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wooyoungiewritings · 16 days ago

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P☆RNSTAR - Park Seonghwa x Reader

Inspired by the song "P☆RNSTAR" by Nessa Barrett

"Show me who you are, pornstar"

Summary: You're a sharp, ambitious journalist who's assigned on a column about Park Seonghwa, the biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. He's a pornstar. But from the moment he turns his sharp eyes on you, everything shifts. He reads you too easily, teases you too precisely, unraveling every line you swore you wouldn’t cross. What begins as a probing interview turns into a game of control, tension, and exposed desires neither of you saw coming.

Word count: 17K

Genre: Pornstar!Seonghwa, reporter!reader, oneshot, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), oneshot, smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), masturbation, oral sex (f/m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, spitting, unprotected sex, cum play, Hwa is very dominant (he's a pornstar, he knows what he's doing lmao), lmk if I missed anything!

The office smells like cheap coffee and stale ambition. You sit on the edge of a squeaky swivel chair, scrolling through the latest assignment email with a sinking feeling.

New project: “The Lives Behind the Screens” — a column digging into the unseen realities of internet celebrities and adult entertainers.

Great.

You thought journalism would be different. Real stories, real people. Not this digital voyeurism dressed up as “content.” But here you are, fresh out of college, with a degree gathering dust and a boss breathing down your neck.

Your editor’s voice plays in your head: “Next up? Park Seonghwa. The biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. Viral, iconic, untouchable. And you? You’re going to tell his story. Follow him. Watch him. Don’t fall for the fantasy.”

You click the link your editor attached and his face fills the screen, high-definition, impossibly symmetrical, built for the camera. Dark hair, parted just enough to frame his cheekbones like they were carved. A mouth that looks both sinful and soft, depending on the angle. Eyes like velvet, sharp, unreadable, expensive. He doesn’t smile in most of his photos. Doesn’t need to.

The headline reads: "The Pornstar Prince of the Internet."

You roll your eyes. But you keep scrolling.

Clips. Gifs. Edits. Reposts. Commentary threads that worship him like religion. "God-tier performance." "Unreal stamina." "He makes you feel like he’s looking right at you." You keep reading. Watching. Studying.

You find a clip, thirty seconds, muted, of him on a dimly lit set, shirt hanging off one shoulder, smirking at someone off-camera. He doesn’t blink much. He doesn’t need to. His body language is all ease, all control. Not arrogance. Not exactly. It’s more like... confidence that’s been sharpened into a weapon.

You don't look away.

Not because you’re turned on, not really. You’re... intrigued.

***

You show up ten minutes early, because you're not about to let a pornstar, no matter how famous, be the one waiting for you. The building is tucked between a yoga studio and a wellness café, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and minimalist signage that makes you feel underdressed just for breathing near it.

You expected neon lights. Maybe a couch no one should sit on. Definitely something sleazy.

But inside, it’s... clean.

Modern. Quiet. A tall woman with a tablet and black pumps greets you like you’re here for a boardroom pitch, not a profile piece on one of the internet’s most prolific sex symbols.

“You’re here for Mr. Park?”

Mr. Park.

You have to bite your tongue to stop from smirking.

“Yes. I’m with-”

“I know who you’re with,” she says politely, tapping something on her screen. “He’s finishing up a call. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Water? Coffee? Champagne? You half expect the offer to end in something absurd like cocaine or compliments. But instead, you shake your head politely and she gestures toward a plush couch in a waiting area that looks more like a magazine launch office than a porn empire.

You sit, legs crossed, notebook in your lap, and glance around.

There are no posters. No half-naked shots. No trophies shaped like body parts. Just soft lighting, neutral palettes, and a low hum of quiet professionalism that makes your spine tighten.

You don’t like this.

You were ready for something raw. Tacky. Exposed. You were ready to roll your eyes and keep your emotional distance.

Instead, this place feels... corporate. Intentional. Curated.

You wonder if it’s a reflection or a deflection. You wonder what the perfectly polished floor is hiding.

“He’s ready for you now,” the assistant says, voice crisp but warm. “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

You smooth your jacket, grip your notebook, and stand.

You walk down the hall, heels dull against the polished concrete, every surface too clean, too careful. The door is slightly ajar, the only one without a nameplate. That feels intentional.

You push it open.

And there he is.

Not behind a desk, not seated with polite formality, not postured for you, just leaning against the wide windowsill, half-turned to the city below, a cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he hasn’t bothered to tame it. His shirt, black, sheer, loose at the collar. A thin chain around his throat catches the light. And his nails, black polish, chipped at the edges. Purposefully imperfect. Like he’s above caring, or maybe it’s the only thing he cares about.

He glances over his shoulder when you step in. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you.

The eyes are worse than the photos. Darker. Sharper. Too direct. Like he’s already bored, already curious. Like he sees everything, and he’s trying to decide if you’re worth keeping his attention on.

He flicks ash into a small black tray on the ledge. There’s nothing else on it. No papers, no phone. Just him.

He finally speaks, voice low and warm with the edges of smoke, like it could wrap around your neck if you let it.

“So you’re the one who wants to figure me out.” It’s not a question. But his eyes don’t move from yours. They don’t flinch. “You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You offer the smallest shrug. “I could say the same.”

That earns the hint of a laugh. Just a breath, barely there.

He stubs out the cigarette, gestures toward the lone armchair behind you. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

You don’t say anything. Just take the seat, notebook still closed in your lap. He stays standing. Of course he does. You can tell he likes the distance, the height, likes watching from above. Not out of arrogance, but out of habit. He’s used to reading people, measuring how they move when they’re inside a space that belongs to him.

“I’m working on a column,” you say finally. “Series called The Lives Behind the Screens.”

“I’ve heard.” He nods once. “They sent me your articles. You ask better questions than most.”

You glance up. “You actually read them?”

His mouth quirks into a crooked kind of smile. Dry, a little arrogant, but not in a way that pushes you away. If anything, it pulls you in.

“I like knowing who’s about to ask if I’ve always been this good with my hands.”

That draws a smile from you, small, tight. Not because it’s funny. But because you expected that line. He’s testing the waters.

“I’m not here just to talk about your sex life,” you say.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his lips. Something amused. Not quite a grin, just a suggestion of one, like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “That’s usually the fun part.” there’s a languid rhythm to the way he speaks, each word stretched just enough to make you feel it.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like you’re both waiting to see who steps forward first.

Across the room, Seonghwa moves toward the bookshelf along the far wall. Not performative, not for your benefit. He’s just giving you time to look at him.

So you do.

He’s taller than you realized. Lean, but strong in the way dancers are. He walks like he knows people are watching, not cocky, just aware. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention, it assumes it. And the longer you observe, the more it’s clear: nothing about him is accidental.

The sheer shirt might as well be part of his skin. It moves when he moves. His black jeans are worn soft at the seams, sitting low on his hips. No belt. Just a silver chain around one wrist, around his neck and that single piercing. A bar through his eyebrow.

When he turns to face you again, he doesn't sit.

“I’m guessing you’ve already read everything about me,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

“I tried to,” you admit, finally jotting something down, the way he speaks without looking for approval, the confidence that isn’t loud. “But I don’t think it matters.”

That earns you a longer look. His head tilts. “Why not?”

You don’t glance up from your page. “Because none of it’s yours. It's press releases. Magazine quotes. Fan rumors. It’s the version of you people think they want to believe in.”

He’s silent for a beat too long. When you do meet his eyes again, there’s something softer around the edges. Not exposed. But interested.

“And what version are you looking for?” he asks.

“I’m here to figure out if there’s a man behind the star,” you say, tone even. “Or if you’ve just become the thing people want from you.”

That lands. You can feel it. His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn’t look away.

“I could lie,” he offers, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Make up some tragic story. Childhood trauma. First heartbreak. Tell you something that’ll look good in a pull quote.”

“You could,” you nod, pen tapping once against the paper. “But I’d know.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just curiosity. A quiet spark behind his eyes that says you’ve surprised him.

He moves closer.

Only a few steps, measured, unrushed, and then leans against the back of the leather armchair opposite yours. His arms fold loosely across his chest, and he studies you like a mirror. Like you’re suddenly the one under scrutiny.

“You don’t flirt,” he observes.

You blink. “Is that a problem?”

“Most people do,” he says simply. “Even the ones who say they won’t.”

You meet his gaze, hold it. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to work out how you got under his skin without touching him. “You’re not.”

For a moment, something spreads between you. You’re not even sure what it is yet. But it’s there, between you. Not attraction. But interest. A tension that hums like a wire strung too tight.

You look away first, not out of defeat, but control. Your voice is smooth as you ask, “What’s the worst assumption people make about you?”

Seonghwa exhales through his nose. A faint smile, but more thoughtful this time. He leans his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling like he’s weighing the cost of honesty.

“That's easy,” he says eventually. “All of it. That I just show up and look good and take my clothes off, and somehow, that’s enough.”

You nod once, pen moving again.

“And is it?” you ask, without looking up.

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “But sometimes I wish it were.”

The vulnerability slips through so subtly, you almost miss it. But it’s there. And he lets it hang in the space between you, bare, unpolished.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just underline the sentence on your page, twice.

When you glance at him again, he’s already watching you.

Not in the way men look at women. Not like he’s trying to undress you.

He looks at you like he wants to know what you look like with your guard down.

“What made you start doing this?” you ask again, pushing a little harder this time.

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, grabs another cigarette from his pocket and lights it with an unreadable expression. He taps ash into the glass tray on the table between you.

“I like sex,” he says simply, lips curving just slightly. “Turns out, I’m good at it. People like to watch. Seemed like a win-win.”

You don’t blink. Don’t smile back.

“I’m sure that’s true,” you say evenly. “But that’s not really an answer.”

His brows lift. Just a fraction. You think you catch the flicker of something else in his eyes, not surprise, exactly, but interest. Curiosity. Most people probably take the bait and laugh. Move on.

You don’t.

“So what kind of answer are you looking for?” he asks, his tone lighter now. It’s playful. Not mocking, but there’s a dare underneath it.

“The real kind,” you say. “Unless that’s too much to ask.”

He looks at you for a beat too long. Then, just when the silence starts to turn into something heavier, he grins. It’s not the polished smile from his photoshoots or the cocky smirk from his scenes. It’s crooked. Defensive.

“You’re intense,” he says.

“You’re guarded,” you shoot back.

That actually gets a laugh out of him, low and warm. He places the cigarette between his lips again, holding your gaze as he breathes in. He smells like smoke and sandalwood, expensive and addictive.

“Is it hard to get hard when you don’t actually want the person touching you?”

That makes him go still.

No smirk. No clever deflection. Just a small shift in his eyes, like a curtain tugged half an inch to the side.

“That’s a hell of a question,” he says eventually, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

You wait.

The jewelry on his fingers glints in the soft light. He taps the cigarette out with one hand, stubs it, and doesn’t light another.

“Sometimes it’s hard,” he says eventually. “Not physically. Mechanically, there are tricks. Prep. It’s part of the job. But mentally…” He shrugs. “Some days you show up and your body does the work, but your head isn’t anywhere near it.”

“Where does it go?” you ask.

That question lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t answer it right away.

“You like making people uncomfortable, don’t you?” he says instead, with a sharp little smile.

“I like watching people flinch when they’re used to being worshipped,” you shoot back.

That does it, a soft laugh, almost disbelieving. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of agitation. Or maybe… intrigue.

“You think I’m used to being worshipped?”

“I think you’ve made a career off of it,” you say. “And I think you’re smart enough to know none of it’s real.”

He straightens up slowly, standing to full height. Not a threat, but a shift in dynamic. He towers, but doesn’t loom. He just exists fully, commandingly, in the space. Smoke, sex, control, all wrapped in the body of a man who knows what power feels like in his palm.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped now. “Be on set at ten. Don’t be late.”

You nod, but don’t move yet. “And you’ll show me?”

He lifts a brow. “Show you what?”

“What it looks like when you stop pretending.”

The look he gives you is unreadable. Half danger, half fascination.

Then he says, “Careful what you wish for.”

***

You don’t expect to be alone when he finds you.

You’re standing just beyond the edge of the set, not quite hidden but far enough away that you don’t feel like you’re intruding. The lights are half-up, the crew moving with quiet efficiency, adjusting equipment, taping marks to the floor. It’s all so… normal. Not chaotic. Not hypersexualized. Not what you thought a porn set would look like.

There’s nothing cheap about it. No sleaze. No haze of something you can’t name.

Just calm. Controlled. Professional.

Then you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to show up early to this,” Seonghwa says.

You turn.

He’s closer than you expected, but not too close, just inside your space enough to remind you this is his world. His set. His rules.

He’s dressed down. Black pants. Loose black tank. Hair still damp, like he just showered. Barefoot. There’s a quiet confidence to him, the kind that doesn’t need announcing. And that damn eyebrow piercing catches the light when he looks at you.

“I figured you’d bail,” he says, "Didn’t think this kind of work was your thing.”

You glance over your notepad without looking up. “It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “Dedicated. Or just curious?”

“I’m here to work.”

“You keep saying that,” he muses. “Like you’re trying to convince someone.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “Would it make you more comfortable if I pretended to be flustered around you?”

He laughs, soft, warm. “No,” he says. “That’s the problem. You don’t pretend.”

You say nothing, but your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook. He catches it.

His smile sharpens, but his voice stays casual. “So,” he says, “first time seeing something like this in person?”

You nod.

“No nerves?”

“A few,” you admit. “But I’ve done harder interviews.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Harder than watching me fuck someone ten feet in front of you?”

Your throat tightens, just slightly. Not enough to show. But something shifts in your expression. His eyes track it.

He grins.

You look back at him, carefully composed. “I’m still here.”

“That you are,” he says, quieter now. “And you’ll watch? Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it will.”

A beat passes. His gaze lingers on your face. Then he nods, almost approvingly.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s see how much you’re really ready for.”

He turns, just like that, walking toward the set. The curtain parts behind him.

And just before it closes, he glances over his shoulder.

“Try not to fall for me,” he says with a crooked smile. “It gets messy.”

You don’t answer. You just grip your notebook a little tighter.

You’re here. Watching, really watching.

The red light blinks above like a warning and a promise, casting a harsh glow over the small, claustrophobic set. Seonghwa stands center stage, muscles taut beneath his soaked black tank top, sweat glistening on his skin like he’s been moving for hours.

He doesn’t look up as he starts, he’s not just touching her, his set-partner. He’s worshipping every inch.

She’s moaning, low, ragged sounds that fill the room, vibrating against your skin. His fingers find her, moving inside her with a steady, expert pressure that makes her cry out in pleasure. His mouth covers hers, rough and demanding, teeth grazing her bottom lip, swallowing every protest she might have.

His hips thrust hard, the tank top clinging to every muscle twitch, sweat dripping down the curve of his spine. He grunts low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest as he drives her higher, faster.

And then, just when you think you can’t bear it, he looks up.

His eyes catch yours across the room, sharp and knowing. It’s like he can see right through your carefully constructed wall, the cool, detached journalist trying to stay professional, and he’s amused by it. Maybe even hungry for it. There’s a flicker of cocky challenge there, a silent dare: Keep watching.

The way his mouth curves into a slow, teasing smile sends a jolt through you, and you realize this isn’t just a show for the cameras. This is his playground, and you’re the unexpected audience he wants to mesmerize.

You feel heat rise between your legs, your breath catching in your throat despite yourself. This is supposed to be work. But your body betrays you, tightening, aching, wanting. Your skin prickles as the two of them writhe, tangled in lust and need, so raw, so real, it’s impossible to pretend it’s not affecting you.

Every moan, every bite, every slick slide of his fingers on her wetness is a punch straight to your gut. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be feeling this. But you are.

And it terrifies you.

You wait alone in the dim waiting room, the muffled sounds of the set still echoing faintly beyond the door. Your fingers drum nervously against the notebook in your arms, mind spinning with what you just witnessed. The intoxicating mix of raw power, control, and vulnerability, everything about him pulls at you in ways you didn’t expect.

The door swings open without warning.

He steps inside, still dripping with sweat, the black robe hanging loose and wet against his skin. His dark hair is tangled, strands plastered to his forehead and neck, but he looks effortless, like he just conquered the world or at least that room.

His gaze lands on you, smirking as if he knows exactly what’s racing through your mind. “So,” he says, voice low and husky, “did the show live up to your expectations?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “It was... intense. Different than anything I imagined.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, the heat radiating off him making your skin flush. “I told you, this isn’t some act. It’s real.”

You don’t look away, but take a small step back so you feel the wall behind you. “I saw that. You’re not faking it.”

His smirk deepens. “I don’t do fake. My body knows what to do.” He lets the robe slip slightly off one shoulder, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath. “But now, I want to see you. What happens when you drop the act?”

Your breath catches. “I’m not the one putting on a show.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel his warmth, eyes locked on yours with a playful challenge. “Maybe you’re hiding better than I thought. But I don’t scare easy. You push me, I’ll push back.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of your chair. “Then push.”

Seonghwa leans in just a fraction closer, his dark eyes locked onto yours with that smoldering mix of cocky challenge and genuine curiosity. The faint scent of sweat and something uniquely his, clean, but with a wild edge, fills the small space between you. He lets the robe slip a little more off his shoulder, just enough to tease, but not enough to give everything away.

“So, what’s your move, reporter?”

His gaze narrows, sharp and piercing as he lets his fingers trail just a breath away from your skin, deliberately not touching, drawing out the moment. Neither of you is blinking.

“You want answers,” he says, voice low and teasing. “But answers come at a price. You think you can handle what you don’t expect?”

You hold his stare, heart pounding, refusing to flinch. “I’m not here to be intimidated.”

He lets out a slow, dark laugh, amused and a little impressed. “Good. Because I’m not here to entertain you… at least, not yet.”

He steps back, letting the space between you swell with the weight of what just passed, then pulls his robe tighter around his frame with a smooth motion. “But here’s a deal: I’ll give you the story you want. The real me, the part behind the flashing lights and staged scenes. On one condition.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice a rough whisper. “You come back. You don’t flinch. You keep pushing. No matter how messy it gets. You keep digging, even when it hurts. No backing down. And maybe… just maybe, you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

He pulls away, smirking like he’s already won the game. “Think it over. I’ll be waiting.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his challenge ringing louder than any spotlight.

***

When the elevator dings on his floor, you step out into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls are a cool gray, the faint smell of leather and something smoky wafting up from behind one door.

You take a breath and knock lightly.

The door swings open before you finish the knock, revealing Seonghwa. “Come in,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. He steps aside, letting you slip inside.

The air smells faintly of cologne and smoke, the leftover echo of whatever he did on set lingering like something physical. The windows are wide, letting in the soft amber of the city outside. It should feel casual. It doesn’t.

You take it all in quietly, feeling the weight of his space, the echo of the man who lives here.

You settle into the dark gray couch, eyes never leaving him as he moves with casual ease.

Seonghwa walks toward the open-plan kitchen, barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower. He’s once again a robe, black, slung loose around him, revealing toned legs and glimpses of his chest when the fabric parts with each lazy step. You pretend not to notice. You do. It’s impossible not to.

He grabs a lighter from the counter, flicks it without looking, and lights the cigarette already tucked between his lips. The inhale is long. Slow. A sigh through his nose. Then he turns toward you.

“You look like you’re in a dentist’s waiting room,” he murmurs. Voice warm. Slightly mocking.

He exhales smoke and walks closer, staying on his side of the room but dropping into the armchair across from you, in the middle of the two couches, slouching low like he owns the place. Which, of course, he does.

The room shrinks around you, charged with something unspoken and raw. You don’t like it. You don’t want it. But you can’t look away.

“Okay, then,” you say, voice sharp. “You like being watched?”

A lazy smirk curls his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone?” He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs, cigarette perched between his fingers. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling.

Then he speaks again. “I like control,” he says. “I like knowing what people want and giving it to them. It’s… intimate. But safe. And when you’re good at it? They forget it’s a performance.”

Your throat tightens slightly, but you nod. “So it’s about power?”

“It’s about reading people,” he corrects. Then, smoothly, “My turn.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re the subject now.

“Who broke you?”

Your stomach tightens. “What?”

He grins, slow and wicked. “You walk around like you’re armored, like you’ve got barbed wire under your skin. So who put it there?”

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

His voice drops, velvet smooth. “Show me who you are.”

Your lips tighten. “No one broke me.”

“Everyone’s broken somewhere,” he says, quietly. “You just hide it well.”

He eyes you again. “My turn, again. Because you didn't answer properly before-”

You shake your head. “I’m the interviewer.” you interrupt.

“And I’m interested in you.” His smile grows.

You feel your breath hitch, but hide it behind a slow blink.

The tension between you burns like the end of his cigarette. He stubs it out, stands slowly, robe slipping slightly off his shoulder as he crosses the space between you.

Then he pauses in front of you, not quite touching, looking down.

“You want more access?” he asks, voice velvet smooth. “Then let me have the same.”

You look up, chin raised. “What are you proposing?”

“A deal.” His eyes darken. “I’ll answer anything. All of your questions. But I get to ask whatever I want too. I get to dig just as deep.”

You hesitate. He sees it. Feeds off it.

“And if you can’t handle that,” he adds, soft and cutting, “you should probably go.”

You grit your teeth. Your pulse pounds in your throat. Your body leans forward before your mind catches up.

“Fine,” you breathe. “Deal.”

He grins.

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s really begin.”

You’re still on the couch when he lowers himself beside you, not in the armchair across the room, not at a polite distance, but next to you. His thigh brushes yours. The robe shifts again, riding high on his legs, revealing toned skin and hints of muscle that make it hard to focus.

He’s warm. Too warm. And the silence between you goes thick and heavy, soaked in everything you aren’t saying.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your voice flat, composed, even though your heart is hammering in your chest. “You made a deal. Ask.”

He smirks, eyes raking over your face like he’s deciding where to begin.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Your breath catches, like he’s slapped you with the question instead of asking it. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“You said I could ask a question,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-smooth. “I’m just playing by the rules.”

You recover quickly, jaw tightening. “Next question.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You want honesty? Fine,” You meet his eyes, sharp, challenging. “I think about what it feels like to stop controlling everything. To not be the one driving. To let someone else take over, just for a while.”

His expression shifts, only slightly, but you see it. Something almost thoughtful in the cocky glint of his gaze. He leans back, just a little, arm along the top of the couch behind you.

“Interesting,” he says. “So you like to let go.”

Your turn. “How often do you sleep with someone off-camera?”

He shrugs. “Less than people think. When sex becomes work, it’s harder to want it just for fun. But when I do… I make sure it’s worth it.”

Your pulse skips. You force yourself not to look away.

He leans in. His voice drops, brushing your skin like it knows what it’s doing.

“Would you ever let go with someone like me?”

You stare at him. Hard. “Would you ever stop performing with someone like me?”

A beat. A flicker of surprise behind his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve performed once since you walked through my door.”

“Liar.”

He laughs, low, rough, the sound curling down your spine. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

You should move. You don’t. He’s closer now, his thigh pressing against yours, the robe parting slightly as he turns toward you.

“And what about you?” he asks. “What’s under your perfect little armor?”

You stare back at him, fingers curling around the edges of your notebook.

He continues, tone deceptively light. “You come in here, all calm and collected. Like you’re not flustered. Like watching me get someone off in front of a room full of people didn’t do something to you.”

Your spine straightens.

“It didn’t,” you lie.

He grins slowly. “Sure. Let me guess, you’re just doing your job. You don’t feel anything.”

You don’t answer.

“I think you feel more than you let on,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’re too busy trying to prove you’re better than all of this. That you’re above it.”

You meet his gaze, and something inside you cracks. Just a little. “You think you know me?” you whisper.

“I think you wear control like I wear seduction. Like armor.” He leans back again, watching you with something that’s dangerously close to fascination. “But no one ever asks what happens when you take it off.”

You suck in a breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to earn respect in a world that doesn’t take women seriously unless they’re agreeable.”

He tilts his head. “And you don’t know what it’s like to be only wanted for what your body can do, not who you are.”

There it is.

The stillness between you is different now, warmer, denser. It hums beneath your skin.

He says it softer, like he means it. “No one gives a fuck about what I think. Just what I can make them feel.”

The words sit heavy in your chest. There’s a moment of silence. This is biggest crack you’ve managed to get out of his guarded shell.

Then his voice softens again, teasing this time. “Alright, journalist. My turn. Last question.”

Your stomach coils, tight with anticipation.

“Have you ever imagined someone fucking you so good it ruins you for everyone else?”

Your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t blink. “Not just the act. The aftermath. The kind of sex that stays in your bones, makes everything after feel like a cheap imitation. You ever wondered what it’d take to break you like that?”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet curiosity. Like it’s a scientific inquiry. You look at him, really look at him, and it’s suddenly so obvious he’s not just asking for the sake of it.

He wants to know if he could do it.

Your breath hitches.

And he sees it.

The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, that smug spark in his eye, you’ve just confirmed something for him.

He ashes the cigarette again, slow and easy. “Thought so,” he murmurs.

And the worst part?

You can’t even bring yourself to deny it.

***

You lie on your back in the dark, your sheets cool against your skin but your body too warm.

It’s late. Later than you meant to be awake. Your bedside lamp casts a muted glow across the ceiling, and you’ve already scrolled through every app on your phone twice. But your mind won’t stop replaying the evening.

You shift under the covers. They’re soft but do nothing to ease the heat crawling under your skin.

He got to you.

You hate that. You hate knowing that.

All of it replays in your mind on a loop, the cocky slant of his mouth, the lazy sprawl of his body across the couch, the way he tossed you that question like a match and watched it catch fire between your thighs.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

The nerve. And still, your stomach twisted.

But it wasn’t just the question. It was the way he said it. The way he looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he could read it on your skin.

You shouldn’t care. He’s your subject. Your project. Your assignment. You’re here to peel back the layers, uncover the man behind the persona.

And yet, here you are. Lying in your bed. Thinking about him.

You open your browser on your phone. Start to type.

Park Seonghwa.

A breath hitches in your throat as the name autofills. You press enter.

Links bloom across the screen in a chaotic sprawl. Clips. Interviews. Promo photos. Glossy thumbnails of sex.

But it’s the one at the very top that stops you.

No clickbait. No dramatic title. Just:

Park Seonghwa – Solo | Intimate POV.

You stare at the thumbnail. It’s dark, soft-red-lit, just a close-up of his face. Damp hair pushed back. His lips slightly parted. His eyes. direct, dark, focused. On the camera. On you.

You hesitate.

Then your finger taps the screen.

The video loads slowly, black for a beat, and then…

There he is.

The camera is positioned low on the nightstand, the frame unsteady but intimate, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. The soft red lighting of Seonghwa’s bedroom casts red shadows over his skin, the familiar surroundings of his private apartment making the moment feel even more forbidden. This isn’t a set. It’s his space. His bed. His sheets.

And he’s standing at the edge of it, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the waistband barely clinging to his skin. His black-painted fingers trace a path along his abdomen.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough, like he’s talking to himself as much as to whoever’s watching.

“I’m all alone tonight,” he says, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Just me, my hands, and this hard fucking cock. You watching this in your bed, baby?” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that cocky softness that makes your stomach twist. “Lying there all sweet and needy, just for me?”

The waistband slips lower. Your breath catches.

The camera captures it all, his cock, thick and hard, gradually revealed, the flushed head slick with precome, shining under the dim red light. Veins curl along the shaft like cords pulled tight with anticipation, each one pulsing with restrained tension.

“Mm, look at that. Fucking myself… but every thought? You. Every touch? You.” he drawls, spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around himself with a practiced grip. He groans, low and deep, as he spreads the slickness over his cock. “I wish you were here, on this bed, touching yourself just like I am. Knowing I’m watching. Knowing you belong to me tonight.”

He starts to stroke himself, slow and teasing, watching the camera like he can see right through it. “Don’t touch yet,” he warns, voice sharp. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

He talks like he sees you, sees directly through the screen and into your eyes. Like he knows what you’re doing in your own room, alone, totally under his control.

He leans back against the edge of the bed, one hand behind him to steady him, the other still wrapped around his cock.

Then, his gaze sharpens again. “Alright, baby. Now you can touch. Let me see it. Fingers deep. Rub that clit slow and soft, don’t rush it. I want to hear how messy it gets.”

Your fingers tremble as you slide your hand beneath your clothes, cheeks flushing hot with a mix of shame and desperate need. Your breath hitches as your fingers meet your slick folds. Heat coils in your gut, sharp and needy.

“Good girl,” he groans. “That’s it. Just like that. Take your time. I want you fucking ruined by the end of this.”

He’s so fucking good at this. He’s a goddamn star.

His voice drops, ragged with arousal now. “Faster. Rub that little clit hard, don’t you dare stop. Fuck yourself for me, just like I told you.”

You whimper, body writhing under your sheets. Your shirt is already pushed up, one hand squeezing your phone tightly, the other between your thighs, fingers slick with arousal. Your hips roll into your own touch, matching the rhythm of his strokes.

He groans again, low and filthy, his voice rough with lust. “You better be touching yourself exactly like I told you. I want to hear you come for me, baby. Say my name loud.”

Your breath stutters as your fingers circle your clit faster, the wet sounds of your need echoing in your room. “Seonghwa… I-, please…”

“Fingers deeper,” he growls. “Rub that clit while you fuck yourself, baby, don’t make me say it again. I want you moaning my name, legs shaking, begging for more even when you can’t take it.”

You obey without hesitation, sprawled on your bed, one hand buried between your thighs, soaked with your own slick.

But it’s not enough.

Your eyes flutter shut, body already moving in rhythm with his voice, his words, his breath. And then you let go. You pretend it’s not your fingers. You imagine it’s him.

That it’s Seonghwa between your legs, kneeling over you on your bed. His hands are the ones parting your thighs, his fingers circling your clit in teasing, torturously slow circles. You imagine the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his chest above yours, his cock hard against your stomach as he whispers filth right into your ear.

Your eyes snap open. They find the screen in your hand, find him.

“Look at you,” he pants, stroking faster now, spit and precome shining along the thick length of his cock. “Fucking yourself like a good little slut. You’d let me wreck you, wouldn’t you? You’d take every inch and still ask for more. I want you crying because it feels so fucking good.”

Your breath hitches, hips lifting into your own touch, and you pretend it’s him holding you down, not your trembling hand. That it’s his lips grazing your neck as he groans how tight and wet you are for him.

You moan, high and broken, hips jerking up against your fingers. “Yes-, yes, Seonghwa, please, I-”

Tears sting your lashes from how good it feels, how overwhelming it is to be seen and controlled, even from across a screen.

Then, suddenly, his voice softens just enough to ruin you. “Come for me now, pretty girl. Say my fucking name. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You cry out, body seizing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. “Seonghwa-, fuck, Seonghwa!”

And all the while, his eyes never leave the camera. Never leave you.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, his strokes turning desperate now, almost harsh, as he chases his own release. “Look what you do to me.”

His body tenses, abs flexing, brows drawn tight with pleasure, lips parted as a strangled sound leaves him. And then he comes, cock jerking in his fist, thick ropes spilling over his stomach. His whole body shakes with it, moans leaving his beautiful mouth.

The video ends with him slumping back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin, his hair a mess across his forehead. The smirk that curls on his lips is smug, victorious, as if he’s just claimed something from you without lifting a finger.

“Fucking perfect,” he says softly. “Next time, maybe you’ll be here.”

And the video ends.

You’re left panting, flushed, utterly undone.

You set the phone down, heart still racing, skin still tingling. Embarrassment floods you, but beneath it is a darker craving, a need that won’t be satisfied anytime soon.

***

On Friday, you knock on the door, hesitate for a second, then push it open.

Same office. Same dark walls, same black armchair in the corner, same lingering scent of something expensive and musky. But today, none of it feels the same.

Your chest tightens with a rush of heat and embarrassment of seeing him. You remind yourself to focus, to stay professional. But the memory of the other night, the video you couldn’t stop watching, presses against your thoughts, making your cheeks flush.

He doesn’t notice.

Because the man sitting there doesn’t look like the one you met earlier this week.

Seonghwa is sunk deep into the armchair near the window, hood up, legs stretched out. A lit cigarette dangles between his fingers, ash clinging stubbornly to the end. His usual polished precision is nowhere in sight.

And neither is that smirk.

You pause in the doorway. “Morning.”

He lifts his head just barely, eyes narrowing like the light annoys him. “Oh. Right.. Today.”

No charm. No grin. Not even the cool confidence he always wears like armor.

“I texted you last night. Said I’d be here at ten.”

“Doesn’t mean I remembered,” he mutters, dragging from the cigarette. The smoke curls between you, soft and lazy, but his tone cuts through it like glass.

You step into the room, letting the door click softly behind you. “Are you okay?”

He gives you a look that makes it very clear that was the wrong question. “Peachy.”

You pause, scanning him. The hoodie. The mess of papers on his desk. A barely touched coffee going cold beside his laptop. The light in here is dim, drawn shades casting thin slats across the floor. You can feel the heat of his mood before he says another word.

“You don’t have to fake concern,” he mutters, taking another drag. “It’s not gonna make the column sound any less curated.”

Your brows knit. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand toward you, toward the room. “This. All of this. Let’s not pretend this is anything other than you getting your material.”

You shift on your feet, a slow flare of irritation lighting your chest. “What do you think I want from this?”

“I think you care about getting the most interesting version of me. The wounded, brooding performer with something to hide.” His mouth twists into something sharp. “It’s exactly what you wanted to see, right?” His gaze cuts to you, sharp and flat. “Congratulations. You’re getting it.”

Your chest tightens, but you stay still. “You think I want you like this?”

“I think you want truth,” he snaps, tapping the ash into the tray. “And this is it. The version I try to keep under wraps because it doesn’t sell. Because it doesn’t make anyone hard or fall in love.”

You glance at the clock. “Do we still do this today? Or should I come back another time?”

He exhales a long breath, rubs a hand over his jaw. “Let’s get it over with.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began, you see him not as the man who holds all the cards, but as someone who hates being looked at too closely.

The day unfolds in fragments.

Meetings. Scripts. Phone calls. Camera tests.

You follow him like you’re supposed to, your notebook tucked under your arm, phone in your pocket, voice recorder untouched. Seonghwa walks ahead of you like he forgot you were even there, hood still up, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, the fraying hem of his sweatshirt twitching with each agitated movement.

The production assistant tries to make a joke as he hands Seonghwa a stack of papers. Seonghwa doesn’t smile.

It’s the little things. The way his knee bounces restlessly beneath the conference table. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he thinks no one’s looking. The way he zooms out when no one is talking.

You’re silent, mostly. Observing. But it’s impossible not to feel how much he doesn’t want you here.

Not just today, maybe at all.

When the others clear out of the room for a break, you’re left standing near the window. He lights another cigarette and leans back in his chair, exhaling with all the exhaustion of a man three times his age.

You glance at him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do I look okay?”

“No. That’s why I asked.”

He drags in another breath of smoke, eyes fixed somewhere past the window.

You take a step closer. “I’m not here to-”

“To fix anything,” he says, voice quieter now, less bite in it. He finally meets your eyes, and something in his expression softens just enough to hurt. “You’re here to tell a story. I get it.”

“That’s not all I’m doing. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs, more resigned than cold. “It’s not meant to be. It’s just… easier to believe you’re doing your job than actually giving a fuck.”

And it hits you then, he’s not trying to shut you out to be cruel. He’s doing it to keep himself from hoping for something more. You hate that he means it. That he believes it. That somewhere between the tension and the peeling back of layers, he still doesn’t trust you enough to believe you care.

Today’s studio space is colder than the hallway, industrial lights buzzing overhead, metal rigs stacked along the walls, and a makeshift bed propped under the camera setup.

You step in behind Seonghwa, careful not to bump into the maze of cords and crew. It’s eerily quiet for a shoot day. But maybe that’s because everyone’s waiting for him.

He’s in his hoodie, the hood still pulled over his head like armor. Hands in his pockets, spine tense. His steps are heavy, slow. Like walking into this room costs him something. And the moment people notice him, something shifts. Not respect. Not admiration. Something more primal.

“God, look at that,” someone murmurs near the lighting board. “Even with a hoodie on, he looks like sex.”

A grip elbows his buddy. “Bet they have him jack off again. He’s too good at it not to.”

Laughter buzzes through the set like a current. You pretend not to hear.

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. You watch his expression from the side, blank. Guarded. Not new to this.

The director finally enters, a man in a designer tee and sunglasses indoors, and claps his hands together with a wide, lazy grin. His eyes go straight to Seonghwa.

“There he is! My masterpiece,” he says with a grin. “Fuck, you’re still so fuckable it’s actually unfair. Even with that tired little pout, perfect. Stay like that.” He steps in close, fingers curling under the hem of Seonghwa’s hoodie and lifting it uninvited. “Yeah, we’ll use this for the thumbnail. Boys wanna be you, girls wanna ride you. And the ones in between? They’re paying double. Let’s not waste time on foreplay, you're losing the pants before we hit four minutes anyways.”

You blink. He doesn’t even ask.

“Today’s just a solo,” the director continues, already talking to the crew. “I want long shots of the buildup. Give me that lazy jerk-off style he does. Like he just woke up and couldn’t help himself. And get tight on his abs when he clenches, viewers love that shit. Make the fuckers at home feel like they’re right there, breathing down his neck.“

He turns back to Seonghwa. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just stroke it, look hot, moan a little, and come when I tell you.”

The words land with the weight of indifference. Like Seonghwa’s just a prop. A function. A dick and a face with a pulse.

You glance up at him. His jaw is tight. His mouth a flat line. Not angry, no. This isn’t new to him. It’s routine. Expected. A part of the job he doesn’t get to question.

You speak without thinking. “He’s not just a prop.”

That earns you a look. Not just from the director, but Seonghwa too. Something flickers in his eyes, shock, maybe surprise.

The director barks a laugh. “Relax. Don’t get righteous. It’s the industry, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you’re in the wrong room.” He walks off before you can respond, barking something about angles and cumshots.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Seonghwa doesn’t move at first. When he finally does, it’s slow, measured. His jaw works, but his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s not about what I want,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. “It never is.” He doesn’t say more. Just shrugs off the hoodie and walks toward the set.

You don’t say a word.

But the director’s yelling grabs attention, half-distracted by his phone.

“Come on, Seonghwa. Slower. Let’s really feel that stroke. Sell it like you mean it.”

He doesn’t flinch, not outwardly.

You watch him slip into the rhythm. One hand curls lightly at the base of his stomach, the other resting behind him. He’s not touching himself, not yet.

He looks like a sculpture: smooth, stunning, perfect, and completely lifeless inside. The charm is gone. The Seonghwa you’ve gotten glimpses of, the one with the bitter laugh and the razor wit, the one who says too much when he’s tired and smokes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, isn’t here. He’s been replaced by a fantasy. A tool.

And no one seems to care.

“Yeah,” the director says absently, standing near the monitor. “God, your face does most of the work for you, doesn’t it? You could just stand there and they’d still fucking come.”

There’s laughter around the room. Like Seonghwa isn’t even present, like he’s just a prop they’re manipulating.

And it makes your chest ache.

You take a slow breath and step back from the edge of the set. There’s nothing for you to do here. Nothing to say that wouldn’t sound hollow, or patronizing, or worse, just like everyone else who pretends to care while still benefiting from his body.

So you turn and quietly leave the room. The hallway outside feels colder, quieter. You don’t know what you’re allowed to feel in this moment. Anger? Sympathy? Guilt?

You just know you couldn't watch anymore.

Not when he clearly didn’t want you to. Not when the man you came here to understand was being stripped away, piece by piece, until only the image was left.

And that image? That glossy, controlled performance?

That’s what they want. Not him. Not the real him.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than you expected.

The dressing room smells faintly of cologne, latex, and sweat. You sit on the edge of the black bench against the wall when the door opens. The sound is sharp in the stillness, followed by footsteps that slow as they see you.

Seonghwa walks in, his hoodie bunched in one hand, hair damp, jaw clenched. He’s wearing only his sweatpants, his skin still glistening with leftover oil. His expression flickers, not anger, but something edged. Tired. Wary.

He walks past you, heading to the corner where a small fridge hums beside the dressing table. Rows of expensive liquor line the shelves. Vodka, whiskey, soju, even a few overly expensive wine bottles. Every possible way to forget himself sits chilled and ready. But he ignores them all, reaching instead for a plain bottle of water. He drinks slowly, throat moving, his other hand flexing once at his side like he’s holding something in.

"You left." His voice is rough. Not accusing. Just...surprised.

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t think that would bother you,” He drops the hoodie onto a chair, drags a towel off a hook and wipes at his face. “You’ve seen me do worse.”

“I didn’t leave because I couldn’t handle the scene,” you say. “I left because you looked like you couldn’t.”

His movements slow. The towel lowers slightly.

“I’ve seen you do this before. At the studio, with the woman. You were in it. Comfortable. Maybe even enjoying it.”

He scoffs under his breath and turns away, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That was a different day. Different shoot. Different director.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Back then, it looked like a choice. Like you were in control. Today it didn’t.”

He leans both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense. “You know what the difference is?” He looks at you in the mirror, not turning. “That shoot? I liked the director. I liked the setting. I was in the fucking mood. It worked because it came from me. This-” He laughs hollowly, a crack of frustration. “This was someone powerful enough to say do it or get out. Someone I can’t afford to say no to. So, I did it.”

You don’t speak. You let him.

“I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Didn’t want to fuck, didn’t want to look sexy, didn’t want to perform, but I had to.” He shakes his head. “There are days that feels like a goddamn prison sentence.”

He finally turns, leaning back against the counter now. Arms crossed. His chest rises slowly, like he’s trying not to show how much he said just cost him.

You watch him carefully, the hard edges softening just enough to see the man behind the mask.

“You said you don’t fake it,” you say quietly. “So… what was that?”

He sighs, eyes flicking away before meeting yours again. “Survival,” he admits, voice low but steady. “I love what I do. I’m proud of who I’ve become, what I’ve built from nothing. I own this life. The good, the bad, all of it. But like any job, there are parts you hate. Parts that drain you.” He taps the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “That scene? That was me bending to someone else’s will. I swallowed it because I had to. Because I don’t get to pick every day. And sometimes surviving means doing things you hate, even when you don’t want to.”

The silence stretches between you. Something hangs in the air, too heavy for neither of you to grab.

“No one’s ever walked away before,” he says finally. His voice is lower now. “They usually just...watch. Or enjoy the show.”

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the movement drawing his attention. He lowers his gaze, fingers dragging over his jaw. There's exhaustion etched into his features, but beneath it, something quieter, heavier. Resignation.

“I didn’t come here to feed on the worst version of you,” you say. “I came here to see the real one. That’s not the same thing.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw flexes once. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry, or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he doesn’t know how to respond.

Then, finally, a dry sound leaves his throat. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” he says softer, glancing over at you again, voice softer, “congrats. You got him.” His gaze sharpens, a little of that old arrogance flickering behind it. “Grumpy. Tired. Mentally undressing people out of sheer boredom. You sure that’s the ‘real’ me you wanted?”

You lift a brow. “If this is you flirting again, it’s deeply depressing.”

He snorts, pushing off the dressing table to pace the small room with slow steps.

“You make it hard not to,” he says.

There’s something in his walk, looser than before, more relaxed, like some of the tension’s drained from his muscles.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. “You know, I usually expect people to want things from me. Attention. A show. Something they can get off to, or write about, or pretend to care about just long enough to take.”

You meet his eyes.

“And what do I want?” you ask.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says, a little smile curling at his lips now. “But it’s starting to piss me off.”

You let out a short laugh. “Good.”

He steps closer.

Not too close. Just enough to tilt the atmosphere again. To remind you of how he carries himself when he’s not being forced to play a role, but when he chooses to.

“Maybe you’re the first one who didn’t want the performance,” he murmurs. “But that means you might actually want me. And that’s… far more dangerous.”

He steps closer. Enough to make you feel like he could cage you.

Your mouth twists. “I can handle dangerous.”

“I know you can,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before rising again. “Which is probably why I keep wondering what it’d take to ruin you.”

Your breath catches, just barely. But you recover fast, narrowing your eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here.”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I remember. You’ve been trying to control me from day one.”

You smirk. “Trying?”

The air between you charges again, a slow rise of energy you’ve both become addicted to, banter as foreplay, tension as currency.

He leans in just slightly, voice a whisper now. “You keep poking at the beast, sweetheart, and one day it’s gonna bite.”

You don’t back down. You never do. Instead, you tilt your head, eyes bright, tone playful but edged.

“Show me who you are, pornstar.”

And this time, it’s him left watching your back as you leave the room, a slow grin curving at the edge of his mouth.

The day drags on, marked by long meetings, quick walks between sets, and endless discussions about scripts, schedules, and contracts. From the outside, Seonghwa is in professional, his face a carefully guarded mask as he navigates a world that rarely sees past his looks.

But you notice the small things that slip through the cracks.

When a new intern drops a clipboard near him, he crouches without hesitation, helping her gather the pages. “It happens,” he murmurs, flashing a small, crooked smile. She blushes. He doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on making sure the papers aren’t bent.

You see how he checks in with his scene partner when going through an upcoming scene. Not just the “are you okay?” they’re supposed to say, but the quiet, real kind. “Do you want to run through it first?” “Is there a word you don’t like hearing?” “Tell me what makes you feel safe.” His voice never dips into showmanship. He means it.

He holds the boom operator’s ladder while they’re adjusting the rig, just instinct. Offers his hoodie to a grip when the studio AC kicks in too hard. Tells the runner she can take his spot in line for catering because she’s been on her feet all day.

The day’s light was fading as you wrapped up, the set slowly emptying out around you. You felt the weight of the last few days settle in, a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. On Monday, this all would be just words on a page, a story told from your view. But tonight, there was still unfinished business. A handful of questions you needed to ask him before publishing on Monday.

He didn’t say much as you left the set together. When you arrived at his apartment, the familiar scent of his space settled around you like a cloak, dark wood, leather, a faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air.

The city outside buzzed faintly, but inside, it was different. More intimate. Raw.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle. You expect something like whiskey or beer, something to match the rough edges you’ve seen in him, but instead, he grabs a sparkling water and pops the cap with a practiced flick. He drinks without hesitation, eyes locked on the glass.

You watch for a moment. He drinks other things, coffee, energy drinks, soda, but not alcohol. Curious, you finally address it, “You never touch alcohol.”

He exhales slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m sober. Used to drink, back when I started all this,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the industry chaos outside. “Made things easier, especially scenes I didn’t want to do. Just numb the brain, let the body do the work. But it didn’t stay easy. Became a problem.”

He shrugs, a little bitter. “Quit cold turkey. Stuck to cigarettes. They don’t fuck with me the way alcohol did.”

You take that in, the weight behind his words settling between you.

He glances up, a spark of that familiar cocky edge in his eyes. “Same deal as last time,” he says quietly. “You get to ask whatever you want, I get to ask you back.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod, meeting his gaze steadily. “Fair enough.”

The room shifts subtly, the air thickening as you settle on the couch, the glow of the city filtering in through the blinds. He drops onto the couch opposite you, propping an elbow on the armrest and flicking a glance your way that’s half teasing, half challenging. The familiar smirk curling at the corner of his lips, the kind that warns you he’s gearing up to push boundaries.

“So,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “what’s the first thing you want to know? Don’t hold back. You’re not here for small talk.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the heat of it, the sharpness wrapped in that easy confidence. “Alright then,” you say, “what’s the one thing about you that no one’s ever bothered to ask?”

His smirk deepens. “Curious. I like that.” He taps his finger against his chin. “I guess… people never ask what scares me. Everyone’s so obsessed with the surface, nobody wants to know what actually keeps me up at night.”

He leans back in the couch, arm resting casually on the armrest, his gaze locked on you with that familiar cocky glint. “Alright,” he says, voice low and slow like he’s savoring every word. “Your turn to answer. But I’m not asking about your favorite color or some safe, boring shit.” He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver a verdict. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined me doing to you? Don’t hide it, I know you’ve thought about it.”

Your breath hitches. You want to look away, but his gaze pins you, sharp and relentless. “You don’t know a thing about me,” you say, voice tight but quiet.

“Just admit that I get under your skin.” he pushes.

The air thickens between you, every word a spark, every look a flame. You don’t answer, but the tension says everything.

He tips his head toward you, a slow grin pulling at his lips. “Alright,” he says, voice low and playful. “Speed round. No thinking, just answer.”

You bite back a smirk. “Fine. But same rules for you.”

He raises his hand, palm open in mock surrender. “Deal.” A pause. He leans forward, eyes glinting. “Lights on or off?”

You roll your eyes. “Off.” You don’t hesitate. “What was your first scene like?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Awful. Cheap hotel room, bad lighting, guy behind the camera eating chips the whole time. I hated every second of it, until the money hit.”

You nod, filing it away.

His eyes flicker over you. “Ever had someone make you come so hard you forgot your own name?”

You blink, caught off guard, but you recover quickly. “No.”

He raises a brow. “No?”

You shake your head. “Next question.”

He’s grinning now. “Cold. I like it.”

You tilt your head. “What makes a scene enjoyable for you?”

“Chemistry,” he answers easily. “Real tension. Not just moaning on command.” He doesn’t wait. “Where do you like to be touched first?”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not here for your journalism,” he says smoothly. “I want the truth.”

You shift in your seat. “Fine. Shoulders, my neck,” You exhale, shifting in your seat. “Rough or slow?”

His gaze darkens just a shade. “Both. Start slow, end ruined.” His eyes glitter as he tilts his head. “When you touched yourself the other night… what did you picture me doing?”

The question hits like a slap, fast, sharp, completely out of nowhere.

You freeze.

It’s just for a second. A breath, a blink. But it’s all he needs.

His smirk blooms, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the flavor of your silence.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and rich. “That’s all the answer I need.”

Your eyes narrow, heart beating faster. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was better than one,” he murmurs. “You should see your face right now.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, every line of him tuned in. “So what was it? Me between your thighs? My fingers? My mouth?” He grins. “Or did you watch a video of mine?”

You hate that he’s right. You hate even more how much of this is true. How a few nights ago, in your bed, you had slipped your hand between your thighs with the very image of him in your head, voice, mouth, body, all of it.

And now he’s sitting across from you, as if he knows.

You shift in your seat, your heart beating in your neck, tightening your jaw. “Do you always get off on making people flustered?”

He smiles, utterly unbothered. “Only when they’re pretending they’re not dying to be fucked.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you from across the room, legs spread comfortably on the couch opposite yours, his elbow draped lazily over the armrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then, without a word, he rises.

You don’t track him with your eyes, but you feel it, his slow, easy steps as he walks around the coffee table and then behind your couch. Your breath hitches when you sense him close, the faint scent of his cologne and smoke drifting down as he pauses behind you. You stiffen slightly, unsure of his next move.

And then his fingers touch your shoulders.

His voice comes low beside your ear, thick with promise and filth. “So what was I doing in that pretty little head of yours?”

You inhale sharply, but say nothing.

“Was it my mouth?” he continues, fingertips trailing with maddening gentleness over the curve of your shoulder. “My tongue?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

His hand pauses, then brushes a little more firmly down your upper arm. “Or were you fucking yourself to a video? The kitchen one, maybe? The way I bend her over the counter and make her beg? That one tends to be a favorite,”

Your legs press together without thinking, and you feel his pause, feel the smirk in it.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So it was a video.”

Behind you, his voice lowers.

“Maybe it wasn’t one of the rough ones,” he murmurs. “Maybe it wasn’t even with a partner. Maybe…” His fingers pause, then brush inwards, tracing just beneath the neckline of your shirt, not quite slipping in, but enough to make your skin tighten. “Maybe it was one of the solo ones from my own bed.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. But the heat climbing up your chest gives you away.

“Those are always my favorites,” he adds, almost conversationally, but there's a layer beneath it, quieter, more real. “No director. No lights. Just me. In my space. Needing something.”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep control, but it’s already slipping. Your thighs press tighter together, and he must know.

He keeps going.

He leans in closer, breath warm against your skin. “Did you watch me stroke myself slow? Did you imagine kneeling between my legs, watching the way my hand moves? Did you-”

A sound escapes you, too soft to be a word, too loud to be ignored.

“Was I good?” he whispers.

Your breathe halters. You scoff, weakly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

He pushes, knowing what this is doing to you. “Did I make you come fast? Or did you take your time, pretending it was my fingers inside you?”

His hands settle gently at your shoulders again, and this time, his thumbs drag over the base of your neck.

“And now I’m right here,” he murmurs. “Right behind you. Talking you through it. Wanting to see when you give in.”

His thumbs sweep in lazy circles over the tops of your shoulders, light enough to keep you aching for more.

“I could make you feel so fucking good right now,” he says, voice silken and low. “You don’t even know.”

You grip the edge of the couch cushion, nails digging in. You still don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your breath is shallow, not when you’re afraid he’ll see just how badly you want it.

He chuckles, not mocking, but knowing.

“I see it in the way you breathe,” he says, “the way your thighs press together when I talk like this. You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Me between your legs. My mouth. My hands. My cock.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pulsing through your core like a current.

“But I’m not touching you yet,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, along the side of your neck this time, slow, reverent. “You want it. But I need you to give it to me. Say the word. Look at me. Move. Something.”

His fingers still, barely resting against your skin.

“I won’t take unless you give,” he murmurs. “But sweetheart, if you do give…” His voice dips, dark and sweet like molasses, “... I’ll ruin you in the best fucking way.”

You stay frozen for half a beat longer, heart thundering, torn between pride and hunger, between control and the deep, unbearable need rising in your chest.

Then, you shift.

Your voice is quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“Then take me.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t lunge for you. He doesn't devour or drag or tear, no, Seonghwa moves like he’s been waiting years for this, like he knows exactly how to handle something delicate, how to cherish what’s willingly offered. His hands leave your shoulders and slide down your arms, slow and grounding, as he steps around the couch and kneels before you.

His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, breath shaky. “I want you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not with aggression, but with intensity, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way your breath catches when he deepens it. His hands press to your thighs, parting them slightly so he can move closer, fitting between them like he belongs there.

You wrap your arms around him, needing him more than you’d ever dare to admit.

His fingers skim beneath the hem of your shirt but don’t push, just touch, warm and open-palmed against your waist, your ribs, your spine.

You let out a moan just from his touch.

He grins against your neck, the cocky bastard, but it’s laced with something deeper, that maddening adoration, the one you’re not ready to look too closely at.

“I’m going to make it better than you imagined,” he says. “I promise you that.”

His tank top clings to his toned muscles, black nail polish catching the light, and that eyebrow piercing, sharp and bold, reminds you exactly who he is. A fucking pornstar. And he owns every part of that.

He doesn’t even look away as he drags down your jeans and they hit the floor. His hands stay on your thighs, spreading them apart like it’s instinct. Confident. Unshakable. His thumbs brush over your inner skin, slow and unhurried, like he’s already memorizing what makes you squirm.

And you do, just a little. Just enough.

“God, you’re so damn easy to read,” he breathes, his fingers trace up, catching at the edge of your panties, not pulling, just letting the pressure build.

One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady. The other slips beneath the fabric, knuckles dragging slow and hot across your skin. His fingers slide through the slick mess between your legs, and he groans, low, appreciative, like he’s savoring it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough against your skin. “You’re soaked for me. This wet just from my voice, my mouth…” His words brush against your thigh like heat. But it’s his fingers that undo you, two of them buried deep, dragging slow, perfect pressure inside you, curling just right.

You try to hold back the sounds, but you can’t. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with him touching you like this.

“I want to know,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady, eyes locked on yours as his fingers work inside you, steady and relentless. “Which one did you watch?”

You hesitate, jaw tight, breath shaky. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, soft, slow, teasing.

“Was it one of the rough ones?” he continues, cocking his head.

You shake your head. Your voice barely escapes you, breathless and shame-warm. “It was… one of the solo ones.”

He stills for just a second. “Yeah?,” he breathes, pushing deeper, harder. “You watched me touch myself? Stroke my cock for the camera like I was thinking of someone like you?” He groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Was that it?”

His fingers slip out of you only long enough to hook into your panties, tugging them down in one smooth motion. He doesn’t rush it. He watches every inch of your skin as he reveals it, his eyes hot, hungry, reverent.

When they’re off, he drops them to the floor without a second thought, gaze trailing up the inside of your thighs like a promise.

“Tell me what you liked about it,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “That video. Tell me what made you soak your sheets. Was I dirty enough? Rough? Did you picture me fucking you slow, or fast and ruthless?”

You hesitate, but his mouth moves higher, a wet kiss just beside your center, and your hips twitch.

He smiles against your skin. “Come on. You watched me stroke my cock in that bed, didn’t you? The way I moaned, the way I whispered filthy shit to the camera like I knew someone like you was watching.” His tongue traces a line slowly up your thigh. “You fucking loved it.”

Your voice cracks. “You… looked so good. The way you touched yourself. Slow. Like you weren’t in a rush. Like you really felt it.”

He groans, soft and deep. “I did feel it, baby. I was thinking of a mouth like yours. Of a pussy just like this…” He leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You gasp, thighs jumping. “And now I get to taste you for real.”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth is there, tongue dragging firm and slow over your clit like he’s claiming it, sucking it between his lips with a low growl that vibrates right through you.

You arch up, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the couch, already unraveling.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs against you. “What made you come?”

You can barely breathe. “When you-” Your hips jerk as he flicks his tongue again. “When you moaned. The way your eyes looked when you came. Like… like you needed it.”

He moans in response, mouth working deeper now, and slides two fingers into you again, curling them just right.

“Yeah? You like seeing me lose it?” he groans. “Wanna see it again, real and messy? Feel it instead of watching it?”

You nod, desperate, hips grinding against his mouth, chasing his tongue. He laughs softly, dark and full of heat. “You’re so fucking responsive. That’s my favorite kind of girl, one who can’t fake it, can’t hide it.”

His fingers work with unrelenting precision, pornstar skill, yes, but this is personal. Focused. For you.

He eats you like it’s his favorite meal. His mouth and fingers work in perfect rhythm, slow at first, then faster when your moans rise. He pulls you to the edge and keeps you there, not letting up, not letting go, until-

You shatter.

It rips through you like lightning, your moan breaking out loud and needy, hips bucking, thighs clenching around his head. He holds you through it, groaning into your pussy like your orgasm is everything he’s ever wanted.

You’re still trying to catch your breath, thighs trembling, body slack against the couch when he rises up from between your legs.

He looks wrecked, in the most beautiful way. Lips wet, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising and falling beneath that goddamn tank top that clings to him like a second skin. His eyes never leave yours, dark and full of something primal.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, making sure you feel how filthy he is. How much he wants more.

You kiss him back, instinctive now, desperate and starved, the lingering taste of yourself on his tongue only turning you on more.

He pulls back just enough to tug his tank top over his head and toss it aside. His body is ridiculous. Toned, cut, a living ad for sin.

He unbuttons his pants, unzips, and pulls them down, revealing hard thighs and that heavy bulge beneath his briefs. You can’t help the way your eyes lock there, at the thick outline of him, the part of him you’ve seen in clips, in curated fantasies, shadows of it from across a room, but never this close, never this real.

He smirks, catches your gaze. “Want to see what you touched yourself to?”

Your throat dries. You nod slowly.

He pushes his briefs down, cock springing free, thick, veined, flushed, already hard and leaking at the tip. Bigger than you remembered. Even more intimidating in person. Even more fucking perfect.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once, slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“This what you watched?” he murmurs. “Me in my bed, stroking it slow, saying your name without even knowing it?”

You nod again, breathless.

You stay right where you are, seated on the edge of the couch, looking up at him, and he looks fucking godlike. His cock is thick and hard, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to ruin you all over again.

You reach for him, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, thick and warm and pulsing in your hand, and the sound he makes is low, choked, like he wasn’t expecting how good it would feel already. His head falls back for just a second as you stroke him, your thumb brushing over the bead of pre-cum at the tip.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of him, from base to tip, your tongue flat and teasing. His thighs flex, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I watched you do this,” you whisper, licking your lips. “In that solo video. In your bed. Your hand wrapped around your cock just like this.”

His thumb wipes the mess from your bottom lip, but there’s nothing gentle about it now. There’s a fire behind his eyes, hunger sharpened into something rough, possessive.

“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You do.

He slides his cock back between your lips, his hand finds the back of your head, threading through your hair, not rough, but firm. Grounding.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, breath hitching. “Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Just let me in.”

You focus on your breath. Inhale, exhale. You relax your jaw, tongue flat, letting him take up space, letting him show you how.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”

This time, when he pushes deeper, it’s smoother. Less panic, more control. Your body adjusts. Your mouth opens wider for him, your throat yielding, and it feels good. Powerful, even.

He groans, deep in his chest. “You feel that? That little click when it goes in deeper? That’s your throat giving up. That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

You hum around him, and he shudders.

“God, look at you. Taking me so fucking well. You learn fast.”

His praise makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low. Your eyes flutter up to meet his, wet and wide, and the look on his face, awe, hunger, something almost reverent, makes you want to show off.

You press forward on your own this time, let him slip fully into your throat.

He hisses, hips jerking.

“Fuck. Good girl. That’s it-, fuck, that’s it.”

His free hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw, watching every twitch of your expression like it’s art. Like you’re art.

He’s fucking your face now.

Your nails dig into his thighs, eyes locked on his, and he can see it. The want. The ache. You need this. You need him. He pulls out slowly, finally, letting you gasp for air, spit trailing from your lip to his cock. Your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen, and you’ve never felt more ruined, or more alive.

His hand stays on your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

You nod, breathing hard, voice wrecked. “More.”

That word? It’s all he needs.

He grips your jaw, your throat sore, spit clinging to your lips and chin. Your eyes are glassy, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from being fucked so deep, so hard, and he can’t take it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, staring at you like he’s ready to devour you. “You don’t even know what you look like right now.”

Your lips part like you might try to answer, but he doesn’t let you. He hauls you to your feet with one firm pull, fingers still tangled in your hair, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he owns your breath, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like the filthy mess you’ve become under his hands only makes him hungrier.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb wipes at the trail of spit along your cheek, slow and deliberate.

Without a word, he turns and drops into the black armchair behind him, legs spread, cock flushed and heavy, glistening with your spit. His fingers curl in a come here motion as he leans back, one brow lifted.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “I want to see everything.”

You hesitate, just a second. Enough for his grin to deepen.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs. “You’ve already had me fuck your mouth. Be a good girl and let me fill you up.”

Your pulse stutters, but your body moves on instinct. You slide into his lap, thighs spread wide, and his hands are instantly on you, firm on your hips, anchoring you in place. He’s so fucking hard beneath you, the thick weight of him resting right where you need it.

“Look at you,” he says, gaze locked on yours. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you’re all mine right now.”

You shift slightly, the friction making you gasp, and his hands tighten.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice low, like a promise. “Right here. Just like this. I want to feel all of you.”

He’s a pornstar, yes. But right now, with you, he’s so much more, an expert, a predator, a lover who knows every move to make you unravel.

Your hands grip his shoulders, grounding yourself. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin near your hips before he reaches between you both and takes his cock in hand. He doesn’t rush, just rubs the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“God, you’re soaked,” he groans. “You want me to fuck you, baby? Want me to fill that tight little pussy?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

He lines himself up and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut, your breath catch. He’s thick, hot, perfect, and when he’s fully seated inside you, the moan you let out is unfiltered, broken.

His head falls back against the chair, jaw clenched. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s how you take cock, baby. Just like that.”

You’re start bounce your hips, both of you breathless, sweat clinging to skin, when Seonghwa leans forward and fists the hem of your top.

“Off,” he growls against your neck, voice low and ragged. “I want to see all of you.”

He peels the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without breaking eye contact. His gaze drops to your bare chest, and for a moment, just a moment, he laughs, low and rich, like you're too unreal to fathom. His tongue flicks over your nipple and you arch into him, hands tangled in his hair.

His hand slides up to your throat, not tight, just there, possessive, grounding, as his other arm wraps around your back, pulling you in tighter. He kisses you again, tongue claiming yours, messy and hot and hungry.

Then he shifts, just slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies, his fingers curling around your hips.

“Here,” he says, voice low and firm. “Tilt forward a little. Right there, now roll your hips when I fuck into you. Not just up and down, roll. You’ll feel it hit deeper.”

You do as he says, and the second your hips adjust, your breath catches. Fuck. It’s like the angle unlocks something, you feel him right against that spot inside you, that sharp, aching pressure that steals the words from your mouth.

“Oh-, oh my god-”

“There you go,” he groans, watching your face twist. “That’s it. You feel that now?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, slow, rolling circles, grinding down as he thrusts up, every inch of him dragging right over that spot he told you to find.

His mouth finds your jaw, your ear. “Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” he breathes. “Smart girl. Feel how deep I am now? That’s all you. That’s you fucking yourself on my cock, just like I told you.”

You moan, loud and raw, body starting to tremble.

Suddenly, he shifts under you, standing in one fluid motion with your legs still wrapped around him, his arms securing you like you weigh nothing. You cling to him instinctively, arms around his neck, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

He carries you through the dim hallway, but his eyes, his eyes are locked on you the whole way, like he doesn’t dare blink.

When he steps into the bedroom, it hits you.

The layout. The red lighting. The exact angle of the bed. The nightstand where the camera had been.

This is where he filmed it.

Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He knows.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. More like something darker. “You recognize it.”

Before you can even say anything, he throws you down on the mattress, already dragging your legs apart, standing by the edge, looking down at you like he owns the whole fucking room. Like he owns you.

“You watched me stroke my cock on this bed? Come right here?” he asks, glancing down at the sheets beneath you.

You nod slowly, breath shallow.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark with promise, “Let’s make it fair.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers spreading you open with no hesitation. His gaze flicks down, then back to your face, hungry.

And before you can ask what he means, he spits.

A slow, deliberate string lands between your legs, hitting right where you’re already dripping for him. He watches it drip, then reaches down to smear it in with two fingers, slow, messy circles that make your hips jerk.

He strokes himself lazily with his other hand, the head flushed and slick as he guides it up against your entrance again, but doesn’t push in.

“Now you’re getting the exclusive.” His smirk is wicked. “First-hand experience.”

And with no more warning, he pushes in, slow, deep, endless, his hips staying flush to yours as he lets you feel all of it. No rush. No mercy.

The stretch makes your spine arch, legs trembling where they dangle off the edge of the bed.

His hands grip your thighs, keeping you wide open, keeping you in place. His hips draw back just enough to make you whimper, then slam back in, harder this time.

You cry out, unfiltered, aching, and his mouth curves up. Another thrust, deeper. Your hands claw at the sheets.

“God-”

“No, baby.” His voice drops, taunting. “Say it right.”

You meet his eyes, panting. “Seonghwa.”

“Mmm,” he groans like it feeds him. “That’s better.”

You yelp, a high, broken sound, and he only grins, dragging your legs up to rest over his shoulders without warning.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants, the shift angling him deeper, harder, like he’s trying to reach the part of you no one else has ever touched. His hips pound into you in a relentless rhythm, practiced, ruthless, like every stroke is calculated to make your body obey him.

“Fuck-, Seonghwa-”

“Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this. Bet no one’s ever earned it like I have.”

You shake your head, breathless. “N-No-, never-”

Seonghwa keeps his grip locked around your thighs, holding your legs over his shoulders, your body folded perfectly for him. His thrusts stay deep and steady, measured, intentional, devastating.

“Please-, please don’t stop-” you gasp, nails digging into the sheets. “You feel so good-, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he hisses, thrusting harder now. “You’re gonna take all of it, sweetheart. You’re gonna come again with me standing right here, fucking you like no one ever has.”

The bed creaks beneath you. His grip is bruising now, one hand sliding to your waist to hold you still as he picks up speed, hips slapping against you with ruthless precision.

Your body’s not just close, it’s on the edge, tipping over.

“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly. “Now cum on this cock. Let me feel it. Let me fucking have it.”

Your back arches, your body convulsing as you fall apart again, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know. Your walls clamp down around him, wet and tight and perfect, and he groans deep from his chest, like your pleasure physically wrecks him.

He doesn't slow. Doesn't stop.

"Where do you want it, baby?" he pants, voice low, urgent, dangerous. "Tell me where I can come."

You barely manage to speak, voice wrecked and raw with need. “Inside,” you breathe. “Please-, want it in me.”

His eyes flare. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck,” he snarls, grip tightening on your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt, hard and deep. His pace turns brutal, hips snapping forward with mindless hunger. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you full like a good girl?”

“Yes-, yes, Seonghwa-, please, give it to me-”

He lets out a desperate, broken sound, then his whole body seizes, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills everything, hot and thick and endless, painting your walls with every last drop. His head hangs forward, jaw clenched, muscles flexed with the effort of holding himself up.

He stays inside for a beat. Just breathing.

Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, still watching you, and watches as his cum spills out of you, slow and messy, dribbling down your skin and pooling on the sheets beneath.

His fingers drift to your inner thigh, spreading you wider, watching more of it leak from your swollen entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

Then, without hesitation, his fingers press inside you again, pushing gently but firmly to shove back every last drop he can.

“Can’t let any of this go to waste,” he growls, possessive and rough.

You shiver at how desperate and controlling he sounds, but beneath that rough edge, there’s a strange reverence in his touch, like he’s worshipping the mark he’s left on you.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, coated with his warmth, and lifts them to your lips, eyes never leaving your flushed, gasping face. You open for him, trembling, sucking his fingers wet and slow, tasting both of you on his fingers. He watches with that smug, greedy smile, like he’s already claiming you completely.

He leans down, lips pressing against yours in a slow, soft kiss that melts away the sharp edges of the moment. His hands cup your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing gentle circles as if grounding you back to the here and now.

He stands up, flexing his shoulders, and walks over to the mini fridge near the dressing table. You hear the familiar click-hiss of a water bottle cap twisting.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from everything, “take your time. No rush.”

He walks back to you, places the bottle into your hand, and taps your fingers lightly until you hold it.

“Drink,” he says. “You’ll thank me in twenty minutes.”

You take it, but your fingers are still trembling. Whether from the rush or the way he’s looking at you now, you can’t quite tell.

“Dizzy?” he asks, settling onto the bed next to you. Not touching, just close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

“A little,” you admit.

“That happens,” he says, voice lower now, gentler. “You came hard, probably held your breath. Let your body level out. You’ll be okay. I’m right here.” He reaches up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his eyes warm and steady.

There’s a pause. You take a sip of water.

“I didn’t expect you to be so...” You search for the word, then settle on it. “Attentive.”

He raises a brow, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You thought I just fuck and leave?”

“No. I just...” You shrug. “Didn’t think the guy who made that video would also bring me water. Be so soft after.”

“It’s not softness. It’s responsibility.” He smiles, a small, tender curve of his mouth that reaches his eyes. “I’m not just the guy in the video, you know. I don’t just show up, take what I want, and disappear.” His voice is steady, warm.

“They don't show this part in the videos. I thought it was different,” you whisper.

He shakes his head gently, as if it’s the simplest truth. “It’s not about being different. It’s about respect. About care. You deserve that."

He leans forward, brushing your hair off your forehead with a gentle touch, like he can’t stop touching you.

“And besides,” he adds, his voice dipping again, “you didn’t just watch the video. You liked it.” His thumb lingers at your temple. “You deserve to be taken care of after finally getting what you wanted.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

As you sip you water again, he grabs a towel from the dresser, and gently parts your legs again. His touch is slower now, deliberate, but no less confident. He wipes you down with care, checking your reaction with every motion, watching for discomfort.

He catches your gaze once, smirking at whatever expression you’re making. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, teasing. “You’re the one who wanted it inside.”

You let out a weak sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

His fingers press a little more firmly at your thigh, not sexual, just grounding. “Still with me?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to place a kiss just above your knee. Then another on your hip. Then your stomach. Not tender, possessive. A little filthy, like a promise that he could do it all over again if you weren’t trembling already.

He pulls the blanket up, not too high, just enough to cover the heat cooling on your skin. He settles beside you, moving slowly like he’s careful not to jostle you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you in gently, not possessive, not demanding. Just there. Anchoring. And the moment you let your head rest against his chest, he exhales like he’s been waiting for you to do that.

His fingers wander lightly over your skin, warm and steady, drawing lazy circles against your hipbone, then trailing up the line of your side. Over and over, same rhythm. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s safe now. That he’s still here.

You’re still flushed, still a little dazed, but he watches you like he’s tracking every breath. Not because he’s worried, but because he knows exactly what this moment means. This part. The calm after the wreckage.

“You okay?” he asks, tone softer now. Not teasing.

You nod, your cheek pressed to his chest. “Mhm. More than okay.”

He hums, pleased. “Didn’t expect you to let go like that,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your shoulder without thinking. “You surprise me.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is.” His mouth quirks at the edge, and he kisses the same spot again, just because he can. “You were good. So fucking good.”

You glance up at him, the daze still clinging to your lashes. Then, after a long beat, he smirks, voice dipping again into that familiar cocky charm.

“Responsive. Loud. The camera would love you.”

“Don’t get ideas,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, eyes closed now.

“Too late.”

And before you can roll your eyes or protest, he leans in again, presses a final kiss to your bare shoulder, and settles back, satisfied, smug, and still entirely himself.

***

Monday morning light filters softly through your window as you sit at your desk, fingers poised above the keyboard. The weekend had slipped away in a blur, days spent pouring over notes, replaying moments, shaping words into something honest.

Your column isn’t about the headlines, the shock factor, or the rumors swirling around Park Seonghwa. It’s about the man beneath the surface, the one who’s more than just a pornstar or a carefully crafted persona.

You write about his quiet moments, the way he listens, how he’s sharp and cocky but never cruel. You describe how his confidence is real, born from years of experience and knowing exactly who he is, not just the image he projects.

There’s a paragraph about his past struggles, how he battled his own demons, found sobriety, and reclaimed control over his life, a story of resilience rarely told in the industry he dominates.

You reflect on the subtle ways he cares, the small, almost invisible acts of kindness and attention he offers to those around him. How his cocky charm is layered with vulnerability, even if he’s the first to hide it.

With a slow breath, you hit send. The column goes live.

You feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation, this is more than just a story. It’s a reckoning, a quiet unveiling of someone you’ve come to know in ways no one else has.

The day passes at the office, and before you know it, it’s afternoon.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and push through the office doors, stepping into the late afternoon light. You start walking away from the building, the click of your heels echoing on the sidewalk. The buzz of the street pulls at you, but then, unexpectedly, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. There he is, Seonghwa, leaning casually against the brick wall a few steps away. Black tank top, black pants, eyebrow piercing catching the light, and that wicked, confident smirk you know so well.

You try to hide the quickening of your heart.

“Hey” You raise an eyebrow, trying not to react. “You following me now?”

He pushes off the wall with a lazy kind of grace, hands in his pockets as he strolls toward you. “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“I’d be impressed you admitted it.”

He chuckles, stopping in front of you, close, but not too close. “I read your column.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your tone cool. “Oh? Didn’t peg you as the literary type.”

His voice drops, amused. “Let’s see…” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “‘Park Seonghwa is more than what meets the eye,’” he begins, voice low and teasing. “‘Behind the piercing gaze and confident smirk is a man who understands what it means to be seen, truly seen, beyond the surface.’” He looks up, smirk widening. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“I have my moments.”

His smirk deepens. “And here I thought you just tolerated me.” He scrolls a little more, then reads with a wicked grin, “‘And maybe, that’s what makes him not just the best in his field, but someone impossible to forget.’”. He looks up at you. “Now I know that wasn’t for the readers.”

You flush slightly but play it off. “Believe it or not, I write for an audience. Not for your ego.”

He leans in just a little closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “Guess I’m not as bad as you thought, huh?”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “Maybe.”

That’s when he moves.

Slow, like he knows exactly how to set you off. He steps in, close enough that you have to tilt your chin slightly to keep eye contact. One hand comes up, fingertips skimming along your jaw, then drifting down the side of your neck. Light. Barely there. But very, very intentional.

His voice drops, velvet-soft. “So tell me this…” His thumb brushes under your jaw, coaxing your chin up just a touch. “Who’d you really write it for?”

You meet his gaze, lips twitching. “My editor.”

That smirk of his sharpens. “Mm. Liar.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, lips hovering over yours. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if daring you to close the gap between you.

“Don’t think this is the end of the story, though. I like where this is headed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise.

You don’t hesitate. Your confidence hums beneath your skin as you step forward, closing the last fraction of space. Your hand presses firmly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Leaning in, your lips brush just along the curve of his ear, a breathy, teasing whisper that drips with cocky challenge.

“Then keep up, pornstar.”

His breath catches, just for a second.

You pull back with a wicked smile, tapping his chest once before turning on your heel and strolling off like he didn’t just get flipped on his own script.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his stare, burning, amused, and turned on as hell.

And behind you, Seonghwa watches with a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glued to your retreating figure.

Yeah. The story’s just getting good.

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neilsbeloved · 11 days ago

Text

the alchemy

summary: clark’s always been adamant on being private with his personal life. few friends, low profile, and a hushed relationship. he can’t understand why people would want to publicize everything about their life. that is until he sees you talking to one of the school’s football players.

pairing: quarterback!clark x student body president!fem!reader

tags: tooth rotting FLUFF, legally aged students making out, established secret relationships, clark being Whipped with a capital W, slightly insecure clark, emotionally mature reader, football descriptions, no use of y/n

The faint smell of donuts and caramel coffee fill the council office as you hear the soft click of the door lock. You turn around and you're immediately met with your boyfriend, clad in his plaid blue button-up longsleeve shirt, worn-out bag slung over his shoulders, and lips immediately placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

"Woah, woah, hold it there farm boy," you laugh, placing a hand right in the middle of his chest as his kisses quickly descended to your neck. The thought of him not actually locking the door haunted your mind.

"What?" He breathes. Still continuing his attacks on the column of your neck while carefully placing your food and beverage on your table. "I missed you."

With a little more effort on your push—which was exceptionally hard considering how much Clark has improved in terms of making you lose your mind—he finally pulls away. A bummed-out pout shaping his lips.

You smile even wider. Who knew the big friendly farm boy everyone walks all over on is actually the biggest grump when he doesn't get kisses?

No one, of course. Not one soul in Smallville High School knows because your relationship with Clark isn't even out to the public. Not even your closest friend knows about it—and you're sure his closest friends don't know either.

But it's been like that for three out of the on-going four years you two have spent in Smallville High and so naturally neither of you wanted to break the streak.

You run your head through his soft brown locks, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. Clark's face immediately lights up, already pulling you off of the table you were leaning on to exchange positions. This time, he has a better view of the blank canvas that is your collarbone.

"Missed you," he repeated. "Brought you donuts and coffee from the Talon."

"Didn't know they did deliveries again." You humor him, grabbing the brown bag and pulling a donut out. Clark watched as you point the donut at him, urging him to take a bite. With his eyes locked in yours, he takes a slow and relaxed bite. You wipe the side of his mouth with your finger before taking your own bite. Groaning when the sweet taste of the glazed donut touches your tongue.

"They allow it for certain people." Clark plays along, nodding at you. His eyes wander to the gigantic bulletin board you had in the council office, seeing almost ten listed items now struck-off with a bright red marker. "Specifically people that are overworking themselves again."

You roll your eyes, rolling to his side as you grab the cup of coffee. "Who says I was? I just did my job."

"Babe, you aren't the only one on the council. You can't just cover for everyone's jobs just 'cause they aren't doing theirs," Clark replies, watching you eat.

"Says the one that always takes on Chloe's extra load," You retort with a sly grin. "You do know that the reason most of Chloe's writers are bailing on her is because they don't like her way of gathering her news, right?" You place down the coffee, still eating your donut as you place a hand on the one Clark had resting on the table.

Clark chuckles, "Chloe's my friend, what can I say? She's been like that since fifth grade."

"At least she's passionate about it. It's so rare to see someone so committed in their craft that I can't even deny whenever Chloe asks me for an exclusive… which, mind you, is almost seven times a week." You sigh, head subtly shaking.

"Weren't you the one that wanted somebody aside from me to interview you?" Clark furrows his eyebrows, putting on a thinking face. His eyes squint, "Something along the lines of not getting work done."

Your eyes roll back, finishing the glazed donut in your hand. "Yeah, 'cause I clearly remember how we spent twenty-five minutes eating each other's faces and five minutes actually answering questions."

You throw the crumpled brown bag to the trash bin from afar. You miss, badly, but Clark's quick to distract you from your lack of shooting skills by kissing you. Again.

"Let's shorten that twenty-five minutes then," he smiles into the kiss. Snaking his arm around your waist as he could still taste the sugary taste of the donut on your tongue.

The kiss was anything but sweet. It was full of hunger, desire… and something you can't quite pinpoint. Usually Clark has his own rhythm of sucking the air out of you but this time it's messy—all over the place. Like you'd disappear any moment now if he didn't move faster.

He doesn't mistake the very subtle jingle of door handle. He hears it crystal clear and yet, he doesn't pull away. When the sound registers in your ear, you pull away without a second to think.

You immediately grab a spare folder on the other table. Clearing your throat as you looked down on it, pretending to flip through the papers. Clark on the other hand looked directly at the student who came in.

It was Adam. The same guy he saw you with earlier.

"Oh—is this a bad time? I can come by later?"

"Actually," Clark begins but you cut him off.

"No, it's fine. Do you have a concern?" You ask directly. Putting on your professional mask as you looked at Adam by the door. Ignoring how you can actually feel Clark glaring holes at the side of your face with his jaw clenched.

Adam stutters. Shifting from you to Clark, then back to you. "I, uh, I was wondering if there were any other tutors available? I'm kinda flunking Chemistry and I need to ace the upcoming test."

"Then study," you hear Clark mumble. It was a little louder than he had expected but who cares, obviously not him.

You inhale sharply, turning your head to the bulletin board for the tutoring sessions for the month. Your shoulders flunk when you see your name under the Chemistry border. The other one—Lana—was already done with her tutoring hours so it was only you left.

Your head turns to Clark. He had already seen the arrangement on the bulletin board, he was looking at you now to wait for your response to Adam's request.

"Uhm, you can take my slot. What time works for you?"

"Any time you're free." Adam smiles at you. Clark rolls his eyes.

You nod unenthusiastically. Taking the clipboard beside Clark and handing it to Adam. "You can write on the 4:30 PM row. I'll be at the library fifteen minutes prior to our schedule, and I can wait for you until quarter to five."

Adam happily writes his name, glancing up to see you and Clark exchanging looks. "Is he signing up for a tutoring class too?"

"No," the two of you say in unison.

Your eyebrows furrow slightly at Clark. The farm boy breathing deeply before he responds. "I'm asking about the, uh, football schedule," he looks at you for confirmation. When you nod approvingly, he does too. "Yeah, the football schedule."

"Oh… Well, shouldn't you be asking Coach Teague that?"

"How would you know?" Clark raises an eyebrow, sounding way sassier than you ever heard him speak. Adam looks at him with subtle surprise, masking it with a friendly smile. "Because I am in the football team?"

The air quickly shifts as Clark and Adam have a stare-down. Only broken off when you clear your throat. Adam reluctantly says goodbye, stepping out of the office with a wave directed to you.

When the door closes, you turn to Clark with your arms crossed. "What?" He groans. He knows that look all too well.

"Are you okay with me tutoring him?" You ask straightforwardly.

"Why wouldn't I be? You've tutored dozens of our classmates over the years." He shrugs. His hand slowly coming up to tug on the strap of his bag.

"You sure? 'Cause it's a yes or no question, Clark. I can have someone else cover for me if you don't want me to tutor him," you say genuinely. Brushing away the lock of hair that fell in front of his handsome face.

Clark's lips purse into a thin line as he nods, hands finding solace on your hips. "Yes, baby, I'm sure. Just… don't overwork yourself, okay? I don't want you gettin' tired from something that isn't even your job."

You bite back a smile, looking into his eyes with stars in yours while he pulls you in for a hug. Your head rests on his shoulder as you wonder to yourself—how exactly did I manage to score a man like this?

"Gotta go, handsome. I'll see you back home," you give him a chaste kiss. Using every self-control you have not to respond to Clark's obvious attempts of deepening the kiss.

The first tutoring session you had with Adam was a quick one. Adam had a pretty solid foundation, he understood the concepts clearly, his only flaw was in his application of said concepts. Usually, he'd do well on the conceptual-based questions while also failing the problems connected to it.

One session wasn't going to cut it and so he booked you for four other sessions. All of which had a longer time frame, extending thirty minutes more from the usual one and a half hour long session. That only meant that you had to spend two hours with him every Tuesday and Thursday for two whole weeks.

Now if Clark didn't find it bothersome the first time, he definitely did now.

"So, uh, we still up for six later?" Adam leans on the locker next to years, smiling.

"Yeah, uh, sure. Of course. I'll see you at the library." You smile back. You quickly turn back to your locker and grab your things fast. Adam wasted no time diving into another subject.

"Oh, by the way, I—y'know, I really appreciate you being my tutor. I know you're juggling a lot of responsibilities and still, you never come to a session late and…" your eyebrow arches, waiting for him to finish. Thankfully, he takes the look in your face as a hint. "I was wondering if you'd let me treat you to a coffee? Just something after our session to show my thanks."

Your response arrives fast, without any hesitation. "No, Adam."

Adam gets caught off-guard by the firmness in your voice. He didn't expect you to say yes right away but he didn't exactly expect you to deny it in a split second too. He thought you'd at least think it over for a minute.

"Oh! But, it's, uh, y'know, coffee as friends. I'm not asking you out on a date," he laughs awkwardly but you could see right through him.

"I appreciate the thought, Adam, but no. If you have any questions about the lessons we're discussing, you can reach out to me—but anything else besides that, please do not." You breathe deeply. Eyes catching on the tall figure at the end of the hall, watching your encounter with Adam. "I have to go. I'll see you at the library."

You don't give Adam a second to respond, immediately slipping out of his sight only to find the end of the hall empty. No plaid-wearing farm boy in sight. You swallow on nothing, beginning to feel a thump in your chest.

It takes you some time of walking around to finally catch a glimpse of him. He was standing beside Chloe, visibly talking about something as they had laughs on their faces. You walk over to them, locking eyes with Clark in the process.

Just as you were about to walk by them—and possibly strike up some small talk—your shoulder gets nudged by your friends.

"Hey! We were looking all over for you! Did you hear the news?" Janet, your friend, says.

"What news?"

"Not so fresh meat just made it onto the roster. Rumor says he's starting quarterback," another friend, Rose, says. Her tone held a bit of bite to it, as if she didn't want him on the spot in the first place.

"Now that's a nice headline," a bright voice speaks. All three of you turning to the shaggy-haired blonde. "What d'you think, Clark? Not so fresh senior meat now starting quarterback. Kinda has a ring to me."

You tried to act naturally, chuckling at Chloe's words despite your friends glaring at them. Since he is the topic, you look at Clark. Eyes round and awaiting a response from him.

He doesn't respond though. He simply shrugs, looking at you like your were nothing before pulling Chloe away from probably stirring up a fight.

"That guy has some problems," Rose rolls her eyes, checking her nails carelessly.

"Yeah. He's already senior and he's only just tried out for football now? Damn. Talk about a late bloomer," Janet says high-fiving Rose.

"At least he's cute… right?" Janet turns to you.

"Huh?"

"Clark Kent. He's cute, right?" When Janet repeats her question, you felt something inside of you twitch. Janet's calling your boyfriend cute, and Rose's agreeing with her too. They're checking your boyfriend out. Shamelessly.

But you can't even worry about that now—your mind is filled with the way Clark looked at you moments ago. Like you were nothing. Like he hasn't met you even once.

Of course, you two hide your relationship to the school but there's always something unspoken of each time you look into each other's eyes. It's a comfort and a pleasure at the same time. A cozy blanket in the cold air. Hot chocolate every Christmas. Donuts and caramel coffee in hidden rendezvouses.

There were none of those when Clark looked at you earlier. You can't help but feel there's something wrong.

"Hey Mr. and Mrs. K! I was wondering if Clark was around?" You ask with a smile.

Your relationship with Clark may be a secret to everyone in Smallville, but his parents are a definite exception. Yours, not so much.

Jonathan and Martha share a look you recognize to be an apologetic one. "He's, uh, he's at the barn. He's been there since he got home." Martha answers with a strained smile.

You feel even weirder because Clark's parents have been nothing short of supportive. You two may have hidden the relationship from them for four months but they definitely enjoyed the idea of their son going out with you.

When you nod determinedly, turning around to head to said barn, Jonathan calls you. "Clark's, uh… you may want to be careful approaching him. He's a bit pent-up, with the football and stuff."

You nod. "Oh, of course! I'll be careful. Maybe he just needs a little cheer up."

You head over to the barn in haste. Walking up the loft to see Clark with his head down, writing something in his notebook as a stack of textbooks sat beside it.

"Knock knock." You knock on the wooden rails, letting the sound resonate through the barn.

Clark looks up from his notebook, smiling the moment he registers it was you. But you notice his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, you set that aside.

"What a surprise," he replies, voice clipped. "I thought you'd be slumped up with your council work and tutoring."

"And miss out an awesome opportunity to spend time with the charming plaid-wearing farm boy? Pftt, never," you drop yourself beside him. Propping your elbow up on the backrest as you turned your body towards him.

Clark chuckles, looking back down on the coffee table as he began writing again. You felt an even stronger twitch in your body when he does that—ignore you.

He may be tired, drained, or pissed off—but he had never gone through a second of seeing you without kissing you the moment the coast was clear. He'd always sneak in the quickest of kisses even though you two would get caught if he was slower by a millisecond.

"Clark, hey," you touch his shoulder. "I missed you."

His head keeps itself in place, "Missed you too, baby. How was your day?"

"Clearly not as harsh as yours has been. Wanna talk about it? I can spend the night…" you pause. "Oh, also, I heard you're starting quarterback! How'd that happen?"

"Did you now?" He laughs dryly.

The smile on your face falters, his tone felt like a bucket of ice was dumped on your head without your knowledge. He drops his pen, leaning back on the couch as he actually looks at you for the first time this night.

"Well, the previous one was injured. I stepped in." His answer is short and direct. His voice lacking the enthusiasm you're used to. "How about your day?"

You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Clark, what's the problem?"

Clark's eyes flicker up towards yours, hurt and anxiety evident in your pupils. He feels a tinge of guilt in his chest. Licking his lips, he reaches out for you only for you to pull away.

"Did I do something wrong?" You question. Though no matter how firm your voice was, Clark knew it was close to breaking.

"No, no, baby, you did nothing wrong—" Clark's voice rises as he panics. Fully reaching out to you so he can pull you to his chest. "It's… it's me, okay? I… I just—" he takes in a deep breath. "Don't you think it's time we made our relationship public?"

It's clear that you were surprised with his question. The sharp inhale and your raised eyebrows gave it away no doubt. But why wouldn't you be? Not once has Clark ever thought about making your relationship public. In fact, he was the one that actually proposed it in the first place.

You tried your best to understand him though. "Is there a reason why you want to make our relationship public?"

"Babe, we've been hiding our relationship for three years. We started when we were sophomores, we're seniors now. No one can worry about us anymore. We're graduating in a few months—who cares by now?" This is the first time his voice actually held some energy to it. His hands intertwined with yours as he looks at you for approval.

"Clark, I know when you're lying," you say. Clark's throat bobbing up and down as he clenches his jaw. You place a hand on his cheek, your other hand running through his hair comfortingly, "You know you can tell me anything, Clark. Let's talk about this like adults."

It takes him a second to actually decide to speak, and another second to construct the words in his head. "I don't like how people still think you're single," he starts. "The guys talk about you, people in the hall talk about you… I hear so many promises from people that they'll ask you out either after the game or after graduation—regardless, I can't even respond. I can't tell them that you're my girlfriend because in the first place, no one knows about us—no one'd believe me." You feel his heart beat faster. The continuous thump underneath his chest makes your stomach flip as well.

"Call me selfish, but I can't take it when other people look at you and think that they can have you." His voice drops, hands tightening on yours.

"Like Adam?"

A scoff comes from him. "Yeah, like Adam. Have you even heard half of the stuff he says about you in the locker rooms?" Clark's voice raises. His sharp features straining furiously before he feels your hand tighten around his. It prompts him to raise your intertwined hands, kissing your knuckles. "It's nothing bad, baby, believe me. He wouldn't be walkin' straight if they were bad. It was just that he's so in his head that he actually thought he can take you out on a date."

"So this is about Adam?" You arch a brow, testing the waters. When Clark shakes his head, looking away to hide the smile on his face, you laugh. "Well, y'know, farm boy, he actually just asked me out earlier."

"I know. I heard."

"Then you also heard what I responded with?" Your lips widen slowly.

He sighs, turning his head back to you. "Yes, I did."

You smile at him. He returns it, ten times wider than yours. Your heart flips as the smile finally reaches his eyes—finally feeling right.

Quiet envelopes you both. A comfortable silence before you snuggle on his lap, resting your head on his muscular chest. "I understand how you feel, baby."

One of the things Clark loved about you was your ability to always have him heard and understood. Even the dozens of times he's missed your dates, suddenly cancelling unannounced; you've always been there for him with a patient mind, an awaiting ear… and probably a grumpy attitude when Clark specifically dipped on a day you were really looking forward to.

Now, one thing definitely changed; if before you had to trap him in the barn, force him to be honest and say his feelings, you were content that now all you had to do was talk to him sincerely and directly, no interruptions, and no hotheads.

"Does this mean we're going public?" Clark asks cautiously.

You lift your head, letting your chin rest on the center of his chest. "Just do good on the game tomorrow, 'kay farm boy? We'll see how the day goes."

It wasn't the answer Clark wanted, but he accepted it. It was better than giving him the hard no.

And so you laid there the whole night, trying your best to stay awake while Clark told you about his day. His hands running aimlessly through your hair and body until you fell asleep. When you did, he took you to his bedroom and let you sleep there.

A soft and tender kiss on your forehead to end the night.

Loud roars of the crowd could be heard from any side of the field.

The bleachers were packed with people, majority came from Smallville High while some were from the rival school playing. It's been quite some time since the game started and yet, it still feels like a win can be called any moment now.

You were there—since the very start—sitting at the very front row with Chloe by your side. Your friends Janet and Rose sitting away where the cheerleaders were sat. Each time you watched Clark fall short of a goal, you could feel your heart thump even harder.

Way before the game started, you had another little rendezvous with Clark. Giving him the best good luck charm in the form of red lace—which God knows where he kept—and a kiss on the cheek.

Clark's been training for this game for so long now. Weeks of hardworking and sweat come to this very day where he finally gets to earn his teammates' respect.

31-28, in favor of the opponent.

The air gets struck out of your system when you see the opposing team score another point. Slowly building on their lead against the Crows. Your teeth unconsciously nibbles on your lower lip, pulling and biting the soft tissue as you prayed for a plot twist.

"C'mon Clark, c'mon," you mumble under your breath. Glancing at Jonathan and Martha from a far as they too shared nervous and worried looks.

You hear a ring from somewhere, and suddenly they're all splitting into their respective teams. "The Crows asked for a time out," Chloe says. You nod, noting that on the pad of paper that Chloe gave you earlier. Both of you have been noting game highlights since the start of the game.

"Should we try interviewing them?" The blonde was already standing when she asks you that, eyes narrowed at the group of players bundled far from them.

"No." You shake your head. Chloe looks at you weirdly, you sounded way too energetic. "It's not really the best time, Chloe."

Seven seconds remain on the clock. All players head back to the center line as the game resumes back. Your eyes lock with Clark despite the distance. You could barely make out the expression on his face while he could clearly see yours—full of anxiety and hope, hands in a prayer position in the middle of your face.

With a new found drive to make you proud, he turns to the front to look at the opposing team.

You watch as all of the players scramble fast as soon as the clock began. Clark inhaled, clocking his arm back before throwing the football with all of his human force, every fiber in his being hoping that the other quarterback is able to catch it before the time ran out.

The football felt like it was on air for more than five minutes. Every head in the football grounds followed the brown ball as it made its way across the field, every person holding in their breaths as the second player reached up as the time hit two seconds.

On the last second, he lands a touchdown.

Happiness shoots through your body as you jump with Chloe on the stands. Lungs screaming Clark's name as thunderous cheers filled the space, loud enough to even make the ground shake. The players run over to Clark, crashing into him while he throws away his helmet, eyes immediately searching for you. Just you.

Your heart begins beating faster, the idea in your head being thrown away as your legs move on their own.

Clark watches as you rush down the bleachers, sliding past everyone and anyone in your way. Confusion hits him for a second until he finally understands what you're going to do. Shrugging off his teammates, he runs over to the bleachers' side, the amount of adrenaline running in his veins was almost enough to push him to super speed onto your side and lift you up—almost.

The moment you reach the ground, Clark's already jumping over the fence, catching you in his arms.

"Clark!" You yell out, feeling his strong arms tighten around your waist as he spins you around. Your hair moves with the wind as it splatters messily all over Clark's face, his lips stretched into the widest and biggest smile you've ever seen from him. "You did—"

Your words are cut off as Clark lifts you even higher, crashing his lips into yours. The outside world is anything but a figment of his imagination now that he has you in his arms just after winning his first game as a quarterback—and the best thing of it all, was that it was in front of the whole school.

The deafening sound of cheers and wolf whistles make you smile into the kiss, head subtly pulling back only for Clark to hungrily chase after you, not letting you up so easily. When he finally does, with his lips all puffy and swollen, he's staring at you with nothing but affection.

"A real quarterback now, huh?" You tease, smirking lightheartedly at him.

Clark rolls his eyes, lunging forward to give you another kiss on your lips. "Not really, just your boyfriend."

You lose yourself in his smile, only to be pulled away from it when your head moves to the side. You see Clark's parents looking at you two with proud smiles while beside them were his friends—all of which had a shocked look on their faces.

Clark squeezes your side to get your attention back. A contented look grows on his face as he keeps his hold around you, making the moment last just a little longer before you two face the outcome of whatever just happened.

"Ready to put me down, farm boy?"

"Never.”

hearts, reblogs, and comments are highly appreaciated if you loved the fic !

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfic #superman x reader #clark kent fluff #clark kent x reader fluff #smallville fanfic #smallville fluff #superman x reader fluff #dcu #tom welling x reader #clark kent fic #smallville fic

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gothcsz · 1 month ago

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The Heat of the Thermae | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader | ~4.2k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You’re not alone tonight at your favorite bathhouse.

Tags: smut, kat can’t not dress the scene, unprotected p in v, creampie kink is not explicitly stated but he does finish inside sooo, marcus is strong enough to fuck you standing up, lil bit of dirty talk, spanking, tit slapping, marcus loves tits, some latin terms of endearment, praise praise praise, probably not historically accurate we're just vibing here, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, reader is described to have a curvy figure, barely beta’d, sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: hi, i was not expecting to write something for the general again so soon but @ovaryacted is the queen of feeding into my delusions so this one is for you, primita 🖤 shoutout to @mandaloriankait for holding me accountable and cheering me on to finish this lol. as always let me know what you think and thanks for reading! 🖤

You slip through the quiet streets of the city, the woven handle of your basket looped gently over your arm. A soft hum escapes your lips, a tune only the night seems to know. The stones beneath your sandals are warm from the day’s heat, still radiating the sun’s memory as the hush of night begins to settle. Crickets and cicadas sing from dark corners, their chorus delicate, like lace threaded through the silence.

Rome is quieter at this hour. Not silent, never truly, but quieter. As if the mighty heart of the empire has finally begun to slow, to exhale.

You reach the thermae just before the moon crests its highest point. The structure stands like a temple in the dark, torchlight flickering along carved pillars and smooth marble that glows golden. Steam curls up from within the stone walls, thick and inviting, drifting like silk into the air. You slip through the arched threshold, and the warm, mineral-scented breath of the springs embraces you.

It’s nearly silent. Just the soft bubbling of water, the occasional drip of condensation down stone, the rustle of a breeze stirring one of the hanging silken banners overhead. This thermae has always been your favorite— nestled against a quiet hill on the edge of the city, tucked away behind a grove of flowering laurel and cypress. Fewer people frequent it. Too far, they say. But for you, it’s perfect.

You step onto the cool, patterned floor, marveling, as you always do, at the opulence. Intricate mosaics of Apollo and Venus glimmer beneath your feet, their mythic beauty frozen in tile. Wreaths of fragrant flowers wind up around the sculpted columns, fresh and damp with dew. The stone arches above are carved so finely that your eyes often lose themselves in the details: curling vines, the faces of nymphs, the wings of eagles, all staring down in solemn witness.

The water beckons beyond, a mirror of mist and light. Before you slip into it, you settle onto one of the marbled benches. It’s cool against your thighs, smooth beneath your fingers. You untie your sandals slowly, enjoying the rhythm of the ritual. The city feels so far away here. Its roar, its politics, its bloodstained spectacles —all of it muffled by marble, steam, and solitude.

You breathe in deeply. The air is rich with heat and something sweeter — honeysuckle, perhaps, or the lingering smoke of sandalwood incense still clinging to the stones. Your fingers drift to the lip of your basket. Oils, cloth, a small jar of fig balm. Enough to make the next hour utterly yours.

You do not hear him at first. Just the shift of shadows behind one of the larger columns across the way. A footfall, soft yet heavy.

And it is not until he steps into the light: scarred, sharp-eyed, leonine in profile, that your breath catches in your throat.

General Acacius.

You turn away before your gazes can meet. The water between you becomes a kind of sanctuary, veiling you in ripples and warmth, a safe expanse separating your solitude from his gravity. He remains on the opposite end of the thermae, partially obscured by a column and the rising curtain of steam—but even half-hidden, he draws the eye. This is the first time you’ve ever seen the general alone.

Usually, he is trailed by a flock of senators and sycophants, his path cleared by his loyal soldiers. Or he’s perched high above the chaos of the colosseum, cast in gold and shadow as blood paints the sand below.

Up close, in silence, without armor or ceremony, he is something else entirely.

The rumors are true. He is devastatingly handsome. A mix of the delicate beauty of poetry or painted heroes and the kind carved into marble— stark, masculine, impossible to ignore but made to admire. His frame is massive, the breadth of his shoulders a thing that demands reverence, the curve of his jaw like it was drawn with a honeyed blade. Even now, without the bronze of war adorning him, he carries himself with an authority that stirs something in you.

It is no wonder women speak of him with flushed cheeks and eager lips. Nor is it a wonder he remains unattached. No woman, no man, no lover could compete with the hunger in his eyes for conquest. War has claimed him, become his mistress. And yet… you find yourself wondering, perhaps foolishly, what it might be like to be taken with that same possession.

You keep your gaze averted as you reach into your basket, fingers finding the familiar pieces of your nightly ritual. You remove your jewelry then slowly peel the fabric from your body, exposing skin to the open air, to the eyes of gods and men alike.

You try not to think of whether he’s watching. You try.

Your foot touches the water first, heat curling up your calf, then your thigh, until you are swallowed by it. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips, a breathy moan that seems to echo louder than you intended in the stillness of the summer night.

You glide further in, deeper, until the water kisses just below your collarbones. You find your place, easing against the stone, eyes fluttering shut—but not for long. Curiosity, wicked and warm, coaxes them open again. And this time, you let them wander.

He is still turned away, his broad back like something from a myth, all sculpted muscle and roughened skin. The light of the moon and torches play against him, catching on every ridge, every scar, every flex and pull as he shifts to undress. Sweat clings to him, glistening down his spine, mixing with the dirt of training or battle, a sheen that only makes him more savage, more real, more desirable.

He bends slightly to unfasten his remaining garment, and when the cloth falls, your tongue twitches in your mouth.

His ass is nothing short of divine. Round, tight, perfect in its symmetry, in the way it moves as he steps out of the tunic. Your teeth find your lower lip and stay there, pressing hard.

He turns and suddenly, the air shifts. Heat blooms low in your stomach, tender, slow.

Hazelnut eyes lock with yours—not passive, not startled, but piercing. Like he’s known all along you were there, and now he’s choosing to look. Choosing to see you. The connection is immediate, tangible, a pull so intense you feel it in your pussy, in the tips of your fingers beneath the water. His gaze does not waver. It devours.

Then, languidly, his eyes drag down your form. Over your bare shoulders, your collarbone, your breasts rising from beneath the water with each breath. He lingers there. Long enough for your nipples to harden. You can’t help the way your chest arches forward, as if offering him more of your full tits.

He notices. You see it in the slight lift of his brow, the shadow of something dangerous and amused that curls his lip.

You match his look without thinking, lips parting just enough to draw in breath as your gaze drops between his legs. And gods—there he is. Thick even while soft, his cock hangs heavy between his thighs, nestled in a thatch of dark curls that look fucking edible. Your thighs press together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing as heat flashes in your gut like it’s trying to eat you alive.

It shouldn’t look that good. Not at rest. But it does. Your mouth waters, lips buzzing, and your fingers twitch at your sides like they don’t know why they aren’t already wrapped around him.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring until he moves.

No words. Just that quiet, lethal stillness breaking as he steps into the water with the weight of a predator deciding when to strike. You don’t know if he’s doing it for you or simply because that’s just how he moves, but when his body sinks into the pool, muscles flexing, steam licking up his sides, it feels like something carnal crackles in the space between your bodies, more ancient than language, more honest than names.

He disappears beneath the surface, the water rippling out toward you like the heat radiating off your skin, and the soft splash of it yanks you back to yourself. Barely.

You sit up straighter, hand reaching for your cloth and small vial of oil, your pulse beating wild behind your ribs. Your fingers tremble, though you pretend otherwise, smoothing the perfumed mixture over your skin in slow circles. Sensual. Like you’re bathing for an audience… because you are.

When he rises again, your eyes snap to him like they’ve been chained there since the moment he arrived.

His hair is plastered back, dripping. Water runs down his face, clings to his thick lashes, trails over the angles of his jaw and beautiful nose. He’s fucking gorgeous—soaked and gleaming and massive. Your eyes drag lower, over his chest, watching the droplets race across his pecs and down his stomach. The line of hair that starts beneath his sternum and leads right down into the water makes your whole body ache to see more. To touch. To taste.

“Are you here often?” He asks, voice low and rough like gravel worn smooth by time.

You blink at him, a little slow, and answer as best you can with a dry throat. “Almost every night.”

Acacius hums. A sound that seems to rumble from his chest rather than his throat. He reaches for his own items and begins to tend to himself with a practiced efficiency that only deepens your curiosity. He has no servant with him, no one waiting nearby with fresh linens or scented oils. For a man of his station, that’s rare.

His big hands slide over his own scarred chest like he’s used to being looked at. Used to being wanted.

And fuck, do you want him.

He’s here. Naked, alone, reciprocating this unspoken lust in your favorite bathhouse. With you. It feels impossible. Like a gift from the gods. Or maybe a test.

You don’t care which.

The silence that follows is far from empty. It brims with energy, charged and volatile. You bathe yourself in the same slow rhythm, cloth gliding across slick skin, never breaking eye contact for long. You keep looking. So does he. And every time your eyes meet, it’s like a match is struck right at your core.

There’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

The space between you shortens with every breath. Neither of you says a word about it. You just move. Drawn. Like animals circling closer. The scent of oil and flowers in the steam is thick as incense—sticky sweet, dizzying. Your nipples are hard, peaked above the surface, aching for attention, and his gaze drops there more than once.

There is desire. There is certainty. And you will not waste this night.

Your fingers brush under the water, barely, but the jolt of contact sends a spark straight to your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand turns, clasping around your wrist and tugging you towards him, just enough to let you know what he wants.

What you want. You meet him halfway.

The water barely muffles the slap of your bodies meeting, chest to chest. You’re not shy about it. There’s no point pretending. You want all of him. When he reaches down and cups your jaw with one large, dripping hand, the roughness of his touch makes your pussy clench tight.

Acacius doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He kisses you like it’s owed. Like it’s overdue. His mouth slants over yours, fervent, lips parted before they even meet. It’s filthy and deep. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting you. Your fingers fist in his hair, still damp from the bath, nails scraping his scalp as you pull him closer, desperate to keep your mouth sealed to his.

His hands roam with no restraint. One grabs your ass, squeezing and savoring the plumpness in his grasp, while the other palms your tit, big fingers curling around the soft flesh, thumb flicking over your nipple as you curve into him.

You clutch at his broad shoulders, his back, the muscles shifting beneath your hands like carved stone come alive. He’s so solid, every inch of him hard and smoldering and built for war. You do a little jump then wrap your legs around his waist without even thinking, gyrating your hips against him in a silent, burning plea for friction.

His hand immediately go to cup the back of your thighs, strong enough to keep you sturdy against him as his dick slips between your slippery folds.

“Fuck…” you gasp when he breaks the kiss, head tipping back as your mouth falls open with a desperate whine, his lips dragging wetly down your throat. “Please do not stop…”

“Was not planning to,” he growls, teeth grazing your skin, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of heat that makes your pussy throb. You can feel his shaft thickening beneath you, half-submerged in the water, heavy and hard right between your legs. You grind down on it without thinking, your clit brushing along his length, desperate for more.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked, “and sweet. Gods…”

Your only answer is a shuddered moan as his mouth trails lower, nipping your collarbone, dragging his tongue along the curve of your breast before he captures your nipple between his full lips. He groans like he’s been starving for it, like your taste is better than any wine in Rome. He nips at the sensitive bud—just enough to make you twitch—and then his tongue soothes, circles, sucks.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. Your legs tighten around his waist as you continue to grind against him. The water sloshes and ripples between you, the scent of oil and sweat and arousal heavy in the steam.

You’ve never felt so thoroughly handled—his big, calloused hands roaming every inch of you, gripping, groping, pulling you apart and putting you back together. His body is a weapon, and right now it’s being wielded for you, on you.

“Please, Acacius… fuck me.”

Your voice breaks on the plea, the words melting into a high, desperate whine as he sinks his teeth into your nipple. The sharp bite makes your back arch with a moan, the sting blooming at your chest just as he pulls off with a lewd pop.

He licks up your neck, tongue moving slow and shameless over your pulse. “Marcus,” he sneers against your mouth, his breath warm, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. “That is what I want you to cry while I am splitting this tight little cunt open on my cock.”

You barely manage a gasp before he seals your mouth with his again, tongue plunging past your lips with a hearty groan.

Then his hand moves—leaves your ass to wrap thick fingers around the base of his cock. And gods, you feel it, the weight of him pressing against your slick, aching entrance. Hot as sin.

You barely have time to breathe as he pushes in deep.

You let out a ragged sob, mouth falling open as your walls stretch around his fat shaft, the burn sharp and sweet all at once. Your nails claw into the hard, oiled up muscle of his shoulders while your pussy tries to take him. Inch by inch, he feeds himself to you until he’s buried balls deep inside your clenching sex.

“F-fuck—oh Marcus��”

His intimate name rips out of your throat in a needy wail as your head tips back, spine bowing, offering him everything.

He snarls, low and brutal, muttering curses in his native tongue under his breath. You barely have time to recover before he shifts, hoists you higher and hooks the backs of your knees over the bends of his elbows.

He fucks into you savagely, like he’s meant to be deep inside you every night until the gods have to intervene and pull him from you. The power in his body is insane, thrusting into you while standing, while holding your curvy and heavier figure, every stroke punching up into your guts with obscene, wet sounds that echo off the marble.

The water thrashes around you, splashing wildly with every slam of his hips. Your tits bounce, nipples raw and exposed, while your ass claps against his thighs with every impassioned thrust. His cock is merciless, thick veins dragging against your fluttering walls, the fat head hammering that spongy spot deep inside you until you’re choking on every moan.

“Fucking… tight…” he spits between grunts, “had I known a praecantrix with a body like this was here every night aching for cock,” he pants, “I would have abandoned my duties and been buried in this sweet cunt instead.”

You clench hard at his words and he feels it, groaning through gritted teeth while your fingers twist in his damp greying curls as you tug his mouth back to yours.

You kiss him filthy, open-mouthed, tongues tangled, spit dripping between you. It feels so good knowing you’ve got one of the strongest men in Rome between your thighs. His beard scrapes your chin, making your skin curl in the best way, and you moan into his mouth when he sucks your tongue like he wants to devour it.

Your orgasm is coming fast. Titillating and climbing and climbing and climbing—

“Harder,” you gasp against his lips, nails sinking into his scalp. “Marcus, please.”

The salacious symphony of your fucking is beautiful, and Marcus gives you what you asked for, plowing into you with a force that knocks every breath out of your lungs and thought out of your head.

You don’t even notice when he begins to move, strong arms locking beneath your thighs as he shifts, never once pulling out. He carries you backward, step by careful step, until he lowers himself onto one of the submerged stone steps, the heat of the water sloshing around your waist. You’re now straddling him, perched in his lap, knees spread wide on the slick surface. His cock stays buried to the root, making you keen.

You can feel everything. Every vein, every ridge, every throb. He leans back slightly, giving you space, giving you control—and gods, he looks bewitching. Half-lidded eyes drink you in, crooked scars slicing across his cheek and nose, only enhancing his brutal allure. Steam helixes around the angles of his face, water dripping down the hard lines of his chest, down his stomach, disappearing between your bodies where you’re still joined.

His hands find your breasts again, greedy and reverent all at once. Your skin is slick with water and oil, and he groans at the way your tits spill into his palms, nipples pebbling against his calloused fingers.

You start to move, slow at first, grinding down into him with insatiable want. Your clit presses into the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every drag sending white-hot sparks all over. The stretch of him inside you is overwhelming, the ache delicious. With every swivel at your waist, your slick spreads between you, smearing over his thighs.

Acacius watches you with worship and gluttony in equal measure, hands never leaving your skin, guiding your rhythm with subtle tilt of his hips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, the reverence in it making your thighs tremble harder. “So divine like this.” He studies you, head cocked with a fascination and you can’t help but perform for him, willing your body to imprint on his memory as surely as he’s etched on your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls, large palm smacking against your ass, making it ripple and sting as your thighs tremble from the force. You scream out his name, hands finding purchase on his shoulders again. “Ride it. Use me, carissime.”

The term of endearment does it for you, spurring you to fuck him like he’s never been fucked before, grinding harder, rolling your hips, chasing the rising wave of release that corkscrews at the base of your spine. The slap of your bodies grows louder as you bounce in his lap. Your tits jiggle with every thrust and he’s mesmerized, the repeated crack of his palm smacking your chest making your toes curl and your cunt pulsate around his meaty cock.

You bury your fingers in his curls as you clutch him close, your mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and passion. His tongue tangles with yours, and when you moan into him, he groans deep and animalistic, like he can feel it in his bones.

“What a perfect cunt,” he mutters against your lips. “Taking it all. Men go to and die in war for pussy like this.”

His praise sends another shock of bliss through you, and your pace falters as your legs begin to shake. Yet he doesn’t let up. His hands grip your ass, helping you move, pulling you down harder, deeper, each thrust sending his cock punching up into that devastating spot inside you. You cry out, clinging to him.

“Are you going to come for me?” he taunts raggedly against your throat. “Soak my cock like the desperate thing you are?”

“Yes—yes, Marcus—fuck, yes!” The words spill from you in a delirious rush, your pitch climbing higher as you ride him with reckless desire. Every drag of your soaked cunt around his thick shaft sends another jolt up your spine. You know you’ll feel this for days; every step, every shift in your body will echo with the memory of his ruin. The sheer power of straddling a man like him and breaking apart on his cock.

Then his mouth is on your breast, downright ravenous. He devours you with ardent, open-mouthed kisses, lips sealing tight around your nipple as he sucks hard, his tongue flicking rapidly before his teeth sink in just enough to make you mewl out in gratification. His attention shifts from one bouncing mound to the other, spit-slick and gleaming in the moonlight, the sting of his teeth making your walls clamp down around him.

“Marcus!” You come apart with his name tearing from your throat. Your climax hits like lightning, sharp and blinding. Your vision splinters, black spots dancing at the edges as ecstasy rips through body locking down, muscles seizing as your pussy quivers around his cock, dragging a primal sound from his chest. Every part of you is slick—sweat, oil, steam, and arousal mingling on your skin as your orgasm wrings you out.

The tight squeeze of your pussy has him snarling, losing the last thread of control. He wrenches his mouth from your tits and sinks his teeth into your neck, spitting curses as he fucks up into you with brutal, punishing thrusts. His fingers dig into your ass, holding you down as he drives into your spent cunt.

“Fucking take it,” he grits. “All of it.”

You feel the heat of him flooding you, dick twitching deep inside as he spills into you with a low, lecherous moan, biting down harder as he rides it out, making you wince. He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t move, just holds you flush against him, chest to chest, your body trembling as his seed fills you.

There’s no pause for breath, only the ragged, desperate sound of two bodies ruined by pleasure, locked together in the heat of the bath, gods watching from marble pedestals as if in envy.

Acacius still holds you, his strong arms wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you to him like he never wants to let go. His cock remains buried deep inside you, softening slowly, the warmth of his release cradled within.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and then another to the hollow of your throat, working his way down with lazy affection. His hands roam your body, no longer rough and demanding, but tender and adoring. Fingertips graze the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your thighs; learning every inch of you like a man starved for closeness.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, catching the scent of warm skin, salt, and the faint hint of sandalwood oil still clinging to him. You lean in, lips brushing his, and he meets you with a kiss so slow you feel like you’re floating.

When you pull back, you pause to look at him—really look at him. His dark curls cling damply to his forehead, drops of water trailing down his neck. His eyes, deep and glistening brown, are locked onto yours, hungry still, but softened by something far more dangerous than lust. Something like longing.

“Marcus,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

His lips pull, slow and knowing. “Say it again.”

You smile, fucked out entirely. “Marcus.”

His arms tighten around you, and the two of you sit there in the warmth of the water, wrapped around each other. The steam coils around your bodies, carrying with it the heady scent of oils and sex. Neither of you rushes to speak again. There’s no need.

This night will linger in more than just muscle memory. It will haunt your thoughts. It will live in his hands.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

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#marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #pedro pascal #marcus acacius x bipoc reader #marcus acacius x woc #gladiator ii #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius fanfic #marcus acacius fanfiction #gladiator ii fanfic #kat's writing.

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fawnoria · 21 hours ago

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husband!nanami preemptively budgeting for your unborn baby

on the morning after your second positive test, your husband’s standing hunched over the kitchen table—he’d left bed quietly, with the soft deliberation he applied to most things in life. in front of him sits a mug of untouched coffee gone tepid. a yellow legal pad: column after column of figures in tidy script, annotated with 0.5 uni ball pen.

you hover in the doorway a moment, admiring his profile: barefoot in his slacks, hair slightly mussed. he doesn’t hear you until you shift your weight, floorboard creaking underfoot.

“seven weeks,” you say, by way of greeting.

“approximately,” his gaze drops back to the paper. “which, optimistically, gives us about seven months to account for the first year’s expenses.”

“did you know,” he murmurs, “the average cost of a child’s first year is nearly two million yen? that doesn’t include school fees. or medical insurance. or college tuition.”

you step closer, skimming the columns. food, childcare, emergency savings, medical contingencies. even a line labeled ‘adjusted parental leave income.’

“this one here,” he says, tapping his pen against a neat cell, “is a preliminary projection for an international preschool program. in the event we don’t stay in tokyo. though it’s still early.”

you blink. “kento. our child is the size of a blueberry.”

“irrelevant at this stage. what matters is equity of access.”

you fold yourself into the space between his chair and the table, arms looped around his neck, cheek pressed against his temple. his pen halts midstroke.

“i’m not worried,” he adds finally. “i just want to plan ahead. i don’t want you—or them—to ever need anything.”

you kiss the top of his head. “you’re gonna be a great dad.”

he hums, then under his breath, “do you think two air purifiers would be too much?”

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Writing Notes: Types of Journalism

Journalism - the activity of collecting, compiling, and delivering fact-based news and other related information to the general public in an unbiased manner.

Types of Journalism

Here are the most common journalism career paths:

Broadcast journalism: Broadcast journalism is an umbrella term that refers to any reporting that is broadcast on television, radio, or the internet. Common types of broadcast journalism include day-to-day breaking news stories, entertainment, investigative, opinion, and sports journalism.

Business journalism: Business journalism aims to keep readers and viewers up-to-date on the trends and changes in the business world. It can cover many different topics, including stock trading, economic policy, business mergers, and technological advances.

Entertainment journalism: Entertainment journalism covers various topics, including celebrities, film, music, festivals, and awards ceremonies. This form of journalism also includes profiling celebrities, actors, and musicians.

Investigative journalism: Investigative reporters’ goal is to shine a light on a particular topic or injustice. The biggest investigative stories stir public debate, inform politics, and shape history—like investigative journalist Bob Woodward’s reporting on the Watergate scandal.

Opinion journalism: Opinion journalism is a field that showcases the writer’s opinion rather than solely reporting new data or events. Most opinion journalism pieces center on a particular subject, which the journalist discusses either briefly or at length before providing their opinion on the matter. Advice columns, op-eds, reviews, and letters from the editor all fall under the umbrella of opinion journalism.

Photojournalism: Rather than using words to tell a story, photojournalism is the art of taking pictures to tell news stories—whether it’s a shot of a burning building, a melting glacier, or a group of people in a warzone. Photojournalism shoots can either be candid, heat-of-the-moment reporting, or can occur under calmer circumstances, where the journalist documents action like daily life or environmental changes.

Political journalism: Political journalism keeps the readership informed of the political happenings in a particular area—whether local government, national government, or international policy.

Sports journalism: Sports journalism covers sports-related topics, including coverage of games and discussion of players and strategy, and profiles that spotlight specific players, coaches, or teams.

Watchdog journalism: Watchdog journalism aims to protect society from illegal activities or corruption, especially within their governments or economic structures. Watchdog journalists monitor the actions of particular organizations—from governments to political campaigns to large corporations—to ensure that illegal activities are not occurring. If they discover corruption, watchdog journalists will report the findings immediately to hold the organization responsible.

The term “journalism” also describes the occupation—more commonly known as a journalist. This occupation is responsible for gathering news from various sources (like media, tipsters, inside sources, and eyewitnesses) then presenting it to the public through a media outlet, either in print, online, on television, or radio. There are many different journalistic fields, including investigative reporting, photojournalism, sports coverage, entertainment reporting, and watchdog journalism.

Soft News & Hard News

From online journalism to print media, journalism is divided into 2 categories:

Hard news includes politics and business. Hard news journalism refers to breaking news and up-to-the-minute news about serious, timely, or hard-hitting topics that are timely and urgent, usually based on facts and rigorous research. Political journalism, business journalism, and watchdog journalism are forms of hard news.

Soft news primarily focuses on entertainment. Soft news journalism focuses on lifestyle and entertainment and typically revolves around culture, art, and human interest events. Soft news includes sports journalism, entertainment journalism, and celebrity coverage.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#journalism #writing notes #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #light academia #writing inspiration #writing ideas #lit #lovis corinth #writing resources

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yooniebub · 4 months ago

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CSC pt. 3

somebody - @onlymingyus

brothers bestfriend! cheol - @eoieopda

your knight’s shining armor is actually of flannel, but he gets the job done.

too many beds - @miabebe

let me love you - @gyuwoncheol

You just want to shower Cheol with all the love and softness in the world and he’s determined to do the same.

[22:30] - @monamipencil

hhu: confessions ft. jww, kmg & chs - @ode2cheol

not busy (for you) - @mingyuscoffee

post-concert horny! cheol - @frmisnow

push it down (sooner or later it all comes out) (series) - @dontflailmenow

thirsting over your ex’s best friend in general is a bad idea. given that you and seungcheol have never gotten along, it’s even worse. when you accidentally stumble across his stream, though, and he finds out? all bets are off.

bean me up, scotty - @seungkwansphd

you see seungcheol often enough at work. helpful daytime seungcheol, you can handle. but nighttime, arms fully out seungcheol? that's a problem.

in the eye of the beholder - @/cheolism

when you don't like how you look in the mirror, your boyfriend decides to take it upon himself to worship you.

big cock: for dummies - @ncteez

the one where you find out that your boyfriend has a huge cock and you’re not entirely sure if you can take all of it.

reliable, too reliable - @/ncteez

the one where Seungcheol proves to you just how good he is at giving head.

hello tutorial - @97-liners

it’s your final year of college, and you’ve been elected president of your sorority. this is all great and fine, but as the semester goes on, you find yourself having repeated run-ins with the president of the fraternity next door in a series of unfortunate coincidences (that might not actually be coincidences, as you come to discover).

or:

in which you’re trying to deal with your crush on seungcheol in a normal way, but the meddling kids are making it harder than it needs to be.

sub! Seungcheol - @ipegchangbin

untitled - @euphoricsunflowers

Svt reaction to cockwarming ft. jww, kmg & chs - @sub-hoshi-enthusiast

all I need - @gyuzgrl

ceo!cheol just really fucking misses you, okay?

nocturnal - @sweetlemontart

tipsy from after-work drinks, seungcheol returns home on friday night to find you asleep. he tries not to look, but his wandering eyes keep drifting over to your slumbering figure, and he knows rest won’t come easy when you seem to be tempting him even in your sleep. seungcheol could resolve his little predicament all by himself, but shouldn’t you be the one to take responsibility for making him feel this way?

shower thoughts - @bluejeanstrash

today, tomorrow and forever - @number1mingyustan

You mean everything to him and more

make a move - @ssentimentals

'i've never done this before' + 'i just want to please you'

loser! cheol, pt.2 & pt. 3 - @hannieehaee

all roads lead back to you - @starlightkyeom

where you take an annual cabin trip with your friends and your ex decides to join this year

fly away - @/sonoyoung

in this life - @trblsvt

honestly, you didn’t really care what choi seungcheol did anymore. but, when his mom called you saying there was an accident, you found yourself at the foot of his bed.

exes and oh's - @toruro

when your ex-best friend breaks up with your other ex-best friend, you’re stuck between keeping this door (that you never wanted closed) shut tight, and making amends. naturally, choosing to let your heart open to the person who ripped it apart isn’t the easiest of decisions, but then again, life has a funny way of making you choose.

eat. play. love. - @husbandhoshi

being one of new york's top food critics comes with a lot of perks: free dinners, nice awards, and a linkedin profile your parents could be proud of. that doesn't stop you from wanting a lofty promotion to editor, and the only person standing in your way is choi seungcheol. just one problem: his romance column has half of new york under his grimy little thumb. that, and you hate him.

in which your love language is food. seungcheol doesn't have one.

always only you - @honeyhotteoks

the date was terrible, awful even, but you just can't call your brother to pick you up. you have to call his best friend instead.

#csc #fic recs #seventeen

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brookediamonds · 4 months ago

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i'll be watching you | Toxic!Axel Kovačević x Fem! Reader

Summary: You're at a party enjoying your time when your boyfriend see's something he doesn't like.

based off this post

Word Count: 1.1k Warnings: Toxic!Axel, smut, oral (m receiving), 18+

gif is not mine

The party was loud, music pulsing, people laughing, a haze of neon lights making everything feel electric.

You're talking with someone you bumped into at the beverage table when he notices your necklace. He says he's been looking for something like the one you were wearing for his girlfriend.

You hadn’t even been talking to the guy for that long, telling him how it was a gift from your own boyfriend, when you're suddenly tugged away.

Axel's hand was on your wrist before you even realized he was there, his grip firm, his expression unreadable.

"We’re leaving," he states, voice low and clipped. Your stomach twisted as you followed him outside, barely able to keep up as he led you to the car. The drive was silent, too silent.

Axel’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and your uneven breathing.

What did you do?

Then, finally, his voice cut through the tense silence.

"Give me your phone."

You hesitated, a flicker of something uneasy settling in your chest. "Axel, why—"

"Give. Me. Your. Phone." he demands sharply, leaving no room for argument. Slowly, you unlocked it and handed it to him, your heart pounding.

He scrolled, his expression darkening at the fact that you had a password on your phone.

"Why do you need privacy?" His gaze snapped to you, burning with accusation. "I am your boyfriend. I can have access to whatever I want."

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the hem of your dress.

"I wasn’t hiding anything," you respond quietly. "I just… I didn’t think it was a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" He scoffed, turning the screen to face you. It was your Instagram profile, he had pulled up your recent notifications. The guy you were just talking to happened to be following you.

"And this? What, you give your account out to every guy who talks to you?" He questions harshly making you avoid his gaze.

"I—I didn’t even know he followed me." Your voice was small, but Axel was already shutting down. His silence was worse than any shouting.

The rest of the drive home was unbearable. No matter how many times you glanced at him, hoping for a reaction, Axel remained rigid, his face unreadable.

And when you got home, he didn’t speak a word. Didn’t even look at you. He just walked inside, leaving you standing there, heart sinking.

You hated this. The cold shoulder. The distance.

So you did what you knew would fix it.

You crawled into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, your hands gently pressing against his chest.

"Axel, I’m sorry," you whispered, voice soft, pleading. "Please don’t be mad at me. I only want you."

He didn’t respond at first. Didn’t touch you. You felt his restraint like a wall between you, and it made you desperate.

"I’ll block him," you offered, nuzzling your nose against his jaw. "I’ll do whatever you want. I promise."

Axel exhaled slowly. Then, finally, his hands found your waist, his grip tight, possessive. His lips ghosted over your cheek before trailing down to your neck.

His voice was low, but firm. "Good girl."

A rush of relief filled your chest, warmth replacing the anxiety that had twisted inside you all night.

"I hate feeling like I have to compete for your attention," he murmured against your skin, his fingers curling into your hair, tugging your head back so he could have access to your neck. "You’re supposed to put me first."

"I do. I swear, I do," you whimper as he pressed his lips along the column of your throat.

He pulls your face to brush his lips against yours in a fleeting, heated kiss, tugging at your lower lip as you pulled away.

"Then prove it," he orders lowly. You nod rapidly, sliding off his lap and sinking down on to your knees in front of him.

Eager to please him, you urgently unbuckle his belt, pulling his pants down to release his aching hard cock that fall straight on to his torso.

Axel lets out a low groan the minute you free him. Your eyes met his full blow dilated ones as you press a soft kiss to the tip of his member, gently starting to stroke your hand up and down his shaft,

He reaches a hand out to instinctively tangle it through your locks as you fully take him in your mouth, humming at the taste of him.

His chest rose up and down heavily feeling the vibrations of your throat around him.

"That's it, atta girl," Axel murmurs, brushing his fingers through your scalp, pushing your head further down on to him.

Tears begin to swell in your eyes as you feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, however you push through the burn and continue your motions to prove your loyalty.

Your tongue ran up and down his veiny member, swirling around the tip occasionally, driving Axel wild. His grunts and moans sent an ache to your core, making you squeeze your legs together.

You hollow your cheeks as you fasten your speed, his hips rocking up to meet your speed.

"My filthy girl, look me in the eyes, baby," he commands as the sound of your gagging fills the room. You stare up at him innocently through your doe eyes that drives him crazy.

Axel lets out a deep guttural moan as he spills his seed into your mouth, your fingers still wrapped around the parts your mouth can't reach.

Both of his hands have made their way to your head as you milk him through his release, swallowing every last drop.

When Axel catches his breath, he pulls you off him, tugging your head back so he can lean over and give you an opened mouth kiss.

Your head is spinning as he breaks away, rubbing his thumb over the apple of your cheek.

"Such a good girl," Axel cooes, his voice still rough, laced with satisfaction. His thumb drifts lower, tracing over your swollen lips, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"Only for you, Axel," you reaffirm.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he guides you up on to the bed, pushing you down to lay on your stomach.

His hands smooth over your back, slow and deliberate, before tightening around your waist, just enough to keep you there.

You bite your lip as he leans over you, his mouth hovering just above your ear as he whispers, "I'm not done with you yet."

Axel was all you wanted. And if this was what it took to keep him happy, you’d do it over and over again.

-----------------------------------------------------

MASTERLIST

Taglist: @ggrgcribg @obsidian-fury @shimmerfrye

(a/n: um WOAH that was dark, and I actually quite enjoyed it. I've never written something like that before, I might have to do it again bc I liked it so much. Also huge shout out to @obsidian-fury bc I had no idea this post/audio existed and now it is saved to my gallery lmfao. The requests are getting spicer and I am GAME.)

#axel kovacevic x reader #axel kovacevic imagines #axel cobra kai #axel kovacevic #axel x reader #cobra kai #sam larusso #miguel diaz #eli moskowitz #tory nichols #axel kovacevic smut

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angelseraphines · 2 months ago

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ATTACK OF THE CLONES | CHAPTER SIX

“beneath the veil of midnight.”

the estate of the rharrellis family had always stood apart from the others, nestled not atop the soft golden hills of the lake country as the famed summer retreat of the house of naberrie was, but rather tucked into the crescent edge of the sapphire cliffs of southern naboo, where the ocean roared far below in solemn cadence and wild seabirds wheeled endlessly in the sky. here, veils of mist drifted in from the shore to weave around the white marble columns, catching in the flowering trellises that draped the terraces in riotous bursts of indigo and coral-pink. the scent of salt and rain hovered over the air like a forgotten dream, and the breeze carried the echo of sea-horns calling to ships too distant to see.

within the solarium, an airy, domed chamber of crystal glass and carved silversheen stone, the morning light glowed soft and gidled. its warmth lit the delicate filigree of the floor mosaics, depicting constellations revered by naboo’s earliest settlers, and caught against the flowing sleeves of sheer silks and the sparkle of finely set gemstones. pale curtains stirred at the open arches, and the scent of morning tea, honeyed root and rivermint, wafted up from a low round table placed between long couches of cloud-colored velvet.

vasharre rharrellis stood near one of the wide windows, her profile caught akin to the light of a splendid painting. eighteen years of age, though far too young for the ache that had been placed in her chest, she wore the look of a young woman not untouched by sorrow. her beauty had deepened, no longer merely striking, but magnetic in its celestial and dangerous confidence. her long midnight-dark hair had been brushed until it shimmered with violet undertones, half pulled back with a silver clasp shaped like a falling star, the rest falling in soft, enchanted waves to her lower back. her skin, pale as porcelain and as flawless, caught the light in a way that made her appear stunning beyond belief.

she was dressed in a rich mulberry gown, deep and wine-dark with a sheer top layer of gauze that fluttered with her every movement, hemmed in glass-threaded embroidery shaped like rising flame. the bodice curved along her figure, boned and wrapped in crisscrossed plum silks, with a neckline that plunged daringly, though not obscenely, into a heart-shaped dip, revealing the tender glow of her collarbones and the pale curve above her sternum. cinched at the waist with a silver belt patterned in constellations, the gown flared outward in fluid layers like ink spilled across parchment. around her neck, as always, rested the nova star pendant, her own, the original, its gem glinting with internal light as if stirred by some force no one could quite name.

her handmaiden, ebos, knelt beside a low table, preparing herbal tea in silence. she had grown into her beauty quietly, the coltish edges of her youth now softened into grace. her golden skin glowed beneath a pale blue wrap, her curls pinned back with white-gold combs, and her hands, nimble as ever, moved through the tea ceremony with practiced reverence. she glanced once toward vasharre, concern flashing across her face, but the handmaiden said nothing.

seated somewhat apart, upon a chaise upholstered in a fabric dyed with pressed sky-blossoms, sat senator padmé amidala. her posture was as composed as ever, her hands folded in her lap, though her expression bore the wear of recent weeks. she was dressed beautifully in formal senatorial attire, a robe of layered creams and golds, rich but not ostentatious, befitting both her former queenship and her current station. the edge of her mantle was embroidered with naboo script, listing the names of the provinces she had once ruled. though still radiant, she seemed drawn, shadows beneath her eyes betraying nights of poor sleep and endless debate. her mind was far from the loveliness of the morning, focused instead on the looming senate vote, on the ever-worsening tension with the separatists, and on the bitter knowledge that the republic she had served with all her youth now trembled like a weakened starship on the verge of collapse.

she glanced toward vasharre, then turned her gaze outward through the open archway. “they are calling for war, sharre,” she murmured. her voice was soft, nearly lost in the wind. “and i fear the galactic republic will answer.”

“they already have,” came vasharre’s swift reply. “they just haven’t said it aloud yet.”

on the far end of the solarium, lounging against a sculpted divan in a swath of sunlight, sat lady avella otrikus. at sixteen, she was as dazzling as any coronation jewel, her presence shimmering with youthful elegance and wry disdain. her curls, dark chestnut and thick, were loosely gathered at the nape of her neck and adorned with a strand of freshwater pearls. she wore a deep slate-gray fur draped over her slender shoulders, a gift from some northern emissary, paired with an embroidered lavender tunic. her indigo eyes, deep as dusk, scanned the open book of poetry in her lap with slow absorption.

“to speak of love in wartime,” she recited, without looking up, “is to speak of fruit ripening beneath the shadow of falling ash.” her voice was lyrical, lightly mocking. “how sentimental.”

vasharre did not smile. “and how accurate.”

avella turned a page with a flourish. “then perhaps we ought to all be fruit trees. doomed, but poetic.”

padmé inhaled softly through her nose, though whether it was amusement or unease, none could say.

“avella,” ebos said, with gentle reproach, “perhaps to do not be so grim so early.”

“grim?” avella blinked gently, her expression far too elegant to be called smug. “i merely read aloud. blame the poet.”

“we blame the galaxy,” vasharre murmured, eyes cast toward the tranquil ocean.

outside, the sound of a droid-drawn carriage passing by the outer courtyard floated up faintly through the breeze. the world beyond the estate moved on, elections continued, armies gathered, planets broke their alliances, and men whispered in dark chambers, but within these walls, the heirs of naboo’s past and the few defenders of its future sat beneath stained glass windows, wrapped in silk and old songs, knowing too well that none of their finery would protect them from what was coming.

in the distance, a thundercloud loomed on the edge of the sky, unseen but sensed.

within the inner solar of the rharrellis estate, the light had turned cooler as the morning aged, and the shadows that had once stretched long across the marble had grown compact and silent. the wind outside had soothed, and in its stead came stillness, dense, as if something were listening. the great chamber, once built for salons and music, had taken on the atmosphere of a war council cloaked in silk. every noble woman in the room was radiant in her own particular manner, but none were idle. the troubles of the republic’s unraveling, its wars, its whispers, its pending vote on the grand army, was stitched into every fold of every gown and woven into the air between words.

seated on a high-backed chair draped in silver-threaded velvet was lady hiarmen rharrellis, elder cousin to vasharre and widow of the late lord pavanak mindorón. hiarmen, always more enigmatic than maternal, bore the mourning veil not in fabric but in manner. she wore no black, only a steely gown cut clean across the collarbone, its shoulders capped in filigreed silver, the entire effect metallic and sharp, mirroring the cold silver pins twisted into her dark coiffure. at her side sat her four-year-old son, orren, the last heir of the mindorón bloodline. he had the fine golden hair of his late father, and eyes as pure a blue as lake virin’s shallows. the boy sat peacefully, curled like a painted cherub on a low cushion near his mother’s slippered feet, playing with a miniature starfighter carved from japor ivory. occasionally, he glanced up at the room’s adult conversations with a sharp, nearly preternatural awareness that belied his age, though it vanished whenever hiarmen’s hand swept absently across his curls in a gesture that was more habitual than affectionate.

hiarmen herself was as ever, austere, severe, and unreadable, her beauty no less captivating for its frost. “perhaps we ought to all take knights,” she remarked, eyes glinting as she addressed no one in particular. “for if the separatists are half as efficient as they claim, we’ll each need one at our shoulder, perhaps even in our beds.”

padmé gave a rare laugh, half exasperated and half sincere. “i can’t imagine the senate approving a budget for that.”

“perhaps not,” hiarmen returned smoothly. “but our fathers once appointed knights to ladies of state, not merely as guards but as champions. maybe it is time the practice was restored.”

“speak for yourself, my lady,” came the voice of lady kilea marel, stepping into the conversation like the clash of a training blade. “i am my own knight in shining armor.” she stood vastly apart from the rest, at the periphery of the stained-glass alcove. her face, alabster and charming, was turned toward the window, though her tone was grounded, serious. she was every inch the daughter of lord namun marel, commander of the naboo army for over three decades before his death, and the last of the marel military line. though clad in a noblewoman’s attire of cream and bronze, her bearing was martial. her gown was somple in shape but accented with pauldrons sewn with hardened beadwork, and at her hip hung a sheathed weapon that no tailor could ever conceal.

with crafted ceremony, she unsheathed the bone blade of her father. it gleamed pale ivory with veins of darkened fossil, the hilt wrapped in a cord of braided copper. she held it not for threat, but reverence. the sight of it caused silence to fall over the chamber, even avella setting aside her book to gaze upon it. there was legend behind that weapon, a blade carved not of metal but of the preserved spine of a virinus beast, slain by the founder of house marel during the ancient unification wars. it had passed from hand to hand down the generations, from lord to lord, and now sat in the hand of a daughter.

“my father meant for me to wield this,” kilea said plainly, her voice hushed, as if speaking not just to the women gathered but to the memory of her father. “it should have been mine to carry as commander of the army. but the council has granted it to havric tyrn.”

padmé’s face darkened. “we opposed it. former senator rharrellis petitioned twice. unfortunately, it was outvoted.”

“because they do not want a woman in command,” kilea replied, finally turning from the window. “not even a marel.” she glanced to vasharre then, and something older than frustration burned behind her eyes, something like betrayal born from the failure of tradition. “they would rather see our armies led by a tyrn, a man who knows nothing of war beyond strategy holos.”

vasharre, to her credit, did not grimance. “he was appointed not because he is worthy,” she said, “but because he is loud. and in this era, the senate listens more closely to bellowing than to bloodlines.”

“or to reason,” added hedna kanve, her voice frigid and refined. she had spoken little until now, her presence like a pillar of pale stone among the gilded furnishings. her hair was that impossibly pale shade that whispered of near-albinism, swept into a tall, severe twist. her skin was immaculate and nearly translucent, like white marble left beneath moonlight, and her dress was high-necked and unembellished, save for a brooch of the kanve crest. there was little warmth to her bearing, but there was gravity. she had long served as one of naem’s most consistent allies, though rarely appearing in the public eye. “the tyrn boy has never bled in the field. his hands are polished, not calloused. he wins favor, not battles.”

hiarmen exhaled through her nose, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. “and yet we entrust our defense to him. all while the separatists mass more followers by the day.”

avella’s voice came again from her corner, subtle but clear. “and the fool shall be given the helm when the wise lose patience.” she drew in a breath, slowly. “but what if the wise lose their voice as well?”

no one answered her. even orren had stopped fiddling with his starfighter, his small hand now curled around one of his mother’s jeweled rings, eyes wide with the realization that the room had grown heavier.

vasharre looked across the chamber and caught padmé’s gaze. they did not speak aloud what they both knew, but the meaning passed between them nonetheless, if things continued as they were, the danger would not be contained to the halls of the senate. it would reach naboo again, as it had once before, this time not with droid armies, but with something colder, darker. and this time, there might be no jedi master at the gates.

the soft murmur of the solar’s conversation was broken not by a crash or a trumpet’s call, but by the sound of swift, echoing footsteps against the marble corridor just beyond the great doors, measured, but too hurried to be ceremonial. the women turned, instinctively lowering their voices as one, the tension rising not with fear but with instinctive alertness, honed over months of political unease and whispered threats.

the carved double doors parted with a slow sweep, pushed open not by servant or steward, but by the nobleman himself, lord rodmin dalar.

he was tall, broad-shouldered beneath a high-collared mantle of obsidian wool trimmed in bronze thread, the insignia of house dalar pressed into the brooch at his chest. the color of his skin, a gleaming bronze that caught the filtered light of the chamber like aged metal, made the stark contrast of his gray-iron eyes all the more arresting. they were sharp, clear, and clouded now with urgency. his dark brown hair was tousled, the sort of dishevelment that came not from disorder, but from haste. his gaze swept the chamber quickly, across padmé, over vasharre, but when it paused, it seemed to hold.

for a breath longer than it should have, it looked to all the room as though his eyes had locked upon lady vasharre rharrellis.

she felt the intensity of that stare, every woman in the room did. his posture became rigid. the set of his jaw clenched. kilea marel, halfway through resheathing the bone blade, faltered in her movement and cast him a glance half-stung, half-flustered. hedna raised an arched brow, though said nothing.

vasharre, poised and crystalline, understood in an instant that it was not she he was truly seeing. no. his gaze, sharpened though it was, had strayed by mere degrees, just enough to settle on the comely ebos onvene, who stood a pace behind her, tender and attentive. vasharre felt it then, the heat in that lack of speech. the look that seemed to plead for time, for safety, for something unspoken. it lasted a second more, then lord dalar stepped forward with the full force of his voice, breaking the illusion like a blade through glass.

“my ladies,” he said, his tone more grave than usual, hoarse with urgency. “forgive the intrusion… but we have received another message. it comes from serenno. directly from count dooku himself.”

all the elegance in the room evaporated in a breath.

padmé stood quickly, abandoning her cushion. “what?”

dalar inclined his head toward her, his brow taut. “i rode from the palace without escort. the message came encoded, he made no effort to conceal it. in fact, he meant for it to be seen.” he looked then to vasharre, not with the veiled longing he had shown ebos, but with the grim burden of duty. “it concerns you.”

vasharre did not move. “he’s sent messages before.”

“yes,” dalar said. “but none so direct. or so… pointed.”

his voice lowered then, and he retrieved a thin holodisc from within the folds of his coat. “he speaks of the lady by name. again. he refers to your lineage. he knows of naem’s poor health and of senator amidala’s incoming arrival to the senate. he says, and i quote, that the delay in granting him the hand of lady vasharre rharrellis will be seen as an act of… resistance.” he glanced down, then looked to padmé. “the count says such resistance will be met with the same consequence as treason.”

a chill shivered through the solar. even lady avella closed her book.

padmé’s hands clenched, her voice vexed and stricken with masked fury. “he dares… he dares threaten naboo again…”

“he does more than threaten,” hedna said coldly. “he declares intention.”

vasharre’s lips parted. “perhaps… perhaps we should give him what he wants.”

“vasharre…” padmé turned swiftly, horrified.

“listen,” vasharre said, rising to her full height, her voice potent. “what if this ends the danger? what if it protects naboo, protects you, padmé… spares my father from further coercion? perhaps if i am handed over… there will be peace for naboo. for a time.”

“no,” lord dalar said auickly. his voice struck the room like a snapped bowstring.

vasharre looked at him, startled by the sharpness of his tone. dalar stepped closer, shaking his head. “no. you don’t understand the nature of this man. he does not want a bride. he wants a symbol. a hostage. a veiled heiress to parade in front of systems too frightened to speak against him. he wants your ancient bloodline, your image, your name. and count dooku will break you to have it.”

“he’s right,” padmé said, her voice barely above a whisper. “it won’t end with you. you’ll be the first… there will be others. he’ll push for more control over naboo. over its council. its army. he wants you because you are revered. beloved. because if he controls you, he controls all that listens to you.”

hiarmen, who had not interjected until now, slowly rose from her chair. “and you would be his pristine offering,” she said, tone as flat as her steel-colored eyes. “sweetened wine to mask the poison in his goblet.”

kilea nodded once, her hands resting on the hilt of her father’s blade. “we do not negotiate with men who speak in threats.”

vasharre’s eyes darkened. “but what if resisting him puts more lives at risk?”

“then we resist harder,” padmé said. her voice trembled now, but not with fear, with conviction. “we’ve fought too long to hand you over. not to him. not to any unworthy man.”

hedna kanve turned her head then, her pale brows lift not with disdain but with the precise exactitude of logic. “forgive me,” she said, voice glacial but never cruel, “but how long do we continue this dance? count dooku sends proposals draped in menace, and still we posture like this is courtship. why not end it? choose a suitor. bind her name to a loyal house, someone within our own grasp, lord vantrel of the lake provinces, or prince kallin of cymaeria, or even the miralan ambassador’s son, that gracious one, what was his name? yes, sirris the younger. any of them would render the count’s offer null.”

vasharre did not speak in response.

it was padmé who answered, stepping forward with restrained fire. “because lord rharrellis has made it plain. he will not see his daughter handed to anyone who would make a show of her. he says a marriage, if it is to come, must be chosen. and to someone worthy of the house of rharrellis, not merely its name.”

hedna pursed her lips. “and none have been found?”

vasharre touched her pendant then, the nova star that hung against her collarbone, silver and dark-violet and eternal. her fingers, slow and careful, wisped over the star’s points. no one else noticed the way her gaze dipped down, shadowed. no one but perhaps padmé.

she had turned them all away. the miralan heir, with his jade smile and woven robes. lord vantrel, whose hands had smelled always of wine and bark. kallin of cymaeria, with his polished shoes and perfect titles. the polite naboo magistrate from the hills, who wrote sonnets and offered roses. even the half-charming sirris, whose proposal had come wrapped in poetry from the stars and a fleet of peacock-feathered gowns. one by one, she had rejected them with grace, but with finality. always finality.

not because she thought herself above them. not even because of duty. not because of her archaic rharrellis lineage.

but because none of them were him.

ten years had passed since she had seen obi-wan kenobi, since he had vanished from her life akin fo a breath into fog. she had grown in his absence, learned to braid her own hair, hold her own gaze in the mirror, speak in a voice that empowered rooms. yet, in the hushed hours when she was not vasharre of rharrellis, not daughter of naem, not noblewoman nor emissary, when she was simply herself, he wandered her mind. she remembered his voice before it had deepened, the shape of his hands as they held his burning saber, the way he had looked at her when she gave him the pendant all those years ago with apprehension, but how he had kept the nova star regardless.

she had no right to think of him. he belonged to the jedi order, to the galaxy, to a cause larger than her and older than unrequited love. regardless, none had matched him. none had his wisdom. none had his fire beneath discipline, his restraint beneath passion. none were him.

and so she had refused them all.

ebos, who had until now stood unmoving in the background, took a single, slow step forward and stood nearer to vasharre. her presence was gentle, but grounding, like a thread of breath in a room about to shatter.

rodmin dalar looked at the handmaiden again, just briefly. not long. not obvious. just enough.

vasharre exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment. when she opened them, they glittered with something resolute.

“then we do not yield,” she said. “we do not bow.”

“no,” said padmé. “never.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the soft droning of the diplomatic starcruiser echoed in the undercurrent of hyperspace, a low and steady rhythm pulsing through durasteel bulkheads and lacquered paneling like the heartbeat of a great, metallic beast in slumber. aboard the vessel, sleek, long-bodied, and armed discreetly beneath its polished silver hull, was a company far smaller than those typically sent to coruscant from naboo, but infinitely more valuable. the importance of kinship, of governance, of survival itself, had been distilled into this one craft, and every passenger aboard understood it.

senator padmé amidala sat noble in her seat, her posture regal even in weariness, the folds of her maroon traveling cloak pooling about her knees. though her bodyguard, captain gregar typho, had protested her traveling at all in the current climate, she had insisted, politely, firmly, and finally. the vote regarding the military creation act loomed like a shadow over the senate, and her voice, more than ever, was needed. yet she had conceded one precaution. she wore the garb of a handmaiden now, plain and dark and unadorned, while her trusted decoy, cordé, stood in her place, garbed in the pale ivory of a senator’s official dress, her features made near indistinguishable by artful paint and practiced elegance.

former senator naem rharrellis stood not far, leaning against one of the inner pillars of the main hold. his long white robes fell in measured folds, and though the lines of age tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth, his presence remained statuesque, forged of old resolve and the intellect, cultivated rage of a father who knew the galaxy was coming for his daughter. he watched the stars pass in streaks beyond the viewport, but his mind was on other things, the senate floor, the proposals, and most of all, the men who had sent veiled threats in place of diplomacy.

vasharre sat beside him, sedate and luminous as moonstone, the nova star pendant glinting faintly in the half-light of the chamber. her hair was unbound for the journey, falling in long sable waves down her back, and though she wore a soft gown of blue-gray velvet, her bearing betrayed no softness. she had barely spoken since boarding, and not once since entering hyperspace. beside her, ebos rested with her hands neatly folded, eyes drifting between each passenger with quiet precision, never at ease, never entirely still. her gaze lingered once, only in a fleeting instant, on lord rodmin dalar, who sat across from her, half-shadowed and pensive. he did not look at ebos, not directly. but his fingers tapped once, twice, against the metal armrest of his seat.

hiarmen rharrellis, wrapped in a traveling cloak of slate blue and silver trim, stared impassively at the floor, her son left behind at the estate under guard, her expression carved of something colder than worry. her hair was coiled tightly into its usual crown, every pin perfectly in place despite the journey, and her hand rested against the curve of her hip, where a hidden blade lay nestled beneath the folds of her garments.

general typho entered the hold just as the ship dropped from hyperspace, a subtle jolt running through the vessel as it began its approach to coruscant. the stars resolved into the glittering orb of the republic capital, its atmospheric shell like a dome of polished chrome, reflecting the light of a nearby sun.

“we’re arriving,” typho said simply, nodding toward the front cabin. “prepare for descent. the escort is ready.”

the gleaming starcruiser descended through the coruscant skyline like a dagger slipping between silk. clouds tore aside, revealing the vast expanse of duracrete, durasteel, and light beneath them, the city-planet in all its overwhelming, vertical majesty. towers soared and flickered with traffic lanes, airspeeders wove between them like shoals of silver fish, and the senate building rose distant and stately in the horizon like a great marble crown.

the ship slowed as it neared the appointed landing platform. the site had been cleared and secured by the republic’s diplomatic flight division, and the platform, hovering against a sky of pale gold and shifting shadows, stood empty but for the escort ships and a few figures waiting in the distance.

cordé, dressed as the senator amidala, rose with slow grace, adjusting her robes with practiced precision. her facade of calm never broke. padmé, hidden beneath the guise of a handmaiden, stood nearby, her eyes darting once to typho, who gave a curt nod.

naem looked to his daughter, his voice lowered. “be vigilant.”

vasharre inclined her head. “of course.”

the landing gear touched down with a hiss of compressed air. the ramp extended.

they descended.

cordé moved first, the guards flanking her, her posture that of queen and senator and symbol. the others followed behind, padmé, disguised and watchful, naem and vasharre cloaked in nobility, ebos silent as a shadow, hiarmen with her eyes narrowed at the skyline, dalar rigid and tense. the air was dry and sharp. the wind smelled of oil and rain.

then, the platform lit up.

a sound, so small at first it could have been machinery, split through the air.

then the fire came.

an explosion, shattering and sudden, tore through the edge of the landing platform where cordé walked. the blast hit like thunder made visible, an eruption of flame, smoke, and shrapnel, a surge of white-orange heat that swallowed the escort guard and threw bodies like broken dolls. the noise was deafening, the light blinding, the tremor so violent the rest staggered, some falling to the ground from the force of it.

vasharre screamed.

it was not a shrill sound, nor long, but stifled and full of breathless horror, her hand shooting out as if she could pull cordé back, though the other woman was already lost in the column of smoke that burst into the sky like a dying star. padmé, attired in her handmaiden’s guise, rushed forward, calling the decoy’s name as more guards surged from the ship, weapons drawn, scanning the skyline for snipers, for drones, for anything.

naem stood frozen. typho yelled orders. hiarmen drew her concealed blade without a word. dalar shielded ebos instinctively, pulling her behind him, while she resisted just as instinctively, trying to push forward toward the blast.

but through the smoke, cordé emerged.

burned, bloodied, barely able to stand. she stumbled into padmé’s arms, her voice a thread of air.

“my lady… i’m sorry… i failed you…”

and then, before anyone could stop it.

she collapsed.

the atmosphere was chaos.

the smell of smoke had become thick and acrid, mingling with the stench of melted durasteel and the copper tang of blood. guards shouted into commlinks, their voices overlapping with the siren-like wails of emergency responders that had already begun to circle the sky above the landing platform. flame retardants hissed out in white clouds, swallowing the scattered debris and bodies still strewn in the blast radius. padmé knelt over cordé’s still form, clutching the dying woman’s soot-streaked hand, her face hollowed and stricken. there were scorch marks on her sleeves, and shards of broken plating embedded in her gloves, but she barely felt them.

a blur.

from the curling smoke near the edge of the platform, a figure leapt forth, quick as a shadow set alight.

they were masked, formidable and lean, wrapped in a black flight suit reinforced with armor patches, a long vibroblade in one hand, and a concealed holdout blaster in the other. their face was hidden behind a smooth black mask, the kind worn by outer rim mercenaries, with no insignia, no mouthpiece, only a narrow red slit where eyes should be.

they didn’t go for padmé.

they went for vasharre.

she turned too late. the figure was already almost upon her, blade drawn, the weight of their body crashing forward in a motion meant not to injure, but to seize. to take. arms outstretched, weapon ready, not for a clean strike, but for a disabling one.

ebos shouted.

“my lady!”

lord rodmin dalar moved.

his body cut between them like a gate slammed shut, shoulder colliding with the attacker’s midsection, driving them back. his own blade was drawn now, a short saber-knife honed for defense, its metal gleaming, but the masked figure was trained, precise, relentless. they slashed low, then high, forcing dalar to step back, blocking one blow after the next, his stance brutal and effective but rushed. the figure feinted and cut again, a near-silent assassin moving with the cold discipline of a hired hand who had rehearsed this ambush a hundred times.

vasharre staggered backwards, winded, heart thundering.

the masked figure moved to break past dalar, but he matched them again, drove them back with a slash that caught the side of their mask, revealing for a split second a sliver of dusky skin, a hint of teeth, nothing more.

a howl of pain.

the figure’s blade came down fast, too fast. dalar blocked it, but the angle was wrong, the contact jagged. the vibroblade sliced through the side of his left hand, and blood sprayed as his fourth finger was severed clean from the knuckle.

he grunted in agony but didn’t fall.

the attacker twisted back, saw the guards converging, and without another word or strike, dropped a flash grenade to the ground. a hiss, a pulse of light.

and they were gone.

the platform flared with afterimages. the flash blinded the approaching guards for precious seconds. when vision returned, the smoke had devoured the attacker whole. no trace, no trail. just the hum of security droids racing overhead, too late.

ebos dropped to her knees beside lord dalar, grabbing his wounded hand with trembling fingers, voice breaking as she shouted for medical attention. “hold still… don’t… my lord… please…”

dalar, sallow with pain, said nothing, but he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time, not as a handmaiden or a shadow trailing behind vasharre, but as if he’d known her far longer. there was something devastated in his eyes, not just from the pain, but from the failure, he had nearly lost her.

vasharre had already run. her feet carried her to padmé, where the senator was still kneeling over cordé’s body, unmoving.

“padmé,” vasharre said, her voice hoarse from smoke. “padmé… please. we have to go. we have to go.”

padmé didn’t look up.

“cordé…she saved me. she should not have had to die…” her voice cracked. she clutched the fabric of cordé’s cloak as if it would anchor her, but her fingers were shaking.

vasharre bent down, her voice hushed, stable despite the quivering in her limbs.

“she did save you. she chose to. and if you stay here now, if you let her death prevent you, then it was for nothing. padmé… you have to go to the senate. the vote… they need you. not just naboo. the whole galactic republic.”

padmé looked up at last.

her eyes were full of smoke and sorrow, but beneath it, a spark of determination.

she let go of cordé’s hand and slowly rose, turning to typho. “ready the transport. we go to the senate now.”

and the wind changed direction across the landing platform, searing and rising, as the flame of war threatened to engulf the galaxy whole.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the city outside the wide transparisteel windows of the chancellor’s high-rise office was sheathed in shadow and silver, the lights of coruscant glimmering below like a thousand murmuring circuits strung across the skin of the planet. in the distance, the senate spire rose like a lance against the clouds, illuminated from within by the flickering urgency of the moment. though the hour was late by standard reckoning, the republic did not sleep, not now, not when the threat of war trembled closer with each passing day.

within the expansive chamber, polished and pristine, the scent of incense and the crackle of static from diplomatic feeds hung in the aur. at the center of the room, standing near his great desk of galactic wood and brushed metal, supreme chancellor palpatine folded his hands before him, the lines on his face deepened with a gravity too precise to be theatrical. his voice, ever measured and suave, now bore the shade of mourning.

“there has been….” he began, with a pause that let the absence of words stretch long enough to draw every eye in the chamber, “…terrible news.”

gathered before him in a semi-circle stood the members of the jedi high council, masters of immense power and tempered wisdom, their robes catching the low light in varying tones of beige, brown, and slate. seated among them was master mace windu, his expression etched in stone, every movement of his body controlled and minimal. beside him, a pace behind and to the side, stood his nineteen-year-old padawan kraen rharrellis, towering, dark-haired, composed. kraen said nothing, his posture still as sculpture, his hands folded neatly before him.

palpatine continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled masters.

“senator padmé amidala of naboo was attacked upon arrival in coruscant earlier this evening. her diplomatic vessel, an official cruiser carrying only essential personnel, was bombed as it landed at the appointed platform. the senator herself would have perished, had she not been employing a decoy.” his voice lowered, touched with solemnity. “cordé, the woman who stood in her place, was killed in the blast alongside other officers of the naboo guard.”

a murmur rose from several of the masters, though none interrupted.

“more troubling still,” palpatine said, “was the secondary attempt that followed. amidst the chaos, when flames were still rising and the guard disoriented, a disguised figure emerged from the smoke. they attempted to seize lady vasharre rharrellis, the daughter of former senator naem rharrellis, and herself a prominent figure of nobility and political interest on naboo.”

a breath passed in the chamber. master ki-adi-mundi’s brow furrowed. master plo koon leaned forward imperceptibly.

palpatine’s voice remained sorrowful. “this was no uncoordinated attack. it was executed with precision. the decoy was targeted first. and once she fell, the attempt to capture the lady was made. had it not been for lord dalar of naboo, who suffered serious injury in the attempt to repel the assailant, i fear we would be facing not only these unfortunate deaths, but an abduction.”

master yoda, seated near the right of the semicircle, opened his eyes wider, his ears wavering. but he, too, said nothing yet.

palpatine allowed the true significance of his words to sink in, then diverted the conversation carefully, with the skill of a man who had worn robes of politics for far longer than he had worn the mantle of leadership.

“and all this,” he said, “while the separatist movement continues to gain momentum. more systems declared their intent to secede just this week. their governors speak boldly of independence, of sovereignty, and of their so-called right to form a new galactic alignment. we are watching the slow unraveling of the republic before our very eyes.”

his tone had grown darker, though still placid.

“attacks such as this, so calculated, so cruel, are not isolated events. they are part of a pattern. an escalation. the same pattern we have seen in the outer rim, in trade disputes, in the sudden withdrawal of planetary delegates from senatorial duty. the republic is not only fracturing, it is being pulled apart, piece by piece.”

master windu’s eyes remained fixed on the chancellor. his tone, when he finally spoke, was careful.

“and the senate? will they act?”

palpatine nodded, slowly. “they must. i intend to place the matter before the full assembly within the day. senator amidala remains committed to presenting her position, despite the attempt on her life. she has insisted she will not be silenced.”

a surge of approval moved through the room, though none said it aloud.

palpatine turned toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back now, the city’s glow washing across the front of his robes.

“we must consider, masters, what this means not only for naboo, but for every system still loyal to the republic. if figures like senator amidala or lady vasharre are no longer safe, even on coruscant itself, then what message does that send to our people? to those caught between loyalty and departure?”

he let the silence endure again, perfectly timed, then turned back.

“i bring this to you not as an accusation, but as an appeal. the jedi have long served as guardians of peace. now, more than ever, we must show the galaxy that peace is not weakness. that those who would terrorize and divide us will not prevail.”

kraen did not move, though his shoulders had become tense. windu adjusted in position, placing a hand at his side, a subtle gesture of instruction, remain composed, remain still.

palpatine’s expression softened.

“i ask only for your continued vigilance. not only for senator amidala and lady rharrellis, but for every voice that dares to speak for unity while the stars grow dim.”

he inclined his head then, grave and slow, the picture of statesmanship cloaked in grief.

“thank you, masters. for your counsel. and for your strength.”

the absence of speech that followed was not futile.

it was heavy. waiting. watching. the storm, though distant, was gathering. and its shadow had now reached the heart of the republic.

the door hissed open.

from the smooth archway at the far end of the chancellor’s office, two figures entered, their silhouettes outlined by the soft internal glow of the lift behind them. the older of the two strode with that unmistakable gait, composed, measured, a rhythm born not of affectation but of discipline long practiced. clad in the traditional robes of a jedi master, obi-wan kenobi walked forward with the assurance of one who no longer needed to prove himself. it had been ten standard years since he had first knelt before the council as a jedi knight. ten years since his master’s death on naboo. ten years since the war drums had begun to sound across the edges of the galaxy.

beside him walked his padawan, anakin skywalker, now nineteen, grown tall and strong and possessed of a presence that turned heads without trying. his robes fit him less like those of a monk and more like those of a young warrior, and though he carried himself with the restraint of training, there was a fire in his steps that had not yet been tempered by time. his pale blue eyes, sharp and searching, darted briefly across the chamber as they approached the chancellor, and though his expression was composed, there was the agitation at his jaw, in the way his gloved fingers curled and uncurled at his sides.

palpatine turned from the window with practiced solemnity.

“master kenobi,” he said warmly, hands folded before him. “and padawan skywalker. your arrival is timely. i trust the matter on anison has been resolved?”

“the borders have been secured,” obi-wan said calmly, bowing his head. “the local disputes were contained before escalation. there will be no need for further intervention.”

“excellent,” palpatine said. “the senate will be relieved. but i’m afraid your return brings you to graver matters.”

obi-wan’s brows narrowed. “has there been another attack?”

palpatine nodded. “worse. senator amidala was targeted upon her arrival to coruscant. a bomb was planted on her vessel. she survived… only because her decoy, cordé, took her place. the young woman was killed in the blast.”

anakin’s face did not move. but something behind his eyes constricted like a snapped cord. he looked down sharply, as if in thought, then back up again, his expression flat, his mouth set. only obi-wan noticed the way his padawan’s shoulder shifted, the way his breath lightly changed, his composure becoming almost too crafted.

obi-wan turned to look at him directly, and though his own expression remained neutral, his gaze was edged with steel. it was not unkind. it was not a rebuke. but it was a warning, a wordless, unmistakable command, control yourself.

anakin met his eyes. held the stare.

and looked away.

palpatine’s voice did not falter. “there was more. amidst the explosion, a masked assailant emerged and attempted to abduct lady vasharre rharrellis. the royal heiress was saved… barely, by the intervention of a naboo noble, lord rodmin dalar, who was severely injured in the process.”

obi-wan’s breath caught in his throat, though none in the room could have perceived it. there was no visible shift in his posture, no clenching of his hands or intense intake of air. only something faint and inward, a buried current moving beneath the surface of long-cultivated calm.

vasharre rharrellis.

it had been ten years since he had seen her, since that last day on the steps of the theed palace when she had pressed the nova star into his palm with shaking fingers and made him vow never to forget naboo, or her. and he hadn’t. though he had never spoken of it, never acted upon it, never permitted himself the indulgence of returning to that sincere memory as anything more than sentiment, the truth had remained hidden and buried inside him, he had carried that nova star pendant through every battle, every negotiation, every cold night in the outer rim where peace seemed like myth. he had not worn it, not openly, not since becoming a jedi knight. but it remained condealed, deep beneath the inner folds of his cloak, warm against his chest akin to a secret unspoken by the code.

he did not speak. he only bowed his head.

she is safe, obi-wan told himself. you are relieved because she is safe. nothing more. this is the duty of a jedi.

palpatine looked at them both, his eyes slow and obscured.

“i have spoken with her father,” the chancellor said, his voice dropping a shade.

palpatine’s pause was deliberate, the space between his words filled with the sound of distant traffic and the low electric hum of the city that never slept. he stepped away from the transparisteel windows and moved back toward the desk at the room’s center, the folds of his crimson chancellor’s robes whispering faintly against the polished floor. his eyes, pale, glistening, always calculating, landed once more upon obi-wan kenobi and his padawan, and for the first time since they had entered the chamber, the chancellor’s voice took on something resembling gravity.

“i have spoken at length with former senator naem rharrellis,” he began, tone slow and heavy with significance. “he is, as you know, a man of considerable dignity, one of our oldest and most loyal voices in the republic, even now, in retirement. but he is also a father. and tonight, he nearly lost his only daughter and heiress to his royal lineage.”

obi-wan remained unmoving, but his expression had cooled into something unreadable.

“senator amidala and lord rharrellis are in agreement,” palpatine continued. “the situation is no longer one of general security, it is one of targeted threat. the attack was not indiscriminate. both senator amidala and lady vasharre were singled out.”

his eyes now turned fully to obi-wan, though he spoke to the room.

“the jedi council has provided protection before. during the blockade of naboo, jedi intervention was decisive. and both of these young women have known the order’s protection, indeed, your protection, master kenobi.”

a flash moved across anakin’s face, a small glance, unbidden, toward his master.a remembrance, unspoken.

palpatine folded his hands before him.

“thus, i believe it would be most sensible,” he said, “for jedi master obi-wan kenobi and his padawan learner anakin skywalker to be assigned to this task. not merely for their proven skill, but for their familiarity with the senator and the lady in question. you both know them. you’ve seen what danger can look like when it comes to their doorstep.”

obi-wan inclined his head respectfully. “we would be honored to serve.”

palpatine nodded approvingly.

“and,” he added, after the barest pause, “i believe it would be prudent for padawan kraen rharrellis to join the assignment as well.”

the effect of those words rippled through the room like the abrupt fluctuation of water before a storm.

kraen’s icy gaze lifted, sharply. for the first time since entering the chamber, his composure diminished, but only somewhat. a broadening of the eyes, quickly masked. he did not speak. he did not dare.

mace windu’s reaction, however, was far less mite.

the jedi master took a single step forward, his voice deep and controlled.

“no,” he said. “that will not happen.”

palpatine’s brow moved up in a polite facsimile of surprise. “master windu?”

“you suggest that my padawan,” windu said, voice like stone under pressure, “be sent on a mission to protect his sister. a high-profile, emotionally compromised mission. without me, his mentor.”

“with respect, jedi master,” palpatine said smoothly, “i do not intend for him to be assigned directly to her protection.”

“that does not change the risk,” windu replied. “attachments are forbidden for a reason.”

“and yet,” palpatine said, taking a measured step forward, “his familiarity with naboo’s court, with its customs, with its terrain, his own nobility, makes him uniquely suited to this task. i intend for padawan kraen to be stationed at the rharrellis estate. he will stay on naboo, to oversee the protection of the courtly entourage and aid in securing the estate grounds. senator amidala and lady vasharre will be remaining in coruscant until the senate vote. they will be under master kenobi’s protection. the padawan will not even be in the same system.”

“but he will be on naboo,” windu said sharply. “he will be within reach. within thought. within memory. you do not understand the depth of family bonds in our order because you have never lived under our code.”

palpatine’s voice grew cool. “i understand enough, master windu, to know that the boy is a jedi. and jedi are trained to resist such distractions. or do you doubt your own teaching?”

kraen remained utterly motionless, though he stood now as if bracing himself for a blow.

the tension in the room turned brittle.

“this is not about doubt,” windu said. “this is about wisdom. you do not test a dam by flooding it. you do not test a wound by tearing it open again.”

palpatine tilted his head, his tone now quiet, coaxing. “master windu, are you saying your padawan is incapable of detachment?”

nobody was so bold as to speak.

then, a slow voice. ancient. patient.

“trained him, you have,” came yoda’s voice at last, breaking the tension not with tranquility, but with finality. “trusted him, you must. greater test, this may be. but if strong he is, prove it he will.”

windu’s body became rigid. he turned his gaze toward kraen, who met his master’s eyes, not with desperation, but with cold clarity. he gave a forceful, respectful nod.

for a long while, the chamber was devoid of speech.

then windu stepped back, spine straight as a drawn blade, and folded his arms into his sleeves.

“as the council wills.”

palpatine gave the vaguest of smiles.

“then it is decided,” he said. “master kenobi. padawan skywalker. padawan rharrellis. may the force be with you.”

as they turned to leave, palpatine’s eyes were focused not on windu, not even on kraen, but on obi-wan kenobi.

and though the chancellor’s face betrayed nothing, inwardly, the pieces moved across the board. perfectly.

obi-wan bowed. so did anakin. kraen hesitated a second longer, then inclined his head with crisp formality, though his eyes remained on the floor just long enough to betray the trace of thoughts too complex to voice. the tension in his posture had eased, and though his breath remained measured, there was something beneath it now, a thread of anticipation, closely held but unmistakable to anyone watching.

before they could turn fully to go, master yoda, seated with legs folded and fingers steepled upon his cane, lifted his gaze.

“one more thing, there is,” he said, his voice as slow and deliberate as the air that had thickened in the chamber. “for this assignment, changed the structure will be.”

all three men turned back.

yoda’s ears dipped slightly, as they often did when he spoke not merely as teacher but as seer. “unusual, yes. but needed, it is. due to the mission’s complexity… and strain upon bonds already tested…”

his green eyes flicked between kraen and windu.

“…master kenobi, temporary master to padawan rharrellis, you shall be.”

kraen’s head jerked up, not sharply, but with sudden, unguarded shock. his brows rose a fraction, and for an instant his face, ever schooled in calm detachment, registered something more human, a glimmer of long-awaited, surprised satisfaction.

beside him, anakin turned subtly, catching the change in kraen’s bearing with an indistinguishable look.

mace windu stood motionless. his face, carved in firm neutrality, did not reveal whether he had anticipated yoda’s ruling or not. but something in his expression had hardened.

obi-wan stepped forward a fraction. his voice was calm as ever.

“i will assume responsibility for him,” he said simply, “for the duration of the assignment.”

his tone was neither resigned nor pleased. it was the tone of a man who understood duty, who understood the gravity of it, and would carry it with precision.

yoda gave the most benign of nods.

“trust in him, i do,” the ancient master said lightly. “and in you.”

with that, the matter was sealed.

palpatine, ever the careful observer, gave a slow, approving nod. “then we are aligned. may this assignment bring guardianship and peace.”

the formality returned. kenobi bowed once more, as did kraen, this time with something near to reverence, though measured as ever. anakin followed suit, though his eyes never quite left the edge of the chancellor’s robes as they swept aside.

the three of them, master, padawan, and now second padawan, turned and moved toward the exit.

the doors opened again with a soft mechanical hiss, and the lights of coruscant reached through the corridor beyond, casting long shadows along the floor of the chancellor’s chamber.

as obi-wan passed the threshold, his cloak swept behind him, his shoulders steady, mind already adjusting to the burden of leadership now doubled. kraen moved beside him in clean synchrony, his steps exact. behind them, anakin followed with a quiet urgency in his stride, though his gaze was turned inward now, toward the news of padmé, toward the mission, toward whatever visions had begun to cloud his focus.

and just as the doors began to close.

“kenobi.”

the voice was low, quiet, shaped by years of authority.

obi-wan paused, only half-turning.

mace windu stepped forward, eyes fixed on him.

as the doors sealed shut behind them, a momentary stillness fell, cocooned by the low hum of repulsorlift engines outside and the ever-present current of the force that stirred faintly between masters of its path. obi-wan turned fully now, standing in the long shaft of gold light cast from the high windows of the chancellor’s tower, his brow faintly furrowed, the expression on his face neutral but attentive. mace windu, statuesque in the shadows, had not moved his gaze from obi-wan since calling his name.

a subtle darkening of windu’s eyes, first to anakin, then to kraen, was all it took. both padawans understood the unspoken command. they exchanged glances, before stepping back and moving toward the far end of the corridor, their boots scraping against the polished floor.

once they were out of earshot, windu exhaled slowly, folding his arms within his sleeves. his voice, when it came, was low and firm, wrapped in a layer of caution that only those who had stood beside him in the trials of the order would recognize.

“you understand the gravity of what you’ve just taken on,” he said. “kraen is not a simple assignment, kenobi. he is not stable.”

obi-wan nodded once, controlled. “i know.”

“he is reckless,” windu continued, voice sharpening, “impulsive when pushed, emotional beneath the surface. he has grown… disciplined, yes. but the fury remains. he hides it well. too well. that makes it more dangerous.”

obi-wan listened without interruption, his face composed, though his mind was already turning inward, recalling fragments of kraen from years past: the gifted child, born of nobility, drawn to the force like a torch drawn to oil. the one whispered to be the forceborn before the council’s instruments revealed otherwise.

“i saw it again last month,” windu said. “on serreno, during the peace talks. he broke formation when he sensed a child in danger. disobeyed orders. succeeded in the rescue, yes, but compromised the mission’s structure. the rest of the strike team had to adapt. that cannot happen again. not with these circumstances.”

obi-wan’s eyes narrowed, but not in judgment. more in recognition. he spoke calmly.

“you believe it stems from what happened when he was a young boy.”

mace’s lack of immediate response confirmed it.

“the boy they called the forceborn,” windu said at last, voice strained with remnants of the past. “the child of the bloodline, the lineage, the stars. and then the tests came. and the truth with them. not him. never him.”

a pause.

“that kind of disillusionment, it scars a child. deeply. more than most will ever admit.”

obi-wan did not say anything for a beat. “he conceals it well.”

“yes,” windu said. “but we both know that can be worse.”

understanding passed between them, old, reflective, unsentimental. two men who had seen too many boys raised into soldiers, too many promises of destiny undone by truth.

“you will see it,” windu said. “on naboo. the facade will slip. whether because of the mission, or his sister, or something else. when it does, you must guide him back. keep him aligned. remind him of what we are.”

obi-wan’s voice was dismal. “i will.”

but windu wasn’t finished.

he stepped closer, his gaze harder now.

“and you, kenobi, and skywalker, you must both remember the jedi code as well.”

obi-wan’s features did not shift, but the message landed all the same.

“attachment is not a temptation for the weak alone,” windu said. “it comes for the strong too. those who believe themselves beyond it. above it.”

obi-wan’s contemplation this time was long and and orderly.

finally, he nodded.

windu studied him for one more breath. then he stepped back and turned.

his long cloak swirled slightly behind him as he crossed the corridor, approaching kraen, who stood with his arms folded neatly before him, his posture composed but visibly tense. his eyes flicked to anakin, who stood a pace away, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“padawan,” windu said, voice cool and precise.

kraen straightened, spine taut. “yes, master.”

“walk with me.”

without question, kraen followed him, the two of them moving several paces away into the adjoining corridor, the sound of their footsteps muffled beneath the vaulted ceiling. the air there was colder, less welcoming, lit by the low amber glow of hanging sconces, meant more for decorum than illumination.

after a concise, intense but whispered conversation, kraen bowed sharply, then turned and began the walk back toward the others. windu stood behind, eyes narrowed, unmoving as the shadows curved around his shoulders like armor.

the boy was walking straight.

but windu had seen too many boys walk into the burning fire believing it was duty.

and too many masters mistake it for fate.

anakin returned from the far end of the corridor with measured steps, his cloak shifting around his frame in restless folds. though his face was mostly still, his stride carried the burden of emotion barely held in check, tension wound unyielding beneath his chest, coiled and waiting. the low light of the chancellor’s corridor lent a burnished hue to the metal walls, catching the angular lines of his face, the youthful sharpness hardening into something older.

obi-wan stood where he had been, arms folded across his chest, posture calm in its discipline. if he had noticed windu and kraen’s exchange beyond the corner, he gave no sign. his gaze turned as anakin approached, cool and even.

“we’ll depart by second hour,” obi-wan said plainly, tone clipped. “you’ll be expected to prepare the travel manifest and coordinate with coruscant security. the senator and the lady will be under our protection from the moment of embarkment. there is no room for error.”

anakin nodded, eyes slightly narrowed. “of course, master.”

a pause stretched.

then, unable to help himself, or perhaps no longer willing to pretend otherwise, anakin said, “i assume we’ll be seeing her. padmé.”

obi-wan’s expression did not shift, but something in his bearing grew stiff.

anakin went on, voice more sentimental now. “it’s been ten years since i’ve seen her. she’s not the young woman i knew. but still… i need to know she’s safe.”

“you’re not meant to need anything,” obi-wan lectured, his voice resonant but disconcerted. “we are not here for feelings, anakin. we are here to serve. nothing more.”

anakin’s jaw clenched. “i’m aware of the code.”

“then remember it.”

the words fell like a closing gate, final and hard. obi-wan’s gaze was now staunchly on him, clear, unwavering, and stern.

anakin exhaled slowly through his nose, his frustration pulling at the corners of his mouth. “and when you see lady vasharre rharrellis,” he said, voice mockingly polite, “will you act as though it is nothing? no surprise, no pleasure in seeing her again after ten years? as though she is no more than a former senator’s daughter in need of our escort?”

obi-wan did not so much as flinch.

his voice, when it came, was iron wrapped in silk.

“i do not know what you are insinuating,” he said. “my task is to protect her. nothing else. as jedi, we strive for discipline, for honor, for service. not for the indulgence of reunion.”

anakin looked at him for a long while, his eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. the light caught the scar that now sat faintly above his brow, an admonition of battle, of time passed.

“of course, master,” he said softly, voice smooth but distant. “duty. as always.”

obi-wan nodded, satisfied, or pretending to be.

they began to walk side by side, the hem of their robes brushing in stride.

anakin said nothing else. but his compliance was not the compliance of obedience. it was the compliance of knowledge. of a thought not spoken, but not forgotten.

and as they disappeared into the corridor’s vanishing point, only the click of their boots marked the long shadow of what was returning. not just a mission. not just a memory.

but the ghosts of what they had tried, and failed, to leave behind.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the turbolift hummed as it rose, its durasteel walls glinting in the soft glow of the overhead panels. the ascent was smooth, too smooth, it left no room for distraction, no sound but the mechanical thrum and the controlled rhythm of breath. anakin stood stiff beside his master, arms crossed loosely over his chest, fingers tapping silently against the fabric of his tunic. the silence between them was not tense, not quite, but laced with something unspoken, as if the atmosphere carried old conversations neither wished to revive.

obi-wan stood composed, arms at his sides, his cloak drawn clean over his frame, expression as measured as ever. though the lines of age were just beginning to sharpen the angles of his face, there remained the unmistakable trace of restraint in his posture, the same poise that had defined him since his earliest days as a jedi knight. his eyes were set forward, but it was clear he was aware of his padawan’s fidgeting.

then, as if sensing the quietude had stretched too long, anakin finally broke it, his voice a whisper and uncertain.

“i have heard… padmé has changed a lot.”

obi-wan glanced at him, one brow raising. “you remember her well, after all these years?”

anakin shrugged. “not really.” he paused. “just little things.”

obi-wan looked forward again, voice even. “then you’ll still treat her as the senator she is. we’re here to protect her, not to relive old friendships.”

anakin’s said nothing.

the turbolift slowed to a halt with a soft hiss. the doors parted, revealing the hallway of the senator’s high-rise apartment, sleek, clean, lined in warm ochre and brushed bronze, with long beams of coruscanti sunlight pouring in from the far windowpanes. two naboo guards stood stationed along the corridor, their gold-trimmed burgundy uniforms unmistakable.

the guards gave them a nod. obi-wan returned it politely, without breaking stride. anakin followed close behind, his steps only a fraction more eager, though he tried to contain it.

as they approached the entrance, the door slid open with the graceful hush of repulsorlift hydraulics. inside, the space was familiar in its structure but formal in tone, no sign of homeliness, only the dignity expected of a senatorial dwelling. rich fabrics, muted tones, quiet light. the scent of nerf-leather and fresh pressed silk lingered in the air, caught on the quiet breeze of the climate control system.

padmé stood near the center of the room.

she was dressed in formal attire, regal, elegant, but practical, a dark wine-colored gown that fell simply over her shoulders with no ornament except a small brooch of the naboo seal at her collar. her hair was pulled into a modest twist, framing her face in smooth, golden-brown waves. she looked older than she had on naboo, no longer the teenage queen masked in paint and duty, but the senator she had become, poised with confidence, shaped by war and rhetoric and consequence. but her bronze eyes were the same, dark, perceptive, always ahead of what was occurring.

she turned as they entered, and for a second, only one, she seemed to hesitate. then she stepped forward.

“master kenobi,” she said warmly, her voice gentle and courteous. “it’s been far too long.”

obi-wan bowed politely. “senator amidala. it’s an honor.”

anakin stepped forward, slower, less sure of himself. for a heartbeat he simply stared, eyes wide, shoulders stiff.

she turned her gaze to him, something soft flickering behind her expression.

“ani?” she said.

he smiled faintly, nervous. “it’s a pleasure to see you again, my lady.”

obi-wan shot him a glance from the side, astute but unmistakable.

padmé smiled politely. “you’ve grown.”

“so have you,” anakin said, and quickly added, “grown more beautiful, i mean. for a senator, i mean.”

she laughed, a short, surprised sound, charming in its honesty.

obi-wan cleared his throat.

“we’re here to assess the situation,” he said. “the chancellor has requested that we remain near until the vote concludes.”

padmé nodded, her tone sobering. “i’m grateful. after the explosion, i admit… i haven’t had a night of relaxed slumber since.”

obi-wan stepped further into the room, composed and focused. “do you have any reason to suspect another attempt?”

“no,” she said, then looked down. “but that doesn’t mean one won’t come.”

anakin’s piercing eyes never left her, but he said nothing more.

none of them spoke of what had passed in the ten years since, of the girl who had once worn a gilded crown and carried a blaster into battle, or the boy who had gazed up at her in awe as a child, or the jedi knights who had stood between them and fire. those remembrances sat beneath the surface, unspoken, waiting.

obi-wan folded his arms gently into his sleeves. “then we’ll stay as long as necessary.”

padmé met his gaze, then nodded.

“thank you,” she said. “both of you.”

and beyond the chamber walls, in the deeper rooms of the suite, others waited, unseen, for now.

but the past had entered the room, and none of them had left it unchanged.

the chamber beyond padmé’s receiving room was awash in a veiled light, softened by gossamer curtains drawn slightly over the arched windowpanes that overlooked the coruscant skyline. the city beyond glimmered in hues of gold and silver, its towers catching the dying light of the sun as it dipped beneath the curve of the upper atmosphere. sound here seemed muted, as though the room itself had been carefully set apart from the rush and chaos of the galactic capital. there was something sacred in the stillness. like a held breath.

obi-wan kenobi stepped through the threshold with the effortless grace of a man shaped by a lifetime of discipline and mastery. his boots made no sound across the inlaid flooring. his eyes, ever alert, swept once across the room and caught at once the figure that stood by the far window.

a young woman.

she was poised, her back turned toward him, head slightly tilted, as though studying something far beyond the horizon, something only she could see. her silhouette was outlined in silver, her form framed perfectly by the dying light of the world outside. at first, she was unfamiliar to him. only a figure, woman’s form clothed in elegance, framed in beauty.

but then, she turned.

and he felt something change deep within him, something ancient and forthcoming.

those eyes, those impossibly dark, abysmal, alluring eyes, met his, and all the intervening years ebbedaway in an instant.

they were eyes like the void between stars, endless and luminous in their darkness. and in that intimacy of enduring eye contact, recognition struck him not as a thought, but as a physical sensation, like the pulse of the force at the verge of battle. a name surfaced from deep within his memory, no longer attached to the child he had once known, but to the young woman who now stood before him.

vasharre.

the royal lady rharrellis.

she had changed, and yet she had not. she stood with the same poise she had even as a girl, but it had deepened, refined by time and ceremony into something celebrated. her hair, once curling down her back in restless spirals, was now a sea of midnight black, falling in lovely waves, the strands gleaming like obsidian under the amber light. her skin was pale as ivory, untouched by sun, shining akin to porcelain, and her mouth, once round with youth, was now finely shaped, stained tenderly rose, composed into a perfect serenity that held beneath it the suggestion of secrets.

she was dressed in a gown of midnight blue satin that shimmered like water beneath a full moon. the sleeves were sheer and draped from the shoulder to the elbow before falling away in long, translucent trails embroidered with glinting silver filaments. but it was the bodice that held his breath hostage, cut in a proud, square neckline, it bared the upper halves of her shoulders and collarbone and the delicate skin of her chest, revealing skin that shined like the inside of a seashell. it was daring, not indecent, but regal, the kind of reveal born of rank and confidence, not vanity. across that expanse of luminous skin hung her nova star pendant, resting perfectly against her collar, its glowing core catching the light as she moved.

she stood perfectly still.

and so did he.

his mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came at first. he simply looked at her, the lines of his face composed as ever, but in his eyes, something oscillated. something restrained. something like astonishingly.

she was no longer the girl who had given him a pendant beneath a war-torn sky.

she was a woman now. a heavenly vision dressed in stars and secrets.

and yet, she bowed her head gently, formally. “master kenobi.”

her voice was unchanged. elegant, polished velvet, soft but refined. naboo and noble.

obi-wan stepped forward and offered a low bow of his own, every gesture unhurried, precise, respectful. “royal lady rharrellis. it is… an honor to see you again.”

she smiled, and it was not coy, nor false. it was the smile of someone who remembered everything and chose, for now, to speak of none of it.

“it has been ten years,” vasharre said, clasping her hands before her. her rings caught the light, white fingers decorated in pearl and silver. “i was a young child then. i imagine i was hardly memorable.”

he permitted himself the lightest curve of a smile. “i remember you well, my lady. and you were far from forgettable.”

her otherworldly eyes held his a split second longer, studying him. then she said, with the slightest rising of her head, “you look the same. a touch more stern, perhaps, jedi master.”

he exhaled a gentle breath of amusement. “the years have had their toil.”

her gaze wandered downward. “and yet you continue to bear it.”

obi-wan kenobi followed her eyes, gradually, and knew at once what she meant.

beneath the folds of his cloak, beneath tunic and linen, pressed close to his heart, was the twin of the pendant that rested against her bare skin. the nova star. hers shone openly, a symbol, a relic, a bond unspoken. his remained buried. secret.

“i do,” he said softly. “some things are not so easily lost.”

she looked at him then, deeply, intently, but without challenge. only a kind of tender recognition.

then, proper once more, she stepped back. “you have my eternal appreciation for coming. the security measures are appreciated.”

he straightened, his voice once again that of the jedi of the order. “we serve where needed. protecting you and the senator is our duty.”

only duty, he told himself.

vasharre nodded her head once again. “then i trust we shall not prove too troublesome to safeguard.”

obi-wan kenobi allowed another whisper of a smile.

and though nothing more was said, the force between them darkened, not with danger, not with fear, but with fate, with the unsaid.

with the understanding that two paths had interwoven once again.

and nothing would be quite the same.

19 notes · View notes

natimiles · 1 year ago

Note

Hihi! I saw your post! ^-^ if it's ok, may I request Roger from ikevil and kiss on the neck? (If you're still taking requests!) Thank you for doing this event! It's really fun! Hope you're having a lovely day!!!

Hiii! Yes, I was still taking requests when you sent this! Just took me some time to get to it hehe

I’m glad you liked the event! I hope you have a lovely day/night too 🤍🤍

Roger + Neck

Words: 382

Tags: established relationship; no pronouns for reader.

Your mind slowly regains consciousness, pulling you out of your dreams and bringing you back to reality. You open your eyes, and the profile of your boyfriend’s face is the first thing you see. You smile, observing how soft and innocent Roger looks while sleeping, all his guards down, his hair more disheveled than usual.

Propping yourself on your elbow, you carefully reach for his short fringe, brushing it to the side. Your fingertips travel over his forehead, down his eyebrows, and to the bridge of his nose. You feel warm inside, in a way that only Roger can make you feel. You start to lean forward but stop for a moment when you realize what you’re doing. You shift your gaze, scanning his features and slowly traveling down to his neck.

Before you can think again about whether you should do it or not, you close the gap and place a soft kiss on the column of his throat.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t do it,” he whispers.

“Oh my—!” You try to suppress a yelp as you jolt back.

Roger laughs, truly amused by your reaction. He can hear how your heart is beating faster now, from both the little scare he gave you and from before. He’s been awake for a while now, just listening to you and all the sounds you make, enjoying how he can easily tell what you’re thinking just from them.

“Where are you going?” He turns on his side and reaches for you, encircling his arms around you and pulling you closer again. “It’s only fair that it’s my turn now.”

His strong arms lightly squeeze you, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck. His warm breath tickles you, but you let him stay there, your hands going to the back of his head, playing with his hair.

Roger places a soft, gentle kiss on your neck and stays there with his lips still pressed against your skin. You’re used to him doing that now, a loving smile plastering your face. He closes his eyes, loving the way he can almost feel your pulse with his lips, listening to every beat of your heart. It always does wonders to both soothe him and make his own heart quicken.

Taglist: @judejazza @chandeliermichel @leia-skywalker-organa

• @olivermorningstar @queengiuliettafirstlady @koco-coko

Beneath The Milky Twilight ♥ Event Masterlist

#beneath the milky twilight event #ikemen villains #ikevil roger barel #ikevil writings #ikevil fanfics #ikevil roger #ikevil scenarios #ikevil #ikemen villains roger #ikevil x reader #ikemen villains x reader #ikevil roger x reader

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xenaizogie · 2 years ago

Text

Hey sugaplum, you hungry? I got a little something for you! Plot? What plot? I tried this time, I really did, to feed you something more than shameless smut, buuttt...here we are lol. Enjoy!!!

3.7k word

A Day In The Life

The sun is brightly shining, the cloudless sky is brilliantly blue. Sounds of the village coming to life outside the palace walls fill the early morning air. The day is fairly warm already, but a steady breeze provides some respite. Breakfast will be wrapping up soon for the Agojie, and you sit soaking up these final moments with your beloved before she must head to the training grounds. You recline on the steps next to Izogie, side by side, her hand in yours. The sunlight is framing her ebony profile, a golden halo surrounding her making her skin seem to glow. Your eyes are drawn to her beauty, a soft smile gracing her lips, her facial features at peace, the stern warrior mask not yet in place. You caress her hand, your fingers draw to hers, mind wandering over all the things they do to you, all the things they make you feel. Her chuckle brings you out of your musing.

“Something on your mind?”

She’s looking at you, smirking, her lips soft and luscious, begging to be kissed by you. You’re staring again, lost in thought of her wonderful mouth. Another chuckle draws you back to reality and finally you meet her gaze.

“Yes…you…” Your eyes are half lidded, shameless as they take her in. Her smirk breaks out into a full-blown grin.

“Will you eat with me at lunch today? I wish to eat in our room.” She requests.

The innocent look she had on her face belying her tone, which was an octave too low. Not quite sultry, but definitely inviting. You return her grin and bob your head yes, not quite trusting your voice as Nawi approached. She smiled and waved to you in greeting before turning to Izogie.

“Good morning, Izogie. My mother wishes to speak with you before the morning run.”

“Good morning, TseTse.” Izogie greets rising from her spot next to you, her hand lingering in yours as she starts to step away.

“Come.”

She’s talking to Nawi, but she is looking at you and it sends an electric pulse straight to your center making you bite your lip to hold in the whimper that threatened to escape. She shoots you another smirk as she takes her leave. Your eyes devour her departing image, visions of this morning still fresh in your mind.

Dawn was just breaking, casting its soft glow around the room. You were pressed flush against Izogie, your back to her front, shades of brown melding together as her arm encircled your waist. Skin to skin from your ankles all the way up to the spot where her lips were placing tender kisses along your shoulder and up the column of your neck. You loved the way you melted into her touch, the way her warm skin on yours made you feel comfortable, made you feel safe. This must be what heaven feels like, cozy and treasured, you could spend eternity in her arms. You feel her smiling against the nape of your neck at the involuntary shiver that courses through your body, and you turn in her arms, gently cupping her face as your gaze meets hers. The kiss that followed was soft and sweet, without any urgency, a gentle greeting filled with love. “I love waking up to you.” she says as you part. The corners of your lips turn up before giving her a radiant smile. She litters your face with kisses before turning to get out of bed and start her day. “Can you stay a little longer” you pout, not yet ready to share her with the world. She laughs, a melodious sound, before turning back towards you in bed…

The sound of the trainees heading out for their run brings you out of your reverie and you turn, hoping to catch one last glimpse of her on her way out. You aren’t disappointed, she catches your eye and throws a smile and a wink your way before disappearing from view. A contented sigh leaves you as you stand, a grin plastered on your face and a bounce in your step, ready to tackle your tasks for the day. The sooner you got done, the sooner you could get back into her waiting arms.

It didn’t take you long to get halfway through your list, but time seemed to crawl by as you went about your chores, the anticipation has been slowly building inside you. It’s near the midday break and the sun, along with your wayward thoughts, have you seeking out a shade tree to pass the minutes until lunch. You find a suitable one, not far from the Agojie sparring grounds, where you can watch your love manhandling the trainees. Her lithe form is glistening in the sunlight, hard muscles twisting and turning beneath soft brown skin, a thin sheet of sweat covering her body. You find yourself biting your bottom lip, a little moan slipping out, maybe sitting this close wasn’t such a good idea after all. Your already heated thoughts are doing summersaults over each other, the site before you only fueling the visions of you two together in your head. Thankfully the bells soon sound, lunchtime has finally arrived. Izogie dismisses the trainees before sauntering over to where you are seated. She is the epitome of sexy and she knows it.

“Close your mouth, you look like a...”

Your eyes narrow and she cuts out into a laugh as she pulls you to your feet, wrapping her arms around your waist. Her lips are on yours before you can even make a smart remark, her tongue invading your mouth, the kiss fiery and deep.

“I missed the way you taste.”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You speak at the same time making you both giggle, giddy and slightly breathless from the kiss. It amazes you how even after all this time, Izogie can still make the butterflies in your stomach take flight. Dark eyes flaked with gold are staring down at you, gazing into your soul. They left you with an eager longing, wanting nothing more than to feel her lips on yours again. She leans in towards you, her lips ghosting yours before trailing up to your ear.

“Race you!”

Then she is gone, her laughter trailing behind her as she speeds towards the palace. Your shocked gasp is short lived, and you take off hot on her trail, she knows this the only way she can beat you in a foot race. She slows to a stop near the gate, turning, ready to gloat in her victory, but you keep running, blowing right past her, your eyes on the lunch line ahead. The chase is on again, the few Agojie who can see your mad dash cheering you on. You skid to a halt at the end of the line, an eyebrow raised and a smirk gracing your lips, you wait for her to arrive.

“One day I will beat you.” She grins.

“But not today.” Came your cheeky reply.

You both wash up and grab a bowl, already eating as you make your way to your room. The banter is carefree and adoring on the way there, a mix of teasing and asking about each other’s day so far sprinkled with sultry and knowing looks. She makes it through the doorway first, you follow placing your bowl in hers on the side table by the door. As soon as the bowl has left your hand, Izogie is pulling you to her, warm lips seeking out yours. Her tongue is delving deep in your mouth drawing tiny whimpers from you as she guides you backwards towards the big table in the middle of the room. The backs of your thighs barely graze the frame before she is picking you up, roughly sitting you on the edge. Your excited squeal is swallowed up as she continues to ravage your mouth, sliding her body in between your spread legs closing the gap between you. Your hands slide over her shoulders, locking into place at the nape of her neck while hers grip at your hips. Urgency is radiating off her in waves, in the fervor of her lips and the groping hands now stalking up your thighs, you both know you don’t have long. You tear your lips away from hers to pepper hot kisses along her jaw and down the scar on her neck, pausing at her pulse point, suckling, tongue swirling drawing a low moan from the warrior. Hungry hands spread your thighs further apart, one coming to rest on your hip, the other pressed against your throbbing heat, caressing you through your clothes. Your hips are rolling, you want desperately to increase the pressure, you need more. Just as her fingers were making their way inside your panties…

“Ahem!” Amenza chuckles as she clears her throat from the open doorway. “Izogie, Nanisca requests you.” Another chuckle.

Simultaneous groans fill the air as your head falls to Izogie’s shoulder.

“Coming Amenza.”

She pulls back slightly and with her free hand she hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up, looking you in the eye as her lips meet yours in a promising kiss. Please stay, it’s on the tip of your tongue when she breaks away, cool air replacing the previous heat of her body, but you know the answer, duty calls.

“Tonight, my love” she whispered before heading towards the door.

Izogie glances back and the sight makes her steps falter. Your head is thrown back, legs still spread, one hand palm down on the table, the other traveling up your thigh headed for your center hoping to ease the ache left in her wake. She is torn, her body takes a step back towards you before she realizes it, but she shakes her head trying to clear it. Tempting as a quickie might be, she knew it was only going to tease her, leave her craving more. No, she would wait so that she could completely immerse herself in you.

“Aht. Mine.”

The bark snapped your head up, a pleading whimper falling from your throat, but you oblige.

“Yes, daddy” you reply, giving her an innocent doe eyed look.

She’s back across the room in two strides, her lips taking yours in a searing kiss, branding you, claiming you as hers. You didn’t call her that often, but when you did, it always had the same effect on her, igniting something primal deep in her core. She breaks apart with an exasperated groan, taking off at a jog to catch up to Amenza. You are left hot and bothered, chest marginally heaving, still sitting atop the table. You take a few calming breaths, trying to reign in your runaway libido before jumping off the table. You needed to do something to occupy your thoughts and hands, fast. With the last few tasks in mind, you set off to finish your chores.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, much of your time spent outside the palace picking herbs for the healers. Baskets full to the brim, you head back inside stopping briefly when you catch sight of Izogie. She is in the middle of the training grounds with the trainees in a big circle around her, turning to face each one as she gave instructions. You watch as she gets into position several feet in front of a training dummy, setting her feet then lunging forward landing multiple body blows before decapitating the dummy in one smooth strike. She makes combat look so effortless. You carry on your way smiling faintly, your mind already on the night ahead.

Once the herbs have been dropped off, you head to the bathhouse stopping by your room to grab your favorite lavender soap first, Izogie loves the scent. The temptation to linger in the tepid water is gone without her by your side, so you make washing up a quick affair, eager to be by her side once more. Your body lathered, rinsed, and freshly dressed; you head out of the bath house to the sound of the dinner bells. You spy the trio of warriors, Nanisca Izogie and Amenza, deep in conversation across the courtyard. A sigh escapes you; you have a feeling you’ll be eating dinner without her, but at least this means there should be no interruptions when she does make it home. Your eyes meet across the distance, and she flashes you a grin before turning her attention back to Nanisca. You grab a bowl and sit on the steps eating and conversing with Nawi, doing your best not to gawk at Izogie before eventually retiring to your room for the night.

The sky has darkened, the clouds look like they could burst at any moment, and lightening dances across the sky; a storm is brewing. The door softly opens and closes announcing her presence, but you are lost in thought, staring out the window at the formidable sky. Strong yet gentle arms embrace you from behind.

“You smell so good” Izogie whispers as she litters kisses down your neck and over your shoulders, reveling in the noises that involuntarily slip out of your mouth.

You sink into her embrace, her closeness igniting a passion within you, her hands blaze a trail of fire as they cup and toy with your breasts through your clothes. One hand slid down to grip across your waist, pulling you tight against her while the other circled and pinched at your nipple through the fabric.

“I need you bad” you breathe, your head lolling to the side to grant her lips better access.

Izogie spins you, pushing you against the wall and pinning your hands above your head. You are trapped, her body pressing into yours from knee to chest, but escape is the furthest thing on your mind. Her lips take yours in scorching kiss, tongues dueling wildly, the intensity of it has you moaning into her mouth, her free hand gripping at your throat. She squeezes slightly, sliding a leg in between yours, pressing her thigh into your damp heat. Your body arcs as you grind down onto her, a moan caught in your throat as she tightens her grip. She releases you, her lips kissing a path to your ear, her chest still on yours crowding you into the wall, her hands now on your hips, guiding them up and down her thigh.

“I’m going to make you scream my name.” She murmurs against the shell of your ear.

Thunder rumbles and your body quivers, a lusty moan your only response. One hand is clutching at her shoulder, the other cupping the back of her head holding her in place as she nibbled at your lobe. She eases back just enough to remove your top, your breasts plopping out into her waiting hands. Your hips never cease their rhythm as her hands begin to knead your luscious mounds. Her thumbs graze softly against your pebbled buds sending electric jolts straight to your core.

“I need…” Your words trail off in a gasp as she lifts her leg adding pressure to your grind.

“Tell me what you need love.” She coos, her fingers pinching and rolling your nipples.

You take her right hand and guide it down your body to where you need her most. She doesn’t bother taking your skirt off, simply pushing your panties to the side, two fingers languidly massaging your engorged bud. Her fingers slip lower, dipping in your dripping entrance before returning to your nub, she can feel how much you want her in the throbbing of your clit.

“Inside. Now.”

Lightning flashes as her eyebrow arches and with a growl she takes you hard and fast. Her fingers sink deep and momentarily still, her forehead falling against yours as your walls clench around her, your sticky essence coating her palm. A moan tumbles out as you grind your hips, and her fingers take up a languorous motion, curling deep before sliding out and slamming back inside. She sets a feverish pace, stroking your g-spot, with every thrust. She’s only just begun, and already you are flying towards an orgasm. You grip at her back trying to ground yourself, you want to hold it off, to bask in the moment a little longer, but it is no use, your walls are already spasming and your thighs are clenching hers as she continues to dig you out.

“...’Zo…”

“I know baby…I know…”

The feeling of her fingers deep inside you and the sound of her voice in your ear, always a deadly combination, sends you plummeting over the edge. Your legs are shaking, threatening to give out, your hands weakly grasping at her shoulders, but she doesn’t stop. Her hand is caught between her thigh and your soaking pussy. She could no longer thrust in and out, but her fingers, her fingers, were deep inside your gushing heat fluttering against your sweet spot. Your moans resonate around the room as she whispers praises in your ear, urging you on. Your body shudders as your juices stream over her hand and down her thigh, your entire body trembling, weak as pleasure overtakes you again. Only then does she begin to slow.

Your lips seek out hers in a steamy kiss as she slips out, shudders still coursing through your body as she wraps you in her embrace. Your hands are almost frantic as you pull at her clothes, desperate in your need to feel her skin on yours. She unwraps your skirt and steps back allowing the clothes to fall to the floor. You reach for her greedily licking your lips, but she smirks and grabs your hand, leading you to the bed.

“First, I want to taste you.”

Lightning cracks and thunder vibrates the sky, as fat raindrops begin to pelt the earth. She sits on the edge of the bed, sliding off your panties before pulling you to straddle her lap, both sets of hands exploring every inch of silky skin they could reach. Honied kisses were placed along your collar bone and over your chest as she lay back, drawing you along with her, pulling you up her body until your succulent breasts were dangling right above her face. From one ebony globe to the other, she suckles and swirls her tongue, her hands squeezing at your ass, rubbing your wet pussy over her abs. With a groan you crawl up until your knees are on either side of her head, your glistening mound hovering just a breath above her parted lips. Feathery kisses greet you seconds before she starts to feast in earnest.

Your shins flush against the bed, her elbows hooked around your waist, one palm pressed against your stomach, the pointer finger of the other hand drawing lazy circles around your clit, head buried deep between your thighs, tongue even deeper in your core. A moan is ripped from your chest as she drags her tongue up to replace her finger, her mouth enclosing your aching bud. Sloppily she slurps you up, tongue flicking against your clit, her moans sending vibrations straight to your center. She changes the pace, tongue swirling lazily before popping you out of her mouth, languidly slurping you up over and over.

“Fuuck baaby…”

She is slowly driving you insane, edging you to your peak, you fall forward on your hands, her arms still locked around you. Pleasurable waves are washing over you in a crescendo, she has you wavering on the edge. Bit by bit, the coil in the pit of your stomach has been winding tighter and tighter. She latches onto your clit slowly shaking her head from side to side, humming as she savors your exquisite taste. Your climax blindsides you, forceful as it rocks through you. Body quaking, you scream out in bliss, your juices coating her lower face.

She slips from under while you’re still spasming on your hands and knees, heavy lidded eyes follow her movements as she slips the harness over her hips, a feral gleam in her eye. She steps behind, grabbing you by your thighs pulling you to the edge of the bed, and you whimper in anticipation. Slowly she drags the head up and down your slick folds, thumping the tip against your swollen nub, before sliding up and hesitating at your pulsating entrance.

“Please…”

Inch by inch she presses forward until she is seated fully inside you, a groan falling from her lips as your walls clutch at her length. She sets a steady pace, drawing only halfway out before drilling into you over and over again. A smack to your ass cheek brings a yelp from you as grip the sheets and fuck her back harder. A growl grumbles through her as she seizes your hips.

“Is that how you want me baby?”

Each word accompanied with a thrust as she leans back, stroking even deeper inside you. The force of her strokes sends you to your elbows, your arms no longer able to support you, your moans are almost nonstop.

“Daamn daaddy…”

The pressure inside you is building, it’s almost too much to bear, you feebly crawl forward on the bed. But Izogie stalks your every move, her hips never stop rolling, dirty grinding deep inside you.

“This your pussy daddy…I belong to you…”

She pulls back then slams her hips into yours, sending you headlong into euphoria, your entire body convulsing, her name a chant, screaming from your lips. Higher and higher she compels you on, words rambling from her lips, she’s on the verge of her own bliss.

“You feel soo good…that’s it baby…don’t hold back…”

As if you could, each stroke of her stuttering hips rubbing that spongy spot deep inside, it felt as if she was caressing your soul. Ecstasy explodes around you as you both plunged into a pleasurable abyss. When she calms enough to breathe normally, she slips out of you and out of the harness before climbing back into bed beside you, pulling you into her embrace. You lay with your head on her chest, her heartbeat created a rhythmic sound that soothed your spirit, lulling you further into your peaceful cocoon. Her soft voice guides you as you slip into the dreamscape.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

A/N: Soo, what do you think?? As always, all feedback is swooned over!!!

#izogie #the woman king #izogie x reader #izogie smut #izogie fanfiction #lashana lynch

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slightnettles · 5 months ago

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For the @silmarillionwritersguild Jubilee > Potluck Bingo > Elleth's Femslash & Lyrics board > column B, five exact drabbles. CW: possible incest (not explicit) + shamefully literal interpretation of prompts.

I've left signs but you take no notice

Míriel will not return, will not stand in the flesh before Indis again. Not to shame her, as her son is wont to do, for having taken her place in Finwë’s house; nor to speak her love.

Only the thousand treacheries of thread and fabric remain: a tear in Indis’s favourite gown, and the pricking of her needle against her thumb, the blooming of blood on linen, and a red blotch in the shape of Míriel’s profile; the sudden snagging of a ribbon around Indis’s wrist, tightening to a bond; the soft, caressing tangling of her sheets about her thighs.

Say that the wind won't change on us

Nienor climbs first, bare feet braced against the trunk, swift and bold, and Nellas climbs after her, eyes flitting ever upwards. Soon Nienor sits astride a bough, head drawn back in delight, braided hair gold against the grey sky. Wind blows, and leaves rustle loudly. Nienor draws Nellas to sit close beside her.

‘You must not forget this,’ says Nellas, leaning into her warmth.

‘O Elves whose memory is ever living!’ says Nienor, laughing. Pressing a kiss to Nellas’s mouth, she says: ‘But I shan’t.’

Perhaps not - and yet her brother did, thinks Nellas; and leaves scatter in the wind.

If I was Atlantis and you were the sea

She loathes it, loves it; then, at sixteen, she sees it for the first time.

It is wide, grey, bleak; some day all Númenor shall be hers, but not this. It comes lapping at her feet, a cold-tongued hound; she yells in affront, rips up a sheaf - sceptre, whip - of marram grass, lashes the sea. ‘Thief!’ Of a father’s presence, a mother’s happiness.

A wave comes, foam-tipped, and enfolds her. It is so cold she cannot breathe, then so warm between her legs she grows weak-kneed. In the water there is a woman’s face, grey-green, hair-wreathed; it laughs at her.

When we die we will die with our arms unbound

Another might have listened to the worm’s lies, gone hunting after phantoms.

But she is Húrin’s daughter, axe-wielding, a captain of Nargothrond. She runs back to where captives are being led away. Finduilas is among them, in chains; so she leaps, runs the harder.

They meet in the midst of battle. When they kiss, open-mouthed and harsh, their teeth clash and Nienor tastes blood - Finduilas’s, her own. It makes no difference; the Orcs are too many. Finduilas, now freed, hefts an Orkish spear; Nienor lifts her axe. They shall not live long now - but side by side, at the last.

Now three of us here lie

Summer, then autumn, falling to coldness all of a sudden, to frost upon the leaves and on the grass of a morning. To Aerin it feels too early still to light fires, a waste of wood. Instead the three of them share a bed, under heaps of blankets. They speak little; Morwen is ever more silent, and already Rían’s eyes stray ever northwards.

Still they draw together. Their hands entwine; sometimes their limbs. Morwen’s fingers are firm on Aerin’s wrist as she guides her down; Rían’s breath hot and damp against her neck. Stolen warmth, as an east wind blows.

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alexander-romanov-2 · 9 months ago

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The Lonely King

Alexandre Romanov found solace in the quiet corridors of the museum, the familiar marble columns and towering portraits of ancestors gazing down at him with knowing eyes. The exhibit today was a tour of his own palace—a hollow echo of a past he barely knew but was destined to inherit. He often came here, wandering incognito among the public, blending in with the crowds who marveled at what was once his family’s domain.

As he moved through the hall, the soft murmur of voices filled the air, visitors captivated by relics of a time long gone. Alexandre let his fingertips brush the cool banister of the grand staircase, feeling the weight of history beneath his touch. His steps slowed as he neared a room filled with delicate heirlooms encased in glass. It was then that he noticed her—standing just beyond the edge of the crowd, studying a painting with an intensity that piqued his curiosity.

She was not like the other visitors, who glanced quickly at each piece before moving on. No, there was a stillness about her, a quiet reverence in the way she observed the canvas, as though she understood something about the palace—and its tragic history—that others did not.

For a moment, Alexandre found himself rooted in place, watching her, the rest of the world fading into the background. The gentle light streaming in through the high windows cast a soft glow around her, illuminating the edges of her profile. He had seen hundreds of people walk these halls, but never had anyone caught his attention like this.

Without thinking, he stepped closer, drawn by an invisible thread of curiosity. His heart beat a little faster, an unfamiliar sense of anticipation building in his chest. He had always been alone, even when surrounded by people—guardians, advisers, servants—but there was something about this woman that stirred something deep within him. Something new.

As he approached, she shifted slightly, sensing his presence. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to bridge the gap between them. The loneliness that had clung to him for years suddenly felt suffocating, and yet, in this moment, with her standing so near, it seemed that perhaps—just perhaps—there could be a way out of the isolation he had known all his life.

#I miss King Alexandre #and all my royalty plots #first come first serve #open starter #I added a read more so it can condense the starter in later replies lol #scarredbookworm #fan-maddson #???

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veinsinbloom · 1 month ago

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plotted starter for the lovely @fadinglights

photographing a performance of a pretty well known pianist upon the wish of his university wishing a column for the news paper but, one photo is taken and it's flashing in his mind at the side profile ; memories of soft touches from centuries ago, hidden behind walls and away from any prying eye. forbidden love. time passes and as he is standing outside, having felt the beat of his heart not seemingly calming down, endless memories of seojung forever living rent-free in dohyun's mind. ' yoonoh ? ' a cold shiver runs down his spine as a soft spoken voice is heard, calling out not his current name but his birthname, not many knew him by this name and senses are alerted of danger and yet as head rises and lands on that familiar face, gentle eyes staring right back at him ; breath falls heavy as he almost stutters out. " s-seojung ? " couldn't be, it had been forever ago, was he also carrying a secret or was this somebody masking themselves as his first love, still on edge.

#seo dohyun : responding #seo dohyun with : seojung #fadinglights #IM SO. READI.#i still cannot believe we cooked this up on 10 minuteskjfngdfg #ily <33

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edupunkn00b · 6 months ago

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Prince Hollywood and the Silver Serpent

Written (very late) for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange for @prince-rowan-of-the-forest. Thank you for your patience as I struggled through the edits for this little Roceit Superhero/Supervillain tale. Rated: G - WC: 5147 ~

Torchlight flickered through the third floor windows at the National Archives secured repository. A little after midnight, it was well-past visitor hours for the display levels and only museum staff were permitted on the upper level. Easily visible from the front gardens, the lights danced, announcing the presence of ne'er-do-wells skulking about in the dark museum.

That was the thieves' second mistake.

Their first mistake was daring another break-in attempt so soon after the smash and grab at the Natural History museum last week. And right in the heart of Prince Hollywood's own city.

It would be their last.

Prince Hollywood leapt up from the bushes where he'd been watching the building, cape fluttering in the damp spring wind. He landed softly on the open windowsill—likely how the burglars got in—and slipped inside. Three people, dressed head to toe in black, bustled about near the shelves housing the Southern Ignots. One turned, his profile revealing the ornate voice changer curled over his neck and mouth. The Silver Serpent! Hollywood might've guessed there was only one villain in this city audacious enough to attempt this break-in.

Cast in shadow, the Serpent didn't see him and he returned his attention to the large crate his henchmen carried to the door.

"Freeze!" Hollywood shouted.

The Serpent's lackeys froze on the spot, but glowing yellow eyes turned to him, the rest of his face illuminated with his torch's glow.

"I knew it was you behind these thefts, you… you fiend!"

"Carry on," the Serpent muttered, flicking his torch toward the door.

"Halt!" Hollywood shouted, but they continued.

The Serpent crossed his arms, torch pointed down at over-polished shoes. "Or…" he prompted, laughter in his voice.

Hollywood slid out of the shadows, letting the cold moonlight shine on the emblem on his chest. "We'll see who's laughing when you're on your way to prison, you snake!" He stepped closer. "Your dastardly deeds are ov—" Too late, he felt a shimmer near his ankle. Before he could react, something—a rope, perhaps?—dusted in gallium tightened on his calf and hauled him up in the air.

He hung, spinning slowly, nearly six feet above the floor.

Laughing, the Serpent approached. "It looks like you're the one who's over, your Highness."

"My name is Prince," he hissed through gritted teeth. He tried to curl up, stretching with weakened muscles to tug at the binding on his leg. After a few attempts, he went slack, gravity too much to fight. Definitely gallium. And a lot of it.

"Besides, prison is where convicts go," the Serpent continued as though Hollywood hadn't spoken. He walked a slow circle around the hanging superhero, torchlight bouncing with each jaunty step. He was enjoying this. One more item on the debt column for when he finally got out of this. "The last I heard, I was guaranteed to be considered innocent before proven guilty." The Serpent chuckled, tapping Hollywood's cheek with two gloved fingers. "Your Highness, I believe you meant to say jail."

His proximity to the rare metal left his skin feeling paper thin, the friction of the rope around his leg burning. But the Serpent's touch was gentle, his gloves soft as he traced just under the edge of the mask concealing his identity. Shaking off the Serpent's hand, he growled back, "Let me down, you fiend!"

"Temper, temper, your Highness," he tutted, removing his hand. "All in good time."

They both looked up at at a soft cough from the hall. Another of his henchmen stood watching, this one dressed in a black suit covered with a long white lab coat. The Chemist! Since when were they working together?

"We've located the last of the artifacts in the basement reliquary," he said, clipped words sounding more like a robot than ever before. Hollywood craned his neck and spotted a bit of the same voice-changing circuitry the Serpent wore. Damn. "Ready when you are."

"Excellent work," he said and the Chemist disappeared from Hollywood's view. The Serpent turned again to Hollywood. Head tilted, he sighed. "I regret this is the time for us to take our leave, your Highness."

He tried again to reach the rope twisted around his leg but succeeded only in getting a bit of the gallium dust on his fingers, numbing his hand. He fell back and scowled at the Serpent. "The museum's antiquities collection is worth more to the city than whatever you can sell it for. Surely even a thief such as yourself must know that."

"Oh, you would be surprised at who else wants this collection," the Serpent purred, nudging his shoulder. The light touch sent him into a slow spin. "There are some who'd pay through the nose at auction for some of these pieces."

"And you'll keep the rest of the 'loot' for yourself, I suppose?" Hollywood spat, eyes closed against a growing dizziness.

"Really now, your Highness. How little you know me," he huffed. "I'm an autumn. I only wear gold. All of this collection will go to those who want it most."

The spinning stopped and Hollywood cracked open his eyes, glaring back. "Only a terror like you would deprive the world of priceless cultural artifacts all so you can make a tidy profit!"

The Serpent made a show of examining his nails through his gloves then hummed, "Yes. You're right about that. Well, this had been fun, but all good things, etc., etc.," he said, waving his hand vaguely. He looked just past Hollywood's shoulder and nodded. Twisting, Hollywood spotted the hulking figure heading toward him too slowly to dodge and the last thing he saw was a large, green-gloved hand covering his mouth.

Hollywood came to sprawled on a pile of coats on the floor of the museum check room. He jolted upright—too fast—and slumped back against the wall. Fuzzy words, Lost and Found floated before his eyes and he grunted. The Serpent's joke wasn't very funny.

Panic shot through his veins at the thought of that two-toned terror and he reached for his mask. Still firmly in place. Surely that devil took a peek while he was unconscious? He tugged at the edges, spirit gum still perfectly sealed. Unless the Serpent completed all of his robberies with a bottle of the stuff in his pocket, he'd left his mask undisturbed.

Which was more than he could say for the museum's antiquities collection. Even one crate was too much for him to have gotten away with, adding on to whatever the Chemist had found… Hollywood shook his head. Whatever they'd found they'd need to sell to make the theft worth it. Perhaps there was still a chance he could track them through the art markets.

Pushing up to his feet, Hollywood was surprised to feel his full strength returned. His suit leg was damp and clean… They'd actually taken the time to wash away any lingering dust from their rope. This really was just a big game to him, wasn't it?

The night sky outside was still mostly dark, with pink blooming in the east. He couldn't be spotted here. Wincing in anticipation of screeching emergency alarms, he pushed his way through the nearest exit. Nothing. Blinking in surprise at the bar, he spotted a bit of wire poking out, the edge smooth and freshly cut. So that's how they'd got in. Shoulders slumped, he made his way to a clear spot and took off for home.

Without a sound, Hollywood touched down on the roof and thumbed the lock on the emergency door. Without the cape and mask, feigning paranoia over stalker fans had made it easy to convince the property manager to install it just after his big break. Before then, he'd left the door unlocked, reliant on old spy tricks and a nerve-wracking level of vigilance each time he returned home.

A close call ten years ago taught him to leave all signs of his secret identity at home. Flying in the skies mean flying without any trappings of his human-appearing life. No keys, no wallet. No phone. When he was young, he'd thought he could keep that little rectangle of plastic and glass safe.

He'd been wrong.

The door locked behind him and he slumped back against it. He sighed as microwave's clock ticked over to 5:00. Damn. He was due at his new manager's office by 10 tomorrow, well, this morning. Just enough time for a shower and a couple hours of sleep. It would be enough. It had to be. He'd already rescheduled this introductory session three times and no matter how much this Mr. Jack said he wanted to represent him, surely his patience had begun to run a little thin.

One small, surreptitious flight later, Hollywood made it to his new manager's office with thin seconds to spare. After double checking his hair in a stairwell mirror, he took a deep breath then, shoulders back and smile at the ready, slipped into his actor persona. Tugging open the heavy oak door, he admired the polished gold lettering, J. Jack & Associates. At least he was in the right place.

"I'd know that face anywhere." A low, smooth voice greeted him from the other side. "Roman Reyes." Tall, with soft brown eyes and a smirk that said he knew more about you than you wanted him too, his brother's old college roommate approached, hand outstretched. "It's so good to see you again!"

Head whipping back over his shoulder as though he could read the lettering on the door through the wood—he could, but Janus didn't know that—Hollywood blinked back at him. "You—you changed your name."

Laughing, Janus gave his hand a little squeeze as they shook. "'Janus Sokrovishche' doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same way," he smiled. "But we all make concessions with our names in this business, don't we?"

Hollywood could get lost in those eyes. Up close, he spotted flecks of gold and three different shades of brown behind impossibly long lashes. Janus hadn't let go of his hand and was now practically holding it, gently sandwiched between his own. Janus seemed to notice at the same moment and he slowly lowered his hands and released it.

He mourned the loss more than he should, reminding Hollywood yet again of all the reasons he'd kept his distance from his brother's flirtatious roommate all those years ago.

"Well," Janus said, smirk returning. "Let's get comfortable in my office while we go over the new contract. Virgil?" he called without dropping his gaze.

His last manager's assistant popped in from the a doorway on the left. "Yeah boss? Oh, Roman! Glad you finally made it!"

"What are—" Hollywood shook his head, looking between them. "Since when do you work for Mr. Jack?"

"If you saw what he was paying me, you'd understand," Virgil drawled.

"Indeed," Janus murmured, drawing back Hollywood's attention. His eyes were still on him, scanning his features like they held some secret. They did, but Janus had no reason to know that. "Virgil, will you order us some coffees from downstairs? Get one for yourself, too. We've got a lot of work ahead of us." It was only when he winked that Hollywood noticed the deep shadows through Janus' artfully applied make up.

"You got it," Virgil said, giving them each a little two-fingered salute. "Back in a bit."

Alone together, Janus' crooked smile softened and he pushed open another heavy oak door, this one simply labelled J. Jack. "Please come in."

The office inside was even larger than the lobby. Centered before the giant floor-to-ceiling window stood a massive wooden desk, polished until it gleamed. It was spotless, adorned with only a built-in computer monitor, a fountain pen stand, and a small antique-looking globe. The overstuffed leather chair behind it looked more like a throne, high-backed and commanding. Surprisingly, the visitor's chair Janus ushered him into, though smaller, was comfortable and kept him at eye-level with Janus when he took his own seat.

"Do you hear from your brother much?" Janus asked, opening a drawer behind the desk and pulling out a leather-bound portfolio.

"Oh, well, this morning, actually," Hollywood shrugged. "He's backpacking… out near Lima. But, yes, he called me." The sight of his not-quite-twin's number on his caller ID had been a pleasant surprise. The relief in his brother's voice when he'd picked up an even greater one. He'd covered quickly with a raunchy joke about staying up too late with his latest conquest, but… Remus had sounded genuinely happy to hear he was alright.

"Excellent," Janus nodded, something warmer than he'd expected behind his eyes. Clearing his throat, he opened the portfolio and turned it to face Hollywood. "Shall we begin?"

They'd barely begun to review when Virgil returned with their coffees—and a small sweet-smelling tray.

"Once Pat heard who was up here," Virgil had smiled, shaking his head, "He insisted I bring up some cookies and sandwiches."

Janus and Virgil exchanged a look that Hollywood couldn't quite read. Was he concerned about the cost? He glanced around the office. Gold fountain pen, leather chairs, well-equipped bar where the entire thing was top shelf. Unlikely.

He looked back and found Janus' eyes on him. Ah. No, he's just like his old manager and concerned about his diet. Hollywood tilted his head, wondering the best way to explain his non-human physiology made it easy to maintain an inhuman physique for the cameras.

"Have you eaten?" Janus asked, indicating the tray as Virgil set a coffee next to him. Two milks, just the way he liked it.

Hollywood gave them his best autograph-line smile. "I take care of the vessel," he winked. "You needn't worry about that." Nodding at the contract between them. "I trust you have a clause in there to cover it."

Janus frowned and looked back at him with narrowed eyes. He exchanged one more look with Virgil, who silently excused himself with another little salute. Bringing his own cup—tea, by the herby-scent of it—Janus sauntered around the desk and took the chair next to him.

"You should not 'trust' me with anything until you've read the contract," he said, setting a large sandwich and two cookies in front of Hollywood before taking a sandwich for himself. "I suspect you'll find I don't work the way your former manager did." Janus smiled at him then, soft. Warm.

Hollywood swallowed hard, unable to break away from his gaze. He didn't want to.

"Here," he said after a moment, passing Hollywood a napkin. "Let us break bread like civilized people and then go through our new contract."

They spent hours pouring over every page. Without any visible prompt from Janus, Virgil returned mid-day through with tea and a tray of finger foods. Finally, cups and minds drained, they reached the final page.

Hollywood read it three times before he finally asked. "This says I can end our contract at any time without cause but you need to provide me written notice a year in advance." He frowned at Janus. "Am I interpreting this correctly?" His last contract had been 'at will.' With an N.D.A.

"You're reading it correctly." That little smile was back. Not a smirk, not a leer. Not even starstruck. Just... Gentle. Real.

"That hardly seems fair to you," Hollywood looked back at the contract. What had he missed?

"I get paid when you get paid," Janus explained as he signed the contract with a flourish. "This only incentives me to be sure you are happy with the work you do that pays the both of us." He offered him the pen, eyebrow raised.

Hollywood accepted the pen, weighing it in his hand. The nib was gold, as was most of the barrel. Wordlessly, he signed above the printed name, Roman Reyes.

"Excellent," Janus murmured, offering his hand to shake. Smooth and a little cool, his hand curled around Hollywood's just right. "I'll get a copy and you retain the originals. Then we can discuss your goals and—“

After a quick knock, the door opened and Virgil stuck his head through. "Hey, Boss?" Janus looked up, sharp. But not annoyed. Curious.

"That guy from Sotheby's is on line three for you," he said, pointing to the flashing light on his—silenced?—desk phone.

Sotheby's?

The auction house had been on the short list of places to watch for the stolen artifacts. He caught Janus watching him, waiting for him to politely excuse himself, perhaps?

"I should let you take that," he said, rising from his seat. "I can return tomorrow, perhaps... in the afternoon?" He might be in for another late night.

"That would be most helpful," Janus said with a little bow even as he reached for the gold-trimmed receiver. "I appreciate your kindness. Virgil will confirm a time with you."

The remainder of his visit ended in a flurry of scheduling interspersed with several phone calls. "Yes... Yes, it's not a rumor." Virgil winked at him and Hollywood suddenly felt less bad for listening. "Mr. Reyes is now exclusively represented by J. Jack. Mr. Jack has an opening next week..."

Hollywood turned to leave but Virgil gently tugged his sleeve. "Just a moment," he mouthed, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he clicked and tapped one-handed on his computer.

As Hollywood waited, his eyes darted over to the inner office door, where Janus' conversation had grown louder.

"Tomorrow morning at ten works for me." Hollywood didn't need to see him—his new manager—to envision the way his lips curled as he spoke. "And it's for the entire lot? No piecemeal?"

Janus' voice paused, listening. After a moment, he chuckled. "Very good. I will be there tomorrow."

"So tomorrow night?" Phone call finished, Virgil sat with his hands folded on the desk and smiled up at him.

Cheeks aflame, Hollywood realized he's been caught eavesdropping. "Wha—I..." He drew in a slow breath and smiled. "Are you asking me out?"

"Oh, no," Face dusted an adorable pink, Virgil laughed. "Nah, Boss Man would have my head for that." He jerked a thumb toward Janus' office. "In case Mr. Jack's other plans go long, will you be available tomorrow night for a dinner meeting?"

Hollywood's eyes flicked over to the still-closed office door. A take-the-lot auction was guaranteed to garner a lower price than selling each item individually, no matter the skill and prestige of the auction house. It would also be undeniably faster.

It sounded precisely like the kind of trade off someone who was desperate to dump stolen goods and get out of the country before they were caught. Tomorrow morning at ten… Hollywood might not yet know what his night looked like, but he certainly knew what he'd be doing tomorrow morning. If the Silver Serpent's theatrics were any indication, he'd likely be in attendance at tomorrow's auction.

And so would Hollywood.

"Tomorrow night looks like it's going to be wide open." He gave Virgil his best grin and leaned in close. "Say… you wouldn't happen to know where that Sothesby's auction is going to be, would you?"

Dressed in a rose-red blazer and slim-cut turtleneck, Prince Hollywood ducked past the winding valet line outside the auction hall and down the alley to the staff entrance. He flashed a grin—and a fifty—to the porter out for a smoke and he waved him in through the propped open door. The previous night's patrol had been unusually quiet, granting him a better night's rest than he'd had since the start of this nasty string of museum robberies. The extra sleep plus the tantalizing promise of finally apprehending the Silver Serpent put an extra pep in his step and soon he'd woven his way through the maze of greyspace out to the central auction hall. He selected a seat near the back, his other-wordly height advantage providing him a vantage of the room's entire occupants.

"Welcome one and all," the auctioneer began as soon as Hollywood sat. "We have something special for you today, a full lot of Incan antiquities, certified to date from fifteenth through sixteenth century South America. the collection is valued at well over five point five million dollars." A thick hush fell over the gathering, and a Ken and Barbie-type couple sat near the front and dressed in coordinated suits nodded to each other.

Janus was in the second to last row, watching them. It didn't look like he'd noticed Hollywood, and he didn't look in his direction.

"Included in the lot is this silver totem depicting Huari and Inti…" His assistant lifted several engraved silver pieces nestled on a black velvet tray. "These are the only known specimens in the world."

"Shall we start the bidding at one point five?" Like leaves rustling in a breeze, the auction paddles remained low, but ready as their holders waited for the number to drop. "One point four?" The auctioneer prompted, looking pointedly at Janus before scanning the crowd for any takers. "One point three-five?"

The interested couple shifted and, for a moment, Hollywood was convinced the man had looked over his shoulder directly at Janus. But he made no move to bid.

"One point two?" The auctioneer's confidence began to slip. "One point one, then."

"Half," Janus said, voice quiet but carrying throughout the hall.

"Sir, the bid is at one point one," the auctioneer insisted, addressing Janus with eyes beseeching the crowd. No-one would meet his eyes. "Anyone?" he said, gavel twitching for a moment before he quietly laid it on its side. "These artifacts would be the centerpiece of any collection. Never exhibited. Absolutely priceless and revered by the Chechua of the Andes."

The attendees sat in silence, a few risking a glance back at Janus. Every paddle remained flat on the holder's lap, hands folded primly over top.

"Half going once?" The auctioneer eyed the gathering, pleading with his eyes. He hadn't even picked up the gavel. Swallowing hard, he called slowly, "Half going twice?"

Janus smiled, one eyebrow cocked.

The auctioneer swallowed hard—hard enough for Hollywood's hyper-sensitive ears to pick up—and picked up his gavel. "And sold!" he cried with a soft bang. "For half a million dollars to Mr. J. Jack."

Janus stood then and nodded to the auctioneer. Smiling at the room, he straightened his lapel, the gold threading glinting under the hall's old-fashioned chandelier. Then he turned and looked right at Hollywood. Inclining his head with another of his soft smiles, he winked at him, then left.

The room erupted in hurried whispers as the attendees followed Janus' gaze and saw him, Roman Reyes, quietly attending a Sotheby's auction. A few attendees sporting bright orange Press passes muttered urgently into their recording devices. Another swapped lenses on his camera.

Hollywood slipped out before any had the gumption to approach him.

A handful of news outlets picked up breathless reports of his attendance at the invite-only auction, but his appearance was quickly eclipsed by Janus' announcement of his intent to donate the entire lot to the Chechua Historical society, an indigenous-owned and controlled not-for-profit that sought to repatriate artifacts stolen from their ancestral lands.

A single news report hinted of speculation the Sotheby's auction might have been related to the recent spate of museum break-ins, but even that article's use of the words 'allegedly' and 'coincidental' dismissed the connection as pure happenstance.

Hollywood was unconvinced.

"You're quite newsworthy this afternoon," Hollywood remarked when Janus invited him into his office.

"Oh, I am?" he smiled, laughter in his voice. "What could I have done that is more newsworthy than signing you as a client?" He gestured at one of the overstuffed armchair on the other side of his office, two steaming cups of tea already sitting on the low table between them.

Hollywood chuckled. He hadn't missed that each article he'd read had ended with an announcement that he had just finished contract negotiations with Roman Reyes, leading man and star of the three upcoming feature films. Virgil hadn't even looked up when he'd entered, fielding a seemingly never-ending stream of phone calls.

"Was that all this is?" Hollywood asked. "A publicity stunt? You know…" Thrumming his fingers, he inched forward in his seat. While revealing his true identity was out of the question, he couldn't allow his new manager—or his brother's friend—to become ensnared in the Silver Serpent's nefarious deeds. Even tangentially. Even if Janus had somehow managed to find a positive outcome. "I read an article these artifacts might not have been obtained legally."

Picking up his own tea, Janus traced the gilt flowers adorning the delicate handle for a long moment before speaking. "They had not," he said, thoughtful. "Not originally. The Incan Silvers are five thousand miles away from their home. By winning that auction, I can play a tiny part in getting them into the proper owners' hands." He sipped at his tea and smiled. "If I am able to use that to gain a little publicity for you in return, is that really so bad?"

"But…" Uncertainty, sharp and unfamiliar, stabbed at his gut and he sat up a little straighter. "The museum that owned them—"

"How do you suppose those artifacts got to that museum in the first place?" Janus set down his tea and leaned closer, brushing his fingers over the back of Hollywood's hand. His hand was warm and Hollywood looked down, briefly tempted to flip his own hand around and grab on to it before he could pull away.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Janus' hand lingered over his, resting over top. A shiny gold band dotted with bright yellow citrines adorned his index finger. It matched the gold stud in his left ear. Gold.

'I'm an autumn. I only wear gold. All of this collection will go to those who want it most.'

Hollywood's heart thudded in his ears and he pushed to his feet. "You!"

Nodding slowly, Janus rose. "Yes?" He met Hollywood's eyes, still calmly smiling.

"You're the Silver Serpent?" He stepped back, shins hitting the chair.

"Who?" Janus—the Serpent—asked, one hand pressed to his chest. "I can't possibly know who you mean." He titled his head, smile growing. "Your Highness."

"You fiend!" Hollywood hissed, eyes darting to the door separating them from Virgil. He had to get the other man out of the Serpent's clutches. "I can't believe I almost fell for your—"

"Now, Roman, calm down," the Serpent murmured. He approached, slowly, with both hands up. Like Hollywood was some spooked horse on set.

Eyes now locked on the Serpent, he slid away from the seat and stepped backwards toward the door. "Don't try to talk your way out of this, I'll—"

"Hey, Boss," Virgil called through the door just before it opened. "You have a—"

"Virgil, run!" Hollywood called and rushed toward him, scooping him up as he dashed to the elevators.

"Ro! Put me down right now!" Virgil snapped, whacking his shoulder until he set him back on his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You don't know who he is!" Hollywood moved his body between Virgil and the Serpent. "I'm getting you out of here!"

"What?" Face scrunched in confusion, he shook his head. "What are you talk—"

"He knows." The Serpent's voice rose above their bickering.

Hollywood's heart sank to his feet as Virgil moved to the Serpent's side. "It's about time."

"No," he muttered, leaning back against the elevator buttons. "No, he's gotten to you?"

"Ro," Virgil began, stepping closer and reaching for him. "Hear him out. He's—"

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Hollywood backed inside and slapped the 'close doors' button. He pressed every floor and then, before they could guess where he'd gotten off, he pushed up through the emergency hatch and out of the elevator shaft.

He had to figure out his next steps.

Hollywood kept to the rooftops, leaping between the taller structures through a winding path to one of his less-traveled safe houses. The Serpent knew his address. He couldn't return there. Finally, he arrived, three miles south of his home and five miles north of the Serpent's office. He let himself in, locked the door, and drew the shades before flicking on the light. He'd just sat down when his phone rang. His heart sang when he saw the caller ID.

"How's it hangin' Ro Bro?" The phone crackled with Remus' laughter. "Ya miss me yet?"

"Ha! You wish!" he laughed back, not quite as brightly as he'd wanted. Right now, he wanted his brother as far from this mess as he could manage. "The thin air up in the Andes must be—"

The Andes. The Andes?! The stolen artifacts were originally from the Andes.

Hollywood sank down into a chair and the phone slipped from his grip, landing with a quiet thud at his feet.

"Ro? Ro! C'mon, man!" Re's tinny voice spilled from the earpiece, distant and echoing.

No. No no no no, no! Re couldn't be all mixed up in this. He'd tried so hard to shield his human brother from his second life, his real life. Over twenty years, he'd never revealed his secret, cheated and snuck around, feigned weakness. Lied when Re found that old baby photo from before he'd arrived. Before he'd joined their family.

"Ro?" A pounding on the door drew Hollywood from his spiral. Re's voice wasn't coming from the phone anymore. "Ro! Lemme in!"

Moving automatically, Hollywood's feet took him to the door. He opened it without looking.

Backpack slung over his shoulder, Re stood on the doorstep. Flanked by Janus and the cheerful little barista from his favorite coffee shop. "Hey, Ro Bro… Let's talk."

Spring came late to Sapporo the following year and Hollywood stood in the shadows beneath gently flowering sakura trees outside the capitol's art museum. In a cynical attempt at appeasement, the National Archives had launched a global tour of the Parthenon Marbles. Security at the first three cities had been airtight. Even his brother and his half-mad, half-genius partner had been unable to find a whole in the defenses at any of the first museums they visited.

It seemed to have led the last museum's curators to let down their guard.

The team's torches danced against darkened windows above Hollywood's head as he scanned the street for approaching peace officers, radio at the ready. The city was quiet. Not even the stray dogs were out this late.

"Your Highness?" His earpiece crackled, Janus' true voice wrapping around him like a blanket. "We're nearly done in here. How are things from where you're standing?"

Hollywood chuckled, eyes still sharp on the street. "Boring without you."

"I see." A low chuckle poured over the speaker. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"

#sanders sides #sasi #ts sides #ts roman #ts janus #roman sanders #janus sanders #roceit #future roceit #superhero au #superhero and supervillain #the other sides are all there‚ too‚ in bits and pieces #ts virgil #ts logan #ts remus #ts patton #Prince Hollywood and the Silver Serpent

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