake your fingernails just beneath his shoulder blades. He immediately relaxes with a grateful exhale. Your touch remains after the itch dissipates, shifting into steady passes of your palm along his back. Joel can’t find it in himself to break the still intimacy of the moment. When he does, the sense of loss is immediate.

“Appreciate it.” Joel clears his throat. “It’s gettin’ pretty late.”

Outside, there’s a quiet symphony of insects. A few moths fly around Joel’s porch light. The wood creaks under your footsteps as you head towards the stairs. Joel stops at the top, while you step down. He expects you to continue to your house, but you turn around to peer up at him with those knowning eyes of yours.

“Go on,” he encourages, tapping your chin with a gentle knuckle.

Your lashes flutter.

“Go.” His voice comes out thicker.

“Alright, alright.” The smallest smile curls at your lips. “I’m going, Mr. Miller.”

•••

Every once in a while, a night came along that reminded him that sleeplessness was never too far away. Never did he suspect it’d be because of Cal’s kid. Autopilot gets him through his morning routine, and, before long, he stands in a sunlit kitchen.

The coffee machine whirs as it fills his mug, the rich, nutty smell slowly permeating the air.

Sarah trudges over to snake her arms around his waist. He smiles when she nuzzles her face into his shirt with a sleepy groan, breathing him in.

Joel blows into the mug and takes a small sip. She holds out a hand for it next.

“S’hot,” he warns, but passes it over. A baby sip is enough to make her face scrunch in distaste. “Still no bueno?”

She shakes her head. He chuckles and squeezes her. “Uncle Tommy should be here soon. We’ll grab you a bite to eat on the way.”

Sarah makes a satisfied sound, steals his phone from his front pocket, and stalks away.

Joel (7:23 AM) It was really good seeing you last night

You (8:19 AM) Likewise <3

You hadn’t bothered asking if it was Sarah. Deep down, you knew it was, but you would’ve welcomed those words from Joel all the same, if not more.

He’s the one who ends up reading your reply.

•••

Come late Monday afternoon, the Miller brothers finish setting the last fence panel as fluffy white clouds roll in to shield Austin from the full brunt of the sun.

Back at home, Joel showers and eats leftovers. When he hits the living room again, he steps on a dainty hoop earring that he realizes is his ticket back to you.

A helicopter flies overhead as you get out of your car. The teenage boys playing basketball in the cul-de-sac gawk up towards the sky with exaggerated wonder. A presence wades into your periphery once you reach your trunk.

Joel stops a few yards away, still standing in the plush grass between your lots.

“I got it.” He gestures to the grocery bags and waits for your permission.

You step aside. “Thanks.”

Cal hasn’t made it home from the office yet, but inside, Joel moves as if his friend is bound to round the corner at any moment. After setting all the grocery bags on the kitchen island, he fishes into his pocket.

“Think I have something of yours.” He presents the earring in the palm of his large hand. “Look familiar?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Yes, oh my gosh.” You take it from him without hesitation. “Dude.” Joel's eyes soften as you gush. “Thank you so much.”

“‘Course.” He rubs his palms against his jeans and takes an easy look around. It’s quiet.

“How was work?” Your tone is genuine.

“Good. We, uh, had a fence job,” Joel starts with a shrug. “You know that new housing development on the other side of the lake?” He points in the general direction, and you nod. “A couple just moved in. Real nice lot.”

He gets a shy look about him for expounding, but you only smile as you unbag the groceries. “I think I’d tap out after getting the first couple pickets into the ground,” you admit.

“S’just patience and practice.”

“Imagine someone like me building a fence.” You motion a sorry hand down your body.

He takes you in. Perhaps, more earnestly than he should. You’re wearing a tennis skirt and a baby tee. Your skin looks soft. The air shifts.

As you grab a can of tomato paste to take to the pantry, you let your backside brush against Joel’s crotch with more pressure than necessary. He instinctively hovers a hand at your waist but takes a respectful step back as his cheeks warm.

After you put everything away, you study him. “I appreciate everything you said the other night about things getting better,” you say. “Sarah’s lucky to have you.”

Joel tucks his head down as if the compliment will fly over him and stick to something else. But it hits him square in the chest, seeps into his ribcage, and forces him to feel it. No matter how many houses or fences he raised, sidewalks or driveways he framed, Sarah would always be the best thing to come out of his efforts.

“I started pushing my dad away around that age,” you say. “It means something that she still thinks the world of you.”

You move to stand in front of Joel. He doesn’t back away. Not even when you pluck an invisible piece of lint off his shirt, then smooth a hand down his sturdy chest. The alarm bells are distant in your head, but chime louder in his.

Joel knows he should be the one to walk away, but reasons that there’s no harm in your crush. Before long, you’d find your footing in the world, and your focus would be swept elsewhere. The attention was nice as long as he didn’t bite back. You’d been biting since you were twenty.

This time around is different, however.

You take a chance and raise a hand to his scruffy cheek. “I think quite highly of you myself,” you murmur.

Joel doesn't push you away when you lean in to capture his lips with your own.

His eyes flutter closed as he dares to reciprocate. Everything about him is impossibly gentle, from the way his large hands settle on your waist to the fragile way he kisses as if you’ll fall apart. A silent war rages within him all the while. The brush of his scruff is prickly, but his lips are softer than you imagined. He tastes like spearmint gum.

You startle away from him as another helicopter passes in the sky. The picture frames rattle. You lean in with the intent to continue kissing Joel, but he recedes up the shore instead of running towards the sea.

There’s a reluctant finality to the way he pushes you away by the hip and runs a hand over his mouth. It’s as if he’s attempting to rid himself of the feeling of your lips, except it doesn’t go away. Neither does the cloud of want clear from his vision.

“I should go.” His tone doesn’t match his words, but he steps forward to leave nonetheless.

You’re right there to block his way. There’s enough space to weave around you, but he pretends you’re keeping him here when he’s never in his life been pinned down by anyone or anything.

“Go where?” you challenge lightly. “Is Sarah home?”

Joel considers lying, but you’ve only ever drawn the truth out of him. “At a friend’s.”

“Then what’s the rush?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “Quit denying yourself for once in your life.”

Joel’s throat works. “This ain’t right.”

“It’s not wrong.”

Right and wrong. Good and evil. And now you’ve proposed a middle ground that, coming from you, sounds like a lovely place to be.

You slip a hand beneath the hem of Joel’s shirt, grazing your fingernails down the pudge of his belly. It’s a maddening, lighthearted gesture.

“The middle’s not so bad,” you insist. “We can make it good.”

•••

Joel loses his mind at some point between his front door and his bedroom. With the way you touch him, and tease him, and smile into too-short kisses, he never stood a chance. He’s heard all the jokes about what it takes to keep up with a pretty young thing, but now he’s living it himself. You’re both naked and wanting in his bed.

He’d had the upper hand for a short while, nestling between your thighs until you came undone around his thick, skillful fingers.

A lovely flush colors his neck and upper chest as he prepares to rip open the foil package of a condom. Before he can make a clean tear, you reach out to take it from him.

“May I?” Your smile is sweet.

Joel admires your French manicure as you pull the condom out, taking your precious time. His stomach flips when you meet his gaze again because the upturn of your lips now flirts with mischief. Impatience flickers in his chest as his want only grows.

“Ain’t got all evening,” he says, voice thick but light.

“I know you don’t.” The tip of your index finger finds the pearly bead along his slit, spreading it in a slow circle that makes his stomach quiver. “Practically about to fall apart on me right now,” you lilt.

Joel’s exasperation rises as a weak huff of laughter. He knows there’s nothing clever or provocative he can say to inspire a sense of haste within you. So he settles on the truth since it’s the only stripped, shaky thing left alongside his desire.

“I'm achin', sweetheart.”

The raw quality of his voice harkens mercy from somewhere amid your fun. The stars over Austin align in time with your careful roll of the condom down the veiny strain of his need. Joel trembles through it, jaw tightening when you seal the deal by reaching down between his legs to massage the delicate, hanging weight of him.

Without warning, Joel pushes you backwards, and your head meets the pillows as he crowds over you. It’s as if invisible chains have been broken. He braces one hand near your face to the flustered sound of your giggles while he gingerly grips himself with the other. A dark thatch of curls rests at his base. Your legs fall open wider for him with ease.

Your breath hitches when he bumps his tip against your swollen bud, then glides down to catch at your waiting entrance. There’s no further hesitation or preamble. Joel’s eyes meet yours in silent acknowledgement that your relationship will never be the same.

There’s no mourning, only your joint sighs as he eases into your warmth. It’s a slow, snug push that leaves you no choice but to be aware of every solid inch of him, every vein and ridge. The initial stretch makes way for the dizzying relief of fullness. Joel burrows until he’s encompassed so wholly that he can’t go any further, exhaling your name.

Your face scrunches as he begins to pull back out in a careful drag. Your hands grip his shoulders as your legs hook around him.

“Joel.” It’s an awed, desperate sound.

"I gotcha," he soothes. "Easy does it."

A whimper escapes you as he finds a deep, measured rhythm. He’s reaching a tender place within you that shouldn’t be allowed to feel this good. Your mouth opens like you have something to say, but nothing comes out.

“Lost all your words?” He has the nerve to ask as if his voice doesn’t sound punched-out. “Had so much to—Christ—so much to say a minute ago.”

The rugged weight of him, paired with his body heat and the skilled thrusts of his hips, continues to render you speechless for the first time in a long time. All you know at this moment is him. It’s lovely and terrifying all the same.

Joel slows, realizing you need it. “Breathe for me, babygirl.”

He leans down to kiss your neck, scruff brushing your skin. His lips are soft enough to make you shiver and clench around him.

“S’just me,” he assures into your ear, voice like velvet.

Joel had seen you grow into the person you are today. Not only that, but he had done so without treating you like your maturity and intelligence stagnated at some point in the past when you were merely the younger girl next door.

“Just you,” you whimper in confirmation.

“Feel so good, you know that?” He gently thumbs over one of your pebbled nipples.

You arch, face hot. “Think so.”

He chuckles.

When you meet his eyes and see how dark and gone they are, you can’t help but laugh too, breathless. Joel places a steady hand on your hip to ground himself as you clench.

He exhales as his forehead touches yours. “Gonna make me come with all that giggling,” he whispers against your lips, then nuzzles your cheek. “Already teased me to goddamn pieces.”

“Maybe I want you to come.” Boldness settles beneath your skin as the pleasant knot in your stomach grows tighter. “You’re so big… can feel you everywhere.”

You miss the mark for Joel’s mouth and land a clumsy kiss on his chin. You lower a shaky hand from his shoulders and allow your middle finger to find your swollen bud. The firm, slippery circles make warmth pool between your thighs.

“Gonna try something, alright?” he coos in his low timbre. All you can do is nod earnestly.

One by one, Joel guides your legs over his shoulders so your calves frame his neck. You gasp as he sinks even deeper than before.

“That the spot, sweetheart?”

Soon, you can’t hold out any longer.

The rope snaps, and your walls flutter around him in unrhythmic pulses as your lips part. The rest of the world disappears, only to crash back in at Joel’s final pointed thrust. A guttural sound escapes him as he lets go. You watch the way his eyebrows furrow and his arms flex. The way his stomach clenches with each wave that rips through him.

It feels like you’re floating somewhere where real-life struggles and confusions can’t reach you. Here, everything makes sense. Everything is good down to the bone. And the best part is, you’re not alone; you’re drifting through this perfect place with Joel.

As September winds closer to its end, it wouldn't be the last time.

•••

One of Joel’s hands rests on Sarah’s shoulder while the other holds his phone to his ear. He can barely make out Tommy’s next sentence as a military plane flies overhead in the evening sky. The driveway shakes to the sound of the engine and the sirens wailing in the distance. Joel lets go of her in favor of plugging his opposite ear.

“You should’ve called me, Tommy... now you’ve got her out there in this crap… I didn’t say you weren’t capable of protecting her… Yeah, I know where it is. We’re on our way.”

As Joel hangs up, all he can think is, so much for a happy birthday—Tommy got arrested, you bailed him out, and it’s the beginning of the end.

He redirects his attention to Sarah. “It’s gonna be okay, bug. Gonna meet ‘em at the old commuter lot just before you get downtown.”

She nods even though her heart is beating in her ears.

“There are a lot of scared people out there right now. Might see some things. Gonna need to be brave for me, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, voice wavering. “Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Lightning fast.”

She jogs back into the house. Joel climbs into his truck, keeping a hopeful eye out for your dad. He doesn’t get the chance to call him again because his Mustang screeches to a stop in front of the driveway.

Cal sees red as he walks towards Joel’s door, dressed in his work suit and Oxfords.

“My daughter, man? Fucking Grace?”

That’s what he wanted to name you. The joke became that raising you took a lot of grace on his part, especially after your mom walked out of your lives. Joel knew the story.

“Get the hell out of this goddamn truck and talk to me like a man.”

Cal flings the door open, and Joel’s face is hot with embarrassment, guilt, and frustration. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry right now, Cal,” he asserts as he slides out. “Something’s going on.”

“I’m sitting in traffic, when ding—a lovey ass text makes me double take. Then I get a, ‘Sorry, wrong person’ like it’s no big fucking deal.” Cal shakes his head. “You. It was meant for you.”

“Cal, listen—”

“I trusted you all these years. Let you into my home.”

He shoves Joel. Hard. Joel takes it.

“You sick fuck.”

Joel’s shoulders sink as he holds his hands up. “Cal, please…” He racks his brain for a quick explanation, but nothing comes.

That’s when the door to the Adlers' house swings open, and Mrs. Adler comes staggering out. Her gait is strikingly abnormal, oddly stable but in a jerky, disoriented way. Her head twitches as she catalogs the sounds around her, face more gaunt than Joel has ever seen it.

“The hell are you looking at?” Cal barks, pinning Joel to the truck.

At the outburst, Mrs. Adler starts towards them in a clumsy shuffle.

“Bigger fucking fish, Cal,” Joel grouses. “Turn your thick skull around.” Joel finally manages to shove him off, and he stumbles with enough force to fall.

Mrs. Adler speeds up at the prospect of an easy target, but before she can lunge for Cal, Joel grabs a brick from the stack near the garage and hurls it at her head. The impact disorients her enough for Cal to scramble to his feet with a string of expletives. Joel grabs the sledgehammer from the bed of his truck and delivers a fatal blow to the woman’s head.

“Is that Mrs. Adler?” Cal says in horror. “Is the rest of the family okay? Shit, we gotta check.”

“It ain’t worth it, Cal—”

But Cal doesn’t listen. He marches straight into the house.

Further down the street, a fire hydrant shoots water like a geyser as a car crashes into it. Joel reluctantly trails after him until he hears Cal’s pained screams erupt from the inside. A sound loud enough to make his blood run cold.

Sarah hurries back out of the house carrying a photo album she didn’t have before. She stops at the sight of Mrs. Adler’s crumbled frame. Cal’s Mustang registers, then the screams.

“Get in the truck, Sarah,” Joel urges. “Right now, bug, get in the truck.”

The tone of his voice spurs her into action. Joel slides behind the wheel with ringing ears. His hands shake as he starts the engine and banks to the right to avoid Cal’s Mustang as he drives off the bump of the curb.

“Were those Cal’s screams?” Sarah asks, frozen in the passenger seat. Joel remains quiet, eyes glued to the road. “Why aren’t you answering me? Dad?”

Joel’s phone rings, displaying your name. His hands still haven’t stopped trembling as he raises the device to his ear.

“Joel? Hey,” you say, light but focused. “Tommy and I are almost at the commuter lot.” Joel hums in acknowledgement, scared his voice will betray him. “My dad says he’s swinging by the house first, but knows to meet us there.”

“Sarah and I are en route.”

He can feel his daughter’s gaze boring into him when he hangs up.

“You didn’t tell her?”

“That’s not the kind of conversation you have over the phone,” Joel justifies, his voice thick but measured. “‘Specially at a time like this.”

Sarah swipes the tear that slips down her cheek.

Cal’s life isn’t the only one lost that day.

Joel and Sarah never reach the commuter lot, but you and Tommy do.

From then on, the world is never the same.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

Maroon, gold, indigo. Pale streaks of colored light span in thin bands over the empty pews of the chapel as the sun shines through the mosaic windows. On the stage, a short way behind the pulpit, stands an empty wooden cross.

Your gaze remains on your arms, where they rest crossed over your stomach. The few tears that once streamed down your cheeks have dried in stiff trails. You hadn’t bothered swiping them away.

You hadn’t prayed either.

Coming here usually meant something akin to that: sitting in silence with your eyes closed as the room’s serenity washed over your unspoken words. You weren’t expecting any kind of miracle. Waking up in Jackson, Wyoming every day already was one.

A long, quiet squeak rises from behind you, followed by the rattle of a closing door. You don’t look over your shoulder as footsteps pad in, but you grow intrigued when they freeze. Upon turning around, a young girl with a ponytail stands at the back of the sanctuary, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” she says, mindful of her volume. “I didn’t think anybody was in here.”

You shake your head and face forward again. Her footsteps retreat, then she changes her mind. You listen to the swish of her pants as she grows closer and closer. Soon, the pew creaks as she sits beside you. It’s quiet for a while.

“Does he listen?” she murmurs, eyes on the cross. Her voice carries a hopeful hint of wonder beneath the quiet default of disbelief.

“I like to think so.”

She relaxes back into the seat, puffy coat rustling.

“I’m Ellie.”

•••

Spring nears before long.

A cheerful bark of laughter emits from your right, while Tommy’s gaze bores into you from the left. You can sense him even as you stare into what’s left of your blackberry moonshine.

In contrast to how you feel, the Tipsy Bison is alive with an early evening crowd. The bartender bounces around to those seated alongside you, fulfilling refills and carting away empty glasses. You don’t look at Tommy until he knocks his knee against yours. His eyes look painfully like Joel’s under the dim glow of the string lights.

“Can’t run from him forever,” he says.

You rest your elbow on the counter and pinch the bridge of your nose because you know he’s right.

When Joel arrived with Ellie a few months ago, the three of you sat in Tommy’s living room to catch up. An hour that went on to become the most harrowing of your lives.

It’s where you learned that you had two more stones to add to the cairn of remembrance in your mind; one for your father, another for Sarah.

You built walls around yourself after Outbreak Day. Not letting anything or anyone become significant enough to settle beneath your skin. Never again would you relive the feeling of leaving everything you loved behind: the city, your friends, your father.

Joel.

He was the source of so much to you when you needed it the most. Wisdom, comfort, affection, and validation wrapped in a package with the kindest eyes.

Those last few weeks of summer with him constitute the last of your old-world memories. You were bitter that you couldn’t press rewind. Bitter that Joel had been taken from you—that he’d broken his promise that everything would be alright.

In the haze of your naivety, you had built him up in your mind as ever-dependable. When the world laughed at your appointment, dethroning that idea of him felt like destroying a part of yourself.

That evening at Tommy’s, Joel met your gaze and uttered a hoarse apology for everything he never said.

Outbreak day had been an impossible situation that forced everyone to make impossible decisions. Except you refused to believe he’d made the right ones.

If he were a religion, your words were a renunciation of the faith:

“Damn your sorrys,” you said. “Do you know how many years I’ve spent holding out hope that my dad was still alive?” Joel tucked his head down. “Hell, that you and Sarah were still alive, Joel.”

“Was gonna tell you at the lot.” His voice was a murmur of pain and regret.

“But you never made it to the lot, did you?” Both brothers stilled at that. “And I’ve been walking around for years with a hope I now know was false.

“At least you had closure for your losses. At least they were real to you, and not some perpetual fucking maybe weighing you down every day of your life.” Tears had begun to stream down your cheeks.

Joel hadn’t flinched at a single word. He sat there like a stone, eyes broken. Tommy had to encourage you outside for some fresh air.

“He’s hurting too,” the younger Miller eventually said as he stood on the porch with you.

The Tipsy Bison fades back in around you as Tommy speaks up again.

“You know that knot in your chest you walk around with every day?” he questions. Your jaw ticks. “It ain’t gonna go away till you learn how to forgive.”

Aside from the revelation of Joel having known about your father’s death, the knowledge of Sarah’s death was another part of that night at Tommy’s that haunts you.

They never made it to the commuter lot because she had ended up dying in her his arms. By the time Joel did arrive, late and alone, all cellular networks had stopped functioning. Clouds of smoke rose from various fires. Chaos reigned as king.

By then, Tommy had already made the executive decision to leave without them, assuming the worst.

•••

The night of the spring fling, Joel stays in. He’d brought a tray from his workroom into the living room to whittle the finishing touches of the small horse figure he’d started a few days ago. He looks up when three knocks sound at the door.

The one person he’s not expecting to see is you.

“Hi,” you murmur.

His eyes are simultaneously unreadable and full of emotion behind his glasses.

“Hey.”

“Is it okay if we talk?”

Joel opens the door wider, and you take it as permission to step inside. Though his arm twitches, he doesn’t help you out of your jean jacket when you begin to shrug it off. But he does hang it on the rack for you.

“I was just sittin’ right in here…” he trails off and reclaims his spot on the couch. You follow, but opt for the accent chair.

Joel doesn’t know why he suddenly feels embarrassed—if that’s the right word to assign to the feeling. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of himself as he sits in his pajamas, with likely disheveled hair. It’s so quiet he can hear the refrigerator’s hum from the kitchen, the sound your clothes make as you shift.

You don’t know how to talk to him anymore. It’d once been so easy. A bit thrilling, even. He’d always listen and react in that distinct way of his, always ready to dish out a quip or a sarcastic remark when you got too big for your britches.

He’s not that man anymore. More of his hair has gone silver, and his face has aged slightly. His gaze carries a new intensity, like he’s alert and aware of everything.

“Is that a horse?”

It takes Joel a few seconds to realize you’re talking to him. He hums in confirmation.

“Nice,” you say honestly.

You hate yourself for dancing around the elephant in the room. But Joel’s right there with you, both of you clinging onto the same lifesaver in the middle of the sea.

“You can have it.” He shifts like he’s about to hand it to you, but you walk over to join him on the couch instead.

“How long did it take?”

“‘Bout six hours.”

As he turns it over in his hands and points out specific details, tears well in your eyes at the thoughtful cadence of his voice, the occasional way he pushes his glasses up his nose with an index finger.

By the time he stops talking and sets the horse on the coffee table in front of you, you’re crying. Joel noticed your tell-tale sniffles long before, but there’s a sympathetic flutter in his ribs as you actually begin to wipe your tears.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you murmur, voice cracking.

The weak question breaks through Joel’s internal debate to leave your side to get you a tissue.

You’d been avoiding him, but he wasn’t avoiding you. Not exactly.

Ellie doesn’t know all the details about you and Joel’s past, but you’ve crossed paths consistently since meeting her at the chapel. Almost every time you were together for a game night, movie night, or crafts at the community center, she mentioned that Joel either asked about you or said hello. Every time, it broke your heart even more.

What brought you to his door tonight is a quiet act of service that made it impossible to stay away. Word had gotten around about the broken fence gate in the front of your house. Joel took it upon himself to fix it while you were working a shift at the stables. On his off day, in the cold, no less.

You’d been treating him like he was invisible for months.

“I care about you,” he finally says, swallowing.

“I’ve been horrible to you.”

Joel doesn’t agree or disagree, just lifts a weak shoulder as if to acknowledge that things have simply been the way they’ve been.

Your entire face burns with shame. “I don’t know how to say sorry, but that’s all I’ve been.”

Your mind spins as you attempt to find a more eloquent way to express that, but a deep stillness overtakes you as Joel pulls you into his embrace.

It’s not neat or composed. You sink into him, face tucked into his chest, mere inches away from where his heart beats behind his ribs. Damp splotches of tears darken his gray shirt. You’ve missed his scent, the safety of his arms.

Maybe you’d stayed away because you couldn’t bear to lose it all again.

Time escapes both of you, and you let it.

You finally straighten up, and Joel brings a gentle hand to your face to wipe the remnants of your tears. The urge to lean into his warm, calloused palm overcomes you. Your eyes are heavy as you turn your head to pucker your lips against it in a featherlight kiss.

Then you take his hand in both of yours, pressing more kisses to his fingers and turning his hand over to pay his scarred knuckles the same mind. Joel’s entire arm tingles from the attention. You scoot yourself even closer to his side.

He leans back into the cushions, Adam’s apple bobbing, heavy eyes watching you. It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Your touch disappears right after his eyes flutter closed.

You study his brow bone, his nose, the relaxed pout of his mouth.

Joel opens his eyes, accepting that this moment of affection may’ve reached its end. But he’s grateful it happened at all. He hadn’t been touched so tenderly since five years ago in Austin with you.

The two of you hold each other's gaze as a deafening silence stretches between you. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

The couch dips as you carefully move to straddle him. His weathered hands tentatively grip your waist as you settle on his lap. You’re beautiful in the lamplight. Beautiful all the time. History knows he’s terrible at denying you.

Joel straightens from his reclined position and speaks what you both desperately want to say.

“I’ve missed you.”

It was a dangerous thing to want something in this world. To crave, to long. But tonight you do because you have each other to satiate the thrum.

You carefully pull his glasses off his face and set them aside. He blinks to reacclimate his eyes.

“Can you still see me?” you murmur.

“I see you, babygirl.”

You lean in to kiss his nose, then his lips.

Your joint breaths are uneven when you pull away from the kiss that nearly took them away. You stay close, nose to nose, quietly alive with the proximity.

Your tongue pokes out to gently trace his lower lip as if it’s enough to truly get another taste. You move to kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail an eager line of kisses to his jaw. His fingers dig into your waist when you lower your head to mouth beneath his ear.

As soon as he shivers, a small sound catching in his throat, you draw back. Not just away from his neck, but you ease yourself all the way down to the rug, where you spread his legs and kneel between them. You palm his bulge through his pajama pants one gentle time before your fingers curl into the waistband.

“You don’t gotta—”

“Please? I want to.”

After shucking his pants and boxers to the floor, you waste no time kissing up his fuzzy inner thighs. You don’t stop when you reach his arousal, gripping him at the base to kiss up the veined underside until reaching the flushed mushroom head. Joel’s legs quiver and fall open wider when you take him into your mouth.

There’s no teasing, no delay. You look up at Joel through your lashes, where the almost pained scrunch of his eyebrows tells you you’re making it good for him.

So much so, tension coils low in his gut, and his sac draws up in warning. He encourages you back up to his lap with a hand to your cheek.

Upon standing, you step out of your jeans and panties while holding his heavy-lidded gaze. When you settle back onto his thighs, you pull your shirt over your head, and he gently cups one of your breasts. Your soft hum prompts him to dip his head to kiss your nipple gingerly, then suckle it into his mouth. He’s painfully reverent and gentle.

As he lifts his head to switch to the other, you duck in to kiss him, nice and slow. When your fingertips find the hem of his shirt, he gently grasps your wrists. A thin string of saliva slinks between your mouths as you pull away.

“Everything okay?” you breathe, gaze searching.

“S’just... I got some scars.” He’s unsure if he says it so you’re not caught off guard, or because a small, self-conscious part of him has arisen.

You bring a hand to his cheek and brush your thumb over his scruff. “That’s okay.”

“Alright.”

Once he’s bare, your fingers map over the healed cuts and small divots scattered across the skin of his torso, each with its own story. It’s not as bad as you expected, just enough to give him a more rugged edge. He’s hairier now, across his chest and leading down from his navel to the wiry curls at his base.

You reach between your bodies and give Joel a few easy strokes before rising onto your knees and guiding him to your entrance. You run his thick head through your folds to collect the pooled wetness. Joel reaches down to make sure you’re ready for him and twitches in your grasp when his fingers easily slip around.

You’re so slick, gentle pressure alone is enough to breach your entrance. You shudder when he circles your clit in a few focused passes before settling his hands back on your waist.

Joel’s hold remains steady as you ease down onto him. He watches himself disappear in your warmth. When you’re filled all the way, you sigh at the overwhelming stretch.

Your hips circle a few practiced times as you get acclimated to welcoming him, anyone, after so long. As the delicious dull ache makes way for pleasure, you raise back up and sink back down. Joel's hands knead your backside and smooth up to your shoulder blades as you set a pace.

He sits there and relishes what you give him, occasionally shifting or raising his hips to complement you.

“Not gonna last,” he breathes against your lips. “You feel too good. Been so long.”

“Me neither,” you exhale, reaching down to rub circles over yourself.

Under your body and the intoxicating roll of your hips, it isn’t long before Joel feels a strong, hot tug low in his gut.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, gripping your hips to slow them. “M’close, lift up.”

“It’s okay.”

You brush a kiss along his cheek and circle one of his nipples with the pad of your finger. Panic licks within him even as he helplessly shudders.

“Mmmh—sweetheart.”

“I promise it’s okay,” you whisper. “I know my body. Always track my cycle.”

“You sure?” Joel’s brows pinch when you clench involuntarily.

“Positive.” You move his hands to rest further up your waist, then grip his shoulders as you fall back into a rhythm.

Pleasure swells between you so intensely that there is no more holding back.

Joel’s warm, muscular thighs tremble, then flex beneath you as he cants his hips upwards and allows throaty sound to escape him. His stomach tightens as he empties himself into you with an awed utterance of your name.

The way he pulses inside of you makes you let go, walls fluttering around him as pleasure radiates from your core down into the apex of your thighs. You rest your dewy forehead against his as you ride out the aftershocks that render you spent.

The sense of fondness and relief that washes over you is so great that you have to run your hands down Joel’s broad chest to make sure he’s real. His palm splays in the center of your back, keeping you near.

He’s got you now.

And you could begin again.

•••

Behind the chapel, Joel sits on a wooden bench alone. A breeze blows through as he gazes at the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. It’s quiet for an afternoon in Jackson, but he has no complaints. Some days were like that, slow-moving all around, as if a spell of stillness had chosen to settle.

As he waits, he turns over a tan rock in his hand, the edges so smooth it almost looks fake.

With the weather warming, he could get away without a jacket today. The forest green flannel he wears complements his dark wash jeans. He’d also combed his hair back with a natural gel.

Before he left the house, Ellie had eyed him knowingly.

"Who's the lucky lady?" she teased.

"Take a wild guess," he said. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Joel doesn’t look over his shoulder when grass crunches beneath the footsteps behind him. A smile tugs at his lips when they pause, then grow slower and lighter.

The world goes dark as two soft hands cover his eyes from behind, smelling faintly of lemon balm. You lower your lips to his ear as if you’re about to say something, but end up laughing, light and flustered. Joel can’t help but chuckle.

A feigned sigh of frustration leaves you as you give up, rounding the bench to sit beside him instead. Joel looks over at you, soft crinkles beside his sparkling eyes.

“It’s not funny,” you say lightly. “I was gonna try to pull the whole ‘guess who’ thing, but then I panicked and realized it’d be extremely obvious.”

“Woulda played along,” Joel says easily.

You know he would’ve. Levity was seeping in between the cracks more and more every day. It was nice to give in to a sense of play again.

“You’re early,” you say, letting your knee touch his. “It’s not even noon.”

He reads the face of his watch. “So are you.”

Your eyes drift to the rock he’s holding. “You found such a pretty one.”

Upon pulling yours from your tote bag, it’s smaller with more rigid edges. But it’s a nice rock, nonetheless.

“Ready?”

“Your turn to pick the spot,” you say.

He’s had enough time to think about it. You follow him a few yards into the overgrown grass. Grunting softly, he leans down to place his rock on top of the lone tree stump standing there. You balance your smaller one on top of his. For Sarah, for Cal. Stepping back a couple of paces makes them seem so small.

A moment of silence arises. You reach for his hand, a small gesture led by your pinkie. He takes your hand like every other fourth Thursday of the month at various locations around the commune.

The previous month’s cairns seldom remain standing where you leave them, but you never mind. It’s no more about permanence than it is about showing up. Remembering. Setting aside time for one another’s shared grief.

“Not gonna lie,” you start softly.

Joel looks over at you, ready to listen.

“The lunch menu’s not too shabby today.”

An amused puff of air leaves his nose. “S’that right?”

As you return to the bench to sit together a while longer, the wind blows, a refreshing whisper reminding you that you’re still here.

Thanks so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#joel miller #dbf!joel #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou hbo #the last of us season 2 #pedro pascal

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awrkive · 5 months ago

Text

[TEASER] CATCH YOUR WAVE (m) — JJK.

the last thing you expected when you strolled into your new school is to become the favorite project of the 5’11” tatted-up overly enthusiastic, golden-retriever-in-human-form PE teacher, jeon jungkook. he’s all goofy grins, bad math puns, and relentless charm, while you’re busy pretending you’re immune to his antics... spoiler alert: you’re not. and that infuriates you.

alternatively, jungkook tries to prove that opposites don’t just attract — they collide. a classic case of one plus one equals: “oh, no. i like him.”

PAIRING jeon jungkook x (female) reader

GENRE r18+ (fuff, slight angst, mature content) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT ~15k (still working around the final wc)

TEASER WORD COUNT 1.8k words

WARNINGS/MISC teachers!au, pe teacher!jk, math teacher!reader, seven!jungkook, himbo!jk, coworkers!au (works in the same school), oc gets kinda mean sometimes but jungkook likes it lmfao, extremely corny pick up lines.. he tries 💔 2000s romcoms references (sorry) warnings for this teaser: nothing major. just bad math puns delivered by himbo jungkook :')

NOTES inspired by the whole “can she gaf me💔” vibes in the seven mv (by jungkook) and ultimately the click five’s song, catch your wave (hence the title🥸 pls listen to the song for the whole vibes hehe <3). ive been wanting to write himbo jk for awhile bcs all my jks are like … smart so far so i thought wait we need to change that. gahhhh im so so freaking excited ive been thinking about writing this ever ever since i wrote that one himbo jk drabble 💃🏼

[ CYW MOODBOARD ] • [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

RELEASE DATE 2025, JUNE xx | 01:00 AM KOREAN STANDARD TIME (GMT+9)

They say life is a balance of good and bad days, and you’re not a pessimistic person, but sometimes enough is enough. How is your week already this bad when it’s just barely started?

Sunday morning, when you picked up your laundry from the shop, you were too late to realize that you mixed not just one but two white underwear with the colored loads. You’d blame it on the fact that they were too tiny, too flimsy for you to notice. But you know you should’ve double-checked before putting them in the machine. And now you have lost two panties. And in this economy? That shit cost a ton.

When Monday came and the head of the Math Department informed you there was a sudden shift in your schedule for the semester, it meant that instead of teaching three Algebra classes for tenth graders, you’re also teaching pre-Algebra for eighth graders, meaning you’re gonna have to cross the long walk from the high school building to the middle school one, the latter being all the way to the left wing, completely the opposite side of the right wing where the faculty room and your initial classes are.

Today, you’ve woken up with your WiFi not connected to the internet (something you have to talk to your landlord about when you come back home) and just two minutes ago, you realized you forgot to take your coffee order with you from the cafe across your school building, the sad garlic bread you bought along with it staring right at you without its beloved beverage pair.

Truthfully, it might be your last straw. How the hell is this happening to you out of all people? The semester is just starting, for god’s sake, and you’re already hanging on by a thread.

You take a deep breath on your seat before standing up from your cubicle, heading to the coffee machine by the snack bar.

You hate the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep on stocking the pantry with, it’s too naturally sweet – and you don’t like your coffee with sugar.

But you have no choice but to make do. The cafe’s too far out and your first class starts in about twenty minutes.

“Good morning, Ms. Math Genius – ready to crunch some numbers today?”

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, you shut your eyes close for a moment when you hear the familiar voice.

You stir your coffee with downturned lips.

“Only if you promise to flex those brain muscles—” You say, turning to look to the side. Much to your expectation, it’s Jeon Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall with that usual faux suave he keeps on around you – which you can’t take seriously because his big doe eyes tell you a completely different story. He’s wearing some Nike dri fit shirt, one that’s too tight around his chest and accentuates a comparatively tiny waist that you have to force your eyes upwards. But as they do, they land on the biceps that are straining against the poor material. It wasn’t lost on you though that one second after, they’re suddenly flexing. You arch your brow as you glance a look on his face. “—as much as you flex those biceps.”

Jungkook’s lips curl into a huge grin, expecting the jab.

“You know it!” He chuckles, running his fingers through his bangs. “I’m all about solving problems, and I’d say my favorite equation is you plus me equals a perfect start to the day.”

You fight a loud groan from escaping your lips as soon as he says that, giving him a certain look before shaking your head and going back to your coffee.

But you should’ve known better by now, because Jungkook – aside from being a PE teacher extraordinaire and every student’s favorite at that, Thee Football Coach, 5’11” tatted brunette with a long, fluffy hair paired with an objectively, annoyingly attractive face – is persistent.

Most especially when it comes to annoying you.

A few steps, and then you feel him getting closer to you.

“Did you know that—”

You roll your eyes. That’s it. If it’s another one of his corny math pick-up lines again you swear to god—

“Jungkook, you don’t have to keep doing this everyda—”

“—we’re like parallel lines?”

“What.”

“Did you know that we’re like parallel lines?” Jungkook repeats earnestly, just like he always does. When he’s up in your personal space like this, it’s easy to get a waft of his cologne – and your annoyance could’ve been justified if he smelled like shit but somehow, even though he looks like he just got back from a run judging by his running shoes and gym bag, he still smells… okay.

Just okay. As in, you don’t care how good he smells like or how he smells at all.

You make sure to keep that thought at the back of your head.

“No.” You say, hoping to dismiss the conversation right there as you pick up the cup of coffee from the machine, ready to turn on your heel, but then Jungkook laughs ever so slightly and gives your arm a barely-there poke.

“Come on, entertain me a little.”

You squint your eyes at him. He challenges your stare with a growing smile on his face. Scoffing, you roll your eyes again before you put the paper cup back on the table. With a sigh, you cross your arms and look at Jungkook. For a split second, his eyes cast downwards to your chest level but he quickly snaps out of it.

“Okay… we’re like parallel lines… why? Because we’ll never meet?” You say in response to his little request, keeping your tone impassive.

Jungkook’s eyes slowly widen at your words, smile slowly dropping – as if the logic of your words have ruined one of his million pick-up lines again.

“I– no! What? I meant, we’re like, always running to each other! Side by side. Parallel lines.”

“Okay… so still never meeting?” You ask impatiently, brows furrowing.

Jungkook mirrors your confusion. Then, he raises a hand, one finger up. “One second. I’ll fix this–” he takes his phone out from his pocket, types on it quickly, lip jutting out as he reads whatever he’s looking up, and then, “Ohh, I might have meant asymptote lines. We’re like asymptote lines.”

Your face contorts into even deeper confusion. Holy shit, you’re not dealing with this very early on in the morning, especially not after the circumstances of the past hours.

“Asymptote lines are more depressing than parallel lines if we’re talking metaphorically.”

Jungkook squints his eyes at you, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I would hope I know my lines, Jungkook. I teach them everyday.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners cutely, and you hate how that tugs something at your heartstrings.

You catch yourself right at that moment.

Jeon Jungkook is not cute. You keep in mind. He’s not cute.

Jungkook thinks you’re so cute. Gorgeous, most of all, and unbelievably so. You and your signature furrowed brows and pink pouty lips.

As usual, you have your hair up in a clean bun today, and Jungkook can smell the lace of sweet vanilla from you as he takes a step closer to get a cup for himself.

He loves the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep stocking the pantry with, it’s sweet as fuck. Just like how Jungkook likes his caffeine dose. Kind of like you, he thinks.

Jungkook casts a quick glance at you again, can't really help himself when you're so pretty, although he makes sure to be subtle about it.

You’re wearing another one of your pencil skirts, one that he has to avoid staring at for longer than three seconds lest his mind takes him too far – but the upper view is even more of a torture, unfortunaly for him. Because as much as you wear the same outfit every single day and it should mean that Jungkook should get used to it by now, he can never be immune to your silk long sleeves, where you keep the top three buttons open – and as much as Jungkook tries to pry his gaze away from the exposed skin down from your neck, it’s like there’s a strange force in the universe that keeps him on it. Doesn’t really help that you like crossing your arms under your chest, too, making his mind run a mile per minute at the thoughts that form inside his head when a very apparent cleavage shows—

Alright. Damn. It’s like 8 am.

And you were saying something about lines…

“Yeah? I hope you can teach me too, I need to—”

“Goodbye, Mr. Jeon.” You cut him off before he can even finish his sentence, taking your coffee with you as you head to the direction of your cubicle.

The nickname makes Jungkook’s lips curl up. He probably shouldn’t smile, given that you only ever call him that when you want to cut the conversation with him short. But he can’t help it, it sounds sweet coming from your pretty lips.

In an attempt to not look like a fool, Jungkook bites his lip as he watches your disappearing figure, your heels clicking on the floor as you walk away. Your legs look so long in that grey pencil skirt, and it really should be criminal how you look like that even when you’re just showing your back.

In his trance, he forgets about the brewing coffee in his cup and absentmindedly takes it out while the machine is still running, the hot liquid pouring from the nozzle quickly burning the skin on his finger.

“Oh, shit!” He hisses, jumping from the shock, almost knocking his coffee out but thankfully he manages to catch it on time, just as when another member of the faculty walks by the snack bar.

With an awkward smile, Jungkook raises a thumbs up to Mrs. Lee.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee. Looking rad as always.” He cheerfully greets, and Mrs. Lee’s confusion from seeing him fumble with his cup earlier quickly turns into a coo.

“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you charming kid. I was just gonna get my cup of coffee.” She says, walking towards his direction.

Jungkook adjusts the strap of his gym bag to his shoulder and takes a cup for Mrs. Lee with a grin, making her smile.

She thanks him and with a playful salute, Jungkook goes toward the general direction of his cubicle, and because the PE department and Math department are just across from each other, he walks past you, typing something on your iPad before you look around and catch his gaze.

Jungkook automatically waves, smiling brightly, but you only frown, shutting your iPad close and ignoring him.

Amused, Jungkook tries to fight off a huge grin, taking a few long strides to get to his own cubicle.

His day is already off to a good start.

#jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook imagines #jungkook fic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts fluff #bts fanfic #awrkive #p; writing

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dangerousstrawberryshark · 20 days ago

Text

Assigned to You

🐺Pairing(s)🐺🠞Isaac Lahey x shy!male reader ⚠️CW⚠️🠞 gay, gay-sex, top Isaac, bottom male reader, Isaac is an ass lover, ass eating, size kink, breeding, Isaac is bigger than you (6 '2 to 5' 6 or something), anal-sex, Isaac has a big cock, both of you are 18, Isaac cums quickly, and needy reader. 🔞Rating🔞🠞 Explicit and fluff 🐺Requested🐺🠞 Yes

🖊️Word Count🖊️🠞 4.1k

🐺Summary🐺🠞You and Isaac were pinning after each other for a long time, but you were too nervous and shy to say anything. That changed when your English teacher assigned you to be partners in a project. Feelings were confessed, and both of your closeted desires sprouted into reality.

Read before continuing: IF YOU ARE YOUNGER THAN 18 OR ANY OF THE WARNINGS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, DO NOT CONTINUE READING!

Note: I haven’t watched Teen Wolf, so there might be some mischaracterization. I’m mainly using Google and other sources to get a better understanding. This happens after Isaac turns into a werewolf.

“Today, there will be a group project! Before you get excited, you will have assigned partners…”

The moment Ms. Ramsey mentioned “group project,” you internally groaned and felt your heart sink. You weren’t keen on working with a random classmate, you barely knew their names apart from a few notable ones. Group projects are the worst, you would much rather work alone than with someone else.

You were very much a loner and a shy person, staying in the background and among the shadows of hundreds of other students. High school was overwhelming enough, and you didn’t need to add the pressure of speaking to other students to the mix. It's not like you’re gonna have contact with them after graduation is over, they’ll fade away into the obscurity of life.

Although there was someone you liked (or loved), Isaac Lahey, you shared the majority of your classes with him, so you naturally saw him everywhere. Your eyes would follow him, filled with love and desire for him. He was your hallway boyfriend, seeking him out in the hallways and giving subtle glances when he walked by. To anybody, it was creepy and obsessive, and they’d be right.

You don’t know what pulled you towards him. Maybe it was your similarities: quiet nature, shy, and lonely. Although you did notice him becoming more confident and dominant, he still had compassion and kindness. It only made you like him more.

Or maybe your attraction was to his physical appearance; he was tall, standing at 6’2 (187 cm), with a lean, muscular stature after being on the lacrosse team for a year. You found that out by sneaking some glances whenever he would lift his shirt. Oh, how you love his dark, blonde hair; you want to run your fingers through his soft hair, staring into his large blue eyes.

Though you doubt he feels the same way, he’s definitely out of your league. You didn’t want to confess for fear of rejection.

The number of students was thinning out, with only four remaining. You prayed that the teacher would pair you with a random person rather than Isaac. However, your prayers weren’t answered as the other two students were paired together.

“And the last pair is Isaac and Y/n. You’ll have a week to complete this…”

Your heart stopped, mouth hanging open as those words went through your ears. You couldn’t believe you were assigned to Isaac! Out of all the students in the classroom, it had to be him. You didn’t mind working with anyone else because they weren’t Isaac, they weren’t the guy you were crushing on.

You glanced at Isaac, sitting in the middle section of the class. He glanced back at you with a smile on his face; it was a genuine smile, soft and warm. His eyes looked like they were sparkling as they made contact with yours. You felt your heart beating faster, cheeks turning red as you looked away from his gaze.

“Use the rest of class to talk about what you’re gonna do.” Ms. Ramsey said, returning to her desk, turning on the monitor, and entering the different groups into the system for grading once the time comes. “Oh, and please don’t procrastinate,” was the last thing she said before returning to her work.

“Hey, Y/n! So, what do you want to do for this project?” Isaac’s voice snapped you out of your inner thoughts, causing you to jump a little. You felt embarrassment wash over your body, getting scared by your crush, who was your partner for the next week.

“What was the project about…?” you said, voice barely louder than a whisper. You were stuck in your world, not hearing what the teacher was saying.

“It’s an analytical project on any piece of literature, as long as it's appropriate,” Isaac paused so he could grab a chair. “She probably thinks someone is gonna analyze a pornography book.” Isaac continued, chuckling at the thought, before placing his materials on your desk and taking a seat.

“Anyways, wanna start? And maybe let's go to your place to continue working,” you agreed to Isaac while you were internally battling yourself. You were stressed over inviting your crush over– what if he judges your tastes, or what if he judges everything about you?

You didn’t feel as excited as you should have.

Isaac was honest with himself, and he was ecstatic that you got to be his partner. He always noticed your discreet glances whenever he was not looking. Even before he accepted Derek’s idea of turning him into a werewolf, he had eyes for you. Everything about you attracted him, the same way you are with him.

He also couldn’t get the courage to approach you. He thought you didn’t feel the same way; hell, he didn’t think you knew he existed. So, he admired from afar, doing the same ministrations as you, without the other knowing.

Idiots in love.

His attraction changed after he was transformed into a werewolf. His sense of smell became so enhanced that he could now detect the scent of different people; whether it was an unpleasant or average smell, yours was distinct. Your scent was unique, and he could smell it change whenever he was close to you.

Your scent blended in with others, but it was still distinct to his nose. When you were in his vicinity, it would spike; he could smell your scent wafting in the air, turning sweet and delicious at times, while other times it would sour and foul. He could attribute the foul and sour smell to your nervousness about confession and fear of rejection.

He was going to try to slowly approach you, help you feel less tense around him, and hopefully less shy. Maybe even open up and confess to him.

xxx

Over the next few days, Isaac eased you into his presence, hoping to get you out of your shell and open up to him.

He did this by being gentle with you, speaking softly and lightly – never teasing, never pushing with his voice. He regulated it so as not to seem obnoxious and loud. Sometimes, he would lean in slightly, pushing the boundaries while speaking to you.

Whenever he would sense your fear and anxiety spiking, he would back off and give you space. He apologized for getting too close and intruding on your personal space. “Sorry about that. Got carried away.” Isaac says, scratching the back of his head, cheeks flustered from embarrassment.

He made small talk, disregarding the project, with you, wanting to learn more about you. He listened intently to every word you said, sometimes getting lost in your soft, spoken voice as you talked about random topics and your interests. You kept rambling until the assignment was forgotten under a pile of conversations.

Isaac was proud that his ministrations opened you up. Maybe the time was right.

“Oh… I’ve been rambling!” you mumbled, looking at the time; you rambled for almost two hours about [your interest]! “Sorry for wasting time, we should get back to work,” you continued, mumbling, looking into Isaac’s eyes for anything negative; there was nothing. He stared at you, his elbows resting on your desk, with one hand holding his head. His eyes were soft, shining as if he were enchanted.

“No, no, I liked your rambling. I like listening to your voice.” Isaac said without a second thought. His old self would’ve been mortified for saying something like that, but he wasn’t like that anymore. It was the truth, and he had no qualms with himself.

You froze, mouth open, but no words were coming out; your face was flustered before breaking eye contact. “Really… why?”

Isaac laughed softly, causing your face to turn redder. “Why not? I like hearing your voice and learning everything about you! You’re more interesting and genuine than many others. Kind, thoughtful… I’ve always noticed you.” Isaac said, his remaining on your figure as he slides closer, but not too close.

You looked into Isaac’s eyes with shock, attempting to see if the other man was pulling at your heartstrings. There were no ill intentions, no joke, or cruelty hidden behind those deep-blue eyes; his words were authentic, and he really meant them. You awkwardly laughed, trying to recollect some words to say, your mind reeling from the truth in Isaac’s words.

“I… didn’t think you noticed,” you said, biting your lip, your heart hammering. Alarms were blaring in your head, this was actually happening, this isn’t a dream. Your breathing became heavier; it was happening fast, but you felt relieved. Like a heavy weight was lifted off your shoulders, knowing that Isaac possibly feels the same.

“I’ve always noticed you. In fact, I thought you didn’t notice me.” Isaac said gently, sensing your heart rate getting faster, placing his hand over your smaller one. He squeezed it softly, smiling with his teeth as he felt you calming down and settling. “I like you, Y/n. A lot.” Isaac finished, waiting for your reaction and response.

You didn’t move, your brain scrambling for a response to Isaac’s confession and grasp on your hand. Your heart was beating faster, and your breathing was strained as you choked out: “Oh… I like you too! I thought you were out of my league.” You replied, your tense body relaxing and breathing returning to normal levels.

Silence filled the atmosphere, the quiet breathing, and the humming sound of the ceiling fan as its blades rotated. Isaac broke the silence, “Can I… kiss you? Or is that too soon? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable!” Isaac rambled before you shushed him with your finger, smiling warmly at Isaac’s cuteness and words.

“Of course, I want this…”

xxx

Isaac was lying down on the bed, your body pressing against his as your hands were on both sides of his head. You could feel the other man’s hand moving and gripping your hips, grounding your smaller body against his larger one.

Your lips are moving in sync, and you could feel your body melting into his grasp as he deepened the kiss. The kiss was wet and sloppy as you opened your mouth to Isaac’s invading tongue. Your eyes fluttered closed, enjoying Isaac being the dominant one. Your teeth clack against one another, Isaas’s tongue beating yours in dominance, and the erotic sounds of wet kissing, quiet moans, and groans slipped through

Isaac was getting more aroused, his bulge grinding against yours, his grip tightening as he thrusts against your bulge. The bed squeaks from the dry humping, your two bodies moving in sync. Isaac’s eyes rolled back as his cock was straining in his pants, his breathing getting heavier as he needed more. Isaac broke the kiss with a light snicker, placing a light kiss on your nose before tracing his mouth down to your neck, leaving a trail of marks and saliva.

You were breathless after the heated kiss, and your breathing transformed into soft moans. The werewolf’s lips found your neck, giving sloppy kisses and bites. You could feel Isaac’s large hands groping your ass through your clothing, kneading the flesh like how a baker would with raw dough.

“You wanna continue, baby?” Isaac said, breathing heavily as he desperately wanted to touch your naked body, feeling it underneath his fingertips as he showed you what it means to feel and be loved by someone.

“Yes! Please, I need you,” you replied needily, humping Isaac’s clothed bulge. Your once timid and anxious brain was clouded by need and lust. There was no shame or embarrassment left in your body as you begged Isaac to continue his ministrations. You needed his touch, you needed everything Isaac could provide, now that you have him wholly to yourself.

This was the type of drug you could get behind and become addicted to.

“My baby is needy? Let me fix that.” Before you could blink, Isaac had suddenly switched positions with you, flipping you onto your stomach with your ass pointed up. He made quick work of your pants and underwear, hastily removing them until your fat ass was bare before his eyes. Unbeknownst to you, Isaac’s eyes glowed yellow, his werewolf side clawing its way out. He could feel himself going feral from the sight of your ass, but he didn’t want to lose control and expose his secret to you, not yet.

He let out a bellowed growl before leaning down, his hands holding your hips in place. Isaac fondled your cheeks, hypnotized by the way your fat ass was wobbling and jiggling from his hands. “Ngh…” The pillow muffled your whine and moan as you felt Isaac’s tongue run over your bare ass.

“Oh God!” you gasped softly, biting the pillow as you felt Isaac spreading your cheeks, your little hole revealed to his lustful eyes, glowing brighter like your hole was a prize from a carnival. Without hesitation, Isaac leaned forward and licked a long stripe, his wet tongue making contact with your hole.

Your eyes widen before fluttering closed. The werewolf made out with your hole, coating the muscle with saliva as he kneaded your flesh. His lips give light kisses around your hole before pulling out and biting the flesh of your ass. Isaac’s groans were muffled as he buried his head in your ass, wrapping one arm around your legs and yanking you closer to him.

“O-oh fuck… I-Isaac.” You cried, pushing back against his face. You could tell he approved from the satisfied groans and growls. Your cock was twitching, bobbing in the air, precum dripping onto your bed sheets. Your mind was going blank, you’ve jacked off and fingered yourself before, but this was different, more pleasurable and intense, and it was with Isaac.

“Love this ass, baby…” Isaac groans, pulling back to breathe, taking long gulps of air as he admires his work. Your hole was soppy, coated with saliva, with your cheek having bite marks and scratches. He could see your hole fluttering, gaping, and clenching around nothing, begging for something to fill it.

With due time.

“You’re gonna feel some pain, baby…” Isaac said, lathering two fingers with saliva, bringing the digits closer to your hole. Slowly, he pushes them inside you, groaning as he feels your hole fluttering and clenching around his fingers. He could feel them sucking his digits deeper.

“I-Isaac!” you gasped softly, whining from Isaac’s intruding fingers. You clenched the sheets, biting down on the pillow as the werewolf spread your hole, preparing you for something bigger and thicker. Although you didn’t need preparation because you fingered yourself a couple of minutes before Isaac arrived.

“It hurts? Sorry, I… you don’t feel… tight?” Isaac said, brows furrowing as he felt your hole being loose. The gears in his head were turning before the realization. “Didn't take you to be that person, baby. Fucking hot if you ask me.” Isaac grins, still pressing his fingers as deeply as he could, scissoring and stretching your hole. The werewolf didn’t expect a shy, introverted person like you to be naughty and needy, but he liked that.

Your face grew slack, jaw dropped as Isaac’s fingers sheathed deep inside you, unknowingly riding his fingers. He touched your gummy, pink walls, spreading them as he searched for the fabled spot that was taught in sex education: the prostate.

“That’s it, baby. Doing good.” Isaac praises as used his other hand to grope and fondle your right ass cheek. He was so caught up in his ministrations that he forgot about his own needs. He looked to see his cock bulging out, throbbing with a precum seeping through the fabric. “Jesus Christ…”

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears as his words repeated. Your moans and cries of pleasure fell from your tongue, mixing with the sinful sounds of his fingers thrusting deep inside, accompanied by wet squelching. “Oh God… feels so good… making me feel so good…” You arched your back and pushed your ass further into the werewolf’s grasp.

Something was blooming in your stomach, its petals were blooming as the roots sank deep into your nerves. Your breathing got heavier, your body tensing and clenching around Isaac’s fingers, halting them and making the digits unable to move. It was a dizzying sensation, and drool seeped from the corners of your mouth, soaking the pillow.

“Feel good? Yeah… it does… cum for me.” Isaac growled as he abused that special bundle of nerves

Your response was immediate, a myriad of messy and muffled cries of pleasure and relief. Your cock throbbed before spurting its load, coating the bed sheets. Your body was sweaty underneath the shirt, trembling and shaking from the orgasm, and you collapsed onto the bed. Your vision was blurry and white.

“Do you wanna continue or…” Isaac said, pulling his fingers out with a wet plop sound. He didn’t want to continue until you gave him confirmation. He couldn’t finish his sentence before you moved back, grinding your bare ass against Isaac’s clothed bulge. The werewolf moans as he feels his dick being squeezed between your cheeks, his eyes roll back as he fells his climax nearing.

He wasn’t even inside you, and he was already about to cum.

“Yes! Please… need more… need you!” You begged, arching your back and desperately grinding against Isaac’s clothed bulge. It was just as you imagined it to be: large and thick. Your hole twitched at the thought of being filled to the brim with that beast. You were lost in the sensation of lust, your body developing a mind of its own as it disobeyed your brain. It needed Isaac to satisfy the thirst that had been denied for a long time.

“Okay… okay, I’ll give you what you want, but I don’t know if I’ll last long,” Isaac admitted. He could feel himself teetering on the brink, a single thrust would send him into an orgasm. He was slightly embarrassed by confessing it, but it was his first time being intimate with someone, so you couldn’t blame him.

“I don’t care! I just wanna feel you inside of me… just fuck me,” You replied, whining from waiting for too long for Isaac to penetrate your aching hole. You didn’t care about Isaac admitting to cumming early, you just wanted to feel connected with him. That’s all you wanted: a connection with your lover.

Isaac nodded and began stripping his clothes, tearing them off along with his pants and underwear. He groaned when his aching large cock was released from its cage, it twitched from the cold breeze with precum oozing from the cockhead. “Let’s take that shirt off,” Isaac said, reaching down and pulling the hem of your shirt up. You lifted your arms when he yanked the fabric over your head and tossed it to the side with his clothing as well.

“I’m going in…” Isaac gave you the heads up, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer to his abdomen, his cock resting between on top of your ass. His chest heaved as he held his length and aimed it towards your saliva-coated hole. He gulped as he pressed his cockhead against your hole, sweat dripping down his body as he braced himself.

Your heart was pounding, your breathing hitched as you held onto the pillow. You could feel the blunt shape of his cockhead pressing against your entrance, the pressure increased as your breathing got heavier until your rim gave in and the swell of Isaac’s cock sinks in. Your body trembled from the force. Isaac’s grip on your hips was firm, nails digging into your flesh as he didn’t stop until he cock was fully sheathed.

“Isaac… It's so large! How…” you moan shakily, back arching to give Isaac more access. Air was leaving your body as your insides were being stretched to accommodate the werewolf’s large cock. It stopped when Isaac hilted into you, his cock swallowed by your tight, warm hole. It didn’t hurt as much, thanks to your previous enjoyment and Isaac stretching you with his fingers.

Isaac growls and groans, removing his hands from your hips before collapsing onto your smaller frame. His hands find yours, holding them as his larger and stronger body covers your smaller one, his head buried in your shoulder. He was able to control himself for a while, but the cracks were shattering his composure as he felt your rim squeezing and spasming around his cock. His train of thought was becoming cloudy as the only thing on his mind was to fuck and breed your hole.

“Lose control… I don’t care if you cum early,” you said with a heavy breath, tilting your head back to kiss Isaac on the cheek.

That was the last straw for him. Isaac stood up, removing his hands from yours to your hips. His grip was firm as he pulled back with his cockhead being left inside before ramming back into your hole. Your eyes widen as Isaac began aggressively fucking your ass, his cock reaching deeper than ever before. The bed squeaking got louder with the headboard slamming into the wall.

A symphony of moans and growls mixed with the bed squeaking and wet squelching, with the topping of wet skin slapping and balls slapping against yours, echoed through the house. You were grateful that your parents were out for the evening, so they wouldn’t have to hear their son getting his guts rearranged by his classmate. The bedroom was hot and sweaty, with sex permeating the air.

Your fingers gripped the pillow tighter as your moans grew louder with Isaac’s cockhead ramming directly into your special bundle of nerves. Your body was becoming overstimulated as it was still recovering from the previous orgasm, your cock was hard as it bobbed with each thrust Isaac was giving. Your cries for more grew louder as base instincts took control, begging to be claimed internally by Isaac’s thick cum.

With Isaac being inexperienced, he didn’t last long. He gave a couple of rough thrusts before reaching his climax. He was lost in the feeling of your warm hole swallowing and tightening around his throbbing length. He couldn’t handle the spasming and clenching of your hole trying to milk his cock of its load.

“O-oh god… I’m cum… can’t pull out.” he was gonna pull out but it was like your ass knew and prevented it. His breathing hitched as he grounded his hips, growling as his cock spurted its load deep inside, flooding your hole with waves of hot cum. His balls tightening as it pumped more cum that began to seep through your plugged ass, soaking the sheets with the sticky substance. You came at the same time, adding more cum to the sheets, more watery than thick globs.

Isaac collapsed beside you before his strong arms wrapped around your chest, pulling you into his embrace. He peppered kisses on your shoulders and nape area, his hands rubbing circles on your hips to soothe the aching he caused.

“Sorry for cumming early…” Isaac apologized, nuzzling into your shoulders. He moves slightly, his cock, which was still inside your hole, rubbed against your sensitive spot causing you to moan and clench which in turn caused Isaac to groan. You could feel his heavy breathing rubbing against your skin as he held you close, his lips touching your salty, sweaty skin.

“It’s okay… I don’t care about that… does this mean you wanna be my boyfriend?” you asked, leaning into Isaac’s warmth, grabbing the comforter and pulling it over your bodies. The comforter provides extra warmth, and you don’t even care about the cum on the sheets or the cum oozing out of your hole.

“Of course.”

THE END

Author’s note: Hello, my strawberries! I hope y’all enjoyed this fic! To be honest, I don’t know if I ate with this one. Very special thanks to my proofreader🠞 @sagethegaywitch Taglist🠞 @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr Join my taglist! Masterlist here! I have K*-f* if you wish to support!

#x male reader #male reader #male reader insert #smut #male reader imagine #x male reader smut #teen wolf x male reader #teen wolf #isaac lahey x male reader #isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey x you #gay #gay smut #bottom male reader #x bottom male reader #teen wolf x reader

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lovebugism · 5 months ago

Note

miss bug I have something to ask 🙋‍♀️

i don’t know if you do sickfics but! mayhaps steve and shy!reader where she doesn’t show up for school, steve goes to her house, and she’s utterly mortified because she feels like she’s nowhere near presentable

thank u for requesting!! — king steve pays his lab partner a visit when he hears you're sick, but definitely not because he has a crush on you (shy!reader, friends to lovers | 1.6k)

bug's two year celebration ♡

Steve waits for you that morning with half a bagel and his heart in his throat.

The desks in Ms. Click’s class grow slowly full with bustling bodies — some sluggish like zombies, others too chipper for an early morning. Steve cranes his head in search of your face in the crowd. Yours never shows, which is strange for Hawkins High’s future Valedictorian.

“Where is your partner, Mr. Harrington?” Ms. Click wonders beneath the grating morning bell. She ducks her head to peer across the classroom over her sparkly, cat-eye glasses.

Steve pauses, mid-bite of his sausage-egg-and-cheese. He shrugs wordlessly, with a wad of food jutting his cheek and crumbs sticking to his mouth.

The older woman sighs, too used to King Steve’s antics. She looks past him and asks, “What about you, Miss Buckley? Where’s Carol?”

“Probably under the bleachers with Tommy Hagan,” Robin mutters under her breath, though loud enough for everyone around her to hear, causing them to bite back their subsequent laughter. Steve, himself, nearly chokes on his bagel.

“Well, you’ll just have to pair up with Steven for the day,” Ms. Click tells her.

“Oh, god…” Robin groans in a whisper.

“Get to work.”

Steve spins his chair around to face the girl behind him, who he only really knew because of how highly you spoke of her. Despite your frequent praises, Robin doesn’t even look at him, nor does she bother to make mindless small talk. She just keeps her head down and scribbles notes on a worksheet.

Steve, in spite of their differing statuses, struggles to find the courage to talk to her.

He slouches and tilts back his chair. “Hey, do you, um—”

“We don’t have to make conversation, alright?” Robin interjects before he can even start. She keeps her head bowed but glares daggers from beneath her lashes. “Let’s just get this hour over with so we never speak to each other again.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Well, I was— I was just gonna ask where your friend was. ‘Cause I don’t think she’s missed a day since, like, kindergarten.”

Robin’s freckled face flushes. She’d feel worse about being so short with him if he wasn’t such a douchebag. “Oh. Uh, she’s— She’s sick, I think.”

“Sick?”

His chest pinches with an immediate worry. Robin bites back a smirk at King Steve’s palpable concern for arguably the biggest nerd on this side of Hawkins. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “I figured she was just allergic to your hairspray.”

Steve laughs under his breath and turns away. Robin smiles only until he looks back at her, now with a brown paper bag in hand. It was meant to be for you — an even piece of his bagel, ‘cause he knows you don’t get breakfast yourself. He figures you’d rather not want it to go to waste.

“Want my other half?” he offers to the girl across from him, like some kinda olive branch.

Robin’s eyes dart from Steve to the paper sack and back again. It goes against every code in her personal handbook to take anything from Hawkins Royalty, but she shrugs in response anyway. “What the hell. Sure.”

—————

Finding your trailer isn’t hard. He visited there, once, for a project at the beginning of the school year. It’s the house directly across from the Freak’s. Eddie made it a point to play his guitar as loud as he possibly could, knowing The Hair was around to hear it. (Munson would never miss an opportunity to annoy King Steve, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him).

Steve decides to make his entrance through your bedroom window. Dead, unmanicured grass crunches under his sneakers as he rounds your trailer. He rises to the tips of his toes and knocks four times on the high-up window. The old glass feels strangely delicate under his fist.

He waits for an answer for several long moments. When he doesn’t get one, he lifts his hand to knock again. The window squeaks open before he can — and there he finds you, standing above him, holding a half-empty box of tissues in your hand like you plan to hit him with it.

“Whoa—” Steve flinches.

You look equally shocked to see him, fear swimming in your glassy eyes. “Oh, my god—”

“Sorry,” he grimaces with his palms splayed in surrender. “It’s just me.”

��I thought you were a burglar or something…”

“And what? You were gonna take me out with a box of tissues?” His laughter feels like warm honey compared to your splitting, icy migraine.

You take in a heaving breath and swallow hard through a stinging throat. “Sorry,” you sniffle. “Come— Come in.”

As Steve climbs through your window, trying hard not to get caught in the curtains, you become very hyperaware of your living space. It is your childhood bedroom, after all — every phase of your life is stored within these tiny four walls. Posters, trinkets, slightly dated decor. And on top of all that, you’ve been living like a total slob since you got sick over the weekend.

Your bed’s a mess, you’ve got bottled water and tissues piling in the bin, and you haven’t changed out of your pajamas in two days. It’s certainly no way to greet the king of Hawkins High, though he doesn’t quite seem to mind.

“You coulda just knocked on the door, you know?” you mumble, slightly nasally, as you swipe a balled-up tissue under your nose. “I would’ve let you in.”

Steve pants and stands to full height again, finally in your room with little to no struggle (though he’s pretty sure he’s stamped his footprint on your wall).

“Well, what can I say? I like to make an entrance,” he jokes with a lopsided smile. The rosy expression fades when your glassy eyes glaze over with a faraway look. “…You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just…” you shake your head, which only makes the dizziness worse. “I’m just a little lightheaded. That’s all.”

Steve rushes to your swaying form without thinking. He grasps your arms in two wide, gentle hands. His honey eyes are wide and wild as they dart over your features, sufficiently bleary with whatever bug you’ve caught.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you insist despite the obvious. “Just can’t break this stupid fever.”

“Here. Lay back down.”

He guides you the short distance to your bed, foreignly patient with your sluggish movements. He keeps a hold of you with one hand and reaches for the mussed blankets with the other, pulling them back to ease you beneath them.

“Sorry for bailing on you today,” you apologize in nearly inaudible slurs as the boy props you against the pillows.

Steve shakes his head with a quiet smile. “You’re sick. It’s okay. Stop apologizing,” he insists and tucks the covers on top of you again. You can smell his aftershave when he leans over you, a striking minty scent that melts nicely with his deeper cologne.

“Sorry,” you repeat before you can help it.

Steve rises again and fights the urge to brush the hair sticking to your clammy cheek. “Have you had any medicine?”

“I had some… cough syrup earlier…” you slur, face half-buried in the pillows.

“What about food?” he asks with his hand on his cocked hip. “Had any of that?”

“‘M too sick for food.”

Steve laughs and fills the gloomy room with sunshine. “You have to eat, babe. So you can get your energy back. That’s, like, science or whatever—”

His eyes widen, only then realizing his use of the nickname. His heart drops to his ass. He hopes he said it so quickly that you missed it. You seem to have, as sick as you are, basically half-asleep before him.

You’d heard it, though. The word alone has your delicate heart beating with a newfound fervor. You can’t tell if it’s killing you or bringing you back to life.

Steve starts rambling before he realizes it. “I can whip you something up, if you want. I make a mean macaroni and cheese— In the microwave, obviously, ‘cause I’m less likely to burn it that way. Did you know that you can actually burn pasta in the microwave? Yeah, I had to learn that one the hard way—”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you just sit with me?” you sniffle, eyes still shut. “Please?”

He nods rapidly until the words catch up to him. “Yeah. Yeah, of— Of course, yeah.”

The boy climbs into your bed with a lot less confidence than he’s used to. This is by no means the first time he’s been in another girl’s bed, but something about this one feels different. This time, he has to keep reminding himself to breathe. This time, his hands are all clammy and tingling with an anxiety he isn’t used to. This time, he feels so utterly unsure in his body that he doesn’t know how he became King Steve in the first place — let alone how he got here, next to you.

What’d an asshole like me do to deserve all this? his mind reels.

Your breath catches when the mattress dips under his weight. He sits over the covers, but still a lot closer than you thought he might, all things considered. You turn slowly onto your back to look at him without going dizzy again.

“You’re not scared you’ll get sick?” you croak, blinking up at him with sleep-swollen eyes.

Steve shrugs with his back propped against the headboard. “Not really. I mean, what’s the worst-case scenario— I get sick and have to be quarantined here with you? That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

His lips curl into a lopsided smile that makes your chest feel sparkly. You turn away and hide your own grin in the pillow. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” you quip, half-muffled in the cushion.

“Yeah, I know,” he hums, never once taking his eyes off you.

He can’t wait to kiss you when you’re better.

663 notes · View notes

dilf-docs · 4 months ago

Text

This Thing Upon Me, Howls Like A Beast

professor!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: to cover some social hours and as a favor to your recently fallen-ill friend, you become your research methodology professor's TA. but here's the catch: you've got history, and what you really mean is beef; good, pure, unadulterated loath.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, pwp, rivals to ??, hate sex, p. in v. (do i even wrap it atp), degradation kink, daddy kink, lwk exhibition kink bc this happens on his office (rip to the furniture), bit dom!pedro + brat taming (again?? stop it mayor we get itttt omg) sprinkled here and there, fingering, squirting, creampie (everyone got invited to the party), reader is a loud-mouth (who's this divaaa), pedro's kind of an asshole and a perv in this one (ooc sorry), don't expect a second part this is literally just self-fulfilling filth without a storyline

word count: 6,451 words

side note: hello! this won the poll. am i the only one with this fantasy? pls tell me not; i feel insane looking some of my professors like a fucking starved drooling dog. giggling as we speak, bc the movie's got everybody insane between marvel renaissance, gif dump, new content, husband!pedro material and professor wet dreams out there... this piece of work is the last. hope you enjoy it, citizens! ps. jin of bts makes an appearance bc i love my seven men and i'm currently sick so he is sick too lmao (ah pero para escribir cochinadas ahí sí estás sana verdad)

It's your fault, really, for opening it in the middle of the class. It was a link, and you should've saved it for later, but then your thumb clicked into the blue underlined text your friend sent, and the reel popped up on your screen.

Your laugh erupted before you could cover your mouth, your professors' words hanging mid-air.

"Who did that?"

Everyone looks at you. Those sell-out, ass-kissing, boot-licking dicks.

His eyebrows furrow until they seem to melt into one, a big angry scowl on Mr. Pascal's face.

"Something you'd like to share with the class, Ms. Y/n?"

His voice reverberates on the class' walls, sounding even scarier.

You shake your head, tone quiet as you let out a small, "No"

"No?" he repeats your words, mocking your insecure demeanor, "because with that loud ass laugh, it seemed like something important enough to dissrupt my class. So please, share. You can't leave us wondering in here"

People cough and avoid your gaze while you wish the building would collapse and kill everyone inside, you included. Oh, that would be good. But no, you're stuck on a space that now feels too small and his persistent gaze cuts right through you.

"I-It's not important-" you stumble over your words.

"Can't speak anymore? All that boldness, suddenly gone"

"Mr. Pascal" you plead. God, you had never even begged for anything in your life. But there's always a first.

"I said share" his voice menacing, like he's got not an ounce of sympathy in that sturdy body that could fit plenty. No, wait. Focus!

He grows impatient at your lack of movement, practically growling his next words:

"I won't repeat myself"

"I-I I don't know how to-" you cut yourself off, cringing at how pathetic you sound. "It's a video, so-"

"Then cast your phone and project it" he clicks his tongue, clearly enjoying this. What a sadistic motherfucker.

"I-I can't-"

Can Jesus please hurry up and come fast? Even better, immediately take this one to hell, please.

"Aw, you poor thing" he tuts, mockingly. No one dares to speak, and you'll learn later that he's got his own reputation. For a reason.

"Don't worry, I'll help you myself"

Turns out, the fucker made you and your shaky legs stand up and walk the walk of shame. Then, you had to proyect the silly video, which in handsight, wasn't funny anymore. While some of your classmates laughed, that didn't lessen how humilliated you felt.

It had happened during your first year at university, on a subject you really couldn't care less and when you were still (practically) a baby; freshly eighteen. But now you were twenty, almost finishing your career, and the shaky insecure teenager was long gone, replaced by a secure (albeit a bit of a bitch), confident woman.

That had been your first encounter with professor Pascal.

You have to give him some credit: he is kind of the reason why you did a full 180 on your personality.

But life always comes back to bite you in the ass.

"What do you mean you're sick?" you scoff, "we were supposed to go to Dave's party tonight!"

Your friend lets out a cough that sounds borderline animalistic.

"First of all, don't come closer. I'll pass it to you" Jin speaks up, voice rough from the earlier death-threatening cough. "And second, do you think I care about a stupid party? I'm dying here"

"Don't be so dramatic" you roll your eyes.

"Hello? Didn't you hear that cough?!" he sounds offended, reinforcing the feeling by throwing one of his used tissues at you. You dodge his lame throw with a yuck. "I think you're devoid of empathy"

"Well, thank Mr. Pascal for that"

Jin wasn't your friend when that happened, but when you became buddies, he eventually came to know about your beef with the older man. Yes, beef, because after the Reel Deal (as you both have come to call it), he made your life impossible. If it weren't for your skills and intelligence, you'd probably fail his subject. Mr. Pascal gave you the hardest time ever: be it pairing you with the absolute worst students or making your assigments more difficult, for an "unknown" reason.

Eventually, even after such a traumatic experience and subject being way behind, it became a staple in your duo to bring him up everytime something negative happened or was mentioned.

("You're so funny!")

("Thanks, a professor pushing fifty made my life impossible when I was eighteen")

But here's an even funnier thing: for unknown reasons, Jin became his TA last semester. Probably he didn't know that you were friends, and that has to be the reason he's actually a decent human being towards the younger boy. I'm telling you, Jin would insist, the whole mean asshole shtick is propaganda!

"Talking about him..."

"Stop" you raise your hand dramatically, "enough bad news today"

"You can still go to the party, you know?" he giggles, earning another cough that practically leaves him voiceless. "Why do you insist on taking me? I don't know this people!"

Jin was two years older your senior.

"But it's not fun without you!" you insisted on dragging him around everywhere after you met because he tutored you. "Who will I bore with all my failed flirting attempts?"

"Thank God, not me" he ignores your pout. "Besides, wasn't like Marcos insisting you went with him? There's your chance!"

"But Marcos is boring..." you draw out, "and I need a man who makes me laugh"

"You can't really ask for that much in this economy"

Okay, here's the deal: there's another reason you can't let go of the Mr. Pascal subject, and it's not because of the beef. Hell, Jin can't know about this or he'll never let you live.

The answer is quite simple: as infuriating as he is, Mr. Pascal is hot. Like, middle-aged hot, with the greying hair and face marked by lines that tell time. If it wasn't for him you'd probably never discover your preference towards more... aged meat. You should be furious, and you were, but during all your petty arguments over topics or slides that didn't deserve to be reviewed for more than five minutes, the fire that ignited in your lower belly? You've never felt it before, and if that managed to get you more hot and bothered than a fresh boy ready to kiss your lips, neck and below? Well, that's a serious issue.

But it was his voice, that treated you with such vitriol, a deep and rich sound reserved just for you, or be it the way his auburn eyes seem to catch fire whenever you opened your mouth, dark forests burning in flames that threathened to reduce it all to ashes; yo were eager, anticipating the burn.

He saw your defiance, and instead of putting you in your place, he matched that wild rageful spirit of yours that refused to be tamed.

And that you liked, despite the history of hate between you.

"What about him?" you appear nonchalant, while retouching your makeup for the party.

"About him who?" Jin quips, "we just talked about two fine men-"

"The much older man"

A weird smirk forms across his lips. "Sure, of course"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. But it will be fun, nonetheless" he sits up straight from his previous surrendered position on the couch. "So, remember how I'm his TA, right?"

"Yes?" you pause. "Wait, if this is for me to help you check again more homeworks, no. I am not helping you read a hundred papers again for free"

"They weren't a hundred!" he barks. "Besides, it's not that"

"Then?" you press, not admiting how interested you were.

"Do you see my poor state?" you nod, not understaning where he's going. "Then, you're aware I'm not capacitated to do said task as of right now"

"I'm aware" you repeat, "what I'm not, is what does that have to do with me?" you resume your activity, going for your eyeliner. "So much mystery when you could've just said it in a pass"

"I need you to cover up for me"

The liquid eyeliner paints a line across half of your face. "What?!"

He laughs at your reaction, "You heard me"

You leave the mirror, now focusing your attention on him. "It's not April Fools yet, Jin. Heads up, it was a terrible prank"

Even if it made you hot to have such dynamic with your former IM professor, you weren't exactly keen on seeing him again. For you, he had turned into a memory slash fantasy at some point: an asshole that got your panties wet and pussy slick when you touched yourself at night, on behalf of all the dumb uni boys who couldn't reach that sweet spot of yours. What a dirty girl, his velvet voice on your head would say. Why are you touching yourself to your supposed foe, a much older guy? Fucking slut. Yeah, there was no way you'd go back to the real thing for the real him to taint the image you got off almost every night to, so he could say your name in that animosity that leaked with a barely contained rage and poorly disguised distate that left a bitter taste on your mouth, ego and self-steem on the ground. Because the truth is, no matter how much you argued back, he always won. You had just found your voice, but all efforts to bring him down seemed powerless, and he had won every single battle: even if he didn't have the last word, just with a look, he made you feel small, stupid and meaningless.

Nope. Not going back.

"And you have a terrible way of coping" he's quick to counter back. "Listen, it's not so bad. You just have to do meaningless tasks and pretend to be interested. Simple, right? Look, those extra credits could be useful, you know? And you excelled the class, y/n. Easy!"

"You're making it sound trouble-free as if the man doesn't hate me"

"He's definitely forgotten about it!" he waves his hand, dissmisively. "Probably jokes about it, like us!"

"Mr. Pascal doesn't seem the type of guy to have humor"

"Humor me, then" Jin sighs. "Do this for me, yes? When have I ever failed you?"

You wish for some sense to get into his skull. Had he forgotten every single anecdote?

"Think of all those times where I've taken you home, carried you drunk. Or the sad heart breaks I've been through with you, remember? Brought you ice cream and watched your favorite movies. Or when I used to tutor you? Or-"

"Enough of your emotional manipulation, Mr. Kim" you shake your head, dissapointed, all to avoid the quiet rage to settle in. "I thought better of you"

"It's for a week. Days if this pills do a miracle" his big black eyes look at you, pleading.

"Jin, you're not being a very good friend"

"It's just this one favor" he sighs. "Look, I can't loose this thing, okay? I get the credits I need to finally leave this shithole. If I don't show up, they'll hand it to someone else. You may not believe it, but it's very demanded"

People making lines to be emotionally abused by your former IM professor? Sure thing!

"Can't you tell someone, though? I'm sure they'll understand and you can go back once this cold is gone"

"I already did so, and they told me to show up or quit, due to the wait list of people applying for the position" you roll your eyes at your university's antics and their bullshit policies. "I don't trust anyone else to not fuck it up, but you. You'll just have to tell him about this minor inconvenience, and Mr. Pascal will understand. You know, I'm kind of his favorite guy in there..."

Great, just what you needed.

"Sorry to break it to you, but as soon as I walk through that door, all that pretty boy privilege would be gone"

"Please, y/n. Please"

"You'll never ask me any other favor?"

"No" he looks rather desperate; it's funny. "Hell, you can use the lake cabin for your birthday bash if you-"

"Deal"

Were you that easy to buy, huh? What does that say about you? Fucking ass sell-out.

Okay, but a birthday party in that all glass modern cabin with a deck and a jacuzzi does sound tempting. Who could be blamed? Not you, who will have to face her biggest foe in exchange for one wild bash.

You take a deep breath, imagining the lake water splashing and champagne on the deck (ugh, Jin's parents had a waterbike too. They were loaded), before knocking on his office. The door flings open, almost hitting you in the face, and there he is: Mr. Pascal, with his brown hair with white on the sides, loose curl over his face. Your fingers definitely don't itch to touch it, of course.

He's sporting a grumpy look (when doesn't he?), his big hands (you had forgotten how big they were) holding a bunch of papers (great, work!).

"Goddamn it, Jin. I was about to call you for standing me up, you know I hate when people don't tell me-"

He stops on his tracks, and that all too familiar scowl deepens his face.

"You"

Seethed with such venom, it's quite scary. Your legs tremble, yet your pussy clenches.

"Yes, me" you can't help but let out a little laugh at his antics. What did Jin said about him not remembering you? Well, can't be blamed; you weren't easy to forget.

His jaw clenches while looking down at you, but this time, you don't dare to flinch.

"What are you doing here?"

"See, Jin is my friend-"

He interrupts you, body frame resting on the door with a relaxed posture, but his shoulder looks tense.

"Oh, I liked him. Liked, as in past tense" he emphasizes, like a child throwing a tantrum. "How can a kid like him be friends with you?"

"We're best friends, thank you very much. As a matter of fact, I'm here as a favor" you hand him Jin's written apology, that may have one or two sneezes over it. "He's sick, and I'll cover him for a week, just so he doesn't loose the position. Said you would understand"

"I do" he replies on an instant, "you I don't"

"I passed your subject. With honors, even after you made my life impossible" you reply. "I'm the best candidate, face it"

He's rendered speechless for a moment, before he bites back:

"What makes you think I won't do it again?"

Now it's you who doesn't know what to say. It's infuriating how he still keeps winning.

"That's right" a wicked smile adorns his face. "Stay and find out"

Boy, don't you love a challenge?

So you stayed, much to his surprise. The bastard probably thought you were still the same scaredy mouse from first year.

Oh, it was delicious the way his whole face fell at your entrance next morning, how he quickly replaced it and introduced you in a clipped tone.

"Where's Jin?" a girl sitting in the front row had asked, more students joining to ask for his absence. You wonder if your friend's popularity stems from his brain or looks.

"He's sick" you answered. "But don't worry, he'll be back soon"

"Thank God" Mr. Pascal voices out loud.

You shoot him a look. He wasn't joking about not making it easy, was he?

"Oh, I didn't take you as a man of faith, Mr. Pascal, but you're right. It's important to thank our Lord everyday. So, thank Him for this week where I get to offer my suffering. In reward" you turn to face him, all the class silent as they take in your weird exchange, the atmosphere tense, "I'll never see your face again"

This time, you weren't going down without a fight.

"We'll see about that"

There it was: the fire to your gasoline.

So you pushed back, and argued everytime you disagreed, things that weren't part of your work but you still did because well, if he was still hellbent on making you suffer, you weren't going to make it easy for him this time.

If students argued against him, you took their side; even if just one did, you had their back.

You finished grading, but when returning the papers, you'd let them fall with a heavy thud over his desk, not even daring to look back.

At the time he'd talk to you, you wouldn't answer, instead just doing so, but no words to be uttered his way, as if he wasn't worth the effort. Not even a clipped okay.

And you enjoyed this; savored how he'd take every one of your petty actions with his full chest, eyebrows furrowed and face red in anger, but never answering, just silent, like deep in thought, a cold and calculated look overtaking his brown eyes.

Then the veins on his neck would pop as the ones of his tight white-knuckled grip on his mug. He'd speak up, and his voice had your legs shaking for some friction, wet spots now more often on your lingerie.

That he didn't know.

All he did was you were now more than a pebble on his shoe: a huge fucking stone, going down the hill, ready to squash him.

But boy, didn't he love a challenge?

It's Friday, aka last day of Torture Week.

You drop the quizzes for next Monday on his desk with the same harsh movement you had done all week.

"And it's over" you announce, papers plopping next to him, who is writing something. Mr. Pascal's hand moves, his L much longer than it should be. He looks up at you, annoyed, but his eyes flash with a hint of amusement.

"I see you can talk"

"Well, you already know me, Mr. Pascal. So you should be aware of what I can do"

"Love if you'd enlighten me"

He leans back on his chair, arms resting behind his head. It's hard not to take a brief glance to the flexing muscles, or how he's rolled up his sleeves, arms bulking up with the action, the fabric tense. It's hot in here. Wait, or has it gotten hot? Your face feels red, and when he catches your lingering gaze, he smiles devilishly.

"Like what you see, Ms. Y/n?"

No. You refuse to let him win this again, so close to the end.

"The release from prison?" you regain your posture, "very much"

"You may be a loud-mouthed brat, always knowin' what to say. I'll give that to you" he props himself to the front, elbows now resting on the desk as his eyes scan yours with a shade of dark covering them. "But a good liar you ain't"

You try to remain still, face emotionless, but your professor is a man of experience; an expert on his field. He who investigates, who has majored to be able to notice every small detail that can contribute to a hypothesis, has now formulated his.

You want this as much as he wants to.

You, with your wobbly legs and nervous eyes, glancing up at him with a hungry gaze that matches his own, despite your angry posture and irritated tone. You, that picked up petty arguments just to rile him up, because you liked the command for power on his voice. You like this, didn't you? Feeling small and weak, fangs pointy, just barely gracing the skin; the edge what set your skin on fire.

He isn't one to hold grudges (he's just mean all the time), but Pedro is willing to show you he hasn't forgotten about the years, and he'll be more than willing to fuck that bitchy attitude out of you.

"Hello?" you snap your fingers in front of him, "are you there?"

He snaps back to reality, your face covering his vision. In his position, he gets rewarded with a delicious peak at your breasts and the nude lingerine hiding them. He can imagine the perked nipples and the rosy plush skin he'd love to trace his tongue with, because even when you speak in a harsh voice, your eyes speak another thing. Fuck, he thinks he can even smell your arousal.

"I was talking to you" you don't even give him room to reply; snotty ass. "Said I was already leaving"

He thinks of himself as merciful. So he stands up, your bodies barely brushing against each other for a second, before he's opening the door, towering over you. He's so close, you can see the grey hairs mixed with the brown ones on his beard and mustache. God, you can smell him: coffee, cigarrettes, sandalwood and leather.

"You're free, Ms. Y/n" he follows your line of joke from before. "Just, humor me with one last thing"

You glance over at the clock above his desk. It's barely noon.

"Yes?" as dry as possible.

"Why did you accept?"

It's a simple question, really, but it manages to catch you off guard.

His tone is so different, maybe that's why: it's low, impossibly low. For less attentive people, it could even pass as a growl. But you hear, the amusement and dare laced within the velvety tone.

"Because I'm a good friend" you manage to speak, his body caging your smaller frame against the door.

This is ridiculous. You can leave at any time. Hello? Have your legs not gotten the memo?

"I didn't think you were capable of good things"

You huff, annoyed. "Well, I passed your subject, didn't I?"

He clicks his tongue.

"Many before you, and more after you have. Doesn't make you special, y/n"

Your name alone leaves a savory and toxic sweetness on his tongue.

"But how many of those you remember?" Mr. Pascal shots up an eyebrow, confused. "Tell me, how many can you name? That's right. I changed your life, whether you like it or not"

He's quick to reply. "Bullshit"

"Bullshit" you mock his angry tone, "but you recognized me the moment you opened the door. It didn't even take you seconds, hell, you hadn't even fully seen me and you knew who I was. Doesn't take a great investigator to figure it out, does it? So I take you missed me"

He can't believe your fucking mouth.

But then Pedro's remembering the way his pants tightened when you started to stand up to him, getting even worse when he still managed to shut you up. Fuck, the way you had smirked when you approved his subject during your last project delivery. He let you, because well, you had earned it: for the way your image had been the perfect companion for his hand pistoning his cock will full force, thinking of that loud mouth of yours gagged with it. Or when you walked past him in the hallways, wrapped in your own little bubble, your carefree laugh erupting and bouncing off the walls, tickling every hair of his body.

Part of him had accepted Jin to be his TA if that meant having a piece of you, even if a small connection, to you. Did you think he wouldn't know? That he wouldn't see you walking by in those small skirts that rode over when you bent? He noticed you; after all, you were in the same place most of your day.

You had excelled his subject after all, hadn't you?

So of course you'd notice his stare lingering in your back like a hand over your ass. How his eyes would dart to the skirts you wore on purpose, attentive to the moment you'd drop a pen on accident and your panties would be on sight, a wet spot in the middle you hadn't even noticed that smelled. Fuck, and wasn't it sweet?

You really feel like you have won this, don't you?

"Miss you?" Pedro hisses the words out. "I didn't miss you. What I think is happenin', is that me missing you is what you want"

"And I think you're repeating the same words and fumbling thoughts because you're a big egocentric prideful asshole who can't admit he's got the hots for his younger student"

"God. Don't you have such a filthy mouth, baby?"

Before he can register and you've fully let the nickname sink, your hand slaps his face with a potent movement that reverberates across his office's walls.

"You're a fucking piece of work, Mr. Pascal" but instead of being offended (or you don't know, fight back?), he remains silent. "You dirty old spoiled prick. Think I would never fight you back? That you can get away with whatever this is?"

"Whatever this is?" he chuckles, a sound rumbling deep from his chest. "Well, pretty girl, ain't you started this?"

He looms over you, hot breath carressing your face softly.

"Me? Unbelievable" you scoff. "You're one to talk, humiliating a poor freshman"

"Poor? You were distracted, in my class! Did your parents never teach you manners?!" his words leave droplets of spit that land in your face. "I had to put your stupid ass in place; that'll teach you something"

"Like what?" you taunt, recklessly, chest up and down with uneven breaths.

"I see it didn't work" his body language does an immediate switch. You remember a predator ready to strike their prey. "Maybe I should've tried harder"

His eyes do a wild dance over your body as so do yours.

Lip. Eyes. Skin. Cleavage. His tight pants. Biceps. Legs. Hair.

Before you can register, he's got you pinned against his desk, door closed in a loud move. There's a click sound somewhere in between, but you're too busy feeling his big hands grabbing your face roughly, as if he wants to consume your skin and feel your very bones on his calloused tips.

His lips are impossibly wet and eager, hands needily gropping your body. He pushes all his weight over you as he deepens the kiss, his tongue now inside your mouth, making you falter.

You let out a breathy moan when your back hits the desk, the wood digging your skin, but he swallows it whole, making it impossible for you to talk.

"Mmph-"

"Mmph?" he mocks between kisses, not giving you the chance to take a breath, or maybe he was scared you would get the time to think and would push him away. "Just my mouth got you all worked up, baby? Can't even speak"

Your fingers run through his hair for support, curls between your fingers. They felt soft, like they were meant to be combed through over and over again. He dives his head in your neck, hot mouth wet with its trail of kisses, making you squirm.

"I see" his breath ghosts over your reddened skin, "you wanted this just as much, don't you? This boys aren't enough for you?"

Every hair on your body prickles, his mouth claiming every spot he could, bites and hickeys all over your skin. You whine, pouting your lips, missing his already.

"It's okay, baby" he laughs, "just gotta show them who's enough for you" he grunts, "a man"

Mr. Pascal takes off your shirt, well, basically rips the poor thing, his hands relieved to finally touch your breasts. He roughly grabs one of them, and you bite your lip so hard, you almost feel the bitter metallic taste in your mouth. He lowers himself, despite his aching joints, to play with your hardened nipples, lapping them with his warm tongue, sucking and swirling until they turn swollen.

Your hand finds its way to his formal pants, fingers gracing over the fabric, feeling his cock straining against it. Just like you imagined it: big, like his presence. If it could, your pussy would jump in excitement, realistically just throbbing and leaking.

You untie his belt and buttons so you can begin to rub over his boxers. You can feel him trying to meet your touches, grinding onto your palm. He groans, deeply, enjoying your hungry stare, steady beat, parted lips and wet cunt.

He bucks his hips against you, propping himself on the wall behind his desk, which had moved from its original position thanks to the mayhem.

"You clearly don't know what you got yourself into, baby. But don't worry, I ain't letting you go just yet"

He pulls the skirt up, revealing the damp panties and mess between your legs. He licks his lips before rough digits find your wet folds. His fingers carress your impossibly tight walls, coating them with your slick.

"So fucking tight" he groans against your collarbones, "thought of yourself as uptight but I can fucking smell you dripping, you dirty slut. Could tell you loved provoking me becayse that's the only way your snotty ass can get off"

"F-fuck you, Mr. Pascal" you manage to choke out.

"Where are your manners? After how I've rewarded your big mouth, you bitch" he takes off your panties with skilled practice, the piece falling to the floor with a weak sound. Your bare cunt makes you shiver. "You think you're smart, baby? You think you can play these games and face no consequences at all?" he tuts. "No, Ms. Y/n, you know I hate wastin' my time, so be a good girl and don't make this harder for you, get that?"

You whine at his words, but refuse to shut your mouth.

"Oh, I'm smart" you laugh, "smart enough to have you on your knees for me"

An ugly grin spreads across his features.

"I will never bend for a bratty pretentious slut like you" he grips your hair with force, leaving your neck exposed, "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, stupid cock hungry whore. You wanted my attention? It's all yours"

Then, with a low, almost feral growl, he grabs your hips and hoists you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He sweeps the papers and books onto the floor with a clatter, setting you down on the edge.

"You better behave, baby" Mr. Pascal bites your lower lip, "don't want people to know what we're doing in here, do you? Or would you want them to know just how much of a slut you are, spread on my desk as your cunt drips for me?"

He steps between your legs, pushing them further apart, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He leans in, his face inches from yours, voice low in a threatening rasp.

"I'll behave, I promise" mind in blank.

"No loud mouth bitchy stuck up attitude?"

You free his cock, hands scouting his shaft, his base, and balls. You fondled them while his fingers lingered closer to your pussy.

"No"

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked stupid and used for my pleasure? Well, get ready, because I'm not going to stop until I've had my fill of this sweet little cunt"

He savors at the sight of your glistening folds.

"Let me-"

He laughs, seeing how you desire to guide his cock towards your entrance.

"Eager, little one?" he teases.

"Yes" you whimper, "I need you so badly, papi"

Your plea mixed with Spanish sends him on edge. His eyes darken with a primal, almost feral hunger at your desperate plea.

His voice is strained, rough with barely restrained lust.

"Fuck, you needy little thing. You want to take my dick until this desk breaks?"

He rubs the swollen head of his dick against your dripping slit, coating it in your arousal. Then, with one powerful thrust, he slams into you, burying himself to the hilt in your tight, hot cunt.

"So tight" he groans, starting to move and setting a brutal pace from the very beginning. The desk shakes and creaks beneath you with each forceful thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the empty office. He punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against your clit. He sets a relentless, punishing rhythm, determined to fuck you into oblivion.

It's a goddamn view in here: him above you, droplets of sweat falling to your face, pristine hair now disheveled.

At this point, you were clenching so hard it hurt, walls fluttering around his massive girth. But he's greedy, and he's pushing himself deeper and deeper.

"Runnin' your mouth but now all quiet as you take all of me, hungry greedy whore" he digs his fingers into your cheeks harshly, but you find pleasure in the sting the pain causes. "Bet this is all you been thinking since you started talking back, huh? Don't worry, daddy's got you"

Surprisingly, he leans down, capturing your mouth in a dominating kiss, tongue invading your mouth. His hand comes up to wrap around your throat, squeezing lightly, a silent reminder of who you belong to.

"God. You're wet everywhere, baby"

His sweaty chest presses itself onto your tits as he forced his cock deeper within you, the plaid shirt sticking with sweat to his ablazed body, temperature high.

"T-the desk" you protest numbly; mind-fucked.

And oh, boy, doesn't he enjoy this view? Your fluttering eyelids, hazy eyes and trembling body.

So he keeps fucking you: pounding into you, rolling his hips skillfully, taking up all the space within you.

"I don't give a damn fuck about the desk, Ms. Y/n. I'm gonna fuck that attitude of yours until all you know is my name" he leans down, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. His hands grip your hips with bruising force, pulling you harder against him with each violent thrust. "Gonna break the desk, hell, fuck you on the floor if necessary, but you ain't leaving this office until my cum drips from your legs and everyone knows your tight little cunt is mine"

The desk groans and wobbles beneath you, the legs scraping against the floor as Pedro fucks you with wild abandon. The sound of your moans and the crude, wet slap of skin on skin echoes obscenely in the room.

His pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust, the rough friction sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. His cock hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl and your back arch off the desk.

He feels your walls starting to flutter around him, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches. Mr. Pascal leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a dark, intimate rasp.

"Why don't you be a good girl and tell daddy how good he's making you feel? Show me and everyone else what a desperate little slut you are, waiting for me to fill you up nicely with my seed"

He makes out of you a loud mess, a series of sweet sounds falling from your lips. You clench and he twitches, his digits holding your waist, keeping you in place for him.

"Good girl" he praises, "now you're gonna take it all, milk me dry, you greedy cocksleeve"

His thrusts become erratic and sloppier. The older man can feel your walls starting to flutter around him, body tensing as your orgasm approaches. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a dark, intimate rasp.

"Will you be a good girl?"

"Yes!" you cry out, "don't stop!"

You hated this humilliation, how easy it is for him to fuck you with his big cock. You fucking hated him. But didn't he make you feel so good.

"Then come on my cock, bitch"

You didn't think it was capable, no, but you did. A first, another first when it came to Mr. Pascal.

You squirt. You fucking squirted.

Pedro lets out a feral roar of triumph when your pussy spasms around his pistoning cock, your release gushing out and soaking his dick and the desk, papers and shit beneath you (no, not the quizzes! You had printed them this morning). He savors the way you throw your head back, eyes rolling until they turn white on your fucked-out face.

"Such a sweet cunt, baby" he praises. "Milk me dry, come on"

Your slick walls milking him dry pushes him over the edge, clenching around him, and he knew it was over. He snaps, arching his back as he roughly moans. With one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls-deep inside you, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he starts to come. Thick, scorching ropes of cum paint your insides, flooding your womb with his potent seed, still pushing the remnants inside when he grinds against you, his pelvis pressed tight to yours as he rides out the waves of his intense orgasm. His grip on your hips tightens, fingermarks surely to be left in the soft flesh as he holds you in place, ensuring you take every last drop of his release.

"That's it, pretty baby. Can't even speak, can you?" he captures your mouth in a deep, dominating kiss. Like he owns you. "As you can see, I'm a man of my word"

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he pants softly. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and intense, filled with a primal, almost feral satisfaction.

It's humilliating, really, how your lips search for more. You need him, badly, despite how shit he treats you and how wrong all of this is. Is this a win or a loose?

"Good girl" he repeats, his sweaty forehead clashing against yours. The desk creaks yet again. You love when he praises you, and you whine on instintic, making him laugh. "Learned your place just yet? Listen carefully, Ms. Y/n: no matter what you do or say, I'll always win, get it? And you'll be nothing but a needy uptight slut who begs for my attention and cock"

He pulls out of you slowly, his softening dick slipping from your well-used hole with a gush of their combined releases. He tucks himself away, doing up his pants with quick, efficient movements. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, smearing a streak of his cum across it.

"Go on. Taste it, and tell me how it feels"

Your tongue does a lazy movement, making your lips moist thanks to the saliva and his cum, like a fucking gloss. You shouldn't enjoy this, really, but your body shivers when you feel the taste of him going down your throat as you swallow.

"Good" you manage to speak, salt on the tip of your tongue.

"Good" he repeats, voice low and menacing, "because we're just getting started"

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas

#dilfistwrites #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x you #pedro x reader #pedro pascal fluff #professor pedro #professor kink #reed richards #the fantastic four: first steps

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