#they’d turn around with sugar and icing all over their faces

[capslocked]

SERENDIPITY

male reader x kwon eunbi

18k words

Before the attraction ferments, Eunbi says, kiss me properly and pull me apart. or, Where all your little tragedies begin.

-

If you want to start getting technical, you’re Minju's plus one to the gala, and that’s already a lot, a lot, a lot to unpack.

She’d gotten whipped into a bad mood that evening before you even had your shoes on, all on account of your apparent inability to distinguish cobalt from azure, and now should anyone have the wherewithal to examine the fabric of her dress, your tie, maybe with a forensic kit, they’d discover the two are not actually matching. If there was any part of you at all inclined toward keeping up appearances, you probably wouldn’t be content with a career in radio broadcast. But here you are, surrounded by actors, actresses, idols, and everyone who thinks the cut of their jaw is just a little better than everyone else’s - the kind of people who feel entitled to time in front of a camera.

Networking, is how Minju ends up pitching it to you, and now it makes the whole thing seem a lot like work and it’s actually kind of exhausting.

It’s not even an open bar either, as she had originally advertised.

You pay - get this - you pay twenty-three dollars for a vodka tonic and it comes with so much ice you’re not totally unconvinced you could build an igloo. So when everything starts to go to shit, nearing the end of drink number one, you’re not even slurring your words. Tipsy, perhaps; just slightly. To the point you can feel it in your fingers. But nothing like a good excuse.

It’s about then that Eunbi navigates her way around the bar - unnerving, enough to make the sweat grow cold.

On account of her being fucking gorgeous, you end up watching her closely: notice first that she’s carrying a pair of heels in her hand, completely barefoot, and you have no idea what that’s about, but you end up more fixated on the fact that she slides herself into the barstool on your left - which comes across as something of an omen, given that the rest are completely unoccupied. It’s only thirty, forty minutes into the event and people are still plenty busy with that thing where they fake smiles at each other until they feel like they fit in, showing, with bare minimal effort, that they too can mingle with entertainment’s elite.

Now, you don’t actually recognize her, not right away that is. The last you’d seen her, she had her hair cut right above her shoulders and its shade was a serious degree blonder than the current iteration - now curtaining her face as she studies the drink menu and flips it over several times in her dainty hands.

After a long minute, she looks up, interrupts the bartender from polishing a piece of glassware, and orders an old fashioned, substitute brandy, leave out the orange peel, with sugar on the rim. If it’s not the usual amendments that give her away, it’s the saccharine-sweet flavor of her voice, lilting in a manner that’s instantly unmistakable.

Eunbi, you’re guessing aloud, a little apprehensive, and immediately you retreat behind the liquor in your glass. She turns to you, slowly, knuckles masking the subtle quirk in her lips at first, before letting her chin rest on the heel of her palm to reveal a flash of her signature hundred-kilowatt smile.

“Oh,” she says, and she’s blinking with clear amusement that you remember her name - as if you could ever forget it, as if these run-ins were somehow infrequent; you’d only both been plotting orbits around the same star that was Minju for the past couple years. Her head tilts, lips parting to ask, “your date ditch you already?”

She’s half-right.

“You break a heel?” you ask her, nodding toward the pair of black t-strap heels she’d tossed onto the bar counter with a defeated sigh.

“Maybe.” Eunbi drags a dark lock of hair back behind her ear. It falls almost immediately back in front of her face and it ends up staying there until the bartender places her drink in front of her. “But my question first.”

For the record, there’s nothing here particularly novel worth dwelling on. It’s always some provocation or another with Eunbi, you remember now, as she holds you with a stare, eyes wide and brilliant; she sails through life all with the confidence of someone very aware of how pretty she is - knows precisely what she can get away with, right down to the letter of the law. The dress hugging tight to her isthmus of a waist is evidence of exactly that - tighter each time you look - so if you’re waiting for her to get it wrong, don’t hold your breath.

“Minju’s having a moment,” you tell her, “it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me.”

“Hm.” She pauses to take a careful sip of her drink, running her tongue over her bottom lip as she places the glass onto a square napkin. Folds her hands in her lap and asks, “can you explain something to me?”

“If I say no, are you going to ask anyway?”

Eunbi nods to herself, dry laugh telling you it was as rhetorical as you thought. “Seriously, how is it you two are always fighting?”

We’re not always fighting, you want to say, before Eunbi makes a face. She has this uncanny effect on you - raising an eyebrow and tilting her chin as though she were disappointed; the sharp edge to her smile, half challenge, half something far less kind. It could rip truth from the most reluctantly tight-lipped of privacies. “We’re working on it,” you tell her.

“Oh?” she asks, leaning in. 

“God, you don’t have to say it like that.” The ice clinks in your glass as you toss it back, finding it lamentably empty. “You make me feel like I have to repeat myself a thousand times - we are,” you add, “we’re working on it.”

“There’s something that keeps you together, clearly,” Eunbi says, pressing her finger to her lips before fixing you with dark eyes and an easy, charming grin. 

She has you figured out, to some extent: knows how you’ll slip up for a girl with a pretty smile, prettier eyes, all the sorts of errors you’ll start to allow when you start cataloging the curves of her body, inventorying how they taper impossibly at her waist, flaring again at her hips, her fucking chest, the way they all look under the tight fit of that damn dress-

“The make-up sex really that good, huh?”

You almost, almost choke on the ice cube you’d been sucking to keep yourself entertained.

“Optimistic to think there is any,” you admit, regretting it right away - like think about it: there’s absolutely nothing good that could possibly come of that. “That’s just how it goes.”

Eunbi looks downright triumphant. More than usual. “Oh, sweetie.”

She waves over the bartender and asks him for another whatever it was you were drinking, because she’d hate to see you go dry, and as he’s turning around she shouts over his shoulder, go ahead and make it two, actually. You don’t realize it, but you’re beginning to study her, paying really close attention to all these little details - the sparkle of the bracelet on her slender arm, how it falls a few inches off the corner of her wrist as she gets her hand back in front of her face, raking her nails through all that thick, glossy hair, black as night - you don’t know what the feeling is that rears its head as you watch her, but it’s not completely unwelcome.

“What?” she asks as her eyes flick up to yours to catch you looking at her, closely, not that you’re gawking, but she lets you off the hook like you are - just gestures to the pitiful looking heel on the counter and shrugs. “It’s not like I have anywhere to be.”

To be honest, it’s not that you lack basic foresight. In fact it’s shockingly easy to predict where this is going. Because here’s a quick behind the scenes tour on how these interactions usually play out: you’ve got your excuses, your trepidations, justifiably - the reality that you’re kind of already in a pretty high profile relationship key among them. And like clockwork, Eunbi readily finds you game for some flustering. Eunbi, who lays it on thick, comments seeped in innuendo and suggestion, whose glances linger perhaps a little long to be a fascinating coincidence. Eunbi, innocence and arrogance entwined, in the filthiest of minds. Eunbi, always with her fingers twirling her hair and wearing something just modest enough that makes it feel like it’s your fault for noticing that her figure is impeccable. You’ve not actually gathered much from your brief conversations other than that she likes to flirt with you, likes it even more when you’ve got your foot in your mouth, and instead of putting you out of your misery, keeps you suspended there, egging you on - this all beyond the fact that you’ve only really managed to learn the many different ways you want to undress Kwon Eunbi.

You want her pressed up against the wall of your apartment, among other places, one of those pleated skirts crumpling to a pile around her knees as she keens for you, and your hand busy sliding up between her thighs.

You want to listen to her sighs as you unfasten each of the white buttons on one of those collared shirts that stretches and aches to keep her chest concealed, how she’d hum in delight as you trail kisses down each new inch of soft pale skin that all would unveil. 

You want her in your lap when you fiddle with the latch of her bra until her tits spill out of its lacy fabric (it’s always lacy in your head), and she’s got you gasping for air, smothered, asphyxiated, dying, ascending, it’s all so, so great in theory.

It’s just that - some way or another - Eunbi looks at you like she knows all of that. You’ve been skirting around the issue for months.

“Tell me,” she starts, and suddenly, without warning, she has you under the microscope, reeling you further into the conversation, pulling at loose threads - where is Minju right now, are you still living together, does she help with chores, can you trust her, does she trust you - she grabs a handful of pretzels and watches you intently as you try and remain unruffled, diplomatic - are you generally happy with how things are going, when was the last time you had sex - you’re blindsided by that last one, or something, but that’s out there now, in the open.

“Uh.” Eunbi purses her lips. “You’re kidding.”

You just shrug.

“How long has it been now between you two? Like officially."

“I’m surprised you don’t already know.”

“Alright.” Eunbi clicks her tongue. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“My fourth year of university, her first,” you explain. Though never before have you felt as crooked about admitting that as you do at this moment. Others had often appreciated something about the impudence of it, but you’re doubting Eunbi’s going to be one of those people.

“Young,” Eunbi states, matter-of-factly. The look on her face says she’s thinking.

“Not that young.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-five.”

“You’re-” Eunbi’s eyebrow’s knit together like she’s trying to remember something. “Wait, really?”

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would that bother me?”

You’re realizing that she’d gotten closer to you, only now pulling her stool along the floor to catch up with her, and she’d started whispering into the waning space between you as though there was anyone else in the bar you’d need to shield the contents of this conversation from. “It just seems like not a lot of time to get to know yourself. If I were you, I’d be relieved.”

You can’t fucking stop looking at her mouth, glossed pink lips, cupid’s bow and all that between her dimples; your voice comes out oddly thick. “You’re not me.”

“No,” Eunbi says, shaking her head, “I'm not. Here you are, in some miserable relationship to score good karma - I’m having way more fun.”

“Easy,” you warn her, and it comes across just antagonistic enough to let Eunbi know she’s pushing the right buttons, digging in the right place; god only knows what she’ll find.

“Really.” Her fingers start skimming the bottom of your tie, like it’s nothing at all. Like she doesn’t know what might happen if she starts touching you. “Let me guess,” she continues, “A real break-up is too  inconvenient or something right now, Minju doesn’t want the bad press, not when her career is still this fragile, because let’s face it-”

“It’s complicated.”

Eunbi smirks, not bothering to hold it back this time. The way she sees it, your usual excuses are losing their efficacy, quickly: you might not be single, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t thinking about how good she looks in that tiny fucking excuse of a dress, how you’re hoping she might need to run off to the restroom later so you can see how her ass fills out the back of it, how it might look even better on the floor next to your bed - that you’re only a breath away, looking for pretext, perhaps just a little encouragement -

She rests her elbow on the counter, leans a cheek onto her fist, and angles herself against the bar so that the intoxicatingly low dip of her neckline is staring you right in the face, soft cleavage out on full fucking display. It’s not subtle. You never thought too hard about why Minju never invited Eunbi over. You’ll never need to.

“But - but I mean, I guess that’s the gist of it,” you feel inclined to add, stumbling a bit, figuring that if you steal away into the safety of your one true talent - talking - you might just resist the very present urge to reach forward and press your lips to hers. 

“You’re an accessory,” says Eunbi, unbothered, and her eyes take a lazy sweep from your face down to your waist. It’s a leer. “Though,” she murmurs, “can’t really say I can blame the girl.”

“First off, rude.” You’ve got a finger pointed to the ceiling when you say it. “Secondly-”

“Too nice for your own good, you know that?” Eunbi takes a sip from her glass, and after fixing a dark, stubborn strand of hair back behind her ear, she finds herself again in that anxious distance inches away from your nose. “Why don’t you have some fun with it?”

“Fun with what?”

“Just because you figure you’re going to go crawling back to her doesn’t mean you can’t take advantage of your-” she stops, eyes fixing to your lips before continuing, “situation.”

“Can I mention something to you?” You swallow once, twice. Now you’re both looking at each other’s mouths, breathing the same air. “You have a pretty fucked up perspective on interpersonal relationships.”

“What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?” she asks, completely ignoring the assessment. Her fingernails skate along the counter until she’s pinching at the cuff of your sleeve, and her hair falls back in front of her face again, though this time she looks into your eyes like she’s waiting for you to move it out of the way.

“What are we doing right now?” you ask, agitation just beginning to rear its head. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m bored, and you’re the only other person here.”

“There’s, like, a million people here.”

“I mean right here,” she says, nodding to the broken heel on the counter and gesturing between your chests. “Besides, I like you.”

You really could surge up and kiss her, you realize. Her lips are so close, right there in front of you, and there’s not any sort of question of whether she’d let you. The part that scares you is you haven’t a fucking clue what you’d say when the moment comes to finally pull your mouth off hers, and that’s not something you’re usually trying to sort out. Nor are you really in a blathering mood, and now you’re imagining it: Eunbi’s expression all smug and haughty, something that could inspire a good blather - uh, did you just kiss me?

“Forgive me, but I feel like I need to point out,” Eunbi adds, mildly entertained, “most guys wouldn’t be asking this many questions.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“Uh, I am fully aware,” Eunbi says, running a fingertip along the length of her collarbone, slowly, and her voice dips out if its usual airy register into something less musical, more serious: “Do you even have a clue what I’d do for a guy like you?”

“Eunbi,” you say, harshly, not that it matters; she’s going to tell you.

“For starters,” she says, and her hand is around your tie, tugging like you won’t tell her to stop, like she knows she’s gorgeous in all the most disarming ways. “I’d take good care of him, like I don’t think I could keep my hands off him. I’d be blowing him all the time - until my jaw hurt, then i’d just tell him to pick a hole and fuck a big, hot load of cum into it - hell, I’d probably let him do anything to me.”

“Tactful.”

“I’m not the one having a hard time reading between the lines.”

“That’s not - I’m not-”

“Into me?” Eunbi laughs, leaning forward, your last vestiges of personal space vanishing like a passing thought, and now she’s touching you - a hand on your thigh, higher, higher. “You want to fuck me so bad.”

The fucked up thing, beyond Eunbi being absolutely right, is that you’d rather die than try and lie through your teeth, than succumb in such austere fashion. This thing, this desire, this want, you understand it so intimately you could probably name it like you were christening it in a church. You grab a hold of her wrist, before her precocious fingers can discover how obviously right she is under the seam of your pants, and the suddenness of the challenge wipes the mirth from her face - pulls a small little sound out of her chest, leaves her eyes wide and uncharacteristically docile.

“Are you sure?” you ask, collected and calm, after you’ve both realized how small her wrist fits in your hand. “Is this really the game you want to play?” 

Eunbi’s head tips onto this angle, expression perfectly cavalier. “Oh,” she says, uncorking an impious grin, “why don’t you and I go figure that out.”

-

It’s hard to focus. You’ve got it all wrong, or whatever, practically right from the jump. Your first mistake was veering toward the restrooms tucked behind the bar, where Eunbi pulled at the corner of your sleeve to shoot you a skeptical look - are you fucking nuts, there’s single occupant washrooms upstairs - her explanation was sound, probably, she lost you quickly at: “would prefer no one hear me cum all over your cock.”

The second transgression is the kiss itself, a fucking honest mess. 

Eunbi’s perched on the sink, precariously, and as much as you’d rather be smoothing your hands up her curves, you’ve got one preoccupied at her hips, steadying her, the other pulling at your own clothes, slinging your jacket to the floor. It’s this sort of callow tangle of limbs, exchange of spit, imprecise groping - fuck, it actually hurts when your teeth bump together, or when Eunbi pulls a little too hard at your bottom lip - over and over, and your mouths keep missing each other, straying off to cheeks and chins. 

You expected there to be a touch more polish to her, for her to be the kind of girl above hooking up barefoot in a public restroom, maybe even preserve any of that infamous intrigue. But those open-mouthed kisses she has leaving marks on your jaw, making welts on your neck do little to help you shrug off the impropriety here, hanging like a sorry cloud. Because you’re barreling toward something desperate and clumsy and hot and needy - so utterly raunchy in all the right ways.

“C’mere,” Eunbi says, smile stretching soft and devastatingly sweet, hardly fussing when you slip your hand beneath her jaw - it takes a moment, a touch of experimentation, until you’re together working toward a common goal. She twists the end of your tie over her wrist once, twice, anchors herself against you, and her legs open wider, a heel hooking around your thigh. The embers in her half-lidded eyes tell a story, tell you you to firm up your grip, clutch her, get rough with her, toss her around - she can take it, she can take more. 

Her chin gets set on the angle opposite yours as she starts to pull you in close, the heat in her breath coming closer, and she furrows a perfectly sculpted brow the moment she realizes it’s not reciprocal - that you’re not leaning into her, not pressing your tongue past her lips and grabbing her hair by the fistful - she squints, glowering. It’s actually not a bad look on her.

“Tell me something,” you say, skating your fingertips up her leg until they’re so close to the apex of her thigh you can feel her heat, radiating. “What were you expecting?”

“I try to never expect anything,” Eunbi tells you, and starts once more for your lips, only vexed again when you stiffen up, maintain the distance between you - stop her short at the limit of tantalizingly close.

“Eunbi,” you say, wry with dry laughter and peeking over her shoulder to the reflection in the mirror - backless; you can see the ridge of her spine from her ass all the way up to her neck when you slide her hair to the side. “This is not a dress you wear out with colleagues and friends. This is a take me home and have your wicked way with me kind of dress.”

Eunbi swallows; that’s how you know you caught her. “If the insinuation here is that I’m a slut, I’m not having any of it.”

“Why? Is that supposed to be some sort of secret?”

Her expression falls onto something rather unamused, a glib reply waiting for release at the tip of her tongue, until finally she says, “do you get off on being withholding or some other bull-”

The word vanishes in a sharp inhale the moment you press your hand up between her legs. 

“Oh god.” Eunbi’s entire body shudders, nerves bundled and tight and ready to fire at the slightest excitation. Honestly, you’re not even doing anything; you’re pushing fabric into her cunt, and fuck, Eunbi’s already this trigger-happy. The demanding, quick-tempered vixen with something to prove, and she’s already melting over the slightest touch. 

Hell, just listen in on those little stuttering breaths falling off her lips when you begin to circle your fingers, slowly, when you reach down further to where she’s so hot, so wet-

You press down and she hiccups.

“Ah, I think I get it now,” you start, watching Eunbi’s lip wobble as the heel of your palm spreads flatter and flatter over her clit, pressure indiscriminate and nowhere close to absolving. “You want me to believe that somehow, you’re a total romantic.”

Eunbi’s mouth slacks slightly as she sighs. “Aren’t we all entitled to a little fantasy?”

“Has the part where I fuck you senseless in a public restroom always worked into that?” you ask, digging deeper, drenching her underwear in her own slick. “Or is that a new development?”

“You’re really testing the limits of your charm here.”

“I dunno. I think the fact that you’re dripping down your thighs means I’m doing all right,” you say, holding onto a smirk that you’re half-sure she’s contemplating slapping off your face.

“What do you want?” she asks, shimmying her hips against you, voice softening into delicate capitulation. “Want me to tell you that I’ve been dreaming about it? Want to know that I think about you when I’m alone - when I’ve got my fingers inside me and I’m sobbing into a pillow - that I’m picturing you fucking railing Minju - picturing how your hands would feel at my waist, on my tits, around my neck - imagining just how good you’d fuck me?”

You nearly snort in amusement. “Oh, want a lot more than that.” 

“Then hurry up,” she says - before the attraction ferments. And she sighs musingly when you press your fingers past elastic, find a touch where she needs you, the unmistakable shiver of real contact. “Kiss me properly and pull me apart.”

You tilt Eunbi’s chin up and place your mouth on hers. Kissing her once, twice, until she realizes it’s not even close to enough, drawing in to kiss you back that much harder, all unknowing and candid - like she never once cared for subtlety in her methods of seduction.

Almost absentmindedly, your fingers had already danced over her entrance, rubbed and touched and felt and begun to push. And god, she’s so incredibly wet - not that the push isn’t slow, so unhurried you can feel Eunbi wanting to cry out in frustration as you get deeper, feel her squeeze onto you, just a knuckle inside her, then a second. She barely manages to hush out a complaint into your lips when you drag them back, returning the perfect roughness in your fingers to her clit and applying all this agonizingly-too-gentle pressure. Do anything, she said - said she’d let you; could’ve said, fuck me, ruin me; should’ve told you, no idea what I really want other than for you fuck my brains out, so please take off your clothes and help me figure it out -

It’s actually kind of adorable, that she has to break her lips away from yours to ask for more.

But only a loud, smacking kiss and the length of a heavy exhale later, Eunbi’s tongue slides into your mouth, slipping gently against yours, and flicks up at your teeth as you press the curl of your index finger back inside her. She cries gently, this pitchy little feminine sound, just when you fuck her open with another. You could take all the time you want, you reckon, just pretend Eunbi’s not already all wound up and needy - pussy soaked and hot and begging beneath loose fabric - pretend she isn’t wrapping her slender fingers around your wrist to hold you firm, keep your fingertips present and reliable: something she can buck her hips into, something she can fuck until she’s gasping for you to stop.

“Fuck.” Her moan hums right into your mouth, thin, stretching out on a broken breath as the pad of your thumb skates over her clit, again, again, lighter, barely a touch this time, gentle and tender, and, well, conflicting - because look, everything about this is such a fucking awful idea - you’re going to walk out into a sea of judgement with kiss-swollen lips, hair disheveled and bothered like you’d trekked through a windstorm, with Eunbi hanging on your waist, knees wobbling and perfectly complicit to the crime. 

You’ve given the thought barely a moment’s attention when Eunbi’s grip on your wrist goes white-knuckle tight, like she can taste the apprehension on your lips. She tugs on your tie, hard - don’t stop, come, closer - like she’d literally die if you stop fucking her with your fingers.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” you say in the spaces between these stinging, deep kisses into her cheek, her jaw, letting her body slump forward when you let go of her waist and start sliding your hand up her flat stomach, scrunching and furling the material of her dress up around her hips. She totters a moment, feet barely reaching the floor how you have her balanced on the lip of the sink, but you can’t help it: you need to get a hand up, higher, over her ribs, onto her chest -

Eunbi gasps the moment your fingers sink in, loudly, and you’re not even going to try and give her an explanation - fucking christ, her tits are incredible.

“How messy,” you tell her, enjoying how it makes her cheeks start to burn red, and with just that, you’re sure, with fingers becoming fast and frenzied. It’s audible, the slick on your hand, working through the thick of her heat, the tension in her clench. “So fucking messy, I bet you’re close baby, so close - close to cumming on my fingers.”

She purses her lips, chin tucked into where her collarbones meet, and closes her eyes. You think she’s readying some riposte, some quip to needle, something she’d lid her eyes and smirk first to tell you with poison laced in her voice, seethed in sarcasm, in spite. 

“I mean, Eunbi, look at you,” you drawl huskily, an effort to lure the words out of her, “and I haven’t even gotten my mouth on you yet.”

Her whole body sighs, a concerted effort; she’s panting, sinking her teeth into her lip, and it happens so suddenly, near all at once - those elegant lines in her face starting to twist, betraying that usual sculpted visage of perfection - at the end of a squalling stretch for air, she starts to beg. 

“Please,” she mewls, escaping her lips pliant and meek.

And fuck if that’s anything like the bite you’ve come to expect, the serrated edge of the girl who was amusing herself just moments ago with how you rattled and ruffled from behind a glass of liquor - Eunbi, all cunning and guile - jesus, it’s not even close:

“Oh, god, do it, do it, use my pussy however you want, fuck, want it so bad-” Her hair is falling into her face. Skin getting hot and dewy with sweat. She told you earlier that she’d kill you if you ripped her dress, said you had the look of a dress ripper about you - and now she’s looking at you like she might kill you if you don’t. “-anything, I’ll do anything, gods, please just let me cum.”

“Baby,” you murmur against her neck, a pet name you’re slipping into a little too easily. The possession, the way you say mine, you promise it’s all instinct. “Who could’ve ever guessed you’d be this needy?”

The pale column of skin beneath her jaw reveals more of itself to you the faster you drag your fingers through her cunt. She’s recovering from a curl of your digits against that spot that might just be able to get her screaming, and then it’s your thumb: each circle around her swollen clit reducing her to little more than ragged breathing and that causeway of a word, pleading, please, please, please.

You’d spent more time fantasizing about this than you care to admit, though when you tug the neckline of her dress down, free her breast from beneath the tight fabric, roll your thumb over her nipple, and pinch, it’s clear this is nothing like you imagined. It’s so much fucking more: her face winding into a look of equal parts pain, pleasure, eyes scrunching, lips hanging open - she can’t even say anything when you pull harder on the dress, pull her other tit up to your mouth and start to suck, hard - a heavy moan, whining; she doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Do it,” she demands, gulping for her next breath. “I’m so close.”

You haven’t written it off yet, but you also haven’t the slightest idea how she’ll come back from this one, flirting with the boundary at desperate and pathetic, responding to your touch, your fingers, your mouth like you’d spent a lifetime studying what makes her tick. This might be the only time between you that you’ve ever stumbled this close to anything like an upperhand, you recognize, and you’re not going to pass up an opportunity like it, milking it for all it’s worth:

“You ever have someone do this to you, Eunbi?” you ask her when your lips break all that cruel suction around her nipple - it’s red, swollen, aching, and it’s a great start. The throb between her legs isn’t growing any less urgent either, pulsing vigorously onto your fingertips and leaking all over your hand, her thighs, it’s so fucking sloppy and hot and that perfectly submissive expression on her face just looks so, so good on her. (You’re really leaning into it.) “Fuck you with one of your dresses bunched up over your hips? Take you into a bathroom and get you moaning and panting until you admit you’re a total slut? Fuck, I could do this until you can’t remember your own name, pull your underwear back up your legs all soaking and messy-”

“No,” Eunbi says, exasperated, and she chokes on her voice when your thumb digs harder into the puffy lips of her cunt, pushes this exact pressure on her tender clit. You don’t think her eyes could get any clearer, needier, until she starts shaking her head, saying, “you - you’d be the first.”

She practically blue-screens after that, words getting lost somewhere in the pangs of her own agitated pleasure. And like putty, sinking backward into the counter, you spread her legs open wider. Press a kiss into her forehead, skin all hot and sweaty. She almost loses it right then and there when you start reminding her she’s gorgeous, how good her name sounds on your lips, so pretty when she cums like this and then- 

Oh.

There she goes. 

“Fuck, you’re - god, fuck, I’m - fuck.” Eunbi hisses out your name, panting for air, and her brittle words fall straight to the floor, smash against the tile, and shatter into a million pieces. Cumming, she adds, two or three times for good measure, and you hold her firm, hold her still. Keep her from sliding off the sink so you might even kiss her hard. Feel her come undone.

Maybe it’s the praise; more likely the tempo of your thumb tapping against her swollen bud, again, again. The only thing you know is that the sound of it alone - over the squelch of your fingers fucking her through it, slow and tender like you have all the time in the world - see, that’s a masterpiece in and of itself. 

Eunbi’s chest rolls and twitches as you draw your fingers out of her pussy, soaked, clenching at nothing, and drag them up along her waist so she can feel just how much damage you’ve caused, that for all her sloppiness, it’s because of you.

“Here,” you say to her, with two sticky fingers at her jaw, “I know you want to taste yourself.”

Beyond the visual in front of you, you’re kind of stuck on how impetuous, impulsive, how utterly lewd it all is - opening her mouth and fitting your fingertips between her teeth. You scissor your fingers, let her lick her own slick off your you, and when you press her tongue down behind her teeth she starts to suck. It’s delightful, you think, she’s so gorgeous and somehow, flushed and fucked and sweaty, she looks perfect. Never been so stunning.

“Such a good girl,” you tell her, almost maliciously.

And it’s instant - Eunbi sinking further into the counter, her shoulders slumped to the cold mirror, knuckles knocking the bowl of the sink. There’s a hum coming up from her throat when you say it again, getting stuck on your fingers until she spits them out and looks at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, all glassy and brilliant, like you know the answers to all the riddles of the universe. Okay, so maybe it really is the praise, you realize, a weakness, a loose thread, you might never be able to stop yourself from pulling at it. You’d never want to.

“Been so patient, haven’t you? Your pussy is fucking creaming for me Eunbi, so fucking messy, you poor thing.” You’re lifting her panties to the side, assuring her in half sentences and leaving the rest to the sound of your zipper coming undone. “Gonna fuck you now, get my cock in this pretty little pussy of yours, don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you baby, just be still and hold on for me-”

“God.” Eunbi startles at the touch of your cock running over her slick, and she starts blinking back into reality, legs bracketing around your hips. Do it - she’s gathering an angry fistful of shirt, pulling at your tie, clamoring for you, all desperation, no composure, as if your mistakes were made for her - do it, do it, and she breathes your name against your mouth, lips trembling, “please.”

Days, weeks, months maybe, the conclusion’s long foregone, inevitable: your cock sinks straight into her cunt.

Jesus. Fuck. Where to start? Eunbi’s eyebrows twist, lips part - with just a wicked, sharp breath of air, she immediately comes undone. So, that might be as good a place as any.

You know by the way she melts, the way her body is coiling tighter around you, clinging to you like you might be able to hold it all together - like you’re not fucking her open, pressing deeper inside her, hotter around you with every passing inch.  

“I cannot believe,” Eunbi starts, voice shredded, and the rest of it is so incoherent, so blathering and baleful, that you’re altogether unsure if it’s in protest of you ruining her cunt, or if you’re not ruining it enough. Even though she’s so unbelievably wet, she’s every bit as tight, and you end up prompting this unattractive groan from her throat when you motion your hips forward, just a fraction, before pulling back again. “Oh my-”

You’re trying not to laugh but it’s slipping out quietly, and Eunbi just glares at you, the vibrations from your diaphragm going straight between her legs, where she’s still throbbing and unduly sensitive. A few disheveled strands of her hair end up in your mouth as she fidgets about in your grip. A few more as you ease in further - until your balls are flush against her ass and Eunbi has both ankles hooked around your thighs. Beyond the sweltering heat of Eunbi’s cunt, you’ve got thoughts, photographically vivid, racing through your head: you lifting her small body up, getting your hands under her thighs and pounding her without remorse - turning her over and bending her over her sink, watching her tits bounce in the mirror, face wracked as she cums like that, and you’ll get there - just that right now, seating yourself in her pussy and nuzzling your face into the crook of her neck is more than plenty to hone in on.

“Fuck, your cock, it’s-” Eunbi sputters, and it takes a beat to even realize you’re completely inside her, right to the hilt.

And you aren’t making any more sense of how she trembles than of the fusillade of curses tossed in your general direction. Her legs remain locked behind you, holding you motionless - making it difficult to not laugh at her inanity on display, squirming graceless beneath you.

Incredible, is the conclusion you both come to as her cheeks flood again with color, and you start circling your hips into her, moving as much as the confines of her legs - the inelegant entrapment - might allow.

It’s almost cruel: Eunbi gasps when you end up brushing against her tender clit, and you pause, thinking- 

(Like this, half naked, dress bundled around her waist, you can take whatever you want. Every now and again you look up and see your reflection, see yourself towering over Eunbi’s lithe frame - oh, the options - they’re nearly endless.)

-she simply growls at you when you inch her hips forward from where they’re perched and do it again.

“I can’t fuck you unless you let go,” you tell her, ducking down and finding her breast with your mouth. 

“If I let go,” Eunbi starts, and her voice is jagged with strain, breath steadying, “are you actually going to fuck me, or are you just going to keep teasing?”

“Oh, Eunbi, believe me.” You’re kissing up her chest, her collarbones, pressing your lips sweetly to the hollow of her throat. “I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming, promise.”

Eunbi holds her gaze to yours, tips up her chin, and says, half daring, “I’m holding you to that,” and as her bind loosens, she tugs your face towards hers by the bottom of your tie. Hard - it’s hardly even a murmur as she leans in, pressing your brow to hers - harder. A rhythm emerges in your hips against hers, though it only complicates the demands: more, please, need it, don’t stop.

But the drag of it is amazing, your cock gliding through the wet heat of her cunt - squeezed tight onto you and fitting you like a glove. So tight, as if she’d been made for you, incomparably coiled around you, and it’s even more perfect as you start to truly fuck into her. Fast and deep and assuring you’d stay true to your word, that you’d get her fucking screaming with it. Each time you pull back and slam into her again, hard enough that she shifts half an inch toward the mirror, you’re listening to that wounded noise, keening out of her chest, punctuated by the way she shudders, bracing against you.

“God,” you rasp through gritted teeth, stealing a delighted moan as she spreads her legs wider for you, stealing several more. “This pussy, fuck, is incredible, Eunbi” - she’s so wet and turned on that you just fucking rail her, that she lets you, that she loves it, to the point where you’re reminding yourself to breathe - “what a good little cocksleeve you are, you’re so fucking wet.”

“Better?” Eunbi is struggling to stay upright, jaw slacked and slumping against the mirror like a puppet cut from its strings. “Better than her, right?”

“Hm,” you say, and the hesitation alone is enough for the corner of her mouth to pull up into a tiny smile. Something she knows she can hook into, something she can work with. “We’ll just have to see.”

There are tears visible at the end , and her words are quickly becoming slurred and mixed up as your fingers turn threats into reality, bruises at her waist, her thighs, her tits, her neck - you’re marking her like she’s yours, like it isn’t dangerous, like it doesn’t spell trouble for both of you. So when she musters the strength to perk up, look you straight on while you pound her cunt recklessly, and meekly say, “be honest,” it’s far too impossible to deny her anything.

“The best, Eunbi,” you start. She doesn’t know where the lip service starts, where it ends, but just hearing you mutter out her name is enough to get her swooning.

It’s not that you don’t understand the irony, that Minju is downstairs somewhere telling a hundred people she doesn’t know where you are, looking pretty and put together, and you’re saving your honesty for this girl, breaking her further to pieces with each thrust her into tight, sweaty body, each stroke into her sloppy, aching hole. You do understand it, and when Eunbi starts whining, sobbing, moaning, you just can’t be bothered to care. “So perfect on my cock, baby, now be good for me - show me how perfect this pretty little cunt is, want you to cum again for me, want to see what a mess you can be, Eunbi.”

You end up with a hand underneath her, the other in the lose waves of hair behind her head, fingers splaying out against the base of her skull, and - fuck, the new angle you settle into when you pull her tiny body up onto your cock, not to mention the depth - it’s wanton, lustful, it’s thoughtless: you’re fucking her so hard and fast that all she can do is throw is her arms around your shoulders and weave curses into her ragged breathing, thinning, threadbare, “oh fuck, oh, jesus, fuck yes, there, your fucking cock, just like that, fucking christ.”

She barely even has one foot on the ground, toes dangling onto the tile, you realize after you finish chastising her dirty mouth. Completely at your beck and call.

Not that it was ever going to make a difference. You fuck her harder, until she’s shaking with it, until she’s crying out, embarrassment long forgotten. She’s so fucked, breathy moans turning to screams, to whimpers, seams cracking into fissures - you’re not hurting her, but fuck if that isn’t the boundary you’re daring to cross. You bottom out in her pussy, over and over; you’re destroying it, ruining it, and she’s clinging to you like wet clothes, like it might soothe her, like her life depends on it.

Eunbi moans when you draw your hips back and nearly leave the perfect heat of her cunt. And when you bury yourself back into her, she writhes.

You look up from the shadowy spot where your cock is disappearing between her legs, and her eyes are flaring again, teeth sinking into her lip as you seek out her chest and start playing with her tits. There, she wants to say, eyelids hooded and voice purring, that’s more like it. But your thumb flicks at her nipple, pert and pointy, coaxing out a quieter reaction - quiet beneath the haggard recoil her body makes in order to sheathe your cock, the gentle tremor at the end of each thrust, stomach muscles contracting under your hand. It’s too much. She only closes her mouth. Lets it fall open again. Sighs.

“You’re going to cum again, aren’t you?” you ask, breath landing hot against her face, agitating the flush in her cheekbones. “You’re going to cum all over this cock.” It’s in those eyes; she’s so incredibly close, but Eunbi holds fast to what shred of dignity hasn’t since vanished out of sight, throat working hard to swallow, and she shakes her head, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

In fact, she’s murmuring nonsensically at you, and for a moment you see a hand on her neck, thumbprint searing into her throat, but the image fades as she moans again, hips jumping, palm slapping the sink. It’s the want, the need, for everything you have to give her, want for you inside her, maybe forever more - and want and want for anything that might release her pleasured agony. It’s fucking filthy.

So bend, you tell her, don’t break.

(You’ve never fucked anyone like this either, you think, not Minju, not anyone - fingers skating up the ridge of her back, face buried in the hair falling over her shoulder, taking careful note of how you’re taking Eunbi apart. 

How you might ever put her back together.)

“Shit,” she cries out sharply, spine arched and straining against you as - fucking finally - her orgasm rips through her. You’re watching carefully as you fuck into her quivering pussy, listening mostly, once the pressure starts to build behind your eyes. There’s your name torn from her lips (oh god), and how she starts to tremble (oh god), trying to draw you (oh god) deeper inside her while she (oh my fucking god) lets it flood through her.  

It’s a lot to take in. Near impossible to focus on any one thing. For fuck’s sake, even the smell of it is divine, of perfume and sex and vanilla and sin.

You’re grabbing Eunbi’s waist again, so hard she yelps, lips parting, struggling for breath every time you fuck her tight little pussy onto you, but she can’t quite say anything. Not yet. Your cock is still too hard, throbbing madly inside her, and she’s near the point of simply collapsing. 

You touch her mouth, tip it gently closed. And the docile way she looks up at you is a reminder that you had readied a quip, something about the mess between her legs, that she’s flustering and incoherent and sobbing and how it’s so unlike her. But it’s gone now. Lost to the lust and need crackling in your own brain, you figure. You’d been daydreaming a mile a minute about fucking Eunbi on a good day, and now you’re seeing her here, like this.

It takes the velvety drag through her cunt, once, twice, you’re pounding her so fast, not even trying to hold on, shortening your breath, biting your cheek, counting out the strokes - three, four, five -“Come on,” Eunbi manages in the spaces between her soft, bitten back moans, “do it, wanna feel that big cock fuck a creampie deep inside me, wanna feel your hot cum leak out of me.”

You really could. Because she feels fucking unbelievable, and now you’re imagining it: getting reckless and stupid and filling her perfect little pussy with all your cum; risk it, get her pregnant, you tell yourself, fuck it deep enough inside her to make it a certainty - the mental image alone is enough to send you over the edge. You’re sure of that. It has before.

“Eunbi,” you stammer, “this pussy feels… I’m gonna-”

“I know,” she murmurs, “I know.” Her eyes are glassy, mouth cocked back, half-smiling. “Do whatever you want.” Five foot nothing of immaculate pulchritude and irresistible peril, she looks pristine on the end of your cock, tits in your hands, brow sweating, mouth opening, telling you to cum, to do it, want you to cum, just fucking use her.

“Fuck,” you spit, slipping your cock out of her at the last moment - fucking into your fist - cumming. Messily. Explosively. Eunbi still choking for air in fits and starts, your other hand still wringing her waist.

Though it can’t be more than a few seconds, the difference between you releasing that load inside her and the way it instead winds up everywhere else: in her panties, against the swollen lips of her pussy, the crease of her thigh - how some leaks and spills down her leg, onto the floor beneath the sink. There’s a dress ruiner in you after all. “God,” you add, fighting exhaustion, and Eunbi simply crumples against you, kissing you like you’ve never been kissed before - a long, smooth slide of her lips that leaves you both gasping in its wake.

“So.” Eunbi’s hand is between her legs, assessing the damages, accounting the cum all over her and soaking through the fabric of her underwear. She just raises an eyebrow at you, charming, challenging. “You came all over me.”

“What, you really think I’d cum in you?”

Her eyes squint, and her nose scrunches. It’s winsome, in a way. 

Sure, she’s kind of a disaster - the once-carefully-styled waves of her hair are in tatters, makeup running in every direction, tits hanging out of her bra and spilling over the top of her dress, still barefoot and completely unfazed by it. Dismantled is a good look for her, even if she doesn’t appreciate it: reaching into her purse, this emergency kit of wipes, a mascara brush, lipstick. Raring to do a little triage.

“Yeah,” you insist, “you’re out of your mind.”

The droll laugh she gives you when you finally let her go is not antagonistic either, but as with a lot of those things Eunbi does, the click of her tongue, the haughty expressions, the mannerisms, they were all becoming less threatening and more fetching - possibly more now that you’ve seen the face she makes when she cums.

“I think it’s just force of habit.” Having slid from the sink and onto the floor, Eunbi pitches up on her feet to kiss you again, and you don’t try to fight it any more than if she had beaten you in some sporting game and extended her hand to shake yours. When she pulls her lips off you, she adds, “which, you know, serendipitous and all that.”

“Thanks for the ten-dollar-word.”

“Lucky,” she reiterates.

“I know what it means.”

“If I had to guess… Minju doesn’t let you, does she?” And it becomes immediately apparent to you what Eunbi’s playing at. She’s got her teeth sinking into the long game, anticipating that you'll cross your arms, tell her never again: that thing at the gala, the kissing - we can't.

“Can you stop.”

“Does she?”

“Um,” you say, considering carefully for a moment which half-truths you want to tell, which ones you already have. “No, she does.”

Eunbi shifts her body a little, toward you, but not quite close enough to touch you - she’s bending slightly at the waist to scoop her tits back into her bra, her dress. The corner of her lip quirks further, and she asks, completely unrepentant, “does she let you cum in her ass?”

Your throat clicks, swallowing - you can’t even imagine it well enough to begin to know how to lie about it; bashful, everything obvious and on display - so, yeah, you are kind of fucked.

-

“Your shirt isn’t buttoned right by the way.”

“Here,” you say, still stuffing fabric back into your pants, “stand in front of me in case someone we know happens to come around.”

Eunbi crowds you to the wall, almost too aggressively, and she watches a staff member of the venue walk by carrying a platter full of shrimp tails and used napkins. “You’ve got cum on your pants too.”

“One crisis at a time, okay.”

“What are you going to tell Minju?”

“Nothing.”

“I mean… what is your approach, like when we get over there and-” Eunbi takes a step forward, fitting so perfectly beneath your chin, looking up like she’d discovered something worth marveling at. “Oh my god.” She laughs out loud. “How did I get a hickey under there?”

With just one finger returning to her waist, far gentler than the last time it’d been there, you push her back ever so slightly. “I’m just going to be myself.”

“Hm, bad idea.”

“Oh, alright then.”

Eunbi clutches a hand over her chest like she’d been wounded. “I just mean you’re kind of a nervous wreck.”

“I’ll be fine,” you tell her, now properly buttoned, and sliding out from her small-yet-surprisingly-overbearing presence. “And I told you, I bruise easy.”    

“Yeah, no kidding.”

-

History, is the word you’re looking for. Minju and Eunbi have history.

It always starts the same way:

A kiss to one cheek, the other, and the two are immediately falling back on placid smiles and the kind of laughter that seems at a glance to be genuine and real. Almost theatrical, the performance. 

Though Eunbi’s always had that chip on her shoulder - says she knows what it’s like to be young and pretty and famous - and when they’re together Minju always manages to draw from this near-infinite supply of bashful and modest. Actually, that’s more or less her whole thing. 

The mistake you figure, if anyone were to ask you, which no one has one yet - the mistake is in thinking you’re the only one that knows Minju can’t stand Eunbi. Even though she does a great job of hiding it, you might be singular in regards to who gets to hear Minju go off in the privacy of your apartment - arrogant, vain, conceited bitch - but you’re not alone here. No, no.

Because Eunbi - who is perfectly aware just how much disdain Minju has for her - catches your stare. And instead of being content with how you’ve found the ideal spot to stand off to the side to avoid this whole minefield of a situation, she waves you over. Way too enthusiastically.

That has always set her apart. She would invite mischief, if she thought that it would set the scene.

-

It’s not more than a week before your paths cross again. Perhaps you’re tangling with fate. Perhaps it’s out of your control. Perhaps, you consider carefully, that’s more convenient. You see her first: waiting for a cab at the taxi stand outside the broadcast studio, cardigan sliding down around her shoulders, verily bedraggled in the wind.

The ends of her hair are in the corners of her mouth, and those long shadows cast from the evening sun dance across her face to paint those features baroque, build an image serene and stately - statuesque.

(She’s stunning as ever.)

That Eunbi is even here of all places is a coincidence, but her dimples deepen when her eyes meet yours, like she’s finally found something she was long looking for. “How serendipitous,” she says to you again, smiling.

“Right.” You grimace back, self-effacing. “Lucky.”

“You know,” she says after a moment, “our apartments really aren’t that-”

“Far,” you say, seeing the conclusion that she’s leaping at, and the next to make things become extremely complicated is Eunbi, which is so her that it makes your fists clench in your jacket pockets without realizing it.

“It’d be cheaper, I’m just saying, if we split a cab.”

“What if I told you,” you say, after a long while, “I get reimbursed for the commute either way.”

“Do you?”

“No,” you end up saying, bluntly.

“So, purely a hypothetical,” she suggests, leaning into your personal space, and your eyes drop immediately, past her bare shoulders, past the neckline of a matching top, pointedly to her knees beneath a pair of denim shorts. Her whole outfit is simple, but with a figure like hers, clearly intended to provoke a reaction, one that you’re not going to give her. You’re above that. 

“Yeah.” You tilt your head. “Sure.”

Her finger’s tapping at her chin, and it’s sort of cute the way she does it, making the gesture seem about half as patronizing as it should be. “Then just for good company’s sake?

“You-” It comes out uneven enough to get you chuckling to yourself, kind of nervously. Her eyes light up as you swallow back on your drying mouth - a beacon, lighthouse in a storm, safe harbor, siren’s call and all. Your gut is trying to tell you, danger, and then suggests you dive in headfirst. “You might be giving yourself too much credit.”

“Just entertain the thought for me.”

“Like a hypothetical, you mean.”

She laughs, and it has her eyes crinkling at the corners. Likable, you think immediately. Beautiful, right after that, and coincidence, as it were, ends there - just as abruptly.

You’ve made many selfish decisions in your life, but climbing into the back of that cab might be the most out of all of them - Eunbi just smiles when you arrive next to her. You never stood a chance against that, probably. It’s the Orpheus thing. The monkey’s paw thing. It’s not possible to lean out of a moving vehicle enroute toward collision, stop the wheels from spinning when they’re already spun, and unmake the wish. 

The blur of passing street lights streak across Eunbi’s face and present it to you in broken images, cycling like phases of the moon, until finally, an overpass sees everything go dark, and you feel her small body slide across the backseat, the heat in her chest as she presses into you.  

Her lips are featherlight upon yours, gentle and trepid. For the first time, she seems unsure, as if she didn’t think this would happen. Then once more, with a taste of desperation and sinking into the dark corner of the leather seat, she kisses you like she knows you, pulling tight onto the collar of your shirt like she knows you’ll kiss her back - like she knows that all you’ve been doing, at the end of the day, is delaying the inevitable.

-

Eunbi’s apartment, actually, is rather modest. More different, and less however you expected.

The walls are painted alabaster, not white, which is only a color you recognize because Minju had waffled between that and eggshell for weeks before tasking you to paint three of the four walls of your living room - only later to realize she wanted something darker as you were priming the fourth. There’s a small powder room by the door, a tiny closet overflowing with jackets and coats and all sorts of outfits you’ve probably stripped off Eunbi in your head a thousand times over - and what the space lacks in size, more than makes up for in the massive set of south facing windows, benefit of an open layout, daylight warm and diffuse.

Well, at least that’s how you imagine it. The sun set while you weren’t paying attention, your thoughts, hands, lips, all preoccupied in the back of the cab, so you’re left with only the recessed lighting, dimmed down to dreamlike allure.

Not that you've ever been one with an eye for detail. No, Minju will happily corroborate the fact. Your talents start at your wit, end at your charm. But it’s just where you’re at - head tipped over the back of the sofa - you’ve got your eyes anywhere besides where Eunbi’s kneeling in front of you, head bobbing up and down between your thighs. 

In spite of your plans to fold her over any surface sturdy and horizontal, you ended up like this, jeans not even half way down around your thighs. On instinct, you’re threading your fingers through her silky hair, though you can feel the glare she shoots up as you tighten your grip and start to pull. It’s not that Eunbi takes issue with you fucking her face inherently. It’s nothing like that at all.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you murmur softly, voice wrecked. “You take my cock so well. Your smart little mouth was made for this, wasn’t it?”

Between messy kisses in the cab, the lobby, the elevator, while fumbling for her keys, she’d detailed to you all the things she wanted you to do to her, how she wanted you to fuck her, how she was going to make you cum. See, her mouth is gorgeous, even more vulgar, and she wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip: you’d understand exactly what that mouth could do. 

Because there’s the angle you’re now both familiar with, that you can fuck her apart, get her flushed, faltering and fucked into perfect submission until you steal your own release - that you’ve been running the memory back all damn week - but she figures you ought to know that she can make you cum without you ever needing to lift a finger. And given how sure she is running her tongue all over you, sucking your cock, mouth hot, unashamedly sloppy, fingers curled around your shaft in strokes of genius-

Fuck, she probably will.

Not that you’re one for understatement, mouth falling open as you sigh backward into the upholstery - feels amazing, you’re explaining to her when you’re not chewing your lip, so good at that, a little more, your mouth baby, fuck, it’s incredible. Like she doesn’t already know. 

Eunbi just slides her lips down your shaft so perfectly in response. All that wet suction near fatal. But it’s not what gets you to swear audibly, a low rumble from your chest that says she’s on the right track. It’s the look on her face: pouty pink lips cushioning your cockhead, parted around your shaft, sinking further now, back at the top again, spit drooling from the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows are upturned, and when she hollows her cheeks some - lifts her eyelids and fixes that gaze on you - her irises are gleaming in juxtaposition, this doe-eyed girl blinking up at you, innocently, like she’s not taking your cock further into her mouth, fucking you until she chokes. 

Those eyes half-lidded, unknowing, and staring straight into you- 

She’ll make you cum, they read, blinking, deep in her throat. Her lashes flutter. She coughs. You’ll cum more.

Though for your part, it’s not like you’re aren’t handing yourself over to the sensation either, indulging in everything Eunbi’s mouth has to offer, what more you’re sure still to take. It’s hot and wet and her tongue is even better licking around the tip of your cock than it was pressed flat underneath it - you’re settling into it, just starting to rock your hips up to meet the softness at the back of her throat, and she nods her head down twice more, bathing more of you in her spit each time, sputtering. You’re not the easiest to take, but she’s almost casually contented, or something more smug, the uppish look of a girl who's never backed away from a challenge - who will happily go for more - and without fuss, she takes your entire length between her lips. 

“Oh, fuck me-” you mutter, going speechless the moment she starts to suck.

And with her nose to your belly, Eunbi is straining, fighting for breath. It’s not an accident that she’s making a total fucking mess, drool and precum dripping down your shaft. She’d take more of you, wet on her chin, on her fingers, she’d pull you further into her little mouth, like she’d have it no other way. Still, her tongue licks nonchalantly past the seal of her lips, laps at your balls, and you think you’re going to lose it when she realizes it’ll get you to shiver, how you won’t ask for more, but she can just keep doing it again, again.

You bury your face in your hands as you suck in your next breath. You’re leaking cum actually, only a little, and Eunbi just keeps blowing you like you aren’t.

Fantasies will never work again, not after this, because for all the times you’ve imagined Eunbi’s lips around you, you’ve never come up with anything remotely close. It’s not even clear if this talent of hers is natural, god-given, or if behind each of her coy expressions and holier-than-thou moments of proud eminence she’s secretly an insatiable cockslut, but man, the girl is really good at sucking cock.  

Maybe the tricky part about this, if you even want to begin to get into it (you do not) - allowing yourself a small taste of intimacy has sparked this want for so much more. Even when things were good, Minju wasn’t getting her mouth on you like this. You can’t put your finger on it, the last time you’ve had anything as satisfying as the press of Eunbi’s lips around you, this mess of dark slippery hair bobbing up and down in your lap lazily and unbothered, mouth making all these wet noises like she’s yours and nothing more - like she never will be - and fuck, it’s irresistable. Her tongue curls around you again, and she makes her jaw go slack until more spit drools down the length of your cock, lathering in her fingers and twisting around your shaft - it scratches at itches you didn’t even know you had; nascent itches, silent ones, itches cloaked as something else.

Your breath stutters, stumbling into an embarrassing little moan after Eunbi pops her mouth off your cock, and a fleeting trick of a grin rushes across her face. She picks up on where you’re at instantly: “Aren’t you, like, kinda quiet?”

“There’s a lot going through my head right now,” you tell her, and that’s something she knows she can play along with, reveling in how you swallow at nothing when she hooks her hand behind her back and frees her bra from her shoulders. Her tits settling perfectly into place. “Just to be clear,” you sigh, “I’m going to cum in your mouth if you keep doing it like that.”

She tugs your jeans all the way down to your ankles. Arches an eyebrow. “And?”

“It’s called being decent, just something I'm working on.”

“Oh,” Eunbi says, returning her grip around your cock. Her hands are tiny, stacked one on top of the other, and she pumps them slowly, knowing that the abundance of spit and precum in her fingers makes it feel amazing. Every little flick of her wrists every bit as unbearable. “Now you care about decency; the guy who’s cheating on his-”

“Watch it,” you say, rough, “I could go without the reminder.”

Eunbi’s grin flickers a little wider. “Still the guilty conscious, huh?”

You think on it, a moment too long probably, because on one hand, she’s right. On the other - “I’m not going to say it’s guiltless.”

“Okay simple,” Eunbi shrugs, and pulls herself away from you, suggesting, “just touch yourself.” 

That’s one way to go about it. You wonder if this is the logic her brain operates on daily. It’d explain a lot.

“That’s like getting away with it on a technicality.”

“It’s an orgasm,” Eunbi tuts, “you’re not robbing a bank.” There’s a brief silence while she brings her palm up over her eyes, peeking through her fingers. “Here, see, I’m not even looking.” 

“I’m going to go ahead and just point out that you’re suggesting I jerk off in your living room.”

Eunbi’s hands drop to her sides, before tracking up her ribs and holding her breasts together into a cleavage that is way too inviting for anyone’s sake. You’re enchanted. Beguiled, maybe.

“Or.” Her gaze tapers in on something. God only knows what exactly your tell is; the quirk in your brow, the slightly-more-than-usual-avoidant gaze, something about your lips, the way you’re biting them - that’s where she seems to have honed in. And she’s smoking you out, completely. “I could probably just fuck you with my tits.”

That’s true. She could. And when that developed thought eventually coheres, you sigh profoundly.

She tips her head, interpreting the silence, and the small, wanting groan you make as she starts smashing her breasts closer together between her hands is definitely audible. Here, she’s telling you, with your cock, I know you want to. Even her lips are slanted into a subtle, knowing shape, steeped in all her femme-fatality, before finding the other smile she wears that pretends like it doesn’t know what she’s doing to you. “Is that what you want? You want your cock between my tits?”

“How exactly are those two things interchangeable?” you start, which isn’t anything even in the neighborhood of a no, so Eunbi simply leans forward, raising her chest between your thighs and teasing the sensitive part of your cock with just a brush of her nipple. Grazing down you, it’s hardly any contact at all, but the way you twitch suggests to her you’ll probably never recover from this. 

“Well.” Eunbi’s expression is lit aflame with revelation. “I’m just working in the space, thinking about things someone else could never do for you - things I could do for you.” 

For one thing - of which there are many - it’s a hell of a departure from the Eunbi who was sobbing against the bathroom mirror begging you to cum inside her. You can hear it. Her voice has the quality of a type of: victory. 

(Like she’s just come up with the most brilliant idea in the world. Which - maybe.)

“It’s perfectly normal you know,” she adds, almost as an aside, while trapping your cock between her breasts. “Literally everyone asks me to do this.”

You’re disarmed more than you realized, only able to nod along. Eunbi laces her fingers together, straightens herself, and right after passing her tongue under her top teeth to shoot you a smile, starts moving up and down against you. The way it feels, filthy hot and suffocatingly amazing, fuck, you’re letting out a sound that’s the bastardchild of a laugh and a whimper. You’re stunned. And the way it looks - your cockhead escaping her tits, disappearing again - is almost, almost the best part. 

“You’re, like, so hard right now,” she says, deservedly confident, and sliding her tits up around your cock again, she tilts her chin, trying to goad it out of you. “Should I let you cum all over these tits? Like, you’re already throbbing, honey.”

Let you cum, she says. If you weren’t struggling to cope with everything - every pass of soft skin smothered around your shaft sending you further to wit’s end and threatening to abandon you there - you’d recognize the writing on the wall: you’re in the palms of her hands, figuratively, literally. You’re in trouble.

“Oh, is that it?” she asks again. “Should I?”

“Fuck.” Without even thinking, you’re spreading your knees wider, inching toward the edge of the sofa, aching to get deeper between her cleavage. “Fine, yes, fuck-”

“Unh-uh,” says Eunbi flippantly. 

See, she’s enjoying this - eyes hot and radiant with authority - she’s enjoying this more than you. Her fingers relax, letting her tits fall around down onto your thighs. The pressure she was letting you enjoy, wrapping around your cock and making you speechless, starts to dwindle to something less brain-numbing. It’s unexpected: the lipstick around her mouth is smeared slightly, mascara under her smoky eyes still in disarray from how you’d had your cock in her throat, and now she’s the one taunting you.

“No, I’m serious,” she adds, “I want to hear you say it.”

Her brow furls immediately when you open your mouth, like she’s already very aware of what you’re going to say, and equally unimpressed.

“Say you want me to make you cum with my tits.”

“Eunbi.” Your voice comes out dry, damaged. “Please.”

“Hm?”

This wasn’t quite how you had pictured it when you’d seen Eunbi leaving the studio, looking like an angel, smiling like the devil; when she batted her lashes at you outside the taxi stand; when she clung to you and kissed you in the backseat of the cab; when that escalated the moment you walked through her foyer; when she dropped to her knees and started at your belt, your zipper, all without missing a beat. This is different. This is you, being desperate. 

“Please, with your tits Eunbi, fuck me with your tits.” 

Jesus. Now you know how that sounds. And the words are clear enough given the circumstances, but she’s staring at you expectantly, waiting for more. Waiting for you to concede. Waiting like you have no choice - “please, Eunbi, please make me cum, fuck, I need it so bad.”

“Oh.” Eunbi gathers herself again around your cock. Tighter. Triumphant. She laughs dryly and says, aloof, “good boy.”

-

(Here’s how it goes:

Eunbi has your cock vanished into her cleavage, again, and every soft slide of her breasts coaxes a reaction out of you - some quiet, others louder - coaxes more precum from where your cock is aching, leaking. She adjusts her fingers, moves her palms in further, makes her movements more precise, faster, tighter- 

It’s probably not a good sign of mental hygiene that you’re wilting so fast, that you’ve given her so much power so quickly, but the way she has her tits around you is fucking staggering.

“Aw, don’t worry, I’ll make you cum so fucking hard.” Eunbi moves her tits up your shaft. Lets them fall again. “Just relax for me.”

Her dark hair is falling slightly out of place over her ears as she looks down and presses her out tongue out, licking gently at where you’re appearing over and over from her soft breasts. Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing, you think, even though there’s not an ounce of culpability in her face. You’re so unused to seeing Eunbi appear so guileless that you nearly don’t recognize her. 

But once you feel the smooth skin of her chest become so wet and slippery with her spit, your precum  - once she’s settled into a reliable motion to fuck you with - her eyes lift their focus from what’s just beneath her chin. Get themselves fixed right on you. 

“It feels so good doesn’t it?” The smirk that finds her mouth is lethal. “C’mon. I know you want to cum.”

You can only nod, breath panting.

“Cum on these perfect tits, baby. Cum for me.” Her brow is cocked, voice lilting straight into seduction. “Cum-”

Eunbi’s name sticks to the roof of your mouth as you shoot a rope of cum past her collarbone. You send more all over her chest, hot and sticky and shimmering in pale white, and as soon as she slowly slides her chest up again, you drain your balls into the warm wrap of her tits. A truly satisfying mess. 

You stare for a moment, wondering, if she’ll open her mouth and swallow you again - all given the way she’s looking at your cock, hungry. But she simply tilts her chin and lets your cum splash onto her neck.

She has her hands pumping you lazily against her clavicle, cooing while she gently fuck out the final, tired vestiges of your orgasm with little flicks of her wrist: “oh, there, look at all that, and it’s all for me.”

Once your knees stop shaking and your breath starts to level - once Eunbi releases you from her warm, wet cleavage - she draws a shiver out of you with her tongue, run up the length of your sensitive cock, and she’s left kneeling there, covered in your cum, with her palms upturned like she’s waiting for someone to give her a towel. It’s you, and it’s her, and there’s something about the image of your cum splattered all over her chest, shining and slippery between her perfect tits. You get your hands on her waist immediately, pulling her up into your lap, her slick, sticky chest sliding against yours, and you devour her mouth greedily, licking hungrily past her lips.

“You are something else,” you say finally, now sunk back into the couch to fully take Eunbi in. “All sorts of party tricks.”

Eunbi preens, utterly satisfied with herself, and she reaches down behind her to your cock, aching in pained pleasure, aching for more. You flirt with the heat that radiates from behind her underwear, grinding against where she’s become hot and wet and needy. She laughs, and the sound turns to a pretty little sigh after she pulls aside her panties and seats herself onto your cock. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says, and she starts to move.)

-

It’s never supposed to become a habit. It’s never supposed to be anything at all.

At first? Once a month, and it’s unprompted; then it’s biweekly, then it’s once a week, then it ends up biweekly again in the opposite direction; there are these little text messages back and forth that you’re learning to decipher - hey, they usually start, you up? or you wanna help me move some furniture? or this is crazy, but i cooked way too much ramen? or been horny all day, so like, come over and fuck me? 

Some of them, you puzzle out, are easier to decipher than others. And falling comfortably into that category are the nudes she sends you in the middle of a fucking workday: 

Eunbi’s standing with the backside of her unfathomable figure facing the bathroom mirror, denim cut offs slipping down past her thighs-

(Fuck. Shit. You drop your phone and it lands face down in a way that makes you scared to check for damages. Luckily, it is unscathed. Mostly.)

-denim cut offs slipped down past the cheeks of her ass. Her torso is twisted in profile, a white linen shirt draped up over her shoulders for ceremonial purposes, gaping open at the front in an effort to cover nothing at all. Underneath that is a plaid swimsuit top for god knows what reason - a pair of large silver hoop earrings, perfectly done eyelashes, and hair far too styled to be gearing up for a swim - then it’s her thumb, hooked under the string that looks to barely be holding the tiny thing together. The picture is taken at nearly the precise moment: she’s pulling up on the bikini top, to the point that her tits look ready to fall out and let gravity return them whence they came. 

How she managed it, you’ll never know, but it’s got fantasies come to life immediately. Eunbi whimpering and coming apart, Eunbi stretched out in that bikini top, Eunbi stretched out without it - you nearly drop the phone again.

The text that follows is shameless, complete with a winking emoji and extra letters in all the right places: maybe tell minju you’ll be home late for dinner.

All of this, and suddenly you’re feeling less oblivious about it. You and Minju are at that point. These are your death throes, a swan song, performative; you’re that kind of couple.

-

You realize there’s this thing that Minju always says. 

You’ll often catch her in passing, between your hectic schedules or in her spot between the cushions of the sofa curled up in a blanket and reading another romance novel. She’ll ask you how your day was, or what it’s going to be, and you’ll tell her what you always tell her.

“Nothing,” she responds as you press a dutiful kiss to her forehead, “I’m just thinking.”

-

But what else is there to say?

There’s Eunbi’s apartment, the usual scene of the crime. There’s the backseat of your car, sometimes the front seat of hers. There’s no lack for nooks and crannies in the production studio. You fuck Eunbi. Eunbi fucks you. All of it rabid and increasingly frequent and most of the time it gets seriously freudian.

“Inside me,” Eunbi gasps, twice. Her chest is flushed, stained again with your cum, sticky strands of it bridging between her tits as they wobble and shake beneath you. It’s all routine, and none of it anything you could ever tire of. The way you’re fucking her, every deliberate thrust something you can hang on to forever - buried inside her hot, tight velvety cunt - it should be aspirational. And you’ve got her here so frequently, so selfishly, so perfectly. With her knees folded up to her shoulders as you ride the motions of the bed springs. 

Maybe it’s curiosity at play, to see how far either of you will go. You’re crushing her in more ways than one. It’s hot and filthy and she’s loving every moment of it. You’re pounding her sopping cunt into a swollen, cummed-in mess - more and more as you fuck her further into the matress. “Do it, baby,” she cries, unashamed, “want you to fill this pretty little cunt again, need you to fuck me, use me, need you to breed me - use this pussy however you want, it’s yours, so cum in me over and over until i’m just your little cumdump and nothing more-”

God, you want to give her everything she wants, all of the time. Your hips ride into her again, deep and making her features skip past all the usual coy expressions. And god, she is so fucking tight - maybe you will.

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Eunbi is panting, nails digging into your shoulder blades, and she holds your face to the crook of her shoulder. Her voice comes out in airy gasps, shaking and quivering as you rock her entire body beneath you. You pound away at her pussy, and you fuck her, and you rail her so reckless she starts to cry out, until she’s begging, pleading for you to fill her pretty little cunt.

Even though you should at least hesitate, you don’t. You can’t. You shouldn’t.

Hips grinding against hers, cunt clenched and dripping onto your cock, you do.

You need her.

-

But what else is there to say? It’s not that you don’t do your fair share of thinking either. Though none of it productive, admittedly. You’ve got all these images, photographically vivid, of Eunbi running through your head. The things you’ve done to her, the things you want to do to her, the things you will do to her. 

It starts to get in the way of your work.

“I’m sorry,” you say, caught daydreaming one day. “Could you repeat that for me?”

Sitting across the table from you is Jo Yuri, a mutual friend. She knows everyone, and she’s on your radio show, talking about relationships. “What I’m saying is this: I’m not sure what it is about men that make them think women are so unsolvable, like we’re constantly changing the rules.”

“They’re not simple,” you offer in contention.

Yuri turns her head onto her hand, adjusting her headphones, and leans into the mic. “They’re not complex either.”

But, they are complex, you think to yourself as Yuri continues on her with her point. They’re complex in the way they want you to touch them, the way they want you to hold them, to kiss them; some of them complex in the way they want you to choke them, slap them, get your mouth on them and make them cum over and over-

“If it’s less subtle than a brick to the face,” Yuri says, gauging your lack of a reaction, “it’s probably for your own good. That’s what I think.”

-

Neither of you cry when Minju breaks up with you on a Friday. You know, like officially. Neither of you shout or throw things or do anything that you could put in a tell-all book in your later years.

So that’s that, is the last thing she says to you.

Whatever the opposite of cathartic is - that’s the vibe.

Her publicist finally sends a letter to Dispatch. Apparently the time is right. Or she’s stopped caring. You don’t know. The article that ultimately arrives doesn’t drag you through the mud, but you don’t come out looking all that great either. And as it turns out, surprisingly, the most tragic part about being dumped on a Friday, aside from the fact that every fool that is doom scrolling twitter knows about it, is it’s impossible to get new furniture delivered until the following Monday.

“Jesus,” Eunbi says, sliding past you and into your near empty apartment. “This place is super depressing.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, tepid. “There’s been photographers watching the door to the lobby for hours.”

“I was just passing by. Saw the lights were on.”

“Yeah, well, I mean I’m here.”

“I see that.” Eunbi smiles simply. “Was all the furniture hers?”

“We replaced a lot of stuff as time went on. Didn’t match her decor.” You lean against the door frame. “Or so I’m told.”

Eunbi does a spin in your living room, finger to her chin. “Looks like she left you a coffee table.” 

“The movers said it didn’t fit in the truck.”

“Ah.” Eunbi crosses her arms, and the quiet smile on her face grows just an inch. “Serendipitous, ain’t it?”

-

“Hey,” Eunbi says, from the passenger seat of your car. “Would you say… are you feeling anger?”

“No.”

She taps away at her phone in a few more moments of silence. The turn signal’s click click click punctuating each one, semi-dramatically.

“Hey,” she says again, turning toward you.

“What?”

“How about this, are you feeling depression.”

You pause before you answer. “No.”

Her mouth finds a subtle twist, almost like she’s pouting. “Are you feeling, I dunno, bargaining?”

“I’m not in grief, Eunbi, if that’s what you’re working toward.”

She sinks into her seat, disappointed somehow.

“Oh, that’s the first step by the way: denial.” Eunbi unclicks her seatbelt, and leans over the console as you pull up in front of a hotel. “This article says that soon the emotions you’ve been hiding will begin to rise. You’ll be confronted with a lot of-”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” she asks, blinking deceptively in an almost comically innocent way.

“Psychoanalyzing.” You shut the car door a little too dramatically to be of any help hammering home your point. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Eunbi murmurs, just low enough for you to catch, “you’re living out of a hotel. And denial is not just a river in Egypt.”

“Why don’t we analyze how you’ve got a real talent for getting under my skin.”

“Oh.” She laughs, eyes bright, cheery. “So we are angry.”

“You might want to be more careful.” You’re wandering into familiar territory here. This thing, the needling, the goading, is it on purpose? Your intuition suggests yes, perhaps. A wealth of experience tells you absolutely.

“Is that so?” she asks, interested and daring and dangerously pretty in the shadows of the parking lot.

“Who knows, maybe I end up getting a little rough with you.”

“Oh darling,” she says, and part of you isn’t too keen on her getting so intimate with you. There’s another part of you that is. “I’m hoping you get a lot rough with me.”

-

The way Eunbi perches inelegantly at the edge of the bed says a lot. Her legs are wide open and she’s grasping backward at a set of pristine hotel sheets, cumming over and over on your fingers, maybe a little too easily. She’s even giving you those eyes, watery and irresistable. Of course you’re past all that, well familiar with the act, how deceitful it is of her to act so innocent.

So you bring your mouth onto her pussy and make her do it again. Telling yourself it’s what she deserves.

In fact, when the barrage of oh god’s and moaning and panting finally subsides, she ends up laughing, bubbly cute, in exactly the way you’ve grown fond of. It’s almost strange, you think, to be so used to the sound. But when Eunbi finally uncovers her face from her hands, her expression is pointedly not amused, all need and lust and want - she’s not playing around - simply the way your name comes off her tongue could make you melt. “How do you want me?” she asks, “you can’t just leave me like this.”

Fuck, how don’t you want her? It might have been careless, giving someone like you creative liberty - you’re imaging everything. You want her on her knees, you want her ass in your hands, you want her riding you, beneath you; there’s a million and one things you’re thinking about her tits alone. Then there’s the other liberty. That you’re not checking over your shoulder, worrying, anxious, that kernel of shame hidden away somewhere inside you no longer growing as you get your cock inside her. You’ll make her scream your name, beg you to cum. She’s yours, and you’ll remind her who she belongs to. You’ll take all the time you need. 

“Stand up,” you end up telling her, and after one of those liquid thoughts finally coalesces into something more rigid, “over by the window.”

“Yes sir,” Eunbi says, huffing a smug laugh. Though whatever faux confidence she thought she discovered vanishes without a trace considering her knees are already wobbling, barely able to support her. Some part of her must be able to sense it: you’re worked up, feeling something. She likes you that way. Likes what it makes you do to her. The fact is, to be truly content - being held down and pounded into, filled so full and fucked apart - it’ll take just a press of her thumb on the scale. 

See, Eunbi knows you’ve been holding back. Knows you’ve been flirting with the boundaries she’s dared you to cross. With a little encouragement, she knows you will. 

You saw this coming. And to be frank, you’re going to ruin her.  

“Take your shirt off,” you say, slipping seamlessly into instruction, “socks, underwear, strip.”

It is breathtaking, the way Eunbi ultimately turns her figure around against the pane, hands running up the glass and stretching above her head, ass poked out and shimmying her hips. She’s right there, waiting for you to grab hold of her, to press kisses into her shoulders, her spine, to pump your cock into her, to cum in her deeper and deeper-

And with much less to say, she finds that shimmy again, the round of her ass proffering. Her patience waning.

“You fucking better,” she says, and her elbow’s bent, finger’s pulling at her ass cheek. Look, this pussy, it’s yours, no one else’s and you made it so, so wet. You almost can’t believe that she’s even real - all curves and sharp angles in the right places, a face like that - you should be at her feet, worshiping her, and you will, in a way: you’ll grip her wrists tightly into your fist and sink your fingers into her waist until you’ve got her bruising and breaking. And that’s just a scratch at the surface.

Eunbi’s pupils are blown, mouthing into her shoulder, “I need you to fuck me.”

The tension in the room hardly stretches more than a few moments, you’ve got your cock out, you’re slipping into Eunbi’s soaked cunt, pushing deep, thrusting deeper, bottoming out - “you perfect fucking slut, Eunbi, so needy aren’t you? Begging me to breed you over and over-” You’ve spent the last god knows how many many months hiding away and stealing at something you weren’t supposed to have. Spent even longer pining for something you’ve never had at all. Your hips snap again, harsh contact against her ass, skin milky white and soft, unblemished and delicate - and when you settle into this harsh tempo, railing Eunbi up against the window, you figure you’ll address all that. 

See, you’ve got no ticking clock in front of you. Consider how time starts to slip when you’re inside her, seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, you’ll take as much you can: time to bring her her home, keep your cock in her for a day, two days, three days, keep cumming in all her holes-

“Fuck,” Eunbi sputters, arching her back further, tension building in her spine, in her cunt. The reflection in the window shows her bottom lip start to tremble, and she opens her mouth, repeating it, like it’s all she can remember how to say. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

You slap her ass, hard. Handprint vibrantly pink and staring back at you. You kiss her shoulders, you pound her little cunt into consummate submission. I want other people to know, Eunbi’s entirely incapable of telling you right now, drool cornering in her lips. Want everyone to know how good you fuck me, how you own me, how I’m your personal cumdump and forever will be.

You mark her up, like she is yours, hand at her neck, in her hair - you start to pull.

“Yes?” How you’re holding her, how you’re fucking her - it’s physically imposing. You’re towering over the woman, face bent upward and reaching further as the grip you’ve stolen of her silky hair only ever tightens. You can kiss her forehead, but you don’t. You tease her instead. “Aw, you’ve got a look on your face like you have something you want to tell me, Eunbi.”

All too simple, your thumb lands on the pucker of her asshole. And she cums, just like that.

It’s unholy. The overstimulation has tears welling in her eyes, gorgeous, wide, glassy and brilliant. She’s not meant to take this kind of treatment. Reverence, adoration, that’s her usual faire. And she can hardly believe when you bring your hand down her ass again - can hardly believe that you’re fucking her within and inch of her life and wrecking her like you are.

Each thrust sends her voice higher and the lines of her body rippling faster, bending further. Its beauty in resonance, profundity in motion: the soft skin of her ass shaking against your hips, tits swinging against the window. Your hand snakes across her flat stomach, feels her panting for breath, traces her ribs and up towards her chest. Those little whines make it out to be something selfish. Mewling gasps for air make it seem like you aren’t giving her exactly what she asked for. As if you’d ever give her anything less. 

Fuck. She’s a hot, moaning mess of a woman. She doesn’t even roll her hips back onto you or fuck herself on your cock; she doesn’t need to. You’re destroying that little pussy, and once you start palming the heavy shape of her breast, you’re letting your fingers sink into all that profundity. 

“Please,” finally slips out of her, though she’s unable to add anything in that thin, wilting voice. There’s plea in it, the sound steeped in protest, in penury, in poverty; you’re fucking her and you’re fucking her apart - cock buried deep in her cunt - you never expected to have to piece her together this early.

“Tell me,” you demand, callous, right at her ear, “please what? Please pound this perfect little pussy of yours until I cum? Please fill you with a hot load of cum because what, you deserve it? Is that you want, Eunbi?”

“Please, cum-” Her words vanish like a hot breath against the glass. She’s blathering, eyes falling half-lidded in this amazingly sexy way that almost feels intentional. “Want to feel you cum. Fill me up with cum, please, please, please-”

“Oh, Eunbi,” you drawl, right into the crook of her neck. It makes her shiver. She’s not a princess, curses woven into her breath, but she’s selfish like one. “I’m not going to cum in this perfect little pussy-”

It all happens so fast: you drag your cock out of her cunt, and if you weren’t pressing your fingers into her waist, holding her tighter, you think she might collapse. Maybe you were closer than you realized, moments from draining your balls in her pussy, because when you lay cushioned between the cheeks of her ass, your cock just starts to spill - hot cum weeping from the tip and making a mess of her soft, creamy skin, over the puffy lips of her pussy, across the tight little rim of her asshole.

“Good girls get bred, Eunbi,” you say, voice drying, sensitive, and so far from where you started. “You told me to be rough with you baby. I’m thinking I might cum in this perfect fucking ass. Should I?”

Eunbi’s face is flush against the glass, hands reaching back in response, spreading herself for you. Some part of her knows what you want, and she knows how bad she wants it too. “Please,” she begs, swallowing down on these hoarse uneven breaths, hiccupping between them - “need it.”

You can feel your tip tease her rim, where she’s still impossibly closed and waiting. The cum leaking from your cock is wet and slick and slippery, and with a fist curled around your shaft, realigned, angled down, you slip in.

There aren’t even words for it, how it all comes together. How she comes apart.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, recognizing Eunbi’s weight shift around you. “I’m going to fucking own this little asshole, Eunbi.”

Eunbi’s responsive mmm runs ragged. Face in profile against the window, tits smashed against the glass, you watch her eyes screw shut and her eyebrows draw together - you think for a moment, as you so often do, that you’re hurting her, blazing past safewords and pressing your cock too deep, too fast into her tight ass. “Go,” she tells you, and without even flinching, gets her fingers underneath where you’re splitting her in two, gets them wet with the slick of her cunt and in between your balls, gently. “Want you, please, this big cock.”

Your eyes water, and you start to thrust.

“Baby,” you whisper into the lobe of her ear. For once it’s all slow, sloppy and soft. It’s sin at your waist, fucking her open slowly, pumping into her ass again and again until it’s all so slick she can take you further. But you’ve got your fingers in her hair, preening loose strands back behind her hair. She’s so pretty all the time, and with her face twisted in unbearable pleasure, she’s outright gorgeous. “So good for me, Eunbi, such a good little cumslut aren’t you?”

Eunbi’s voice crackles into broken whimpers, like her lungs are waterlogged and flooded. She steals a hand away between her thighs, and starts ghosting her fingers over her clit. Anything more than that and she’d probably go up in smoke. (If it’s anything like you, cock pulsing with blood and hot as flame, you are about to lose it.)

“Fuck,” she says, grinding out the consonants in your name like she’s crushing them under a boot, “I can’t believe how good you feel, I can’t, I can’t-”

You knew, had always known, that you had - however subconsciously - enticed fate by letting yourself get to this point. Maybe it’s a perfect slowburn, this history, dotting commas and periods in your memoirs, and here you are, pounding at Eunbi’s asshole so fast that she’s stuttering.

“I can’t, fuck - thank you - fuck - feel you throbbing in my fucking ass - love being your cocksleeve,” she hisses, and her body has practically all but given up, knees buckled out, arm dangling at her side, tears streaming down her cheeks. It’s just that she never expected it either, that you’d be pleasing her by fucking her like a toy, so unrepentant she’s sobbing messy, all sloppy and pleading, more, please, harder, faster.

“You like this cock tearing your ass open, Eunbi?” you ask, pushing the hand she has hidden at her cunt out of the way, “you like being such a perfect slut for my cock, don’t you? You weren’t kidding, you’d let me do anything to you.”

“Please, don’t, you’re gonna make me - again,” she squeals, lip wobbling, mouth hung open. You push her hard against the glass, until she straightens out, and your finger is gliding through the slick of her cunt, knuckles knocking the window and honing in on her swollen clit - you’ll make her scream. “Oh god, fuck, oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Serendipity is about chance meetings, convenient covers. Life has a way of dropping the world in your lap without you having to do anything. It’s Eunbi’s picture-perfect face, wrecked and twisting as she cums all over your thighs, rolling her hips and fucking her ass onto you - it’s that when she cums with her puckered entrance stuffed full of cock, she squirts everywhere. Lucky, is the watchword you’re sitting on, and of all places, of all people, you’ve been dealt the perfect hand, deck stacked in your favor.

There’s wet splattered all over the window. Stains streaking in the carpet. Dark spots that’ll never fade.  

“Keep fucking me,” Eunbi says, head of jet black hair titled back onto your shoulders, hips twisting slow as she grinds down against your waist, moving enough to make your cock throb and pulse. “Keep fucking me, please, until you fill my ass up all the way. I’m yours.”

Yours, yours, yours, she stammers on, failed and wrecked on your cock. Malleable and pliant. Ruined. 

“This tight little ass of yours, Eunbi,” you mutter, drawing sharp breath after sharp breath, “is fucking unbelievable.”

It’s yours.

Her body twists, torso turns into you, and you get your mouth on hers, moaning and mewling on the same hot, damp air.

“Good girl,” you whisper against her lips, and with a final kiss to her temple, you fuck into her hard - hands snuck up to hold her breasts and keep her still, hips snapping fast, faster, faster-

When you finally explode up into Eunbi’s ass, she makes a noise fucked and faltering even further than you. It’s desperate and debauched and only staunched by the fingers you slip past her lips. She bites down, but you’re too far pitched into the reality of pumping cum past Eunbi’s tight entrance that you can’t be bothered to care.

“Fuck, Eunbi.” Your voice is sneaking through gritted teeth. She’s tiny against you, body slender and hot and milking your cock. A flash of muscle, a quiver, a pucker, and she’s got you reeling. You think about getting your hand around her throat - fucking her again - but the look her face is so pristine and contented. You have her like putty in your hands, like you could bend her, mold her, break her, and when you instead bring her face to yours in this lazy, clumsy kiss, lips sliding and her tongue licking into your mouth, you know you’d never need to.

See, she’s so dismantled, completely stuffed with cock, and still, with it leaking everywhere you can feel it run hot and sticky, it’s perfect. 

The hotel room isn’t big, and until this exact moment, had been so filled with sex that the the sounds of it echoing back and forth make this sudden quiet into a silence puzzlingly calm. Her features relax, into something a little more befitting her reputation. She’s sweaty and wet and you did your part, you fucked her and fucked her up, you realize, she’ll return you the favor later. 

You hold your breath, watching the beauty mark on her cheek raise and lower with every panted-out breath, mesmerized-

And with just the slightest shift, Eunbi’s mouth closes into this tiny, satisfied smile.

“You came inside my ass,” she says out loud. She tries not to laugh, and then she does anyway when you slide your cock out of her. “You just came - in my ass. Look.”

It’s almost unfathomable, that you just fucked her until she was sobbing, pushed your cock into her ass and had her uncoil like she did, the window, the carpet. Like a fucking disaster. It’s almost unfathomable that she’s got her hands spreading her cheeks open toward you and presenting the mess you’d made like it was something to be proud of, and after all that the mood of the moment shifts a little more intimate, a little more sentimental.

“You’re trouble,” you tell her, tilting her chin up under your fingers.

“Right back at you,” she says, and she pitches onto her feet until you kiss her again.

-

(It happens.

Time passes. You work on a new show. You move into a smaller apartment. It reeks of passed time. Maybe it’s the humidity of early sobriety, hanging and palpable. You can hear ticking in clockless rooms here.

It’s been years since Minju dropped the bombshell on the media. You recovered, mostly. Years too since you’ve seen Eunbi.

Sometimes the people you wanted as part of your story are only meant to be a chapter. You could probably stitch that into a frame and sell it to the kind of crowd who’d buy words in a frame.

You don’t.

Instead, you end up a little older, not in any meaningful way. You’re not wiser or any shit like that. Just older.)

-

You interrupt the producer of your current gig, a pretty middling radio show in a pretty mundane time slot. “What do you mean by new cohost? Like I’ll be working with another human being?”

He nods.

“Like every week?”

Nods again.

“Does he have a name?”

“She,” he corrects, writing judiciously at the clipboard permanently in his hands. Scowl on his face, pencil in his ear, clipboard in his hands, that’s how you know he’s in charge. It’s a whole look. He untucks a blank envelope from the disarray of papers in his hands, saying, “she dropped this off for you too.”

You turn it in your hands twice, until you see the cursive penned into the top right corner. Memories, stinging trifling things rush back to you, all at once: you see her face, her eyes are closed, she’s smiling, she’s a thought you’d tucked away for good, and now you’re wading through it like you hadn’t. 

Serendipitous.

[sehodreams]

oh my god. i hope i’m not bothering u with all this sungchan/riize nonsense it’s just soooo good, this part u did is sooooo good i am dizzy and reeling at eunseok touching your tummy like i can’t even put it into words it’s just soooo😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 i really need chubby chasers tall line. this sungchan is so good, i love sungchan being mean<3333 but sungchan, eunseok, and anton being chubby chasers and obsessed with you!!???? please please please.

i love the idea of just being a personal toy for like, all of riize tbh but esp the big boys omg, please i swear i can’t even fathom it but i’ll write a bit about where my head’s at. also omg eunseok holding your tits and saying they’re heavy PLSSS😭😭😭😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 i want that so fucking bad.

in this, maybe it’s like reader x her 3 fwbs just so there’s like less possessiveness although i would still think sungchan would be the greediest out of the 3, always seeking you out to pleasure you (and have you pleasure him) because he seems like he’d have a high libido and fuck, he’d be so obsessed with your breasts and your tummy, he’d want to be all over you at all times. the 3 of them would all take care of you so well<333 i’d imagine you’d all live together but like anton would always buy you sweets and snacks, he’d make sure the apartment always had ur favourite treats and if you had a special request for something you could let him know and he’d get it for you immediately, maybe sometimes they’d try to cook for you, but i can’t really see any of them (maybe eunseok) being good at cooking idk if that’s true, but they’d always be down to order takeout!! anton is definitely a titty sucker (so is sungchan) and i feel like if the two of you were just watching a movie or smth or even if eunseok and sungchan were there as well, anton would want to have you in his lap or laying down so he could play with your breasts and suck on your nipples, he’d be able to just do it for hours it feels like, massaging your mounds and sucking and biting, he’d get so worked up, he’d probably need to eat you out, would get so pussydrunk, grabbing and squeezing at your tummy while he fucks your cunt with his tongue, you’d both especially love to do this in front of the other boys, you’d be really embarrassed the first few times but eventually they’d turn you into such a filthy slut you’d love the exhibitionism<333

sungchan would love to eat you out too, honestly all 3 of them would be happiest with their face between your legs and your soft, squishy thighs pressed tightly around their head, but other scenarios would be like if you were making dinner for them, he’d interrupt to bend you over the counter and fuck you ruthlessly from behind, just like you’d described before, pulling your breasts out of your top and spanking you as hard as he can and mocking you a little when you scream and yelp</3333 he’d definitely like to slap your tits too, the smacking sound being just as loud as if he’s slapping your ass or your thighs, he’d always love to slap your pussy<3333 or slap your clit, he’d be so brutal with his fingers for sure, loves shoving them down your throat and you love gagging on them<333 maybe if you complain you’re hungry or smth, he’d pull a “i’ve got something for you to put in your mouth” lmao, and would fuck your face for a bit until he shoots his loud down your throat or would release all over your face and tits and make you lick it up :)))) also would want to try like putting a donut on his dick or whip cream on him or something to make you eat it off him, because you’d be so cute to him with icing and sugar on your nose and lips, especially when you’re breathless and clenching your thighs together, begging him to touch you…

idk if this is too crazy.. but i’m also just thinking dumbification/bimbofication with tall line and them brainwashing you into aligning food with pleasure… as chubby chasers, they’d definitely want to keep you soft and plush, so hear me out.. i want sungchan feeding me like little pastries or treats or smth, his long fingers would be so good smearing cream on your face and pinching your cheek like “that’s my good girl, you’re so pretty aren’t you?” he’d cup your lower tummy and then your pussy, chuckling at how your hips buck into his palm instinctively and you clench your thighs together, “does it taste good?” you’d be so flustered, but you’d nod and whimper, “please channie” and he’d be like “you want more? so greedy,” and feed you another treat before you can respond, whines muffled while your mouth is full 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 but it’d backfire on all of them because then anytime you had something sweet and got icing on your face or smth, they’d pop a boner and need to bend you over and fuck you immediately.

okay i feel like i went too crazy, idek what to say for eunseok because i hope i don’t scare you.. i went a little bit too feral i think but like.. idk.

Honey, we should be friends.

I'm DYING FOR THIS CONCEPT OMG I LOVE IT, SO NASTY.

The feeding is also something I've thought about but I was afraid I would scare people here (more than what I already do 😂), so I can see the picture, and the roommate!tall line is PERFECT. This is really cliche but what the hell 😵‍💫

WC: 1.9

Imagine you come from a family full of brothers. You hated the fact that you had to be their little maid and listen to your mom whenever she told you to go and serve them. This pushed you to leave as soon as you could, running to the first place that seemed decent enough to live at, not caring that you'd have to live with a bunch of men again.

You were reluctant at first, afraid of being treated like a servant again, but oh god, could you be any more wrong?

Unexpectedly, you had to do nothing at all in the house. They were already good on their own, cleaning their own messes and making sure the shared places were in order, which resulted in you having nothing to do. But don't get fooled, they still wanted something in exchange.

The minute you stepped into that house, you realized that something was about to happen.

At first, they appeared just kind. They smiled at you, telling you to not worry if you offered to do something like taking out the trash or helping with the recycling. Then, they asked you to eat with them whenever they could. Anton enjoyed snacks, but he hated eating them alone, so he asked you to eat with him while watching TV or listening to music, sometimes without anything in the background, just you two eating and sometimes talking to fill the silence. Sungchan, on the other hand, had more of a sweet tooth, buying pastries but begging you to eat with him because ''it was too much for him''. Eunseok, different to the other two, didn't like that kind of food, he enjoyed more elaborate dishes, but more than eating them, he liked making them, and when he finished, he needed all of you to help him.

However, you then noticed that you were supposed to eat with them, but somehow most of the time you were the only one eating while they observed you.

You couldn't understand it, what was so good of watching you eat for them to be like that? They were too eager to be close to you when you ate for it to be a simple coincidence.

When they completely stopped pretending to eat, you knew your mind was not playing with you, but you needed more proof, so you said something they never expected.

''Sorry, I'm on a diet'' you said when Eunseok called for you to try his new recipe.

The world fell in their eyes. Anton got pale, Sungchan gulped before his mouth fell, and Eunseok almost dropped the plate he had in his hands.

That was the first time a man begged you to do something for him. Your family usually ordered you to do things for them, but those three didn't let you go with their pleads until you accepted, and you had no doubt that, if you had told them to, they'd have fallen to their knees for you.

You had a hard time accepting what was going on. You had never seen someone so eager to serve you. You knew they did it with hidden intentions, that was clear, but it was still something you had never seen before.

Of course, it was natural that you needed some time to get used to it. It was the first time a man cooked for you, the first time a man begged you to tell him if you needed anything, and even more, the first time a man practically kneeled to have a taste of you.

And now, there were three of them.

Sungchan was the first one to do it. He was always ready to buy you sweets, going to the nearest pastry shop after finishing his workout session, not caring if he was still all sweaty and tired, he couldn't feel calm unless he saw you eating in front of him, ready to clean any cream that stayed in your lips with his thumb to then lick it.

Eunseok was even more touchy. Cooking for you even when the others were there, he did everything, his favourites being salads and pasta, he liked food easy to collect and give you. On every occasion you were alone, he sat beside you and grabbed the cutlery while one of his hands was on your thigh, making sure you ate all of it before he caressed your cheek and praised you with a well done.

Anton was the boldest one though. He made you sit on his lap while showing you some kind of movie on his computer with really low volume, forcing you to have the bag of chips in your hands and eat it slowly for him to hear each bite.

While more satiated you got, they got more hungry.

Sungchan, again, was the first to push you and take you. He was fresh from his shower, and he had already given you a really good tiramisu half an hour ago, so when he entered your room, you didn't know what else could he want.

The answer was easy. He wanted you.

Pushing you to your back, he didn’t say anything while taking off your pyjama pants and underwear, and moving apart your legs, he kissed your thighs before his mouth reached your pussy.

Being eaten out for the first time, you had to bite your lips to not cry his name and let the other boys know what he was doing to you in the privacy of your room.

He was a bit brute, tongue going up and down, recollecting every juice you poured to gulp it like a thirsty man.

''Sung-Sungchan?'' You moaned. He was so desperate you doubted he was breathing, just like when he was lifting his dumbbells in the living room and was clearly tired from the exercise. However, there he didn't look like he wanted to stop at all.

''It's sweet, so fucking sweet'' he closed his eyes, burying his tongue in your entrance, making you squirm because of the new sensations.

He didn't let you move apart.

With his strong arms, he kept you in your place, fingers burying on your pudgy tummy from all the sweet treats he had gifted you, and he maintained you there until you came in his mouth, giving him the only sweet release he allowed himself to have.

Eunseok was more delicate. He had prepared a creamy dish, reddish sauce flooding the ravioli, something you had asked him for since it was getting colder those days.

You were wearing a hoodie, gladly letting him feed you piece by piece, both hands inside your pockets to keep them warm. He, making sure it wouldn't burn you, blew them a couple of times before giving them to you.

It was all tranquil until one of them was hotter than the others and burned you. The surprise made you flinch and his hand went under your chin to make sure to catch it if you decided to spit it, but you weren't a kid, and holding it in, you gulped it to stop the pain.

''I'm so sorry'' he looked worried, leaving everything aside to make sure you were okay. ''Please let me see your mouth.''

You listened to what he said and opened it, slightly pushing out your tongue so he could see you were okay.

When you did it, he stared at it for a couple of seconds before he gulped. That wasn't normal, you immediately sensed it and closed your lips.

Unnecessary. He continued caressing your chin and then, without question, made you open your mouth with his thumb pushing your lips apart. You let him, it was weird, but your arousal was appearing, and the room was hotter.

Minutes later he had you over the table, pushing your legs apart to push his ring and middle finger of one hand while the same fingers of his other were inside your mouth, not letting you talk or moan without sounding like babbling.

He was fucking your insides at a soft pace, as if he was investigating your insides to understand you as much as his recipes. He could thrust his fingers to then just leave them there, to feel your walls accepting him. After that, he would open them in a scissoring motion, pressing all your insides to find what he wanted.

When you left a particular louder cry, he knew he had found it, and made sure to press it until your legs trembled and you continuously clenched around his digits.

''Well done'' he said, like every time you finished eating his food. He took off his fingers and saw the line of spit connecting you to him, like your slick when he left your pussy alone, and he kissed you, tongue intruding your mouth and not letting you go until he felt it was enough.

Anton was fresher. Like the bubbling soda with popcorn on the side, he was simpler but that didn’t mean he was less good.

You were on his lap, illuminated by the limp light of his screen projecting some mukbang video, enjoying the peaceful moment he gave you. He had always been different from the other two. The other two were more visual creatures, while he preferred listening to you.

Anton had started to mute all videos not long ago, obliging you to rely on the subtitles to understand what the people said, and when the man said something funny, you laughed. You had laughed so much that, added to the salty snack, you got thirsty. So, sipping from the pretty glass with a straw he had bought you, full of ice and soda, the ice tinkled when you shook it to dilute the water with the drink.

You felt him getting harder under you, but you didn’t mind, it wouldn’t be the first time. What was new, was the way his hands slipped inside your hoodie to grip your chest.

At the start, it was pretty superficial. They just posed there, feeling how your skin was softer than normal in that place.

‘’Keep drinking’’ he said, and you listened.

You continued sipping and he kept playing with your tits, pinching your nipples and groping them however he wanted. It felt good, and you were getting wet, but it wasn’t anything intense like with Sungchan or Eunseok, it felt somehow safer.

His hard-on was rubbing more and more with your ass, and you accommodated yourself to reach for the bowl of popcorn and get a handful of them.

He moaned when you did it, being harder with your chest, a bit painful but not enough to hurt you.

You let him rut into you, both fully clothed. Needing more, you stood from your seat when you didn’t have anything else to drink.

‘’It’s empty’’ you told him while shaking your glass full of ice.

‘’I’ll get you more’’ he answered.

‘’Aren’t you thirsty too?’’

His mind was too hazy to answer, so he simply denied shaking his head.

‘’Are you sure?’’ you asked again, lifting your hoodie until your naked chest was in front of his face.

You couldn’t stop him when he practically slammed you to his bed and buried his face on your chest, grinding with force into your clothed sex and pushing moans out of you whenever his tongue circled your nipple.

Both of you getting closer even without directly touching each other’s parts, he groaned when you pulled his hair, and then he came when you brokenly cried his name.

Not long after, you stopped paying rent and necessities altogether. If you wanted something, you would get it as soon as possible. However, with all of them keeping you busy and burying you with gifts and attention, it was hard to want anything else.

Drink it. Eat it. Don’t spit it.

Those words became normal in your daily life.

[iamthecomet]

𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯: 𝘊𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘦

Rating: Pairing: Mountain & Cumulus & Dew Word Count: 743 Mountain and Cumulus make Dew's favorite cake for his summoning day. Mushy May brought to you by @forlorn-crows Divider by @ghuleh-recs

Mountain doesn’t consider himself much of a baker. He isn’t Cumulus who can whip up scones, and cookies, and marvelous cakes in an afternoon. He isn’t Dew who has an overall knowledge of all things kitchen that seems to be endless. But, he knows how to follow a recipe. And he knows how to make one thing perfectly.

Dew’s summoning day cake. 

If it was up to Dew–no one would make him anything. They’d have dinner together–that Dew cooked, and play games on the ancient N64 system, or watch a campy horror movie. There would be no cake, no gifts, no fuss. 

It’s not because Dew doesn’t like cake and gifts and fuss–it’s because he doesn’t think he deserves them–sees them as superfluous. 

Mountain won’t stand for it. 

Cumulus is with him, of course. Mountain feels better with her around when he’s baking. Like even if she just stood somewhere in the room and didn’t help it would come out better. She’s standing next to him, creaming butter and sugar while Mountain steeps strong earl gray tea to infuse into the batter. 

Cumulus measures out honey and adds it to her mixture of wet ingredients. Eggs are next. The kitchen already smells divine and they haven’t even put it in the oven yet. 

“He’s going to complain,” Mountain says, apprehensive. 

“He always complains. He doesn’t like when people do things for him.”

“I just wonder if maybe we should listen to him for once.” Mountain strains the tea into Cumulus’ mixture and she sighs. Humming softly as the herbal smell hits her. She adds a dash of lavender–her secret ingredient. 

“What and do nothing?” 

Mountain shakes his head. “Less, maybe. I mean I don’t like when people go all out for me–it feels–I don’t like to be seen like that.” 

“But that’s you, Mount,” Cumulus says softly, watching Mountain sift dry ingredients together. “Dew’s different. And we’re already making the cake.” 

“I don’t mean the cake. Of course we have to make the cake. I mean the gifts, the fawning over him. Maybe we could just watch a bad movie and–”

“Are you really going to be able to watch him make us all dinner on his summoning day and not help at all?” 

Mountain shakes his head. “No.” 

“What did you get him?” 

“Besides the cake?”

Cumulus laughs, she nudges Mountain with her hip. “What? Are you keeping it from me too?” 

Mountain blushes a little. “He found this rock when we were on tour, it’s not even anything special but it’s pretty. I…I might have stolen it from him and made it into a necklace.” 

Cumulus laughs, bright and airy. She takes the bowl of dry ingredients from Mountain and starts to add them little by little to the wet. “And you say you don’t want to fawn over him.”

Mountain flushes, he can’t help it. “He deserves it.” 

Cumulus nods in agreement as she mixes the batter. Mountain watches it come together–he dips his finger in, unable to resist the herbal sweetness of it. The lingering flavor of honey and bergamot burst on his tongue. He goes for another taste and Cumulus bats his hand away.  “Save some for, Droplet.” 

“Droplet will get plenty,” Mountain says, leaning over and kissing her on the temple, sneaking his finger into the batter as he does. 

“Enough!” She hip checks him, and curls her arm protectively over the bowl. “Go make the caramel or the frosting or something. You know Swiss can only keep him busy for so long.” 

Mountain smiles warmly at her, turning to dump the softened butter into the stand mixer. “Yes, ma’am.” 

When Dew and Swiss appear–an hour and a half later, the cake is done. Sitting tall and proud on the table in the middle of the kitchenette. Perfectly iced, caramel glaze dripping decadently down the sides. 

Dew’s smile lights up his face, his eyes dart over to Mountain and Cumulus a pink blush rising to his cheeks. “You didn’t have to.” 

“You alway say that–and yet, we always do.” Cumulus crosse the room to pull Dew into a hug, to kiss him gently on the forehead. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Mountain answers Dew’s smile with one of his own. This–he remembers–is why they do this. Just for these small moments when Dew allows himself to be loved and doted on without complaint or embarrassment. For the moment when he sees his favorite cake, waiting, just for him.

[yandere-writer-momo]

Starting the Baki Christmas off a little early. With Musashi Miyamoto!!! Enjoy some fluff!!

Merry Christmas to my friend, @corvlth!!!

Baki Short Stories: Christmas Cookies

“This is a gingerbread house and we have to put it together- what are you doing?” (Your name) turned to Musashi who was eating the gumdrops with a perplexed expression on his face. The samurai hummed at (your name) with his face scrunched up.

There were various candies, icing, and even some gingerbread men on the table before the two. (Your name) had baked gingerbread men especially for the occasion so Musashi could decorate cookies for their house… but he was only interested in eating everything. Greedy bastard.

“The texture is strange.”

“You’re not supposed to eat those…”

“Why not?” Musashi asked as he went to grab another of the colorful, sugar coated candies but (your name) stopped him with a light smack on the back of his hand. “Hey. Why can’t I eat them? Aren’t they candies like the others you showed me?”

“Well they are candies… but they’re for decoration.” (Your name) tried to explain to the samurai but it only made him more confused.

“So you waste food for decor?” Musashi’s eye brows were furrowed, which made his face look even more like a grumpy feline. “That’s wasteful.”

This ancient man frustrated (your name) like no other… they should have never offered to teach him about the modern world. It would have been easier to teach a toddler not to put edible decorations in their mouth than Musashi Miyamoto.

The samurai went to grab one of gingerbread sidings for the house to nibble on but (your name) held his hand.

“Would you stop trying to eat everything I try to show you?”

“… I just wanted to know if it was tasty.” Musashi then sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m bored. Can’t you feed me anything?”

If this man wasn’t so strong and there would be no repercussions, (your name) swore they’d smash their wooden chair over his head.

Mushashi bit off one of the gingerbread man’s head while (your name) was lost in thought. It wasn’t nearly as good as he thought it’d be…

.

.

.

“What do you think of all the lights? Aren’t they pretty?” (Your name) asked Musashi who stared at the lights in awe. He kind of looked like a cat ready to knock over the tree with how awestruck his expression was, but it was short lived since he quickly came back to reality.

“Why do people decorate a tree and thief houses with lights? Aren’t they only going to have it up for a month?” Musashi asked with furrowed brows. “Seems like a waste of time to me.”

“Just admire the lights with me so we can get this over with quickly. Don’t you want to eat cookies with me?”

“… yes. I am quite peckish.” Musashi turned around and started to lead the way back to (your name)‘s house. With all the coats he had on, he kind of looked like a penguin but (your name) didn’t dare say that aloud. He’d probably cut them.

This year’s christmas was the most frustrating yet interesting time (your name) has ever had. Yet it was fun to show Musashi the way of the modern world… even though he was very food motivated.

“Are you coming? I want to eat more cookies.” (Your name) shook their head and sighed.

“Coming!” (Your name) quickly caught up to Musashi who gave them a slight smile. He liked this Christmas… but mostly the cookies. Musashi really liked cookies.

[lifblogs]

Happy Bad Batch Day!

Have some fluff with a side of angst!

Omega rode on Wrecker’s shoulders, hands on his head, and peering forward excitedly at what he carried. With the lid of the box closed she couldn’t see or smell what they’d picked up from that strange place that smelled of sugar, and a million other sweet things she didn’t know of. The building had been out of the way, on the outskirts of the city, and looked much nicer than the majority of the buildings on Ord Mantell. She and Wrecker had been allowed a peak in the box to see if it suited their desires, and then it was all theirs.

“So what is that again?” Omega asked.

“Cake!” Wrecker answered, booming voice filled with enthusiasm. “Oh man, I can’t wait to eat it. I haven’t had cake in a whole year.”

“I haven’t had cake… ever.”

“Well that’s about to change.”

When they entered Cid’s place, Omega climbed off of Wrecker and onto the bar before kneeling on a stool.

Everyone in their squad gathered ‘round.

“You got it?” Hunter asked.

“It looks beautiful,” Wrecker told him.

Hunter opened the lid on the box to see for himself. From her vantage point Omega got another look at the white frosting, and the red 99 in icing on top. The large, round cake had red swirls all along the sides, and the red swirls circled the top of the cake.

“Wrecker, how much did this cost?”

Tech peered in, and adjusted his goggles. “Oh dear. We’ll be paying off Cid for life at this rate.”

Echo came over and put his arm around Tech. “Eh, it’ll be fine.”

“You don’t even like cake,” Tech argued.

“No, I hate whatever it was that you made last year.”

“Cake.”

“Not according to my taste buds.”

Wrecker laughed. “Who cares, we have a better one this year.”

“So what are we celebrating?” Omega asked as everyone set up, and Hunter was cleaning his vibroblade, perhaps to slice off pieces.

“Well, we don’t have birthdays,” Wrecker said.

Omega wrinkled her nose at the idea of birth. Gross.

“So we celebrate our decanting.”

“Hey, I was there for that!” Omega cried. “I… I really wanted to stay with you. All of you, till—till you’d know who I was.”

A tear slid down her face, surprising her, and she was shocked by the sudden, empty loneliness in her chest.

Wrecker put a giant hand on her shoulder, and wiped her tear away.

“It’s okay, kid. You’re with us now.”

Omega sat down. “And what about Crosshair?”

“Yes, it does feel odd doing this without him,” Tech said. “It’s… the first one he’ll miss.”

“Do you think that he’s okay?” Omega asked.

Hunter had a grim look on his face, and he responded honestly, “I don’t know. For now, there isn’t much we can do. We have to look at our losses, but celebrate what we do have. Yes, we lost one of our own.” His dark look turned into a smile, a loving warmth in his eyes as he beheld Omega. “But we gained something just as special.” He took her hand. “Do you want the first piece, Omega?”

She nodded, Hunter’s words drawing her from her melancholy. They were a soldier’s words, a leader’s words. And they were wise, and true.

Hunter gave a half-grin, and then said, “Actually, would you like to do the honors?”

He handed over his vibroblade.

Omega practically vibrated with excitement, and she was beaming at the blade, and Hunter, and the cake, and her family surrounding her.

“Would I ever?”

She took the proffered blade, and dug into the cake. She tried to make her slice proportionate, but she’d never done this before, so she ended up with an awkward triangle, the tapered point thin in comparison to the thick base. It wobbled onto the plate Echo held out, and flopped onto its side. Oops! Well, at least it was her piece she’d messed up.

Omega saw white frosting and some of the red icing on the knife, and started moving it towards her mouth.

“I’ll take that,” Hunter said quickly, grabbing it from her.

“What?” she asked, arms crossed in complaint until Echo handed her her plate and a fork.

“No licking knives.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. She was dying to try her slice, looking at the soft, dark color of the cake itself. It was probably moist, and sweet, and just perfect. The red icing complemented the red and near-black nicely. Yet she waited, making sure everyone had a slice.

They sat down at a table together, glancing at each other, seeing who would take the first bite.

Omega made sure it was her. She thought she was going to die from the perfection of her first bite. Contented sounds left all of them around the table.

“This… is so. Good,” Omega moaned.

Various nods, and mm-hmms met her.

“You got that right!” Wrecker said.

“I’m not saying this just because of the cake,” Omega started.

“Or are you?” Echo teased.

She flicked red icing at him, and they all laughed.

“What I’m trying to say,” Omega went on, “before I was rudely interrupted, is that… well, I’m glad you all exist. I… I’ve never had a family before, and that’s what you all are to me: a family. You helped me, gave me a home, and you’re super fun. I’m lucky to have you all.”

“And we’re lucky to have you,” Hunter said. “Now eat up. Come on, are we going to let this cake just sit here while we all talk?”

They laughed together, and dug into their cake once more, and Omega promised that someday, Crosshair would be celebrating with them.

[kaminocasey]

25 Days of Life Day: Day 10 - Decorating Cookies with Fives

Summary: You try to decorate cookies. Unfortunately, Fives would rather distract you.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI; Sexual situations

A/N: LMAO, this was supposed to be wholesome fun but writing for Fives... it just kinda takes on a mind of its own. Sorry if you were expecting a fluffy Fives moment lol. He's just so hot, you know?

25 Days of Life Day Masterlist

The smell of chocolate chip and sugar cookies lingers in your kitchen as you and Fives sit around your kitchen island, decorating the sugar cookies. Fives keeps sneaking the small ones when he thinks you aren’t looking and it just makes you smile every time.

Now that the war was over, you could enjoy your moments like this forever without having to worry about Fives getting shipped off somewhere. You could celebrate your first Life Day together. 

“That looks too good to eat.” Fves watches as you make a wreath by swirling the greens with a small toothpick. 

“Thank you.” You grin up at him and then look over at his cookies.

Some of his cookies turned out really well. Others… not so much. But it didn’t matter because he’s going to eat them no matter what. 

“Why are you so good at this?” He squints at you, suspiciously.

You laugh. “I’ve watched a lot of holovids about cookie decorating.” 

He playfully gasps. “YOU CHEATER.” 

You roll your eyes amused. “I’ve never done it before, though. How can I be a cheater?”

He ponders this for a moment, putting a cookie into his mouth as you pick up the icing bag to do another cookie. 

“You do realize if you keep eating all of them, we won’t have any for the Life Day party tomorrow night, right?” You point the icing bag at him, accusingly.

He holds his hands up in surrender and turns around to open the fridge. He opens the lid and you look up just in time to see him bring the milk jug to his lips.

“Don’t you dare!” You accidentally squirt the icing bag and green icing goes everywhere.

It lands on Fives’ face, the milk jug, the floor, and all over already iced sugar cookies. He pulls the milk away from his face, looking at the mess you just made with a huge, amused grin.

“Ugh.” You laugh. 

He grabs a towel and starts wiping up the mess as you turn around to the sink to wash your hands. 

“I can’t believe I just did that.” You groan. 

“I feel like it’s partially my fault. I’m sorry, mesh’la.” He comes around the island, wrapping his arms around you.

You dry your hands and turn around to face him, and then laugh when you see the icing on the side of his face. 

“Did I miss a spot?” He asks with raised eyebrows.

“I think you did.” You cup his face, turning it to the side so you can lick a stripe up the side of his face. 

He hums, clearly pleased with himself. The icing really was delicious. Hopefully, when you get these cookies finally done, they’d taste just as good. Fives pushes his hips against yours and you know that these cookies are probably not getting done tonight. 

“This was your plan all along wasn’t it?” You tease him.

“No.” He shakes his head, smirking down at you. “My plan included less icing.”

“I’ll tell you what…” You purr, running your hands up his chest. “Help me finish these cookies and I’ll give you a treat after.”

“Not another cookie, right?” He chuckles.

“Definitely not.” You reach up and kiss him and then pull away from him to start working on the cookies again.

You feel Fives’ hands circle around your waist from behind you and he rests his chin on your shoulder. This man was the most easily distracted person you’ve ever met. It was a wonder how he got anything done, though you know first hand he can finish something when he puts his mind to it. You smirk at the thought of all the ways he’s proved that to you. 

“Oooor… you could give me a treat now and we could finish the cookies later.” He suggests, kissing your neck.

When he licks just under your ear, a shiver goes up your spine as you let out a soft moan. “You’re impossible.” 

“But you love me.” He chuckles. 

“I really do.” You grin. “But I also want to finish these cookies.”

“How about this… I’ll go out and buy some after we finish with our other activity.” He whispers. 

He kisses your cheek when you lean your head back on his shoulder. The smirk is clear in his tone. You put the icing bag down and turn around, kissing him fully. 

“You better get the pretty ones.” You look up at him.

“I promise.” He holds up his hand before lifting you up in his arms and sitting you on a free space on the counter, dropping to his knees. “I’ll buy you all the pretty cookies you want.” 

You smirk and watch him prove to you just how good at finishing other things he is. TAGS: @grievouus @brynhildrmimi @madameminor @dumfanting @rain-on-kamino @misogirl828 @rexandechosandwich @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @twistedstitcher27 @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @agenteliix @padawancat97 @idlenesses @hated-by-me

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

So I saw this video of a beefy guy making a cake and thought he looked like Letho and then the thought of Letho making cakes refused to leave me alone so in typical me fashion I wrote almost 4k words about it.

Ships: Letho/Gaetan

Modern AU

Rating: T

Warnings: grief, candid discussions of murder, mild allusions to gore, PTSD, Gaetan, OOC bullshit, drug addiction, discussions of prison and incarceration.

Letho is 30 when he’s granted freedom. 

Reasonably, many government officials and gossip rags will claim, he shouldn’t have gotten his freedom at all; too violent, too sick in the head, too volatile. But they’d promised as part of his plea deal, as part of the kickback for turning himself in after he’d killed the man that killed his brothers: parole in ten years with good behaviour. And he has been, good that is. He even got a degree, worked in the prison kitchens, read all the classics. Model prisoner. 

But now he wants to make something with his hands. 

They ask him, at his parole hearing, what he plans to do with his life after prison, what he’s gonna do with this gift they’re giving him. 

“I think I’ll make cakes” he says. 

They laugh like he just told the funniest joke in the world.

He starts small; just baking for himself at first. The kitchen in his studio apartment is cramped and the oven is inconsistent but he makes it work. He’s a felon, now, and people don’t like renting to felons so he has to take what he can get. There, in the harsh light of the bare bulb in that apartment with the peeling wallpaper and the smell of damp, life gets a little sweeter. 

Once he’s mastered the texture of the sponge he moves on to frosting. An ancient stand mixer is procured from a secondhand shop and put to rigorous work crafting buttercream and meringue and ganache until he’s happy with it, until it makes his taste buds sing when he sticks a fingerfull of it in his mouth. He’s scientific with it, exacting, adding more or less of different ingredients and taking detailed notes. It passes the time, fills the lonely empty stretches of his day when he’s not at work or lying awake staring at the ceiling and wrestling with sleep. 

He reads, in one of the self-help books he brings with him on his commute to and from the hospital where he works doing laundry, that drawing is sometimes helpful, therapeutic, that to give an image to the problem is sometimes easier than trying to describe it with words. He picks up decorating tips and piping bags on his way home, digging through the bins of baking supplies at the only twenty-four-hour shop in his neighborhood while the baffled cashier watches him, ghostly and exhausted in the 3am fluorescent light. 

He gets fired from the hospital. 

They don’t tell him why but the implication is that he’s scaring people. He wonders if these people have ever been actually scared in their life. If he was trying to frighten them they’d know it. 

He doesn’t draw the horrors or the anger or the injustice, doesn’t draw Serrit and Auckes and their cold, dead, faces or the way their killer had looked with his brain on the pavement Letho standing over him with the smoking gun. No he doesn’t draw any of that. He draws the nice things, things that make him smile, decorating his cakes with painstakingly copied flowers, little fondant frogs in a little buttercream pond, the fanciful design of the dishes his mom used when he was a boy. Life Affirming. He just learned that term and is trying to apply it everywhere he can. Even though he can’t afford to keep his lights on, even though he hasn’t slept in weeks. 

He gets work doing night security for a warehouse. It’s boring, mostly, but the hours line up with his insomniac schedule and the pay is enough to keep him in flour and icing sugar to his heart's content. After a few months he starts bringing his extra baked goods around and leaving them in the breakroom. No one mentions it but the cupcakes are always gone when he goes to retrieve the tray at the end of his shift which he takes as a good sign. 

That is until one night he goes to take his four-am break and finds someone else there, mid-bite. It’s one of the truckers that bring in the night deliveries, big guy, almost as big as Letho is, wearing a patched red flannel and a baseball hat. When he turns Letho nearly recoils at the sight of the massive scar marring the left side of his otherwise handsome face.

“Oh man” the trucker says, eyes closed in pleasure “I dunno who makes the damn cupcakes y’all always have around here but they’re the best damn things in the world” 

“Um” says Letho “I make ‘em” 

The trucker cocks his head to the side, embarrassed almost, like he’s trying to hide his scar away. Letho knows what he looks like, knows that he looks more like a killer than a baker, that he doesn’t look like someone who would like to make things. He’s musclebound, hulking, scarred, scary; his face makes children cry. 

The trucker seems to make a decision, suddenly, holding out one broad, calloused hand for Letho to shake. 

“The name’s Eskel. You ever think about selling these things? You’re wasted on night security” 

Turns out Eskel has a niece. Turns out Eskel’s niece is turning thirteen in a couple weeks. Turns out Eskel thinks Letho should make the birthday cake. 

“She likes unicorns” Eskel says, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s unsure “Last I heard anyway, and swords and hunting n’ shit -- my brother takes her out hunting all the time -- No fucking clue how you’ll turn that into a cohesive cake but we’ll pay you and you can come to the party” 

It’s heady, the idea that someone likes what he does enough to pay him for it, so Letho agrees. 

He makes a multi-tiered cake, chocolate and vanilla checkerboard sponge with a vanilla buttercream decorated with scenes of running unicorns and fantastical heraldry with Happy Birthday Ciri picked out in chocolate ganache on top. There might be creme anglaise involved too, there might be raspberries.

The birthday party is being held at the family farm, nestled way up in the mountains. Eskel, on the drive up, explains that the land’s been in the family for generations and that none of Eskel’s brothers are actually related by blood but that they’re all tied to the land in the same way; some kind of bond deeper than the genetic. It’s a beautiful plot of land: wild sloping meadows, animal pens, the low-slung bulk of the main house. He can see, driving up to it, why it would be loved, why it might have been an idyllic childhood. 

He meets Lambert, Eskel’s littlest brother, who takes one shrewd-eyed look at Letho and promptly asks “what were you in for?” which Letho thankfully doesn’t have to answer because Eskel essentially tackles him to the ground shouting you can’t just ask people that! (he learns, later, that Lambert spent most of his youth in and out of Juvie and his partner has several larceny convictions under his belt. It was a question of recognition rather than spite but at the time the fact that he’d been recognized for what he was so easily chills him). There’s Geralt, the white-haired middle child who is monosyllabic in a way that speaks of shyness but whose calloused hands denote deft experience. Geralt’s wife Yennefer ( or is it ex wife? He can’t quite get a read on them), a gaggle of loud pre-teens, and several other adults who Letho is introduced to and promptly forgets. And then there’s the birthday girl herself, little Ciri who is talkative and wild to the same degree as her father is collected and resigned. 

They all gather round the long table for Letho to reveal the cake, singing the obligatory birthday song with Ciri at the head of the table pink-cheeked and slightly embarrassed by the attention.  

“Oh my god” she says at the sight of the cake, breathless, blue eyes wide as dinner plates “oh my god, oh my god oh my god holy shit” 

“Language” her father reprimands in a tone of voice that means he’s not expecting to be paid any attention whatsoever. 

“It’s like” she says, turning to beam up at Letho so brightly he thinks he might get a sunburn “too pretty to eat” 

They do eat the cake, ultimately, which leads to another round of exclamations from everyone present and Lambert swatting Eskel on the back of the head and calling him a dumbass for not ordering a larger size. 

It’s a good party, all around. Letho spends most of it on the outskirts of the festivities, feeling out of place and antsy because of it, but the night is warm and smells of dry grass and growing things, echoes with the sound of children’s laughter. He wonders what it would be like to grow up in a family like this, one where people actually cared about each other. 

Later, once most of the kids have been taken home and it’s just the adults and Ciri sitting around the dying fire in the backyard, the patriarch of the family approaches Letho, taking the seat next to him and stretching out his legs with a sigh. 

“Y’know” says the old man, not looking at Letho like he’s embarrassed “I’ve got a table at the farmers market in town on Saturdays but I don’t use the whole space anymore -- don’t have the same kind of help I used to and I sold the back half of the property a few months back so less growing room -- Wonder if you’d like to bring some of your stuff to sell. Think they’d go over well” 

They do. 

In only a matter of months Letho has to start seriously thinking about starting an actual honest to god business. Demand is high, he has commissions aplenty, and he’s starting to realize he needs a bigger space if he’s gonna make any kind of serious go at this. 

With help from the internet and Lambert (who, oddly and yet completely unsurprisingly, is a lawyer by trade) he gets a business plan drawn up and starts applying for loans. It starts small; just a rented kitchen space in a large industrial building which he gets inspected and certified. It has a big chest fridge to store the finished products in and miles of counter space; he’s happy with it. 

He quits his job at the warehouse to bake full time. 

He bakes the cake for Lambert and Keira’s wedding and then another, private, cake just for them, to celebrate the three of them and their unofficial union with Aiden as well. 

Everyone asks him when he’s opening a shop. 

He waves it off at first, laughs when asked. He’s not that kind of business owner, prefers to do everything himself. The pressure would be too much, he thinks. 

And then he thinks about it harder. 

There’s an old storefront up for lease in an up and coming part of downtown; bay windows, wood floors, it already has a pastry case up front and a full kitchen in the back, already has an industrial sized oven. It would be an easy transition and Letho finds himself wandering the neighborhood more regularly, spending hours just standing and staring at the empty shop, imagining what he would do with it. He’s never had something of his own before. The possibility terrifies him but it’s a good kind of terror. 

He takes the leap.

 He ends up doing most of the work himself, with occasional help from Eskel, redesigning and redecorating and getting everything in order. The end result is something that is very clearly not a traditional cake shop but which is Letho’s in a certain indefinable way; masculine dark leather, hardwood and steel tempered by the way the light streams in through those bay windows and colors everything in gold. 

The newspaper sends a reporter to review their opening day and Letho sits with her and answers her questions to the best of his ability, stilted and awkward and uncomfortable in the spotlight. She seems surprised by him, goes a little misty-eyed when he explains the cakes he’d made for Serrit and Auckes (pear, cream cheese and brown butter caramel for Serrit, blackcurrant, chocolate, and pistachio for Auckes; sun and moon, two halves of one being). The review is beyond glowing and the story of the muscle bound hulk of a felon turned baker captures the imagination of the public. Soon Letho finds himself swept off his feet by orders, by customers. He hires staff to take care of the front and rarely shows his face, content to stay in the back with his ovens and his piping bags, dreaming up new concoctions and decorating children’s birthday cakes with flowers and marzipan bears. 

It feels good to make something that makes people so happy.

 

By the time he’s forty Letho thinks he has everything he’d ever wanted. 

He has a thriving business, a little two-bedroom house with a garden in a quiet part of the city, he’s even considering getting a dog. He thinks of what Serrit and Auckes would say if they could see him now; they’d probably call him a sellout, would turn up their noses at his quiet existence, all teenage self-importance and identical expressions of distaste (the twins are always fifteen in his mind, never grow any older, stuck in stasis at the age they’d been when they died). The thought of their derision makes him smile, warms him through. He wonders when the thought of them stopped hurting, when he made peace with the loss. He’d been too busy living to notice.

He’s happy, he is, but, in his quiet moments he wishes he had someone to share it all with. It’s a strange desire, out of character and he blames it on getting old and sentimental. Maybe getting that dog will help. 

Then one day Lambert calls out of the blue and asks for a favor. 

“Look” Lambert says, sounding frazzled “I’m really sorry to ask, man, but Aiden’s brother just got out of rehab and he needs to be in the city for his outpatient treatment and it’s too fucking far to drive every day…” long story short they can’t drive him, he can’t stay with them (something about a fraught, though caring, relationship between the estranged half siblings) and could Letho, maybe, please, put him up for a couple weeks and keep an eye on him, just until Aiden can find him somewhere else to stay -- a sober home or a halfway house or something. Of course Letho says of course he can stay. He’s got that whole other bedroom just gathering dust anyway.

“He’s an artist” Lambert says “Maybe you could put him to work decorating for you” 

It’s only half a joke. 

Letho wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he agreed to this, someone like Aiden maybe; gregarious and hyperactive and loud. What he gets, however, is a sullen twenty-two year old with a shaved scalp and a perpetual snarl carved into the corners of his mouth. He’s clutching a worn black duffel bag like it’s going to save him. 

 Gaetan is angry, hurting, reminds Letho of himself at that age, the same kind of hardened fury worn as armor, the same hunted look in his green eyes like he’s never sure where the next blow is coming from only that it will hurt. He’s been cast aside, left to slip through the cracks by a world that couldn’t give less of a shit about him and only taught him how to be afraid. Oddly, though, he’s not afraid of Letho. 

Letho is used to it, the minute flinches as he passes by, the open horrified staring (which is better for the truth of it) the way that even other men sometimes refuse to meet his eye when they shake hands. Gaetan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, just looks at him with his piercing emerald gaze and doesn’t say anything. Letho feels like someone is rummaging around in his guts, his heart thunders loud loud loud in the cavern of his ribs. He wonders if Gaetan can hear it. 

“Gaetan” Gaetan says at last, extending one skinny, track-marked arm, one paint-stained, fine-boned hand “The fuck up” 

Something in Letho recognizes its twin, a pull at the core of him. 

“Letho” Letho responds in kind “also a fuck up” 

Gaetan doesn’t smile but some of the tension in his shoulders eases. 

It’s nice having someone else in the house, another presence, someone else to cook dinner for at night. Gaetan comes and helps around the shop most mornings, drawing the daily menu on the blackboard with his own artistic flair. He’s always fiddling with something and is prone to sudden mood swings from one extreme of human emotion to the other going from depressed to overjoyed like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. He’s whip smart, a brilliant artist, and Letho finds himself often in awe of him, distracted by watching him flit from place to place, from notebook page to notebook page, the way the frown gathers between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating hard. He’s good at decorating cakes it turns out and Letho lets him loose on the cupcakes most days, inspired by his endless well of creativity. 

 He drives Gaetan to the clinic in the afternoons, does crosswords in the waiting room while Gaetan does whatever he does there, and then they go back to the shop. Sometimes Gaetan is sullen and withdrawn after his appointments, nauseous and exhausted, but sometimes he’s wild and brilliant and alive, talking about whatever pops into his head. Letho loves those days. Gaetan tells dirty jokes to make the baristas at the shop laugh, critiques Letho’s newest recipes with his particularly acerbic wit, puts thrash metal music on the shop playlist just to scandalize the old ladies there for afternoon tea. Perhaps it's bad for his brand image but it makes Gaetan happy so Letho doesn’t mind. 

He adds a new cake to the menu about a month into Gaetan’s stay -- ginger and chili sponge with vanilla bean buttercream -- sweet and unconventional with a little smoky kick to it, the flecks of vanilla bean in the buttercream like the spray of freckles across Gaetan’s cheekbones. 

They keep similar schedules, sleeping for a mere two hours at a stretch before waking again to the clawed hands of a nightmare in the dark. Letho doesn’t ask about Gaetan’s nightmares and Gaetan never asks about his but they can hear each other, separated as they are only by the wall between their two bedrooms, hear the wild cries, the choked-on sobbing of the children that they were never allowed to be. 

At night he lies awake and listens for Gaetan’s thrashing next door, the telltale thud of him getting out of bed and retreating to the kitchen. Letho follows. 

They don’t say anything, don’t need to. Letho trials new recipes and Gaetan sketches and smokes, silent, in the gold dimness of the kitchen; keeping each other company in their restlessness. 

Somewhere along the way Letho realizes he’s fallen in love. 

It’s ludicrous really. He’s not built for love, fundamentally unlovable as he is, and the thought that Gaetan would ever want him back is laughable. It’s doomed to failure, he reasons; Gaetan deserves someone his own age, someone better than a washed up felon who sculpts animals out of marzipan and calls it work, someone who can match him, who shines just as brightly as he does. But Gaetan is… Gaetan and loving him is as easy as breathing, it's the easiest thing he’s ever done. He can’t help the machinations of his own heart.

Four months after Gaetan came to stay, Aiden calls to tell them there’s a sober home in Brugge with a bed open. 

“I know it’s far luchik” he’d said, voice tinny with distance and a poor connection “but please just consider it. It would be good for you.”

Gaetan had responded by throwing the phone across the room

. 

 It hangs over them like a blade about to drop, the threat of separation and that night, post-nightmare, Letho realizes he can’t stand it anymore. 

“You can stay” Letho says; the feelings are too big to contain, everything flickery and unreal in the predawn through the window and the gold of the kitchen light. It feels like the place for a near-confession, the time for it “here, with me” 

The slow scratching of Gaetan’s pencil against the paper stops. 

“You want me to stay?” He says it like he’s not entirely sure he can believe it, like maybe there’s another shoe that's gonna drop. 

Letho doesn’t turn around from where he’s painstakingly rolling fondant into rose petals knowing that if he does he’s going to say something else, something damning. 

“Only if you want to stay” 

Gaetan has had so many choices taken away from him throughout his life, Letho isn’t about to do the same. 

“Letho…” Gaetan says, deadly serious, quiet in the dimness, near suddenly. Letho hadn’t heard him approach. 

“Letho” 

He’s afraid to turn but he has to, has to look. 

Gaetan surges up to kiss him, hands curled possessive in the front of Letho’s shirt pulling him down so he can reach. 

Letho kisses him back, greedy with it, a wild collision of lips and tongue and the gentle nip of teeth. He cups the back of Gaetan’s shorn skull with a hand gritty with flour just to haul him closer, just because he wants to and he can. 

“No ones ever wanted to keep me before” Gaetan whispers into the space between them, like a confession, like a prayer. 

I’ll keep you forever Letho thinks, bending to kiss him again and again and then again, drunk on it. Gaetan tastes like ginger and chili and vanilla buttercream. I’ll keep you forever. 

Four years later Letho bakes their wedding cake and Gaetan decorates it.

[lovelyfanatical]

I Get a Sugar Rush Whenever I'm With You - Chapter 6.1

Good evening fellow Drukkari stans, or whatever time it is for you! We're officially over the halfway mark in terms of chapters! I honestly wasn't sure I would even make it this far, so if you're still reading, thank you for being here ❤️ If you missed any chapters before this, I made a table of contents that you can find here. Last week, Druig won Star Baker, but more importantly, Makkari's coming over! What will happen next? Find out now, in the next installment of Drukkari in the Great British Bake Off!

Druig had agonized for days over Makkari’s visit. He really wasn’t sure how it had even happened. One minute, she was talking about éclairs. The next, he’s scheduling a time for her to come over. If they hadn’t been texting about it, he would’ve thought he was mistaken. But once he was sure it was happening, he’d cleaned everything from top to bottom – twice. Not that there was much to clean. Druig lived alone and didn’t keep too many possessions. In fact, after he finished cleaning, he wondered if he should go out and buy more stuff just so his place didn’t look so barren. She might think he was a serial killer with how clean and empty it looked.

Unfortunately, it was too late to redecorate. He heard a knock at the door and felt his heart immediately drop to his stomach. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the door as calmly as he could and opened it. Makkari stood there with her arms full of groceries and the biggest smile on her face, and suddenly, Druig’s nerves began to dissipate. He invited her in, taking some of the bags to the kitchen for her. As he set them down, he looked up to see her taking in the room. She turned back to him with a sly smile and asked, Does your flat always smell this strongly of citrus, or were you making a lemon cake before I got here?

He wasn’t even thinking about how his place must smell with all the cleaning products he’d used. Druig felt himself physically cringe as he said, Sorry, I can open a window.

She chuckled as she thanked him. He could still hear her laughing softly as he slid the window open. When he turned back around, she simply asked, Shall we get started?

Oh, you intend to help? he replied teasingly. The great Makkari stoops to lend a hand instead of making me do all the work?

I always intended to learn to make them myself! she answered with mock offense. But I figured it’d be easier if I had you with me the first time at least.

Very well, I’ll teach you, he said, trying not to smile too widely.

Once they’d unpacked all the ingredients, they got to work. Although she was following his instructions, Druig couldn’t help but marvel at Makkari’s skill. The way she expertly mixed the ingredients for the choux pastry. The way she carefully watched the custard and intuitively knew exactly when to turn off the heat. The way she quickly and nimbly popped the pastries into the oven. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring until she looked up at him expectantly. Coming back to himself, he simply asked, Sorry, what did you say?

I said what’s next? she answered, a smile tugging at her lips.

Now, we wait, he said. Do you want a cup of tea?

She nodded, so he set to work putting the kettle on. Once the tea was ready, he brought two steaming mugs to his tiny kitchen table, where Makkari was already seated. He asked her about her week so far, and she launched into a story about a presentation she’d been curating for work about the Emerald Tablet, which Druig happily listened to. She was only a quarter of the way into it when the oven dinged. Soon, it was time to decorate the éclairs. They had barely finished putting the icing on the last one when Makkari started eating. She leaned against the counter and sighed contentedly. Druig couldn’t contain his smile as he asked, Good?

I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow, they’re even better this time, she said, her own smile overtaking her face.

Maybe because you made them yourself, he suggested.

Still your recipe, she replied. I just followed it.

You executed it much better than I did the first time I tried making them. I curdled the custard and burnt the choux.

Everyone does that the first time they make éclairs.

Did you?

No, my éclairs are always flawless, obviously.

They both laughed at that. Once they calmed down again, Druig decided to sample them. Makkari wasn’t kidding. As the mixture of chocolate, cinnamon, and chili powder hit him, he felt his mouth start to water as he leaned on the counter next to her. She nudged him in a silent question. Putting the éclair down, he turned to her to say, You made them better.

I did? she asked, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

They were good before, but they’ve never been this good when I made them alone. Arishem definitely would’ve given you a handshake if he’d tasted these.

I can see it now, she began, then coached her face into a stoic expression. Makkari, the choux is perfect. The texture is just right, the custard is very smooth, and the flavors – beautifully balanced. I can’t fault it.

She then offered him her hand, which he readily took. They managed to maintain eye contact for about three seconds as they shook hands before both of them caught the giggles. Once he calmed down a bit, Druig managed to get out, That was dead on!

Thank you! Makkari replied, giving a little bow. Let me know if you need anything else judged.

I’d have you judge all my bakes if I could, he said, a little too quickly. Her eyes widened ever so slightly.

Well, if you want to bake anything else for me, she began, her eyes gaining that signature mischievous twinkle.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to trick me into giving up the rest of my recipes before the show, get a leg up on me, he replied, raising an eyebrow at her.

Damn, you’ve seen right through my master plan! she responded, unable to keep the smile off her face. She grew slightly more serious as she continued, Then again, we might be breaking some rules just by meeting up outside of the competition like this.

That’s probably true, Druig affirmed, nodding thoughtfully. But he couldn’t help but grin when he added, If you don’t tell, I won’t tell.

Makkari easily returned his smile as she answered, Deal.

-

Had to bring it back again, it's too cute 😄 Hope you enjoyed the fluff!!

Part 19

[dragonbinx]

Christmas Wishes

Part of my Christmas series from last winter.  Posted on Ao3 here.

Series: Shadowhunters

Ship: Malec

Characters: Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane

When Alec came home to an apartment decked out like a window display, he wasn’t completely surprised. Magnus was fond of pageantry, after all, and he liked having reasons to indulge in it. He just wasn’t necessarily expecting Christmas to be one them, or to walk into a low hanging loop of garland when he got home.

“Magnus?” He called out, lifting the strand of evergreen and the ornaments hanging off of it out of the way, only to get shocked still by the rest of the apartment. “Wow.”

Everything was beautiful, but amped up to the extreme. Garland hung from every section of the ceiling; there were twinkling lights in a canopy over the main room, connecting to the chandelier, which had what he was pretty sure was holly stuck in it; their rugs had been replaced with burgundy ones, the glass in the doors was frosted, and if the section of the tree that Alec could see was any indication, it was enormous.

“Alexander!” Magnus swept in, looking darkly festive in a long forrest green jacket over a maroon waistcoat. “You’re home early.” He gave Alec a kiss on the cheek, and he noticed Magnus’ nails were painted a matching deep green.

“I decided to let Izzy and Underhill take the meeting so I could be back for dinner.” He let his eyes drift over the decorations. “What’s going on here?”

“Ah, yes, our own winter wonderland.” Alec’s eyebrows crooked up. “Well, Madzie’s winter wonderland. Catarina is swamped this time of year, and Madzie fell in love with the holiday, so I offered to throw a celebration for them.”

“That’s very sweet. But …”

“What, is it not child friendly enough? I could do something else, perhaps with reindeer?”

“No, it’s not that. Well, actually, that’s not a bad idea, but that’s not what I meant. I just wonder if maybe we could not have the garland so low over the door? And those lights are kinda hurting my eyes.”

“Understood.” Magnus waved his hands and the decorations disappeared. “Perhaps I’ll try again when Madzie is here to bake cookies tomorrow, she can tell me what she likes.”

“We’re baking cookies tomorrow?”

“And decorating the tree. That’ll be festive and I can show her some tricks to conjuring objects.” He snapped his fingers in epiphany. “I should figure out what presents to get her.”

“Presents?” But Magnus was already walking away, muttering about what he should get the little girl, leaving Alec standing alone and sure he was missing something

*

“See you this weekend!” Alec closed the door behind Catarina, waving to Madzie until she couldn’t see him anymore.

When he returned to the kitchen, Magnus was magicking away the mess they’d made baking with Madzie. Alec looked around and noticed something important missing. “Where are my cookies?”

“I put them in the oven while you were with Catarina. Although I don’t know why you didn’t make sugar cookies like I suggested. Much more festive.”

“Because I like oatmeal raisin.” Magnus rolled his eyes, then pushed up his sleeves and moved a hand purposefully over Madzie’s recently decorated plate of gingerbread cookies. “Wait, what are you doing?”

Magnus stopped, confused. “I’m fixing them.”

He started to wave his hand again, so Alec grabbed it and pulled it down. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t need to be fixed.”

Magnus pointed at the wonky-faced gingerbread people. “These look good to you?”

“Okay, they aren’t the best gingerbread cookies I’ve ever seen, but Madzie worked hard on them and she’s proud of them.”

“Wouldn’t she be even prouder if they looked like this?” He snapped his fingers and one of the gingerbread men with one eye and what seemed to be a row of vampire teeth morphed into a picture perfect cookie with gumdrop buttons and a cheerful royal icing grin.

“Stop that!” He turned Magnus around to face, him, hands on his shoulders to keep him from changing any more cookies. “Look, when I was a kid, my mom made me do everything over and over until I could do it perfectly - archery, training, learning how to address my superiors. I felt pressure all the time and, well, you know how that ended up for me.”

Magnus’s eyes softened. “Alexander …”

“All I’m saying is, let Madzie be less than perfect sometimes. And let her be proud of things she puts a lot of effort into, even if they don’t always turn out just right.”

“Alright,” Magnus acquiesced. “You are very wise, Mr. Lightwood-Bane.”

Alec ran his hands along his husband’s shoulders and tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt. “I learned it from you. You’re the one who taught me to stop trying to be the ultimate Shadowhunter and follow my heart instead of my head.”

“That is true.” Magnus leaned up for a quick kiss, then tapped Alec’s arms lightly. “So I will put aside my aesthetic sensibilities for the time being.”

“Thank you.”

The oven dinged, and Alec spun away, too excited to see how his own baking had turned out to see the chagrined look on his husband’s face. He grabbed a mitt and opened the oven to find the cookies looked a little different than when he’d put them on the pan.

He turned around to find himself alone in the kitchen. “Magnus!” He looked down at the metal sheet with several lines of pristine sugar cookies. “Seriously?”

*

While he probably couldn’t say for sure with only one under his belt, so far Alec was a fan of Christmas. Madzie was thrilled, bouncing from him to Magnus to Catarina, showing off her presents and her cookies. Izzy beamed while Simon explained Hanukkah to Madzie, and his mother and Luke shared smiles over spiked eggnog. Jace even looked like he was enjoying himself, an all too rare sight since they’d lost Clary. And Lorenzo had stopped by between hopping around multiple holiday parties.

Now it was almost midnight. Magnus had split the bed in the guest bedroom into two queens, so the passed out Madzie could sleep in one and Catarina in the other. The rest of their guests had trickled out, and it was just them, out on their balcony under the stars.

“I think that went well,” Alec said, leaning on the railing. “Not that I have anything to compare it to, but everyone seemed to have fun.”

“It was a wonderful Christmas,” Magnus agreed, but he sounded subdued.

Alec shifted so he was facing Magnus fully, studying his profile with newly critical eyes. “Okay, what’s going on with you? You’ve been off ever since this whole thing started.” When Magnus stayed silent, he leaned in closer and pleaded softly, “Talk to me.”

Magnus stared out onto the city, in a way that felt like he was avoiding looking at Alec. “I may have had an ulterior motive for having Madzie over for the holiday. Not that I wasn’t thrilled to have her and Catarina both, but … I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how we’d be good parents.”

That he wasn’t expecting. With their whirlwind marriage, losing Clary, and then a whirlwind honeymoon, they’d only just started settling into married life. While he knew that they needed to revisit their discussion on the topic, he didn’t think it’d be anytime soon. He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “You have?”

“Yes.” Though he sounded as collected as ever, Alec saw his throat bob with a nervous swallow. “I wasn’t sure before, but now … I don’t know when I’ll be ready for it, but I think I want that for us someday.”

Alec laughed, too happy to keep it in. “I want that, too. Of course I want to have a family with you.” His joy faded as his husband’s face grew melancholy. “What’s wrong?”

Magnus turned to him, eyes sad. “How do we do this, Alexander? We can’t adopt mundane children, Shadowhunters will never allow a warlock to raise one of theirs …”

“Wait, that’s what you’re worried about?”

Magnus frowned. “You’re not?”

“No, I’m not,” he said, reaching out to take Magnus’s hand. “Because I know we’ll find a kid who needs us. Like Catarina found Madzie, or how my parents took in Jace. Like I wish someone had been there for you.”

“Madzie and I are warlocks,” Magnus pointed out, eyes fixed on Alec. “We’re difficult to raise, and it might cause problems with the Clave.”

“You think after all this time that matters to me?”

“No, I suppose not.” Looking hopelessly fond, Magnus leaned up and kissed Alec gently, lingering and sweet.

When he pulled back, Alec let go of his hand. “Wait here. I want to show you something.”

He walked quickly back into the apartment, got a pen and a notepad from the desk, then returned to his husband. “Do you know about the Shadownhunter winter festival?”

Magnus turned to him fully, eyebrows drawn together. “I have, though for obvious reasons, I’ve never actually been to one.”

“We don’t really do a lot for it, but one thing is that we take pieces of paper,” he held up the notepad, “and we write down our wishes. Then we set them on fire to send them to the angel. Well, we’re supposed to leave it in a fireplace, but the idea’s the same. Izzy really liked doing it when we were kids.”

“That sounds very her. And what did little Alec wish for?”

“To be head of the Clave someday. And a better bow.”

“Of course.” The warlock looked at the paper skeptically. “So you want to make a wish?”

Alec shrugged. “It can’t hurt, right?”

Magnus made a face that said he wasn’t completely sure it couldn’t, but he held his hand out for the pen and paper anyway. Once he’d written his down, he ripped it off and handed it to Alec. He wrote down, Find a kid who needs us. Then, after a few seconds of thought added, Make Magnus happy. He wasn’t sure if it was against the rules to make more than wish, but he was pretty confident both Izzy and Jace had tried it. And in a way, it was the same wish anyway. As much as he wanted their own Madzie to celebrate Christmas with, or birthdays, or whatever holiday they wanted, he really, really wanted to make Magnus Bane as happy as possible.

He ripped off the double wish and Magnus conjured fire in his hand. They fed their wishes to the flames and watched as the ash danced out into the night.

[makingimages]

Leo was from a long time ago, the first one I ever saw nude. In the spring before the Hellmans filled their pool, we’d go down there in the deep end, with baby oil, and like that. I met him the first month away at boarding school. He had a halo from the campus light behind him. I flipped.

Roger was fast. In his illegal car, we drove to the reservoir, the radio blaring, talking fast, fast, fast. He was always going for my zipper. He got kicked out sophomore year.

By the time the band got around to playing “Wild Horses,” I had tasted Bruce’s tongue. We were clicking in the shadows on the other side of the amplifier, out of Mrs. Donovan’s line of vision. It tasted like salt, with my neck bent back, because we had been dancing so hard before.

Tim’s line: “I’d like to see you in a bathing suit.” I knew it was his line when he said the exact same thing to Annie Hines.

You’d go on walks to get off campus. It was raining like hell, my sweater as sopped as a wet sheep. Tim pinned me to a tree, the woods light brown and dark brown, a white house half hidden with the lights already on. The water was as loud as a crowd hissing. He made certain comments about my forehead, about my cheeks.

We started off sitting at one end of the couch and then our feet were squished against the armrest and then he went over to turn off the TV and came back after he had taken off his shirt and then we slid onto the floor and he got up again to close the door, then came back to me, a body waiting on the rug.

You’d try to wipe off the table or to do the dishes and Willie would untuck your shirt and get his hands up under in front, standing behind you, making puffy noises in your ear.

He likes it when I wash my hair. He covers his face with it and if I start to say something, he goes, “Shush.”

For a long time, I had Philip on the brain. The less they noticed you, the more you got them on the brain.

My parents had no idea. Parents never really know what’s going on, especially when you’re away at school most of the time. If she met them, my mother might say, “Oliver seems nice” or “I like that one” without much of an opinion. If she didn’t like them, “He’s a funny fellow, isn’t he?” or “Johnny’s perfectly nice but a drink of water.” My father was too shy to talk to them at all unless they played sports and he’d ask them about that.

The sand was almost cold underneath because the sun was long gone. Eben piled a mound over my feet, patting around my ankles, the ghostly surf rumbling behind him in the dark. He was the first person I ever knew who died, later that summer, in a car crash.

I thought about it for a long time.

“Come here,” he says on the porch.

I go over to the hammock and he takes my wrist with two fingers. “What?”

He kisses my palm then directs my hand to his fly.

Songs went with whichever boy it was. “Sugar Magnolia” was Tim, with the line, “Rolling in the rushes/down by the riverside.” With “Darkness Darkness,” I’d picture Philip with his long hair. Hearing “Under My Thumb” there’d be the smell of Jamie’s suede jacket.

We hid in the listening rooms during study hall. With a record cover over the door’s window, the teacher on duty couldn’t look in. I came out flushed and heady and back at the dorm was surprised how red my lips were in the mirror.

One weekend at Simon’s brother’s, we stayed inside all day with the shades down, in bed, then went out to Store 24 to get some ice cream. He stood at the magazine rack and read through MAD while I got butterscotch sauce, craving something sweet.

I could do some things well. Some things I was good at, like math or painting or even sports, but the second a boy put his arm around me, I forgot about wanting to do anything else, which felt like a relief at first until it became like sinking into a muck.

It was different for a girl.

When we were little, the brothers next door tied up our ankles. They held the door of the goat house and wouldn’t let us out till we showed them our underpants. Then they’d forget about being after us and when we played whiffle ball, I’d be just as good as they were.

Then it got to be different. Just because you have on a short skirt, they yell from the cars, slowing down for a while, and if you don’t look, they screech off and call you a bitch.

“What’s the matter with me?” they say, point-blank.

Or else, “Why won’t you go out with me? I’m not asking you to get married,” about to

get mad.

Or it’d be, trying to be reasonable, in a regular voice, “Listen, I just want to have a

good time.”

So I’d go because I couldn’t think of something to say back that wouldn’t be obvious,

and if you go out with them, you sort of have to do something.

I sat between Mac and Eddie in the front seat of the pickup. They were having a fight about something. I’ve a feeling about me.

Certain nights you’d feel a certain surrender, maybe if you’d had wine. The surrender would be forgetting yourself and you’d put your nose to his neck and feel like a squirrel, safe, at rest, in a restful dream. But then you’d start to slip from that and the dark would come in and there’d be a cave. You make out the dim shape of the windows and feel yourself become a cave, filled absolutely with air, or with a sadness that wouldn’t stop.

Teenage years. You know just what you’re doing and don’t see the things that start to get in the way.

Lots of boys, but never two at the same time. One was plenty to keep you in a state. You’d start to see a boy and something would rush over you like a fast storm cloud and you couldn’t possibly think of anyone else. Boys took it differently. Their eyes perked up at any little number that walked by. You’d act like you weren’t noticing.

The joke was that the school doctor gave out the pill like aspirin. He didn’t ask you anything. I was fifteen. We had a picture of him in assembly, holding up an IUD shaped like a T. Most girls were on the pill, if anything, because they couldn’t handle a diaphragm. I kept the dial in my top drawer like my mother and thought of her each time I tipped out the yellow tablets in the morning before chapel.

If they were too shy, I’d be more so. Andrew was nervous. We stayed up with his family album, sharing a pack of Old Golds. Before it got light, we turned on the TV. A man was explaining how to plant seedlings. His mouth jerked to the side in a tic. Andrew thought it was a riot and kept imitating him. I laughed to be polite. When we finally dozed off, he dared to put his arm around me, but that was it.

You wait till they come to you. With half fright, half swagger, they stand one step down. They dare to touch the button on your coat then lose their nerve and quickly drop their hand so you—you’d do anything for them. You touch their cheek.

The girls sit around in the common room and talk about boys, smoking their heads off. “What are you complaining about?” says Jill to me when we talk about problems. “Yeah,” says Giddy. “You always have a boyfriend.”

I look at them and think, As if.

I thought the worst thing anyone could call you was a cock-teaser. So, if you flirted, you had to be prepared to go through with it. Sleeping with someone was perfectly normal once you had done it. You didn’t really worry about it. But there were other problems. The problems had to do with something else entirely.

Mack was during the hottest summer ever recorded. We were renting a house on an island with all sorts of other people. No one slept during the heat wave, walking around the house with nothing on which we were used to because of the nude beach. In the living room, Eddie lay on top of a coffee table to cool off. Mack and I, with the bedroom door open for air, sweated and sweated all night.

“I can’t take this,” he said at 3 A.M. “I’m going for a swim.” He and some guys down the hall went to the beach. The heat put me on edge. I sat on a cracked chest by the open window and smoked and smoked till I felt even worse, waiting for something—I guess for him to get back.

One was on a camping trip in Colorado. We zipped our sleeping bags together, the coyotes’ hysterical chatter far away. Other couples murmured in other tents. Paul was up before sunrise, starting a fire for breakfast. He wasn’t much of a talker in the daytime. At night, his hand leafed about in the hair at my neck.

There’d be times when you overdid it. You’d get carried away. All the next day, you’d be in a total fog, delirious, absent-minded, crossing the street and nearly getting run over.

The more girls a boy has, the better. He has a bright look, having reaped fruits, blooming. He stalks around, sure-shouldered, and you have the feeling he’s got more in him, a fatter heart, more stories to tell. For a girl, with each boy it’s as though a petal gets plucked each time.

Then you start to get tired. You begin to feel diluted, like watered-down stew.

Oliver came skiing with us. We lolled by the fire after everyone had gone to bed. Each creak you’d think was someone coming downstairs. The silver loop bracelet he gave me had been a present from his girlfriend before.

On vacations, we went skiing, or you’d go south if someone invited you. Some people had apartments in New York that their families hardly ever used. Or summer houses, or older sisters. We always managed to find someplace to go.

We made the plan at coffee hour. Simon snuck out and met me at Main Gate after lights out. We crept to the chapel and spent the night in the balcony. He tasted like onions from a submarine sandwich.

The boys are one of two ways: either they can’t sit still or they don’t move. In front of the TV, they won’t budge. On weekends they play touch football while we sit on the sidelines, picking blades of grass to chew on and watch. We’re always watching them run around. We shiver in the stands, knocking our boots together to keep our toes warm, and they whizz across the ice, chopping their sticks around the puck. When they’re in the rink, they refuse to look at you, only eyeing each other beneath low helmets. You cheer for them but they don’t look up, even if it’s a face-off when nothing’s happening, even if they’re doing drills before any game has started at all.

Dancing under the pink tent, he bent down and whispered in my ear. We slipped away to the lawn on the other side of the hedge. Much later, as he was leaving the buffet with two plates of eggs and sausage, I saw the grass stains on the knees of his white pants.

Tim’s was shaped like a banana, with a graceful curve to it. They’re all different. Willie’s like a bunch of walnuts when nothing was happening, another’s as thin as a thin hot dog. But it’s like faces; you’re never really surprised.

Still, you’re not sure what to expect.

I look into his face and he looks back. I look into his eyes and they look back at mine. Then they look down at my mouth so I look up at his mouth, then back to his eyes then, backing up, at his whole face. I think, Who? Who are you? His head tilts to one side.

I say, “Who are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

I look at his eyes again, deeper. Can’t tell who he is, what he thinks. “What?” he says. I look at his mouth.

“I’m just wondering,” I say and go wandering across his face. Study the chin line. It’s shaped like a persimmon.

“Who are you? What are you thinking?”

He says, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Then they get mad after, when you say enough is enough. After, when it’s easier to explain you don’t want to. You wouldn’t dream of saying that maybe you weren’t really ready to in the first place.

Gentle Eddie. We waded into the sea, the waves round and plowing in, buffalo-headed, slapping our thighs. I put my arms around his freckled shoulders and he held me up, buoyed by the water, and rocked me like a sea shell.

I had no idea whose party it was, the apartment jam-packed, stepping over people in the hallway. The room with the music was practically empty, the bare floor, me in red shoes. This fellow slides one knee and takes me around the waist and we rock to jazzy tunes, with my toes pointing heavenward, and waltz and spin and drip to “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” or “I’ll Love You Just For Now.” He puts his head to my chest, runs a sweeping hand down my inside thigh and we go loose-limbed and sultry and smooth as silk and I stamp my red heels and he takes me in a swoon. I never saw him again after that but I thought, I could have loved that one.

You wonder how long you can keep it up. You begin to feel as if you’re showing through, like a bathroom window that only lets in grey light, the kind you can’t see out of.

They keep coming around. Johnny drives up at Easter vacation from Baltimore and I let him in the kitchen with everyone sound asleep. He has friends waiting in the car.

“What are you, crazy? It’s pouring out there,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says. “They understand.”

So he gets some long kisses from me, against the refrigerator, before he goes home

because I hate those girls who push away a boy’s face as if she were made out of Ivory soap, as if she’s that much greater than he is.

The note on my cubby told me to see the headmaster. I had no idea for what. He had received complaints about my amorous displays on the town green. It was Willie that spring. The headmaster told me he didn’t care what I did but that Casey Academy had a reputation to uphold in the town. He lowered his glasses on his nose. “We’ve got twenty acres of wood on this campus,” he said. “If you want to smooch with your boyfriend, there are twenty acres for you to do it out of the public eye. You read me?”

Everybody’d get weekend permissions for different places, then we’d all go to someone’s house whose parents were away. Usually there’d be more boys than girls. We raided the liquor closet and smoked pot at the kitchen table and you’d never know who would end up where, or with whom. There were always disasters. Ceci got bombed and cracked her head open on the banister and needed stitches. Then there was the time when Wendel Blair walked through the picture window at the Lowes’ and got slashed to ribbons.

He scared me. In bed, I didn’t dare look at him. I lay back with my eyes closed, luxuriating because he knew all sorts of expert angles, his hands never fumbling, going over my whole body, pressing the hair up and off the back of my head, giving an extra hip shove, as if to say There. I parted my eyes slightly, keeping the screen of my lashes low because it was too much to look at him, his mouth loose and pink and parted, his eyes looking through my forehead, or kneeling up, looking through my throat. I was ashamed but couldn’t look him in the eye.

You wonder about things feeling a little off-kilter. You begin to feel like a piece of pounded veal.

At boarding school, everyone gets depressed. We go in and see the housemother, Mrs. Gunther. She got married when she was eighteen. Mr. Gunther was her high school sweetheart, the only boyfriend she ever had.

“And you knew you wanted to marry him right off?” we ask her.

She smiles and says, “Yes.”

“They always want something from you,” says Jill, complaining about her boyfriend. “Yeah,” says Giddy. “You always feel like you have to deliver something.”

“You do,” says Mrs. Gunther. “Babies.”

After sex, you curl up like a shrimp, something deep inside you ruined, slammed in a place that sickens at slamming, and slowly you fill up with an overwhelming sadness, an elusive gaping worry. You don’t try to explain it, filled with the knowledge that it’s nothing after all, everything filling up finally and absolutely with death. After the briskness of loving, loving stops. And you roll over with death stretched out alongside you like a feather boa, or a snake, light as air, and you... you don’t even ask for anything or try to say something to him because it’s obviously your own damn fault. You haven’t been able to—to what? To open your heart. You open your legs but can’t, or don’t dare anymore, to open your heart.

It starts this way:

You stare into their eyes. They flash like all the stars are out. They look at you

seriously, their eyes at a low burn and their hands no matter what starting off shy and with such a gentle touch that the only thing you can do is take that tenderness and let yourself be swept away. When, with one attentive finger they tuck the hair behind your ear, you—

You do everything they want.

Then comes after. After when they don’t look at you. They scratch their balls, stare at the ceiling. Or if they do turn, their gaze is altogether changed. They are surprised. They turn casually to look at you, distracted, and get a mild distracted surprise. You’re gone. Their blank look tells you that the girl they were fucking is not there anymore. You seem to have disappeared.

[taetaespeaches]

“Of course I’m gonna read it.”

yoongi x reader (oc) genre: fluff word count: 2.4K

a/n: Hi lovelies! Here’s Yoongi and reader/Kid going on a quick date at a bookstore. That’s literally the whole plot lol. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for reading! :)) 

p.s. happy yoongi day! 

Standing outside the shop, you gazed down the sidewalk in search of your boyfriend. With the busyness of classes and work, it could be difficult for you two to get quality time together. That’s what made small dates so important to you both, even if they were squeezed in between lectures and recording sessions.

Yoongi had a habit of making himself blend in with a crowd, and the street was busy with people traveling to work on what they’d consider to be important business. You shouldn’t have spotted the man, but to you, he was always impossible to miss. As though they were destined to always find him, you watched as he appeared down the walkway, hands carrying two to-go cups full of iced beverages, the bottom half of his face covered with a mask and his hair smooshed down with a black beanie. Would you ever get used to the twitterpated feeling he gave you? Probably not.

When he stood in front of you, he skeptically searched your body, noticing the way you held your hands behind your back. “Is that for me?” You nodded to the light colored drink, indicating it was full of sugar and cream, whereas the other was black.

The man continued to scrutinize you as he handed it over, you bringing one arm from behind your back to take it. “Of course,” he said simply, just before stepping onto his tippy toes for a moment to try to peer over your body. “What are you hiding?”

Smiling at him, you dipped your head into his direct line of vision. “Hi,” you greeted sweetly, but mostly in an attempt to distract him.

“Hi,” he chuckled, and you cursed the mask that concealed that gummy grin from you.

Removing your arm from behind you, you presented the man with a bouquet of orange tulips, pretty yellow flowers, and some small white daisies, placing the flowers at the center of his chest. “I got these for you.”

“What?” he breathed out in surprise, his eyes wide and innocent as he stared down at the vibrant petals. Slowly, his hand moved to replace yours on the stems, his fingers grazing yours in the process. “Thank you,” he shyly told you, holding the bouquet out in front of him as he inspected them. “They’re pretty.”

Reaching for the mask, you tugged it down just enough to reveal his cute nose. Booping it, you grinned. “So are you.”

“Stop it,” he whispered through a silent laugh. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”

“Ah,” you announced, turning to look down the street. “We have to walk a couple blocks but that will give us time to drink these,” you lifted your drink to your lips. “It’s my favorite bookstore,” you revealed with an excited shoulder shimmy.

“Wait, so the bookstore?” He asked, having heard several stories of how much you loved the shop. It radiated warmth and comfort, and there was always something new to explore. Much like the man standing in front of you.

“That’s the one,” you beamed. It would be impossible not to notice the glimmer in Yoongi’s eyes as he watched you fondly. “We can put those in my bag if you want,” you nodded to the flowers as you slid your tote off your shoulder.

“That’s, ok, maybe when we get to the bookstore,” he told you as you both began walking toward your destination. “I want to hold onto them for a bit.”

Pouting at him, the warmth of how much you cared for the man rushed through your frame, manifesting in an appreciative stare. He was sweet. And adorable. And his shyness when admitting he loved the flowers in a roundabout way had you falling even further for the man.

Note to self. Buy Yoongi more flowers.

Rows of books surrounded you both, and Yoongi was proving to be quite the distraction. Usually upon entering the shop you would lose yourself in your fascination with the pages all around you as you picked up books at random, reading the back covers to see if it would pique your interest.

With Yoongi there, however, you found yourself much more enthralled by him. As he looked over the contemporary fiction, you watched him carefully. If someone walked by and saw you, they’d think you were doing some sort of case study on adorable small men with gorgeous hands and pretty fluffy cheeks. Or maybe they’d just think you were a weirdo creep stalking this poor man who was just trying to find a book.

You just couldn’t pull your focus from him though. Everything about him was delicate and stunning. The way he leaned toward the books and tilted his head to the side to read along the spines. Especially the way he would reach his hand out, placing his index finger at the top of the book in preparation to pull it from it’s slot to inspect it further. However, every single time he’d delay, as though he was weighing whether it was worth the effort of removing it from the shelf. You found yourself nearly holding your breath a few times as you waited to see if he deemed the book satisfactory for his further attention.

It was almost as though the books were flaunting their best attributes for him, showing off their cursive typography or their bold colors, all in hopes of being held in those hands for just a few moments. You understood, his hands were perfection and to feel their touch was a gift.

You’re acting like a weirdo, you scolded yourself. But look at him, you defended your own beratement. It was simply impossible to look away when he had his mask pulled under his chin, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip, his tongue soothing over it every once in a while as he read over the back cover with his eyebrows pulled together in a handsome focus.

When Yoongi placed the book back on the shelf, letting out a small sigh of disappointment, you almost felt bad for the novel. You don’t know how you’d deal with the crushing rejection from Min Yoongi.

“You’re staring, Kid,” Yoongi suddenly spoke in a monotone, though you spotted the way his lips curved upward. He was teasing you, and rightfully so.

“Sorry,” you shyly looked away, grabbing a book at random. Holding back an embarrassed smile, you heard the man’s breathy laughter next to you.

“Don’t be, it’s just,” he sucked air in between his teeth. “If you keep watching me, how am I supposed to steal glances at you while you’re not paying attention?” He whispered near your ear. “You should be fair.”

Butterflies. They exploded from your heart and were fluttering all around your limbs. You couldn’t have collected them if you tried. “Goddammit, you’re cute,” you groaned, leaning against one of the stacks. “I’m sorry, I’ll be more fair. Give me a book to look at, I promise I’ll give you some time to feast your eyes,” you teased the man.

Earning a silent laugh as his shoulders shook, you only became more fond. Making Yoongi laugh was easily one of your favorite hobbies. Looking toward the classics, Yoongi scanned the shelf quickly in search of a book. “Ah, here you go,” he told you, and for the first time he didn’t hesitate as he pulled the book from the shelf and held it out for you.

“The Alchemist,” you read the cover. “This is your favorite, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm,” he nodded, looking down as you took the book from him and flipped it over in your hands. Looking over the back cover, instead of reading it right away, you glanced up at Yoongi to find his appreciative eyes on your face. “Hey, you said you’d be fair.”

“Sorry,” you giggled. “What’s it about?”

“It’s just kind of a quest book, all about self discovery and pursuing your dreams and your heart’s desire,” Yoongi explained. Humming, you nodded, looking back down at the book to read the summary. You could feel Yoongi’s eyes on you, and you desperately wanted to look up at him and catch him in the act. Instead, you tucked the book under your arm and began walking along the shelves nonchalantly.

“I’ll read this if you read a book of my choosing,” you told him over your shoulder. However, you didn’t receive an answer, making you stop and turn to face him. His eyes lifted from staring at the flowers in your tote to find your smirking face. His cheeks instantly heated, the man rubbing his neck shyly. “You like them?”

“No one has ever given me flowers before,” he admitted quietly. His lips were positioned in a pout and you found yourself stepping toward him on a mission to place your mouth to his. There was zero hesitation on your part when you wrapped an arm around his shoulder and leaned into him to kiss him, and he certainly didn’t resist in any way.

It was short lived, but it was sweet, and his touch lingered on your lips long after the kiss ended. “Well that’s a shame,” you smiled at him. “You’ve always deserved flowers, honey boy.”

The man flashed a bashful gummy grin at you, shaking his head. “Pick out a book for me, Kid.”

It took a moment to track down the novel that had popped in your head as soon as you were given the opportunity to pick one out for your boyfriend. “You’re gonna love it, you just have to embrace it,” you told him, your eyes scanning the books until you finally found it. Making an excited sound that could only be described as a giddy squeal, accompanied with a little dance, you grabbed the book and held it in front of your face. “Ta-da!”

“The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo?” He read, ending the title as a question. As though he wasn’t sure if you were being serious.

“It’s amazing,” you lowered the book to reveal your ecstatic grin. “Look, I know it wouldn’t be your choice, even if there were 50 books sprawled out for your choosing, but I didn’t expect much when I went into it either,” you explained. Yoongi’s eyebrows raised curiously, as though he was silently telling you to go on. “And then it hooked me, and I came out of it crying, clutching my heart, and fawning over it. It’s such a beautiful love story, and heartbreaking, it’s just,” you huffed, at a loss for words. “It’s devastatingly good.” He was holding back a smile. Yoongi was amused, or maybe fond. Both? “Don’t make fun of me,” you whined through a giggle.

“I’m not, I promise,” he retorted.

“You gave me a look,” you glared at him, the man holding up his arms in innocence.

“I did not, I just looked at you. You’re cute, I like to look at you,” he complimented, making you sigh as your shoulders slumped. Honestly, you weren’t too sure Yoongi was going to be on board with reading the book, you knew it wasn’t his speed, and while he recommended a highly favored and critically-acclaimed classic, you were going to send him off with what was seemingly just a cheesy romance no-

“I’m gonna read it,” he interjected, cutting off your thoughts and effectively making you gawk at him with your jaw dropping open. “Why are you so shocked?” He chuckled, taking the book from you. “Of course I’m gonna read it. When you first read it you were obsessed. I walked in on you crying that one time, remember? Believe it or not, I would like to see why it impacted you so much.”

Pouting at him, you felt tears bubble up in your eyes, and Yoongi saw them too as he sighed and flashed a fond smile. The fact that he knew this book was not his typical type of reading material but he wanted to indulge in it because you loved it was truly too sweet for you to comprehend. “I’m gonna get you more flowers,” you frowned, Yoongi letting out an adorable chuckle. “You deserve more.”

“The ones you already got me are enough, Kid,” he assured you. “You know, I’m actually looking forward to reading thi- is that Slam Dunk?” He suddenly cut himself off, catching the multiple volumes of the manga out of the corner of his eye. “Have you ever read this?” He asked, quickly making his way to the books. Shaking your head no, you curiously looked over his body to peer down at the book in his hands. “It’s a romance,” he informed you. “See, I read about love too.”

“Right, it has nothing to do with it being a basketball manga,” you teased, shooting him a knowing look.

“You should read it,” he immediately insisted. “It’s the best. We can put The Alchemist back.” Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the book, Volume 1, from him and tucked it under your arm with his other recommendation. You could never turn him down when he expressed that much excitement over it. You loved the dude, how could you deny him this?

“You are the only person I would read about sports with, or watch sports with for that matter. Just so you know,” you informed him as you made your way to the check out desk. As much as you’d like to spend all day in this store with Yoongi, you had a lecture to get to, and he needed to get back to recording.

“And you’re the only person I would read this cheesy romance book for,” he held it up as he followed you, making you look back at him with a glare.  

“It’s not even that cheesy,” you defended, holding back a budding smile that was fighting to break through. It was kind of cheesy. But in all the best ways, you told yourself.  

“Mhmm,” he teased unconvincingly.

“Stand in front of dispatch with that. I want everyone to know you're reading it,” you nodded to his book, just before he stepped in front of you with his wallet open, silently deciding he would be buying all the books despite your huff and attempt to pull him out of the way.

“I will, don’t tempt me,” he warned. “It’ll end up on all those Suga’s Book Recommendations lists.”

Wrapping your arms around him in a back hug, you chuckled as you rested your face against his back. “As it should be,” you nodded definitively, just before sighing in content. And as Yoongi made small talk with the cashier, you melted into the reverberations that could be felt through his back with his low murmurings.

[chubbology]

Getting Big

prompt: someone discovering they're a feeder as their feedee partner gets bigger

Sometimes you’re both in bed, distracted and ignoring each other on your phones or laptops, when you notice. Your eyes lift from your phone and notice your partner’s relaxed belly, rising and lowering with calm breath, stretching the fabric of their shirt. Really stretching it now, not just with every inhale, but by default. Not just pushing the seams a little with chubbier hips, but forcing the cotton to bow out close to its limit, forcing the stitching to cave into a belly button deeper and softer-looking than you remember. And your eyes inevitably take in the rest: thicker thighs, more shapely chest, less defined arms, softer jawline.  

You’re aware that your partner’s gained a little weight. More than a little, but it’s fine. Probably thirty or so pounds, not a big deal, and you absolutely don’t judge them for it. Have they mentioned it at all? No, they just keep tugging at their shirts and pants. And underwear. Their underwear is getting too small for them, with weight gain making them a bit of a pear and all, but you don’t say anything. You don’t say they need bigger underwear. You don’t tell them how much you appreciate the fact that they need it. As long as they stay mum on the subject of their weight and the fit of their clothes, so will you; that’s your rule.

Sometimes you’re both in bed, watching TV, and they’re eating their way to the bottom of a quart of appallingly flavored ice cream (super-caramel-quadruple chocolate-chunk type stuff), and you keep sneaking glances. Because you’re amazed they’re comfortable enough around you to eat freely like this—or so you tell yourself. Their eyes are so glazed with distracted pleasure that maybe it didn’t even occur to them not to gorge themselves tonight, right in front of you.

Not gorging themselves like some kind of pig—no, it’s just, you both ordered a lot of takeout just a couple hours ago, and then they snacked on chips for a while, and then there was that candy bar they ate on a whim while you took out the trash, and now it’s a whole quart of ice cream. A whole quart. The more glances you sneak at them, the more you notice how their budding second chin peeks out when they chew. The more you notice that their bites seem hasty, as if tinged by some kind of distant, unconscious desperation.

You lean against them as if too tired to stay upright, reaching over them casually, letting one arm rest against their belly. It’s soft. It’s bigger. Not a big deal at all, you tell yourself for the millionth time.

And yet, you ponder their weight more. You’ve been pondering it incessantly. You can’t stop thinking about how they went to the mall two weeks ago without telling you, bought clothes a size up, and already were uncomfortably tugging and pulling on on every tight band and seam again. You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering to the idea of them sizing up again any more than your partner can stop their hands from opening another package of cookies.

“Ugh, this stuff is so good,” they mutter, swallowing the last bite, then closing the lid on the carton and setting it aside.

“Mm. I’ll buy more then,” you say without thinking. It’s fine if they size up again, after all. You’ll love them no matter their body type. Their happiness comes first. “I’m going to the grocery store anyway.”

A couple months later, going to the grocery store is not a chore to you, but a fun outing. You never used to even go down the junk food isles if you were by yourself, but now you scour them carefully. You place things in the cart you know your partner will like, and consider new brands and products they might like to try. It’s all so colorful and thrilling to actually buy. You tell yourself you might even try some of it and ignore the intrusive thought of your partner sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night again to binge on half the goodies themselves.

What niggles at you isn’t that you’re buying way too much junk food for your partner, who’s a little overweight now. It’s not as if they’ve told you to stop, or have implied they want to lose weight, or have said anything about any of it at all. That’s the thing: you’re in uncharted waters, and they haven’t told you a word about whether they fine with the way the tide was turning or whether they were actually really concerned that they were getting heavy and a little jiggly and they didn’t know what to do about it, let alone have the wherewithal to say, Honey, stop buying junk food. I’m getting fat.

Just the thought of the word makes you blush at the box of Fudge Covered Twinkies you’re holding. You quickly set them back on the shelf. Twinkies were practically the poster food for getting fat, right? Surely, your partner would suspect something, even though there wasn’t anything to suspect. You just know that they like food, particularly food that’s soft and sugary and addictive, and what better, cheaper food to comfort them with than Twinkies? No, it wouldn’t be good for their waistline, but you can already see their eyes fluttering closed at the taste—which was probably not even good, but that was hardly the point, was it?

Compromising, you buy a limited edition blue-stuffed brand of Twinkies instead, preparing an excuse that you thought the novelty of it was amusing and wondered if it was good.

But later that night, your partner eats six of them while you play video games and doesn’t mention the novelty of it at all. Your character dies stupidly and your partner laughs at you, belly jiggling as they do. You swallow, eyes fixating on their fat thighs. There’s no other word for them—they’re fat. Their thighs have gotten fat, just like their belly got fat, just like their hips and chest and arms and even their neck and face has been rounding out with so much chub. They were fat and they did eat like a pig, and all signs pointed to more weight gain. They were going to keep gaining weight, and when was it going to stop? When you finally decided enough was enough? When their doctor told them to take control? Yeah, so, you could imagine them awkwardly saying, coming home from the doctor, I guess I gotta lose weight. Maybe they would be holding a pamphlet on obesity or something, looking ashamed.

And maybe they would try at first. You would help. They’d exercise a little here and there, maybe only eat one Twinkie instead of six, maybe not ask for takeout so often. But it wouldn’t last. The second their will broke, yours would too. And you’d both be in bed, distracted by nothing but endless waves of pleasure that your sex life hadn’t known in a while, them leaning back against the headboard, eating every fattening thing you had to offer, which would be many, many, as many fattening things as they’d agree to swallow down like they glutton they were becoming.

“Babe?”

You blink.

“You okay?” they say with that chubby face of theirs, a face that said, I’ve been gaining so much weight, and you’re really aroused.

“I’m glad you like those,” you stutter. You look at the Twinkies box, and so do they. Your mouth keeps moving without forethought. “I’ll buy you more next time. Any other flavors you like?” You set down your controller and push your hand into their hair affectionately. Since they’re slouched, they look up at you, and you lower your hand to the back of their neck, touching the bulge of the fat there. “Want me to get you your favorite ice cream? I know you had a long day at work.” You stand and head for the kitchen, ignoring your partner’s confused ums and wells.

You open the freezer and get one of many ice cream quarts. Thanks to you, the fridge and freezer have been stuffed to the gills with crap, but you can’t regret it, not when it makes your partner look perpetually stuffed to the gills too. You get a spoon and sit down next to them again, brain fuzzy with want. “You’ll feel better when you finish this. By the time you do, I’ll finally finish this damn level.”

“I’m—I’m not…” But the look in their eyes is conflicted. “I’m not that hungry, really.”

You laugh. Your body is buzzing. “Please. With you, when you eat and when you’re hungry are completely unrelated. Let’s make it a competition! Finish before I do. Go!”

“What?”

You’re already starting the level over, thinking to yourself What the hell? Don’t make them eat if they don’t want to. Even if they do want to, even when they’re full, because they’re greedy and addicted, gonna get obese soon—

A minute passes, and they’re sitting up, belly folded in rolls on their lap, looking poised to either stand up and put the ice cream away or rip the lid off and devour it all.

“Eat it,” you say innocently, or try to. It mostly comes out like a pathetic attempt at sounding not-horny.

You glance over, and they still look conflicted, so you lean over and kiss them on their tubby cheek. “Go ahead,” you say, quieter. You meet their eyes. “Don’t you want to?”

They look taken aback now, flushed. All at once, they seem aware of their blubbery, overweight body, and they shift on the couch. You forget the game and lean in again, kissing them on the lips, then deeper as they lean into you. “I know you want to,” you whisper. You cup their fattened hip, squeeze it gently. “I bet you really want to.”

They’re blushing really hard now, gone shy and speechless. So you move closer to them, and since their head is lowered to avoid your eyes, you land a sweet peck on their bulging second chin. Then you peel off the lid of the carton, tear the plastic off, and push the spoon satisfyingly into the over-processed sugar that has been fattening your partner out of their clothes so well.

Despite their air of reluctance, they eat the spoonful you offer as if on instinct. They squirm with pleasure, and your breath hitches when their plump hand twitches out to take the spoon away from you when you don’t use it quick enough. You scoop them another bite. Then another. The room is quiet except for the game in the background and your rapidly beating heart. Their eyelids lower, and you murmur encouraging words to them. That’s it. It’s good, huh? Big bite... The experience seems no less momentous to them than to you, and so you keep going. Their eyes drift shut and so you guide their mouth to open at the right times. Eventually, your cooing gets bolder.

“I know how much you like this. Like eating. Eating a little too much.”

Their mouth pauses around the spoon, but their eyes don’t open. They swallow and wait for the next bite.

“And I know you get up in the middle of the night sometimes, just to eat,” you say. “Eat and eat until your clothes feel tight and your stomach’s queasy, right? You always come back to bed so uncomfortable, tossing and turning, panting a little. Holding back little burps. I wake up and all the junk food I bought is gone.”

Your partner leans into to your next spoonful, then takes it from you. Without meeting your eyes, they start eating from the tub themselves, at twice your pace. You smooth your fingers through their hair. Then rub a hand down their arm, which was now sausage-like with so much fat clinging to it. But it’s squishy, when you pinch it. No firmness anywhere you can see.

“I’m sure you know you’re getting big, baby. You’re getting big. But that’s okay.” You rub your hands over their belly, their hips, their rolls of back fat. “You just keep eating as much as you like.”

And after another pause, they nod.

[captainsophiestark]

Not the Usual

Steve Harrington x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Fandom: Stranger Things

Requested: Yes, by @hellotvshowtrash​ :)

Request: CAB I PLEASE REQUEST A STEVE HARRINGTON FIC I’ve hopped on the stranger things wagon and I’m almost done with season 3. And I love Steve. So. Much 😭😭 so, if I could have some sort of cute fluffy fic I would be delighted 😭❤️

Summary: Y/N and Steve have been friends since they were kids. They grew apart a little in high school when Steve got popular and Y/N didn't like the people he was hanging out with, but they've never been completely estranged. Y/N has had a crush on Steve once or twice while they were growing up, but she never let him know. Now that they've both graduated, however, Steve might finally be feeling the same about his childhood best friend.

Word Count: 2,449

Category: Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"Alright Harrington, it's your turn to deal with the general public," said Robin Buckley as she walked into the back room of Scoops Ahoy. Steve had been sitting at the table back there, flipping through one of Robin's magazines. He didn't look up as she walked in. "Hey!"

Robin closed the distance between her and Steve and smacked him on the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"I just had to deal with a bunch of middle school queen bees critiquing every single move I made while they all got ice cream! That was real pain."

Steve rolled his eyes, but he flipped the magazine shut anyway. He stood, huffing and groaning and making a big deal of it as he headed to the door from the back room to the ice cream counter.

"Fine. But if Dustin comes in here and needs to work on something, you're going back out there for me."

Robin rolled her eyes and didn't bother responding as she took over Steve's seat at the back of the shop.

Steve tried not to scowl too much as he made his way to the counter, staring out at the store around him. Thankfully, aside from the middle school girls still sitting in one corner of the shop, it wasn't very busy. Steve couldn't keep his attention from drifting, and he was about to start bothering Robin again when a familiar face came through the front doors.

"Y/N!" called Steve, lighting up at the sight of his old friend. They'd been best friends all through elementary school and middle school, but had drifted apart in high school, especially as Steve got more popular and spent more time with people like Carol and Tommy. Still, they'd maintained their friendship in some form or another since they were three years old.

"Hey Steve! How's your day been?"

"Not too bad. Better now though, since you're here."

Y/N melted a little at the words, but smiled brightly at Steve.

"Well, I'm glad I could make it better." The two made eye contact, sharing a look before Steve went back into work mode.

"So, what'll it be?"

"The usual, please."

Steve dropped the ice cream scoop on the counter and gave Y/N a look that said Really?

"The usual, Y/N? Come on, you always get a chocolate ice cream on a sugar cone. In the nineteen years I've known you, I don't think you've ever ordered anything else."

"Okay, first of all, you haven't known me nineteen years. You've known me sixteen. We've barely been alive nineteen." Steve rolled his eyes, but Y/N forged ahead without acknowledging it. "And second of all, I like my chocolate ice cream. Why should I order something else when I already like my regular order so much?"

"I don't know, maybe for the sake of adventure? Come on, let me make you a surprise cone. I bet I can make something you like as much or more than chocolate."

Y/N paused, pursing her lips and giving Steve a critical look up and down. Finally, she sighed.

"Alright, fine. I guess there's no harm in letting you give it a try. On one condition."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"If I hate it, you pay for it."

"You've got a deal," said Steve, grinning as he grabbed a waffle cone and got to work. He scanned every flavor in the case, then finally decided on a scoop of caramel ribbon on the bottom and a scoop of a chocolate-marshmallow mix on top. He finished it off with some rainbow sprinkles, then grinned broadly as he went to the counter and handed the cone to Y/N. She squinted at it, clearly skeptical, but Steve was having none of that.

"C'mon, you can't judge it until you've tried it."

She huffed and glared at him, but after a beat, she tentatively took a lick of the ice cream.

"Did you get- make sure you get some of the sprinkles in there, too," said Steve, waving his hands around and giving Y/N a teasing smile. She couldn't help smiling back as she let the taste of the ice cream float across her tongue. She pursed her lips, took another bite, then furrowed her eyebrows in silent concentration. Finally, when Steve thought he'd go completely crazy from waiting for her review, she spoke.

"This is actually fantastic."

"Yes!" cried Steve, punching the air. "See, I told you I could make you something you like."

Y/N sighed. "Yeah, alright, you were right." She rolled her eyes, then dropped the act and gave him a smile. "Seriously, thank you. You did great."

"Sure thing, Y/N/N. Glad I could get you to step outside your comfort zone."

"Alright, so how much do I owe you for my new regular order?"

"Nah, don't worry about it. It's on me," said Steve, leaning across the counter a little and giving Y/N a charming smile.

"Steve, no, the deal was I didn't have to pay if it was bad-"

"Y/N, come on. Let me buy you an ice cream. Consider it a thank you for being willing to try whatever nonsense I made up."

Y/N paused for a minute, fixing Steve with a look he'd seen for the past sixteen years, and then she smiled.

"Alright, fine. Thank you for the ice cream."

"You're very welcome."

"I'll see you around?"

"You know it." Steve shot her a playful wink, and she couldn't completely fight off a soft smile as she turned and left the shop. She paused just before rounding the corner of the glass window to the rest of the mall to give Steve a little wave, then she disappeared.

"Holy shit, Harrington." Steve's attention was ripped away from staring after Y/N when Robin came out of the back and clapped her hands on his shoulders. He nearly jumped out of his skin she scared him so bad.

"Geeze, Robin! What the hell?"

"I've been giving you shit all summer for how bad you are at flirting. You've botched it with every girl that's come in here, but you did good with her!"

"What? That's Y/N, I wasn't flirting with her."

Robin gave him an aggressively disbelieving look. "Oh yeah, and I don't work at Scoops Ahoy."

"No, seriously, I've known her since we were kids. I wasn't flirting."

"Yeah, you were, Harrington. But I guess it makes sense now that it went so well, since you weren't trying so embarrassingly hard."

Robin didn't bother waiting for Steve to continue his defense before she sauntered back into the back room, presumably to return to her magazine. Steve shut the shutters allowing her to see him, then glared at the wall as he processed her words. He hadn't been flirting with Y/N, had he?

They'd known each other forever. They were just good friends, that was it. Although, if Steve thought about it, he probably would've given any of his other friends a joke ice cream combination instead something he thought they'd actually like. And she was prettier than his other friends. If the opportunity came up to kiss her, he wouldn't mind...

Steve almost had a heart attack as the realization washed over him. He whirled around to look after where Y/N had disappeared, although she was long gone now. Out of everyone he'd known in almost twelve years of school, she was the only one (other than those involved in the Hawkins craziness) that he had any interest in still talking to.

He'd figured she was just a cooler person than all the rest of them. And she was. But thanks to Robin, he had to admit there was something else to it, too.

****************

Y/N had wanted to go back to Scoops Ahoy the day after Steve made his specialty ice cream cone, but she'd gotten bogged down in college preparations and family stuff, so she couldn't. The day after that, however, she made a point of making time to go back.

Steve had been a good friend for a long time, and on and off during the past few years, she'd had a crush on him. He'd gone through a pretty bad douchebag stage in high school, and had been head over heels for Nancy Wheeler until recently, so she'd tried her best to push those feelings to the side. Still, that didn't mean she shouldn't go visit him now, especially with Nancy dating Johnathan and Steve's douchebag stage (mostly) behind him.

It was certainly hard to be posturing and arrogant when you wore the uniform Steve had to wear every day.

Y/N suppressed a laugh at the sight of Steve in said uniform as she walked into the ice cream shop. Like the last time she'd been in, the shop was thankfully not very busy, which meant it'd be easier for her to talk to him.

Or at least, that's what she thought as she headed up to the counter. As soon as she got within a few feet and Steve noticed her, he went from the guy she'd always known into an absolute mess.

"Ahoy there, Y/N!" he said, whirling around and almost falling in the process. He grimaced at himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"Hey, Steve..." Y/N said. She quickly scanned her childhood friend up and down, looking for any obvious cause of the behavior like a glaring head injury. When she didn't find anything, she continued. "What's up? How's your day been?"

"Oh, you know. The usual," he said, leaning forward on the counter and fixing her with a look like he had something in his eye. Y/N just stared at him for a few beats, blinking at him and trying to take everything in. It just got worse.

"Alright Steve, what the hell is going on with you?" she demanded. Steve spluttered, no quick response coming to the tip of his tongue like it usually did. Y/N just stared.

"What, uh, what do you mean? I'm just taking in the sights... and... everything," he said. He stared right at Y/N, but the look in his eyes said he was deep in his thoughts, yelling at himself for his own stupidity.

"Are you drunk or something? At work?" Y/N hissed, leaning in to whisper lest one of Steve's bosses hear. Steve looked confused and a little bit panicked, but before things could get really out of hand, Robin poked her head out of the back.

"He's flirting with you," she said, not bothering to beat around the bush for Steve's sake. Steve and Y/N both whirled to face her, matching expressions of shock on their faces. "And he's doing a shit job of it, like with every girl he's tried to flirt with all summer."

"Robin-!" Steve hissed, but she shut the door with a smile and went back to hiding in the back before he could start shouting.

"Steve, is she for real? Were you flirting with me?" asked Y/N, not quite able to believe it. The terrified, mortified expression on Steve's face a heartbeat later was enough to convince her, though. "That was you flirting?"

Y/N couldn't help it. She burst out laughing. She couldn't keep it together enough to form words, but when she saw the heartbroken expression on Steve's face, she found a way to force out a sentence between laughs.

"I'm sorry Steve, I don't want to embarrass you. It's just... what the hell happened to Steve "The Hair" Harrington? You were the smoothest guy in the whole high school, and this is how you flirt?"

"I've been told I've lost my touch lately," mumbled Steve, a backwards glare shot to the closed shutters Robin was hiding behind.

"Yeah, I think I'd have to agree," Y/N wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye as she finally calmed down. "You know, when I thought about what it'd be like to have you flirt with me, it was never anything like that."

Steve grimaced, but the expression was quickly replaced by one of interest as he leaned closer to Y/N. He had a little more confidence back in his posture and voice when he spoke.

"You thought about me flirting with you?"

Now it was Y/N's turn to go bright red with embarrassment.

"Uh... well, maybe, once or twice. When you weren't in your insufferable douchey jock phase."

"Like now?"

"...Yeah, like now."

"Y/N Y/L/N," Steve began, making a big show of fixing Y/N with the look that had worked on countless girls at Hawkins High. The confidence swelled in his chest. "My oldest and dearest friend. Would you like to go on a date with me?"

Y/N smiled, even as she felt the heat rising to her cheeks.

"Yeah, Steve. I would."

"Great," said Steve, his face breaking into a much more genuine smile. "I get off at three. Meet me here, and we'll go get some coffee or something?"

"Sounds perfect," Y/N replied. Steve grinned back at her, the confidence clearly starting to boarder on arrogance, so before she could think too much, Y/N pushed up on the counter and leaned across the distance between her and Steve to give him a quick kiss.

Just like that, Steve melted. He stared at her like he'd seen a ghost as she pulled back, smiling all the while.

"I'll see you in a few hours, Steve," she said, giving him a perky wave as she backed towards the exit of the shop. "And don't worry. I like it when you're cute and awkward."

Steve could only stare after her as she disappeared around a corner into the rest of the mall. Slowly, he brought his hand up to his lips, not quite believing his childhood best friend and new date had really just kissed him in the middle of Scoops Ahoy.

"Well, I guess I have to mark a point on the whiteboard for Harrington now," sighed Robin, popping back out through the shutters with absolutely no sympathy for Steve. "Although, if we're really being honest, it was way more of a point for Y/N."

Steve huffed a laugh before turning to his coworker.

"I hate that stupid whiteboard."

"I know," said Robin with a grin. "That's why I keep it. Maybe I'll show it to Y/N when she gets back. I'm sure she'd get a kick out of it."

Steve just reached over and closed the shutters, forcing Robin to go back into the back room or get caught in the middle. He knew it would only buy him momentary peace, but he wasn't too worried about taking Robin's teasing for the rest of the day.

He had a hell of a bright spot to look forward to at the end of his shift, after all.

[luveline]

a special friend, part two [Fred Weasley, George Weasley x reader]

tags: reader-insert, platonic relationships, friendship, can be read as romantic for either or both, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, implied/referenced self-harm, dissociation, quiet reader, shy reader, sad reader

relationships: fred weasley x reader, george weasley x reader

wordcount: 3.2k

read part one here

The common room was always so clean. The house-elves must work themselves half to death with effort, as you never saw a hair or speck of dust where there ought not to be one. The small refreshment table filled and refilled through every new day and the fireplace was always roaring on cold winter nights. It was especially cold that evening, and so the members of Gryffindor house benefited from a crackling fire and hot chocolate coming out of the ears.

You basked in the warmth of the flame, sitting cross-legged before it. A cup of hot chocolate cooled in between your hands, which were both laden with bandaids and germolene. Fred and George’s orders, of course. You were not to scratch, bite or mess in any detrimental way with your hands, arms or skin. If you did, you were to report to them for immediate bandaging.

At first, they’d simply been spelling each wound away. This had an opposite effect, as the freshly healed skin was perfect for picking whenever your mood turned - which was often. You found yourself blinded and basked in the light of being cared for by others, and although you may have preferred complete autonomy over your own body, you couldn’t say you minded the attentiveness of the twins. They’d made it their personal mission to prevent any self-harm, accidental or purposeful. You weren’t sure you even knew the difference half the time.

A quiet had settled over the room. It seemed as though each red and gold student was content to breathe in the smell of chestnut and pine in peaceful, companionable silence. You found yourself smiling kindly at each person who looked your way. You couldn’t imagine having done that before you had become acquainted with the twins.

Acquainted was a word you used to protect yourself. Friendly was too confident, too firm. You sometimes dreamt of horror stories where you, confident and comfortable, admitted how much you cared for them. In these dreams, they laughed in your face. Poked fun at your hope.

Of course, Fred and George weren’t cruel. If they felt that way, they certainly wouldn’t rub it in your face or make you feel embarrassed about it. But some shame never went away, and you carried it like an ever-burning torch.

Despite the pleasant warmth of the room, chills racked your spine at the thought. You pushed it from your head, attempting to think of anything else. You traced a pattern through the braided strands of the rug you were lazing upon, first the flames of a bonfire towering ten feet tall, then a mirror of the powdered sugar landscape outside.

Two warm bodies settled in the carpet on either side of you. A long arm wrapped around your shoulders confidently. The floral scent of your perfume mingled with the strong scent of burning caramel and something woody, the signature fragrance of the Weasley twins.

George moved first, plonking a stuffed toy into your lap. He positioned the neck carefully so that the teddy bear was sat as comfortable as you were.

“For you,” said Fred.

“An early Christmas gift,” George added.

The bear was spotted unusually like some sort of hybrid creature. You wondered where they could possibly have acquired such an artefact.

“We saw him and thought of you,” they said together.

That was rich. And maybe correct. After all, it was a weird looking plushie and you weren’t exactly renowned for your normality. You didn’t say much, simply handing off your cold drink to George without so much as a sideways glance and brought the bear to your face. You grazed your nose against its brown stomach and inhaled, breathing in its clean scent.

Both twins were used to the general quietness that came with your presence and didn’t pressure any response. You knew you should’ve said thank you, or even smiled gratefully, but you just couldn’t make your mouth move the way you wanted. You placed your hand on each brothers leg and applied the barest amount of pressure, hoping it showed gratitude.

“Well, I’m starving.”

“I’m so glad you said so, my brother.”

“Yes, I’m craving something savory, Gred.”

“Something juicy, Forge.”

“Such as?”

You looked between them like a muggle attending a tennis match, back and forth and back and forth. They ran circles around you for their own enjoyment, you assumed, but maybe also to make you feel more included.

“Y/N, fancy a trek to the kitchens?”

Before you could say no, or yes, or make up your mind and decide what it was you wanted to do, your stomach growled. Fred grinned wickedly.

They ushered you out of the portrait hole and down the stairs without preamble, flanking your sides like bodyguards. You didn’t mind, taking time to smile at the castle ghosts and portraits as you went.

The twins shot each other looks when they thought you couldn’t see. One said, how do you think she is? Another said, I think she’s however you think she is. Both said, she seems okay today.

It would feel a little patronizing if it weren’t so foreign - to have people care about your well-being so deeply they made changes to their day to see you and went out of their way to make you feel good; you’d find it condescending if it wasn’t so delightful.

That is to say, you felt conflicted. Happy that somebody cared, ashamed that they also felt concerned. They worried over everything these days, what you ate and what classes you had and oh, ghostie, do you need help with that? Y/N, sweetheart, let me carry that for you, lest your arms grow too tired.

It was… nice. It was nice, even if it was painful. Sometimes, it reminded you why you didn’t allow yourself the pleasure of friendship in the first place.

You hummed to yourself. Making sound had become a little easier. You weren’t inclined to say a whole lot, but allowing yourself to be louder, to take up space, had come easier the longer you spent with them. Neither Fred nor George minded if you huffed after too many stairs or if you clicked gobstones together at the foot of their beds.

The song was one of those cheesy Christmas numbers you’d heard on the radio. It was warm and comforting, bringing tears to your eyes if you thought about it too much. George slipped into song with you easily, humming much more loudly and obnoxiously. Fred just grinned to himself, keeping dutiful watch of the corridors.

You bubbled like a shaken can of coke by the time you arrived at the painting that enclosed the kitchen doorway, feeling too happy for your own good. Despite feeling very hungry, not a lick of fatigue or unhappiness tinged your mood, though the fuzzy numbness of every day threatened your well-being if you stopped to think too long.

The door swung open obediently after your half-hearted tickle insisted upon by the boys.

“What do you feel like, Y/N, sweet or savoury? There’s bound to be something you’ll fancy,” George said.

You held in a grimace. There were lots of things you wanted to try, the kitchens smelled like so many amazing things. The cloying smells of jam and treacle and custard, the hearty scents of gravy and roast dinner. It was too bad, then, that most everything you ate tasted stale. For years, your tastebuds had been slacking. During your worst days, food held no taste at all, resulting in your decreased appetite.

A tingling began in your fingers. You didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, how to convey that you didn’t really feel up to anything at all. You knew they would protest as they always did when you didn’t eat.

“Bread,” you managed. Bread was a safe choice. Dense enough to feel filling, easy to keep down, and bland to begin with.

Both boys were frowning but trying not to at your choice.

George moved forward, catching the attention of a harrowed looking house elf. They conversed with familiarity and soon you were being beckoned to a table that was relatively clear. Within minutes you were surrounded by bread, crusty rolls and sliced sourdough.

George casually nudged a bowl of tomato soup in your direction.

The surface shined with grease. It even had a swirl of cream and a sprig of basil afloat.

He looked at you, eyes pleading.

“You too,” you said.

This appeased him. The boys sat across from you with their own bowls, eating in the horrific way that teenage boys do. By the time they’d finished, you’d managed half of your own meal and two slices of bread. The nausea you experienced from just existing was starting to build, accompanied by the disappointment of your bland meal. You’d hoped an improved mood would help your appetite, but you still felt unsatisfied.

The boys grabbed a passing plate of tarts and ice cream.

Your good mood was wearing thin. You bit down on the tip of your thumb and stared at the grain of the table.

You bit down harder.

“Hey. Hey! Don’t do that,” Fred said, reaching forward as if to grab your hand. You pushed it under the table.

George pushed the plate of confectionary closer to you. “Chew on one of these instead, hm?”

You took it all back - this was patronising. Lovely and thoughtful and very, excruciatingly patronising.

You didn’t want to say no, or push it away, or eat anything else or even laugh it off. You wanted to do nothing. You lay your head down on the table, closing your eyes. You caught a murmur or two between them, though you couldn’t make out the words with your ear pressed so hard against the wood and the other covered by your falling hair. The table was smooth and cool under your skin.

A chair scraped against the floor. Footsteps. A broad hand against your back.

“You’re like a steam train running out of coal sometimes.”

You knew he was hoping for a response, a joke, a sign you’d been cheered up.

Through slow blinks, you could make out his face. Endlessly amused and a little sad, framed by the candlelight. He was beautiful, you thought absently. They were both beautiful.

“You okay?” he said quietly.

“Mm,”

“Mm? Is mm a yes or a no?”

“Mm,”

“Alright,” he said, rubbing a soothing path up between your shoulder blades and down again. It would’ve been dizzying if you could think straight, it made the numbness a little woozy. You preened beneath his touch like a pleased cat, feeling the unhappiness melt just a little.

It was crazy how affection could make you feel better, even if it didn’t always solve the problem.

Embarrassed, you mumbled, “you’re going to kill me.”

Fred smiled. “How so?”

“You’re fattening me up like a lamb to slaughter.”

He didn’t quite laugh, huffing through his nose. He really was very handsome up close. His hair was curling at just below his ears, a lush auburn colour that complemented his pale, freckle adorned skin. His eyes were a heart-melting brown so that his pupils were lost. The look he gave you was searing like he knew exactly what you were thinking about him. Your ears were tinged with heat, cheeks filling with colour.

He retracted his hand.

“Wrap some of those up, Georgie. Ghostie needs her bed.”

“It shall be done, brother mine!”

You smiled despite yourself.

-

For your birthday, the twins had gifted you a simple necklace. The chain was silver, reaching to just below your collar bone. It had no charm or jewel. It was perfect.

It helped you sometimes when you felt out of it to run it between two fingers or tug it gently from left to right, feeling the chain links rolling behind your neck.

You’d tried that, among every other coping mechanism drilled into your head by George and Fred over the past few weeks. You drew circles were you wanted to scratch, put plasters over fingertips you wanted to pick at. You took big breaths and did the stretches George insisted on. You even tried getting a full night’s sleep - nothing worked.

It filled you with guilt. You felt as though you were letting them both down by struggling.

You stared out the window of the dormitory at the sky, moonlight spilling onto your skin and staining your clothes a gauzy silver. You’d read once that sometimes when the planets were in rotation, you could see them as though they were as close as the moon.

This didn’t seem right to you. How could Mars seem so close? It was an optical illusion. The planets revolved around the sun, but humans had once thought they revolved around Earth instead.

It must’ve been a very strange experience to realise you weren’t as important as you thought. The Earth was just the Earth, spinning and wobbling its path through space.

You shook your head, feeling lost. It was ridiculous to project your feelings on the solar system. But still, you couldn’t help but feel like, despite its inhabitants and its systems, the Earth was so lonely.

Your necklace began to grow cold until it was almost like ice against your skin. One of the twins, or maybe both, had charmed it to change temperature. Cold usually meant, ‘Ghostie, you awake?’

You cringed against the sensation. Why couldn’t they booty call you like normal young men, throwing stones at your window with a boom box? Or, for merlin’s sake, an owl?

You grumbled to yourself, throwing the fleece blanket from your body. You were hardly dressed for company in knickers and a tank top, so you threw on a grey zip-up jacket and a pair of pyjama shorts that were hardly any better than the knickers. Luckily the jacket hung past the shorts. You wanted to care that you were dressed scantily, really, but the boys wouldn’t care and you didn’t have it in you to find something else.

You trekked down the stairs, your trainer socks slippery against the well-worn wood. Fred stretched languidly in front of the fireplace, a pack of exploding snap cards and a mountain of chocolate frogs beside him whilst George was sitting much more straight-backed on the sofa.

“I’m cold,” you said, announcing your arrival. The redheads turned to look at you over their shoulders. Fred rolled his eyes at you and flicked his wand. The necklace slowly heated until it was pleasantly warm against your collarbones.

You clambered over the back of the sofa with little grace, folding your knees underneath you and leaning heavily against George’s arm. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

“If I were a lesser man, I’d ask where your bottoms were, Y/L/N,” said Fred, shuffling the cards dexterously.

You raised your jacket wordlessly, exposing your bottoms.

“Wouldn’t you know, they were there the whole time.”

“You assumed the same as me, George.”

George didn’t reply, though his expression said he was similarly embarrassed.

“And do you always let girls you presume to be half-naked climb all over you?” you asked.

“So talkative,” George chastened.

“Don’t change the subject! I’m interested in the answer,” said Fred.

“Oh shove off! You insufferable tyrants.”

Ah, so he knows how it feels now, you thought. You looked up into his face, the line of his jaw.

You looked down at your legs, feeling fatigued. Smooth stretches of skin and fine hair interrupted only by thin white lines. The low light made them almost impossible to see. They shined like silver when you moved, caught by the light of a nearby candle. They felt a lifetime away now when a young you had used pins and quills and little carving knives to punish yourself for bad behaviour.

You traced a slightly thicker one with a pointed fingernail. You pushed it nastily into the scar, but it didn’t hurt.

You sighed.

Fred and George were half arguing about something you didn’t catch, Fred through a mouthful of chocolate.

It was hard, always being miserable. People often criticized the moody for ruining the mood, but it wasn’t as if you could choose how to be. You wanted to wake each day and be happy and entertaining and absurdly good-natured, like the twins. It was an abject cruelty, then, that every day you woke up and felt the immeasurable dread of continuing on another day. Not even magic could help you with that.

You rejected Fred’s offer to play, happy to sit and watch the boys play. You let yourself slide into the space George had vacated, curling into a tight ball. Your stomach hurt.

Godric, there was always something fucking wrong with you.

You were frustrated. The boys could tell. Their game of snap was stretched thin, and you knew it was your fault. You wrinkled your nose at the smell of singed hair, restless. You squirmed against the warm leather under your skin, feeling sticky and out of sorts.

You closed your eyes against the aching and slept.

You woke up crying.

Fred shifted in his sleep. He was leaning against your legs, his hair and face smushed into the leather beneath you. George was facedown in the carpet. You pressed a hand to your mouth to muffle any sound.

The clock on the wall read 4 minutes past 4 o’clock in the morning. You’d only managed an hour and a half of sleep.

You couldn’t remember what you’d been dreaming. Maybe somewhere familiar. Faces you recognized. It didn’t matter, only the feeling of being crushed by the air. You reached out without thinking, grabbing Fred’s shoulder.

He roused gracelessly, blinking through squinted eyes at you. A hard sob rocked you to the core, the feeling of breathlessness sinking deep into your chest.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurting?”

You couldn’t answer. You grasped for his arm, begging him to do something, to save you. You felt as though you were going to run out of air.

“Hey, you’re alright. You’re okay. Let’s breathe, should we? Breathe with me.” He grabbed the hand you’d pushed over your mouth and brought it to his chest. You could feel him take a huge inhale and you tried your best to replicate it.

“Good! That’s good. You’re doing so well.” Another big breath, a long exhale.

“You feel that? The leather under you.” He grabbed your free hand and put it on the seat. “Feels weird, huh? Dimples and wrinkles.” He dragged your hand over the texture repeatedly.

A big breath.

Eventually, your breathing returned. The crying stayed.

“Don’t cry, ghost.”

You frowned. It was odd to be looking down at Fred instead of up. He pressed your hand tighter to his chest.

“Bad dream?”

“Don’t remember,” you whispered.

“It was just a dream. You’re okay. I promise.��

George snored. Fred rolled his eyes. You laughed through the tears, blinking the last of them away.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be here.”

You knew he was telling the truth.

[wri0thesley]

A Well Rounded Education (4): Equality Statement (Fem!Reader x Naoya Zenin, 7.5k)

series synopsis: you are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. gojo, unfortunately, does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: you make the mistake of crossing naoya zenin at a sports festival and are forced to apologise. but as you well know by now, nothing ever seems to go to plan where any of your student’s fathers are concerned. 

NSFW. MINORS DNI. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. misogyny, weird power dynamics, hate-sex, piv sex, blowjobs. naoya.  

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)   ♡  (jujutsu kaisen masterlist)

1.

The Saturday morning that your first ever undokai is scheduled for dawns bright and early, and you can’t help the little thrill that goes through you at the golden fingers of dawn lighting up your room. There’d been talk of the weekend bringing rain, and things needing to be rescheduled – but it’s perfect weather, as you put on a comfortable tank top and shorts instead of your neat pencil skirt and suit jacket combination.

This will be your first event of the kind, and you’re excited about it. The kids in the class have been practising all of their cheers and routines and the like constantly, whilst the ones involved in the competitive sports have been cheering one another on and snatching time when they can to race against one another in preparation. It’s been nice to see all of the camaraderie between them – even some of the quieter ones have seemed to come a little bit out of their shell, with so much team spirit in the air.

Well. Most of them have. You’ve noticed Junpei still hanging back, face sad, uncomfortable when other boys crowd him and tug him off to who knows where – probably to get him involved in their own practises or rehearsals.

It’s been long and hard preparing for it, but even Gojo has been focused on something for once.

“There’s just something about events like this!” Gojo chirped to you, once, as he’d held up a megaphone he did not really need and called his class back into formation in front of him. “You know! The joy of youth! I want them to have the best time possible! They deserve it.”

Seeing Gojo’s mischievous eyes sparkle with determination instead of humour had made you smile at him, and you’d felt a strange pull in your chest when he’d smiled back, needing to pull your gaze away to ask Yuuji to stop poking Megumi in the back to get him to look at a weird caterpillar he’d found on the ground.

As a junior high undokai, things are a little more competitive than they might be if this were an elementary school or even a middle school event, but there’s still a big emphasis on the teamwork and the cheering on portion of the day. You’ve watched and applauded what feels like a hundred practises for the cheering section, confiscating whistles when they’re sneakily blown whilst you’re trying to teach a mathematics lesson.

Still, you’re not surprised to see that Gojo’s class have been corralled into his classroom whilst your vivacious teacher and mentor gives them a rallying encouragement that seems to contain a lot of bigging up the fact that they are, in fact, his class.

“I thought the pep talk was for them,” you say, as heads turn to you when you walk into the room. It’s strange to see all of the faces dressed in their gym uniforms instead of their school uniforms – and it’s even stranger to be wearing an approximation of it yourself.

“You look nice!” Yuji pipes up, and you smile at him.

“It is for them,” Gojo brings a hand to his sunglasses to push them down a little, giving you a charming smile and the full force of the galaxies swirling in his eyes. “I’m just reminding them that as Satoru Gojo’s class, of course they’re going to do well! We’re going to be the strongest, and win!” He looks at all of them – bright shining faces turned to him, all lit up with the excitement of competition. There’s something in him that you rarely see right now – something encouraging and bright and compassionate. He genuinely seems to want them to do well. “I believe in all of you!”

The warmth spreading through your chest at Gojo’s words is a new experience. You’re far more used to exasperation and frustration where he’s concerned.

But now, you can’t help the infectious smiles of the children and the determination in their face to do well enough for everyone to be proud of. Maybe Gojo isn’t so bad after all, you think, as he bids the children in the class farewell and tells them to go and join everyone else outside in preparation for the day’s events.

“What d’you think?” He asks you, as Junpei leaves the room, still dragging his feet a little. You can’t blame him. He’s involved in the cheering section, as so many of the less athletic kids are, but the undokai is not optional and you think that Junpei is the kind of boy who hates being looked at. “Are we gonna win?”

“I don’t think that’s quite the point of the exercise,” you say, eventually. “We’re supposed to be fostering team spirit and co-operation--”

“Yeah,” Gojo wrinkles his nose and grins. “But we’re still gonna win, right?”

You sigh.

“With Yuji and Maki? Probably. But that’s not the point!”

Gojo stands up and stretches his arms out above him. He’s in a shirt that clings tight to a surprisingly muscled abdomen,  and dark grey sweatpants. He’s never been the ‘formal wear’ kind of teacher, but it’s still jarring to see him dressed so casually – and even more jarring to realise that he’s handsome, despite the fact you’ve spent most of the last few months rolling your eyes and sighing and cursing the world that you’ve ended up having to endure Satoru Gojo so much.

“I know, I know – but it’s nice to think about, right?” His grin is infectious. “Did you have time to have breakfast this morning? I know it’s an earlier start than usual, I’ve got a spare blueberry muffin in my bag – hope it didn’t get crushed too badly by my stretches--”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, already dreading the idea of him pressing a crumbled muffin into your hand. “I had a healthy, nutritious breakfast.”

“So did I!” He says, hotly. “The blueberry muffin had fruit in it, croissants are glazed with egg so that’s protein, and I had a slice of honey on toast too just because I felt like I’d have to keep my energy up today--”

You are constantly impressed by how he manages to consume all of this sugar without going into overdrive – then again, maybe that does explain a lot about him.

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing today,” you admit to him. “I mean, I know I’m here to cheer on the kids and stuff, but I don’t know what my role’s supposed to be--”

“Oh!” He comes around and begins to walk out of the classroom, beckoning you to follow him. “Didn’t I tell you? They told me ages ago--” He did not tell you. You don’t know why you find this a surprise. “You’re gonna be in charge of the refreshments table for the first half of the morning – Yuta, you know, the other teacher’s aid, he’ll relieve you for the second half so you can cheer us on and help me a bit. Not that I’ll need it! It’s not a hard job, just be polite to anyone who needs to use it, most of ‘em bring their own lunches and snacks but we find that it’s always good to have a table with some extras – especially when it’s so hot outside!”

“You didn’t,” you say, but you follow him anyway. You have learnt by now that the most you’ll get from Gojo is a shrug and an airy ‘sorry’. And you suppose, in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t so bad. It’s not like you needed to have time to stop and prepare yourself to give people a polite smile and ask them if they’d like you to pour them a glass of water.

The two of you spill out into the grounds of the school, which is already full of excited students and proud parents. You recognise a few of them – your face heats up as you see Nanami forcibly pressing a bottle of sunscreen into Yuji’s hands, and as the two of you walk past Geto who is tying back Mimiko and Nanako’s hair, ensuring the team hats that the students are all wearing sit neatly on their heads.

There’s a man stood with Maki and Mai who you assume is their father; a blond with a sneering face and a presence that makes you feel like you shouldn’t even be looking at him. Maki has her arms crossed, her chin jutting forward – the two of them are clearly involved in some kind of argument. Even as you watch, some other men are walking towards him with their heads bowed, like he’s something special.

You vaguely recall that you’ve heard some tell about the Zenins being a very rich, very old, very respected family. Judging from the way he carries himself and the way people keep looking at him, you think that must be it.

“Is that Maki and Mai’s dad?” You ask, curiously, as you’re pushed past him towards a collection of tables beneath a bright yellow awning. Gojo makes a noise that sounds like a sigh.

“Yep,” he says, sounding short. There’s some kind of history there, you think. “That’s Naoya Zenin. Better for you to avoid him, if you can – he’s not the kind of guy you want to cross, y’know?”

“But Maki’s--”

“Absolutely nothing like him,” Gojo deposits you in front of a table heaped with water jugs, ice cubes and plastic cups. “Really.”

You wrinkle your nose as you look around. At least everyone else seems happy – excited, buzzing with energy and the promise of an exciting day ahead. You can’t help but worry about Maki’s expression, though. She had looked like her and her father were having an argument that had been going on for months--

Gojo waves at you as he jogs across the field, moving surprisingly quickly for a man who ate nothing but sugar for his breakfast. You watch him go, unable to stop a smile forming on your face as he pauses by Maki and Mai. He slaps a hand onto Maki’s shoulder and says something with a bright grin that she seems to respond to with a smile, turning to follow him. Her father’s eyes narrow, as he spits something that even you can work out is venomous at the retreating backs of one of his daughters. He sighs as he says something else to Mai, a smile almost tugging at the corners of his mouth as his attention shifts back to her.

It’s clear who the golden child is there, then.

You try and shake your thoughts away from Naoya Zenin and his two girls and concentrate on the place that you’ve been given, reminding yourself that even if it doesn’t seem like a big role, you all have to work hard to make sure that today is a success. Your students have been practising and getting excited for this event for weeks, and you want all of the parents to be as proud of their students as you are.

You have a good view from the refreshments table of everything that’s going on. You watch a few of the races, a few cheering displays from the other classes to the beat of the drums – and when kids run up to you, sweaty and panting, you hand them a plastic cup full of cool water and they thank you as if you harvested it from a spring yourself instead of merely pouring it out.

Some parents ask you politely who you are, and you tell them with a smile and a bright look, hoping that you being friendly and polite will get back to other people. A few of them exchange looks when they hear that you’re attached to Gojo’s class; the man has a reputation that follows him everywhere. You give out oranges and other pieces of fruit to some of the students who need an extra sugar boost, or the ones who have a bandage wrapped around their knee or grazes from falls that have recently been cleaned. Shoko is busy today, and you often see her direct these injured children to you as a rest stop, and so their parents can find them easily.

You pause for a moment as the names are called for a relay race, and you hear Maki and Mai being summoned. This is the first race that they’re taking part in – if their team wins this one, they’ll qualify for the final this afternoon. You can see Gojo lifting his arms and hollering and hear his loud, excited voice even with all of the other people crowding into the school grounds to watch, and despite yourself you feel a smile spread over your face.

You’re still smiling when you hear a scoff.

You turn around to see what the fuss is – only to see Naoya Zenin, holding a plastic cup of water as if it’s offended him mortally. Seeing you looking at him, his lip curls.

“Is this tap water?” He asks you. He has a curious accent; slow, drawling, and clearly much superior to your own. It’s not an accent that Maki and Mai have inherited – and as he raises one eyebrow, the sun catching the rings in his ears, you find yourself glad of it. “Well?”

“I think so,” you say. You are on edge. He peers into it, and sighs.

“Don’t you have anything better? Cell-gen or Tennensui or even I LOHAS, at least?” He speaks to you slowly, like you’re a child, or as if he’s not sure whether a peasant like you would even know the names of any bottled water brands. You can’t stand being talked down to, and you curl your hand into a fist as you say, trying to keep yourself polite;

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s just this.”

“You’d think with the money pumped in-- fine.” He sighs, taking a sip of the water, his face scrunching in displeasure at – you don’t know. The disgusting taste of tap water, you suppose. You try not to look at the bob of his throat as he swallows. Everything about this man seems to be unpleasant except the way he looks.

You take your own cup of water, just to quell some of the dryness that has made itself known in your throat at interacting with him.

The cheering gets a little quieter, and you turn to see what’s happened. As it turns out, all that’s actually happened is Gojo has stopped putting forth his own shouts to the fray, his eyes focussed on you and Naoya, a look that you think is almost sympathy spread across his face. You see that the race is about to begin, and you don’t look at Naoya as you say;

“You’re Maki and Mai’s father, aren’t you? Their first race is about to start. Maki’s been training really hard, I think she’ll pip it for us—”

A dark presence at your shoulder, and a sneering, uppity drawl.

“I gather you’re the teaching aid I’ve been hearing so much about from everyone.” he says. It does not sound like a compliment. “Maki has really found you . . . encouraging.” He says it like it’s a dirty word.

You force yourself to remain cheerful, and not ask him what the fuck his problem is.

“Maki’s really talented,” you say. “Mai’s fast, too – they’re both really good representatives for the class--”

Naoya snorts.

“They should be on the sidelines,” he says, coolly. “Supporting the men. Not running. Not getting all sweaty and hot and messing up their hair and their pretty faces.” He shakes his head. “It’s unwomanly, and if Maki listened to a word I’d said, she wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Mai is doing it too,” you point out, hating yourself for getting involved in this. But you just can’t let him stand there and be such an asshole, spewing his narrow-minded ideas when there are impressionable girls around.

“Mai’s already agreed that if they win this race, she’ll ask one of the boys to switch in for her. I’ve sorted it with the principal. It’s not ladylike for her to do any more than she has to. She’s not going to get a husband in good standing based on her athletic prowess--”

Oh, this is too far. You’re seething, though you’re trying to keep your respectable face on. You’re at work, you’re at work, you’re at work--

“Perhaps there are some other things they consider more important than finding a husband, at the age of twelve?”

Naoya’s laugh is nasty, mocking – and you hate that there’s something in it that sends a curl of heat right through you, blooming between your thighs.

“The younger a girl learns her place,” he says, his voice very slow. “The better it is and easier it is for a man to be assured she’ll do her duties. I don’t see a ring on your finger, Miss – I’d hate for them to end up working some dead-end little job just because they don’t have anyone to cook and clean for--”

Nope.

You can’t take it any longer.

You turn and you throw the cup of ‘shitty tap water’ in your hand right over Naoya Zenin’s stupid, smug, asshole face.

2.

Gojo, for what you think must be one of the first time in his life, looks uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know you were going to throw water on him,” he tries to say, weakly. “Look, we all hate him, but . . . ugh. This is so frustrating! I hate all of this bureaucracy bullshit--”

It turns out that Naoya Zenin’s family – and Naoya Zenin himself – donate rather a lot of money to the school for such functions as the one you’re all currently attending. It turns out that nobody wants to piss off the bank-roll that’s keeping their gym maintained, their events fancy and expensive, the library well-stocked – and you get that! You really do! You know that school budgets are overstretched already, and that donors like the Zenin family are something to be gently courted and kept around for as long as humanly possible.

You just wish that the big donor for this school was anybody else.

“I didn’t know all of this,” you say, reasonably. “I know I shouldn’t have thrown a drink over him, but Mr. Gojo--”

“How many times? You can call me Satoru.”

“If you’d heard the way he was talking--”

“Oh, believe me,” Gojo’s full lips press into a thin line. “I know exactly what Naoya Zenin’s modus operandi is. Let me guess: he was all on at you about how Maki’s not a proper young lady, how the boys should be doing the hard work, how he’s trying to make sure his daughters get a proper start and a rich husband – ugh.” Gojo tugs at his shirt, clearly frustrated. “I’ve had it way too much.”

“Yeah,” you say. You find yourself sighing too.

“The Vice Principal’s in his back pocket,” Gojo says, taking a seat on top of the desk that you’re currently sat behind, cooling off some of your anger – Principal Masamichi had sent you inside to calm you down, and Naoya himself had been escorted into the building by Vice Principal Gakuganji to dry off, all the while saying placating things to calm down the school’s meal ticket. “They want you to apologise to him.”

“I suppose I should,” you say miserably. “But it’s gonna feel like swallowing gravel.”

“I certainly don’t blame you,” Gojo says, with a smile, trying to cheer you up. “Hell, I know some of the other staff members have been dying to do it--”

“Ugh,” you bury your face in your hands. “This is a horrible impression in front of the whole school.”

He pats you gently on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, “when this is all over, I’ll take you out for ice cream. I know the best places in the city, and they all know me too!”

You summon a smile for him. He’s not so bad, really – sure, he’s chaotic and thinks too highly of himself for his own good, but . . . at least he’s nothing like Naoya. You stand up and pull down your shorts, wriggling your tank top down to cover you as much as you possibly can. You feel a bit exposed, not in heels and stockings and a blouse.

“I should get this over with, then.”

Gojo has too much to do back on the field to escort you to Naoya himself, so he tells you that Naoya’s in the Vice Principal’s office and gives you another friendly squeeze on the shoulder.

“Good luck,” he tells you. “Remember: ice cream at the end of this!”

“Ice cream at the end of this,” you repeat, as you watch him jog out of the corridor. You’re almost tempted to tell him off for running in the halls – Gojo moves so fast that sometimes you lose track of him entirely – but you push back the urge. Gojo is being decent today. You’re thankful to him for sitting with you and helping you calm – and also, evidently, for being one of the things that keeps Maki’s fighting spirit inflamed.

You stand there for a moment, in front of the door to the office, balling up your courage tight and hot in your stomach. You do not want to have to apologise to Naoya, but you know it’s for the best. The sooner you can put this sorry incident behind you and try and avoid Naoya at every single function from herein, the better – so you tap hard on the door and wait until you hear his slow, drawling voice.

“You can come in.”

At first, you’re surprised to see that he’s alone in there – sitting in front of the desk in a comfortable chair, clearly at ease with everything. His arms are sprawled over the back of it, his legs wide apart. You chastise yourself for thinking it immediately – of course the vice principal is busy right now, of course he trusts someone as well-known to the school as Naoya to be alone in his office.

It’s hard not to think about every other time you’ve found yourself alone with the parents of your students, though. A heat crawls onto your face at the very thought of it. You find Naoya repellent, disgusting – but then again, he’s also (and you’re not being glib about it) handsome. You’d be lying if you’d said you sometimes hadn’t ignored a man���s personality for a night in favour of a face and a body that had drawn you in.

Not now.

You close the door behind you, clasping your hands together so you don’t clench your fists, and bow your head so that Naoya can’t tell that you’re grinding your teeth.

“I’m sorry for letting my emotions get the better of me, Sir,” you say, though it really does feel like you are gnashing ice to get the words out. “I should have been more polite. I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Mmm,” Naoya says, and you peek up at him through your lashes to see that he’s clearly enjoying having you at his mercy, his lips tilted into a smirk. His hair is still a little wet at the ends, but all that you throwing the water over him seems to have actually done is made his shirt cling tight to a surprisingly chiselled chest and stomach. Asshole. Fuck him. “Yes. I should hope not.”

You straighten yourself up, still a little stiff.

“I hope you can forgive me,” you say. “I . . . I am still learning my place in the establishment.”

He laughs, low and soft.

“Your place?” He asks, the words dangerously sweet on his tongue. “Yes. I can see you still need some help on that one.”

His eyes crawl over you slowly, dragging up and down the length of you, lingering over where your shorts cling to your hips and the tank top hugs your chest. You resist the urge to shift – you don’t want to let him know that he’s making you uncomfortable. You know, though, that he can sense that you have gone hot and prickly all over. He has that smug air; the one men who know what they do to people always seem to have cultivated. The knowledge that they are good-looking.

You suppose for Naoya, it’s the heady combination of knowing he is good-looking and powerful and rich, and you breathe through the force of all of his attention concentrated on you.

“Seeing as you’re still . . . new to all of this,” he says, bringing an arm forward to tap his long fingers on the desk. “And you did apologise prettily, I suppose I can forgive this transgression – just this once, darling.”

The pet name crawls up your spine like ice. He’s still staring at you, enjoying the view like you’re a piece of meat on a market stall he’s considering purchasing.

“Th-thank you, Sir,” you say, hating yourself a little bit but hating him all the more.

“You know,” he says. “You’re not exactly bad-looking.” He stands, rising to his full height, stretching out, frustratingly comfortable in this environment when you feel like a deer who’s about to turn tail and flee at any moment. “You’d be much better off at home raising children than here.” He wrinkles his nose. “Working for a living.” The way that he says the words makes it clear that he considers this a task far beneath the likes of him.

He’s moving towards you now, and your breath seems to get stuck in your throat as he’s suddenly in front of you, stalking elegantly. You want to snap back something about how you’d rather work for a living than have to rely on the whims of a man, much less a man like him – but as he grabs your chin to tilt it up to the light, you find that the words seem to die in your throat.

“Hmm,” he says. “Not bad at all.” He makes an approving noise that sends a flutter right through you, making you dully aware of a pounding ache between your thighs. He leans a little further in, until he’s so close that you can see the pale colours dancing in his eyes, the way the light hits his high cheekbones. “You’re trembling with rage, you know. It’s adorable.”

“You’re very easy to be angry at,” you half-breathe, half-hiss, and Naoya’s smirk is going to be burnt into your memory forever and ever.

“If you’re so angry,” he murmurs, “I can certainly think of a way I wouldn’t mind helping you work out your aggression.”

You shouldn’t do it. But your heart is beating a frantic rhythm against your ribcage and your breath is short, and part of you wants to wrestle him to the ground and dominate him so that he can have a taste of his own medicine. You grab a handful of his hair and drag him down into a bruising kiss.

3.

Oh, and he kisses back. His mouth is soft against yours, but the kiss itself is rough – both of your tongues fighting for dominance, both of you trying to nip at one another’s bottom lip and seize the victory. You’re practically shoved backwards so that your ass catches the edge of the Vice Principal’s desk, even as you tug hard on Naoya’s hair to tell him that you’re not going to be overpowered by him so easily. You feel the feral curve of his grin as he pulls back just enough to whisper;

“Oh? You really think you’re going to get the better of me? You’re cute--” and then you push his shoulders hard, and he stumbles and falls back onto the chair he started this whole escapade sat in. You reach down to tug off your shirt, dropping it onto the floor beside you – Naoya looks for a moment like he’s going to stand back up and resume trying to wrest back the situation into his favour, but as he sees the slight bounce of your breasts in your bra he seems to decide it would be more interesting and beneficial for him to stay exactly where he is and watch you disrobe.

So you do, wriggling your shorts down past your hips – he lets out a low groan at that, as you stand before him in nothing but your underwear with your fists clenched on your hips.

You feel surprisingly powerful like this. It definitely makes a difference from all of the other ways you’ve felt when you’ve been alone with somebody’s father--

“Take off your shirt,” you tell him, and you’re almost surprised at the imperious tone in your own voice. “It’s your turn--”

He raises an eyebrow at you, but he does as you ask. Long fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, taking his sweet time pulling it off his body – and yes, it’s a nice one. Nice, too, are his thighs as he undoes his trousers that probably cost more than you make in a year and pushes them down, sitting before you in nothing but his equally as expensive-looking underwear – an impressive looking bulge outline pressed against the fabric. Even as he looks at you, he takes hold of himself through it and squeezes it, his grin crooked.

Your body does a throb of need.

“Oh,” you say, feigning surprise. “I didn’t realise you were so needy already--”

“Like you’re not dripping,” he says sharply, his eyes zeroing in on the space between your thighs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I can see the damp patch from here.”

“Who’s to say that’s for you?” You walk towards him. You can’t help but feel powerful and in control at how his eyes follow you with rapt attention, how his tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip as he drinks in your form in front of him.

“Please,” he says. “As if there’s anyone here more deserving.”

He reaches forward and his hands settle on your hips, dragging you closer to him – hot fingertips brushing your waist, the bare skin beneath your bra before he’s unclipping that too and your breasts are bare. He breathes in deeply.

“Pity,” he says, though his voice is thick with his own arousal. “You’re such a cute little thing, if only you didn’t open your mouth--”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind me opening my mouth to do something else,” you breathe, and you reach down to ghost your fingers over his cock through the tent in his underwear. He hisses through his teeth, his eyes half-lidded.

“Don’t just say it, princess,” he says. “If you’re going to run your mouth, the least you could do is make it do something useful--”

“I’d rather die than get on my knees for you.” Your mouth is very close to his neck – to punctuate the statement, you give his earlobe a tug with your teeth, and he practically groans. You’re almost straddling him on the chair, and you do not miss, either, the twitch that his cock seems to give at the tug.

It seems like for somebody who really wants to be in control, and wants women to know their place so badly, Naoya actually is rather enjoying somebody giving him a taste of his own medicine.

He grabs your underwear and pulls it down, clicking his tongue as it bunches about your knees.

“Just give into what your body wants,” he says, all saccharine sweetness in that slow, deep voice. “You’ve made a mess.”

You know you have. You can feel slick when your thighs press too close together, hot and wet between your legs. You really are practically dripping. But it’s not just from Naoya, you don’t think – it’s from the sudden power you’re feeling, the rush of being an equal participant in everything, in feeling like you have the upper hand. And not a small part, you think, is because of the adrenaline that’s coursing through your veins at the thought of putting Naoya Zenin in his place. You tip your head to the side innocently.

“What about you?” You ask, with a mean shade to the pitch of your voice. “You’re so hard it’s a wonder you’re not in pain--”

He grabs a hank of your hair with one hand whilst spreading your legs further with the other, so strong that the breath’s knocked out of you. The tip of his finger skims the outer lips of your sex, gathering your slick arousal on the pad as he growls;

“I’m still a man, darling. I see a pretty cunt to fuck and a pair of nice tits and I want to bury myself into it until the bitch remembers her place--”

“Good luck,” you breathe. “I think you’ll be the one remembering his place, here.”

He laughs breathlessly.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re going to be singing a different song when you’re begging me to fuck you harder.”

You give him a smile with your teeth bared; the challenge is obvious. It’s a smile that says ‘we’ll see’, even as you both tug at his underwear to pull it down and reveal what he’s been hiding beneath it.

You don’t want to admit that he’s got a pretty cock, but he has. He’s not the biggest you’ve seen, but it’s still impressive; a slight curve giving it an elegant angle that you realise with a clench will hit you exactly in the right spot when you take it inside of you.

He’s slick with his own pre-come, bubbling from the reddened slit – and as you shift forward and trap it between your thighs, he groans aloud again.

“That’s right,” he grunts, as the tip catches on your entrance and you begin to sink down upon it. “This is what you were made for, princess--”

“What?” You pant. “That would be disappointing. You barely fill me up--”

He grabs you and pulls you into another kiss as you finish off sheathing his cock inside of you – perhaps to save his pride, perhaps to muffle the noise that comes out of him, transferred into your mouth instead of his own. Whichever it is, you hate that you were right about the angle of his cock – you can feel it pressing snugly against the spongy G-spot even now, threatening you with a better time than you’d like to have.

You break the kiss to pull yourself off of him and sink back down, forcibly taking the lead and setting your own pace. You know it’s fast, you know it’s greedy – but fuck, if you aren’t boiling over with need.

You splay your hands across his shoulders, nails digging into his skin with little care to how you might mark him. You need him for leverage, as you continue to bounce up and down on his cock. Naoya tips his head back and groans, enjoying the feeling, before he remembers that you two are engaged in a battle of wits and attempts to get the better of you once more.

“I-is that,” he groans, coming to cling onto your waist and force you down on him with even more strength, helping you along in the too-fast rhythm of your thrusts and bounces. “The best you’ve got?”

“Come on,” you say breathlessly, as his cock continues to stroke that spot. You can hear the sounds of him sliding in and out of you, shamefully loud – too, you can hear the sounds of your skin slapping against one another, echoing and mixing with the breathless pants and the attempts to trade barbed insults. “Y-you’re making me do all the work?”

“Fucking pity you’ve got such a nice cunt,” Naoya snarls, his hips flexing, somehow managing to hit you deeper even as you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet and straddling him on the chair. His words are starting to sound very far away. “You should be in my fucking bed, keeping it warm, better off than wasting away here--”

Both of you are running your mouths, overwhelmed by how close one another’s bodies are and the intense heat radiating from you. There’s a frisson of electricity in the air, showering sparks, as the two of you continue to snatch words in between moans and groans and pants and whimpers--

“You’re pathetic--”

“You’re so fucking tight, I shouldn’t be surprised when you’re such a bitch--”

“F-fuck, harder, c-can’t you even keep the momentum going? You’re weak--”

“Baby girl, you’re fucking shaking – you gonna come first? Women are so predictable--”

You can feel your release hovering on the edge of your vision, blurring it as your eyes squeeze shut and you feel tears threatening to roll down your cheeks. There’s a heat inside of you that’s close to overspilling – and as you come down on him particularly hard, the head of his cock rolls over your g-spot just right, and you feel a dam inside of you break as your nails dig hard enough into his shoulders to draw blood. You bury your face into his neck so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of hearing you cry out his name, teeth worrying into his neck to leave a love-bite reminder of exactly what transpired between you two in the Vice Principal’s office.

You feel yourself twitch and tighten around him as your orgasm rocks your body, heat running through you like veins of marble. You can’t breathe – all you can do is bite, your hips chasing the final aftershocks.

Naoya is still hard inside of you as you lift yourself off him, letting his cock slip out of you as easily as butter. His own hands clench around your hips.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He asks, his voice rough and hungry. Despite that, though, you can hear the thread of some other emotion sewn in to them – and with a shiver of delight, you realise it’s neediness. He’s been left wanting, and you’ve been handed all of the cards. “I haven’t finished.”

“And you won’t finish inside me,” you snap at him, enjoying the longing in his voice. “Ask me very nicely and I’ll finish you off with my hand.”

“Mouth,” he demands – and he grabs your cheeks, squishing them, pulling you down and reminding you of all of the power that he has even though it’s your body that’s got the advantage of the high ground. “You don’t really think I’m going to be satisfied with your hand, princess--”

“You don’t deserve it,” you spit at him, but you sink to your knees anyway.

You’re not entirely lacking in manners. You suppose you did get to come. It would be rude to just leave him like this. Especially when the whole reason you’d ended up in this office in the first place was to apologise to him politely.

“This is the perfect position for you,” he sneers, as you open your mouth and envelope the head of his cock within it. You can taste yourself on his shaft. “Fuck, that’s right – put your mouth to good use for once--”

You give him a mean, slow lick along the slit of his cock head that makes him groan in the back of his throat. He wraps his hand around the back of your neck, fingers digging into the nape so he can control you at least a little bit, pushing you a touch too far so you almost choke. You pull off it, drooling.

“Choke me again and I’ll bite,” you snarl, and he pats your cheek like you’re an obedient dog.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he says – and you narrow your eyes at him in a way that says ‘try me’ before you return to sucking at him, hollowing your cheeks. You want to do a good job. A part of you wants to make him come so hard that he regrets being an asshole to you, even though you know that’s ridiculous and not going to happen.

Still. You’re not going to back down from a challenge, so you use your tongue to play along as much of his cock as you can.

“Fuck,” Naoya breathes. “Good . . . good fuckin’ girl—”

You’ve been hearing that low, polite drawl swear and curse for what seems like hours, but that one sends another pulse of heat through you – at your heart, you can’t argue that you love being praised. You whimper against his cock, glad that the fast pace you’ve managed to establish and the wet noises of your mouth around him muffle the noise so Naoya can’t dangle it over your head.

The hand on the nape of your neck jerks, so that you’re forced to look up at him and meet his eyes proper. His hips are slamming to meet your bobs now, the noise of him fucking your mouth filling the room. His teeth dig into his bottom lip and you feel him twitch, his voice pitching--

Salt coats your tongue as he fills your mouth.

But he doesn’t let himself finish there.

He pulls out, and he pumps his cock himself two, three times – coaxing out the other ropes of come, that hit your neck and chest and breasts hot and white and glistening. You’re too surprised by it to do anything – you’d expected him to keep your mouth on him, make you swallow down everything he gave you. He seems the kind of guy who gets off on that sort of thing--

But instead, he’s sighing, relaxing back into the chair as he looks at you with lazy eyes.

“You look cute like that,” he says, his voice low and sated. “I should take a picture.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, getting off your knees. You are so fucking thankful for the box of tissues on the Vice Principal’s desk, as you reach across and grab some to dab at yourself so you’re not sticky and disgusting for any longer than necessary.

If you leave them in his pedal waste-bin, you hope that the cleaning crew will dispose of them before the Vice Principal is even aware that they’re there. Your lip curls as you wipe your mouth. You wish you had a mint – or at least a glass of water. Even tap water would do.

For what it’s worth, Naoya seems a little agitated as he puts himself to rights too. Evidently he was not expecting you to fight back so much – he places a finger on his shoulders and scowls when he sees that you made him bleed.

“I should sue you for assault,” he says. You tap your own body, at the curve of your hips and waist.

“I’m going to bruise,” you tell him. “So I guess it would be self-defence.”

“You’re too smart for your own good,” he tells you, with narrowed eyes – and you give him another smile, one that is clearly fake, as you pull your tank top and shorts back on and re-tie your shoes.

You’re surprised as you go to leave the room and he sets a hand on the small of your back in a mocking echo of polite manners. As the two of you walk down the corridor towards the exit, he does not remove it. To the assembled crowds, you hope it will look entirely innocent – like the two of you have merely had a little chat and come to an agreement instead of heatedly fucking one another’s brains out.

You blink as you emerge out into the light, your eyes taking a moment to adjust. You see Principal Masamichi give you a sympathetic smile – and there’s Gojo, immediately charging towards you like an overprotective bear. He slows down as he sees the way that Naoya is still touching you.

“I hope everything’s alright,” he says, sounding stiffer and more formal than you usually hear. Naoya’s smile towards him is cold.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, “Perfect. You apologised beautifully, didn’t you, Miss?” Naoya looks down his nose at you, a conceited smile on his mouth. “I’ve decided to overlook this little transgression.” He leaves a pause, and you swallow as you realise what he’s waiting for.

“Thank you so much, Mr Zenin, Sir,” you say. Again, it feels like you have to force the words out through a mouthful of marbles – but they make it out of your mouth.

“Oh, don’t be so formal, Miss,” he smirks. “You can call me Naoya. I look forward to seeing you again – soon, I hope.”

“You’re just in time,” Gojo says coldly. “Maki just won the final race of the day for our team.”

Naoya’s gaze is sharp as he looks at him. His lip curls. You can tell that both of them want to do something – maybe have an out-and-out fist fight on the field. But Naoya manages to get a grip (you’re glad about it; you’re not entirely sure whether Gojo would have been able to hold back) and turns on his heel to stalk away.

He does give your ass one last squeeze, though, that you desperately hope that Gojo doesn’t notice.

Gojo’s shoulders stay set, his chin thrust proudly forward, until Naoya has been swallowed up by the crowd at large – and then, he turns to you. For the first time, you see his normally humorous eyebrows draw in with worry.

“You look upset,” he says. “Sweaty. You smell terrible. Do you need a minute?”

Your shoulders fall. Gojo gives you a sympathetic pat on the back.

“It’s a rite of passage to deal with someone from the Zenin family,” he says. “You’re just unlucky it happened to actually be Naoya today. He usually sends an underling or an uncle or someone to pretend to care about the girls.”

Wow. You sure hope the rite of passage has gone differently for everyone else.

“Why d’you think he came here today, then?” You ask Gojo. He looks at you strangely, a spark of something you can’t quite read in his eyes.

“Well,” he says, “he’s related to the Fushiguros, you know. I heard he and Megumi’s father have met up recently for drinks – it ended in a fight, of course, it always does. But maybe he expected Megumi’s dad to be here too?” He shrugs. “He can never resist an opportunity to relish over someone in his family winning, even if he doesn’t want Maki doing anything unladylike. Megumi’s dad isn’t here, though, so looks like that backfired on him--”

Your face feels like it’s on fire as you think about Megumi’s father fucking you on Gojo’s desk – and the lingering way that Naoya had said that he’d heard so much about you from everyone.

[aliensunflower-fics]

How to Exploit Kindness [A New Kind of Lila Salt Prompt]

[ Ive seen Lila and Class salt that goes a lot of different ways. In some Lilas a sad lonely girl who will do anything for friends and the class fall for her lies through a mixture of manipulation and Lila’s genuine sad lonely but real persona. In others Lila is insane and the class get basically sucked into her cult. And in others still, Lila slowly breaks the class down by preying on there insecurities, hidden jealousies ect. There are the versions where Lila just bribes the class with connections and the versions where Lila frames Marinette until no one believes her. But I wanted to write a new idea for people to use, one that I feel is a bit more realistic. One where Marinette’s classmates are more their more authentic kind selves but still get slowly pulled into Lila’s web and where Lila is just a bit more intelligent. ]

[ As usual with all my prompts feel free to borrow the idea to write for your own thing salt, sugar, cuteness angst ect just be sure to credit me for the idea so I can read it. ]

Lila was furious! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! She was supposed to be everyone's friend! She was supposed to finally get a cute perfect boyfriend who would cherish her like she deserved! She was supposed to be HAPPY! But no, the pathetic beetle Ladybug and that goody two shoes Marinette kept ruining everything!

No… No that wasn’t quite true. As much as she wanted to blame her problems on those two it wasn’t entirely their faults. Honestly Lila wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Her lies had been working at first, they had gotten her praise and compliments and adoration and friendship! But now? Now they were all ignoring her, unimpressed by her celeb lies! She could not understand it! At first she’d been sure it was Marinette or Ladybug maybe even Adrien had turned on her! But when she’d probed for information she’d learned that none of them had blown the whistle. So what was it! Tomorrow… Tomorrow she will find out one way or another. She needed to get them back under her thumb somehow.

 It was Chloe who gave Lila her answers. Chloe was the reason none of her classmates cared about her stories! Chloe was the idiot mayor's brat. And what a brat she was constantly wiggling her way into her mothers fashion shoots or had celebrities over at the hotel. Of course Lila’s classmates didn’t care about Lila’s celebrity connections because Chloe was always name dropping just as many people as herself. The only difference was Lila used fake modesty and shyness that made her ‘friends’ view her lies in less of a gloating light than Chloe’s haughty claims of celebrity meetings.

It was a damn shame, celebrity lies were her bread and butter, they were exciting got people to think you were important and they were hard to prove or disprove allowing Lila to easily get around the messy little detail of ‘proof’ if someone asked for pictures all she could say was that her mom didn't let her take any because she didn't want her precious daughter being targeted by crazy fans. And if someone asked her to use her celebrity connections? Well she could just turn on the water works and cry about them just being her friend for her connections. Thus her prey would be forced to be her ‘friend’ , always listening to her and doing things for her, unable to ask for anything in return. Then when her mother announced their next move Lila would tearfully say goodbye and leave all her suckers behind. But without the sway of her celebrity lies her system broke down. That was the problem with picking the school full of rich talented idiots she supposed.

Well with Chloe ruining her system she’d need a new one. Scrolling through her classmates' social media for a clue she sneered at their overly cheerful and cutesy posts. Always encouraging one another and posting encouraging puff pieces about this or that. Always acting like they were so nice. As Lila scrolled over a charity fundraiser event that Alya had retweeted from Milene a sudden thought crossed her mind. Her classmates were very ‘nice’ and annoyingly so. They were always butting into each other's business, always being SO concerned, always organizing events to help each other and appreciate each other and going to charity events.

In fact now that she thought about it the stories that had intrigued her ‘friends’ always had some sort of charity garbage attached. Saving Jagged’s kitten or raising money for some cause or other that always got her heaps of praise. Sure saying Clara whatshername stole her dance moves got attention but not in the same way saying she raised money for some green project. Was it really that simple? Sure her classmates all loved Marinette for her extreme generosity and kindness but was it REALLY that simple? She needed to check.

 It was actually that easy. One simple little lie about how she pulled a blind old man out of danger when he was nearly run over and suddenly the class was bathing her in praise. And the ‘fact’ that the whole very real thing made her miss first period and sprain her ankle? Well that was just the cherry on top. Suddenly Max was offering her a copy of his notes and everyone was back to caring for her like she was a princess. The fact that Marinette looked like she was seething only for sweet naive Adrien to keep her mouth shut was just so perfect. She’d found her golden ticket. Her classmates were truly ‘good kind people’ and nothing could be exploited quite like kindness.

With this knowledge Lila would easily be able to destroy Marinette, sure she wouldn’t be able to do it quickly but slowly she would replace her, with every good deed she made up with every act of false modesty she would build a reputation greater than Marinette’s she would replace her and become there new ‘everyday ladybug’ and the best part was she wouldn’t have to say ANYTHING against Marinette. Not. A. Thing. No sweet righteous Marinette would eventually snap, sadly for her it would probably be too late with how much control Adrien had over her, so when it happened Marinette would look like the jealous crazy girl going after the girl that was kinder, sweeter, and better than herself. As for Adrien… Well she had a hard time believing it at first but he really was an idiot with a pretty face as long as she was careful as she built her new reputation he would genuinely believe that she was changing for the better and then he'd fall for her.

The best part was, her classmates were genuine. As she built her new good girl heart of gold persona they would genuinely come to love her, all the loyalty Marinette got to enjoy all the perks of being friends with such talented, kind, sweet people would become hers. Slowly no matter how Marinette struggled she would lose, eventually she’d have nothing left. Of course she’d need to be careful with her lies but that was easy. Bring the class to a charity here and there and tell them that she was the one who gave the idea for the charity to the actual organizer but didn't want any credit because she was just that kind and humble. If they tried to make her do actual work then she’d have a sudden accident that would require she sit down.

And then once she’d done more photoshoots with Adrien for Gabriel she’d ‘convince’ the man that a charity would make him look good and boost sales. She’d MAKE her lies true all while winning over her future father in law, and heck maybe she’d even pocket a little of the money, she could use a better wardrobe and the extra would be perfect to buy her ‘friends’ the occasional ice cream or presents. In between that she’d just lie about saving people or volunteering on weekends. Maybe even let it ‘slip’ how she was a temp hero for Ladybug . One of the sweetest parts was that between volunteering with Lila, there own activities and hanging out with Lila so she could ‘thank them for their hard work’ no one would be spending a second hanging out with sweet pink little Marinette, they'd abandon her without even realizing it because they’d be SO busy. Sadly this plan of hers would take a little more work then her others, but it would be worth it to become the queen bee of the class- NO the school! And when Marinette eventually slipped up and looked like the biggest jealous bully in the school. Well she’d have no choice but to leave the school with her tail in between her legs.

Victory was looking sweet and satisfying.

 [ And where it goes from here is up to you. Lila can win, she can slowly convince the class and school that she's a model citizen and an everyday hero. She can sneakily maneuver the class to not spend time with Marinette slowly separating the girl from her friends. In this way Alya and the rest of them don't become evil salty versions of themselves who overnight hate Marinette and love Lila, but rather they are good naive people who got slowly separated and tricked by someone who wants to use their genuine talents and skills to make herself look better. Adrien who is already shown to be naive and wants to believe the best in people, can fall into Lila’s trap and become genuinely convinced that his high road method really worked and ‘reformed’ Lila into a better person. OR Lila can fail, she can claim to be the wrong temporary hero for ladybug, or she can pick the wrong charity to lie about, or get exposed any number of ways and the class can realize with horror that because they are kind but flawed people who are perhaps too trusting and gullible that they got pulled away from Marinette through subtle manipulation and so they can be redeemed because instead of turning into outright bullies they stayed the same kind people they always were but just got genuinely tricked which is something that can actually happen in real life. You can go heavy salt where Marinette does eventually leave the school or class heartbroken that her kind friends have fallen prey to a bad person Marinette cant find a way to expose. Or you can go clever salt where Marinette figures out Lila’s plan and fights her from the inside slowly exposing the cracks in her facade. Or you can go sugar and redemption where maybe just maybe Lila actually LIKES being nice to people and having real friends who dont care about her fake celeb connections, maybe she honestly redeems herself and even makes amends with Marinette. You can do genuinely anything with this idea and I hope to see this generate some new less *and suddenly everyone is evil* content for those that like salt and angst. ]