#and don’t believe every tabloid you see talking about this

[stvrmhondss]

i would hope it doesn’t have to be said but either way, now is not the time to make jokes about “rbr’s downfall” or to say that you “always knew/thought he was weird/bad”. you can be sad and disappointed but at the end of the day, even if they’re still unspecified they’re serious allegations about the high profile team principal and ceo of the current championship holding team and they should be treated accordingly.

the investigation needs to be supported, the potential victim/victims should not be brushed off but supported and i believe regardless of whether the allegations are proven to be true or not, there should be a call on red bull racing and f1 at large to change because i already see (mostly) men brushing this off and calling women in motorsport the problem and it just shows that this is a symptom of the misogyny that is embedded in this sport and its organisations.

don’t reduce this to a gotcha moment in your idiotic fan wars.

#so. i’ve said my piece. #also for the love of god stop saying christian HAS sa’ed someone are you trying to get sued for defamation #sincere tip from your resident law student #they’re unspecified allegations for a reason #and don’t believe every tabloid you see talking about this #specifically looking at the people quoting BILD of all news outlets #they’re notorious liars #christ. #shut up jane #rbr disaster

[starkidmunson]

damned if i do (give a damn what people say)

It seems Steve Harrington is back off the market

The latest news on the pop star’s love life comes mere weeks after word of a fallout with longtime beau, journalist Nancy Wheeler. While neither party has confirmed the rumors, many of Harrington’s closest friends have hinted at the end of the relationship in interviews and on social media.

One thing everyone failed to mention, however, is that Harrington appears to have moved on and is now dating Corroded Coffin front-man, Eddie Munson.

The two have been friends for years, tracing as far back as the early 2010s, though it’s difficult to put a pin in exactly when they met. Neither are particularly vocal about their personal lives and often change the subject when the other comes up in an interview; a diversion tactic they’ve been playing for years.

Still, the alleged new couple has been spotted around some of Harrington’s favorite Manhattan hot spots several times over the past week.

The rockstar has a bit of an edgier vibe than Harrington’s usual flings; more outspoken and unpredictable than the ‘type’ Steve has typically shown an interest in; at least publicly.

Only time will tell if “Steddie” (so dubbed by the fans in support of the relationship) is true… and if they’ll last.

_____

“I can’t believe they think I’m dating Eddie,” Steve grumbled into the pillow on the floor of his hotel room. With a huff, he turned his head and looked off to the wall on the far side of the room. “I mean, it’s crazy that I can’t go out to dinner with anyone besides you and not be on a date.”

Robin leveled her foot to the center of his back, before shifting her weight onto it, then grinned in satisfaction as Steve groaned and his back popped loudly in several places. “It’s not like it’s that surprising. The tabloids went feral over you and Nancy breaking up after they were convinced you guys were already secretly married.” She shifted her weight back off him, dropping to sit cross-legged beside Steve. “Plus, it’s not that much of a stretch.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asked, pushing himself up until he was sitting with his back against the wall, leg stretched out against Robin’s.

“It means you two have never looked at each other the way friends do. It makes sense that they’re picking that up.” Robin shrugged, brushing off her comment like it wasn’t shattering part of Steve’s bubble.

“We look at each other totally normally!”

The look Robin leveled Steve with had him pushing himself up off the floor and making his way toward the bathroom.

“I don’t have time for this right now, I need to start getting ready, but we don’t do anything normal friends wouldn’t because that’s what we are, Robin!”

“Are you trying to convince yourself of that, or me?” Robin asked and sighed heavily when Steve slammed the bathroom door closed in response.

It was only about five minutes before there was a familiar knock at the door; three in quick succession, followed by two after a short pause.

“I think we need to talk, sweetheart,” was understandable, despite being muffled by the door, before Steve was racing out of the bathroom to beat Robin to undoing the locks and letting Eddie in. “Why didn’t you tell me we’re dating?” Eddie asked through a pout, leaned against the doorframe.

Steve rolled his eyes and moved out of the way, letting Eddie follow him inside, before pointing at Robin. “See! Very much not dating!”

“Well,” Eddie started, teasingly, only to get hit in the face with a pillow from Steve’s bed. “I’m kidding, Steve. It’s not even a bad thing. I mean, they’re actually being really fucking cool about you being bisexual.”

“Being out as bi doesn’t mean that every person, regardless of their gender, is automatically my love interest just because I breathed near them.” Steve snapped, obviously frustrated despite Eddie’s attempts to ease the situation.

“Hey. Don’t get mean. You know what’s not what Eddie meant.” Robin responded. Steve looked back and forth between the two of them for a long moment, before he collapsed, face first, onto his mattress with a loud groan.

“C’mon, there’s no need to meltdown over this. If you want me to, I can post something about catching up with old friends to try to make it go away.” Eddie offered, gently, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed from Steve.

It took a long beat, but Steve eventually lifted his head from his pillows and shrugged. “I don’t want to make you do anything like that. It’s fine. It’ll all work out in the end. I'm just having a weird day, I guess.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, and when Steve didn’t elaborate, he turned his head to Robin, who shrugged.

“Nancy texted him this morning asking to not talk about her at shows and he’s been in a sour mood about it since.”

“Robin!” Steve groaned, pressing his face back into his pillow miserably.

“Have you been, though?” Eddie asked, confused. “Talking about her, I mean? I thought I was doing a decent job at getting the highlights and I have no memory of you dropping anything profound about you and Nance on any crowds.”

“Not directly,” Steve spoke into his pillow, before turning his head and staring at the wall as he answered. “I made a few comments about my songs. How to get someone back. How to gaslight someone into thinking you love them before letting everything go at the drop of a hat for one of your best friends.”

A silence settled over the room for a moment, before Eddie burst into giggles, which set Robin off. Eventually Steve joined in, turning his attention to the two of them with a heavy sigh.

“I guess I was an asshole about it, huh?”

“I think it’s justifiable.” Eddie offered, to which Robin nodded in agreement as she started toying with Steve’s hair. “If you feel like you’re going to say something about Nancy, you could always say something to me instead. Really confuse the shit out of everyone.” He teased, but Steve beamed.

“Wait, that’s actually a great idea.”

Robin looked apprehensive, holding her hands in the air. “Steve, you remember you just freaked out about this, right? And now you’re going to play into it? Publicly?”

“It’ll be fun. I’m not gonna say anything directly about Eddie. But just. References. And then we can watch the fans lose their shit on TikTok later.” Steve reasoned with a grin, and Eddie smiled back at him.

“I promise to spend the entire show dancing my ass off and singing along. For the bit.” Eddie said, his hand over his heart.

“You do that anyway, you’re just usually backstage.” Robin pointed out, and Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Well, obviously, I have to join you and Dustin in the family tent tonight. Duh.”

“Yes!” Steve agreed with a laugh. “This is going to be so much fun!”

“You’re both psychotic.”

_____

“Indianapolis, you're making me feel awfully special tonight.” Steve bit at his lip as he looked around Lucas Oil Stadium to thousands of people screaming back at him. “This is as close to a hometown show as I really get these days, so thank you for always making sure to remind me how special of a place home is.”

The music started to pick up again, but Steve kept talking. “I kind of spent the last few years coasting by without anyone paying too much attention, but now that I’m back on the road, everyone’s suddenly deeply invested in my life, and it's strange to be back so close to somewhere I called home for so long, in the same position I was in five years ago.” He ran his fingers through his hair, before huffing out a laugh.

“But you guys, you've always been there. Unwavering in a way I will never be able to express my gratitude for.” he paused to glance around the crowd again, grinning as they cheered. “Not many people can say the same, you know?”

“Where is he going with this?” Dustin asked, leaning close to Robin, who shrugged, trying not to have a visible reaction. There were always cameras on them in public like this. Any reaction would be taken out of context and exaggerated.

“Did you see the tabloid rumors about Eddie and Steve?” She replied, and couldn’t help but smile as Dustin’s head whipped back forward to Steve.

“I mean, there’s Robbie, the kids I used to babysit. And, uh…” he trailed off, which Eddie took as his cue to move to the front of the family tent. “Maybe someone else. This one's for you.” Steve said, leaving the “you” ambiguous enough to be open for interpretation.

Eddie, hamming it up, made a heart with his hands, before immediately starting to headbang along to the love song next in the setlist.

_____

In a surprising twist, Dustin managed to wait until the security team had moved them out of the crowd and behind the stage with the crew nearly two hours later before his outburst.

“What the fuck?!” He asked as soon as the were away from the crowd. “Why are you two playing into this? It’s just going to get more headlines and attention on the two of you, which neither of you usually like!”

“But it’s different if it’s on our terms.” Eddie responded, not even looking up from his phone as he answered Dustin.

“Is it, though? Is it really on your terms if it’s not even true?” Dustin sounded exasperated, and while Robin could relate, she was planning on sitting this one out until Eddie shoved his phone into her face.

“It’s already on TikTok. 4 videos in.” He said with a grin as Robin watched Eddie make a hand heart toward the stage before his hair started flopping all over as he sang along. The clip was captioned “steddie is real!!!”

“So you’re proud you’re deceiving fans?” She asked, which made Eddie’s grin fall.

“Don't be so dramatic,” Steve called as he approached from the stage exit. He was covered in sweat and still in his performance clothes, holding a half empty water bottle. “It’s all in good fun. They never need to know if it was real or not.”

“I think you’re downplaying this by a lot. What happens the next time one of you is seen out on a date?” Dustin pressed, and continued despite the way Steve rolled his eyes. “I mean it, an honest to god date. People are going to lose their minds, trying to figure out what broke up Steve and Eddie, when you were never even together in the first place! They’ll turn you against each other, they always do. And if you weren’t dating, isn’t that just as bad of a look?”

“Woah. Henderson. Chill. It’ll be fine, man. You’re WAY overthinking this.” Eddie said, before he grinned at Steve. “Could you see my hand heart from the stage?”

“I could. Did you catch the wink I sent your way at the end of the song?”

“I did, nice touch! I patted my hand over my heart, so maybe that’ll end up on social, too.”

“I’m going to throw myself into the White River.” Dustin groans loudly, to a round of laughs and elbow nudges.

_____

Steve could pinpoint the exact moment things finally felt out of hand two weeks later.

He was getting ready for the show that will wrap up his first weekend at his “home away from home” in 5 years when Eddie texted him about being late to that night’s show.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Eddie had missed the last two shows in Chicago

It shouldn’t matter.

Eddie’d been there, religiously, at the 4 shows before Chicago on the tour, and 6 others before that when his band wasn’t playing their own concerts. Steve even made 3 trips of his own to Corroded Coffin shows, around his own obligations.

But it still made him frown at his phone for a moment too long. Long enough Robin caught him.

“More headlines about Steddie?” She asked, slipping the phone from his hands before he could stop her. When she read over the message, though, her expression softened. “Oh, Steve, I’m sorry.”

“It’s no big deal.” Steve rushed out, snatching his phone back and shoving it into his pocket. “It’s fine. I’m not upset, there’s no reason to feel sorry. Besides, he just said he’ll be late, he didn’t say he isn’t coming.”

“Would you be upset if he wasn’t coming, then?” Robin asked. Steve glared daggers at her, and sighed when she held her hands in the air, feigning innocence.

“I don’t know.” He mumbled, honestly.

___

The intro tape was just about to start as Steve was making his usual trek toward his starting point, when he heard someone running and calling his name from behind him, rather than out in the crowd. He paused and turned, to see Eddie rushing toward him.

“I’m so sorry, I just wanted you to see that I made it before you went on!” He was out of breath, his hair more wild from running than usual, and Steve…

Well, frankly, Steve was tired of pretending like Eddie wasn’t the hottest person he’d ever seen.

So Steve met Eddie halfway, threw his arms around his neck and pressed their lips together in a move Eddie seemed to have anticipated because he wasted no time returning the favor.

It was only Steve’s cue music that had him breaking away, biting at his lip and grinning at Eddie, who grinned back at him, before using the hands he’d placed on Steve’s waist at some point in the interaction to turn Steve toward the stage.

“Go, before you miss the start of your own show, superstar. I’ll still be here after.” Eddie said.

“Promise?” Steve called over his shoulder as he made his way toward the stage’s catwalk.

“Cross my heart, big boy.” Eddie drew an x over his heart for dramatic effect, then laughed and ran his fingers through his hair as he watched Steve run to make it to his place on time.

#steddie #Steve Harrington #Eddie Munson #Robin Buckley #Dustin Henderson #popstar!steve #rockstar!eddie #I don’t know what this is #I think it might be inspired by some of the early eras tour matty and Taylor chaos #but idk lmao #hopefully this finds an audience who enjoys it #starkidmunson writes

[capslocked]

STARLET

male reader x cho miyeon

part 1 of another name up in lights

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second photo is what gets people talking. 

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

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

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

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

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

Lights the internet on fire for a minute.

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

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

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

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

You hate Miyeon, and Miyeon hates you.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

“The part is interesting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon sniffles, blinks a few times, and nods.

-

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

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

She knows it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna make you beg, Miyeon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you said, almost. 

“—amazing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she does. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

The least unusual thing happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you at the grocery?”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What color?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Sex sells. Suggestion is priceless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, collect yourself. “I am.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers tighten in her hair, grip, pull. 

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

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

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

“Tell me what you want, Miyeon.”

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

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

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

“You,” she rasps, “all of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

No, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon drops her arm and tilts her head quizzically. 

“What do you think of the script?” 

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

“That’s the one.”

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

“I’ll take what pity I can get.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuqi,” Sana groans.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That really never gets old.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon says emptily, “you’re overreacting.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuqi,” Miyeon says, kind of sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I,” Yuqi starts— 

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

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

Kisses you right in front of her.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, high expectations?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mnnph.

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

Mmnnppph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I will.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Uncouth?”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No there aren’t.”

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

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

“Older,” she says, smiling.

“Don’t have to dwell on it.”

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

“Uh.”

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

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

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

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

“Sex,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

Miyeon nods almost immediately.

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

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

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

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

Sit.

Touch yourself. 

Slowly; slower—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

She feels amazing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And just what is it that I’m—” 

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

Watch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Miyeon’s watching herself on the monitor. 

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

It’s not like that.

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

Don’t—

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

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

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

Something’s off.

“You think we need one more take?”

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

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

You make a face, and Miyeon squeezes your fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you fuck up.

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

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

You fuck up bad.

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

[kingkatsuki]

Sealed With A Kiss | Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Didn’t think I’d write anything for Bakugou’s birthday and then a random idea popped into my head and I wrote it all in one sitting. It’s been months since I’ve started and finished a fic, so please be kind! And Happy Birthday, Bakugou!💕

Summary: Not everyone wants the quirk that they're given. Ever since you were a child, you were cursed with a quirk where you’re able to see how someone will die when you kiss them. Unsure on whether your quirk is telling the future, or sealing their fate with a kiss of death, its safer for you to completely give up on finding love. Coming to terms over the years that you’ll have to watch all your friends get married and settle down, while you spend the rest of your life alone. That is, until you run into Bakugou Katsuki.

Warnings: 18+, minimal plot, mostly smut, no beta, praise, dirty talk, fingering, multiple orgasms, public sex, protected sex, not as angsty as I thought it’d be!

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 6.4k.

What would you do if you could tell someone the exact time and way that they’re going to die? Would you share that information with them, hoping that they can get their affairs in order and live those final moments to the fullest before kicking the bucket? Or would you keep quiet about it, holding onto the information as though it's a sordid little secret that needs to be buried and taken to your own grave?

Not that it matters anyway, because even if you held that information no one would believe you anyway, would they? Telling someone that they’re going to die in a car accident when they don’t even drive, or that they die during a snowstorm in July. It’s like people only ever believe what they want to hear, and it’s the same reason why even your best friend doesn’t know about your quirk. Imagine if you’d proved it, writing down your prediction and then waiting for it to happen. Counting down the days like you’re waiting for an exciting event, not waiting for someone to die. And then what? Someone dies and people want you to do it again, to prove that it wasn’t just a fluke. And then what? You’re kissing every single person that comes along just to tell them that they’re not going to make it to their next birthday?

Quirks should be a blessing, but yours was most definitely a curse.

“You know you really should start trying to settle down, you’re not getting any younger.” You could practically feel the disdain in their tone as you tried to avoid the question by taking a sip of your drink.

“You act like she’s going to die soon,” Your best friend Tatami laughed, shaking her head, “She’s got plenty of time.”

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. You should scoff at the saying, but in this instance, it was very much true. The entire Hen party was made more awkward by the fact that you didn’t like any of your best friends friends’. All socialites that would give up your deepest, darkest secrets to further themselves and get their names plastered all over the latest tabloids. You were lucky enough to have known her since childhood, but it didn’t make it any easier.

Every wedding you’d attended in the last few years was even more elaborate and outrageous than the last like each bride competed to show that they had the most magnificent life. And every time you were stuck in an uncomfortable bridesmaid dress, trying to avoid the same string of questioning that you knew was coming.

“Come on, Tatami.” One of the girls rolled her eyes, taking a large sip of champagne, “Why don’t you try to set her up with one of your old school friends? At least then she’d be with a man with ambition.”

You felt irritated by them talking about you as though you weren’t even in the room, never mind sitting on the opposite ends of a table. They made it seem as though you were incapable of finding a partner like no one would ever want you.

“Or you could try one of those dating websites, I almost married a rich tycoon from Russia on there before I settled down with my husband. It’s funny how things work out.”

Of course, no one even bothers to ask me whether I want a boyfriend or not– never mind a husband. You rolled your eyes at the idea of flying out to Russia to marry a rich oil tycoon.

“I’m happily single at the moment,” You force a smile, your hand tightening against your glass, “

“They are right though, darling.” Tatami gave you a soft smile, “You have been single for quite some time. I’m not even certain I remember the last time you even mentioned going on a date with anyone?”

That’s because you hadn’t. Not since you lost your boyfriend all those years ago. Why would you try to look for someone again knowing what you know now?

Growing up you’d eagerly awaited receiving your quirk, but the longer it took to manifest the more you’d come to terms that you were one of the quirkless. It wasn’t until you shared your first kiss at sixteen that you realised that maybe things weren’t quite as they seemed. Everyone anticipates their first kiss, hoping it would be one of those special, perfect moments that you’d remember for the rest of your life. But instead, the moment you’d shared yours, you’d been struck with a horrifying premonition.

It felt like a dream at first, a moment where you’d pinch yourself and realise that everything had been concocted in your mind. The vision of your first love walking into traffic on a cold, snowy evening. The cars were unable to stop against the icy terrain as they drove straight towards him, the lights bouncing off the road to make it difficult to see pedestrians as he was knocked to his back. You’d even told him about it after it happened, laughing about how vivid your imagination was– but not even three months later and it's like your nightmare came true.

You’d told yourself it was a coincidence, that it could've happened to anyone and it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Trying to heal your heart as you took time to recover from losing your first love until you met your next boyfriend. You were trying to allow yourself to be happy again, to forget the bad memories that haunted your past. Until it happened again– your first kiss with him gave you a vision. This time a villain attack endangered the city, your boyfriend was caught in the crossfire as a fire quirk ripped through his body and burnt him from the inside out.

It should’ve frightened you, much like the first time. But instead, you just felt numb. It was then you realised that you weren’t in fact quirkless, but instead of gaining a talent that was cool, flashy or useful to society– you inherited a curse.

Of course, there was no way you could explain your quirk to anyone, finding someone that believed you would be hard enough. But telling someone that you know when they’re going to die purely from kissing them? It sounded insane. Not to mention what it could do if the information fell into the wrong hands. Using the information for those dark, depraved benefits.

And to this day you weren’t even sure whether kissing someone showed the way they were going to die, or whether kissing them sealed their fate. Like you were the grim reaper handing out the macabre kiss of death.

Why would anyone want to be with you?

So it was easier this way, guarding your heart so you couldn’t feel the pain of losing someone you love again. A small price to pay to ensure that you didn’t harm anyone else, and the disappointed looks from your friends that you were still very much single were a small price to pay.

But you did feel alone.

Watching all your friends get married, settle down and have kids was harder when you knew you could never have those things. Maybe that's why it hurt even more. We always desire what we can’t have, after all.

“Let me set you up on one date and see how it goes,” Tatami’s annoying friend dipped her glass towards you from across the table, the champagne sloshing inside it, “I have this friend, not much of a looker, but he’s a quirk defence lawyer. It pays good money, and he’s looking to settle down–”

“It’s alright, I’m really not looking–” You felt awkward as each set of eyes around the table scrutinised you.

“Nonsense, he’d be perfect for you,” She continued, and you almost groaned as she pulled out her phone, “Let me text him now, I bet he could get you lunch in that new Sushi restaurant in the city.”

“Sorry, I just need the bathroom-” You almost shoved Tatami out of the booth as she stood up to let you out, her drink splashing as you tried to give her a reassuring smile before disappearing into the throng of people inside the busy nightclub. You weren’t even sure if you’d be able to find it back to your table at this point, but all you knew is you needed to get out.

The heat inside the club was suffocating, burning through you as you tried to find an exit. Weaving through the sea of people as you tried to remind yourself to breathe. Heaving a sigh as you noticed the sign to a smoking area as you followed the few people heading in the same direction. Stepping into the cool evening air is a welcome relief, the chill pricks against your skin as the heat slowly simmers down. Leaning against the rough brick wall as the back of your head knocks against it gently, closing your eyes to try and alleviate the irritation bubbling up inside you.

“Oi, you okay?” Your eyes opened into a glare to see the source of the voice, your nose scrunched in irritation at the blunt introduction.

A blond man stood a few feet away from you, cell phone in hand. The bright screen illuminated his face and cast a soft glow against his skin. You felt your heart betray you as it sped up at the sight of him, suddenly feeling self-conscious beneath his piercing ruby gaze.

“M’fine.” You mumbled, not about to dump all your issues on a random stranger.

“You don’t look fine,” He shrugged, glancing back down at his phone as he typed against the screen.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You sneered, your defences up.

“You just look pissed,” He smirked, and it only irritated you more.

Who did this fucking asshole think he was?

“Well I’ve got a random stranger bothering me, so perhaps I am.”

The answer has the opposite effect you were expecting as the blond beside you gives you a wide grin, shaking his head.

“Gotta be better than the desperate pricks inside there?” He tilts his head towards the club and you’ve gotta admit he’s right. You’ve been standing beside him for a minute and he hasn’t tried to buy you a drink or grab your ass.

“Guess you’re right.” You exhale softly.

“Whatever it is can’t be that bad anyway,” He shrugs, “You’re too pretty to be frownin’.”

You hate the way your heart throbs when he calls you pretty, it's pathetic really.

“You come here alone?”

Does he really think you’re that much of a loser to come to a club by yourself?

‘No, my friends are still inside.”

“So why are you out here alone?” He raises a questioning brow.

“Why are you here?” You crossed your arms against your chest defensively, turning the question back on him like he wasn’t doing the exact same thing you were.

“Got a big promotion today,” He shrugs it off like it’s nothing. Probably just another step on the never-ending corporate ladder to him, “My friends got me out to celebrate.”

“Is that why you’re standing outside on your own?” You shoot back, unable to miss the way his nostrils flare in irritation.

“Could say the same to you, sweetheart.” He scoffs, “Who’re you here with?”

“My best friend,” You smile softly, “She’s getting married.”

“Not very rowdy for a hen party.”

“Oh yeah?” You watch the way his tongue darts out between his lips to wet them, “You're not exactly the life of the party yourself, are you?”

“Just wanna go home,” He rolled his eyes, “My friends turn into assholes when they’re drunk.”

“Mine can be assholes at any time.” You were already expecting texts in the morning trying to invite you on a blind date you didn’t even want to go on.

“Dya want me to call you a cab?” The guy held up his phone, “I can get you a separate one if you don’t wanna share. It ain’t safe to be out here alone.”

“Very considerate of you,” You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop your heart from doing a little flip, “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure looks like it,” He scoffed, “That why you’re gonna hide out here for the rest of the night?”

“Shut up,” You almost pouted, “I’ll go back in.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smirked.

“What’s your name?” You asked as he slipped his phone back into his black jeans pocket.

“Bakugou.” He answered after pausing for a second, “What's yours?”

You mumble your name and can’t stop your cheeks from scalding when he responds with a soft “Pretty.”

Standing in a comfortable silence between the handsome stranger you watched groups of people slowly leaving the club, some moving on to their next destination for the night and others trying to stop their friends from throwing up before they climbed into their designated cabs.

“Gonna take fuckin’ ages to catch a cab now, I hate this part of the city.” Bakugou groans, running his palm down the length of his face.

“You could go back in and party,” You shrugged, “I’m sure your friends are missing you.”

“Yeah? After you, sweetheart—” Bakugou made a mock chivalrous movement with his arm to invite you to go back inside first which you rejected. Moving back to stare into the sea of people with a small smile on your face, “Didn’t think so.”

You stood in a comfortable silence beside him for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. One of the first times in a long time that you felt yourself as you both listened to the rowdy cheers in the background.

“Do you ever just want to say fuck it and disappear?” You surprised yourself by speaking your thoughts out loud.

“Go somewhere where no one knows who the fuck you are or what the fuck you’re doin’?” Bakugou responded simply.

“Yeah.”

“All the time.” He murmurs.

“It just hurts when it seems like everyone else has their perfect little lives while you’re just waiting on the sidelines,” You sigh. Maybe it was easier offloading everything onto a random stranger, it wasn’t as though you had anyone else you could talk to, “It’s just lonely.”

“You don’t have to be lonely.” He replied as though it was the most simple answer.”

“It’s not that easy,” You shake your head.

“Who said it ain’t that easy?” Bakugou turned to face you, his frame towering over you as you looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Cause I’m always lonely.” You felt hot, pearly tears beginning to clump in your lash line as you thought about the nights you spent at home alone while all your friends were with their partners. The life that you’d always dreamed about, but never have. For once you just wanted someone to be there for you, with you, “It's just how it is.”

“You don’t have to be though, sweetheart.” He whispers.

“Yeah?” You murmurs, “Do you feel alone too?”

“Fuck,” He groans, leaning his forehead against yours as he stands with you for a moment, “C’mere.”

Bakugou took your hand in his as he walked you through the crowd of people outside the rowdy venue and down a dark dingy alley that was illuminated in fierce neon lights from the various clubs dotted along the high street. You followed behind him obediently as your heart danced against your ribcage, astounded by your daring behaviour. He could be a murderer or a psychopath for all you knew– just another stranger out looking for his next victim. But for some reason (maybe it was the liquid courage coursing through your veins) you felt safe with him.

He moves his hands to your hips as he pushed you back against the cool brick wall, slotting himself between your parted thighs as he looks down at you with crimson eyes. The scent of liquor was sharp on his breath as his lips hovered close to you, warmth fanning your face as he leaned to kiss you.

“No kissing,” You gasped as you tilted your head just in time to avoid his lips as he pressed a wet, scorching kiss against your jawline.

If he had an issue with it, he didn’t voice it. The only sound was a rough grunt rumbling from the back of his throat as his lips continued to pepper sloppy kisses along your neck. Your fingers swiftly carded through his messy hair, nails grazing his scalp as you tried to pull him closer. As though everything right now wasn’t enough, you needed more.

“Please,” You whine as you felt his teeth graze your pulse point, hips bucking as strong palms reached out to steady you. Keeping you still as he bit down on the supple skin hard, the sudden pain had you crying out for him as the ache blurred your vision. Or maybe it was the alcohol running through your system— warm lips suckling the fresh bite mark as you clench your thighs together in a feeble attempt to give your neglected clit some much-needed friction.

“Please, what?” He rasps against your neck, his tongue salving against the mark he’d left against your skin moments earlier.

This is the part where you should’ve stopped him. Making up an excuse about Tatami wondering where you are, or needing to get home and disappearing into the night. But you didn’t—

“Touch me,”

“You always beg random strange men to touch you, sweetheart?” He smirked, his hand reaching round to grab a handful of your ass, “Or am I just special?”

If only he knew how unlike you this really was, that no one had touched you so intimately in years. A thought that would’ve surely ruined the mood if Bakugou’s hand hadn’t slipped beneath your dress to cup your aching sex, the sensation had you gasping in surprise as the blonde smirked down at you.

“I’m just special, hah?” He answered his own question with a toothy grin, “Is that why your panties are dripping for me?”

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this insatiable. Evenings spent at home with your toys felt nothing like the way his warm hands felt against your skin, uncaring that you were in a dirty alleyway as you found yourself grinding into his touch.

“Fuck,” You murmur, your head knocking against the cold brick as Bakugou presses the heel of his palm against your clit through the sheer fabric. A heat blazes through his touch and scorches you as you writhe against him, desperate to create a delicious friction as he smirks down at how salacious you look at this moment.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet, bet I’d slide right in.” He grunts, surprising himself at his blunt words. Blaming his audaciousness on the alcohol Sero and Denki had plied him with not long ago, the liquor flowing through his veins.

“Please,” It’s quite pathetic really, just how easily this man has turned you into this. You’d managed to go years without the touch of a man, and now you’d felt it for a moment you were unsure how you’d ever lived without it.

“Oh, fuck.” He chokes back a groan as he pulls your panties to the side, the skirt of your dress now shamelessly bunched around your waist as he notes the glossy strings of your essence that cling to the flimsy fabric of your panties, “This all for me?”

His fingers drag through your slick shamelessly, testing it on his fingers as he feels the heat radiating from your core. He spends little time circling your puffy clit before continuing lower, dipping one thick digit inside your tight hole. You wish at this moment that you’d worn slightly prettier panties than the plain black ones you wore right now, but if Bakugou had any issues with them he certainly didn’t seem to mind as he pumped his finger in and out of your core.

“Shit, you’re so sensitive.” He groans at the way your body responds to him, thrashing against him as he places more pressure on your clit.

“Please, Bakugou.” Your thighs quiver as he continues pumping his finger inside you, feeling the way your walls hungrily try to suck him in deeper, to take all he's got to give and more.

“Wish we weren’t in a dirty fuckin’ alley right now, princess. I’d have you sit on my face.” He groans, feeling the way your cunt clenches around him at his lewd words. You’d never wished something so bad in your life, tempted to tell him you didn’t mind if there was an audience if it meant having his lips wrapped around your clit.

“I don’t normally do this shit,” He groans, nuzzling your neck.

“Fuck strangers in alleys?” You tease as he gives you a playful smirk against your skin.

“Somethin’ like that.”

You groan as he adds another finger to join the first, stretching you open as your nails dig crescent-shaped moons into the base of his neck, leaving reddened indents against his skin as he growls from the slight twinge of pain. The sounds coming from your cunt are downright crude, echoing around the empty alley as he deliberately curls his fingers to press against the spongy spot inside you.

“Shit, you’re fuckin’ dripping.” Bakugou grunts, watching your creamy slick dribble down his fingers and settle into his palm, his thumb pressing sloppy circles against your needy clit as you shamelessly rock your hips into his touch. Greedily searching for the orgasm that he’s more than happy to give to you.

“Look at you,” He goads, “You’re so fuckin’ easy. This sloppy ‘nd I’ve barely even touched you. Is this all it takes, sweet girl?”

You don’t have the heart to tell him how long it's been since anyone touched you like this, that no matter how hard you try to replicate his touch after today, you’ll probably never feel anything like this again. It’s like he’s tempting you to say something, to give him a witty comeback. But you can’t, not when his fingers are stroking you in all the right places, stretching you out in preparation for what you know is soon to come. You spread your thighs further apart to give him more access, a movement that has a wide grin from ear to ear appearing on his face. Standing on shaky heels as he ensures you stay upright with a palm on your waist.

He knows when he’s found it, like a lost ship searching for the bright glow of a lighthouse to guide it home. Pushing his calloused digits against the same spot that he knows will have you coming undone.

“Right there, huh baby?” He coos, “Yeah, I know, I know. Such a pretty pussy.”

You must look debauched now, your tongue lolling out as you pant pathetically with your head knocking against the cold brick wall. Allowing Bakugou– a complete stranger– to do as he so pleases with you.

“Oi, you listening to me?” He growls, and you can’t even remember what he’s just said. So lost in your own bliss as he continues to press the same persistent circles against your clit, “Course you ain’t, so desperate to cum, hm?’

“Please, Bakugou.” You mumble, breaking off into a salacious moan as he increases his pace eagerly trying to push you over the edge. He’s watching intently as you writhe against him, dangerously close to your release as you pulse around his digits.

“Fuck,” He almost snarls, the sound sending shockwaves direct to your needy cunt as you feel yourself vaulting into your bliss.

His fingers don’t stop their ministrations, even as you're crying out for him and gushing all over them. He instead, increases his pace, determined to have you completely intoxicated on him before he's even begun.

“You’re so goddamn noisy, ain’tcha?” He scoffs, finally pulling his digits from your spent cunt with a crude squelch. Unabashedly holding them up to his lips as he tastes you on his tongue, groaning as though he's tasted the sweetest ambrosia as he cleans you off his skin.

“Please, Bakugou.” You slur, legs shaky from the intense orgasm he’d gifted you as he pulls his fingers from his mouth.

Bakugou’s fingers are quick to unfasten his belt, letting the heavy buckle hang as he dipped his thumbs into the hem of his boxers to pull them down along with his jeans. Letting the material settle around the curve of his ass, just enough to free his aching cock. The sight of it had your thighs quivering in anticipation, the bulging head an angry pink colour as it oozed pre from the slit. Dribbling down the underside as the veins that forked along his girth made him appear even bigger, the length of it drooped down from the sheer weight as you wondered how on earth he could keep something that size hidden beneath his jeans.

“S’big,” You murmur, biting down on your lower lip as your cunt throbs in anticipation. Even his balls look huge, thick and weighty as you watch him give himself a teasing pump. His wrist rolling as he smears pre along the length. Ready to ignore how damp and filthy the floor looks in favour of dropping to your knees to worship his cock as it deserves.

“Think you can still manage it though, sweetheart.” He grins, “I know that pretty pussy’s good for it.”

You’re almost disappointed when he pulls a condom out from his wallet in his back pocket, seemingly you’ve found the only man in the entire bar with a conscience as he rips the foil packet open with his teeth. Lifting one of your thighs up to press against his hip as his cock slips between your folds, the fat tip catching against your entrance as he sucks in a breath.

“Don’t do that,” Bakugou groans, “You’ll make me wanna fuck you raw.”

“Do it then.” You challenge, wondering whether he really is like all the sleazy men your friends end up with.

“Another time, baby.” He glowers back, pushing the tip of the condom against the head of his cock as he slides it down his length.

The first push against your tight entrance has the air stolen from your lungs, a dull ache from the stretch in your core as his thick cock slowly breaches your sex.

“Holy fuck,” He grunts, his fingers dipping into the fat of your thigh as he holds it against his hip, “You’re so tight.”

He smirks at how desperate you are to feel him inside you, trying to drop yourself down on his length as he gives a few, shallow thrusts. Your fingers dig into his skin to try and get him to give you more, rewarding you by thrusting all the way inside. One sharp rut is all it takes to have him sheathed inside you, your walls moulding to the shape of his cock as he takes a moment to cherish the sensation of you wrapped around him.

“Told you I’d slide right in, perfect fuckin’ pussy.” He groans, slowly pulling back as he glances down between you to watch his cock slide out of your warm heat before you take every inch again.

There’s not much you can do in this position except stand there and take what Bakugou’s got to give, his rough thrusts push you against the wall as he almost sweeps you off your feet. His messy pubes tickle your clit with every forward motion as your essence leaks from your needy cunt and dribbles down his heavy balls.

His scent is intoxicating, the saccharine tartness has you tugging him closer. Burying your nose into his neck to smell the mixture of cologne and his natural scent. It’s almost comforting as you cling to him a little tighter, trying to commit it to memory so you can cherish it when you inevitably end up alone after tonight.

“Oh, god.” You cling to his broad shoulders, holding him tight as he sets a brutal pace. The fabric of your dress catches against the rough brick behind you as he leaves a trail of kisses against your cheek.

The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure rapidly building inside you as he continues thrusting into you with hard, sharp ruts of his hips. For once, the only thing you can think about is the white-hot pleasure coursing through you. The soothing ache from his cock stretching you open is almost cathartic as you let him use your body as he pleases, his rough hands groping at your exposed skin as he presses more scorching kisses against your jugular, sharp teeth nipping at your skin.

“Oh fuck, Bakugou.” You cry out, louder than intended as your toes curl from his harsh movement.

“Shit– You want us to get caught, sweetheart?” He groans, his palm reaching up to cover your mouth, “Can’t kiss you to shut’cha up, can I? So I’ll have to do this.”

And maybe it’s better this way, your lips warm against his palm as your lipstick smears against it. Otherwise, with the way he was looking down at you, you probably would’ve kissed him.

Your moans are muffled by Bakugou now, his pace unrelenting as he gives rough thrusts inside you. The lewd squelch vibrates around the empty alley and mingles with the loud thrum of bass that vibrates from inside the club. The loud bustle of voices only feet away as anyone could turn down and see you both in such a compromising position— not that it would be anything unusual. You certainly aren’t the first couple to fuck down this alley, if the empty condom wrappers and bottles are anything to go by, and you surely won’t be the last. But it’s been so unlike you to allow yourself to submit to your pleasure, to live a little.

“You still with me, pretty girl?” He groans, “Pussy feels so good. Can feel you clamping down around me.”

You whined against his palm, feeling the pleasure intensifying inside you as Bakugou continued his rough pace. Drunken patrons hollered boisterously as they left the bar causing him to shield your body with his broad back, taking his eyes off you to ensure they didn’t decide to come down the alleyway to interrupt you.

“Fuckin’ pricks.” Bakugou snarled under his breath as he stilled inside of you.

Your entire body felt as though it was on fire, hovering dangerously close to the edge of your climax as your cunt clenched around his thick cock. Causing Bakugou to suck a harsh breath through his teeth as he brought his attention back to you, the corner of his lip curling into a sly smirk.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I didn’t forget about you,” He groaned, languidly moving inside you, “Gonna make you cum so hard.”

“Please,” You mumbled, muffled by his hand as he began rolling his hips, the bulging tip of his cock catching against the spongy spot inside you with each pronounced thrust.

“Fuck,” Bakugou snarls, moving his hand from your mouth in favour of slipping it between your bodies to thumb at your clit. The sensation has your knees buckling as your weight drops, no longer able to hold yourself up. But he’s strong, keeping you pinned between his body and the wall as he keeps his unrelenting pace, “Come on, pretty girl. I know you’re close, can feel you choking me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” It’s embarrassing really, how one man— a stranger, can have you coming undone like this in public no less.

“So fuckin’ noisy, shit-” He grunts, his ruby gaze intense as he watches you come undone.

Bakugou steals your climax from you, his thumb is unrelenting against your clit as he feels your cunt clamp down around him. The loud cry that spills from your lips has him wincing as he hopes no one’s decided to look down the alley for a free show— something that would certainly make the front page this very morning. He eases you through your high, the white spots that dance across your vision make it feel like you’re seeing stars. A sea of constellations against your eyelids as you succumb to the pleasure.

“You look so pretty when you cum,” He groans, his face buried in the apex of your neck as he inhales deeply, committing your scent to memory as he cherishes the way your cunt clenches around his cock.

Bakugou pushes his fat cock inside you, as deep as he can go. Until his balls are snug against the swell of your ass as he feels the tremble of your cunt coming down from your high. His warm breath scorches your neck as he gives himself a moment's respite before picking up his pace once more, greedily using your body to chase his own release. His palm pushes your thigh up higher against his hip, changing the angle as the swollen tip of his cock finds what it was searching for. The euphoria already surging through your veins is enhanced by the attention from his cock knocking against the same spot inside you over, and over, and over.

“Think you can give me one more, sweet girl?” He rasps, watching your thick lashes flutter as tears blind your vision.

“I– can’t,” You manage to get out between broken breaths, unadulterated pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Yeah, you can.” He coos, his thumb persistent against your clit as he ruts into the same spot inside you, “C’mon, for me?”

The sensation building inside you is almost painful, still overwhelmed from your last intense climax the pleasure still bubbling to the surface as Bakugou is unrelenting. It’s too much, and yet not enough at the same time.

“Don’t hold back, sweetheart.” He groans, “Cum for me.”

Your body feels ungovernable as you succumb to the pleasure, a cry of his name tumbling from your lips that he doesn’t try to silence as he holds your quivering body. Preventing you from thrashing as he clings to you tightly, fingertips creating divots in your plush thigh.

“Oh fuck, there we go.” He snarls primally, nostrils flaring as he gives a few final shaky ruts of his hips, spilling his release inside the condom with a grunt as you both bask in the aftershocks of your release.

You’re certain if he let go of you now you’d collapse to the dirty floor, your legs no longer strong enough to support your weight as you cling to Bakugou. And he holds you back just as tight, dropping your sore thigh in favour of wrapping his arms around your waist as he remains buried inside your fluttering cunt.

He can still feel you spasming when he finally pulls out of you, sliding the condom off his spent cock as he shamelessly throws it onto the ground. Fixing your panties before pulling your dress back down around your thighs to hide your modesty before he moves to tuck his wet cock back inside his underwear and buttons his jeans.

You hadn’t expected him to hold you so tenderly, as though you were the world's most precious porcelain. But you both stand there for what feels like forever, basking in the afterglow as you sway side to side.

A large palm raised to cup your warm cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing against the soft skin as he tilted your head to meet his gaze. Leaning forward as his eyes crossed to stare at your pouty lips, closing the distance slowly until you placed a palm on his chest.

“No kissing.” You repeated, turning your head as Bakugou pulled back, squinting at you.

“Still?” Bakugou grunts, “Why the no kissin’ bullshit?”

You couldn’t explain it to him, especially not after this. Wondering if it would be easier to make up a lie about your breath smelling or being nervous.

“I just can’t.” You sounded pathetic, internally wincing at the pitiful tone of your voice.

“Yeah, why?” He continued, “You got a boyfriend or somethin’?”

He actually looked hurt as he asked the question, his crimson gaze searching your eyes for any kind of deception as you shake your head no.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Husband?” Bakugou pushes as you shake your head again.

“No.”

“Then what’s the fuckin’ problem?” He spits, slightly more harshly than intended.

“You won’t like it,”

I don’t want to know when you die. You think to yourself.

“Like fuck I won’t.” He scoffed, “Fuckin’ dumbass.”

Bakugou caught you by surprise when he wrapped his palm around your neck, holding you so tenderly as he ducked his head forward. Catching you even more by surprise as he placed his chapped lips against yours, his tongue instantly slipping past your parted lips to delve deeper.

Fuck.

The first time you’ve actually felt something for someone this had to happen. The premonition played clearly behind your eyes as you felt Bakugou’s tongue mould against your own, a deep timber groan vibrating against your mouth as he lost himself in the kiss.

Of course, whatever higher power couldn’t just let you be happy for once, you had to see the fate in store for Bakugou Katsuki.

Pulling away from your lips as his tongue poked out to taste your lipgloss, the corner of his lips curled into a smug smirk as you stared up at him in complete horror. This wasn’t good—

You’d hoped that his death would be a peaceful one, dying a natural death surrounded by his loved ones at a ripe old age. But it was anything but, the terrifying vision now imprinted onto your memory. And you wished he never kissed you, not only so he wouldn’t die but so you wouldn’t have to see this vision every time you close your eyes.

With one kiss you’d sealed his fate.

“Fuck,” He mumbled, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath.

You’d convinced yourself that as long as you didn’t kiss him, it would be okay— but now you’d seen the future you knew nothing would be okay.

Humans are such selfish creatures.

“Yeah, fuck.” You groaned.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #Katsuki Bakugou x reader #Katsuki Bakugou smut #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mha x reader #mha smut #Bakugo x reader #bakugou x you #Katsuki Bakugou x you #bnha x you #mha x you

[its-time-to-write]

Can you write a Jamie Tartt request where he and the reader are in the "between lovers and friends stage" and they finally get together when he has her sleepover at his place after finding out her ex was loitering by her apartment?

I’m alive (mostly!) and I’m starting to go through the asks in my inbox again! Sorry to all y’all who have been waiting. I love you!😇😍

p.s. I’ve been obsessed with the song “Margaret” by LDR, which is where the title comes from

(oh also I barely responded to this prompt so that I could write this dumb fic that’s been on my brain forever. so. apologies for that too)

maybe tomorrow you’ll know

It goes like this: boy meets girl, they go to the same primary school, girl kicks around football with boy and sneaks into his room to hug him when his dad’s a prick, boy moves away to become a Premier League footballer and girl cries her heart out because they’re best friends.

Fucking typical.

And yet, he still picks up every phone call. Still answers every text you send. He’ll never say the word “love,” especially not when he’s with Keeley Jones and their faces are all over tabloids and instagram. But you’ll feel it in the way he’s a prick to everyone but you. It’s in the way his voice goes soft when you call him at 2am crying about being dumped by your first boyfriend.

He doesn’t visit, doesn’t phone his mum, but he’ll send you a quick voice message when he can. Usually not saying much, just a snip about training. First it’s all about Pep and the lads at Man City, then it’s about some gaffer named Cartrick and the fact that he’s teammates with Roy fucking Kent.

Jamie never tells you that Roy absolutely fucking hates him, but you know anyway.

Jamie also doesn’t call you when Keeley breaks up with him. In fact, you don’t even find out about it until pictures of Roy and Keeley surface online. You call him as soon as you can, and in typical Jamie fashion, he picks up on the second ring. 

You don’t ask him about Keeley, just let him talk about football and the new manager from America, and the fact that maybe Richmond isn’t so bad and maybe he can let his armor down just a little bit.

He’s sent back to Manchester the next day.

The bonds of childhood friendship run strong, because he’s on your doorstep in no time at all, and though it’s been years since you’ve seen him in person, there’s a part of you that feels like he never left. 

It never goes beyond friendship with you two. You don’t allow yourself to consider him in any other light because this friendship is special and important and neither of you will let anything ruin it.

It’s so strange sometimes to see him on tv or in an interview, eyes sharp and mouth full of barbs. Always on the offensive, always cutting others down before they have a chance to do the same to him. You have a hard time believing it’s the same boy who’s on your couch staring at the ceiling as he fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt.

He’s never spoken that way to you, and you have a hard time believing he ever will.

So you feed him and make him smile and go to as many matches as you can (he leaves tickets on your kitchen table so you won’t protest) and give him a house key so he can come and go as he pleases.

But then he’s gone again, it’s the off-season and he’s on some tv show and you’re watching him flirt and seduce and pull at people’s heartstrings like they’re marionettes, and you realize (perhaps for the first time) how deep the damage has gone.

He gets absolutely shredded online, called all sorts of names by fans of the show and football alike, and you wonder if you’re the only one who can see what’s happening. That it’s all a show and that person, that Jamie Tartt on the screen is not the Jamie Tartt who used to throw pebbles at your window to come see if you wanted to ride bikes together.

It’s different than when he went to the Premier League. He doesn’t answer your texts.

It’s fine though, because your life doesn’t revolve around him. You have other, real friends and a boyfriend and a nice little flat and a good job. So he can go do what he wants and when he needs someone to pick up the pieces, you’ll go because you understand that sometimes this friendship is a one-way street. 

You miss him, though.

You don’t watch his season of Lust Conquers All until your boyfriend calls you and says, “Hey, it’s been fun, but I’m just not feeling it anymore, thanks for understanding,” and then you binge every episode right up to the current one. 

So now you don’t have a boyfriend. You’re glad it hadn’t gone too far, but his words still stung. But you drown your feelings in ice cream and shitty tv and it’s alright because another episode airs in an hour, so you can see more of Jamie and hope he’s doing okay.

He’s not. He gets voted off and you think that’s stupid but also maybe a little bit good.

—

Jamie just thinks it’s stupid. He’s kicked off his only lifeline, and then Man City flat-out refuses to take him back and he has to find out on live television for fuck’s sake. And then he has the brilliant idea to ask Ted Lasso to come back, because of course Ted will take him, what with his yeehaw can-do bullshit. Except Ted tells him no, and now he has nothing.

He’s cut out every friend, every family member and is resigned to life as a has-been before he’s even twenty-five years old.

Now, he’s at home with the blinds pulled. He’s not even sure what time it is anymore because it’s all meaningless, innit? So when there’s a knock at the door, he has to blink a couple times from his place on the couch before turning off FIFA and going to see who it could possibly be.

He hopes it’s you, even though he knows there’s no way. Not after he ghosted you for months. He ignores the uncomfortable flip-flop in his stomach at the thought of seeing you, and the way his heart beats a little faster when he thinks of holding you. 

He won’t cross that line. Your friendship (if it still exists) is too important. 

So he opens the door, ready to see who the fuck is bothering him. 

It’s Ted.

Ted asks, “Can I come in?” but he’s obviously not going to accept no as an answer, so Jamie steps back to let him inside.

Ted’s just standing awkwardly in Jamie’s kitchen, not even pretending that he isn’t shocked by Jamie’s decor. 

Jamie isn’t going to defend his choices to Ted of all people. Nor is he going to do anything to lessen his awkwardness. Finally, Ted clears his throat and says, “Well Jamie, it seems we need to revisit our last conversation.”

Jamie stares at him, refusing to speak until he’s sure what Ted is saying, so Ted continues. 

“I think I was a little bit too hasty when I said you couldn’t come back to Richmond. I’ve been giving it some thought, and we’d love to have you back.”

Jamie looks at Ted, all rumpled in his sweatshirt and shorts, hair as undone as it’s ever been, and is supremely unsure of what he’s supposed to say. 

Yeah, I’ll come back to Richmond. 

Fuck off, you’re too late.

He’s saved from saying something stupid by the sound of the front door rattling as someone punches in the code. 

“You expectin’ someone?” Ted asks. 

Jamie shakes his head, equally puzzled. “No one has the code, except-”

The door is shoved open and you burst through in a flurry of motion. You call, “Jamie?” but you can already see him in the kitchen so you make a beeline to his location and launch yourself into his arms. 

He’s solid as always, smelling like day-old Lynx. His arms are tight wrapped around you, body warm as you press your cheek against his. 

He sets you down after a moment, and brushes away a stray strand of hair from your face. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asks softly, still not quite letting you go. Ted notes that this is a new tone for Jamie. Or at least, the Jamie he’s interacted with. It’s not a performance, not something designed to make people love or hate him, it’s what Ted suspects is the most authentic version of Jamie. Whoever you are, you must be important. 

“Wanted to make sure you were ok. I saw your interview.”

Jamie makes a face. “Fuck’s sake, has everyone seen that shit?”

You shrug. “Hard to miss it. Your mum sent it to me. She’s kind of why I’m here, actually.”

“You know Jamie’s mom?” Ted asks, surprised. It’s only then that you notice he’s in the room. Your face heats up because you wouldn’t have been that grabby with Jamie had you known he weren’t alone.

“Hi, I’m Ted,” he says reaching out to shake your hand, “Seems to me like you know this one from a while back.”

“Uh, yeah,” you reply. “Which is why I figured something was wrong when he ghosted me for fucking ever.”

Jamie winces and Ted takes his cue. 

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he says. He points a finger at Jamie. “You let me know what you decide, son.”

“It’s a yes, Coach,” Jamie calls as Ted heads out the door. You crane your neck in time to see Ted pump his fist in the air before the door shuts behind him. 

“So,” you say, arms crossed, “you have a big fucking excuse for not answering my calls. But you better never fucking do it again, or I’m showing back up here with Georgie and she’ll kick your ass.” 

Jamie grimaces. Sure, Georgie was never violent with him, but there’s something particularly terrifying about the way she says Jamie Tartt you have got some explaining to do, while her eyes do that thing where they flash and stare straight into his soul. 

“Right, yeah, I’m really sorry,” he says and he’s lucky that his tone backs up his words because if he had one ounce of prick in his voice, you’d make him really sorry. I mean come on, who ignores their family?

The thought passes through your mind just long enough for it to freak you out before Jamie’s tentatively reaching out to hug you again. 

You let him rest his head on your shoulder as you scratch his the back of his head. 

—

You’ve been on Jamie’s couch for the better part of two hours, talking and letting him pretend like he’s not on the verge of tears because at least he’s being open and honest for once, when he shoots up and says, “Jesus Christ, fucking Kyle.”

He turns to you, eyes wide as he asks, “Isn’t he gonna wonder where you are? Shit, and you’re with me. He’s not gonna like that shit at all.”

You shrug infinitesimally while you examine a spot on the wall. 

“We’re not together anymore,” you answer as casually as possible. 

Jamie sighs and settles back onto the couch. “Shit. Glad you finally dumped that prick.”

You glare at him. “I didn’t. He dumped me. And then I found him lurking in my fucking bushes yesterday like a total creeper.”

Jamie’s up again off the couch, this time heading for his car keys as he yells, “For fuck’s sake, love, you should’ve called me.”

“I did!” you shout back. “I did, and you didn’t pick up, did you? Anyway, it’s probably not going to be an issue anymore.”

Jamie returns to the living room, face ashen. “Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit. I’m so sorry.”

You shrug and say, “It’s not a big deal. He decided that he liked certain body parts he owned more than he liked intimidating me. 

Jamie grips his keys so hard that his knuckles turn white as he says, “Right, you’re sleeping over tonight because no one fucking treats my girl that way.”

Then he freezes. 

You’re not frozen, because a single shiver has worked its way up your spine. 

My girl.

It came out so naturally. 

And it implied ownership? But of the mutual sort? And in a way that two best friends simply did notbelong together. 

The entire house is so silent, you swear you can hear Jamie blink. Well, that is, if either of you actually moved a muscle as opposed to staring at each other across the room. 

“What-” you start, but your throat is all weird and tight, so you clear it and try again. “What did you say?”

It still comes out much lower than you anticipated and Jamie has a split second to assess your body language and make a choice. 

You’re fully angled toward him, eyes wide. You’re not giving him a look that says, shut the fuck up right now, Jamie Tartt, so he takes it as permission. 

Permission to take one step closer, then another, then another until he’s standing right next to you. He slowly sinks down on the couch next to you as his says in a low, gravely voice, “I said, ‘no one fucking treats my girl that way.’”

Ah. So this is where over a decade of friendship has gotten you. On Jamie Tartt’s couch as your lips crash against his, both wondering why you hadn’t made a move sooner. 

But it doesn’t matter, you’re here now and you’re sure you won’t waste a single second. 

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

[bitchesuntitled]

Memories

Summary: What happens when your husband, Dieter, forgets who you are?

Warnings: 18+ minors get outta here! Cursing, fluff, smut, feel good, oral(f receiving), fingering(f receiving), probably not like realistic medical knowledge but it’s fiction 🤷‍♀️

A/N: Thank you so much @papipascalispunk for editing. @jay-zzle for the idea AND the mood board 😍❤️ I really liked writing this and had a lot of fun with it. Hope y’all like it! @schnarfer(it's here!)

Masterlist

“Wait, who said we can’t have fruit bars anymore?” you ask, turning from the pantry to look at your seven year old daughter, Luna, sitting at the kitchen island.

“Daddy,” Luna states matter of factly, “He said that it’s fake food and we should only eat organic stuff.”

“Yeah, we need organic food,” your son Leo pipes in from the seat next to her. At three years old, he is currently in the copy everything big sister says or does phase.

“So, what do you want as a snack in your lunch box then?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

“Uhhh… banana?” Luna shrugs, “Daddy wasn’t very specific on what I should eat instead.”

“Okay but get your breakfast eaten before your cereal gets soggy,” you say, pointing at both before starting on the dishes.

Of course Dieter would be the one to tell the kids not to eat certain foods. The man scolds you every time he sees your Bluetooth headphones – droning on and on about the effects it’ll have on your brain waves and how it’s going to damage your mind. Your relationship with Dieter was a bit of a chaotic whirlwind, meeting randomly on the set of one of the movies he starred in, one your friend was working on the set of.

“Well, hello there,” Dieter had said, standing next to you by the craft table. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Excuse me?” you asked, looking around to see who he was actually talking to.

“Or should I walk by again?” he said with a smile.

“Is that how you get all the girls?” you asked, picking up a piece of cheese and pointing it at him, “Because that shit was pretty cheesy if you ask me.”

“No, trying something new,” Dieter said, cracking up into a giant fit of laughter. “Sorry, sorry. That– yeah, that was pretty good.”

“Bravo needed on set!” someone with a headset shouted in the distance, frantically waving at him.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he sighed, “Hope to see you ar– wait, what’s your name?”

You introduce yourself and he takes your hand, kissing the back of it.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, repeating your name and winking, “Hope to see you around.”

That was the conversation that started it all nearly eight years ago. Within the first year of knowing Dieter, you were married and pregnant – and no – it wasn’t a shotgun wedding, as much as the tabloids tried to pin it as one.

“Dieter Bravo and Mystery Woman Seen Leaving Las Vegas Wedding Chapel”

“Dieter Bravo Expecting First Child with New Wife – Shotgun Wedding?”

“How Long Before Dieter Bravo Gets His First Divorce?”

You both just knew you were meant to be together. With the birth of Luna, he had sobered up completely. These days he hardly even drinks beer. It’s weird in a way, that he’s changed so much from who you first met, but still the same Dieter in every other aspect. Wild, spontaneous, creative, romantic, chaotic at times, and so loving.

–

“Good morning, my babies,” Dieter says, waltzing into the kitchen, giving each of his kids a kiss on the top of their heads.

“Hi, Daddy,” Luna and Leo exclaim.

“Hello, my love,” Dieter smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist giving you a sloppy smooch on the cheek.

“Ew,” Luna shouts, making gagging noises.

“Yeah, what Luna said!” Leo says, copying his older sister with fake gagging.

“Stop with the fake gagging,” he replies, looking at them, “You’ll make mommy sick.”

“Hi, babe,” you laugh, “Someone’s in a good mood this morning.”

“I want to start doing my own stunts like Tom Cruise,” Dieter explains excitedly, “And I think I’m going to crush it today! I’m supposed to scale a building, don’t worry, everything is going to be totally safe.”

“Seriously, Dieter?” you sigh, “You may say that it’s safe but I’m still going to worry – please be safe.”

Dieter gasps, putting his hand to his chest as if he were clutching a set of pearls. “Babies, I don’t think mommy trusts daddy!”

“Momma,” Leo laughs, perching up on the chair more, “Daddy be fine!”

“Yeah, momma,” Dieter says with a grin, “Daddy be fine.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, snorting and shaking your head, looking at your watch you realize you’re going to be cutting it close in getting Luna to school on time. “Shit!”

“Mommy,” Luna scolds, “You shouldn’t say bad words like that!”

“Luna, hurry up with your cereal or else you’re going to be late for school again,” you say as you turn to Dieter who is rummaging in the fridge for his own breakfast. “What time do you have to be on set?”

“In about an hour, get her to school. My favorite son and I will be fine here at home. If need be, I’ll tell the director that I’m going to be late. Family first,” he says, “Not like they’d fire me at this point. I’m the entire reason people are going to want to see this movie.”

“I love you so much,” you say, giving him a kiss before ushering Luna out the door.

“Love you too, baby!” Dieter shouts.

–

“I’m back,” you announce from the front door.

“That didn’t take as long as I expected,” Dieter chuckles, “I gotta get headed to the studio though.” He scoops Leo up into a tight hug, “We'll play superhero when I get back home, okay?”

“Otay,” Leo says, pouting.

“Poor baby,” Dieter coos and glances up at you with a smirk, “You sure you don’t want another one?”

“Dieter,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, “We’ve talked about this. If it feels right, then maybe, but right now? No.”

“Fine,” Dieter groans, “But the moment you think it feels right, tell me?”

“Promise,” you smirk.

Dieter tells Leo goodbye with the promise of playing superheroes when he gets back home. Your mind begins to wander back to Dieter’s question about another baby as you go about your chores. You start smiling thinking back to when you first decided to start trying for a baby –  lying in bed together shortly after getting married.

“How many kids do you want?” Dieter asked, playing with the wedding band on your finger.

“I’d always imagined three honestly,” you smiled, “Why?”

“I want whatever you want,” he grinned, slotting himself between your legs again. “But if you wanted at least one I wouldn’t mind trying now.”

“D, we just got married a month ago,” you said, shaking your head, “Is that the only reason you married me? To have a baby?”

“Of course not, baby,” Dieter said, linking his fingers with yours and pinning them above your head, “I just know I really, really want them with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you whispered, tilting your head up to capture his lips. He moaned into your mouth, slowly grinding his stiffness against you.

“Yes,” he panted, breaking the kiss.

“Let’s do it then,” you said, nipping his bottom lip, “Fuck a baby into me, Dieter.”

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he groaned.

“Momma!” Leo shouts, pulling you from your thoughts, “Your phone.”

You had been so deep in the memory you didn’t even notice your phone ringing. It’s just Dieter, probably checking in to see how your day is going. He tends to do that while he’s on breaks at work.

“Well, hello, Tom Cruise,” you answer, giggling – except it isn’t Dieter on the other end. 

Instead, you hear his assistant, Andy, saying your name before, “Dieter’s been in an accident. I’m almost to your house, I’ll watch Leo so you can go to Cedars-Sinai medical,” quickly spills out of his mouth, “It’s not good.”

–

It’s been two weeks that you’ve sat beside his bed in this damn hospital, waiting for him to wake up. The doctors are all hopeful that he’ll wake up at any minute, but it’s been two days since he’s been off the ventilator, and nothing has happened yet. The kids keep asking where their dad is, and you don’t have any other answer than he’s sick. 

“Dieter,” you beg, holding onto his hand, “Babe, please wake up. We need you. Luna and Leo miss you – I miss you. Please just wake up.”

The nurse comes in to check Dieter’s vitals for the third time today. Since she’s keeping him company, you decide to head to the cafeteria to get some food, grabbing something simple before heading back to Dieter’s room. When you return, you notice a flurry of activity.

“Mr. Bravo, can you tell me what year it is?” a doctor asks, shining a small flashlight in his eyes.

“Of course I can, dumbass! It’s 2016,” Dieter snaps. “Now will you stop shining that light in my eye?”

“What’s going on?” you ask hesitantly.

“He woke up while you went to get food,” a nurse explains, “We’re trying to make sure mentally he’s with us.”

“Oh, for fuck sake!” Dieter cries out, “I’m fine, never felt better! There, she must be my new assistant.”

All eyes turn to you. This was a possibility the doctor had talked about before – temporary amnesia. Hopefully that’s all it is. The doctor motions you to follow him out of the room.

“He seems to have hit his head harder than we thought. In all honesty, I would try to play pretend with him for a little bit. Try thinking of things that might remind him of who he actually is today,” the doctor suggests. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Bravo.”

Dieter is having a conniption in the room while nurses are trying to calm him down. As you step back in, you see your husband frantically disconnecting and throwing the wires off of his body and onto the floor. 

“Where the fuck is my assistant?” Dieter yells.

“Dieter, D, baby – Mr. Bravo!” you shout and Dieter immediately freezes, eyes wide as saucers. “You need to calm down before you hurt yourself.”

“What happened?” Dieter asks, looking around at everyone.

“We’ll give you guys some space,” a nurse says quietly while ushering the others out of the room. You grab the chair next to his bed and sit down, reaching for his hand but stopping yourself as you notice your ring. Right now, this isn’t your husband. This is Dieter Bravo who believes it’s the year 2016.

“You were in an accident, you hit your head pretty good,” you start explaining to him, “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks now.”

“So, who are you?” he asks, looking you up and down with a raised eyebrow. “I knew my team wanted to hire me a new assistant since things didn’t work out with the last one – didn’t realize they’d pick someone so hot. Would you wanna have sex with me?”

“Dieter, I don’t think you’re cleared for those types of activities,” you chuckle, “I’m here for whatever you might need though.”

“Can you get me my phone?” he asks with those puppy-dog eyes he does best.

“Sure,” you reach for your purse digging around and find his phone, handing it over to him. “The passcode is 332016”

“The fuck? Why would I change it from the classic 42069?” he asks, looking at you with confusion.

“It’s uh… an important day to you,” you say, looking away, not wanting him to see the tears forming in your eyes. The day you met. 

“So, did I have an accident on set?”

“Yeah, you were scaling a building and the cable holding you snapped. You fell a good distance and smacked your head on the ground.”

“Wait,” Dieter says looking at his phone calendar, pointing it towards you, “Why does this say it’s 2024?”

“Because it’s not 2016,” you shrug, “It’s 2024.”

“How long have I been in a fucking coma?” Dieter asks, starting to panic again, frantically searching through the contacts in his phone, “Why can’t I find my dealer's number? I need coke. Wait, you’re my fucking assistant – go get me coke!”

“You’ve only been in a coma for two weeks and the only coke I’ll get you is Coca Cola,” you say crossing your arms, “I won’t let you have drugs in m– the house, Dieter.”

“Wait, my assistant lives with me?” he gasps, “You’re just supposed to come when I call you.”

“Different kind of assistant here.”

“Wait, I can’t have you in my house! I see that ring on your finger – I don’t want to get in between a marriage,” Dieter says, pointing at your left hand.

“It’s– it’s complicated right now,” you shrug.

“Fine, stay in my house, but stay out of my way,” Dieter sighs in frustration.

This is going to be a lot harder than you thought. He doesn’t remember who you are to him. He doesn’t remember getting clean when he married you. He doesn’t remember anything. Going home that night doesn’t help either because Luna wants to know what’s going on with her dad.

“Andy said that daddy woke up!” Luna says vibrating with excitement, “How come he’s not home?

“I had to leave him at the hospital because he’s still sick, honey.” You sit down on the plush couch in the living room, “Come here. I wanna talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Luna hesitantly says, coming to sit next to you.

“Daddy is still sick. He looks fine but his brain is sick right now.”

“What’s that mean?” she questions, looking at you with the same eyes as her father.

“He doesn’t remember some stuff about his life right now,” you continue, “But we are gonna try to help him get it back. We have to think of the best memories we have with daddy so that maybe he’ll remember better.”

“So, we have to fix daddy?” she asks with tears in her eyes as you grab her into a hug, stroking her hair.

“Yeah, sweet girl, we have to fix daddy,” you say, trying not to cry yourself.

–

What was supposed to only be a few days turned into a week at the hospital. A week of playing Dieter’s assistant and having him boss you around. He was still adamant on getting drugs, but you put your foot down on that one. You weren’t going to let him ruin his seven years of sobriety just because he lost his memory.

“Alright Mr. Bravo looks like you’re all set to leave. Just need you to sign a couple of papers here and then you can be on your way,” the doctor says, handing him the papers.

“Fucking finally,” Dieter groans, “Not that this isn’t a wonderful hospital, but I’d much rather be home.”

“Of course,” the doctor says.

“Will you go ahead and bring the car around? I’d rather not walk too much considering my condition,” Dieter asks, looking at you.

“Of course, D– Mr. Bravo,” you grit through your teeth with the most customer service smile you can muster. That was a new development, Dieter wanting you only to refer to him as Mr. Bravo. You rush out of the room so that it doesn’t blow up into another argument. He’s already tried to fire you twice because of the no drugs thing. You had to make up some story of how you’re in a five-year contract that cannot be broken and tell him three times before he finally bought the story.

Pulling the car around to the front of the hospital, you see him being wheeled out.

“Thank you again so much for taking care of me,” he says, winking at the nurse, “Best care I’ve ever received!”

“No problem at all, Dieter,” she giggles. 

“Could I possibly get your number?” Dieter asks, looking expectantly at the nurse after getting settled into the passenger seat of the car. She shakes her head violently.

“No, sorry,” she says before running off wheeling the wheelchair back into the building.

“Well, that was fucking weird,” Dieter says, looking at you. “Did I do something wrong? Most women don’t literally run from me like that.”

“No, Mr. Bravo, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you growl, “Nothing at all.”

You begin to play a song you hope might bring back some sort of memory of you. With all the hope you can muster you hit play and hear Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz, one of the songs you guys would listen to while you got high together. Dieter starts to chuckle listening to the song.

“What?” you snap at him.

“It’s just this song,” Dieter said grinning, “It reminds me of someone.”

“Oh?” you ask, trying not to pry too much hoping he’ll just continue talking.

“Yeah, I can’t remember what her name is, though. Good lay, that’s for damn sure,” he says, laughing a little, “All I remember is she wasn’t even in the business, she’d call me out on all my shit, and we would smoke weed together listening to this song a lot. I think that’s why I liked her. Wonder what she’s up to these days?”

“Oh um… who knows, maybe she’s still in town?” Your heart swells realizing he’s talking about you, that he remembers some remnants of you. 

“No way!” Dieter says and sighs, “Way too fucking good for someone like me anyways. Probably found some nice guy, got married, has kids, the whole white picket fence shit and everything. She was way out of my league.”

Pulling up to the house you don’t even know what to say to him. He looks almost defeated in a way and then looks confused when he sees the front door opening.

“Oh no,” you whisper, watching Luna run to the car, “Dieter, wait here. Do not move!”

“Why the fuck are there children at my house?” he asks while you’re getting out, but you shut the door behind you, ignoring him.

“Luna, baby, I need you to go back into the house. Daddy’s sick, remember?” you say, trying to usher her back up the driveway.

“Mommy!” Leo shrieks, running to you.

“Fuck – I mean fudge,” Andy says, frantically running out to the driveway, “I was in the bathroom. She must’ve heard the car, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“The hell is going on here?” Dieter’s voice booms while getting out of the car, “I asked you why there are kids in my house.”

“Da–” Luna starts, but you cut her off.

“You two, inside. Now,” you say, ushering them towards Andy. Once they’re inside you whip around to look at Dieter standing by the car.

“You,” you snarl, walking towards him, “Screw what the doctor said. I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m not your fucking assistant so stop bossing me around. I’m your wife – those two are our children!”

“Wha–” Dieter stares at you with wide eyes, “D– DNA Test, I want a fucking DNA test!”

“Dieter, there isn’t a need for a DNA test because they’re your kids. I mean, did you even look at them?”

“Those are not my kids, they look Latino,” he argues.

“Dieter!” you yell, “You are Latino.”

“Oh, yeah,” he whispers, looking down. “So, you’re my wife?”

“Yes, Dieter, I’m your wife. I’m the girl that would get high with you listening to Clint Eastwood.”

“Wild,” he says looking at the house, the ground below him, the yard, anywhere but you “Wild.”

–

It’s been a week at home now, but Dieter is trying his hardest to regain his memory after you lay everything out on the table for him. You show him pictures of your Las Vegas wedding, your pregnancy photos, the kids’ births – he finally relents to the truth when you show him their birth certificates with his name listed under Father. Luna has been trying to show him drawings that she’s done for him, but nothing is working. Poor Leo just wants to play superheroes, but at just three years old, he doesn’t understand what’s going on at all.

One night, after you put the kids to bed, Dieter comes to your bedroom.

“What if we had sex?” he suggests.

“Dieter, I don’t know if that would be a good idea,” you groan, flopping onto the bed rubbing your eyes.

“I’m just saying, what if we did?” he shrugs, “Was just a suggestion, but I get it.”

“Come here,” you say, patting the spot next to you in bed. He reluctantly sits down next to you as you open your arms as an invitation. “How about we cuddle?”

He nods, setting his head on your chest. You can tell he didn’t know what to do with his hands because he’s so tense. You grab one of them and push it around your back, hoping he’ll understand your silent suggestion. 

“Like this?” he whispers, carefully adjusting both arms to wrap around you.

“Just like that,” you hum, stroking the curls at the base of his neck, breathing his scent in for the first time in weeks. Clean laundry, a hint of eucalyptus, and something that’s so specifically Dieter.

“I like this,” Dieter purs, rubbing his head against your chest, “I wish so badly I could just remember everything.”

“I know D, I know,” you sigh, continuing to gently stroke his head, “We’ll get there.”

Dieter moves so his head is in the crook of your neck. You feel his lips begin to place soft kisses against your skin.

“Dieter,” you gasp, turning your head to look at him, “What are you doing?”

“I wanna make you feel better,” he says, giving you those puppy dog eyes you can never refuse. “You’ve had to deal with a lot and this is the only way I know how to try and make things right.”

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding your head. As much as you’ve avoided intimacy with Dieter while his memory was gone, he’s still your Dieter and you miss him. 

He starts nipping along your jaw and down your neck. One of his hands moves to your breast gently kneading it. His lips move down your throat to your chest, making his way down to your stomach and pushing your shirt up. He places several kisses around your navel down to the top of your underwear, looking up at you again for confirmation. “It’s okay,” you nod, giving him the go ahead. He peels them off your hips and down your legs, throwing them to the floor.

Without warning he flattens his tongue, licking a stripe up your seam. Working his tongue against your clit and back down to your entrance. Up and down, up and down.

“Fuck, baby, I’ve missed this,” you cry out, running your fingers through his hair, “Feels so fucking good!”

Dieter starts humming, loving the praise you were giving him. His tongue continues circling your bundle of nerves, hoping to hear more words of praise.

“Taste so fucking good,” he says breaking away, “Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

You grip his hair tightly and shove his face back to your core. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you can feel your orgasm approaching.

“Please don’t stop,” you moan, “I’m so fucking close!”

Dieter doubles down his efforts after hearing those words. He’s determined to get you off now. One of his hands makes its way to your center, teasing your entrance before plunging two of his thick fingers inside, curling them up to hit that spot only he’s ever been able to reach.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, back arching, “Y– yes, just like that!”

He starts grunting, rutting into the mattress, so badly needing to make you come. He knows you’re close, listening to your breathing and hearing the pitch of your moans. 

“D,” you moan, while he grabs your thighs, pulling you unbelievably closer to his face to completely devour you before sliding his fingers back into you. “I’m gonna come!”

“Give it to me, baby, come on,” he says, pulling away panting before diving back in for more, “I need it”. He feels the way your legs begin to shake, your walls fluttering around his fingers.

“Fuck,” you hiss, head thrown back against the pillow closing your eyes, “I– I’m gonna… god.”

Dieter feels your walls constrict around his fingers and hums, collecting your release slowly. He takes his time licking you clean before you push him away, feeling overly sensitive. When you finally open your eyes to look at him, you notice his smile and a glint in his eyes. He crawls back up the length of your body and you grab his face, kissing him deeply tasting yourself on his tongue.

“I can’t believe you married me,” he says, breaking the kiss and wrapping his arms around you again, “Love me forever?”

“Dieter, I’m pretty sure I’ve already proven that I’ll love you forever,” you softly chuckle, beginning to stroke his back.

–

The doctor keeps saying to just be patient, that it’s going to take time for Dieter’s memory to return. But it feels like it’s been forever as another week passes. Everyone is getting frustrated, especially Leo.

“Why is daddy broke?” Leo screams at the top of his lungs, “He no play with me!”

“Leo, Daddy just doesn’t feel good,” you try to explain.

“He no like me!” Leo wails, “He only likes Luna.”

“Leo, daddy does too like you,” you try telling him, “He loves you very much.” 

“No,” Leo cries as you scoop him up as he buries his face into your shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” you soothe.

It wasn’t that Dieter wasn’t trying with the kids, he just didn’t know how. His dad instincts hadn’t been brought back full-force. He was great with Luna –  engaged in conversation with her, drew pictures with her, watched her put on fashion shows. With Leo though, he didn’t know how to interact with a toddler. Leo would get upset and Dieter didn’t know what to do besides call you for help. Before Dieter’s accident Leo was his little buddy, followed him everywhere, would play with him for hours being superheroes or whatever Leo decided on that day.

You were able to get Leo to calm down and because of his tantrum he wound up falling asleep. After putting him in his bed for a nap you went to search for Dieter.

“Hey,” you sigh, seeing him standing by the window looking into the backyard.

“Hey,” he says sniffling, wiping his sleeve against his nose, “I’m so sorry.”

“Dieter, I’m not the one you should be saying sorry to. Leo misses you! I know that you’re trying, I do, but I need you to try harder for him,” you sigh, “I can’t pretend that I even know what you’re going through, but our baby boy is hurting because he misses his dad!”

“I know,” Dieter says turning around, you could now see the tears falling down his face, “It’s just… he scares me! It’s easier with Luna because I can understand every word she says, she can show me things, she doesn’t throw a tantrum every five minutes.”

“Dieter, he’s your son! Not some little monster to be scared of! He’s three and doesn’t know any better,” you scold him, “Like I said, I just need you to try.”

“Okay,” Dieter agrees, wiping the tears off his face, “When he wakes up from his nap, I’ll try.”

Dieter could hear Leo awake in his room as he slowly made his way there.

“Dad-Bomb an’ dude-bomb! To rescue!” Leo says, jumping off his bed with a cape around his shoulders. Dieter stands in the doorway observing him. Why did that sound so familiar? Dad-Bomb.

“Hey Leo,” Dieter says cautiously, “What are you playing?”

“Superhero,” Leo smiles, “Want to play with me?”

“Can I?” Dieter exclaims, “I’ve always wanted to be a superhero!”

“Yeah!” Leo shouts, running to his closet to grab something. He comes back out with a big purple cape with D-B on the back, handing it to Dieter. “Put on your cape.”

Dieter pulls the cape around his neck, tying it so it wouldn’t fall off. He notices Leo’s little green cape he was wearing also had D-B on the back.

“Do we have names, Leo?” Dieter asks, “I can’t help but see we have stuff on the back of our super-awesome capes!”

“I’m Dude-Bomb, you’re Dad-Bomb!” Leo gleefully exclaims 

“Dad-Bomb?”

“Yeah, like ‘da-bomb’ –  means super cool,” Leo giggles.This was starting to feel extremely familiar to Dieter. 

Leo scampers off to his closet again, rummaging through it trying to find something. He comes back holding a piece of paper and hands it to Dieter. Dieter holds it up, staring at it. His drawing of Dad-Bomb and Dude-Bomb, fighting crime together, and it all comes rushing back.

“Oh my god, Leo,” Dieter yells.

He picks Leo up, swinging him around. Hearing the commotion, you start running towards Leo’s room fearing the worst. Rounding the corner into the room, you saw Dieter crying, hugging Leo tightly and swinging him back and forth.

“Dad-Bomb and Dude-Bomb!” Dieter exclaims, grinning from ear to ear.

“Yeah, that’s you an’ me!” Leo announces proudly.

“Everything okay?” you ask quietly, looking at both of them.

“Yeah. March 3, 2016 – that’s the day I met you,” Dieter says, tears rolling down his face.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, “Baby.”

“Yeah, baby. It’s all back,” he says, setting Leo back down and rushing to grab you in a tight embrace, “I’m back.”

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[sc0tters]

Is It Over Now | Dawson Mercer

summary: how do moments of miscommunication cause your relationship with Dawson to unravel?

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing, douche Dawson?

word count: 2.05k

authors note: it was only right to write for the birthday boy today! I don’t fully know what this is but I’m tired and wanted to get it out whilst it’s still his birthday for most of you. @hischierhaze let’s act like this is exactly what you intended for this ending (this is why I shouldn’t be left unattended)… all o really have to say is just enjoy!

Seeing you like this felt like hell for Dawson.

January was where you two started sleeping together.

Like any other fuck buddy relationship the biggest rule was that you two weren’t allowed to fall for each other but by May you knew you broke that one.

It was your birthday and the other members of the media team had gotten you a cake which the boys of course came and helped themselves to “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was your birthday!” Nico complained as he sent you a frown.

When you didn’t respond it made him furrow his eyebrows “hello?” He questioned you quickly going quiet when his eyes followed yours.

Dawson was laughing at something that your newest coworker Janet was talking about. Whilst she seemed nice, you weren’t stupid and she was everything that you weren’t.

So as you watched her run her hand over his arm your stomach began to churn “didn’t know you liked Mercer.” The amusement in Nico’s voice was finally enough to pull you away from the boy you were staring at.

Your eyes went wide as you looked at the captain “I don’t like him like that.” You shook your head shoving a large piece of cake into your mouth to avoid your lips forming a smile.

That was your visual tell when you are lying and the captain picked up on that two weeks into you working there “whatever you say kid.”

You walked over to Jack to talk to him as Dawson went to Nico “you know that y/n used to play hockey as a kid?” The Canadian cheered as he had learnt another fact about you.

The true moment for you though when you realised that you must have liked Dawson more than he liked you was when it was the end of season gala in June.

You were sat in your hotel room after you slipped Dawson your room key and told him to follow you up in a few minutes.

So there you sat on your bed in nothing more than the new lingerie set that you had bought during a recent shopping trip that you had told him about. Dawson had been waiting to see it as you merely mentioned that you picked up a surprise for him.

An hour had to go by before you accepted that Dawson wasn’t coming. Not bothering to care about getting dressed you just wrapped your coat around your body and shoved your dress into the pocket of it before you found your car downstairs.

If only you knew that when your elevator doors shut to bring you back to the lobby, Dawsons had opened bringing him on to your room’s floor.

The main reason now why you two hadn’t spoken was that you blocked him on all platforms over the summer.

Dawson didn’t understand what he did wrong but when he mentioned his problems to Jack the boy merely suggested that his teammate found a different girl to forget about you.

Of course Jack didn’t know that you were the girl in mention or else maybe Jack would have given Dawson better advice.

So that was how Dawson landed up sleeping with a new girl in his bed every week when he arrived back in the garden state.

The only thing you could fault him for was the fact that he wasn’t quiet about who he slept with. Every tabloid and social media account knew of the girls. That was where you two did thing differently.

Nico picked up that you had a partner during the start of the new season when you were showing him a thing on your camera and didn’t notice the hickey that Owen had left on your neck nights before.

You managed to keep the fact that the man in your bed was playing for the Sabres quiet even as everyone arrived in the prudential center for the matchup against the Sabres the Devils players hadn’t picked up on who your lover boy was.

Dawson wasn’t impressed watched your cheeks redden at the mentions of your mystery boy. He had grown sick of hearing about the man.

Which is why it didn’t take him long to realise that lover boy was in fact Owen Powers as after that game the Sabres player couldn’t seem to get enough of you.

You had met him during your time in Toronto over the summer and when you guys came back to work you kept the summer fling going “you enjoying giving other players my sloppy seconds?” Dawson asked watching you walk to your car.

It was the first time you didn’t have Owen with you since you left the lockeroom “excuse me?” You didn’t know if it was more surprising that Dawson was actually talking to you or the fact that he had actually said that “just curious to see if you enjoy being with a disappointing player like him.” It infuriated you with the way that Dawson acted so nonchalant about what he had said.

Your body tensed with frustration “if anyone here is disappointing it’s you and Owen is actually really enjoying me.” You rambled sending the boy a glare as he watched you speed up “where are you going?” Dawson groaned knowing that he was going to chase you.

The cold New Jersey air matched how you felt in that moment “I’m going to get far away from you.” You yelled back opening your car door.

As Dawson watched you drive off he was unaware that his captain was stood behind him “I don’t know what you did but you better fix it.”

Just like you had hoped the bath you had did calm the nerves that the Canadian had built up in your system. Yet somehow all of that work quickly became unraveled when an aggressive knock came at your door.

You wanted to act like you didn’t know who it was going to be but when you opened that door you weren’t surprised to see Dawson “if you are here to embarrass me further then you can leave.” You warned wrapping your fingers around the handle of the door.

Dawson stared down at you as he could see the few freckles that were on your nose that now weren’t covered by your usual makeup “have a nice night Mercer.” You sighed going to shut the door as he remained silent.

That seemed to give him the push to saw even just a few words “I’m sorry.” Dawson blurted out pressing his hand against the door to stop you from shutting him out.

The apologetic look that laced his face and the fact that it was his birthday caused you to hear him out “five minutes.” You mumbled opening the door further to let him in.

In all of the months that you had known Dawson you truly had never seen the Canadian this nervous as he twirled his bracelet in between his fingers “I didn’t mean what I said about Owen.” His eyes didn’t leave the ground as the confession left his lips.

With all of the emotions that ran through your body as you crossed your arms you couldn’t help it when you laughed “well isn’t that crazy.” It was dry and blunt as you rolled your eyes.

The boy grew frustrated as he was never good with talking about his emotions, yet with you it was always ten times worse “god dammit y/n I love you!” Whilst that was what he often thought around you, this was the first time that he ever let those words be heard by the world.

If Dawson wasn’t good at talking about his emotions then you were horrible “bullshit.” You laughed shaking your head.

You spun around to make your way into the kitchen of your apartment “you don’t get to say that to me.” You pushed past him leaving the boy dumbfounded.

All of those late nights in his bed as you’d watch him sleep just hoping that he’d finally say those words to you “not now.” Tears began to form in your eyes as you wished that it had remained a simple dream of yours, rather than now being a reality.

It made the Canadian scoff “you don’t get to choose how I feel about you!” The boy was only a mere pace or two behind you when you turned back to face him “I can when you sleep with every girl in Jersey!” Your index finger pressed into his chest reminding him of the girls that he had been meeting during the off season.

For some odd reason there was a large part of Dawson that truly thought you were none the wiser to his new nighttime activities “I did it to avoid you.” He seemed to believe that his words would comfort you as Dawson dragged his thumb along the skin of your cheek to wipe away the tear that had fallen.

You brought your hand over his “really?” Something about being wanted by Dawson made you feel warm inside “none of them mattered.” He nodded tilting your head up so that his lips were a mere few millimetres away from yours “you gotta believe me baby.” His voice was soft as you nodded giving him the green light to kiss you.

Just like normal you loved how his lips felt against yours. The way his tongue would run over your lip causing your mouth to open. How is hand would get caught in your hair as he pushed you against the kitchen counter.

All of it felt truly brain melting which is why you let yourself get so caught up in how it felt to have his hands back on your hips.

It seemed that your senses came back to you when you let out a sigh when you pulled away “what now?” Dawson groaned seeing the serious look on your face “you should go.” You mumbled pushing him away.

Your feet took you to the door of your kitchen before you went back to look at Dawson “so is this it then?” He asked sensing that the air in your apartment no longer felt fun and airy but rather heavy and dark.

The Devils player watched as you nodded “when you had sex with those girls did you ever think of someone that wasn’t me.” You weren’t attempting to sound conceded here, no instead you were trying to see if the boy truly did love you in the way that he suggested.

Dawson frowned “why does it matter if I chose you?” His words were heavy on your mind as your new understanding of the reality that you had fallen into was one that you truly weren’t a fan of, not yet.

You rubbed your hand against your jaw hoping to formulate the answer to his question “because I’m not here to simply be an option to you Dawson.” Your arms crossed again as you began to shut off your body language to him “look I’m sure there is a girl who wants to spend your birthday with you.” You ran your fingers through your hair “but that just isn’t me.” If this was one of those tapes that ended on a cliffhanger, the screen would have cut out now.

But instead you were still facing the Canadian in yours kitchen “whatever this is, I’m done with it.” Dawson felt like you might as well have just stopped on his birthday as a whole because he wanted to finally make things serious with you and you weren’t ready.

You looked at Dawson like you wouldn’t be seeing him at the Prudential Center within 48 hours “you know how to let yourself out.” You sighed turning to the door and finally leaving him alone with nothing more than his thoughts.

Truly Dawson wanted to run after you in that moment. He wanted to say that your name was the one he called in bed each time and that was why he had the list of girls, none of them ever came back.

Yet instead his feet remained stuck to the ground when he got a text message.

Big Hughes 🫡: if you’ve wrapped up whatever you were doing, you should come to mine for a drink.

#dawson mercer #Dawson mercer imagines #Dawson mercer oneshots #hockey oneshots #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #imagines #oneshots #nhl imagine #nhl oneshots #amber writes fics

[lxclerc]

𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐦𝐯𝟑𝟑

SUMMARY: in which you and Max always find your way crawling back to each other. WARNING: angst, toxic relationship, toxic!max, toxic!reader, possessive!max, SMUT, 18+, p in v, choking, spitting, spanking, oral (both m and f), unprotected sex, degradation, overstimulation, sex while driving, mentions of alcohol, jealousy, emotional cheating(??), slight dumbification, manhandling, and probably more i forgot about WORD COUNT: 4.6k NOTE: i don’t know what possessed me to write this but please pray for my soul. this is my first time writing smut so please be nice to me.

masterlist

You know you shouldn’t be here. Of course you did. It’s been a while and for the first time since you started this vicious cycle six months ago, you actually believed you’d make it through. Six months. The longest you two had ever gone. Which really is saying a lot about your inability to let each other go if you thought six months was a lot. But he had a bad race. And he crashed. Before he knew it he was drunk and dialing your number from memory and despite it being three in the morning in London, where you are, you answered. Because you’re stupid like that and you’d never been good at ignoring him. 

“Bad week,” he slurred over the phone, hands fumbling with the key card. “Crashed. Was leading the season too. Miss you. Need you to make it better.”

You sighed over the phone then, glancing at the clock. You know you should hang up. You know you should know better because this always happens. And you definitely know that you shouldn’t remove your boyfriend’s arm around your waist – boyfriend? Is he your boyfriend or just another guy you’re fucking and leading on to distract yourself from craving Max?

But you did anyway, finding yourself in your hallway in fear that Lucas, the boy soundlessly sleeping in your bed, would hear you. “Max?” 

“Schatje,” he breathes and you shudder at the pet name you hadn’t heard in so long. “Miss you.” 

And if you weren’t completely awake by then, you are now, your body becoming rigid as you sink to the floor. “No you don’t, Max. You fucked up your race and you need me to distract you. But you don’t miss me. If you missed me, you’d be at my front door.”

You aren’t being fair and you know it. He’s probably somewhere on the other side of the globe. He always is. That had been one of the bigger problems. 

“Max,” he mocked his own name, slurring as he kicked off his shoes, flopping down on the bed. “Used to call me baby.” 

“It’s been a while,” you managed. “I’m hanging up, Max. We’re not starting this again.”

“Wait, no, no, no,” he scrambled up to his feet. “Don’t leave me please.” 

“You have a girlfriend, Max,” you remind him, remembering the tabloids you had the unfortunate circumstance to see last month. “You shouldn’t be calling me.” 

“I’ll end things,” he said without thinking, hating himself with how true they are despite his intoxicated state. Because the truth is, they can never stay away for too long. For two people who broke up two years ago, the two of you can’t seem to stay away from each other. The truth is that he’d break up with his girlfriend if you asked him to. The truth is that after the race, all he wanted was you. “I don’t love her. Can’t love anyone but you. Fucking pathetic. Beat me at my own damn game.”

Your breath hitched and you felt tears falling down your cheeks, ones you angrily wiped away. You know how this goes. You and Max don’t work. You never did and for the longest time, you tried to make it work. He’s all consuming, taking every part of you, even the ones you don’t want to give. For the last year and a half, you spent all your time pulling and pushing, jumping from plane to plane and city to city. From drunken calls and showing up at your apartment to screaming at each other in the hallway and angrily fucking each other against the wall only for one or the other to disappear the next morning before you can have a chance to talk. 

You know this pattern well because you and Max have been through this. You’ve fucked yourselves and each other up so many times, refusing to let go of the broken shards that was your relationship. You’re toxic for each other, maddeningly so, hurting each other only to come crawling back. Screaming and crying and then begging, breaking each other’s hearts into smaller pieces than you did the last time. 

And yet somehow despite that, neither of you can’t let go. Max had never been good at being selfless when it came to you and you’ve never been good at saying no. 

“You should go to sleep,” you said finally, gripping the phone so tight your hands were beginning to hurt. “It’s been a while, let’s not restart this. It’s late.”

On the other side of the world, Max laid down on his bed again, eyes closing as he let the sound of your voice soothe his nerves. “Where are you? France? Monaco? Italy?”

“London,” you muttered. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still far.”

“I can jump on a plane. Go to you. Ditch everything and go to you.”

Once upon a time, those were the words you so desperately wanted to hear from him. But you’re okay now. Kind of. You’ve spent the past few months trying to forget him. You were being naive, letting yourself believe that it’ll be that easy as if he isn’t part of your DNA, part of every atom and neuron in your body. 

“Goodbye, Max.” 

—

You got a job in Monaco five years ago. It was big, prestigious with an amazing pay yet flexible schedule. You couldn’t possibly turn it down. Despite what people think due to your very privileged upbringing, you do want to achieve something due to your own hard work and not because your parents handed it to you. And so you moved to Monaco and you met Max. 

It was almost instantaneous how easily your relationship crumbled before your eyes. Jumping from plane to plane just to see each other, desperately holding on despite knowing the only way to fix your relationship was to turn back time. Really, the two of you were made only to crash back down. 

And you hate yourself. You even hate the way you’re not drunk right now, not giving you an excuse to blame it on the alcohol when you eventually ruin everything you’ve worked for. You hoped he’s not home because if he isn’t then you can force yourself to turn back, forget even coming here in the first place. It’s summer break but Max is usually around galavanting the world during this time of the year. 

But he’s home. You know because his car is parked in the garage and you know because his door flew open before you could even knock and you feel the breath knocked out of your lungs as you stood face to face with him now, his scent wafting around you and you have half a mind to lean forward and wrap your arms around him like you’ve done a thousand times before. 

But you don’t because Max is looking at you like that. Like he’s disappointed you’re at his front door and you suddenly feel yourself becoming smaller under his judging gaze. 

“Schatje,” he breathes out and the sound of his voice makes you want to cry. “What are you doing here?”

You chewed on your lip lightly, brain scrambling to find an excuse. What are you doing here? You didn’t know either. Six months without each other and you break because of some stupid drunken call. Pathetic. “You called. Last week.”

Max doesn’t move to let you in like he usually would. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to read your eyes but you’re guarded up. And you have every reason to be. Despite being in his front door, the walls around you stand strong and tall. 

The regret he had the morning after he saw your name on the top of his call log. He doesn’t remember much of what he said but he does know that he shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have called you. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. ��I was drunk. Bad habits.”

You nod in understanding. The two of you are each others’ bad habits. You know this all too well. “You said something.”

Then his door opened wider and his girlfriend poked her head in, immediately recognizing you and suddenly you felt like you’ve been punched in the gut. You know he has a girlfriend but you never anticipated that it’d hurt this much to see them together, her arms snaking around his torso. You stepped back, suddenly needing to put space between the two of you. 

“Hi. Do you need anything?” she says and you’re taken aback with how much you hate her already despite her not doing anything to you. It’s an irrational hatred. You want to tell her that Max is yours. He always has been, that she’d be gone in a few months anyways once he starts seeking you again, needing your comfort over anyone’s. 

But he isn’t yours so you force a smile across your face. “No. Was just checking in. Sorry for wasting your time, I’ll get going.” 

You were already climbing back into your car when you heard Max call your name again, seemingly ripping himself out of the woman’s hold but you ignored it, feeling tears pricking your eyes as you started the engine and left before he could get to you. 

—

A month passed before you saw each other again. A small bar in France. It’s funny, really, how things like these happen, but you run with the same circle, live in the same class and rich people often stay within themselves. 

Max took notice of your presence the moment he entered the vicinity, your laugh echoing over the loud music and reaching his ears and there you were, in a dress far too short, back and shoulders bare and your legs barely covered. You’re laughing, head thrown back and bright eyes foggy from alcohol, your arms wrapped around some frenchman’s neck and his around your waist, not an inch between the two of you. Max groans because he knows full well how this ends. 

Your sad eyes from a month ago are long gone, shining bright against the neon lights of the club and Max has to hold back the resentment of seeing you so carefree after the shitty month he’s had because you decided to show up on his doorstep. Of course, he’s being unfair. It isn’t your fault. He was the one who restarted the cycle by calling you. 

But Max is far too tired and far too annoyed to be rational. It’s easier to paint you the villain. 

Then you leaned towards the man, a grin on your face as you connected your lips together and Max watched as the hands on your waist bunched up the thin fabric of your dress, pulling you closer towards a chest that isn’t his. 

He wanted to scream. He wants to scream at this man that you’re his, always have been and perhaps always will be. Before he crashed at Monza, he thought he was over you. He isn’t spending every minute thinking about you like he used to, doesn’t hope his phone would light up with your name. Then he crashed and suddenly all he wanted was you. All he needed and all he craved was for you to make it better like you usually do and impulse and stupidity got better of him. 

And then Max woke up and he hated himself for naively thinking he’d ever be over you. You’re ingrained in him. You can spend months and years not talking but the moment things get hard, you crawl back to each other for a night of relief. You’re  a drug; so bad and toxic for him yet he always craves more. 

Max was just about to turn around to leave, not in the mood to torture himself tonight by watching you in somebody else’s arms. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually enjoy being a masochist. 

But your eyes meet his from across the room and in your tipsy state, you did what you shouldn’t have. You challenged him. Because you’re good at that. You’re good at infuriating him and you know he’ll never back down from a challenge, especially not to you. His ego and pride wouldn’t allow it. 

And before he knew it, he was ordering another drink, holding your gaze under the neon lights. Eventually, he starts playing the game. He distracts himself with some girl, kisses her with his eyes on you. And you do the same because you’re weak like that. You dance and dance and make out with the man in front of you, letting your dress ride up, letting the straps fall from your shoulders. 

It isn’t until the man moves to mark your neck that Max draws the line, having enough of your stupid games. He’s drunk now too which is why he sauntered over from where you stood, feeling some sort of victory in the way your eyes widened in panic. 

He practically rips you from the man’s arms, his own wrapping around your waist, ignoring the heat and familiarity. He pulls you flushed against his side, arms only tightening around you when you try to push him away.

“What the fuck?” The man – boy, Max thought menacingly – you were with asked angrily, attempting to grab you. There was no avail though as Max pulls you back. He only sees red. He’s always been a jealous lover, especially when it comes to you. It’s primal, the way he needs you and like every predator, Max isn’t one to shrink down from a fight, especially when it’s about something that’s his. 

“Max,” you warn because you’ve seen this scene so many times before but he ignores you and you ignore the relief in your stomach because this is exactly what you wanted, a reaction.

Max does take your warning into consideration, about to turn around without saying another word in an attempt to stop himself from doing something stupider than approaching you. But when the boy pushes him, he’s at his wits end. He’s tired, angry, and so full of hatred for himself that he didn’t even hesitate to swing his fist. He’s much taller and much bigger. It barely took effort to have him on the ground from one punch.

“Max!” You cried out, attempting to kneel to the ground in order to tend to your date but Max wrapped his arms around you, easily placing you on his shoulder as he sauntered out of the club and into his car. 

“Stop moving,” he muttered, making sure you have your seatbelt on before going to the driver’s side. He can see the fire and anger in your eyes, telling him that you’re both in for a long night. 

He isn’t wrong because as soon as he climbed in, you were on him. “You’re such a fucking dick!” 

Max turns to you, usual light eyes turning dark. “Isn’t this what you want, darling? Want me fucking up my own life for you.”

“Don’t fucking blame me for your own stupidity!” You screamed and the familiarity of the scene almost comforted you. And you want to hurt him, want to see his face contort in anger. “Can’t handle anyone touching me, huh? Can’t handle the thought of someone else fucking me.” 

“Oh babe, let’s not act like that prick can fuck you like I do.” He lets out a humorless laugh. No one can love you like he does and no one can fuck you like he does. He knows your body better than his own, knows what parts of your skin that will have you begging. 

But you aren’t about to give up that easily, leaning against him, a smirk finds its way to your face. “He fucked me. Every surface of the hotel room that we used to share. Had me bending over the table and screaming his name. Can barely remember yours with him so deep inside me.”

His jaw clenched, hands turning into a fist. God, you know exactly what to say to get him riled up. Not that anything but his logic is stopping him. A month ago when you showed up on his doorstep and he ran after you, desperately screaming your name, his girlfriend ended it then and there, saying she can’t be with someone who’s very obviously still hung up on his ex. 

He turned to you, seeing the smirk on your face. You have him exactly where you want him to be. He knows he’s falling to your traps, knows that you’re lying but fuck it. “Maybe you need a reminder.” And with that, he crashed his lips against yours. It almost feels like coming home with his lips so roughly against yours, forcing his tongue in your mouth and your fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. God, you missed his rough hands on your body, missed seeing the bruises in the morning. 

His hand goes to your neck, squeezing a little, making you moan into the kiss. He kisses you. He kisses you so hard your lips ache and you’re gasping for breath. But he isn’t touching you, not the way you want him to.

“Max,” you practically whine, clenching your thighs together. 

“Know my name now, do you? Use your words, baby. What do you want?” 

He can be such a dick. But you’re long gone, desperate and needy. You missed him. You need him. “Want you.” 

But he only smirks and attacks your neck. “Want me to fuck you in a car at the back of some club like a common whore?” 

Your precious ego long forgotten, the degradation goes straight to your core as you nod. “Yes. Please.”

His hands finally inch down, pushing your dress up and your underwear to the side, grinning at you. “So wet for me already.” You can’t even find it in you to be ashamed as you buck your hips to his finger. 

He circles your clit, making you roll your eyes back. He watched you in victory, seeing you lose yourself because of his finger. Sucking and biting on your neck, he finally pushes his finger inside you, not giving you time to prepare as he’s suddenly pumping in and out of you with a brutal pace, making you cry out and attempt to close your legs. But Max keeps them open. He’s missed you. He missed seeing you like this, so desperate for him. 

“Max!” You cry out as he adds another finger, already feeling the knot in your stomach building but Max ignores you, his free hand pushing down the straps of your dress to free your breasts, lips immediately attaching to a nipple as his fingers work at your core. 

“Making a mess in my car,” he whispers against your skin. “Fucking dumb already.” 

And you couldn’t even find it in yourself to deny it. Your brain is already shutting down, filled with lust and desperation as you chase your high. Max’s pace is brutal, two fingers pumping in and out of you as his thumb works on your clit, flicking and circling. The sound of your cunt squelching against his hand would have embarrassed you if you weren’t so far gone. 

“Didn’t fuck you for months and you’d turned into a brat,” he says, reminding you of your – now regretful – outburst. “Fucking useless. Who do you belong to, baby?” 

And god it was torture when he stopped his finger, making you whine out as you met his eyes. “You. Please, Max. Y-You. Belong to you, only you.” 

He smirks, hands moving again to continue their assault. Hearing you moan his name would never get old, all wit and sharp tongue gone as you fall puny to his palm. Trying to stay away from you is a thing of the past as he so easily slipped back into bad habits. “Go on, Schatje. Cum all over my hands. Wanna see you make a mess all over my fingers.” 

You didn’t have to be told twice as your body spasmed, biting on his shoulder to keep the noise in as you came all over his fingers and leather seat. Not that it’d be the first time and definitely not the last. Max admired you in your post orgasm bliss, the pain of your teeth on his skin turning into pleasure as he slowed down his pumps before pulling his hand out, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking on them like a starved man. He missed your taste so fucking much. “Bet those boys can’t even make you cum.” 

He’s right but he doesn’t need to know that and with your wits slowly returning back to you, so is your fire. Sucking a love bite to his neck before connecting your lips back together, your eyes are challenging again. “They did. So many times.”

You really should have known better. You know you’d come to regret this later on. Max isn’t one to forget. He grunts into your kiss as he pinches your nipple, making you cry out and giving him perfect access to slip his tongue into your mouth. Even with your cum dripping all over his leather seat, you’ll find a way to infuriate him.

In one swift movement, he pulls his pants down, freeing his cock from the constriction of his boxers. His hand grabs a fistful of your hair, grinning at you. “Why don’t we put that fucking mouth into good use?” 

Before you could agree, he's already pushing your head down. He pushes you down till his cock is hitting the back of your throat and Max’s head is thrown back, eyes rolling to the back of his head. But Max Verstappen lives for the thrill and the danger. That’s the only reason he can think of as he starts his engine, hands on your hair as he roughly pushes you back down, not giving you a moment to breathe, and another on the wheel, backing out of the club. 

You’re a mess, cum still dripping to your legs and dress bunched on your waist as you bob your head up and down, hoping a good blowjob would put you back into his good graces. Your mouth is dripping from a mix of saliva and pre-cum. There’s something exciting about the thought of being caught as Max drives to his apartment, grunts escaping his lips. 

“Such a fucking slut,” he grunts, pushing your head down till tears gather in your eyes and you’re gagging. You look so dirty then, cock drunk and desperate. Seeing the lust filled fog in your eyes, Max pulls your head up as the red light turns red, pushing your lips against his as he tastes himself on you. “God, baby. How could I ever think I’d stop wanting this?” 

Max doesn’t give you time to reply as he spits in your mouth before pushing your head back to his cock and he goes back to driving. Monaco is a small country and before you know it, you’re pulling over in front of his house. You feel his cock twitch on your tongue and you move your head faster. 

Max grunts, nearing his orgasm as he slaps your ass, making you yelp, being filled with satisfaction at the red imprint on your skin. He can’t get enough of you. He never will. Finally, ropes of his cum touch the back of your throat, not hesitating to swallow it as Max throws his head back. 

After making sure he’s done, you pull yourself back up to a sitting position, his cum dripping from your mouth as you stare at him with those innocent eyes. You look so dirty. So dirty for him. 

Leaning over, he licks his come from the side of your mouth, his tongue pushing it back in. “So fucking beautiful like this. My little angel. Letting me use you as I please. My little fuck doll.”

You don’t even have it in you to fight him anymore as you melt into his touch. “All yours.”

Not wasting another second, Max throws the door open, grabbing you and throwing your near naked body over his shoulder as he saunters inside the house. “Don’t think I’m done with you, schatje.” 

Max navigates his home with ease, throwing you on the bed before he finally pulls your dress off of you, sucking at your nipples as you remove his shirt, throwing it somewhere you don’t have the energy to care about. Your underwear comes next and Max grins as he pushes his fingers into you again, curling it and making you moan loudly. 

“Max!” You cry desperately as you fumble with removing his pants. 

“Come on, baby. Scream my name louder. Who’s making you feel this good?”

“You, Max. Please.” Tears are streaming down your face now, making him grin wider. “Please fuck me.” 

“Since you asked so nicely.” He smiles, not giving you a warning as he removes his fingers and replaces it with his cock, not bothering to let you adjust to his size as he starts thrusting into you, placing your legs over his shoulder. “Dumb whore.” 

You’re practically lifeless as he brutally thrust into you, his cock making an imprint on your stomach. He forces your mouth open, spitting as he squeezes your neck. You look so ruined for him at that moment that he can’t help but admire his work. Bruises litter your body along with red imprints of his hands, your hair a mess all over his pillow, fingers digging on his back. Tears fall from your eyes as you scream out his name.

“I’m cumming!” You sobbed, feeling your entire body being rocked. “Max, I’m cumming.”

“Go on then baby, cum on my cock.” Your body arches under him as you chase your high with him fucking you through it. 

But Max doesn’t stop even after, continuing his brutal pace. You scream out at the overstimulation, trying to push him away but he doesn’t relent, only thrusting into you faster. 

“One more, angel,” he grunts. “One more for me.”

You cry as you shake your head. “Can’t.”

“You can, baby. Come on. Cum for me again.”

It doesn’t take you long before you’re spasming under him again, eyes rolling at the back of your head as he bites into your shoulder. His own high coming. He reaches down to flick at your clit as you squirt all over his cock, feeling his cum paint your walls. 

You’re both panting as you come down from your highs, Max’s body falling on you as his dick twitches inside of you. 

His places soft kisses all over your face, wiping your tears away. “So good for me, baby. This cunt's made for me to use.”

You moan as he pulls out of you, so sensitive that any movement has you flinching. Seeing his cum dripping out of your cunt, Max bends down, using his tongue to push it back in. 

“Max, please,” you cry, your legs closing together at the feeling of his tongue on you. 

He grins at you, happy when his cum stays inside. “Don’t worry, angel. You’re done for tonight.” 

He gently moves you so you’re laying on his bed properly, his arms immediately snaking around your waist. Max doesn’t even care anymore that you shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t care that the two of you are restarting your vicious cycle and he doesn’t care that he should have known better than to fall back into bed with you. He’d let the regret come tomorrow. The last time is never the last with the two of you.

And when he wakes up the next morning with you gone, he knows it doesn’t matter because he knows you’ll come back, come crawling back to him the same way he does to you. 

#max verstappen #max verstappen angst #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen fanfic #formula 1 smut #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fluff #max verstappen fluff #f1 imagines #f1 smut #max verstappen one shot

[underfaller]

romantic homicide

TW: yandere content Words: 1.9k Synopsis: Dottore is a serial killer and you're the lead investigator of his case.

Ever since Dottore laid eyes on you, he knew he would kill you.

He clearly remembered the evening you two met. It was just the turn of the seasons when the snow began to melt and the Lilies of the Valley in his front garden began to bloom. He’d been sitting on the couch, legs propped on the table, swirling his glass of wine methodically between his slender fingers. It was cliche, but Dottore did quite enjoy red wine-- Merlot to be exact. He remembers almost dropping the glass on his freshly pressed pants when he first saw you on that flickering television screen. You were introduced as the new lead investigator for his case. He figured they would find someone new after he killed the last investigator's niece (She’d been dreadfully boring). Immediately upon seeing you, he was enraptured.

]“Since his first victim in Mondstadt exactly four months ago, there have been thirteen murders-”

“Y/N, weren’t there twelve?” A reporter interrupts you, condescendingly. You don’t take offense, instead waving your head dismissively and patiently explaining. 

“That is what we previously believed, but upon further investigation, we have come to the conclusion that the nineteen year old victim in Sumeru last month was also the work of this serial killer.”

So you’d noticed. Bravo. You said ‘we’ but he knew it was all you. After all, the Sumeru PD report had explicitly said it was an uncorrelated attack when they discovered it. They were such fools-- always jumping to the wrong conclusion. 

“So are you saying the Mad Doctor is in Sumeru now?”

“I never said that.” 

The Mad Doctor. It’s the name the media gave him due to the macabre scenes he left for them. Dottore usually didn’t enjoy titles. He did not understand why humans had to give them to everything and everyone. However, the man had to admit, it was quite fitting considering his past. He almost let out a chuckle when he first heard it. 

Dottore remembered studying your every movement and expression during that fateful press release. It would be the first of many that he religiously watched. He glued his eyes to whatever screen you were on-- hellbent on retaining everything about you down to your last hair strand. From the way you stood, confident and poised in front of the ravenous reporters feeding them whatever they wanted to hear without really saying anything of importance, to the way you smiled almost devilishly at the cameras, as if you knew he was watching. As if you were telling him, “I will find you. Your days are numbered.” You made the murderer swoon. There was not a sliver of fear or nervousness in you like the others showed when talking of his grisly actions. No, you were challenging him. You were someone audacious enough to look a killer in the eye and smile--a cut above those other mediocre detectives that chased their tails trying to find him.

He needed to kill you. 

Dottore devoted much of his time finding everything he could about you-- perhaps as much time as he did fantasizing of killing you. 

You were from Liyue, but were recruited by Fontaine’s esteemed law enforcement fresh out of the police academy. Despite how young you were, you  already managed to cause quite a stir- the daughter of a famous deceased detective, one of the youngest graduates from the academy you went to, an investigative prodigy. You were already a prominent member of Teyvat’s Interpol, having had a heavy part in apprehending the Inazuman serial killer case last summer. Not that it was that impressive-- you would find it much more difficult pinning Dottore than that idiot. You were quite popular with the public, even gaining a little nickname they affectionately called you in the tabloids and in small talk at the convenience store as he picked up cigarettes in the dead of the night -- the Detective Prince. Probably due to the fact you looked quite androgynous and never revealed your gender to the public. Or perhaps it was because you always wore that adorable boyish suit, your tail coats swishing behind you as you strode to and fro the busy Fontaine city streets. The pictures Dottore took of you in that outfit on one of his many visits to the glistening country were his favorite. He couldn’t wait for that outfit to be stained with your blood. 

Despite it being foolish, Dottore began leaving you little clues. Letters to the police made from old news clippings, parcels of victims sent to journalists right before the Sunday print, your ex’s corpse placed methodically near your favorite cafe to have lunch at. You picked up on all of them,but never could connect it back to him. Naturally so. Dottore was always very careful to leave no trace of his identity. He always made sure he was a step ahead of you-- waltzing right out of your grasp. It must be infuriating for one used to such menial minds to find someone that finally matched their wits. You must be so frustrated. He reveled in the attention you gave him. That was another picture Dottore quite enjoyed-- his gifts pinned to your bedroom wall like an odd conspiracy wrapped in thin,red thread. 

But Dottore has grown tired of this cat and mouse chase-- it was time to end things.

Which is why when your partner planned to leave for the Sumeru Akademiya, Dottore couldn’t help but thank the gods for the perfect opportunity. 

Your partner was from the Akademiya. You two got along well. She looked up to you. You tried to mentor her the best you could. Too bad you didn’t teach her the lesson of safety in numbers. She decided to travel to Sumeru without you to discuss the case with the sages. He’d waited for the perfect time to strike. She was very easy to catch. She wasn’t nearly as suspicious as you. After a couple of drinks in Lambad’s, she’d been eager to come home with him. Such a stupid girl. 

Her screams were quite annoying, also. 

You received a call from her in the middle of the night. She’d begged you to come quick. She’d said she’d made a breakthrough in the case. He’d laughed as he fed her the lines. 

Now there you were, several feet ahead of him, your brow furrowed as you tapped the desk mindlessly-- a habit he noticed you did whenever you were deep in thought. You always were a confident person, yet at this moment, you look deflated, studying the small earpiece in your hand with a hardened gaze. An Akasha Terminal. The Sumeru Akademiya had been more than willing to give you one for your investigation. You looked anxious, playing with the device as you made a phone call. Your usually neat hair was a bit messy and there were dark rings under your eyes. Poor thing. This case was certainly wearing you down to the bone. You found yourself in the House of Daena, the Akademiya’s largest library. It was by coincidence that your little investigation led you to this particular building. This used to be his favorite place as a student. In fact, you were standing not too far from his go-to spot. Dottore had to smile at that. It was as if fate brought you two together. 

Dottore couldn’t help but admire you from his hiding spot. Such a pretty flower begging to be picked.

Still, your sharp eyes had that signature determined glint, perhaps even more so than before. You seemed more resolved than ever. You must be worried sick. You were surprisingly close to your partner. It would be your fatal mistake. Dottore couldn’t help but regard your affections with slight disdain-- someone as intelligent as yourself should not be associating, let alone caring, about such ilk. But he doesn’t blame you too much. After all, that misplaced affection is what led you straight to him. 

You were certainly wary of using the Akasha terminal. Most of your colleagues used it once or twice for a case. After all, who would deny endless knowledge fed directly into their cranium? You, that’s who. You were much too prideful and skeptical to use it. The sages swore it was safe but you couldn't shake the dystopian vibes it gave you to be connected with so many people. You enjoyed your individuality. It was quite difficult devising a plot to get one on you. He supposes he could have snuck one on you while you slept-- he’d broken into your apartment multiple times-- but what fun was that? He wanted you to do so willingly-- to lend yourself to him on a silver platter as you walked into his carefully laid trap.

You sigh, raising your hands to your left ear. 

You put on the Akasha terminal and Dottore watches as it lights up, turning a vibrant green. His heart thumps excitedly and he has to hold in a gleeful laugh. Your emotions and curiosity got the best of you. You must have been so desperate to betray your instincts. 

You don’t know what he knows. You are already in his grasp.  

Dottore takes out a small device, tinkering with it. You aren’t the first person he’s done this to. He’s known how to manipulate the Akasha since his Akademiya days. It was one of the first things he attempted to do after receiving one. Right now, you probably felt as if a terrible sickness had suddenly come over you. Your head must be pounding. You close your faces, rubbing your temple as your eyebrows knit. It’s working. Your face is screwed with pain as you lean on the desk. 

Dottore approaches you. The library is nearly empty. Most of the students here have gone home for the summer. No one will see you disappear. The moonlight gleams through the large stained windows. His shadow envelops you as he approaches. 

“Hello. Are you alright? You look quite ill.”

You turned to look at Dottore , straightening up and trying your best to look presentable. You tried not to show your ailment, but he could tell you’re in pain from the rapid rise and fall of your chest. 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. I just need to le-” 

As you stumbled over your words, you stood up, trying to walk past him, but you tumbled falling straight in his arms. 

“Woah, there. Here let me help you,” Dottore said gently, feigning concern as he helps you back up. “No, that isn’t necessary,” You say through grit teeth. 

You were fighting the effects of the Akasha with all your might. Dottore could see it in your pained eyes as your pupils dilated, your breaths labored as you steadied yourself, gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles turned white. He was surprised you were able to stand on your own at this point. How utterly delightful! Dottore reached into his pocket, quickly turning a small dial on the device that rested in the folds of his jacket. You stumble once more in his arms, fading in and out of consciousness. 

“Here, let me.”

Dottore wrapped you in his coat as he pressed you against in side, leading you outside. You looked lovely in the moonlight. 

“Let’s get you some help. I’ll guide you since you’re unable to walk by yourself.”

You looked at him with unfocused eyes before murmuring.

“I don’t think I should be going with you.”

Dottore chuckles.

“There’s no need to worry. You can trust me.”

He smiled down at you. 

“I am a doctor after all.”

#genshin impact #dottore #il dottore #genshin fanfic #dottore x gn reader #dottore x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact fanfics #oneshots #tw yandere #yandere x reader

[inkblot22]

Can You Keep A Little Secret? 2

Dreamworks films have no right having such good soundtracks. The whole time I wrote this I listened to this and this. The second one isn't a Dreamworks song, but Scary Bitches is such a good band and I want more people to know about them tbh. The first song also is not about me, as I am neither big nor chunky, but hey, who doesn't love someone who is big and chunky? I'm sure everyone can relate to that song as either the person singing or the person being sung to. Dividers made by @/cafekitsune.

Similarly to the last part, this fic is aimed at sort of anyone, but the reader's physical body has afab features. It's not really mentioned in this chapter, but it will come into serious play later.

TW for: lots of confusion, semi-shy reader, MORE creep behavior, a lot of introspection in this chapter, one (1) weird middle-aged man, reincarnation. These warnings will get worse, and this takes place when all characters are 18+.

Part 1 here!

Monday comes with the regular stress. You slept like a newborn and your new mom came over to congratulate you. She’s sweet, but her excitement was not contagious. If anything, it just stressed you out more. At least she made dinner when she came over. Always excellent when you don’t have to do that on your own. 

On Sunday, you make a night of getting ready for your doom tomorrow. Your agent sent you an email on Friday, including the shot location. 

Monday morning, you call up your new father, who apparently wakes up every morning at four to relax before he has to be productive, and he sends over Devin and a car to take you to the set. Devin, as it turns out, is an elderly man with cataracts and your father’s trusted chauffeur. You aren’t convinced as he takes turns way too hard, your cupcake-shaped backpack sliding on the back seat. When he drops you off, he hands you a hard candy and wishes you a good day before he takes off speeding. The candy looks like it’s older than you. You slip it in your pocket.

You imagine you’re lucky, since when you walk up to the tents, you don’t see Epel. You’re not ready for the rollercoaster of emotions he inspires in you. Instead is a group of three people around your age- college kids- and a grouchy-looking middle-aged man. You take a nervous seat on one of the nearby stools.

You were certain you’d been silent, but as soon as you’re settled, the whole groups’ heads snap to stare at you. A woman with ocean-green hair walks over and holds out her hand.

“My name isn’t important right now, ohmygod it’s so nice to meet you!” She squeals, shaking the everloving fuck out of your arm, “Oh, who am I kidding? My name is Belle!”

“Uh… nice to meet you, Belle?” You say, smiling awkwardly.

“Ahhh! You’re not mean at all! Those tabloids don’t know what they’re talking about. Who believes that greasy, gossipy shlock anyway, huh?” She talks a mile a minute.

Another woman with dark hair walks over, smiling somewhat awkwardly, “Belle, you’re scaring the poor thing. I’m Argon. Yes, like the gas. No, I don’t have IBS.”

You’re not sure why she decided to clarify that, but it’s not your problem. The third person and the middle-aged man stroll over. 

“I’m Starlo. You’ll be in these meaty paws today.” The middle aged man says. It’s not a pleasant introduction, and if anything, it makes you want to turn tail and run.

You nod along regardless, and the other man jabs out his hand, “Pepper.”

“It’s nice to meet all of you.” You say politely.

Belle drags you out of the stool and towards a trailer, the only one on the lot. She shoves you in and you feel the want to leave grow stronger.

She’s so bubbly. She talks fast and she talks with her hands, “This is you and Epel’s dressing room! I know it’s not ideal, so that’s why it’s got a divider. He’s a gentleman anyway, so it doesn’t matter, I’m sure. Starlo will be in shortly to do some makeup tests, and then once Epel gets here, we’ll go over the script and the visions we have, and then that’s all for today. I’m so excited to work with you guys. Oh! That’s right! We were gonna go to that traditional Scalding Sands place after we’re done here. I don’t have your contacts, but if you wanted to come along, that would be amazing. You seem so sweet.”

You’re legitimately unsure how to respond to any of that. She also seems very sweet, and you really don’t want to get stuck in a coffee shop with Epel afterwards. Unfortunately, as she was speaking, the devil himself showed up. You didn’t notice him at first, but you felt your skin crawl when he did. He's got his silky lavender hair pulled off of his shoulders in a little tail at the nape of his neck. You open your mouth to say that you’d love to get shawarma with this motley crew, but he beats you to it.

His pretty blue eyes never leave yours, “Oh, you’re just a peach for offering, but we’ve already got plans.”

Belle spins around to face him, screams, and swoons. You manage to stumble forward and catch her, and Epel’s smile drops as he slinks across the room, spins one of the crappy foldable chairs around, and plops himself into it, elegantly resting his ankle on his knee. For all of two minutes, he just stares at you as you lay Belle down, stuffing some fabrics under her feet, and fanning her face. 

When Belle comes to, his smile is back. She jumps to her feet and begins fawning over him, shaking his hand just as excitedly.

“Hi! I’m Belle! Oh, my god, you’re even prettier in person, and ooh, you smell so nice too.”

Epel laughs, but it doesn’t hit your ears right. Belle eats it up and you glance at the door. She’s got him distracted. It would be so easy just to leave, to feign an illness and walk to the nearest cornerstore so you could call a taxi or a rideshare.

You’re not lucky, though, as Starlo strolls in just as you’re about to go for the door, “Belle, what the hell are you doing? Argon and Pepper are waiting for you.”

She literally squeaks like a mouse and waves a quick goodbye. Starlo grabs you by the arm and deposits you in the other foldable metal chair, clearing his throat repeatedly as he pulls over a stool and drags out an industrial size makeup kit. 

The first makeup that he swatches both tingles and is way too light a color for your skin tone. You blink rapidly, unsure if you should say anything.

“You gonna get the same thing you always do?” Epel asks.

“What?” You turn your head to look at him.

He’s wearing a patient expression, but like always, it feels artificial. “From that bagel place.”

“Uh… I-I’m sorry?”

“I know you didn’t forget. I’m taking you to brunch after all this.”

“Uh… haha, yeah.” You don’t know what you always get from the bagel place.

Starlo daubs something else on your arm. It’s cold, but it looks really pretty on your skin.

The “you” that everyone has been expecting sounds like an outspoken, opinionated person who was consistently late or absent from various responsibilities, and if your new mom is anything to go by, neglecting their own health. You almost wish you had a bit more to go off so you could start acting like this you, but you’re not too keen on speaking your mind with people you don’t know. Your entire life has been hit with a cosmic “reset from most recent save” button, and if you dare to mention it to anyone, you’re in for a whole new set of problems.

Whatever Starlo just put on your arm burns. You yelp and jerk away, and he grabs your wrist. You think it’s instinctive, but his grip is nothing to sneeze at.

“What’s the matter?” Starlo asks.

“I- You’re crushing my wrist.” You mumble, “And I don’t know what that last one was, but it burned.”

“It burned?” He pulls out a bottle of the wrong shade of foundation and looks at it, “Huh. No wonder. Damn thing is expired.”

“Why are you even using that one?” Epel asks. Although his tone sounds innocent, the question is outright confrontational, “It’s way too dark.”

“Are you the makeup artist here, son?” Starlo shoots back.

“I usually do my own makeup. I know it’s not the same, but anyone with eyes can see that you’re going about your business the wrong way.”

You keep your lips sealed. What are you even supposed to say here? Other than that last product, he’s been fine. His hand on your wrist feels crushingly uncomfortable, of course, but he’s not doing any of this on purpose. You skimmed the script, but you’re not really sure what the story is about. It’s all of your jobs to try to make it come together, and if that means that you’re going to be wearing a foundation two shades too dark for you, then perhaps that’s what art is. As you were thinking, Starlo let go of your wrist in favor of getting in Epel’s face. 

“-no two-bit, fucking stuck up little prick like you is gonna tell me how to do my damn job. You understand?”

Epel is smiling sweetly even as the older man’s spittle is spraying him in the face. He stands up, and Starlo steps back, as though expecting Epel to start swinging. Instead, he walks over to you, grabs your hand ever so delicately. The contact makes your skin crawl as he yanks you to your feet.

“You should apologize before the two of us walk off set right now.” He said, still smiling.

You can’t just walk off set. You don’t think you can, at least. Your agent was so excited for the positive PR this would create, and this is genuinely not a big deal, “Wait-”

Starlo’s eyes narrow, and it hits you that maybe he sees what you see when you look at Epel. A two-faced creature masquerading as a man. You’ve seen one of his sides clearly, but you’re certain you haven’t seen all of the other one, even when he called you on Thursday. It’s like seeing someone standing at the end of a hallway with their back to you: the sight is enough to give you chills, but you aren’t able to see the knife that the person is holding in front of them. That sort of thing. You’re aware of the danger, but can’t comprehend the depth of it.

Despite all, Starlo acquiesces, showing his palms and shaking his head, “Yeah, I’m sorry. Doctor says I gotta work on my temper.”

“You do.” Epel responds flatly, releasing your hand and reclaiming his seat.

The rest of the test is short. Starlo is pretty competent, and he makes it quick and sweet.

That seems to be the theme for the rest of the day. Starlo remains in the trailer to dispose of a few expired things and note down what you had reactions to, while you and Epel meet up with Belle, Argon, and Pepper to talk about the short film.

It’s going to be a story of lovers, unfortunately, but you get to play the part of the dead one. The story goes that your and Epel’s characters came out here to camp, but you froze to death in the night. Epel returns to the campsite every year in your memory, and you return from the land of the dead in his. On the night shown in the film, you finally bump into each other, and through the emotional reunion, you spend one final night camping together.

Epel smiles and nods along with what the three film students say, all too eager to whisk you away as soon as the first shooting date is scheduled and you have an extra copy of the script in your sweaty hands. 

He drags you towards a very cute little compact car in candy apple red and opens the door for you. You don’t want to get in, but you also don’t want to call Devin. You take a seat and he closes the door. As you’re buckling up, he gets in the driver and starts the car, just sitting there for a second before he buckles and backs out of the lot, his arm on the back of your seat.

You look out the window and Epel grunts, his voice no longer sweet and charming and fake, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

You turn your head sharply, “What?”

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the wheel as he blinks. You wonder if he’ll leave it at that until later, and then he says, “You’ve been acting real weird. You been talking to someone?”

“What are you talking about?”

He narrows his eyes in a glance at you, and then he swerves the car in a wrong turn. “I think you know. People don’t change overnight. Where were you that week no one could get ahold of you?”

“I was… in my apartment?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. You’re in the city by now, the sun reflecting off of the skyscrapers’ windows in an aggressive manner, “And over the course of that week you decided you didn’t like being a bitch no more?”

“I don’t-”

“Every time I saw you, for years, it was the same thing.” He turns again, going in a circle around the block, “Same shit. Every day. Making fun of my upbringing, like I didn’t know you barely had one, calling me everything out of my name, and now suddenly you’re…”

His voice trails off. You contemplate throwing the door on your side open and jumping out of the car. You absolutely do not need this. You’re already stressed out.

“Well… suppose I shouldn’t complain. I do like you better this way.” He mutters. “But way back when, when you pulled shit like this, it was because you were plotting something. That your game now? You-”

“I… I’m sorry for being so mean to you in the past.” You’re not apologizing for anything you did, but you’re grasping aimlessly trying to de-escalate this one-sided conversation. He’s driving. If you don’t do something, he could decide to swerve off the road and kill you both, “There was no reason for it.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then he says, “That… means a lot. I already forgave you. Told myself I wouldn’t quit trying to be friends. Guess it paid off, huh? I’m sorry for getting angry when we talked, Thursday before last.”

You don’t like that at all. It sort of feels like he’s not saying everything, like you should know what he’s talking about. You don’t. You weren’t living in this body Thursday before last. You nod and look out the window, “Uh… I appreciate it.”

You don’t actually care, but you’re a good actor. You’ve already decided that you’re going to just go along with Epel’s brunch and then you’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist outside of work. Frankly you’re unsure why the person who used to live in this body had his number or interacted with him for years, evidently.

Epel parks and you have a minor crisis as you try to figure out what you typically get from this bagel shop. It doesn’t matter anyway, since he orders you a large caramel iced coffee and a blueberry bagel with cream cheese. That’s such a basic order, but it’s simple enough to be good. You sit quietly and eat, not interested in making conversation.

Epel clears his throat. He’s quiet, but he’s talking in that schooled version of his voice again, “You ever hear back from that breeder?”

“Uh… the what?” You narrow your eyes.

Epel is leaning on his hand, a sweet little smile on his lips as he looks at you. Seven, you want him to look away, “The sphynx cats. You said you sent them an email a while ago during that meeting we had with Mirelle after our big public argument.”

“Oh. I haven’t checked.” You didn’t know you should have. You take a sip of the iced coffee and look out the window.

Epel hums and a stranger walks over, grinning, “Oh my goodness! It’s actually you! Can I have your autograph, Mr. Felmier?”

“Oh, just Epel is fine. Sure!” He’s all smiles as he interacts with the fan, but as soon as they’re gone, his face falls and he nudges your hand, “C’mon, I’ll walk you home.”

“O-oh, no, that’s alright-”

“You want to make another big scene?”

You force a smile and grab your iced coffee, following after Epel. He nudges your hand with his own, but you pull your hand away, covering it up with adjusting your clothes and holding your nearly empty coffee cup with both hands. Your hands are slick with more than just condensation.

You’re all too aware of your surroundings, especially the way that he somehow knows the key code to the door of your apartment building to get you in without a fob. You pause in the lobby.

“Thanks so much for walking me back, Epel. See you tomorrow.” You smile and turn to walk towards the stairs.

Epel grabs the back of your shirt and tugs you back a bit. You stumble against him and he frowns at you.

His expression should tug at your heartstrings, and yet… “You’re not gonna invite me up?”

This poses a dilemma. There are a few people watching this interaction. You can’t afford to make any type of scene, but you absolutely do not want to be alone with him. While you don’t know him well, your body does. Something also tells you that he’s a bit of a danger to be around in general. Call it a gut instinct.

“Uh… Well, maybe you could walk me to my door?” You have no intention of letting him in your apartment.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but he smiles regardless, and loops his hand through your sweaty one, strolling confidently towards the stairs.

About as soon as he lets go of your hand to ascend the stairs, you bolt up the stairs, your palms slapping against the dirty concrete to keep you from bashing your face. You’re glad you didn’t wear pumps today as you get to the third floor, careening down the hallway and fumbling your keys as you shakily unlock the door. You lock it behind you, slumping to the floor.

Tomorrow is gonna suck absolute ass for you.

#twisted wonderland #tw: dark content #disney twst #tw: dark themes #tw: yandere #yandere #twst #anon answered #yandere epel x reader #epel felmier #twst epel #twisted wonderland epel #yandere epel felmier #epel felmier x reader #tw reincarnation #tw confusion #tw creepy #reincarnation

[to-the-stars8]

A Classic Set-Up

Bruce Wayne x Reader AO3 Summary: Harvey Dent thinks he is a lot more clever than he actually is by setting you and Bruce Wayne up.

It almost felt like you were in a movie scene. With the low murmur of conversations of people around you and under the low, golden restaurant light with two of the most eligible bachelors in all of Gotham felt too surreal. Too intimate. Of course, Harvey Dent had been one of your closest friends since University, so when he offered to buy you dinner at one of the best places in the city you could hardly say no. What he did not inform you was that his other closest friend, billionaire Bruce Wayne would also be in attendance. That would have been fine if Harvey hadn’t been casually dropping hints that Bruce, and you, were single every thirty seconds. You paid the remarks as little attention as you could, knowing full well of Bruce’s dating history from the tabloids. 

Harvey slung an arm behind your chair as Bruce got up to use the bathroom. “As handsome as his pictures, hm?”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure, but I’d appreciate a warning next time.”

Harv raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue over the top of his teeth with a slight smirk, a habit he had when he was amused. “A warning? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You only snickered since Bruce had returned to the table. Smoothing your napkin on your lap, you listened to Mr. Wayne talk about his latest work with the multiple charities that had been left behind by his late mother. There was something about Bruce Wayne, though, beyond just the pretty blue eyes and bottomless wallet, that made you want to listen to him all night. You told yourself it had to be the light mystery of the Waynes.

It had to be. 

“I’m sorry,” Harvey said suddenly, looking at his watch. “I just remembered I had a late meeting with a client. Here’s my part of theー”

“Don’t worry, Harv, I got it. Go.” Bruce said, waving a dismissive hand at him. 

Harvey hugged you goodbye before leaving the two of you with the direction that Bruce made sure you got home safe. Somehow, being alone with Bruce wasn’t as intimidating as you thought. Once your mutual friend was gone, he leaned over and said, “Did you know he planned this?”

“I figured he had,” You smiled. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable, Bruce.”

The smile on his face was charming, and you could see why he had all of Gotham wrapped around his finger. “Not at all. In fact, this is one of the most pleasant ways I’ve ever been set up with someone.”

You looked down at your lap as you felt your face suddenly get hot. “That’s a shame, you seem like a very nice man.”

Bruce chuckled and looked away for a second. “Thank you. I try not to act like the papers make me out to be.”

You felt a bit guilty because your initial thought of him had been influenced by all the headlines of him being another himbo playboy who could hardly tie his own shoes. When you looked into his eyes, you felt yourself fall a little in love. Your mind, as rational as it was, told you to be careful but you suddenly felt brightened in his gaze. 

“You do a very good job of it,” You smiled. 

Bruce looked away again, before shyly saying, “You think so?”

“Oh, yes,” You leaned back in your seat, playing with the position of the napkin in your lap. “I wouldn’t think you're too dumb or rude at all.”

“Too dumb?”

You smirked, eyes flickering up for a moment. He seemed amused, leaning forward to hear more. It hummed, pretending like you were thinking for a few seconds before saying, “Well, Mr. Wayne, we’ve hardly had time to know each other. I think it will take more than one dinner to figure out how smart you really are.”

Bruce let out a quick, hefty laugh that had you giggling right along. Playboy or not, the man was too charming for his own good. You wondered for a second how he could manage it. Surely, you knew it had to be difficult. 

“Then, I believe we should set up a date. To measure my intelligence of course. And to appease Harvey.”

You grinned. “Yes, and to appease Harvey.”

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne imagine #batman x fem!reader #batman x reader #batman #dc comics #jason todd #romance #red hood #nightwing #dick grayson #harvey dent #two-face #past harvey dent #batfamily #clark kent

[elisysd]

10. If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting

Masterlist - Previously - Next

Chapter soundtrack: Time After Time - Cindy Lauper  

You spent the next few days in a happy bliss, far away from your daily worries which seemed to have faded away whenever you would end up in Charles’ arms. He was taking you to work in the mornings and was driving you back home when your shift was over. Sometimes, he was even staying at your place when you were working from home. The demand came from you, to his surprise, but never would he dare to deny it to you. You were living in your own little bubble and when he finally had to leave, it felt weird. You had been so used to having him around. He fitted in your world, as much as you fitted in his. 

“We’ll see each other in Canada, right? It will happen fast, I promise. I wish I could stay longer but duty called… I can’t stay far away from them even if I would love to be there with you.” he said, as your head was buried in his chest, his arms protectively around your shoulders and his lips against the top of your head. 

“I’m going to miss you.” you mumbled.

“Yeah, me too. I became used to you so quickly it’s concerning. But hey, maybe we can sneak away in Montreal. Living dangerously, it’s going to be thrilling. I kinda like that.” he smiled as you looked at him.

“About that… I won’t be able to make it. I can miss one race a year and I chose Canada but it was weeks ago, when I didn’t even like you.” you explained, feeling suddenly very guilty and even more when you noticed him frowning, visibly disappointed. “And maybe it’s good? We’ve been glued to each other lately. Putting a little distance between us.”

“Maybe. I don’t like that. I just want to be with you. But I suppose you’re right. I’ll call you. And text you. I’m going to be very annoying now that I know you won’t be next to me.”

“Are you sure you will have time for that?” you asked.

“For you? Always. 

In fact, he didn’t have as much time as he hoped he would, resulting in barely a few texts and even less calls. You were both way too busy and with the different time zones, synchronizing your schedules was just way too hard. The whole situation made Charles more on edge than usual. He was missing you more than what he expected and what he had ever felt before. But he wasn’t resenting you for it. You were working on the Alpine’s documentary which you were voicing over and it was taking every bit of your time. Still he was brooding and being an easily readable man, everyone in the paddock and in Ferrari knew it was better to leave him alone. Everyone but Pierre, who had made it his mission to find out what was annoying his best friend. 

“ Come on! What is wrong with you? The car is shittier than usual? Carlos is being an ass? The tabloids took pictures of you with someone you shouldn’t see? Or maybe it’s the weather. You know you’re too water sensitive for your own good.”

“Shut up, Gasly. Go bother someone else.”

“Or maybe you’re in love and she rejected you?” This earned him a glare from the monegasque. “Oh shit. You’re in love. Damn… I didn’t see that coming. This is gold. Who is she? Do I know her? Is she a model? An actress? The daughter of a sponsor? I strongly advise you against that option, nothing good ever comes from that kind of situation and…”

“Y/N.” Charles finally snapped, before blushing furiously and watching around him, scared someone might have heard him.

“Y/N? The journalist? The one who is shooting a documentary about my team? That Y/N?” repeated Pierre, not believing it.

“Because you know other Y/N?”

“ I didn’t see that coming… Wasn’t she supposed to hate your guts?”

And Charles proceeded to explain everything to him, without telling him too many details about your life, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate it. But he talked about how much he liked you, what he felt for you and how you were a welcoming rainbow in a cloudy season. You were his escape.  He didn’t know how long he talked about you but it must have been very long if Pierre was checking his watch from time to time.

“You’re down bad. Really bad. Some might say you’re in love.”

“It’s too soon to talk about love. We are just getting to know each other. But… Pierre, she is perfect. She is everything I’ve ever wanted, I swear.”

“Okay, Romeo. Just be careful. You are a big romantic and everything and you’re cute, but hold your horses. Take it slow, see where it goes and don’t be too much.”

“Pierre.. don’t say anything to anyone. We are not public. Not yet, at least. It’s a tough situation with her work, she needs to sort everything out and she needs time.”

“I might love gossiping but I would never gossip over something so big it could ruin careers. I’m not cruel.”

Charles spent the weekend giving his all, trying to make the best out of the car he had and for once he felt like it paid off. It wasn’t anywhere near where he wanted to be, but a good strategy, a bit opportunistic from Ferrari, had earned him a good place at the end of the race. He was happy and a bit hopeful for the future even if a tremendous amount of work still needed to be done. 

When he came back to his hotel room, his first thought was directed to you. He knew you had watched the race and he wanted to share his happiness and pride with you. He laid down on his bed and took his phone, scrolling to find your number. He ignored his family words of congratulations, thinking he would answer later, and called you. You were quick to answer which made him think that you were waiting for his call. 

“I’m so happy for you Charles, I was rooting for you so hard! Thankfully I was home.” he could hear the emotion and pride in your voice and it made him melt. “ You deserve it. You were amazing.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“Of course I do. You made me happy for a little moment.” you said and he could hear something was off in your voice. He didn’t like it and pressed you for an answer. You sighed and the line fell in silence for a few seconds before you started to talk again. “My dad’s birthday is right around the corner. I got a text from my mom asking me if I intended to come. It’s not an invitation, she expects me to be here.”

“ And what are you going to do?”

“ I don't want to go but if I don’t, it will only make everything worse.” you were on the verge of crying.

“I’ll be there for you. When is it?” he said, out of the blue, surprising you and himself.

“It’s after Silverstone but Charles… you… you’re not serious, right? You are not seriously saying you’re coming with me?” you nervously laughed. 

“I’m completely serious. You don’t want to go there, I’m offering you support.”

“And what am I going to say to them?”

“Easy. That I’m your boyfriend.” he shrugged.

When he didn’t hear you reply he was scared for a minute that you hung up. He knew he was overstepping, you still had not talked about labeling your relationship, it was too early. But at the same time, he was serious about you and he wanted to know he wasn’t taking your relationship lightly. And that was exactly what he told you, determined. You needed reassurance and you needed him to show how much he cared and he wanted nothing more than to prove it to you. 

“Thank you for being honest. And for taking things slow with me. I know I’m hard to handle.” you barely whispered. 

“First of all, you’re not hard to handle, whatever that means. And it ‘s nice to take things slow. I’m used to going fast all the time, going slow spices up my daily life.” he laughed, hoping his joke attempt would at least make you smile. 

“Well, then, in that case, I guess I need to tell my mom that I’m bringing a guest.”

Coming back from Montreal, Charles first thought was to head straight to Paris. More than just a want, it was a need to see you that led him to your door by the evening, his suitcases by his side. He knocked on your door but not hearing a word or a sound from the inside made him think that you were not there. It was fine, when it came to you patience was not his worst flaw. He could wait. He sat down on the greenish rug of the corridor and scrolled down on his phone, going through fan reactions, race recaps and articles for a good hour until he heard heels walking in his direction. He looked up and saw your surprised face, two bags full of groceries in your hands. He stood up and took them away from you, letting the bags rest on the floor before taking you in his arms and kissed you like he had never kissed you. You couldn’t help but melt in his embrace. You missed him more than you had initially thought. 

“I thought you would be back in Maranello or in Monaco.” you said when you finally let go of each other. 

“I have to, yes. But I needed to see you and to kiss you first. They don’t need me before three days. I missed you so much.”

You smiled as you kissed him again, letting him feel how much you had missed him too. 

“Let’s not stay here. Come inside. Have you eaten anything? Do you want a drink?”

“I only want you.” he simply said as he put down his coat on your sofa as he instantly gazed at you. The mood shifted and you were suddenly feeling very hot. Slowly he walked to you and trapped you against the counter looking down on your parted lips. “ I want to kiss you and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stop myself from going further.” he admitted, his voice raspier than usual.

You gulped and threw an arm around his neck, bringing him even closer to you. 

“What if I don’t want to stop you?”

He didn’t need more to kiss you one last time before making you jump into his arms and carry you to your bedroom. 

Austria went on in a blink of an eye. You had not been this excited for a race in a very long time, if not ever. It was the first time you were there as Charles’ girlfriend and you had to admit that sneaking away to spend some time together here and there was making the whole experience thrilling. You would hide every chance you would get for a quick kiss. Flirty jokes were told whenever you would cross paths and you would even dare to brush slightly your fingers with his. His post qualifying interview was a mix of professionalism and subtle flirt attempts that made you blush and you blessed everything that you could think of that your face wasn’t shown on camera or it would have caught you blushing. And when he finally came back to you after the race and after a wonderful P2, it was almost like he wasn’t giving a fuck about being subtle anymore which earned him a glare from your side as he was leaving you with a wink. Walking out of the media pen, you quickly texted him. 

No reward for you mister. 

And you made your way out of the paddock and to your hotel. It had been a hell of a weekend and all you were thinking about was a good bath, with a book and classical music playing in the background. When you were done, feeling fresh and relaxed, you started to pack your bags and clean your stuff as you had a plane to catch early the next day. You replayed the interviews you had done the whole weekend to try to see if there was any way you could improve for the next race and paused them when needed while you were sometimes taking notes. You didn’t hear at first the knock on your door and it only startled you as it got louder. Annoyed, you went to open it and barely had time to recognise your boyfriend as his hands circled your waist and his lips found yours. It was urgent and feverish. Nothing slow or romantic, he wasn’t there to talk. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked but was quickly reduced to silence as he threw you on the bed and soon joined you, his interview realized a few hours earlier still playing. 

When you woke up the next day, he was already up, tenderly looking at you, carefully drawing patterns on your arms from the tip of his fingers, making you shiver. He was far from the devilishly handsome act he had played for you the previous night. He brushed a strand of hair falling down on your face and kissed your forehead as you got closer, resting your head on his bare chest and your hand where his heart was beating loudly. 

“You know what you are to me?” he whispered.

“Your girlfriend?”

“You’re my sweet escape. My little piece of heaven away from the mess which is this season.”

You felt yourself melting at his words. 

Silverstone was not as joyful as Austria, unfortunately. Even if Charles wanted to perform, he knew it would be tough. He was stressing out, pacing around his room, trying to find a sense of peace he knew he could only find if you were around, which was not the case. You were busy, probably the busiest you had ever been since the beginning of the season and didn’t have time for him. He was annoyed. You were so close yet so far away from him. It only made his bad mood worse. Bad mood which was accentuated after he ended up P9 after the race. He was more than just disappointed and not even seeing you waiting for him, a pitying smile on your face, could help making him feel better. 

“Charles, what a disappointing race today after your P2 in Austria. Do you feel like it is a step back?”

Your question almost made him snap but he could see in your eyes how much it pained you to ask. He tried to stay professional and answered the best he could. He was relieved when you were done. For the first time in his life, he didn’t only want to perform well for his team and his family, he wanted to see your eyes shimmer too when he would step in the media pen. He didn’t want to see sadness in them and more than anything, he didn’t want to be the reason why. He met you in an empty area, where the garbage from the food court was displayed and thought to himself how shady your meeting place was. But his worries soon faded away as he saw you running to him and took his face into your palms to kiss him. 

“I’m so, so sorry about the race, Charles. I swear my heart was beating so fast, I was so frustrated. And I wanted nothing more but to be there for you.”

“It’s like this… And you’re here now. That’s all that matters.Let’s go back to the hotel. Mine. I don’t want to let go of you tonight.”

“I’ll meet you there. I have to go to the post race debrief first. And I still have an interview linked up in an hour with an Aston engineer. This weekend is never ending, I swear.”

“It’s okay. Go. I’ll wait for you there.”

You kissed him one last time before leaving. 

He waited for you in the lobby of the hotel, watching people and clients passing by without a care in the world. He was replaying the race in his head, overthinking what he could’ve, would’ve, should’ve done better but was interrupted by your arrival. 

“I got lost on the way. It took longer than what I expected, I’m sorry.” you apologized. 

“I don’t care. I’m just glad you made it. I was starting to think you got cold feet.”

“When it comes to you? Never, Leclerc. You have me now and I’m all in.”

He smiled, took your hand in his and guided you towards the elevator barely able to keep his hands to himself, making you laugh. You both acted careless and when he saw you froze, like a doe caught in the middle of headlights, he didn’t understand why. But when Pierre emerged from a dark corner, a teasing smile on his lips, he got it. He had forgotten to tell you that the Alpine’s driver knew about your relationship. He felt a wave of panic washing over you and making you stutter. 

“Relax, Y/N. I promised Charles I wouldn’t say a word and I intend to keep that promise.”

You turned towards Charles. 

“You told him?”

“I… It wasn’t planned… it just happened. I’m sorry.”

“I’m happy for you. Both. And I’m glad Charlie boy finally made his move on you, it was painful to watch him be so jealous. A bit pathetic too.” Pierre shrugged. 

“What do you mean, finally? you asked Charles as Pierre was leaving, laughing. 

Once in his room, Charles was very determined to make you forget about your encounter with Pierre. But as soon as the door closed behind him, he felt you being everywhere but with him.

“Y/N? Are you alright?”

“I realized something today.” you said, making him curious. “It’s getting harder and harder to interview you. Especially when I can see how a bad race is affecting you and all I want is to drop the mic and take you in my arms and hold you tight. At that moment, when you stepped in the media pen, I wanted to be everything but a journalist. The line between my work ethic and my personal life is getting blurrier by the minute. It’s scary, Charles.”

“I don’t want to be an obstacle to your job… or a chore.” 

“You’re not.” you quickly reassured him and not wanting him to get your confession in the wrong way. “ I just have to find the right balance. But, I suppose it was bound to happen, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m falling for you. Hard and fast, Charles.”

Author's note: She finally admitted it! Still a fluffly chapter... for now. Not sure it will stay that way heheh. Enjoy it while you can.

Don't hesitate to leave a comment or an ask, as well as reblogging and leaving a like. Besides the fact that I absolutely love to read you, it helps a lot for the story to find its audience. I also have a taglist for this story, so if you want to be added so you never miss a chapter, let me know.

If you wanna be part of the taglist, let me know.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @thirstylion @cmleitora @charizznorizz @sltwins @boherahpsody @herondalism @roseamongthorns13 @aundercover @snowflakesfluff @fictional-l0v3r @queensassybitchsworld @jehun

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#charles leclerc 16 #formula 1 #writing #fiction #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x oc #charles leclerc fanfic #cl16 #scuderia ferrari #ferrari #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc f1 #charles leclerc fic #f1 x reader #cl16 x reader #driver x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you

[bubbleonice]

timothee and kylie were spotted talking and laughing at the innovater awards in New York. and she is wearing the matching cartier bracelet that he has in necklace form. are you sure they’ve broken up?

I have gotten many many many asks today about this particular situation. I don’t have time to reply to everyone at this moment, I appologize. ❤️And I also do not have my cards with me at the moment. However, I still want to comment a few things because I can feel the stress this is causing some of my readers. I feel the collective energy and worries.

I myself am still firm in my reply as to they have ended things. I pulled some cards of this a while back and I believe I said things ended right about the time Paris Fashion Week ended, actually a little before that. But it also can be around December. I stay firm to that reply.

I also said eventhough they end things, we will probably not know of it until months later. And form KJ side, they will still make it seem like they are together.

But to be fair, I also don’t want to say: I am absolutely right and always right. There will always be a possibility I am wrong. I do not want to get anyone’s hopes high. And we should ‘t really pray upon anyone’s misery such as a break up. But this has never been a real relationship. It was a hookup turned into a pr show. So I am even unsure about when I say things ended, that might lead to someone actually believing they had a thing for real.

So just to say a few words in comfort, I want everyone to trust their guts, stay calm and think a little about this:

- if it was indeed a real relationship, wouldn’t we have seen more candid photos accidentally snapped by fans or someone from the street? Two young people dating would be all over the place, resturants, concerts, movies, shopping, walks in the park…etc!

- the few times we have actually seen them together were always in arranged settings with lots of cameras. How does this apply to a couple in love wanting to be lowkey? And when they come out as a couple, why go in hiding when events over? Does it make any sense?

-every allerged sightings of them spread on internet were never proven by photos. But by robot accounts, telling a story. And no one else ever validates those stories but this one storyteller. And they are always very much about they are all over eachother, they look so good, they are so in love. Like why does anyone need to sound like they are convincing anyone?

-remember the Kardashians run many media and social media outlets. When I recieved these asks I had to go online to see what you are talking about, this award show. And from my knowledge Timothee was at the award show presenting an award and Kylie was there to recieve an award. They were invited for two different reasons. And now the tabloids are calling it a hot date! And Timothee being there to support Kylie. See hiw they manipulate the public into believing something that wasn’t the case? They did not even arrive or leave together. What does that say to you? How easy it is to make one thing seem like something completly different, right?

-In addition, Kylie was forward an award for her fashionline which she just launched, I think 1 day ago? This tells me she was not nominated, this award was purchased and paid for. This is planned. Her seat next to Timothee and at the same table as Martin Scorcese was probably arranged the same way. But did we see any loving interactions? Kisses? Hugs? Even a glance at eachother? No.

All I want to say is have faith and trust your guts. This is a media game. If someone is truly in love and truly a couple, there would be much less doubt. They won’t be trying this hard to show it off to the world. And they would be much more genuine and cozy around eachother. We would see more unstaged photos than actually staged ones. And no doubt, we can expect more to come.

Bless you all❤️❤️ I’ll reply to the rest of my asks this weekend. I wish everyone a pleasant day.

#celebrity tarot #intuitive readings #tarot reading #timothee chalamet #kylie jenner

[jamies-latex-lust]

Bea's in the Trap

As an investigative journalist, Bea never had much success with her stories. However, she finally had a lead on something big.

In recent months, Katy Perry and Kim Kardashian had moved in together. Both had announced new pregnancies at around the same time. They even hired some no-name as a live-in butler.

Bea had investigated into this, and found a connection between the three. A woman named Jamie had introduced both women to the man. It seemed Jamie had developed a new type of latex, and Bea found out that Nicki Minaj, a fan of latex herself, had been in talks with Jamie.

After bribing a guard, Bea managed to get backstage at Nicki's concert. She was exploring around the rooms when someone came up behind her and placed a cloth over her mouth.

Bea awoke sometime later, tied to a wall. Her clothes had been stripped off of her and she was now wearing a latex bodysuit. She couldn't see her whole body, but she could tell the suit covered every part of her face except her eyes and mouth. "Why are you doing this?" Bea demanded. "What did I do to you?" The person who had bound her arms and legs came up to her. It was Nicki Minaj herself!

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart," Nicki said. "You're going to be fine."

Nicki pulled out a makeup kit and sat in front of Bea, starting to put lipstick on Bea's exposed lips.

Bea couldn't believe this. She'd had a crush on Nicki Minaj for a long time, but never imagined the rapper would be doing her makeup. Her heart was beating fast as she blushed under the latex.

"Why are you doing this?" Bea asked.

"You were getting too close to the truth," Nicki said. "So, Jamie and I collaborated to deal with you. Of course, I guess you can know now."

Bea gulped. She knew she needed to escape, but she also knew this would be her only chance to find out what was happening. This was her big break that would get her out of tabloids and into real journalism. She needed to take the chance.

"Who is Jamie?" Bea asked. "And why did you work with her?" "Jamie is a mistress of latex," Nicki said. "Many people have given up their lives to be her latex drones. But awhile back, one of them wasn't working out well. Thankfully, she'd already developed a new type of latex to make use of him." Bea frowned. What was Nicki talking about? "What happened to him?" Bea asked.

"He was placed in a special bodysuit," Nicki said. "It allowed anyone Jamie chose to use his body as their own. His body was basically rented out to whoever paid enough. Kim Kardashian was the first. For seven hours, as she slept, Kim would control the guy's body. Celebrities really don't have enough time every day." Bea's eyes widened. This was huge! "So Jamie had that man use his body as a substitute for Kim's?" Bea asked. "Yes," Nicki said, now working on Bea's eyeshadow. "The average person is awake for 16 hours though. So, when Kim wasn't using the body, Katy Perry would." It all suddenly made sense now. Kim and Katy were using that butler's body, and met because of that. He was working for Jamie! "Is he still alive?" Bea asked. "Oh, he most certainly is," Nicki said. "After all, his new owners need help with the children they're having."

"They're his?" Bea asked.

"In a sense," Nicki said. "When Kim and Katy found out about sharing the body, they connected over this. They had quite a lot of fun together whenever one was using the body. Eventually, they both started a relationship, and I'm sure you can figure out the rest." Nicki finished putting Bea's eyeshadow. She looked at the girl and smiled. "You're beautiful," Nicki said. "You're going to be a star." Nicki stood up and went into a closet.

Bea's had was spinning. Katy Perry and Kim Kardashian were piloting a guy's body and had started a relationship with each other. This was big. Bigger than big!

If she could get out of here, Bea would have the story of a lifetime. As Bea struggled against her restraints, Nicki returned in a pink and purple latex dress, holding a wig that matched her current hair. She stared at Bea and smirked.

"I'm so glad I found you," she said. Nicki put the wig on Bea's head and rolled a mirror over. As Bea stared into it, she realized she looked like Nicki now.

Nicki walked over and held Bea's face up to the mirror, making sure she saw herself.

"Don't you just love your new look?" Nicki asked. "Please, untie me," Bea said. "I have a big story to tell." Nicki sighed. "I'll untie you in a bit," Nicki said. "But I can't have you leaking this story. No. There's a bigger reason why I told you."

Bea looked at herself and at Nicki. It was starting to click.

"You're going to be my new body," Nicki said, with a seductive laugh. "Kim and Katy found out you were snooping around and when Jamie found out, I offered to help stop you from uncovering the secret of this latex. I'd been wanting my own latex drone body anyway, so it worked out well."

"You're going to take over my body?" Bea asked.

"Only while I sleep," Nicki said. "But trust me, you're going to love it. You're going to be the center of attention."

Bea was shocked, and as Nicki walked away, Bea started to struggle again.

"We need to do something about that resistance first," Nicki said.

Nicki leaned down and began hypnotically twerking her cheeks.

"Stare and let yourself fall under my control," Nicki said.

Bea wanted to look away, but she couldn't help stealing a glimpse of Nicki's butt. It was so perfect. So voluptuous. It was the perfect fit for her latex.

Bea tried to resist Nicki's directions. She had to escape and get this story out there.

Nicki got closer and closer to Bea, filling more of her vision with her bouncing butt buns.

"You are helpless to resist," Nicki said. "So, relax and enjoy the ride."

Bea couldn't help but let her gaze drop to the point where Nicki's butt met her gaze. The pattern on the latex looked almost like a hypnotic spiral, while the rhythm of Nicki's butt and hips drew her gaze.

"Repeat after me," Nicki ordered. "I submit myself to Queen Nicki."

"I submit myself to Queen Nicki," Bea repeated in monotone.

"My body belongs to Queen Nicki," Nicki said.

"My body belongs to Queen Nicki," Bea again repeated. "No one can resist Queen Nicki," Nicki said. "No one can resist Queen Nicki," Bea repeated. Nicki got right up against Bea. As her crush tweaked against her, the last of Bea's resistance faded. She would gladly accept anything her queen, Nicki Minaj, asked of her.

Bea felt weak as Nicki untied her. Nicki caught her new slave and pet the young woman's head.

"Good," Nicki said. "Get some rest. I need your body to be perfect when I'm on the news tomorrow." Bea looked at Nicki's perfect butt and perfect face. She'd never felt so happy before. Nicki smiled seductively, alluringly at Bea and kissed her. Bea passed out in her new mistress's arms.

The next day, as Nicki Minaj was being interviewed, she was dressed in a new latex outfit.

"Oh, I got this from my good friend Jamie," Nicki said. "Katy Perry introduced me to her. Oh, and I'd like to congratulate Katy and Kim on their recent pregnancies."

"Now, Ms. Minaj, if I may ask," the interviewer said. "You performed late into the night, and besides a brief break in your hotel room, you were back out signing autographs for fans, and still found time to come on my show, yet you still look great. How do you do it?"

While Nicki's real body slept soundly, her drone body looked at the interviewer and smiled.

The trap had worked perfectly and the only person who knew was now being used as an extra body for her.

Nicki said with a chuckle, "That's a secret."

#submission

[eruden-writes]

Based on that reblog I'm assuming you're taking requests....if you are may ask for "oh. OH."

If you're not taking them just ignore. Hope your day is really nice

Haha, there's an Arcana flash fic I wrote a looong time ago that this prompt reminds me of.

I asked for a monster and another anon suggested werewolf, so we're going with that.

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The second day of the convention had proved to be less lucrative than Amber had hoped. At this rate, she would likely break a little over even with the stall and overhead. Not terrible, but she had higher hopes for her first convention as a vendor. Especially since she debuted her webcomic earlier in the year. 

It didn’t help that most other vendors near her seemed ten years her junior. Somewhere in their early- to mid-twenties, already popular in their art or writing. It made that sense of imposter syndrome - or the thought she should have done something with her life by now - dig in deep.

Little attention on her stall, plus some rather big name speakers drawing her potential customers away every hour, had left her feeling even more morose. It didn’t help that her best friend, Addie, kept taking off, eager to take in all the sights and programs. Of the two of them, extroverted Addie was more equipped to handle customers. 

And had been the one to convince Amber to risk money on this venture. 

Losing her tenth customer for the morning, Amber had resorted to idly sketching in her sketchbook, letting the sounds of the event wash over her. Her introverted batteries were at risk of exploding if she plastered her customer service smile on for yet-another easily-distracted congoer.

A constant flow of talk, of bodies constantly moving, of noisy little doodads or televisions played. Overhead, a screen indicated upcoming events and, occasionally, played ads concerning prices at the convention hall’s food court. Farther away, near the doors of the main hall, cosplayers posed and cameras flashed.

Someone’s hand leaned at the edge of her table, the plastic creaking under their weight as they leaned to peer at her art. Amber tensed, braced for questions or maybe even a request for a free drawing. Her mechanical pencil continued to sketch, pretending to be too focused to pay the interloper any mind. 

“So, I take it you don’t like Montos?” 

Apparently, someone couldn’t take a hint. Then again, Amber was supposed to be hawking her wares. Namely her art and webcomic. Still, she was bitter over her circumstance and her MIA co-worker. 

Shrugging, Amber didn’t bother looking up as she continued to work on the not-so-flattering caricature of Montos, fan favorite villain of hit streaming show Of Wolf and Blood. “The character is okay - as far as a bad guy, y’know - but the actor is just overhyped.” 

The interloper chuckled, deep enough that the resonance made a tingle shoot down Amber’s spine. There was a smile in their voice as they replied, “I hear that. I’ve been on his sets.” 

“Is that so-” Unimpressed and ready for some harebrained lie, Amber shot the visitor a skeptical look. Her disbelief faded as her eyes landed on Augustine Prime. A pompous name for an even more arrogant actor, if tabloids were to be believed. “Oh.” 

For a beat, all she could do was stare at him. From the back of her mind, she could hear Addie’s gushing voice relaying details about this very man. He/him, seven foot, a lycan with alleged hellhound blood in him, and built like a strongman competitor. 

Amber could see why he was a fan favorite from his size alone, but those dark gold eyes and chestnut brown waves - worn in a way that made Amber think of a surfer dude - certainly didn’t hurt. The fact he was half-shifted didn’t hurt, either. Walking around like a damn anime character with wolf ears and tail on full display. Faintly, she tried to recall if his clothes - a suit with some obnoxiously bright tie - was from a anything she recognized.

“Oh.” It was curiosity and realization that made her glance down at her sketch, part of her trying to gauge how accurately she was. It took her a half-second to realize that perhaps drawing a less-than-flattering picture of an actor would result in retaliation. Her eyes swung back up to Augustine’s face, that infuriating smirk still tilting at his lips. “Oh no.” 

“So, how much?” He nodded to her hands, to her sketchbook.

Amber’s brain grappled for understanding. “H-how much?” 

Augustine’s smile spread a little further, showing off unnervingly perfect - slightly sharp - white teeth. “For the drawing.” 

Instinctively, she snapped her sketchbook shut, slamming it down on the table and folding her hands atop it. “Wh-what?” 

Amusement quirked further through his features as he raised an eyebrow. “The drawing you were just working on.” 

She clutched her sketchbook to her chest, barely keeping a whine down at the back of her throat. From the way the man’s infuriating grin broadened yet again, she was willing to bet he could hear it regardless. Something broke in her mind. Agitation over his smarminess cleaved through her shock and surprise. 

When she answered, her knuckles hurt from clutching to her sketch pad so hard. “I charge $200 for commissions.” 

Augustine’s other eyebrow rose to join its counterpart. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but commissions would mean I’d ask you to draw.” 

“I-It’s not finished.” Amber wanted to bite her own tongue for stuttering, but she sat straighter and tried to sound firm, “So you’d be asking me to complete it.” 

It was only then that she realized people were staring. Hell, they were amassing around her table. There were obvious fans, hoping to catch Augustine’s attention, and nosy busybodies who were undoubtedly wondering what exactly this star was doing at her table. Heat clawed up Amber’s back, threatening to spill a blush across her cheeks. 

Gods, why couldn’t he have dropped by when Addie was here? 

“Can’t argue there. Here you go.” Finally, Augustine shrugged and pulled his wallet out. Amber numbly stared as he slapped down two $100 bills. Her eyes swung to his face, mouth open to protest, but he silenced her with a wink and a grin. “Deliver it to the VIP section when you’re done.” 

Augustine swept away from her table, taking most of the accumulated crowd with him. If he noticed his silent entourage, he didn’t take any notice. As her hand smacked over the cash, sliding it closer to her, she watched the actor swagger off. 

Though most of the crowd had left, quite a few people had remained. She realized they were asking about her art, her webcomic, her relation to Mr. Prime and she fielded the question while still trying to process her own shock. 

There was one thing, however, that lit up in her mind. 

She really should have charged him more.

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[yellowkitkieran]

Rumors (Kieran Tierney)

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Kieran doesn’t tell you about his set-in-stone transfer to Newcastle and you can’t trust him.

Kieran Tierney set to leave Arsenal- exclusive interviews reveal all

To be honest, you aren't sure you remember where you read it from first. You've dived deep into the dredges of the football tabloids, the rabbit hole swallowing you up without a second thought. The deeper you go, the darker it gets, and the harder it becomes to read articles as tears blur your vision. 

Arsenal's next captain? More like their next sale

Your worst fears are coming to fruition. Everything you've worked for, gone. Your entire future, that family you thought you'd planned with the love of your life? Gone up in smoke over the course of an hour as you find credible sources that back up the sketchy claims you'd stumbled across.

It hurts more this way, finding out second hand, than hearing it all from Kieran's own mouth.

Say goodbye to London- Newcastle comes knocking for Arsenal's talented bench

Each word hits you like a stone. Kieran hasn't mentioned a word of this to you. Up until an hour ago, as far as you knew Kieran was set to renew his contract with the gunners for at least another season. Just last week, Kieran came home bouncing on his toes over how well talks had gone at the club. Now, you have every reason to believe it had all just been an act. 

From the beginning, Kieran has ensured that honesty is the cornerstone of your relationship. After a history of exes that left you in the dark, Kieran was a breath of fresh air. He always communicates and includes you in planning his time. Hell, if he was ten minutes late coming home from training, he’d send you a text to let you know he was behind so you didn’t worry. 

You find yourself asking again and again what has fundamentally changed that he would keep this from you. Are you not good enough anymore? Does he not want to stay in London to be close to you? You can't up and move, your job doesn't allow for that sort of flexibility. And you've spoken about your desire to help provide for your future family; you don't want to rely on Kieran for everything. When you landed your dream position he was over the moon for you- was that an act as well? Everything you've worked towards, all for nothing.

"Ohhhh my darlinggggg! Your lover boy is home-" Kieran stops short when he sees you curled up on the sofa, his smile fading as he takes in your red-rimmed eyes and splotchy skin. "Sweetheart? What's wrong?"

"You tell me." Your voice is rough and foreign to your own ears. Makes sense, considering how raw your throat is. You’re surprised you can get any words out at all; the tightness in your chest only gets worse now that Kieran is standing in front of you. 

Visually, he isn’t any different than he was a few hours ago when he left. Sure, his hair is washed and he’s changed his clothes, but that’s standard after a training day. But looking at him now, you feel as if you don’t know the man in front of you. It sickens you to think that he would deliberately keep something this life changing from you. 

Kieran shakes his head, immediately coming over and sitting at your feet. You pull your knees to your chest, not wanting him to touch you for fear that you'll crumble. "I dinnae understand- I have no idea what's happened? Please tell me my love, what's got you so worked up?"

While Kieran's voice is soft, you can't help wondering if he already knows the answer. How can he not? Did he really think he could not say a word about a move and keep you from finding out until he was gone? If he did, he severely underestimated you. 

"You're leaving, that's what's wrong." You spit the words like venom, wishing to wound him as painfully as he's wounded you by keeping secrets. "You didn't even think to tell me? Newcastle?! Fucking six hours away- you didn't wanna tell me?" You're angry, not thinking rationally as your vision clouds with hot tears. "Fuck you, Kieran. Honestly, fuck you! How could you?"

Kieran rakes a shaky hand through his hair. He rocks back on his heels, wounded and reeling. "I was gonna tell you-"

"When?! The day you pack up and move?" You're desperate now, on your feet and looming over him. You can't see straight. A storm has been brewing for hours and you're ready to explode. 

"Nothing is set in stone yet," he says as if it will help. It doesn't matter though, the damage is done. He stretches a hand towards you but you step out of his reach, his fingers closing helplessly around air. "Mo ghràdh, I didn't want you to be worried before I knew it was for sure."

You shake your head, needing a second to detach. The nickname you used to cherish lands hollow now, sounding like an insult instead of a sweet reminder of his love. "Don't you dare call me that name. Don't try being kind now when you've broken my heart, Kieran Tierney." His face crumbles but you can't bring yourself to care. He's hurt you more than your cold tone could hurt him. "How dare you keep this from me! Did you think I was too fragile or weak to handle this? Did you think I'd pack up and leave at the first sign of something going wrong? We planned our future!"

"And that future didn't include me going to a smaller team like Newcastle!" 

The room falls silent in the wake of Kieran's outburst. Finally, some emotion from him that isn't shame. Something you can latch onto and run with. Proof that this is killing him the same way it is killing you. 

"Do you truly think so little of me," you start in a dangerously even voice, "that you think I wouldn't love you if you left Arsenal? Do you think a paycheck, that any of this-" you gesture to the house around you, decorated with expensive curtains and fancy decor you paid someone to pick out- "matters more to me than my love for you? That if we had to pack up and move to an apartment, I wouldn't love you anymore?"

"That's not at all what I'm saying." Desperation creeps into Kieran's voice as he begins to pace, trainers scuffing on the hardwood every few steps. "I'm saying that I dinnae want to worry you if something isn't serious? Sure, it's been in the works for a month or so-" your stomach sinks, expression souring but Kieran doesn't notice- "but I thought I had more time. I was going to tell you over dinner tonight, because Arteta said-"

"Arteta said what? What did he say exactly," you interrupt, aware of how childish you're being but not possessing a care in the world. Your fingers tingle from how hard you grip your phone, the weight of Kieran's betrayal causing you to shake with rage. 

Kieran has the audacity to let his shoulders fall, as if he's pained by what he's about to say. "Arteta said that they're likely to sell me. He told me he wants me to develop more and maybe one day come home, but he doesn't want me wasting away on a bench. I'd get playtime at Newcastle," Kieran notes with hope, thinking that might soothe things over like putting a plaster on a scraped knee. "They'd make me a regular starter. It's all in my contract."

Your laugh comes out as shrill as nails on a chalkboard. "Oh, regular playtime yeah? Starting every game, huh? Well that's good, cause without me around you'll need to keep yourself busy." 

The house falls silent. A spring cold snap presses at the windows, but even the heating doesn't dare break the quiet. You stare hard at Kieran, hoping he finally understands how badly he's hurt you. 

"You- what? What do you mean, without you around? You don't mean… you're not breaking up with me." He says it as a statement, like he has the power to trap you here and not let you leave. 

"I need a break Kieran, that's what I mean. I don't know if I trust you anymore-"

"Because I didn't tell you about a potential move?!" Kieran's laugh is humorless as he rakes a hand through his hair. "Rumors come out every day- am I supposed to inform you each time a club comes asking about me? If I had known it was that big of an issue I would've told you, but I didn't realize you were gonna hate me for keeping it to myself until I knew for sure!"

"Of course it's an issue Kieran! You're moving across the country, who knows when I'll be able to see you- I can't just quit my job and follow you! I'll be stuck here, you'll be there-"

"You're not coming with me?"

Kieran looks as if you've just shattered his dreams. His hands are limp at his sides and his mouth hangs open like a fish as he struggles to find any sort of excuse. But you don't want to hear it. You don't want apologies or sweet words that he has carefully selected to force you to fold. All you've ever wanted is Kieran, in every sense of the word; now, you're not sure you'll ever believe you have all of him again. 

"How am I ever meant to trust you again, Kieran?" Your voice is soft, devoid of the anger it held a few moments ago. You know what you have to do, no matter how much it'll hurt. 

"Because I love you. I didn't think- I was only trying to protect you. Please, just stay and we can work all this out."

"No, Kieran." You shake your head. Kieran steps forward, you step backwards. "I'm sorry, but you did this to yourself. If you had been honest with me from the start, maybe it would've been different."

"Let me talk to Arteta, maybe I don't need to go." He's grasping at straws and you both know it. Nothing can change your mind once it's been made up. "If I stay, would you stay? Please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean for any of this, I swear I was going to tell you tonight."

"I can't let you do that either. This is your career… if Newcastle is going to provide you with the stage you need to succeed, then that's where you need to go. I shouldn't hold you back."

Turning on your heel, you head for the hallway. Kieran follows you upstairs like a lost puppy. He sits on your bed as you pack your most important things into a suitcase, intending to come back at a different time for the rest of it. Each shirt and pair of socks you pack away feels like tearing out a piece of your heart. You go to grab the ratty, faded green celtic shorts you love sleeping in and stop yourself, leaving them in the drawer for Kieran. They're not yours, not anymore. 

"Where will you go," Kieran asks flatly around the gravel in his throat. He's trying so hard not to cry, to ensure the last image you have of him isn't a teary one. 

"Probably to Chloe's. I'll be okay, so you don't need to worry about me. I'll come back for the rest of my things in a couple days, when I've had time to process."

"Okay."

You pause in the doorway, glancing at Kieran over your shoulder. He hangs his head in his hands, his body shaking with the effort of holding back his sobs. 

"I hope you do great at Newcastle," you murmur, unable to leave him with such a sad memory. You smile when he looks up, trying your best to make it warm and sincere. Despite your initial rage and what he probably thinks, you don't want to leave. The problem is, you respect yourself too much to stay in a relationship where your partner clearly doesn't share the same basic values as you do. 

"I love you." 

You sigh, gathering the last bits of your courage to offer Kieran a nod. "I know you do. I love you too. Unfortunately… that's not all I need from a relationship."

Your grip on your bag is tight as you take the steps slowly. You pause at the front door, taking one more look around the house you'd thought of as home for the past year. You'll miss it. You'll miss late night snuggles on the overly firm leather sofa, neither of you watching whatever film you'd put on. You'll miss Kieran's laughter ringing through the kitchen as you try desperately to fix the meal you'd burned. You'll miss sitting on the deck with him on warm summer afternoons on the rare days you both had spare time. 

You'll miss all the memories this house contains, but you'll miss the man living there most. 

#kieran tierney #kieran tierney fanfiction #kieran tierney fanfic #kieran tierney fic #kieran tierney imagine #kieran tierney fantasy #jac writes #forbidden fruit #arsenal fc