#busiest i ever seen the lot.
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Colleague: Are you watching the All-Staff Meeting?
Me *eating a hot cross bun, twitching with adrenaline, having just mainlined 911, with a puppy asleep on my feet, and now furiously blogging on tumblr dot com like my life depends on it* : ............yes?
#oh no. my zoom. link. failed? and. the interwebs. vanished! and a bird! yes a bird flew! into! the wifi!? oh.....noes....#(to be fair i did a LOT at 6am whilst waiting for the download)#Fridays in work are either DEAD or the BUSIEST YOU'VE EVER SEEN and luckily today is the former cause ya girl is not here for it#911 abc#911
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i wanna make your heartbeat run like roller coasters
for @subeddieweek day one with the prompts manhandling and accidental subspace
rated e | 3,520 words | please check ao3 for tags
⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕
Eddie gets pushed against a lot of lockers.
It’s rarely accidental.
It’s always painful.
He doesn’t exactly have a lot of meat on his bones. Every hit leaves a bruise.
So when Steve fucking Harrington does his own dirty work for once, even though he graduated the way Eddie was supposed to, it’s just a bit embarrassing that it doesn’t hurt. It feels…kinda like he should be on his knees.
Which is really not something he wanted to think about when Steve’s got a hand on his shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise, and something like fear in his eyes. Why is he scared?
“Did you sell weed to Robin?” he asked, teeth clenched.
Jesus fucking Christ. Steve’s got himself a band nerd girlfriend. How the hell did that happen?
“No, I sold to her friend. She waited by the treeline talking to herself the entire time.”
Eddie could hear his own voice shaking, but he wouldn’t back down. Black eyes were kinda metal weren’t they?
“Which friend?”
“Dude, I don’t even know. Someone else in band.”
The hand on his shoulder tightened and he barely bit back a whimper.
Steve’s eyes were very pretty this close. They were pretty from far away, too. Honestly, having Steve this close was probably rewiring something already broken in his brain. Having Steve’s hand on him like this was making his brain do somersaults trying to stay focused.
And then his hand was gone.
Eddie breathed in, breathed out.
“Sorry. I-” Steve shook his hands out and backed away. “Sorry.”
Eddie ignored whatever the fuck was happening in his stomach. It shouldn’t be happening so it isn’t, simple as that.
“Maybe you should ask your girlfriend if you’re so worried about her buying drugs.” Eddie should learn to shut his mouth at some point. “I only sell to the people who come to me first.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I remember.” Steve wiped his hand down his face. “Sorry again.”
Eddie looked him up and down, taking in the fact that he was genuinely apologizing. No one ever apologized for knocking him around, not even when it was on accident.
“You good?” He eventually asked.
“Yeah. Just, she’s been through a lot. I didn’t really want her to get pressured into buying something,” Steve sighed. “Has she come out of the band room yet? I’m supposed to bring her to work.”
“Uh, yeah man, everyone left an hour ago.”
Eddie watched Steve’s face fall as he checked his watch and must’ve realized the time.
“Shit. Okay. I must’ve lost track of time.”
Steve looked pitiful. Eddie’s seen dogs in alleys who looked less beaten down and neglected than Steve currently did.
“I can help you find her?” Eddie offered for some unknown reason.
Well, he knew the reason, but he was choosing to ignore it.
“She’s probably already at work. It’s my day off so I ended up getting distracted with something and didn’t realize it was so late,” Steve admitted, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Thanks, though.”
Wayne liked to tell Eddie he was too nice to undeserving people. Lord knows he gave his dad too many chances and got let down every time. He even tried to be friends with Tommy Hagan in middle school because he could sense something was going on with Tommy’s dad much like his own.
But Eddie liked to remind Wayne that Eddie is often considered undeserving and he took him in and gave him multiple chances regardless.
“You wanna smoke?” Eddie asked, despite knowing he barely has anything left after the long week of midterms for students. His busiest times of year were right before school breaks, midterms, finals, and graduation weekend. He usually stocked up, but with Rick being in prison again, he had to try to stretch what he had out.
“Uh…smoke what?”
“Weed.” Then it hit Eddie that maybe Steve was into harder stuff. But he hadn’t ever even bought from him in high school. Tommy had, Carol had, almost everyone at his parties had, but Steve never did. “I have regular old cigs too if you prefer.”
“Yeah, man, cool,” Steve sighed with relief.
“I got a spot behind the cafeteria if you wanna…”
“Sure, yep, let’s go,” Steve nodded, gesturing towards the double doors that led outside to the cafeteria and auditorium buildings.
As they walked, Eddie’s mind raced with thoughts of being alone with Steve, Steve’s arm brushing against his, Steve pushing him against the wall of the cafeteria, of Eddie dropping to his knees and unbuttoning Steve’s pants and-
“I’m really sorry about what happened back there.”
Steve’s voice shook him from his thoughts, but his dick didn’t quite get the memo. When did he even start getting hard?
“No worries, dude.” His face scrunched in disgust at calling Steve dude. What was next, the bro pat on the back? A fist bump? “Kinda jealous of how protective you are of your girlfriend.”
Okay, actually, what the fuck? Eddie needed to shut his fucking face, right the fuck now.
“She’s not my girlfriend, but uh, I don’t think you’re really her type either,” Steve gave him a look, one Eddie knew well and one he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing on Steve’s face right now.
“Right, right.” Eddie wouldn’t make him say it, especially if it was actually the look he thought it was, but maybe he could offer a little something in return. “Yeah, she’s not really my type either.”
Steve stopped just before they reached the hidden area behind the dumpster and picnic table for staff to smoke.
“Really?” Steve’s eyes were wide. “So you’re more into…someone like…me?”
Eddie was actually leaking into his goddamn boxers. Why was he getting turned on just talking to Steve?
“That would be one way of saying it,” Eddie said. Still easy enough to back out of it, at least. Could just say he likes women who wear polos and use more hairspray than Melvald’s has ever carried at any given time.
“Huh,” Steve continued walking to the picnic table, sitting on top of it and kicking some dirt off the bench by his legs for Eddie to sit. “So those rumors were true?”
“That depends on if I’m gonna make it back home to my very loving uncle if I say yes.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Obviously, I’m not gonna judge you about it when my best friend is-” He cut himself off and Eddie had to give him major credit. The Steve he used to know never would’ve cared if he outed someone, or at least never would have realized that was wrong. He coughed and then looked down at the bench. “You gonna sit?”
Eddie sat down on the bench, extremely close to Steve’s legs. Almost touching. Was that heat coming from his body or was Eddie just extremely warm?
“Did you actually wanna smoke or did you just wanna get out of the hall?” Steve asked after another minute of awkward silence.
“We can smoke.” Eddie reached into his pocket, hating how tight his jeans were in the front, and grabbed his lighter. His pack of cigarettes were usually stored in his van because he rarely smoked them, but luckily he’d brought them with him all week to sneak smokes between classes. He pulled one out and handed it to Steve.
He started to light his own when Steve leaned down, his face right next to Eddie’s, breath hot on his neck.
“You aren’t gonna light it for me?”
Eddie whimpered.
He would deny it a million times over if anyone asked. He almost had himself believing he imagined it.
But Steve laughed and backed away, pulling out his own lighter and giving Eddie a second to catch his breath.
What the fuck was that? Did Steve know he was making Eddie’s brain flatline?
He watched Steve take a long drag out of the corner of his eye, his mind shuffling between ‘what if he fucked me right here?’ and ‘get the hell away before your dick pops a hole in your jeans.’
Steve’s lips were so pink, and looked so soft, and just wet enough from licking his lips before taking the next drag, and Eddie was really going through it right now.
He’d gone through his Steve Harrington phase just like everyone else, thought it was over when he graduated. Had avoided the mall all summer when he heard he was working at Scoops so he didn’t have to see him in those tiny blue shorts. Had even gone so far as to avoid being around when the kids were being picked up from Hellfire because Dustin mentioned Steve was his ride.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Except for Eddie’s imagination was impressive, and his late night thoughts turned into very vivid scenes of Steve working him to the edge and making him beg, or pushing him against a locker and making him take his cock with barely any prep, or-
“Dude, anyone ever tell you you’re kinda space-y?” Steve’s voice once again lifted him from his thoughts, though he felt a bit hazy.
“Think I’m comin’ down with something,” Eddie squeaked out. All he was coming down with was a sickness deep in his chest: Harrington Heart-itis.
“Did you hit your head?” Steve sounded concerned now, setting his cigarette in the ashtray left on the table and moving so he had one leg on either side of Eddie. His fingers landed in Eddie’s hair, pulling his head closer and inspecting it for injury. “I didn’t think anything but your shoulders hit, but maybe-”
“No,” Eddie gulped. He should pull away. “Didn’t hit my head.”
Steve’s fingers tightened, not quite painfully, but enough of a bite to it that Eddie whimpered. Again.
Steve’s grip loosened, but his fingers stayed buried in his curls, and Eddie felt pressure guiding him to rest against Steve’s thigh.
“You eat today?” Steve asked, though his voice sounded kinda far away, like he was above the surface of the water and Eddie was sitting at the bottom of a pool looking up at the sun. “Eddie?”
“Hm?” Eddie blinked up at Steve. “I ate.”
“When?” Steve’s hand was cupping his cheek. “Lunch?”
“Mmm, no,” Eddie shook his head, blinked. “Breakfast? Cereal.”
Steve cursed under his breath.
He was so pretty. Had he been told how pretty he was? Surely when Nancy was with him, she told him.
Even if Robin liked women, she had to at least notice how pretty he was, right?
Steve’s sharp intake of breath somewhat centered Eddie.
“I’m gonna drive you home, okay?” Steve whispered, leaning down so his face was only inches away.
Eddie could kiss him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lift his head the final two inches to make their lips meet.
“Eddie, eyes open,” Steve’s fingers tightened again, gaining Eddie’s full attention. “Should I call someone? Are you dynamic or something?”
Eddie’s brows furrowed. What did that even mean?
“Like the sugar thing?” Steve continued.
“Diabetic?” Eddie still felt a little hazy, but he was starting to come back to it with Steve’s hand migrating from his hair to his shoulder. “No, my sugar’s fine.”
“I’ve got some soda in my car. I can drive you home and then bring you to school in the morning. You probably shouldn’t drive like…this.”
It all came crashing down when Eddie realized how vulnerable he’d just been, how he’d actually lost track of time, not sure exactly how long he’d been sitting between Steve’s legs with his hands in his hair before he started coming back to earth. He stood up, maybe a bit too quickly, rocking a bit before finding his balance.
“Woah, take it easy.” Steve held his hands out, grasped his biceps to hold him steady. “You were pretty far out of it. Don’t rush it.”
How fucking embarrassing.
Eddie had only gone down that far one time with someone and they got freaked out when he was giggling and couldn’t walk on his own because his legs felt like jelly. But that had been on purpose. This was- Steve didn’t– Jesus Christ.
“I’m fine now.” Eddie was not fine. He knew what would happen if he left right now. Aftercare was a major part of this whether Steve was prepared for it or not. “Just, um, walk me to my van.”
Steve looked like a kicked puppy, but Eddie didn’t have the time to explain all of this to him.
Steve Harrington didn’t know how much of a freak Eddie was even if he did know he was gay. There’s no way Steve participated in any type of BDSM with the many girls he slept with in high school.
There was absolutely no fuckin’ way Nancy Wheeler let herself get tied to a bed and get fucked by Steve.
He shook his head at the thought.
“I’d feel a lot better if you let me drive you. I promise we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Steve sighed. “I just don’t know if you should drive when you went down so hard.”
“You have no idea what even happened,” Eddie argued, pacing back and forth. “I can drive. I just need to walk it off.”
“You don’t walk off subspace.”
Eddie froze. Steve was standing right in front of him now, concern in his big, stupid, adorable eyes.
“How do you even know about subspace?” Eddie whispered.
“I slept with half the high school and two guys in Indy. I know what subspace is, Eds.”
Eddie must still be in space. Or maybe another galaxy.
“Sorry, did you just say you slept with two guys in Indy?” Has Steve seriously fucked more guys than Eddie has? Eddie, the resident gay man of Hawkins, has only been with one man in his entire life and Steve has apparently slept with two?
“Well, I wasn’t gonna sleep with two men in Hawkins!” Steve threw his hands up before putting them on his hips. “I hit up a gay bar and didn’t realize it doubled as a BDSM club until I was already in it and then a nice guy showed me the ropes. Literally. There were ropes involved.”
Eddie snorted. Steve was pretty and funny. Great. Just what he needed.
“I have a quick recovery, so I’ll be fine to drive home,” Eddie tried, though even he could hear his voice still shaking.
“No one is that quick,” Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into a hug. “Has that ever happened before?”
“Not like that.”
“We should probably talk about it.”
The last thing Eddie wanted to do was talk about how someone playing with his hair and moving his head around while showing the bare minimum of care was enough to send him into subspace, but he had a feeling Steve wasn’t gonna give up easily.
“Fine. What should we talk about? How no one ever touches me gently so the moment someone did, I slipped? How I’ve been avoiding seeing you anywhere in public because I knew it would make my crush come back full force? Oh, I know!” Eddie laughed hysterically as he pulled away. “Let’s talk about how I still think about you in your stupid basketball shorts when I’m fucking myself on four fingers, which is never enough because I can never reach the spot I need to. Or how I once cut out your yearbook photo to keep for jerking off material because my mags weren’t enough. Could even talk about how earlier I wanted you to put your leg between mine so I could rub off on you. Or maybe the weather if you’d prefer that.”
Eddie was panting, could feel the heat on his face rising as he realized everything he’d just said, admitted, to Steve.
He’d never said any of that out loud. Shit, he’d barely said most of it in his own head.
Steve’s arms were pulling him in and Eddie let himself have it, let himself feel small for just a moment. If Steve wasn’t completely disgusted by what he said, then he would at least accept this offering of kindness for now.
They stayed like that for a while, long enough that Eddie started to wonder if he could just live here, right in Steve’s arms.
“It’s looking a little cloudy,” Steve said quietly, hands still rubbing Eddie’s back slowly.
“What?” Eddie still felt a little out of it, but that was entirely out of left field.
“You said we could talk about the weather.”
Eddie snorted. “Oh my God, you’re so-” Eddie looked up at Steve, who was smiling down at him. He felt off-kilter, being the object of that particular Steve look. “Stupid.”
It was fond, probably too fond for someone who needed to protect himself from whatever the hell was happening. He needed to shut this down.
“It’s been mentioned,” Steve’s eyes flickered down to Eddie’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “You good to head out?”
Eddie started to nod, but stopped.
This was his only chance. He wasn’t dumb enough to think he’d ever be alone with Steve again. If he was gonna kick start a spiral over feelings, he might as well go all out.
He stood at his full height, almost eye level with Steve, and leaned in.
The kiss was not even close to perfect. In fact, as far as kisses go, it was probably in the bottom three for Steve. Eddie chose not to think about how he screwed it all up.
But once the initial shock wore off, and Eddie put his teeth away, Steve’s hand cupped Eddie’s cheek and he licked past his lips.
Leave it to Steve to turn this around, make it something worth the risk.
Their lips moved in sync, both of them deepening the kiss without making it too wet, too filthy for a public space.
It was, dare he say, romantic.
Most kisses Eddie had managed to have were dirty and rough, hidden away in dark bars and alleyways, not exactly prime teen romance.
Of course Steve was good at this, of course he made Eddie melt against him, and of course Eddie was going to start writing hearts around Steve’s name in his notebook as if they were high school sweethearts.
When they pulled apart, it took him a minute to open his eyes. How stereotypical.
Steve was already looking at him, softer than he probably deserved.
“You’re pretty good at that,” Eddie breathed out.
“It’s been mentioned.” Steve’s lips turned up in a smirk before he pulled away completely. “Let’s go.”
They walked back through the school, stopping at Eddie’s locker to grab one of his textbooks as if he actually would use it. By now, he didn’t really need the textbooks to get his work done. And he was actually committed to getting it done this time around.
They were quiet as they continued out to the parking lot, only a few cars belonging to teachers left, maybe a few students stuck here for football or basketball practice. Steve’s car was towards the back, but Eddie’s was almost all the way in the grass field by the main road. It was less risky leaving it further away, less likely that anyone would slash the tires or key the side.
“You’re sure you can drive?” Steve asked as they stood outside his car.
“Yeah. Only five minutes to the trailer. It’ll be fine.” Eddie shrugged like it was nothing, but he was actually a little worried the kiss set him too off balance to focus on the road. Fuck the subspace, Steve’s lips were like discovering a new galaxy.
“Can I call you later? To check on you?” Steve seemed hesitant to ask.
“Uh, yeah? Do you…have my number?”
Steve shook his head, opening the door to his car and reaching into the glovebox to find a pen and an old receipt. As Eddie wrote down the number to the trailer, he thought about how much worse this would be tomorrow, how shitty it would be to have had this absolutely out of this world experience with the one person he never thought he could and then be left with scraps for the rest of his life.
“You uh, you don’t have to call, man. Don’t feel pressured. My uncle will be home so it’s not like I’ll be alone.”
Steve took the paper and pen back, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket and throwing the pen back into the car.
“I’m gonna call.” Steve moved a piece of Eddie’s hair from in front of his face. “You got a phone in your room?”
“No, but the one we have reaches to the bathroom?” Why the hell did he need one in his room?
“Good. Need you to be alone.”
“Steve, what the hell does that mean?”
“How else am I supposed to tell you what I wanna do to you?”
Well, fuck.
Day two: ao3 | tumblr
#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#subeddieweek#sub eddie munson#dom steve harrington
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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.
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Kiss in Payment
Summary: Continuation of Services/Goods of Equivalent Value. You have opened a teashop near an off record military base and this is a bunch of snippets of your life there.
Words: 7.5k (HOW?!)
You hadn't slept in a real bed in so long and you were not prepared to get out of it. It smelled good and it was warm and you were tired right down to your bones from all the work of the past 6 months finally culminating in the busiest and happiest evening you had possibly ever had. Only half awake you nuzzled into the pillow with a happy little sigh of contented comfort.
"Feels better than sleeping in a chair doesn't it?"
At first you smiled sleepily and made a sound of agreement. And then your brain caught up and you shot up, eyes opening and darting around madly to find you were in a small, simple bedroom and Simon was sat in the chair in the corner, book in hand being dogeared and set on a little table now that you were awake.
You had seen most of his face before when he was drinking or eating so seeing the whole thing wasn't any more of a shock than the situation you had found yourself in. It was a little strange seeing the skin around his eyes cleaned and bright, no smudges of black. He looked softer like this you thought.
"I um, I don't um… ah ha I must have fallen asleep in the chair right? Must have just been so tired! You didn't have to move me, but thanks, it wouldn't have been good for me to sleep there right? Ha ha."
God you were adorable when you tried to lie. Heart was far too prominent on your sleeve for it to ever work. You were clearly flustered way more from trying to lie than from waking up in his bed and such a fondness settled in him knowing that you trusted him so easily. You trusted that he had carried you here to help, that he would never have done anything to hurt you.
"Gaz would have carried you to your bed, but come to think of it there doesn't seem like any sort of bedroom in your shop."
Was he teasing to watch you scramble to try and explain yourself? Maybe a little, sue him.
"Oh right! It's in… the basement, it's in the basement."
You had a nanosecond of being relieved you had thought up a lie so quickly before being horrified at what a bad lie it was. What if they wanted to go into the non-existent basement now? But you had gotten away with it for now and you relaxed as Simon just nodded with an "Ah, of course, the basement".
Maybe you were good at this whole lying thing!
When it was time to get up and get a ride back home to the shop Simon got the little tub of eye black to smear on. You took it from him and started dabbing it on with your fingers for him since he had let you sleep in his bed.
"It's like finger painting" you grinned, sitting back to admire your work.
He took your hand in his before you could fully withdraw it, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that had the tips of your ears on fire. You gave him a wide eyed stare in question.
"Services/goods of equivalent value remember? This one was worth at least a few days of moving furniture."
You smiled shyly, thinking he meant applying the eye black for him. Simon let you think that, knowing himself that the payment he was taking was being able to press his lips to your skin.
-
You felt your lie was under attack when, after being driven back to your shop by Price with Soap in tow, they started talking about your basement as they helped you with all the dishes from the night before.
"Didn't you help with a lot of the building Soap? Going to have to give you extra observation training, missing a whole basement."
"Och Captain dinnae, ye know that training is the worst! I'll do better next time, ye'r spot on that it's unacceptable for me to miss something like that."
Oh the way you went dead silent while you scrubbed at a plate, clearly being eaten alive by guilt. It was cute up until you genuinely seemed in distress, and although it was fun to tease Johnny was thankful when Price laid off.
"Ah I'm only taking the piss Sergeant, easy thing to miss in an old place like this."
Some of the tension bled from your shoulders and oh if Soap didn't suddenly remember the little shy kiss you pressed to his cheek the night before. Such a sweet thing, genuinely getting upset at the idea he might have to do training because of a lie you told to protect yourself. As if him and Gaz didn't lie all the time to try and get one another in trouble just for the hell of it.
"Opening is in an hour aye? Think we could get a wee out of hours tea?" Soap asked.
You dried off your hands, smiling brightly now. Making tea always made you forget all your worries and you were wildly delighted that confessed coffee person Soap was the one asking. You went straight to work, grabbing and typing off your apron and throwing your hair up.
Price and Soap shared a conspiring look as they watched you work. They had gotten good at speaking without words. Right now their look was saying "isn't she just the loveliest thing you ever saw? I think I might scream if she does one more cute thing."
With the tea steeping you sighed in contentment, jumping a little when Price's hand found the small of your back. You hadn't even realised he was so close, for such a big man he was so light on his feet! He tapped a finger to his cheek.
"Think helping wash one load of dishes works as equivalent value."
You popped onto your tip toes and planted a soft peck to his cheek and as Soap bounded forward for the same Price shoved him away with a grin.
"Got payment in advance last night if I recall Soap, can't have our favourite girl overpaying."
-
Price and Soap left just as you officially opened for the day, but to your soft delight already Horangi and Farah were waiting outside for the sign to be flipped. They were bundled up, must have walked over. Now that you knew the distance from here to the base it made you swell with pride to know they had made the trip on foot.
"Two of ye are here awful early naw?"
"Is there a problem with that MacTavish?" Horangi asked with a smirk, suspecting that the problem was Soap was about to leave you alone with him and Farah.
He had thought it would only be him, everyone else using their morning to work out and get fed. Obviously Farah had the same idea though, both of them feeling a sense of challenge from the other. He was sure you would like learning to make his Korean sweets over her Urzik ones.
"Course naw, always happy tae see paying customers for my girl here" he responded, clearly proud of himself for managing to find a subtle way to tell Horangi and Farah to back off because you were his.
Farah raised an eyebrow at Price when he smirked at Soap's little claim and his lip twitched slightly. The exchange was barely noticeable and yet the unspoken conversation had went something like this:
"Really John? She's a little young for you is she not?"
"Really Farah, what would Alex say?"
"Me and Alex have always been very good at sharing, ask Gaz."
"Don't remember you being this much of a brat Karim."
Farah thought it was a shame you had been subject to all these boorish men for so long. Soft, sweet thing like you deserved some soft and sweet companionship. She had hoped that she could get to know you while teaching you how to make the halva she had fed you bites of last night any time you had paused in your hectic running about to pour her tea.
You had been very complimentary of the simple sweet, wanting to know all about the cultural history of it. Farah was no stranger to the uncomfortable looks she got when she would pour her heart out about her passion for her home country. She had half expected you to nod politely and excuse yourself. Only you hadn't, you had been genuinely and unabashedly happy at how passionate she was about her home, eyes sparkling with interest as you made her promise that she'd visit again and tell you more.
Of course Hong-jin would be equally as fond of you, she had spied how he had made you try a bite of bukkumi and how he had cried laughing when it was chewier than you expected and you had bitten your tongue. That giant beside him had acted as if you were mortally wounded until you had calmed him down and Farah was observant if nothing else, she had seen how your easy way with the larger man had Hong-jin simmering with fondness.
Price and Soap realised they couldn't very well stay without it being obvious they were only doing so to stop Farah and Horangi from being left to work their charms on you, so with a grumble they departed.
You were honestly a little nervous about your first real customers after opening day, but you thought you did a great job of hiding it and welcoming them inside.
Farah and Horangi could both tell you were nervous, it was glaringly obvious, so an unspoken pact was made that they would only compete with each other in ways that you wouldn't notice so wouldn't make you anxious.
An hour later and you were so delighted that they had been kind enough and patient enough to teach you how to make the sweets they had bought the night before, oblivious to the amount of sabotage and subterfuge in the silent war between your two customers.
Still they did eventually have to admit defeat, they were due in meetings and couldn't stay forever. You squeaked and shook your head rapidly when they tried to pay for their drinks.
"Oh no please, you were both so wonderful to have shared your recipes with me! Think of this as payment for that."
"I already said I would teach you did I not? Of course I have to pay properly for the tea you made me."
“It would be very rude not to, I can pay for both of our teas.”
“No no, I can pay for both. After all you are technically a guest with the 141 aren't you?”
“As are you.”
“Oh I would say more a long distance member. Actually since this is so near the 141 base and you've been so good to the team, I'd say that makes you basically an honorary member!”
“Oh! That's such an honour for you to say Farah, it's more that the team has been good to me though” you explained in a rush, a pretty flush of colour dusting your cheeks.
“Ah but you also have adopted the little cat with us, so it makes you more a member of Kortac than anything else.”
“I think Herzogin adopted me, she just came in one day and decided to make herself at home and I couldn't say no” you said, now feeling so flustered there must be steam coming out of your ears.
There was something so touching about what they were saying even if it was light hearted and meant more as a joke you thought. Even the thought of somehow being a part of their lives, some little silly civilian branch of their teams, made your hummingbird heart flutter.
It was also very sweet how they both wanted to cover each others bill even though you really could not let them go unrewarded for teaching you their recipes. They must be quite close these two teams. Definitely not two people who had only properly met last night and were now locked in a bitter rivalry over you or anything.
“But regardless I need to repay you somehow for the lessons! Don't make me start pulling out a contract again” you laughed.
When they asked you explained about your hastily written contract with Soap, how it had kept expanding after that. You even showed them the copy as messy as it was.
“I, the undersigned, agree that I will pay in full Mr John MacTavish* for works carried out either in monetary value or services/goods of equivalent value**** as soon as I have the means to do so.
*& Mr Rudolpho Parra**
**and any members of the Los Vaqueros team***
***who are to be superceded in priority by any members of TF141
****as defined in value by the party being reimbursed”
It didn't feel much like a contract anymore what with Simon's messy scrawl and the massive pen stroke from when Soap had shoved Rudy as he was trying to add his addendum. But it always made you smile to look at.
You thought your heart might burst when they both very reverently take turns adding their own addendums on.
“I, the undersigned, agree that I will pay in full Mr John MacTavish* for works carried out either in monetary value or services/goods of equivalent value**** as soon as I have the means to do so.******
*& Mr Rudolpho Parra**
**along with any members of the Los Vaqueros team***
***who are to be superceded in priority by any members of TF141*****
****as defined in value by the party being reimbursed
*****including Farah Karim and Alex Keller who shall be deemed members TF141 for the purposes of this contract.******
*****Any works or services carried out by members of Kortac PMC (inclusive of Herzogin) are to be subject to the same terms of payment as above.”
After that they both paid in full for all the tea meaning you were left blustering about the double payment. And when before they left they pressed a kiss to your cheek, sandwiching you between them for a moment, you were sure you have melted right into the floor.
“That's your debt settled for the recipe” Farah teased as her and Horangi left.
–
You spent the day warmed by the smattering of visitors. Some drove out, some made the trip on foot, Gaz stopped by in the middle of his run and the sight of him shirtless and sweaty made you scald yourself when you accidentally overpoured and splashed hot tea over your hand.
“Ouch luv, c'mere and let me see” he said, immediately taking your hand delicately in both of his strong ones to do a quick inspection and then leading you over to the sink to run it under cold water.
“It's not that bad” you hissed as the water hit, it was freezing and you were really just trying to get out of having to hold it there for 10 minutes.
“Hush, don't know how deep it's went so need to make sure it cools down properly.”
You didn't feel like you were cooling down with his naked torso right there beside you, one hand still holding yours and the other resting absentmindedly on your waist. All of these customers of yours really would be the death of you.
You huffed a little and stuck your tongue out at him, knowing he was right but not liking it one bit. He laughed at you and gave you a light little headbutt into your hair, the easy affection making you smile despite yourself. You smiling made him smile and it was as always like looking at the sun when this man smiled. So much so you did not even hear the door go until you were crowded by another body, the new arrival slotting against your other side in a mirror of Gaz and sighing.
“What happened here then princess?”
Gaz narrowed his eyes at Alex albeit playfully at the pet name, feeling his pinky brush again his hand now also settling in on you.
“Ah just clumsy! Not a very good omen to be spilling tea on the second day huh?”
“You know Ghost and Soap once got so drunk they passed out on the sofa and we found them all tangled up the next morning, said they must have moved in their sleep.”
You nearly choked on your own saliva at that, blinking up at Alex who was only grinning back at you.
“There now, we've both spilled tea, so I can take all the bad omens off of you.”
Goddamnit, Kyle always forgot how stupidly handsome and charming Keller was. Even being right in your space shirtless, having been meticulous in his work out this morning to ensure his body would look just right to get you flustered, you weren't even looking at him anymore. Too busy giving a soft smile to the American playboy. Well if you can't beat them…
You jumped when you felt Kyle's breath right at your ear. He had leaned over a little to join the conversation but it meant he was even closer than before and it was suddenly very, very warm.
“Just to make sure though, Keller here will deny it ever happened but he once kissed a man right in front of his girlfriend! Right scandalous if you ask me. How's that for tea?”
“i-in front of your girlfriend?!” you asked, somewhat in shock that this man who had been nothing but sweet to you was a cheater.
“As I recall, my girlfriend was the one that put in the request” he laughed, seeing your look of suspicion and softening. “I promise she was happy about it princess, we've always been open to sharing.”
Him and Gaz shared a look then, both obviously noticing that you were probably about to faint from the no doubt tame (scandalous in your head) images the idea of sharing was conjuring. While it was very endearing the way you reacted, the thump thump thumping of your heart almost perceptible, they couldn't find it within themselves to tease you more. Sweet little thing like you deserved better.
“Come on luv, let's get it dried off and wrapped up.”
Kyle lifted your hand away from the cold water and you realised they had completely distracted you from the discomfort. You wondered if it had been on purpose as he took you over to one of the stools and made you sit while Alex fished out the first aid box.
“Oh, how did you know where that was?”
“Military princess, reckon about everyone scoped out the exits, fire extinguisher and first aid kit last night. Laswell had me order some safety signs for express delivery, should arrive today actually.”
“Oh I didn't even think! How much did it cost? I’ll pay you for them straight away.”
Kyle sighed as he wrapped your hand, knowing exactly what was about to happen and not able to think of one reason to stop it. Besides, it's not like he didn't think you and Alex looked cute together and he didn't even bother to hide his grin of disbelief at how outrageous Keller was when he caressed your face.
“Farah said we could get a kiss in payment as long as it was an equivalent value. Would a kiss be OK princess?”
You didn't really remember nodding even though you had, but you were pretty sure you'd remember Alex Keller pressing a heart achingly soft kiss to your lips as long as you lived. You felt like your brain was flowing with syrup when he laughed lightly and fondly after kissing you, like he was happy he got to do it.
“Medical fees as well luv, yeah?”
And then you were nodding and Kyle Garrick was kissing you while Alex still had one hand on your cheek and everything was a little too hot and overwhelming.
Thankfully both men were merciful and didn't mention it when you blinked back into consciousness from fainting onto the counter. If Gaz had had to scream into Alex's shoulder because of how adorable he found it, well they didn't mention that either.
–
You were in trouble now. Kate Laswell was giving you a look that you were sure meant she could read your mind.
“You're not in trouble, but you need to tell me the truth. Why were you staying at the base last night?”
Of course Laswell knew, she knew everything about everyone. You were the kind of soft she knew it was easy for hard soldiers to love, but if she thought for a second that one of the 141 had taken you to bed last night she was inclined to use them for shooting practice. You had been dead on your feet after opening day, not in any fit state for clandestine meetings.
Plus she felt protective over you, maybe a little possessive. You reminded her fiercely of her wife and she had already called her last night to tell her about you, suggesting they make the time to visit together when work was less hectic for her.
“Oh I-” you paused, desperately hoping you were not going to get anyone into trouble but itching to tell this woman the truth, “they found me asleep in one of the chairs so instead of waking me they let me use one of the beds. It was my fault for falling asleep where I did! They were just being kind.”
“Why didn’t the move you to your own bed?” Kate asked with a long suffering sigh. It would be just like the 141 to jump to the extreme option.
“It's um, they didn't know where it was.”
Kate had scoped out the place last night without crossing a line into snooping, but she had thought the door next to the stove would be a bedroom. The boys would have known that though, Price said Riley and MacTavish had helped a lot with construction and moving furniture. So either she was really going to have to leather them for taking you back to base when your bed was right there, or the room was a storage space.
“And where is that?”
“Hm?”
“Where do you sleep?”
“Oh hang on, I'll get you another cup!”
Kate watched you stumble away with the poor excuse of getting the pot to pour another cup of tea for her. Her teacup was still half full. And she was indeed going to have to skin the 141 alive. How did it take them so long to figure out that you didn’t have a proper place to sleep? The quiet fury she felt at thinking how long you had been curling up on one of the chairs surprised her for only a moment before she let it settle in. Kate Laswell had always been very good at quickly identifying who she considered her people and her knack of it hadn’t let her down yet.
“How long have you been sleeping here?”
You froze as you were reaching for the teapot.
“I-i the basement? Since I got the place.”
Kate was well aware there was not a basement, not unless there was a magical hidden hatch to it. Even if she hadn’t been 99% certain, the fact that you were the worst liar she had ever encountered and the look of alarm she saw on Alejandro’s face as he slid through the door gave her assurance she was right. The question at this point was how to gentle you into telling her what was going on and why you didn’t have somewhere to sleep. She wished her wife were here, between the two of them she was more the people person.
“Try again cariño, there is no basement in this building.”
Your ruse was rapidly falling apart with Alejandro now here as well. You had been so sure you had gotten away with it as well, and you were just stuck to the spot gaping trying to get your brain to come up with some sort of excuse.
“Well um, I know I said basement but I- the thing is maybe it’s just a plan to have a basement. Right. That’s what I meant, that I’m going to put in a basement and have a bed there. Yeah. And that means that right now I don’t have one. A basement I mean, or uh, yeah a bed. But it’s totally fine, that chair by the fire is super comfortable and it’s not that bad for my back and Herzogin likes being able to curl in my lap anyway and actually I really like it because the blanket would be a little too small if I was all stretched out anyway and-”
Alejandro had known you long enough to see when your brain was absolutely catching fire. It was one of the things he loved because he knew he was always able to calm you down and it made him feel overwhelmingly content whenever he did. Right now though he at least wished your brain was catching fire over something small like offering him a new type of tea or short circuiting when Rudy had poured water over himself to cool down in the summer (Ale had nearly throttled him, little shit had known what he was doing) and not over something that made him want to smuggle you home to Mexico and make sure you never wanted for anything ever again.
He could put aside his own feelings right now though, walking over and enveloping you in a warm hug, squeezing just the right amount to make your words trail off and your brain slow down now that it felt safe and comfortable. You clung to him almost instantly, burying your head in his chest and fighting tears. You were so embarrassed to be caught, it made you feel like you couldn’t look after yourself at all.
It wasn’t that you had meant for it to all work out this way, but you were chasing a dream and you sort of came second to that. Last night you had finally made it and it had been better than you ever dared hope, it had been beyond perfect. You hadn’t even thought to include your own comfort in that dream of yours, and now when you really thought about how you had been living it all caught up and made you feel awful and exhausted.
“There come on now, it’s ok” Alejandro said softly, leaning a cheek against your hair and sharing a look with Kate, “we’re going to make sure you’re looked after ok? Just until we can sort something a little more permanent out for you.”
“I couldn’t, I don’t… I just need a little time to save up and I can get stuff” you sniffled, doing your best to keep it together.
You were fully out of money, last night had made a small fortune but that needed to go towards overdue bills and restocking. It was enough that you would be in the clear at least, and then you could actually start saving if you managed to make any profit. You wanted to say you could survive a few more cold nights, but now that it had finally hit you, that you had spent a night in a warm, cosy bed, you didn’t know that you could.
Alejandro just hushed soothingly at you, petting your hair and letting you cry it out. He knew for a fact Kate was taking advantage of knowing he would not do anything right now that was not solely with the purpose of your comfort in mind, he could see her typing away on her phone and glancing at him as if to say “I’m going to make sure she’s looked after, but it’s nice that you can distract her while I do that I suppose.”
Would he say he was happy when Nikolai showed up to whisk you off to a B&B for the night? Mixed feelings really. He was happy that you would spend the night safe and warm nearby. He was furious it wasn’t going to be with him. And then that vanished when he melted fully to a puddle as you darted quickly back after locking up and saying goodbye to them to nervously press a kiss to his cheek.
“It’s in the contract that I should repay you for things. I hope this works to repay you for being so kind to me.”
If Kate’s snort of amusement at his scream into his hands after you had left was anything to go by, it worked far too well.
–
“We only have a double room left, will that be ok sir?”
Nikolai had taken one look at you all cried out and sniffling outside that tea shop and decided there and then that he was going to feed you the largest meal of your life and then tuck you into a nice, warm bed and let you sleep for as long as you wanted. If he had known when he got the message from Price about the tea shop opening that you were the little thing behind the Captain and Gaz calling in all their favours he would have told the general he was flying to a critical mission to walk so he could attend.
As it was he had been on his way to visit and apologise for not making it when he had gotten the message from Kate that she was giving him a new assignment. He didn’t know the full background, he did know that the 141 was in big trouble whatever had happened. Not his problem, he was focused on you.
He had teased that he was going to fly you out of there at first and you had about passed away on the spot before he scrambled to tell you he was joking. The B&B wasn’t too far, it was in the nearest little village an hours walk from the teashop in the opposite direction of the base. You told him you were ok to walk and he had scooped you onto his back anyway, let you wrap your arms around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder as you chatted away about anything and everything.
Your attempts at learning some Russian was adorable, trying to wrap your tongue around the words he would give you before even asking what they meant (he had gotten you to say ‘I am very cute’ perfectly and then told you it meant ‘thank you’, so delighted when you said it frequently that it overrode the guilt at being so duplicitous about it. He’d tell you one day. Maybe).
“Of course, double is perfect.”
Not that you would protest given that you were fast asleep on his back now, the weight of your head on his shoulder comforting. You deserved the rest he imagined, he had gotten pictures from Price of the opening. It wasn’t easy to have so many big personalities in one place, much less have them all vying for your attention. He took great glee knowing that every single one would be chewing glass when they found out he had you all to himself right now.
You woke up when you were put down onto the bed, blearily blinking as you tried to work out your new surroundings. It was a cosy little room, the bed you were on was like a marshmallow with the perfect firm to squishy ratio and Nikolai who you had come to like very much in the last hour was laying out a frankly disgusting amount of room service onto the little table, so much of it that you could see some had already needed to be put on the vanity.
It was wonderful to exist in a sleepy, happy haze as you ate your weight in comforting pub food, soaked in the bath he had run for you and then fell into bed. Only there was only one bed. And he was already settling himself in the armchair and putting on reading glasses that made him look adorable to start one of the little romcoms from the tiny library in the foyer. In truth Nikolai was more inclined to share, but he knew that even the act of asking you would put pressure on you. He knew a people pleaser when he saw one.
“...the bed is big enough for you as well. Would it be ok if we shared?”
Well he hadn’t expected you to be the one asking him and it took him by surprise enough that he put down his book and just blinked at you for a moment, brain short circuiting and answering in Russian instead with a heartfelt speech about how he did not want you to feel you had to offer and how he would love to hold you if you’d let him because you seemed like you should always be held and if he got to be the one to do that for only one night he would be so grateful for the trust you had given him.
You had no clue what this handsome man was saying, but it sounded nice. You hoped you hadn’t overstepped.
“I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I… have a bit of a contract with the 141. It’s for services and goods of equivalent value when they help me out. And you’ve helped me out a lot tonight so I know sharing the bed isn’t exactly, well I mean it’s really your bed, so I should be the one in the chair really, so it’s not me repaying you at all to share it” you rambled, very sleepy from the abundance of food and the warm bath.
“Oh lapposhychka, it is no wonder I got such warm messages from the Captain” Nikolai sighed, seeing how a light blush dusted across your nose when you got yourself worked up about a problem. “I do not want you to make yourself uncomfortable because you think to repay me with it.”
You brought the blankets right up to the bridge of your nose to hide your little shy smile, feeling somehow like you could tell him the truth that you could never say out loud to anyone else.
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I was the one who wrote it down to be vague just incase… people wanted to be creative with interpretation.”
Nikolai took a moment to understand and then laughed so loudly that you could hear the neighbours laughing at his boisterous laugh. He was happy to slide into bed beside you then and you were using his chest as a pillow and listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. When you tried to thank him in Russian he only laughed lightly and hugged you as you drifted off to a peaceful sleep.
–
“Open bonnie.”
You automatically opened your mouth to let Soap feed you another bite of pastry, eyes not leaving the accounts you were pouring over. Johnny wasn’t complaining at how concentrated you were, not when it meant you had let yourself be hand fed by him after being manoeuvred into Simon’s lap. It was almost enough to make up for his plans being ruined to offer you his bedroom after Kate and Alejandro (and then very swiftly via Rudy’s big mouth everyone) had found out about your sleeping arrangements.
You had been back to open the next morning and were going over what it would cost to stay in the B&B and build an extension versus the cost of just renting or getting a mortgage on a place in the village. Him and Simon had shared several looks to the tune of “we are going to need to get it into her pretty head somehow that we can pay for everything and actually wouldn’t it be easier for her to always have access to everything she needed if she married one of us?” and then getting into an argument about who that should be.
It was idyllic and wonderful and then of course Simon had to be Simon and have an admirer who was jealousy pawing at the beautiful thing in his lap.
“Oh! Ah Herzogin, I’m so sorry, I’ve taken your space haven’t I?” you said with a little scritch behind her ears as you stood and stretched.
Immediately the cat was up in Simon’s lap and purring aggressively, making biscuits into his thigh. The look between him and Johnny then was more to the tune of:
“Jesus Si dae ye have tae be such a bloody cat magnet?”
“Well what do you want me to do Johnny? Shove König’s cat onto the floor?”
“Wait… wait we need tae steal König’s cat.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well if we want tae have her pick us…”
The unspoken conversation did not make it much further because you were asking if they wanted a drink. Johnny ordered an Irish coffee, Simon ordered an earl grey tea with steamed milk, vanilla and a touch of honey.
“Oh, you mean a L-” you started, Simon looking at you like he may commit homicide if you said the words ‘London Fog’ to refer to his drink order.
“Llllllarge earl grey tea with steamed milk, vanilla and a touch of honey,” you finally said, desperately improvising.
“A large, yes sweetheart” he said with a grin that nearly knocked you unconscious anytime you saw it on his unmasked face. “Although I’ll take payment for looking after the cat just now.”
While one hand was scritching at said cat he used the other to grab your waist and pull you closer, tilting his head up and smirking. Honestly he had mostly expected you to blush brightly and if he was very lucky kiss his cheek, so when you leaned down and pressed your lips to his beautifully gently the scariest solider the SAS had ever seen was reduced to blushing brightly himself.
Soap was only too eager to remind you of his services of feeding you bites of food so you wouldn’t simply waste away while you were working and your bravery only stretched so far to give him a quick peck before fleeing to the kitchen absolutely ablaze to make the coffee and London Fogarge earl grey tea with steamed milk, vanilla and a touch of honey.
–
It had been less of a fight than you thought for you to stay in the shop. Price had insisted they get you an air mattress and a proper duvet at least, but they had all been respectful of your wishes even if not happy about it when you had said you really would be ok. They were already doing so much now that you had decided to build an extension instead of renting or buying somewhere else (you loved this place so much, you didn’t want to be so far away). Already they were grumbling about contractors and how they’d do a bad job so you may as well let them do it and honestly? A little part of you felt like this was as much their baby as it was yours, so you were warmed that they wanted to help.
And you were also warmed by how they had listened. They hadn’t overruled you like you were worried they might, they had just made sure that you were safe and as comfortable as possible. Mind you their idea of safe was overkill (the locks on the door they had installed in record time were something out of a sci-fi movie and more often than not the past few weeks you had not been alone on that air mattress in the shop), but you still felt so listened to and respected in your own right.
This was the first evening in the last 5 you had spent just you and Herzogin. Well just you since she had slinked out to go cause mischief somewhere no doubt. You were honestly a little relieved when there was a knock at the door, feeling a little strange being alone now as you got up, jumped through hoops to unlock all the security protocols and opened the door.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
You did not know the American on your doorstep in the torn skull balaclava, but you could see he had been beaten badly.
“Who did this to you?” was spilling out of you as you reached out your arms to him to try to take some of his weight since he was slumped against the doorway.
“If I told you that I’d have to kill you sweetheart” he said, somehow managing to sound condescending even though he was hissing the words through gritted teeth.
It was probably a strange thing to think, but he reminded you of Simon. Something about the way he held himself, the way he handled this situation. The pet name. Maybe it was some transferred fondness that had you taking as much of his weight as you could handle and stumbling inside with him, dropping him on the sofa (a new addition thanks to Nik) and rushing over to get the first aid box that thankfully had been upgraded to a full military grade mini medic bay by Kate and Farah.
“I mean you could try, but you’re not looking so hot” you said, bringing the kit over and kneeling by the sofa to try and figure out the worst of the damage.
“Ouch sweetheart, never had anyone tell me I don’t look hot on a first date.”
Oh this man was ridiculous, but at least if he was flirting he was probably not dying.
“What can I say, high standards.”
You felt his eyes scrutinising you as you checked him over. You had trained in first aid before you had even bought this place, knowing that it would be legally required but also that morally you could not have people in your premises without knowing you could look after them. Not that your customers generally needed looking after. Even the ancient book club that had started coming in from the village on Sunday afternoons were tough as old nails.
“You’ve not called anyone.”
“Well I’m assuming you don’t want an ambulance involved, and I wanted to at least be able to say how bad you were before calling someone else.”
“Who are you gonna call?”
“Ghostbusters.”
He laughed and you hissed at him to stop when it clearly put him in more pain to do so. Poor Nik had been so proud when he had arrived with this sofa, had really been gloating to everyone about how you had reacted by launching yourself at him in a hug, and the chances of the blood stains ever coming out were very slim.
“And if I asked you not to?”
You looked at his eyes to find them staring back at you, almost in challenge. This guy sure was a piece of work, but you really wanted him to be ok. As you tried to pack the stab wound (you thought at least) with gauze, you mused that maybe this time somebody might owe you and not the other way around.
“Then I’d wait until you passed out and then call him when you couldn’t say no if I asked.”
“Good girl.”
Oh. Oh. That was not something you were going to be exploring while your hands were covered in blood. You just levelled him with a glare that very much screamed ‘behave yourself’ and grabbed your phone to call Simon. He answered on the second ring.
–
You know when you really sat down to reflect, your life had gotten so strange. Fake dating König because some wildly charming man called Graves had called you “little darlin’” and that was apparently a security threat, having to smack Soap with one of those squeaky toy hammers any time he scratched at his stitches after coming back fully banged up from a mission, having to referee a tricycle race between Ale and Valeria (your first time meeting her had been wild in and of itself), mediating the all out war between the book club made up of 80+ year olds and the 141.
One thing you could say for sure though when Price took your blind fold off to reveal the brand new extension finished with the absolute cosiest living space you could ever have wanted is that you were incredibly happy. It was a strange family that you found yourself in, but with that now almost illegible from all the additions contract proudly on the wall of your teashop, you found that it suited you just fine.
#mhairiwrites#fanfic#cod#cod au#tf 141 x reader#cod x reader#fluff#everyone x reader#I am too lazy to tag all the relationships because it would take FOREVER#keegan x reader#nikolai x reader#jamming all of the fluff tropes in actually#as a treat to myself
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#18 #18!!
Valentines pizza mixup with Steve! 🍕
Pizza Mixup
Valentines Celebration Prompt
Pairing: Steve Harrington x FemReader
Warnings: fluff, language, no use of y/n, lots of teasing, minor minor allusions to smut.
18. A sad valentines night spent home alone requires pizza but what happens when the delivery guy mixes up your order with the guy from upstairs?
word count: 1.6k
Masterlist
Nonsense plays on the TV in front of you while you await your pizza. You had been starved, working a double shift and dealing with the constant candy heart bullshit had you in a bad mood, and gotten in the way of your lunch. The only thing you had to look forward to on this day was the perfect large pizza from the great place down the street. You couldn’t wait to eat it and watch mindless TV in your cotton pajama bottoms and black tank top. It was heaven on earth actually. The real American dream.
When the knock finally sounds at the door you’re lifting to your feet in an instant. The weight of yourself pushing down on your pink bunny slippers and lifting its ears. A gift from a friend that was supposed to be a joke but you were enamored with the silly slippers that perked up with every step you took. You’re already digging through your wallet for a twenty as you pop the door open and spot the young delivery boy holding your beloved pizza.
“That’ll be $16.75” he says, voice bored with probably one of the busiest delivery nights for him. You briefly wondered how many heart shape pizzas he’d already given out tonight.
“Keep the change” you tell him, trading the money for the box. The smell hits your nose in an instant and you can’t help the way your mouth waters as you shut the door and walk your prize possession to the kitchen counter.
Flipping the lid you’re prepared to find the perfect pizza with melty cheese and crisped pepperoni just to be met with an absolute terror. The sweetness of the pineapple hits your nose and you can’t help the scowl that crosses your face. Curse that delivery boy. If it was any other night you’d just suffer but tonight that would not do. You had been counting on that perfect pizza, anticipating it all day. Who the hell ordered a single hawaii pizza anyway?
“What a fucking joke?” you can’t help but laugh out at yourself and the irony of this situation. Maybe it was karma, punishment for cursing every cute couple you saw today. Slamming the box closed you spot the receipt taped to the top and to your surprise the delivery address is on floor above you. A sly grin crosses your face.
“Not today satan” you growl before starting towards your door with the pizza box propped in your arm. The ears on your bunny slippers frantically move up and down as you stomp to the elevator determined to get your pizza back. You find the apartment quickly, fist banging against the door as you realized your pizza could be just behind that door.
“I’m coming!” a voice calls out, muffled by the door but your arm doesn’t let up. Not even when the door is swinging open and revealing one of the most handsome men you have ever seen. What shocks you even more is how he looks you up and down, an amused look covering his face.
“Nice slippers” is the first thing he says, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.
“Thanks, I’m pretty sure you have my pizza” you say, head leaning forward to try and peak for it inside his apartment. His brows furrow as he looks at the pizza in your arms.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this but you’ve been holding it the whole time” he says and you roll your eyes quickly, pulling the box in front of you and opening it to show him.
“No it’s not, it’s yours. Who orders hawaiian pizza by the way?” you say, unable to hide the slight disgust in your voice.
“Oh shit, the delivery guy must’ve screwed it up. Come on in” he finally says, now moving out of the way. You cautiously step inside, taking in the apartment all together. It’s not that different from your own and you slowly follow him to the kitchen where you finally spot your pizza box on the counter.
“Made it just in time, I was about to dig in” the boy says and you discard his pizza on the counter beside it, rushing for your own and lifting the cover.
“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me” you mutter, eyes shutting and head falling with disappointment.
“Don’t tell me it’s still wrong” he says, curiously looking over your shoulder and you shake your head.
“No, it’s just in the shape of a heart” you pout and suddenly the boy beside you is laughing. You glare at him, leaning down to at least take in the scent of the pizza you had been waiting on all night.
“What? You didn’t order this to feed to your boyfriend tonight?” he asked once his laughter calmed and all you can do is sigh as you shut the pizza box.
“No I wanted a regular pizza because I’m a single girl who doesn’t give a shit that it’s Valentine’s Day” you tell him and his eyebrows raise lightly.
“Well it’s nice to meet you bunny slippers. I’m Steve, and I also don’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day” he says holding his hand out and you decide you can no longer take your annoyance out on this innocent, yet very cute man beside you.
“Nice to meet you Steve, I guess I better get going. Eat this thing till it no longer looks so cute” you say starting to slide the box of the counter but his hand quickly stops it from going any further.
“What do you say to eating it here? Since neither of us have anything better to do. Plus if we get to know each other better maybe we can start ordering one pizza for us both. Save the money” the snort that comes from your nose has him cracking a small smile even though your reaction is not one he expected.
“As long as it’s not Hawaiian I may be interested but I don’t know how much that says about me being cheap” you tell him and finally release the pizza box in defeat. After all this option was better than rotting alone on your couch watching Alf.
“I think I can deal” he says reaching into a cupboard and freeing two plates for you both. You waste no time in picking the two largest slices from the heart shaped pizza and setting them on your plate. Steve does the same, grinning at you while he does.
“You seem way too excited about this for a guy who clearly had plans to spend the evening alone” you tell him as he guides you to the couch. Steve laughs, freeing two Coke’s from the mini fridge in the living room. What a boy.
“I don’t think excited would be the right word, more like intrigued” he says now joining you on the couch. You don’t miss the way it dips from his weight and how naturally his leg crosses in front of him.
“Was this your plan all along, bribe the delivery boy to get the cute girl from downstairs into your apartment where you proceed to murder her?” and Steve can’t help but laugh from the wildness of your imagination. If he knew tonight was going to turn out like this he would’ve been a little more happy about the holiday.
“If only I was clever enough but I’m just an innocent boy who got delivered the wrong pizza tonight and is now lucky enough to share it with the cute girl from downstairs” and his words have you blushing in an instant. Pink shading from your neck all the way up to your ears and Steve can only grin as he takes a bite of his fruity pizza.
“Fine but if I suspect any foul play I’m out that door” you say with a pointed finger before finally taking that first bite of perfect pizza. Thankfully you had solved the mixup quickly and it was still warm. What surprises both you and Steve is the low moan that comes out from the flavor hitting your tastebuds.
“Maybe I really am interrupting something” Steve teases and you lightly smack his arm which makes him laugh.
“I just really love Ilio’s Pizza. Best pizza ever” you say before two more bites and Steve is grinning ear to ear as he watches you.
“Maybe you should try the Hawaiian” he suggests and the giggle that escapes your lips lifts to his ears. You’re surprised at how comfortable he has made you in just these few moments. Maybe it was how handsome he was, or the way his brown hair was swept perfectly over his head, or possibly the realization of just how lonely you were on a quiet and empty Valentines night.
“Maybe, but for now I can compromise and order half pepperoni, half hawaiian for our next one” Steve’s eyebrows raise at the sentence and you know immediately what he was thinking.
“So there will be a next one?” he curiously asks and as your eyes search his own you can’t help the soft smile that slides across your lips.
“If you find a way to call me cute again I can almost guarantee it” you tell him and he grins, hand reaching over to push some stray hair behind your ear.
“Only I could get lucky enough to have the cute downstairs neighbor come banging on my door for pizza, in a pair of pink bunny slippers” he says and this time you don’t hide the blush that crosses your cheeks.
“So, you free next weekend?”
#valentines prompts#steve harrington#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington stranger things#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington imagines#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x ofc#steve harrington x oc#steve harrington x fem#steve harrington x y/n smut#steve harrington x y/n fluff#steve harrington x original character#steve harrington x you#steve harrington smut#joe keery x y/n#joe keery x you#joe keery fanfiction#joe keery fic#joe keery x reader#joe keery imagines#joe keery#stranger things#stranger things imagine#stranger things 4#stranger things s5
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when it rains (obi-wan x reader)
summary: being in love with obi-wan is great - but it might be less difficult if he knew about it. (commission for @ofmusesandsecrets!)
warnings: language
You were generally quite good at keeping your shit together.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had always been a threat to that.
On the surface, you were everything a Senator could need to be; an intelligent and well-spoken individual, with a high level of education and a passion for change. You always stood up for what you believed in; always spoke up on issues you were passionate about and always fighting the good fight. These were all things that Obi-Wan had loved about you, and in what felt like the galaxy's cruellest Catch 22, it was that love that threatened your ability to upkeep appearances. One glance at him across the Senate, or a brief moment of eye contact at one of the Galas - more often than not where he was your bodyguard - and you were worried it would all come tumbling down.
You had met Kenobi a few years after he'd become a Jedi Master. You were early on in your career as a politician, working as an apprentice to a higher-level representative. Always on the go, with stacks of paperwork in your arms and a million thoughts brewing in your mind, you'd crossed paths with Obi-Wan one morning during a meeting in the Temple. He'd given you a smile, made a quip about how he'd never seen you not on the go (which confirmed to you that he had seen you before and had stared long enough to notice those details about you).
Five years later, you hadn't been able to look at anyone else.
He was your best friend now, undoubtedly and wholly. You saw each other every day at the least - maybe in meetings and occasionally in passing - but he would come to your apartment every night without fail. Mostly just to catch up, and sometimes just to vent. Even on the days where Anakin had driven him to the point of grey hair, you were still happy to listen.
It was raining tonight in Coruscant. A lot. Lashing down from the sky, putting most of the city to a halt. Your afternoon meeting had been cancelled as a result, which meant you'd been holed up in your apartment all afternoon, a mug of tea in one hand and a stack of paperwork in the other. Obi-Wan's first ever comment to you had always rung true; you were always on the go, even when you were sat still. There was always something on your mind - something to create, something to do, something to debate. Sometimes, it made Obi-Wan want to grab your shoulders, give you a little shake and tell you to slow the fuck down.
He turned up just after 8PM - drenched, as expected, and with a slightly wet coffee cup in hand. In your line of work, you could afford a slow afternoon. For Obi-Wan, your busiest day of work was comparable to one he'd find relaxing. You had no doubt that he'd not long wrapped up for the night, so you wasted no time in stepping aside and letting him into your apartment.
"Long day?" you asked, eyebrows raised.
Obi-Wan glared at you. "Long day. Wet day."
"Right, sorry," you snorted. Taking the coffee cup out his hands, you tossed it into the garbage and headed towards your kitchen. "C'mon, I'll make you a drink that's not half rainwater."
"Thank you, darling," he gave you a small smile, hot on your tail as he followed you through the apartment. "I heard the Senate meeting was called early this afternoon."
"Yeah," you replied. "At like 2PM. Half the people due to come couldn't make it due to the weather. It took me two hours to get home."
"You should have come and found me at the Temple," Obi-Wan said. "You know my room is always available."
You knew. You'd always known, even on the nights when Obi-Wan was present there too. How many times had you stayed over after a long night? Snuck back there after a Gala? Just to sleep three feet apart, both your minds working at a thousand miles an hour, purely to resist the urge to reach out towards him and curl up into his side. The idea of domesticity with Obi-Wan was almost enough to kill you, just as it was right now. Here he was, leant against your kitchen counter. He was throwing his wet cloak into your tumble drier, hands reaching for a tea towel on the side. He was acting like he lived here, like he paid half the rent and maker, you wished he would. You wished that he would come back here every night and just fucking stay. With you, here, forever. No outside world; no politics; no stupid Jedi laws.
"Where did you go?" he asked.
You blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Your mind - it went somewhere," Obi-Wan continued. "What are you thinking about?"
"Oh, uh...just work," you forced a smile. "You know how it is."
"I turn off when I'm done," he replied, hand brushing down your arm. "You never really stop, do you?"
I stop thinking about work, you thought to yourself, but I never stop thinking about you.
"No, I will," you murmured. "Sorry."
"Never be sorry," Obi-Wan said.
You snapped back into action, hands quickly chucking ingredients into a mug in order to produce an acceptable cup of coffee. You knew Obi-Wan's routine with his fancy-ass drip filter and organic beans and locally sourced milk. It was a few levels above the instant coffee you were about to press into his hands, but your actions were still met with a smile.
"How are you going to get back to the Temple later?" you asked. "The storm has half the city at a standstill and I beg you not to say that you're walking."
He smiled. "I realised as soon as I got to your building that I may be trapped for the night."
"Right," you replied, fighting back your own smile. "That's sort of the point I was getting to anyways."
Your eyes met, and you couldn't help but sometimes wonder if he felt it too. If his eyes lingered on yours when you turned away, if you were constantly on his mind every moment that you were apart. Of course, it was different for him; after all, the job he'd dedicated his very life to forbade attachment in any form and this? Well, this was the highest form.
"I have some of my brothers clothes in the hallway closet," you broke the silence. "You're welcome to steal some."
Obi-Wan smiled. "Thank you, darling."
It wasn't really a question between you about where he would be sleeping. You only had one bed and you'd already shared before, so what was the point in overcomplicating it? Well...overcomplicating it even more. Nothing about this was simple, and sharing a bed was not the distance you needed for the situation, but what did you care anymore? You yearned to be around the man all the time, even if it meant doing this weird to-and-fro that you'd had going on for half a decade. Him being in your bed just for tonight was fine. You were both tired. You both needed it.
Obi-Wan picked up his mug, giving your arm another squeeze.
"I'm going to go and shower," he said. "Thank you letting me stay."
You smiled and nodded. "Always."
Putting aside your own half empty coffee, you threw it into the sink - that would be tomorrow's problem, as would all of this - and went through to the bedroom. You could hear the shower running, and your mind again went off to that all too familiar place: home. Not here, but wherever Obi-Wan was. What you wouldn't have given to had this every night; you getting ready for bed, him in the shower, both of you planning to end up in the same bed. It wasn't possible. You knew it wasn't possible, as long as he were still a Jedi and as long as you were still a Senator. Hell, you would have thrown your position aside in seconds if it meant being with him. Maybe that was the difference between the two of you.
Changing into a baggy shirt and sweatpants, you threw aside the covers and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold, as they always were when you first went to bed, but knowing someone else was minutes away from warming them up sent butterflies to your stomach. Maybe not butterflies, so much as they were wasps. Big, anxious wasps, at the idea of being in such close proximity with your best friend. What if this was the night that three foot meant fuck all? Maybe you could actually have his arms around; keep him closer for longer, not just a brief hug or a quick touch. This could be it now.
You heard the water shut off and there was a brief shuffling. A few moments later, Obi-Wan exited the bathroom. He'd opted for sweatpants too, but no shirt. Your instincts said to look away, but you couldn't. Hell, you didn't even care that you looked like a creep, watching him as he crossed the room. Obi-Wan barely even noticed, simply placing his boots by the door and climbing into bed beside you. You could feel the heat off his body beside you, arms just inches from touching.
"Was the shower okay?" you asked, eager to break the silence that had once again formed. "I've been having problems with...with my hot water."
"Why are you nervous?"
You blinked. "I'm not nervous."
"Yes, you are," Obi-Wan replied. "You always ramble when you're nervous, and I've never heard you talk about something as boring as how well your shower is working."
"Right," you murmured. "Sorry."
"That still doesn't answer my question," he pushed. "Why are you nervous? It's me, sweetheart."
"Maybe that's exactly why I'm nervous," you muttered. "I'm not sure. I just...it's weird that you're shirtless in my bed."
"Oh," he seemed surprise. "That's okay. I can sleep on the sofa-"
"- no, no, it's fine," you quickly cut him off. "I just never really know what to do these situations, to be honest. When we've slept together before, I've always tried my best to stay on the other side of the bed but...I'm not so sure I want to do that tonight."
Obi-Wan stared blankly ahead for a moment. Okay, so that had been risky as fuck, and for a moment you felt yourself reeling, waiting for his reaction. To your surprise, there wasn't really one. Even when it was the most forward you'd been - without really being forward at all - he still stayed stoic as always. There was no visible response, just a quick blink and a small shrug.
"We're both cold from the rain," he reasoned. "It makes sense. I see no reason why we have to stay on opposite sides of the bed."
Much to your surprise, he was the one to move first. He shuffled onto his side, a large arm coming around your waist and the other snaking underneath you. He pulled you into him, hand guiding your head into his neck and tucking it below his chin. You were stiff for a second, but quickly relaxed - this felt right. Like it was meant to be.
You could faintly smell the remains of his aftershave, mixed with the smell of your shower gel. His skin was still warm from the shower.
(And maybe it was).
"Are you warmer now?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah," you murmured. "Toasty."
He smiled. "Good - now get some sleep."
You knew the morning would come, and that Obi-Wan would have to leave; you knew even more that this might not happen again. Not unless luck was on your side and would happen to lump you together during a storm, or a black out. Or - and the more terrifying option - that you declared your love for him and this would be how every night was.
It was hard to know; hard to tell and predict, just like everything else in the galaxy. Still, you were grateful that Obi-Wan was your best friend, and even more grateful that you had tonight.
#obi-wan kenobi x reader#obi-wan x reader#obi-wan kenobi imagine#obi-wan kenobi imagines#obi-wan fluff#obi-wan kenobi fluff#obi-wan imagines#obi-wan imagine#obi-wan reader insert#obi-wan kenobi reader insert#obi-wan#obi-wan kenobi#star wars#star wars x reader#star wars imagine#star wars imagines#star wars fluff
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We signed up to attend a kink event months ago. Our first ever in-person kink event. It would include classes and "dungeon parties" for public play.
We both are turned on by the idea of public play but for ethical reasons, we've been very limited and cautious in what we've done, of course.
The idea of having the opportunity to do something publicly and ethically was really exciting. CD has teased me about it for months. At the same time, it was pretty scary. We had no real idea of what to expect at this event. With us both having social anxiety, we didn't know if we'd actually go through with trying anything or not.
As it got closer, the feelings just amplified. The idea of submitting to him spanking me in public felt more real, and that certainly made it hotter at times. At other times, the reality of it made it scarier. Could I really go through with it? I really didn't know, and neither did he. We knew we'd just have to see how we felt once the time came.
We checked out the dungeon on the first day, as watching others is welcomed. Lots of people were being spanked with various implements on different kneeling tables. We didn't see anyone using their hands. We've never used a bench like this. This added to the anxiety.
At the same time, our anxiety had reduced some from the event overall. The vast majority of people seemed really comfortable to be doing what they were doing, to wear what they were wearing - to be visible with their kink or D/s dynamic. It was, of course, very different from anything we had experienced before, but it was really cool to experience a bunch of people doing what they wanted to do and not caring about fitting in with the social norms we've all grown accustomed to.
I still wasn't sure if I could really go through with it after walking around the dungeon that first day. On the second day though, I got thinking about how happy CD would be if I could do it. And how rare the opportunity was. And how hot it would be to be a little public with our kink. To let some strangers see how he dominates me, and how I submit to him.
So I told him I definitely wanted to do it. He started considering how to go about it. We hadn't seen empty benches at all when we had been through the other night, so we weren't sure how long we'd have to wait to find one. We assumed it might be busiest when the parties first start, but then slow down once it got late (the parties went past midnight). So we almost waited until later to even go look but then CD said we should go see just in case, and we'd probably go back later to try again.
We took the stairs down to the area where the dungeon was, while most people take the elevator so we were alone in the stairway as we went down. Partway there CD said "Remember you can always change your mind." My pussy clenched. This sort of thing, the way he looks out for my needs and boundaries 24/7, even when his own pleasure is on the line, is so much of why I love submitting to him.
When we got down there, there was a bench available. CD said he thought we should just do it. So we did. He sat on the kneeling portion of the bench and took my bottoms off, and had me get onto the bench in my shirt and panties at first. My stomach was a mix of nerves and excitement.
He spanked me for a little bit and asked me to adjust. This thing was not made for 5'1" people, so when kneeling I wasn't all the way up on the bench. I climbed up higher as he asked.
There were other benches perhaps 2-3 feet to each side of us. One of them was doing some sort of impact, but it sounded so much quieter than my own. I wondered if it only seemed that way to me or not. He used his fingers to trace over my ass and down my thighs every once in a while. Helping me to relax before going back to spanking me. He pulled my panties down and off. My mind buzzed with racing thoughts that basically equated to 'I'm naked...in public!'
I took off my glasses so I could lay more comfortably with my face against the bench. He kept slowly upping the intensity. For much of it, he was landing blows hard enough that my body was moving forward with each hit, but I was physically relaxed so I was just jostling back and forth on the bench as it absorbed the impact after it went through me.
My ass burned, but the pain was muffled by my distraction. I couldn't see much from where I was, but all I could think about was that we were really doing this. We're really doing this thing that we do - in a room of 100+ other people. I saw people walk past a few times but couldn't really see if they looked or not.
CD checked in with me to see how I was doing as it was running longer than usual. I told him I was fine to continue, so he did. He upped the intensity even more, hitting my thighs some. Shortly after a dungeon monitor walked by and stopped quite close to me. Some people came up to him to ask the dungeon monitor some questions. I closed my eyes. If I can't see them, that means they can't see me, right?
Eventually CD told me I could get dressed. I did as quickly as I could. My ass was on fire and my brain was floaty. We tossed out the sheet that we had used to protect the bench, and then CD said we should walk through the dungeon to see what others were doing. As we made the round, I thought about how we were both looking at everyone we passed, at least briefly. This made me realize that in all likelihood, everyone who walked past probably saw us, too.
CD said later that he had tried to stay focused on just me, but that he had noticed some people did stop to watch. I'm not sure if he meant the same people I saw or not.
I wouldn't be surprised if this seems weird to those of you who follow me here because I tend to share a lot of private stuff on here. But, IRL we're both really reserved, private people. I'm still a little shocked that we really did this - but it was really fun. I'm not one to particularly enjoy bruises usually, but I did enjoy it when I realized my butt bruised pretty good. Mostly because I had felt like it was an intense spanking, but had wondered if my perception was skewed due to my nerves. It kinda felt like evidence that he really did give it to me good despite just using his hand. His hand felt slightly bruised after, too. We made a longtime fantasy come true, it was hot for us both, I was able to submit to CD in a somewhat new way that required a lot of trust and some embarrassment, and we let some other people see a part of us that we'd previously kept private. It's not all that often that you get the chance to make several things like that happen at once. I'm glad we took advantage of the opportunity while we had it.
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hello <3 i'm requesting fluff + ceo au + "you're unbelievably cute when you're tired." + OT7 or namjoon, if that's ok!!
lucky flowers:
pairing: ceo! namjoon x florist! reader
genres: fluff || established relationship || non-idol au || ceo au ||
summary: after a hard day at work, it's always nice to be in your safe space; and for you, Namjoon is just that.
word count: 1.1k
tags/ warnings: people, fluff and a lot of comfort. no pronouns are used <3
notes: as always, drabble requests are no longer open and feedback is encouraged so please let me know what you think!
drabble masterlist || my full masterlist
. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.
There’s a lump on the couch when Namjoon walks into his office. Velvet blanket wriggling with the force of human limbs at the sound of the door clicking shut.
“My love” Namjoon calls out for you, laptop left and forgotten on the rounded coffee table before he sits beside what he assumes is your feet.
You hum. Tugging the blanket under your chin to meet his eyes- as tired and weary as your own.
“You're unbelievably cute when you're tired” he runs a thumb over your cheek, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You sigh, “Am not”, watching as he tugs his suit jacket off. “Today was the busiest I’ve ever seen the shop. And I was the only one working this afternoon. I think I'm exhausted”
That hint of a smile on Namjoon’s face melts into a frown, eyebrows drawn down with the force of his displeasure.
“You poor thing. Surely there was someone to help you?”
You shake your head, “They clocked out early, so it was just me most of the day” your bottom lip tugs down into a pout, “I hate working at the front desk”
“I know you do, love” he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, “How are you feeling?”
“Not sure” he watches your shoulders shrug under the blanket, muscles wound tight with the tension of the day.
“Not sure?” his head tilts ever so slightly.
“Tired. But I’m too aware of everything to even think about sleeping. And overwhelmed. Like I wanna itch my brain a bit or remove my ears from my head”
Namjoon hums, “What about a nap? Would music be too much for you at the moment?”
“Probably”
“Silence it is then” he nods, slouching a little further into the back of the couch, “I’ll catch up on some work, and you can tell me all about your day when you feel better? A little less overwhelmed? We can always talk at home later, or in the morning too, whenever you're ready, love”
You tug the blanket over your chin, sinking into the plush cushions, eyes falling shut.
The rhythmic tapping of Namjoon’s keyboard is more welcome than a conversation, and Namjoon doesn’t hold that against you. Knowing that in your own time, the fizzling frustration and wound-up emotions of the day would spill past your lips, unfurling all the bad that had been weighing you down for what he can only assume is most of the day.
“There was a dog in the shop today” you break the silence, maybe an hour later. Voice foreign to your own ears, and you wince a little at the shattered silence.
Namjoon closes his laptop, leaving it on the coffee table once more as he turns his attention back to you.
“A dog?”
“Mhhmm” you push yourself to sit up, blanket still wrapped tightly around your body, “This old man brought his dog in, and then it peed all over the floor and I had to clean it but, he was cute, so I didn’t mind”
“The old man, or the dog?” Namjoon raises an eyebrow.
A smile stretches your cheeks, “Both. I’m not sure what breed the dog was, but the old man told me he was buying flowers for his wife, it’s their anniversary tomorrow”
“Ah, they must have been married for a long time” he muses, and you nod.
“I hope we’re like that one day”
“Old?”
Your nose scrunches up at that, “Old and together” you nod, “And married” you add.
“Is that all?” Namjoon tugs you closer until your body is leaning against his side, his arm slung over your shoulder.
“Yeah. As long as we’re still together then I don’t mind”
“You’re lucky I have no plans of getting rid of you” he hums and your eyebrows furrow at that, head tilting up to catch a look at his face.
“Excuse me?” you scoff, though Namjoon can hear the hint of a smile laced between your words, “if anything, I would be the one getting rid of you”
Now it’s Namjoon’s turn to look down at you with furrowed brows, “I would sure hope not”
“You’re lucky I like you”
“Is that so?” he challenges, head tilting down slightly to press a kiss over the warm skin of your cheek, then to your temple.
Your hand slips from the safety of your blanket, fingers tracing over his jaw before you gently tug his lips to meet your own.
Your lungs expand with the harsh intake of breath you suck in once the both of you part, your lips shiny with Namjoon’s saliva.
“There was also a young boy that came in today” you whisper against his lips, losing your breath when he gives you a fleeting kiss, lips pillowing yours. Silently begging for more, drawing you closer as he pulls away.
You press another kiss to the corner of his lips.
“A boy?” Namjoon encourages, mind trailing after what you had been about to tell him.
“Yes”
“And what about him?” Namjoon prods.
He doesn’t think it’s jealousy that colours his words. He never found himself to be a jealous man, not even when he had started dating you. He wasn’t oblivious to the looks you would get, eyes of men that would never be yours probably conjuring up a thousand fantasies to fuel their lonely mind. And Namjoon wasn’t an insecure man; he would never subject you to a strict way of living—limiting your self expression simply because of outside forces.
And he knew you wouldn’t cheat. Just as he, himself would never imagine himself stooping to that level. That didn’t mean he wasn’t wary when you brough up other testosterone filled, bull-headed men that were more than likely to hit on you. Never seeming to grasp the concept of ‘no’ or ‘I’m not interested’.
You blink up at Namjoon, scooting yourself from his side, legs crossed under your blanket with cheeks dusted the lightest pink.
“So?” Namjoon asks, strange feeling whittling its way throughout his blood stream and into his heart.
“He reminded me of you”
“Pardon?”
“He reminded me a lot of us, when we were young” you say again, and Namjoon blinks.
“How so?”
You let the blanket fall off your shoulders, “He was curious. Asked so many questions about the flowers. Genuinely interested in what I had to say.”
“I only ever asked because I knew you loved them so much” he huffs, and you catch your laugh on your tongue.
“Not only that” you continue, “He got her the same flowers you got me, the day you asked me out”
“He made the right choice then” Namjoon tells you, “And I suppose, their relationship will be just as lucky as ours”
“You think so?” you ask him, arms slipping around his stomach, head resting on his shoulder.
“Maybe. Though he’ll never be as lucky as I am to have you”
#bts fanfic#bts fluff#namjoon fanfic#namjoon#namjoon imagine#namjoon x reader#bts x reader#bts#bts namjoon#bts x you#bts imagines#bts non idol au#bts fic#namjoon x you
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heels
Awestruck, Rook wraps his arms around your body, enjoying every second of you looking down onto him from above, just like you should. Perhaps he would very much prefer to be at your feet at all times, conquered, vanquished, and powerless.
characters: Rook Hunt x gn!reader
tags: smut, dom!reader, reader is shorter than Rook, gn!reader ('reine' – french for 'queen' is used), clothed sex, heels, biting, mentions of blood, slight humiliation
word count: 1354
Halloween is the busiest time of year, and most important in terms of boosting the prestige of your alma mater, too. All the more reason to spare no effort in preparation. And so you do, making sure to look your best in the vampire getup Pomefiore have chosen this year. The last touch to your look being the highest heels you could find in Vil’s wardrobe, the deadly and imposing creature of the night image is designed to inspire the basest of fears in the onlooker and pin them to the ground for the taking. And you get the chance to see it in action rather quickly, with your lover as lab rabbit, no less.
As you enter the still empty Hall of Mirrors, the first one to notice you is Rook. He freezes completely right in the midst of a conversation, staring at your form as you approach him, making it more and more obvious that your heels give the usually much shorter you a rare opportunity to tower over him. His conversation partner long gone (everybody knows how insufferable you two are together and prefers to avoid those displays to the best of their ability), Rook comes closer to you, admiration written all over his face as plain as black ink on white paper. ‘Mon amour,’ he takes your hand to his lips and presses a kiss, looking up at you in reverence, ‘Your radiance is most blinding today.’ His eyes travel up and down your body, soaking in this new position you two find yourselves in. ‘Had I known high heels would impress you so, I would’ve worn them much sooner,’ you giggle. ‘Nothing is ever to escape your attention, as expected of the possessor of my heart,’ he laments at being discovered so easily, but you stop him with a finger to his lips. ‘Meet me in the sideroom in an hour,’ and you’re gone with a quick kiss on his cheek, leaving him longing and yearning for your withdrawing presence.
Awestruck, Rook wraps his arms around your body, enjoying every second of you looking down onto him from above, just like you should. Perhaps he would very much prefer to be at your feet at all times, conquered, vanquished, and powerless. ‘You are positively enchanting today, mon amour. I feel like I would do anything under this mesmeric gaze.’
You are stricken with a curious idea at that declaration. ‘Anything at all?’ you question, all but baring your teeth in a carnivorous smile. ‘Anything, ma reine’, he echoes and kisses a lock of your hair gently, as if to underscore his intent. It takes you a lot not to let out a chuckle of anticipation for what’s to come next.
‘Kneel,’ your voice is firm and leaves no room for debate. Not that there would be any, really, with the way Rook’s eyes widen a bit, laying his emotions to you out on a plate. He processes the order, his eyes crease in delight. Without a word, he complies, slowly descending before you as his hand finds the slit of your dress and slides up your leg. His gaze unfalteringly fixed on yours, Rook kisses your thigh time after time, leaving black lipstick marks all over. His eyes are deep and hungry, you’ve ever seen him look like that at you – as if you are the most fascinating and delicate songbird an archer could lay his gaze upon. And this archer, as of now, is caught in the headlights and at the edge of the arrow you are pointing at him.
With a smile, you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, making him fall back a little in surprise. It’s painfully obvious how much this little game of cat and mouse is affecting him. Rook’s expression becomes a tiny bit frenzied in agitation, you know this look to emerge a short moment before he loses control. ‘Uh-huh,’ you chide. ‘Was it not you who said he would do anything for sa reine?’ His face falls theatrically and he throws his hands in the air in defeat, ‘I beg you to pardon my frivolities, but however am I expected to stay still when overwhelmed with such all-consuming beauty? Will you grace this lowly servant with your forgiveness, votre majesté?’ You giggle. ‘I will, for I am a kind ruler,’ you catch yourself thinking that that just now has sounded like a very poor impression of Crowley, but throw this annoying face (or mask, actually) out of your head immediately. ‘Now, how shall my chevalier repent, I wonder,’ you hum. Then your eyes sparkle, and you put your heel onto Rook’s chest, making him fall back even further as he caresses your calf and lowers his head to leave kisses there, too. The way he holds your shin is nothing short of a person holding the most exquisite of treasures, worshipping every inch of your skin with his lips.
His face is thoroughly flushed, and the hooded eyes, fixed on yours with an overflowing desire, leave little to imagination. ‘My, what a peculiar hunter! How he enjoys being driven into the corner,’ you drawl as you slide your leg down to a very telling bulge in his pants. ‘What an unusual display.’ His breath hitches when you press down, fingers tightening around your ankle. ‘Ma reine claims to be merciful, only to mock her poor servant so’, he sighs and shakes his head in fake dejection. You ignore his jests, silently lower onto his lap and push him down by the shoulders, still meeting no resistance whatsoever. You feel Rook grasp your waist with his hands desperately, but don��t break eye contact even for a moment, as you know that your prey will leap onto you the second you lose vigilance. You wrap your hand around his neck and close the distance between your faces, kissing his jawline. ‘Look at you, completely at my mercy now.’ ‘And wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour,’ Rook whispers, not even trying to hide how he revels in this defeat. You tighten your hand on his neck, and snake the other one between you to cup his dick through the clothes. ‘Tell me?’, you urge him playfully. ‘You are the most fascinating creature to ever grace the lands of this world,’ he manages in a shaky voice as you continue stroking him through the velvety fabric of the fancy vampire costume. He looks the most breathtaking like this, elegant and strong yet still overpowered and bound to your will of his own volition. ‘Were you a wild savannah beast, I would gladly be devoured by your razor-sharp canines and torn by your knife-like claws, if only to surrender to your majestic beauty one last time and quench your bloodthirst,’ white-hot wave engulfs your mind and you clutch his dick harder, letting go of the neck just to yank his head back by the hair and clamp your teeth down on the tender skin so hard as if drawing blood is truly what you intend to do. He comes with a moan, and you keep stroking him through the aftershocks without unclenching your jaws. Only after you feel Rook still do you stop and raise your head to look at him.
The sight awaiting you is gratifying: ragged breaths escaping his chest, parted lips with smudged black lipstick, and, all the more thrilling, the delirious and disoriented look in his half-lidded eyes – it satisfies your hunger better than any hearty meal ever could. You leave a tender kiss on his forehead and get up, leaving Rook down on the floor beneath you, motionless and utterly ruined. You plant your heels on both sides of his head and look down, making sure to commit this sight to memory. ‘Come on, mon petit lapin, it’s high time we got back to work,’ your right shoe nudges his cheek softly and you leave, the clacking of your heels thinning out as you exit the room. Paralyzed, Rook moves no muscle in his body, his glassy eyes just boring the ceiling with a thousand-yard stare.
‘Beauté…’
#twisted wonderland#twst#twisted wonderland x reader#twst x reader#twst smut#rook hunt x reader#rook hunt x reader smut#rook x reader#rook hunt#rook hunt smut#twst rook#smut#gn reader#gender neutral reader#dom reader#sub character#damn i would write rook smut every day this is insane#yall should do too this guy's a menace#AM I OUT OF SHADOWBAN PRISON OR NO#please let me post this already i am on my knees
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Hi Mike, how was Tribeca?
It was fantastic.
For those who don't know, I was lucky enough to be invited to sit on the US Narrative Feature Jury at this year's Tribeca Festival. I just got back yesterday from ten days in Manhattan.
I found the whole thing to be absolutely rejuvenating.
Our category had five jurors: myself, Zoey Deutsch, Stephanie Hsu, Tommy Oliver, and Ramin Bahrani.
Kate was also on a jury - she was on the International Feature Jury (which included Brendan Fraser and Zazie Beets) so that meant we spent the week seeing different movies. We'd pass each other on our way to different screenings, sometimes in the lobby of the theater, and then meet up for dinner or a party and get to tell each other about the awesome movies we saw that day.
It was overwhelming to start with. At the Opening Night reception, we met Robert DeNiro, and we saw Martin Scorcese and Matt Damon (we were way too timid to introduce ourselves). I did manage to introduce myself to Kenneth Lonergan, who has made some of my all-time favorite movies (You Can Count on Me is one of the best movies I've ever seen), and the great Chazz Palminteri (I got to tell him how much I absolute adore A Bronx Tale). I also spent a fair amount of time chatting with Peter Coyote, who was incredibly kind and funny. We chatted a lot about Ken Burns.
After that, we went to the Opening Night film, a terrific documentary called Kiss the Future. We walked the red carpet (something I'm never quite comfortable with, but luckily Kate is a natural) and we saw the movie with a packed house. It was a beautiful film and really started everything off on an amazing foot.
And then the judging started. I got to watch all of the movies in my category in the theater, with audiences. A car would pick me up and take me to the screening. At my busiest, I saw three movies in one day, but it was usually two.
I made it a point not to know anything about the movies before I saw them - sometimes I went in without knowing the title. And I can't overstate how amazing it was to see these independent films with an audience, in a theater, instead of streaming. Having spent the better part of the last five years watching this primarily at home, I was shocked at how inspiring and energizing it was to sit in a theater with a crowd over, and over, and over again. I've never seen this many movies in a theater in such a short time, and I LOVED it.
I didn't only see movies that were in my category, though. I also made sure I saw other films at the festival that I wasn't judging - including Downtown Owl, the directorial debut of my friends Hamish Linklater and Lily Rabe.
I made a point to go to the premiere of Suitable Flesh, starring the amazing Barbara Crampton and Heather Graham, and produced by my old friends Joe Wicker and Morgan Peter Brown from the Absentia Days.
And it wasn't all movies, either - I also got to moderate a chat with the brilliant Sam Lake about his upcoming Alan Wake 2 release. Sam was a joy to spend time with, and we had a lot to talk about.
And my friend and colleague Justina Ireland traveled up to NY to moderate a Master Class where a theater full of people listened to me ramble about horror movies for an hour.
(With Justina Ireland and Johnathan Penner - Penner ran the Escape from Tribeca program, and it was his idea to bring me to the festival)
And then, just before I left, I met up with some friends to see a Broadway show. Karen Gillan and Willa Fitzgerald joined Kate and I to see Grey House.
My experience at Tribeca was fantastic. It was such an amazing celebration of art and cinema, and I can't wait to go back. I spent a lot of it feeling overwhelmed, and feeling like I didn't quite deserve my seat at the table (imposter syndrome is just one of the staples of being a filmmaker, isn't it?) but I'm so glad I went.
#tribeca#tribeca festival#robert de niro#martin scorsese#zoey deutch#stephanie hsu#chazz palminteri#sam lake#alan wake#remedy entertainment#alan wake 2#karen gillan#willa fitzgerald#grey house#broadway#tommy oliver#kate siegel#honestly this was one of the most fun festival experiences I've ever had
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Gilded Lily — Park Jongseong
— pairing: ex!Jay x gn!reader (ft. Heeseung)
— Genre: angst, post-breakup, moving on, oneshot?
— warnings: crying, mentions of getting old, bad health but it’s not describe
— wc: 1.5k (1565)
— Synopsis: moving on from your ex wasn’t easy. But you knew you had to make to the end. And after all those years of radio silence of not hearing a word from him. He came along one day..and oh boy was it different..
Part one , Masterlist
Now it's been long enough to talk about it
Years have passed by now. And at least to say you haven’t seen Jay. Not once. You still from time to time get the bittersweet feeling. Moving on from him was easier said than done. There was still a tiny piece in your heart. Shouting and wanting his love back. But you knew, knew right in your head that would be a bad idea, and you definitely don’t want to experience the same thing again. The time moving on from him was difficult..is one way to describe it. It wasn’t so easy. Him being your first love, and just breaking you, was very heart wrenching to say the least. It made you realize how fragile you were as porcelain. Just like how porcelain can chipt. Doing damage. It wouldn’t break you instantly but rather slowly. The stages of moving had three as you sorted them out number one being. The beginning, of course. Second is realization, third is the end. You’ve reached the end. Or maybe not…
But with my double vision, how was I supposed to see the way?
The beginning includes lots of crying, lots and lots of crying. It was your first ever breakup, you didn’t expect him to do something like this. He seemed so caring towards everyone. He wouldn’t dare to hurt anyone’s feelings. So why did he hurt yours? That’s a question you would ask yourself. It was hard. The cycle went on for months and months. Maybe 6 months.. crying about a man that didn’t deserve you. Said your best friend. Your best friend supported you all the way from the beginning to the end, and you appreciate it so much. You wanted him back. Still deeply in love with him. You would go through your old photos with him, messages. Memories would flood your mind. Which wasn’t helpful in any way. Your overall health got affected. Mentally, emotionally, physically. Mentally you felt so broken, drained, depressed. You weren’t your usual self. Emotionally crying. Crying. And more crying. He was the perfect man in your eyes. Everything was going perfect, you’ve never doubted him before. But that night you wish you never saw what you saw. She wasn’t just a friend like he used to claim. Sure you let him have girl friends. You never had a problem before. But oh boy were you wrong. It’s stupid to think that you didn’t notice it before. Physically. You wouldn’t even try to get out of bed. Always being drained of energy because of all of that crying. Only getting up to use the bathroom and eating. Yes physically wasn’t the worst but you weren’t in your best state . The break up took a toll on your part. You didn’t know about Jay either. Maybe he was happy with his new lover. Living his best life while you are over here suffering.
Always the fool with the slowest heart
Realization, Luckily having major support from friends and family. They helped you each step. Your best friend helped the most. Always trying to make time for you. Even when she was the busiest person. It made you realize your worth, and how you should move on. That this time you were facing your old problems. You took it slowly not wanting to rush. You started to take care of your health. Deleting any photos of you and him together. And getting rid of old things that made you think of him. You wanted to be a better version of yourself. One that he never should ever destroy and own. You got better day by day. Your smile returned to your face. Everything was going back to how they used to be, when you weren’t broken-hearted. Your thoughts were now very different, having a positive outlook. You now smiled and it wasn’t for him.
Turn off all alarms and lie to me
The end. It’s completely not over. Yet some might assume it is. It’s not for you. You can still feel some part of him in you. You thought you were never going to see him again. You sometimes think back to that day. The day he lost you. You also thought if he ever tried finding you. Which you didn’t think so because he was someone else. It does hurt at times to realize he wasn’t the one for you. And how you were never going to grow old with him, get married. A because of his mistake. You’re very proud of yourself for how far you’ve come. In this situation. You’ve found someone new. And already being engaged to him.
Your first encounter with Jay after years was when you were by yourself shopping for your new home that you recently bought. Jay stood there recognizing the woman, whom he deemed to love the most. In flesh.
“Yn..” a voice speaks out. You look around and meet a pair of eyes staring right at you..
“Jay..??” You say confused. You never thought you would see him again. “Hey..how’s it going…” Jay said softly, happy to see you. “Good, and you..?” You asked. “Wish I could say the same..” he stated making you confused.. “What..? What about your girlfriend..?” You mentioned the woman he cheated on you with. Lord..the memories.. “We, we’ve been alright..just kind of in a rocky situation right now..we just broke up..soo” he says. You nodded your head..
“Yn..I know I was wrong for what I did..but please take me the back..” as soon as he said those words. You were pissed. Who does he think you’ll forgive him easily.
“No, I’ll never. Jay you don't know the damage you did to me. I actually thought I was having nightmares. I thought you would come back and tell me it’s all not real. I waited. I waited for you to tell me it was all a lie and it wasn’t really, but no. I was crying, crying everyday about someone who I thought was my forever. My forever who broke my heart. My forever who was also my first love. I was so foolish to think you would come back. And thought that for 6 months. 6 months, hoping you would come back, comfort me, tell me there isn’t another girl. Nobody knew how much I loved you, even you…eventually I gave up. I moved on Jay..there’s no..no chance..” you ranted out, crying..oh you wished you didn’t cry. Now Jay was looking at you in shock.. he knew you loved a lot but not this much..
“I’m sorry..that’s how it ended..I never meant it..” Jay wanted to hug you, hold you in his arms like the old days. “If you never meant it, why did you cheat then? Sorry isn’t going to cut it..” you said before leaving him standing there..not giving him time to reply..
Your next encounter was 2 years later when you and your fiancé, Heeseung, were out on a date, spending quality time together. You were busy holding hands and faced him, you didn’t notice someone was there. Making you bump into them.
“Babe! Watch out..” heeseung warned you.
“Huh what do you mea-“ before you could finish, you crashed into someone causing them to let out a grunt. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” You tried apologizing. You quickly look up and realize who the person was…
“J-Jay…” you say shocked. Jay also realized it’s you. You.
“Yn..is that really you??..” Jay said before pulling you into a hug. You awkwardly hug him back and pull away from the hug.. “it’s been years…” you said. The air was uncomfortable as you faced your ex-lover. “Yeah..it has..and who is this…” Jay referred to the unknown man standing next you staring at you and Jay.
“Oh this is my fiancé, Heeseung. Babe, this is my old friend, Jay” you said introducing them to each other. Fiancé..how?? Jay never thought you would move on from him..well it has been approximately 6 years since you had any sort of contact with him. How small is the world huh..?
“Did you say..f-fiancé..?” Jay managed to say. Still surprised. “Yes..fiancé..” you said nodding your head..
“Well nice to meet you, Jay, but me and Yn have to get going..” heeseung said while looking at Jay with stern eyes. Jay noticed his stare and awkwardly nodded. Heeseung knew who he was, and what he did to you. He hated and still hates him..because why would someone hurt someone so precious. “Right..” Jay responded. Heeseung starts walking away and you follow after, suddenly you stop. You turned around..
“Jay, I’m sorry…but this is how it ends..I wish you well…” you say running to catch up to heeseung. Jay watches you walk away. With the man who he thought was supposed to be him but will never be. He hopes you will be happy. It will make you happy. Tears now flow down his face..and a sad smile appears on his face.
“Thank you, thank you..for being my love..” he says softly and turns around walking alone in regret..for giving you 6 years of hell..
We’ll live in spaces between walls
.・✫・゜・。. .・✫・゜・。. .・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜
"Maybe in another world, you would have chosen me."
- K.L, Midnight thoughts #3 (via vodkapoetry)
Author’s note: thank you to this anon for the idea. And I didn’t think some will like it bc no lie I hated it. Like my writing isn’t the best but Ty!! I also did want to use this song for a fic and I took my opportunity!! And did bad with Sunghoon back in October soo.. also happy new year everyone let’s hope 2024 is a good year!!
© ynsvnte copyright 2024
#kflixnet#mari: works *#enhypen#enhypen x reader#enhypen fluff#enhypen fanfiction#enhypen imagines#enhypen angst#park jongseong#jay x reader#jay fanfic#enhypen jay#enhypen scenarios#enhypen fake texts#enhypen soft hours#enha x reader#enha reactions#Spotify#enha fluff#enha imagines
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Naughty List
Pairing: JoeQuinnXReader
Summary: You've been feeling down this holiday season but Santa has the perfect idea to lift your spirits. Have you been a good girl or a naughty one?
You walked into the house after a long day in retail, ready to kick off your shoes, sit on your couch with your boyfriend, and enjoy a glass of wine. You usually loved working this time of year. Christmas had always been a source of joy. You embraced the chaos but this Christmas season had been rough.
Work had been insane with far too many unpleasant shoppers. You were used to a few here and there but it seemed as if everyone was in a hateful mood lately. They yelled about long lines like they weren't aware it was the busiest shopping season. They cursed at you when something was out of stock like you were the one manufacturing the damn televisions and radios they wanted. On top of that, your grandma had a stroke last month and you'd been spending a lot of your down time trying to help out your mom and dad. You were run down, exhausted, and running on fumes You were more than ready for a long winter's nap.
You dropped your purse, turning, and paused, taking in the apartment around you. Festive lights were strung all around the ceiling, twinkling in hues of red, blue, green, and yellow. Two stockings were attached to the hooks you usually used for your keys. Someone had clearly written your name on one and Joseph on another with gold glitter glue. Your Christmas tree sat against the wall, beautifully decorated with all your favorite ornaments. Tears sprang to your eyes as you took in the sight before you. You hadn't had time to decorate for Christmas with everything else going on and that had just added to your melancholy feeling this holiday season. Nothing was more depressing than coming home to a space bare of any Christmas joy during what was supposed to be the happiest time of the year.
Your favorite person in the world poked his head around the corner, giving you one of his little pouty smiles, that dimple you just loved to sink your tongue into appearing on his cheek. On his head sat a bright red Santa hat, the little fluffy white ball hanging just over his forehead.
"What did you do?" you asked with a grin.
"Well," Joseph began, slowly walking towards you, his hands folded behind his back, "I know that things have been a bit tough for you lately. You've been so busy with work and your grandma and I knew you were feeling a bit sad that you hadn't had time to decorate. You're usually so happy, downright jolly, at Christmas time and I have not seen you even smile in days. So I wanted to do something to brighten your spirits. Did it work?"
"What do you think?" you replied, bridging the gap between you, sliding your hands around his waist, the brightest smile ever on your face.
"It looks like my mission was quite successful," he answered softly. One of his hands slid up your arm and shoulder to cup the back of your neck. His other hand moved around to settle on the small of your back.
"Very successful," you whispered softly, your legs going weak as his lips found yours, gentle and sweet at first, and then more insistent. His tongue danced along the crease in your lips, slipping past to meet with your own. You moaned softly, trying to press yourself closer to him because there was never such a thing as close enough when it came to Joseph.
Joseph pulled his lips from yours, backed up, and you groaned with disappointment. People said that everything fizzled out eventually in a relationship. You wouldn't be as frantic about each other, sex would die down, you just would become comfortable. Well, that was not the case with you. It had been three years and nothing was dying down and there was absolutely no fizzle. The raging inferno that was your desire for him continued to blaze hot, threatening to burn the world in the process.
He smirked, strolling over to sit on the couch. Leaning back, he spread his legs open wide and desire flooded through you. Why was it so fucking sexy when he manspread? It should be obnoxious. He gazed up at you, that fuzzy ball hanging in front of his forehead, as he patted his lap.
"Sit on Santa's lap, darling and tell him if you've been a very good girl this year," he said, a devilish smile playing on his lips that made you feel like you were coming apart at the seams.
You walked slowly, swaying your hips as you went, thinking two could play at this game. If he wanted to tease then you could tease him right back. All thoughts of being tired vanished, your body suddenly quite energized ad you settled yourself in his lap. Joseph wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against him.
"Come on, love, tell Santa what you want for Christmas," Joseph urged, his fingers sliding up and down your arm, sending shivers racing along your spine.
"I think I have exactly what I want right now," you responded, kissing the side of his mouth, "you."
Joseph tilted his head, tutting softly. "Oh, now that won't do. That's not very specific, darling. You have to tell Santa exactly what you want if you hope to get it."
Oh, it was going to be that kind of night. Your stomach tightened in anticipation, heat rushing between your legs. You ran your hand under his shirt, over the downy hair that sat above the button on his pants, feeling his muscles tense under your fingers.
"I want..." you whispered, leaning in close to his ear, "you to make me cum so hard that I see stars." You nip at his earlobe, enjoying the hiss that slips from between his teeth. "I want your mouth everywhere on my body." Your hand slid down over his pants, palming his erection and he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "I want to feel every inch of you." You twisted your body, draping your legs on either side of him, straddling his lap and began slowly rocking your hips. You whimpered at the feel of his erection pressing against right where you needed him. "I want you to fuck me so hard that I can't move when it's over."
"Fuck..." he murmured softly, placing kisses over your jaw, one hand coming up to grip your hair, tugging on it gently, exposing your neck to his famished lips. "And have you been a nice girl or a naughty girl this year?"
"Oh, I have been so, so naughty, Santa," you breathed, your breath catching as you continued to press against him, sliding your hips feverishly back and forth.
"Mmm...well, you know what happens to naughty girls, don't you?"
Joseph grabbed your waist, stilling your body so you could no longer enjoy the friction that was relieving the tension building in your core. You tried to move your hips again but his hands were like iron, keeping you frozen. You whined and he chuckled, enjoying his little game. The man loved to tease you, to drive you to the brink of desperation before giving you what you craved.
"Naughty girls have to get punished before they get their present, darling," he rumbled. "Now, lay across Santa's lap and lift that little skirt up for me."
You were so turned on right now. Jesus, you loved it when he took charge. You slid off him and then bent forward, laying across his lap. His fingertips grazed the skin along the back of your calf. Obeying his commands, you lifted your skirt, exposing your bare ass to him. As he realized you were wearing nothing underneath, you heard him inhale a shuddery breath.
"Oh, you are a naughty girl," he hummed, his hand softly running over your bare ass before you felt the sting of his hand coming down hard on your ass cheek.
You whimpered softly as his fingers slid down, through your slick. Your hips bucked, your body craving him. Joseph chuckled again, the sound deep and amused as one finger slipped in between your folds, teasing your clit with slow circles. You wriggled your hips, desperate to get him to apply more pressure but his hand instantly disappeared and another hard slap came, causing you to cry out.
"Naughty girls don't get what they want. Remember? You have to show you can be a good girl before Santa gives you your present."
"I am so sorry Santa," you replied, your voice ragged, feeling like you were going to come undone if he didn't touch you soon. But you would play his game because you needed it. You needed the release only he could give you. "How can I be a good girl?"
Joseph slapped your ass again and the sting brought both tears to your eyes and raging desire between your thighs. He grabbed onto your hair, yanking you up to your knees, roughly pressing his lips to yours. Your teeth clashed, tongues tangled, his lips bruising your own with hard pressure as he showed you exactly who was in charge tonight.
"You want to know how to show me you're a good girl? Show me how good that pretty little mouth can suck my cock."
Releasing your hair, he leaned back on the couch, spreading his legs open. You crawled in between them, on your knees, working to unbuckle his belt and slide it loose. You undid the button on his slacks and he lifted his hips so you could pull them down, along with his boxers. The full glorious length of him greeted you and you could feel the dampness between your legs growing at the thought of bringing him pleasure.
Wrapping your fingers around him, you pumped your hand up and down the length of his shaft before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. You were rewarded with a groan from above you that you could feel in your core. Flicking your tongue out, you teased around the slit and then slid your tongue slowly down along the vein running underneath.
"That's it...that's my good girl," he groaned, his head resting against the back of the couch, eyes closed. "Such a good girl, darling, taking all of Santa's cock. Yeah, take it in all the way. Want to tickle the back of your throat, sweet girl."
Shit, you loved turning him on. You could almost get off just from listening to the sounds he made, the praise he lavished on you when you were making him feel good. You wrapped your mouth around him, taking the entire length of him into your mouth, allowing it to hit the back of your throat.
"Fuck, yes," Joseph growled, his hand gripping your hair again, pushing himself as far into your throat as you can handle until you gag. "Just like that, love."
You released him from your mouth for a moment, continuing to work him with your hand. Your other hand came up to cup his balls, relishing the softness of the skin there as you rolled them around gently before tugging them downward and he grunted harshly, growling out your name.
Joseph grabbed your shoulders and lifted you up from the floor, throwing you down on the couch. His eyes darkened with the desire he was feeling. He was the one in charge but you took pleasure in the fact that you had managed to undo his composure. You knew he wanted to take you right there but he was struggling to regain the upper hand.
"You are such a good fucking girl," he whispered. "Such a talented little mouth doing exactly what Santa asked. I think you've earned a little present."
He grabbed the front of your shirt, tugging at it with his hands until the buttons snapped off. For a second you were annoyed. It was a work shirt and you only had so many but then his mouth was on your breast, his tongue lavishing your nipple and all ability to think fled your brain. His lips pressed warm, wet kisses along the curve of your breast, down in the valley between them, before reaching the other one. He took that nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before sinking his teeth in.
"Fuck!" you screamed, gripping his hair in your hands and you heard him chuckle.
"My girl likes it rough, doesn't she?" he asked as his fingers pinched your other nipple, twisting it just enough that the pain was so goddamn sweet. "I didn't hear your answer."
"Yes...yes...I love it rough," you choked out, gasping in shallow breaths. His tongue was moving south now, sliding along your stomach, pausing to dip into your belly button, causing your toes to curl, your fingers to grasp at nothing.
Joseph knelt on the couch between your legs and lifted your skirt, tilting his head to the side as he gazed down at you. His fingers trailed up and down the insides of your thighs, close but just never quite close enough to finally touch where you so desperately needed him. You whimpered, rocking your hips forward, needing him to finally quell this unbearable need.
He lifted your foot, bringing it to his mouth, pressing kisses along the arch, your ankle, your calf, your knee. Jesus, you were going to implode if he didn't relieve some of this pressure soon. HIs lips moved along your inner thigh but darted over your center, moving to the other thigh. You whined softly and he laughed, the sound a deep rumble in his chest.
"My girl sounds upset. What's wrong, darling?" he questioned innocently.
"Please..." you begged. "Please Joseph."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me," you pleaded, bucking your hips again, desperate for him to use his fingers or tongue on you. Anything as long as he was finally giving your pussy some attention.
"What would you like me to touch you with?" he teased, a smirk playing across his lips as his eyes gleamed mischievously.
"I want you to taste me," you moaned.
"Mmm...that's my favorite choice too," he agreed, diving between your thighs.
The minute his tongue ran along your folds, you groaned loudly in relief, your eyes rolling back into your head as you arched into him. HIs tongue flicked over your clit and then circled it. You rolled your hips toward him, yearning to get as close to his face, to that sweet tongue, as possible.
"Jesus, this right here is my favorite place to be," he moaned against you and you shuddered at the vibrations that rolled from his lips through you.
His tongue slid along your folds, slipping inside of you. He slid it in and out of you before flicking his tongue over your clit again. You saw nothing but white, your breathing growing labored as your chest heaved up and down. Two of his thick fingers slid into you, scissoring open, stretching you.
"Fuck Joseph!" you screamed, your hands gripping his hair as if it would keep you from sinking, pressing his face firmly against you. You could die happy right now, with this beautiful man buried between your legs.
He twisted his fingers, so skilled at knowing exactly how to hit your pleasure button exactly the way you needed it. Fuck, it was so damn good. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on it gently and your whole body began to tremble.
"Oh shit! Don't stop baby. I'm so close..." you gasped.
"That's right. Come for me, darling."
You screamed his name as your body violently shook, your orgasm feeling like it would rip you straight down the center. But what a way to go. He never stopped, continuing to touch you as you writhed through it. The violent tremors subsides to gentle aftershocks as you gasped softly, your head falling back.
Joseph trailed kisses up your body and you whimpered at the feel of his lips against your skin. Your senses were heightened, every nerve ending flayed open, from the intense release you had just experienced and every single kiss was sending shockwaves of overwhelming pleasure through you.
"Such a good girl," he praised. "Let's see if you can keep following the rules. Shall we? Turn around."
Your body felt like jello but you somehow managed to rise to your knees, turning so your back was to him. He pulled you against him, pressing himself against you, his hands running over your breasts, your stomach, your thighs and just like that, you could feel your desire building again.
Joseph's hand pressed against your back, pushing you forward until your cheek was pressed against the cool leather of the couch cushion. Gripping his cock in his hand, he teased you as he ran it along your folds, rubbing the tip over your clit. He slid just the tip of himself inside of you before pulling back out. You growled in protest, needing him to fill you, to finally give you what you'd been wanting since he'd poked his head around the corner in that fucking hat.
"Remember the rules, darling. You have tell me what you want," he commanded.
"Please baby. Joe, please. I need you to fuck me. Need it so bad, baby."
"That's my girl," he groaned, slamming into you with such force that your whole body rocked forward. You screamed with relief at the feel of him inside you.
His name fell from your lips over and over, a consistent moan, as he pumped into you hard and fast, the sound of your bodies slamming together filling the empty room. He grabbed your hair, yanking you up to him, pressing his chest against your back, not an inch of space between your bodies. Lifting your hips, you bring them down again, matching his frantic rhythm. His hands slide over your hips and then up along your waist before cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples.
"Tell me how much you love getting fucked," he whispered.
"I love when you fuck me, Joseph," you groaned, head rocking back against his shoulder. "I love the feel of your cock inside of me. Fuck baby, nothing feels better than you."
One of his hands slid down the front of your body your body, finding your clit once again and you bit down on your lip so hard you could taste blood. His finger circled your clit, his other hand torturing your nipple. When his mouth found your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh there, it was too much.
"Oh fuck!" you screamed, gasping for precious air as forceful quakes took over. You hit your peak again, feeling as if you would float right up and out of your body.
"Yes baby...that's it...you feel so blood good, darling. Your pussy is so good," he snarled against your skin. "Oh fuck!"
His warmth filled you, painting your walls, as he hit his peak as well. You could feel him shudder against you, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you pressed tightly against him as he placed gentle kisses along your shoulder.
"Jesus, I fucking love you," he whispered.
"I love you too," you breathed, meaning it more than you could ever possibly express.
"Merry Christmas, my love," Joseph said softly, his finger lifting your chin, lips molding sweetly against yours.
"Merry Christmas baby."
#joe quinn fanfic#joe quinn fluff#joe quinn edit#joe quinn smut#joe quinn#joseph quinn smut#joseph quinn fanfiction#joseph quinn stranger things#joseph quinn x reader#joseph quinn#smut#fluff and smut#christmas smut#holiday season#christmas fanfic#merry christmas
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Hey, can you write about reader (who's also a wrestler) forgetting damians birthday until rhea texts her and she gets sad and panicky and runs to a near target to get him a perfect gift and ends in him comforting her
Forgotten birthdays || Damian Priest x Reader
Summary: You forget about Damians birthday, now you feel incredibly guilty.
Your heart sank as you read Rhea's text message. It was Damian's birthday today, and you had completely forgotten amidst the whirlwind of work that had consumed your life for the past week. Panic surged through you as you realized how thoughtless you had been.
With your heart pounding, you managed to carve out a small window of time to remedy your forgetfulness. You quickly left the hotel room, muttering to yourself about how you couldn't believe you had forgotten something so important.
At the nearby Target, you rushed through the store, scanning the shelves for anything that might make a suitable birthday gift. You knew Damian deserved something special, especially after all the hard work he had been putting in. After a frantic search, you found something you hoped he would like, and you purchased it with a mix of relief and regret.
Back at the hotel, you took a deep breath before entering your shared room. You felt like you were about to face the consequences of a huge mistake.
Damian was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone when you walked in. His eyes flicked up when he heard the door open, and he was met with your guilty expression.
"Hey," you said, your voice sounding small.
Damian put his phone aside and looked at you with a hint of concern. "Is everything alright, mi amor? You look like you've seen a ghost."
You bit your lip and hesitated for a moment, then you revealed the Target bag from behind your back. "Damian, I...I forgot your birthday. I'm so, so sorry."
His expression softened, and he stood up, walking over to you. He took the bag from your hands and set it aside, then gently took you into his arms.
"Hey, it's okay," he reassured you, his voice soothing. "I know you've been working tirelessly lately. You've had a lot on your plate."
You buried your face in his chest, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. "But I wanted to make your birthday special. I didn't want to forget."
Damian hugged you tightly, his arms providing comfort. "Mi amor, the fact that you remembered and came back with something, even after a long day of work, means more to me than any gift. You are the best gift I could ever ask for."
You looked up at him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm so lucky to have you."
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "And I'm the lucky one, trust me."
As you held each other close, you realized that, even in your busiest times, your connection with Damian remained strong. His understanding and love were the greatest gifts, and your forgetfulness was forgiven without a second thought.
#wwe fanfiction#wwe x reader#pro wrestling#wrestling#wwe#damian priest#damian priest x reader#the archer of infamy#archer of infamy#punishment martinez#the punisher#luis martinez
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if you ever write for farah I would eat it up SO hard u don't even understand
also I've been thinking a lot about transfemme!ghost recently and mmm I was wondering if u had any thoughts?? loved ur last laswell post btw, I love ur writing so very much <3
-🦐
I'm gonna write transfem Ghost so hard for you at some point for your patience however today... today, we are talking Farah.
I love the idea of you being Farah's long distance partner. She is the busiest motherfucker alive, worse than Price and Laswell combined and guess what- she still finds time for you. Texts you cheesy GIFs in the morning and tries to never miss a goodnight text. Every holiday and anniversary you receive something delightful mailed to your front door. Something thoughtful, special, just something that screams how well she knows you and how much she thinks of you.
(FYI definitely don't think about her nose crinkling cutely as she smiles when you send her a corny meme. Don't do it. Just don't. It's too adorable. Kicking my feet rn.)
Farah likes to draw. More of a landscape artist, working with charcoal and graphite in her limited spare time she draws you every sunset, every hill, every cityscape she can. Sends every piece home to you 'for safe keeping'. You are careful to spray down the pages with a proper graphite sealant before you hang them up in your home. Nothing makes you happy like getting to surround yourself with things that are hers, like having excuses to talk about her when you have company over and they ask about the art on your walls.
(Somehow even drawing only in black and white, she never fails to capture the beauty of a sunset on a beach or the sunrise in the mountains.)
Farah is an old fashioned romantic, believes in sending letters home. You are luckily of the same mind, always getting a thrill when you receive a letter from your love. You can't help but shake your head when you get letters from her while she's on bed rest from a bad injury- blood not even washed off her hands when she wrote to you, if the faint bloody streaks across the pages are anything to judge by.
She mourns that the danger of her profession means that the two of you have to be careful at all times when being seen together in public. She rejoices in the fact that you don't just respect the passion she has for her cause, you vehemently support it. Every step of the way, you have given her the gift of understanding. You are a source of relief and comfort for her, the thought of your voice alone providing warmth on even the coldest nights.
Farah always comes home to you in the dead of night. She has to, there are no tearful public airport reunions for you- the risk to your lives is always much too great. Already in civilian clothes, Farah winding herself around you as you're swallowed up in her perfume. Melting into each other because you are so connected and so in love that merely making that first contact has you both sagging with relief.
"I'm home," Farah always says. She is, indeed.
#farah x reader#noel.haps#I meant to write something spicy but then got lost looking in farah's eyes my bad
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— types of kisses; twice💋
nayeon <3 french kisses
— listen, i don’t know which out of french kiss or make out sounds worse, but nayeon.. this girl will turn any minuscule peck into a makeout. she will see any opportunity to suck on your tongue and will take it. yes, she’s always horny, but it doesn’t matter if you’re just about to fuck or if she hasn’t seen you in ages. she loves the way you kiss just as much as she loves kissing you. if making out was a love language it would definitely be hers.
jeongyeon <3 forehead kisses
— i feel like jeongyeon even before being official, had always loved pressing featherlight pecks on your forehead. it kind of always brings a ‘god, i love you’ moment always. it doesn’t matter if she’s going to work and will kiss your lips right after your forehead, she’s giving you both kisses and leaves with a pout on her face because she always starts to crave cuddles after.
momo <3 temple kisses
— these are just a casual thing for momo, the most convenient is for her to press a peck on your lips everytime. but she kind of kisses you a lot throughout the day, so she presses a few everywhere. still, her favorites are when she meets you somewhere, with or without the girls, and wraps her arms around your waist followed by a peck to your temple. it gives her a sense of protection, that she’s willing to fight anything and anyone for you.
sana <3 nose kisses
— sana is just so pure and affectionate. loves kissing, hugging, holding you. she can’t ever get enough of you. or your nose. she loves how sensitive it is. that whenever she kisses it, it creates a giggling mess of her lover and it just pushes her to repeat once and over again. she started doing it whenever you cried, or were out in really cold weather, initially because she thought your nose looked adorable, but eventually because she knew how much it cheered you up, and she loves cheering you up.
jihyo <3 jaw kisses
— jihyo loves how warm you always are, she loves sneaking into your embrace and hiding her face in the crook of your neck, she’ll even make time for it in her busiest days, because just that can fill up her energy. she also loves how easily it is for her to press lightweight, warm kisses to your jaw without much effort.
mina <3 pecks
— everything about mina is so delicate, timid even. the way she usually hides behind your arm, where your hands link keeping the two of you close together. how she speaks so softly around everyone, and your ears have easily adapted to understand her every word. even the way she kisses you, she gets even shyer in front of people, but she loved the pda, so she’s grown fond of pressing pecks to your lips and cheeks whenever.
dahyun <3 hand kisses
— dahyun would little to never unlink her hand from yours, she finds peace in rubbing circles and tiny shapes into the back of it when she’s anxious, or pressing kisses to it when the anxiety is yours. but mainly she saw them as a seal to promises, like the pinky promise kind. she’s always bounded to love and protect you, and she’s done so ever since, it’s how her hand kisses started.
chaeyoung <3 neck kisses
— chaeyoung loves the height gap between you. she likes to take advantage of it all the time. asking you to get stuff she can’t reach, making jokes about the weather, or wearing your clothes that are just ridiculously long on her. but mostly she loves whenever you wrap your arms around her and her face fits perfectly in the crook of your neck. she loves the warmth, how soft your skin is, loves your smell. her neck kisses can be so intimate, just a little ‘i love you’ reminder, but she really mainly loves how hot your cheeks get whenever she presses her lips on the skin there.
tzuyu <3 head kisses
— tzuyu also loves to take advantage of the height gap between the two of you, but in a different way than chaeng. she loves that when she hugs you, her chin tucks safely on the top of your head. its where she grew fond of pressing kisses, so much that its become a habit, and one of her favorites. regardless of the motive, she knows its comforting and that you love it just as much as she does.
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Dirty thots because you know I have many of them.
I'd love to see you rank your couples in terms of most kinky to least kinky
From most to least horny/kinky (not including Jake and Jessica, because we just don't know yet... we might have a better idea on Tuesday):
Molly and Bob (These two are ON FIRE for each other. Molly literally can't get her fill of Bob. Try as she might, she always wants more of Coach Cute Glasses. She's also kinky, and the way she brings Bob out of his shell in the intimacy department is.... hot.)
Roo and BG (Like magnets, these two. Roo fell first and hard, and he kind of had to wait a bit for Baby Girl to catch up to him, but boy did she ever. Their first time together is one thing I wrote that I actually love to go back and re-read. The frequency with which they have sex... love to see it. Toys, videos, exhibitionism... you name it.)
Daddy and Princess (Daddy and Princess are practically tied with Beer Boy and Sugar. You could switch places for them, and it would be fine. Daddy wanted her in the worst way, but tried to fight it for so long. But when the floodgates opened, there were no turning back. She'd be on his dick more frequently if it weren't for sweet Noah. But these two want to keep trying new things and experimenting together which is really fun and builds trust.)
Beer Boy and Sugar (In college, they were inseparable. Ten years later, nothing had changed in the slightest. Beer Boy transcends to a new level of horny for Sugar. The fact that he met up with her constantly in the study rooms at UVA and again in San Diego where she teaches... yeah, they can't go a full day. After the frat paddle, I'm just saying... kinky.)
Coach and Kitten (It's not that these two aren't horny, it's just that they are the busiest couple. Work, Everett, tee ball, baseball practice, etc... they have a lot going on. So when they have the chance to spend some quality time together, they really make the most of it. And don't call Kitten vanilla, because we've only seen the tip of the iceberg for how much she loves dressing up and role playing for Bradley.)
Something dirty
#if you ask emily#b&bg#put it in me coach#daddy's little babysitter#beer boy and sugar strike again#coach cute glasses
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