ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ2,050 words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), brief somnophilia-> so noncon, dirty talk, dry humping, no penetration, roommate is a pervert, denial, flash cut smut, abrupt ending, etcʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ
𐙚18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𐙚
You've been living with him—your roommate—for six months now.
At first, the idea of sharing space with a stranger made your skin crawl. You told a friend, "What do I look like living with a man I don't know? I might as well go on Tinder and end up on the First 48." But rent kept creeping up, and even with all the overtime, minimum wage wasn't cutting it.
The first few weeks were fine. You laid down rules, locked your door, and barely spoke. You thought you could keep it that way.Then the little things started to show... your bear hybrid wasn't bad, though.
He's all hair, warmth, and awkwardness.
He smells like cedar and soap, sometimes like the beer he drinks when he's nervous. He moves slowly in the mornings, hair mussed and shirt riding up to show that thick, fuzzy stomach—soft-looking but solid underneath. Always in some thermal that's seen better days, stretched across his chest, curls of fur peeking over the neckline.
You've seen the little trail of hair below his belly button too—once, when he reached for something on the top shelf and his shirt lifted. A soft, dark line running down into his sweats. You looked away quickly, pretending you weren't staring, but it stayed in your head longer than you'd like to admit.
He had ways that felt like nature creeping in. How he'd sniff everything—laundry, takeout, even the damn air when you walked by, nostrils flaring like he was trying to catch your scent and hide it behind a cough. He slept in long stretches, deep and dead quiet, like hibernation was creeping in early.
When he tried to focus on a book his lower lip would catch slightly between his teeth, and his cup-shaped ears—nestled beneath black curls—couldn't stop shifting, rotating faintly to catch the distant sound of a passing car.
Not that bad, right?
He was just... pathetic in a soft, almost endearing way. The kind of man who apologizes for taking up space in his own home. Who still keeps his ex-wife as his lock screen months after she left him for another man, and pretends it's by accident. Who keeps getting fired for things like "poor communication" or "low initiative," but always gets rehired within days because people take one look at him and think he needs this.
You can tell when he's lonely. He hovers by the couch, pretends to clean things that don't need cleaning, hums to fill the silence.
You've caught him stealing glances, too. The kind that linger. The kind he's not proud of.
You can tell by the way he avoids eye contact, scratching at his beard like he's trying to rub the guilt off. There's a perverted streak in him—gentle, clumsy, half-hidden. When you borrowed his phone to order groceries, you saw the tab he forgot to close. Something filthy and kind of desperate, starring a woman who looked a bit like you. Familiar enough that you didn't bring it up. Just one more quiet thing between you.
Not even because he lingers by your door some nights, mumbling something about cooking or watching a movie together, voice all low and hopeful—like a kicked puppy trying not to whine too loud. Like now.
"Please," he says, eyes wide, voice rough. "I just want to spend time with you. You've been working a lot."
"Yeah, you should try it," you shoot back, meaning paying rent on time. You glance at his beard—thick, uneven, still a little neat from when you trimmed it last week.
You two have a deal. Three movies a month, or a few hours doing something together to make up for it. It's domestic, weirdly comforting. Easy to get used to.
He's good company, in his way. Kind. Respectful. Always trying too hard. Maybe a little too aware of you.
"Please," he says now, voice lower. "Just one more. I want to spend more time with you. You know I'll be sleeping through winter."
You sigh. It's hard to say no to him round, soft, needy in that big, lonely way. He's too easy to read, all his wanting sitting right there on the surface.
"Fine," you murmur, brushing a hand through his thick hair, feeling the warmth radiate off his scalp. His tail gave a single, strong, involuntary flick. A silent, needy confession. "But I'm picking the movie."
He smiles then—slow, uncertain. Something flickers in his eyes, part gratitude, part hunger.
You tell yourself it's fine. Just another movie night.
But you can already feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of his attention. That soft, heavy presence that fills the whole room—and keeps you just warm enough to stay.
-
The movie's halfway through.
You're on your stomach, cheek buried in a pillow, and a carton of lo mein balanced beside you. He's next to you in the same position—shoulder brushing yours, arm stretched out close enough that his fingers graze the blanket every time he shifts.
He was originally at the head of the bed, but that didn't last long.
You could feel his stare on your ass, the quiet ache of it. When you glanced over and teased him, told him if he was going to look at you like that he might as well feel you up too, he lowered his head, muttered an apology, and scooted closer like being near you might make up for it. You laughed, shaking your head. Knowing if he didn't move, your ass and flattened thighs would be starring in his nasty fantasies.
Now, he's still trying too hard to look casual, like he isn't fighting the pull of it. The warmth between you hums. You can smell him when he exhales—warm, a little like cedar and fried rice.
"Outlast" plays softly against the low hum of the heater. It's a tense show. Building shelters, finding food, sabotage, and lasting the longest for a cash prize. Halfway through, you mumble, "I wouldn't survive that. I'd tap out."
He chuckles, a low sound that rolls through the mattress. "You'd want to leave in the first two hours," he says, "but you'd stay. Just to prove everyone wrong. Maybe stay a full two days."
You side-eye him, chewing a piece of cabbage. He's got sauce on his chin. You want to wipe it. Don't.
He's always been like this. Too near, too eager for your approval. You'll make some offhand comment, and he'll glow under it, tail flicking once like he can't hide how pleased he is. He always finds a way to lean close, to make sure you see him, smell him, feel him around you.
And lately, things stick out more. How when you fall asleep on the couch, there's always a blanket tucked over you that smells faintly of his detergent. How he likes to do your laundry. How your panties always end up missing like clockwork.
You'd joke about it if it didn't sit so heavy in your gut. If you didn't already find them under his pillow. If you didn't look through his entire room and stumble upon that clear plastic toy. You lingered for a second before sliding the drawer closed, but the damage was done.
For the next few days, you couldn't stop picturing him using it. You saw his hips bucking messily, the toy wet and vocal under his weight. He’d moan without a shred of shame, mouth agape, hips snapping into a blur. You could see him groaning as he pulled the toy flush to his pelvis, balls smacking, cock swelling to fill every inch of it. He’d go over the edge too soon—a hot release overflowing the sleeve and dripping over his thighs—yet he’d keep thrusting through the ruin of it. Finally, he’d collapse, flushed and spent, muttering about how he only really needs you. The image made you throb.
The movie winds down quietly. Neither of you move. The room hums low and warm. At some point, your lids grow heavy, and the warmth of him beside you makes it easy to drift.
- Flash Cut 1
You wake to the heavy weight of him. His body is a solid pressure against your back, rocking into you with a subtle, steady rhythm that makes the mattress groan. His breath is shaky against your neck—caught halfway between a growl and a sigh—while his hand rests heavy and possessive on your lower hip.
You could push him off. You could say something sharp and end it right here.
But you don’t. Not yet. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, staying perfectly still as you let him linger there, the rhythm of his hips soft and uncertain against your ass.
His scent wraps around you—thick fur, sweat, and that cedar-sweetness underneath. He’s so big and solid that he makes the bed feel smaller, the very air in the room thicker. You feel the tremor of restraint in the way he moves, a faint vibration of nerves and need as he tries to hold himself back even while grinding against you.
In the dark, he murmurs your name like it’s the only thing holding him together. "Mghn—fuck... I'm sorry, so sorry... I just—uhn," he pants, the whispered words broken as he pulls you tighter against the soft curve of his belly. "Please don't wake up... just let me... god, you're so warm." He’s twitchy. Needy. Filled with the kind of restlessness that makes his entire body ache with tension.
The thick bulge stretching his sweats grinds right against your center. You feel every roll of his weight, the fabric of your shorts rubbing and catching your clit with every pass—and it doesn’t help that you aren't wearing panties. You stay still, breathing slow, pretending to sleep like you don't feel that slick heat already dampening your shorts. Like you don’t feel his hand slide further down, his blunt fingers cupping your inner thigh, just inches from your heat.
In the blissful haze of it, he catches your scent—a change in the air he immediately latches onto. Arousal. He knows you're awake. His movement hitches, his heart hammering against your spine.
"H-hey... are you awake?" he whispers, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope. "I'm sorry, I just really needed you. I couldn't take it anymore—you're just so—"
He stops, waiting for a rejection that hasn't come yet. He let's out a shaky, broken breath against your skin, his eyes glazed and desperate in the shadows as he waits for you to acknowledge him.
"Say something," he pleads, his grip on your hip tightening. "Please. Tell me to stop or... or tell me to keep going."
- Flash Cut 2
You reach back, fingers digging into his jaw to jerk his face toward yours. You squeeze his cheeks, forcing his glazed, half-lidded eyes to meet your gaze in the dark.
"You really are pathetic, you know that, right?" you berate, your voice low and sharp. "Waking me up because you're too weak to handle yourself?"
He leans into your palm, eyes fluttering shut, shamelessly chasing the warmth of your hand even as you insult him.
"Y-Yeah… I know," he rasps, his voice wrecked and thick with shame. "Sorry… I just—god, I really need this. I need you."
He doesn’t stop moving. If anything, the verbal lash makes him push harder. He grinds slow, syrupy-slick against you. You can feel the head of his dick trapped and pulsing behind his sweats, weeping fluid like he’s never been touched in his life. He moans into the shell of your ear—a broken, needy sound—at the sensation of your wet fabric sliding against his.
His grip on your thigh tightens, his blunt claws pressing a desperate, soft indentation into your skin. His fingers tremble, clutching at you as an anchor while his hips start to stutter, moving in earnest now. It’s ragged. Animalistic. Each heavy roll of his hips makes your body jolt.
He drags his dick up against your heat, catching the seam of your shorts against your clit again and again. You gasp, your breath hitching, soaking through your own clothes now until the friction becomes unbearable.
He nuzzles into your throat, his mouth wet and open, kissing the pulse point with sloppy, worshipping desperation.
His hand leaves your thigh, sliding up your stomach, shaking with the effort of not simply taking what he wants. He hooks his fingers into the neckline of your tank top and bra, and yanks them down with a sudden, impatient tug.
Cool air hits your skin for a second before his hand is there. Your breasts spill out, soft and full, and he cups one in a firm, greedy motion—kneading the tender flesh, his palm rough and hot, thumb dragging clumsily over your hardening nipple.
"So soft," he whimpers against your neck, hips snapping forward as he loses the last of his rhythm.
- Flash Cut 3
The air in the room is stifling, thick with the smell of musk and the humid heat radiating off his massive frame. He’s hovering over you now, holding your thighs, his weight making the mattress dip so sharply you feel like you’re sliding into him.
Your hands slide over his chest, fingers grazing the soft bulk of him like you have every right to. His brown skin is impossibly soft beneath the dark, dense black hair that covers him, holding the heat in like a blanket.
His dick is bare, a heavy, pulsing weight that he’s dragging rhythmically across your wet folds. He isn't inside you—you won't let him be—but the friction is perfect. Every time he slides upward, the broad, weeping head of his cock catches against your clit. The slick dripping down is copious. His cum mixes with yours in creamy white strings and splats.
"So messy," you mutter, reaching up to thread your fingers through the thick, coarse hair at the base of his skull. You yank his head down, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are blown wide, the irises nearly swallowed by pupils, darting across your face with a look of pure, unadulterated worship. "Already came twice, and you're still humping me like a stray mutt."
A low, broken growl vibrates in his chest—not a threat, but a plea. His skin is slick with sweat, glistening under the faint light of the TV.
"Can't—can't stop," he gasps, his lower lip caught between his teeth just like when he’s trying to read, only now it’s bleeding slightly from the pressure. "Feels too good... please, just let me stay right here."
"Look at you," you berate him, your voice a low, cutting contrast to his frantic breathing. "Too stupid to know your own limits. You’ll fuck yourself raw before you give up, won't you? Just a big, needy animal looking for a place to hide."
"Yes—fuck, yes," he gasps, hips jerking faster. His cock drags through your slick folds, twitching with every grind, never slipping inside. "Need it—let me put it in—ah."
Your nails dig into the back of his neck, forcing his face against yours.
"I'm not letting a man this pitiful actually fuck me," you whisper against his lips, feeling him shudder. "You don't deserve it."
He curses, his movements becoming ragged and uncoordinated. You can feel the tremor in his thighs, the muscles corded and jumping as he nears a third breaking point without even being inside you.
He lets out a loud, wrecked moan, his head dropping onto your shoulder as his body finally gives in. You feel the hot pulse of him as he shoots ropes of white across your stomach and pussy for the third time tonight, his entire frame racking with a deep tremor. He ruts three more times—slow, heavy, and desperate—before collapsing into you, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs.
Gonna scare everyone in the TADC community/Hellaverse community by putting an actual POC character of mine here (because apparently, racism is a nothingburger and its "all in the past!!!")
(Her name is Flora btw.. not the main protagonist from the project she's from but she is one of the main focuses)
The Igbo people also spelled Ibo and formerly also Iboe, Ebo, Eboe, Eboans, Heebo are a meta-ethnicity native to the present-day south-central and southeastern Nigeria and also Equatorial Guinea.
There has been much speculation about the origins of the Igbo people, as it is unknown how exactly the group came to form. Geographically, the Igbo homeland is divided into two unequal sections by the Niger River an eastern (which is the larger of the two) and a western section. The Igbo people are one of the largest ethnic groups in Africa.
Igbo-speaking peoples can be divided into five geographically based subcultures: northern Igbo, southern Igbo, western Igbo, eastern Igbo, and northeastern Igbo. Each of these five can be further divided into subgroups based on specific locations and names. The northern or Onitsha Igbo are divided into the Nri-Awka of Onitsha and Awka; the Enugu of Nsukka, Udì, Awgu, and Okigwe; and those of the Onitsha town. The southern or Owerri Igbo are divided into the Isu-Ama of Okigwe, Orlu, and Owerri; the Oratta-Ikwerri of Owerri and Ahoada; the Ohuhu-Ngwa of Aba and Bende; and the Isu-Item of Bende and Okigwe. The western Igbo (Ndi Anioma, as they like to call themselves) are divided into the northern Ika of Ogwashi Uku and Agbor; the southern Ika or Kwale of Kwale; and the Riverrain of Ogwashi Uku, Onitsha, Owerri, and Ahoada. The eastern or Cross River Igbo are divided into the Ada (or Edda) of Afikpo, the Abam-Ohaffia of Bende and Okigwe, and the Aro of Aro. The northeastern Igbo include the Ogu Uku of Abakaliki and Afikpo.
now for some fun entertainment I found !
The kim-kim or Udu is a plosive aerophone (in this case implosive) and an idiophone of the Igbo of Nigeria. In the Igbo language, ùdù means 'vessel' or 'pot'. This is a hand percussion instrument and it is one of the most important instruments in Igbo music.
Early Udu drums were simply water jugs with an additional hole and were played by Igbo women for ceremonial purposes. Legend says that the Udu drum was made accidentally because a punched hole was on the side, making it useless. Instead of throwing it away, the owner started to drum it.(note I listen to a sample of this instrument its fire I wish I could add an audio file here but I'll but that in a different post)
now the music is fire what about the arts?
Masks have been used for a variety of purposes within Igbo culture in both historic and modern times. For specific segments of the Igbo population, some mask pairs have been traditionally interpreted as representing the duality of beauty and ugliness. The former being depicted as the maiden spirit and the latter as the elephant spirit.Anthropologist Simon Ottenberg also ties masquerade performances to a duality, but he sees their function as primarily relating to gender difference and the initiation ritual during which Igbo boys become men. Young women are excluded from performing and are, therefore, passive witnesses. The rituals associated with mask-wearing establish and maintain gender difference. Additionally, the experience of ritual mask-wearing is related to the alleviation of sexual and social anxieties that result from the boy moving from his childhood home and away from his mother.
Within some portions of northern Nigeria, Igbo communities continue to utilize masquerade events in order to maintain connections with the deceased. Masks become physical embodiments of those no longer living which facilitates the flow of blessings and knowledge between generations. Knowledge of the secret aspects of the ritual are limited to initiated men who then have access to the supernatural tools necessary to contend with pressing socio-cultural concerns. Overall, however, the ceremonies serve as the site for important processes of communal healing, continuity, and connection. Joy is intermixed with grief as the living are able to again interact with those that have been lost
The use of masks within Igbo culture has been usually portrayed as an uninterrupted tradition or as a tradition impossibly altered by cross-cultural interactions. More recent scholarship, however, perceives contemporary Igbo masquerade performance to be the product of selectively-adapted external influences that perpetuate the traditional aims of the activity. As such, they should not be considered new and unique art forms but rather the result of the adaptation of imported elements. Pre-colonial conceptions of aesthetic experience and artistic goals were re-worked and understood through new paradigms introduced by cross-cultural movements.
For contemporary viewers of masks within the context of museums, the inability to see such sculptures in motion as part of performances makes understanding difficult. The effect intended by the artist in terms of experience is limited to the one static perspective that display permits. The exhibiting of masks emphasizes the object itself which is not always the most important aspect of the multimedia and multisensory ritual performance.Without the full costume and the atmosphere of music, spoken or sung word, and physical movements, the full meaning of masks is lost. The same physical object, when placed in different performance contexts, can symbolize different things which makes interpretations difficult after collection.
Eze Nwanyi mask
Otherwise known as the Queen of Women, this mask represents a wealthy, senior wife and grandmother who commands enormous respect in the village. She embodies the ultimate feminine ideals of strength, wisdom, beauty, stature and dignity, and is a leader among women.
This mask is worn in performances that occur at funerals and ceremonies that purify the village and other communal places
Agbogho mmuo
Agbogho mmuo, or Maiden Spirit masquerades perform annually during the dry season in the Nri-Awka area of northern Igboland. At these performances men dance as adolescent girls, miming and exaggerating the girls' beauty and comportment. The performance is also accompanied by musicians who sing tributes to both real and spirit maidens. The following are examples of quotes that may be heard during a performance :
Mmanwu si n’igwe: The masked spirit from the sky
Udemu na lenu: My fame is potent
These masks showcase an ideal image of an Igbo maiden. This ideal is made up by the smallness of a young girl’s features and the whiteness of her complexion, which is an indication that the mask is a spirit. This whiteness is created using a chalk substance used for ritually marking the body in both West Africa and the African Diaspora. The chalky substance is also used in uli design, created and exhibited on the skin of Igbo women. Some maiden spirit masks have elaborate coiffeurs, embellished with representations of hair combs, and other objects, modeled after late 19th century ceremonial hairstyles.
(the art is amazing and it shows in the masquerades)
i do recommend checking out the different festivals yourself but ill talk about one here.
the new yam festival (this has multiple variants the one I was sent was the Abia igbo version)
Usually, at the beginning of the festival, the yams are offered to the gods and ancestors first before distributing them to the villagers. The ritual is performed either by the oldest man in the community or by the king or eminent titleholder. This man also offers the yams to god, deities, and ancestors by showing gratitude to the supreme deity for his protection and kindness in leading them from lean periods to the time of bountiful harvest without deaths resulting from hunger.After the prayer of thanksgiving to their god, they eat the first yam because It is believed that their position bestows the privilege of being intermediaries between their communities and the gods of the land. The rituals are meant to express the gratitude of the community to the gods for making the harvest possible, and they are widely followed despite more modern changes due to the influence of Christianity in the area. This, therefore, explains the three aspects of the Igbo worldview, that they are pragmatic, religious, and appreciative.
The day is symbolic of enjoyment after the cultivation season, and the plenty is shared with friends and well-wishers. A variety of festivities mark the eating of new yam. Folk dances, masquerades, parades, and parties create an experience that some participants characterize as "art"; the colorful festival is a spectacle of exhibited joy, thanks, and community display.
information from wikipedia and 101lastribes and the people that I mentioned below
There is must more to say about the Igbo people but I can't fit it all in one post but lets support some!
notes: i’ve rewritten this five damn times because my brain needs everything to be perfect. i tried my best for it to be written as if it were an official wikipedia page, though i feel like you can tell i gave up towards the end. beware … wynnie’s life is written and made to be dysfunctional on purpose, it’s part of her unfortunate journey to stardom. also please bare with me if there’s any misspellings!!
trigger warnings: grooming + age gaps + power imbalance, child exploitation, toxic parenting, implied eating disorders, murder, infidelity, mentions of systematic racism + mentions of racial violence. please do not read if you feel any topics mentioned might trigger or upset you.
disclaimer: i’ve already stated this previously in my pinned post, but i would like to leave it here as well. wynnie dove is an oc with a fully fleshed-out backstory, detailed lore, and her own distinct personality. however, she is written in a way where she can easily be read as a y/n / self-insert if that’s your preference. if you aren’t a fan of ocs or a named reader, please protect your peace and feel free to block my blog. don't like, don't read!!
You were born WINIFRED LORETTA ROSE STEVENS on January 16, 1967 at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, New York. You began your career in the 1970s advertising industry as a child model. Managed by your mother, EDWINA GODFREY, you appeared in numerous commercial campaigns as well as being featured in cereal packaging, department store catalogs, and toy promotions. During your late teens, your father, KENNETH STEVENS, used his corporate contacts to meet with PIERCE WATSON III (b. 1950), the founder and chief executive officer of VOLT MEDIA GROUP (VMG), originally founded as VOLT RECORDS in 1974. When you turned sixteen, Pierce signed you as his second recording artist on the label’s roster. In 1985, shortly after your eighteenth birthday, the two of you got married.
Concurrently, you legally changed your name to WYNNIE DOVE, suggested by Pierce to improve your commercial marketability prior to your debut. You would go on to achieve significant commercial success, setting various chart records and earning the title “Queen of Pop” from music critics in the early 1990s. You filed a lawsuit against Pierce and VMG in 1993 to which he would sign a confidential settlement eight months later, surrendering your masters, publishing catalog, and the exclusive trademark to your name, Wynnie Dove. Pierce would also hand over two executives from VMG as a peace offering for the founding of your own label, DOVE RECORDS. You and Pierce later divorced in January 1994, and not long after, during that same year in late March, you married musician MICHAEL JACKSON in a private ceremony out of the country.
WHO IS KENNETH STEVENS?
Your father, KENNETH ELIJAH STEVENS, born November 9, 1929, was an African American business executive and the founder of STEVENS INC. After his service in a desegregated military unit during the Korean War, he used the G.I. Bill to earn a degree in business administration. Encountering systemic racial barriers in consumer-facing markets during the 1950s, he focused his business ventures on the industrial supply chain. He established STEVENS INC. in 1956 as a wholesale distributor providing industrial linens, dry goods, and janitorial supplies to hotels, restaurants, and hospitals. The company grew by competing strictly on pricing and logistical reliability. By the late 1960s, Kenneth expanded the firm's operations into commercial warehousing and logistics, growing STEVENS INC. into a multi-million-dollar corporation. His career involved extensive efforts to secure commercial financing and municipal contracts amid systemic discrimination and local political corruption. As a corporate executive, Kenneth maintained a reputation for having a strict management style, retaining operational control over his business, and closely guarding his corporate and family legacy.
THE STEVENS HISTORY!
Your paternal grandparents, the STEVENS accumulated their wealth primarily through real estate investments and business enterprises in Chicago during the early 20th century. By combining dual incomes and acquiring property, the family established a financial foundation in the city's Bronzeville neighborhood. BOOKER JONATHAN STEVENS was born in Georgia on February 2, 1903. He relocated to Chicago in the 1920s to seek better economic opportunities and avoid the racial violence of the Deep South. After moving, he gained employment as a Pullman porter. The position provided a consistent income and exposed him to business, geography, and real estate information discussed by the passengers. Booker married BONNIE LORETTA MONET, born August 12, 1911, whose family worked in various trades in Chicago. Bonnie operated a tailoring business from the couple's brownstone residence in Bronzeville. She also managed the family's finances while Booker worked on the railroad. The couple used their combined income from the tailoring business and the Pullman porter position to invest in local property. They focused their investments on purchasing commercial lots on the South Side of Chicago. They raised your father, KENNETH STEVENS, in Bronzeville, where he was taught the importance of discipline and financial independence to navigate the racial segregation of the era.
WHO IS EDWINA GODFREY?
Your mother, EDWINA MAVIS GODFREY, born January 3, 1936, was a former beauty pageant. During her youth, Edwina's public image and physical appearance were heavily managed by her mother. Her preparation for beauty pageants involved hair bleaching, restrictive diets, and receiving rigorous training to develop a transatlantic accent. In September 1951, Edwina won the Miss America Pageant, entering the competition at the age of 15 by forging her birth certificate. She competed again in 1952 and won the title for a second consecutive year, generating widespread national coverage. In 1953, Edwina entered the pageant for a third time and finished as the first runner-up. Prompted by her repeated entries and the revelation of her actual age, pageant organizers permanently revised the competition bylaws. The organization instituted a strict minimum age requirement of 18 and formally prohibited former winners from competing in future events. Edwina married your father, KENNETH STEVENS in the early 1960s, their union attracting heavy racial scrutiny.
THE GODFREYS HISTORY!
Your maternal grandparents, the GODFREYS, publicly presented an upper-class image that contrasted with their working-class backgrounds. ARTHUR CLARENCE GODFREY, born October 24, 1910, was an American insurance salesman who catered to wealthy clients in New York. Throughout his career, he often misrepresented his social pedigree to appeal to his target demographic. He married ROSE BETHANY COOK, born May 6, 1917, who was raised in a working-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. Their marriage was mainly built around mutual opportunism. Arthur used the marriage to reinforce his desired social standing, and Rose entered the relationship to achieve financial security and escape poverty, initially harboring ambitions for a career in entertainment. When her lack of formal education limited her professional prospects, she redirected her focus toward the future success of her daughter, your mother, EDWINA GODFREY.
WHO IS DORIS LAMONT?
Your older half-sister, DORIS JANE LAMONT was born on September 23, 1963. While married to your mother, your father had an affair with a waitress named DENISE LAMONT, resulting in the birth of Doris. In 1965, Denise was killed in a drive by shooting, which would unfortunately remain unsolved and following her death, Kenneth was given full custody. While Edwina initially distanced herself from Doris, she later took an active role in her upbringing, legally changing her surname from Lamont to Godfrey and began entering her into beauty pageants. Doris competed regularly throughout her youth and late teens, becoming the first African American woman crowned “Miss America” in September 1983. Once she reached adulthood, she changed her surname back to Lamont and cut off both Edwina and Kenneth, only keeping close contact with you. Professionally, Doris pursued a career in business and in 1994 she opened a chain of retail boutiques across the United States.
Synopsis: After graduation, you treat yourself to a solo getaway in Hawaii. Just you, the ocean breeze, and zero drama. That is, until a flight seatmate from hell, Taehyung, somehow ends up being your next-door neighbor at the luxury resort. Thanks to a reservation mix-up, your private suite dreams crash and burn, leaving you and Taehyung in separate rooms… with a shared connecting door.
What starts as petty arguments and awkward run-ins quickly escalates into teasing, tension, and heat you can’t ignore. And when the line between enemies and something much more finally snaps? Let’s just say, paradise gets a whole lot hotter.
Pairing: Non Idol Taehyung x Reader
Warnings: Cursing/ Coarse Language, Eventual Smut, Possible slow uploads
Word Count: 1,615
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
A/N: Hi beautiful people! ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅ This fic is Inspired by Latto’s Somebody cuz the song is on repeat in my head! Hope you guys enjoy!! P.S. it’s been proof read, but loosely so don’t mind the mistake 🫣
PART ONE
“Finally,” you sigh, sinking into your seat with relief.
The day has already started off on the wrong foot. Delayed Ubers, mile-long TSA lines, and a barista with a serious attitude problem.
But you made it.
You’re on the plane.
You’re on time.
And thanks to a lucky upgrade, you only have to deal with one seat mate instead of being sandwiched between two.
The final call for passengers echoes through the cabin as you settle into the window seat, adjusting your blanket and neck pillow before setting up your iPad.
You pre-downloaded two seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, which should be more than enough to get you through the flight. No distractions. No drama. Just you, McDreamy, and the clouds.
You’re just popping in your earbuds when something, more like someone, nudges your arm.
“Ah, sorry, hold this?” a baritone voice says, not giving you much a choice as he shoves a paper coffee cup into your palm. You blink up, caught off guard as a tall, presumably Asian man, wrestles a duffel bag into the overhead compartment like he’s fighting for his life.
Despite his rude first impression, you can’t help but think that this man is fine, as hell.
Wearing a baseball cap, plain white tee, and gray sweats, he somehow makes casual clothing look like high fashion. The kind of good-looking that feels unfair. Effortless. Dangerous.
And you know what they say about gray sweatpants.
Snapping out of it just in time, you meet his gaze, put off by his shit-eating grin. Heat creeps up your neck. You’ve been caught.
Without thinking, you thrust his drink into his lap as he sinks into his seat. A sharp remark on the tip of your tongue, but he beats you to it.
“I was going to apologize for my hasty entrance,” he says, pulling off his cap and running a hand through the black strands that fall neatly around his face. “But you ogling me kind of kills the guilt.”
You scoff. “Please. No one was ogling you. And maybe next time, don’t shove your coffee into someone’s hands like they’re your personal assistant.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but the overhead crackles to life with the flight attendants’ safety spiel. You take the opportunity to readjust your headphones and crank up the volume, not even pretending to be polite anymore.
As far as you’re concerned, you’re fully committed to ignoring this cocky asshole for the rest of the flight.
The first three hours pass without another hiccup, and since you flew out of L.A., there’s only about two hours left to go. You stretch your legs and shift slightly, but a dull ache in your lower abdomen makes you wince. Perfect. You need to pee.
Glancing to your left, you sigh, annoyance seeping under your skin.
Your seatmate is completely passed out, head tilted back against the seat, lips parted slightly. His long legs are stretched out into the aisle, and directly in your path.
“Great,” you mutter under your breath. Now you have to wake him up.
“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder gently. No response.
“Excuse me, I need to get by,” you try again, a little firmer this time.
Still nothing. He’s knocked out cold, mouth slightly open, lashes too long for someone so irritating.
You stare at him, unamused.
“Come on, this isn’t funny, I really need to get by,” you say louder now, shaking his shoulder roughly.
Shaking your head, you groan. Who the hell sleeps this deeply on a plain? You can’t be arsed to keep shaking him, so you decide to crawl over him.
If only he wasn’t so massive, it would have been your first option.
Getting up slowly, you pivot in the cramped space. For this to be first class, you weren’t really feeling how little room you had.
You outstretch your leg over the both of his, gently grabbing the seat in front of you as you attempt to pull your other over.
But it seems the universe has other plans.
The plane suddenly jolts with a burst of turbulence, and before you can react, you lose your balance and go crashing straight into his lap.
“Oof!” you grunt as you land, elbow digging into his chest. A soft wheeze escapes him as he snaps awake, eyes wide in confusion and alarm.
Instinctively, his arms wrap around you, holding you in place. It’s protective. Reflexive. But it also completely blocks your escape.
Back to chest. Ass to crotch. You’re feeling way more of a stranger than anyone should on a plain.
“Damn, girl. First you were eyeing me up, now straddling me in my sleep? You don’t even know my name. Whatever happened to a first date?”
You blink, mortified as you remove his arms from your waist, scrambling off of his lap. Without a word, you make a beeline for the restroom, refusing to look back as you shut the door, locking it behind you.
Gripping the tiny sink, you stare at your reflection. “Girl… what the fuck is happening right now?” you whisper, laughing under your breath at the absurdity of it all.
How in the hell are you supposed to walk back to your seat after that?
You do your business and linger for as long as possible, but a nock at the door cuts your hideout short, giving you no choice but to exit the bathroom.
The walk back feels like the walk of shame. You completely avoiding eye contact, mumbling out a pathetic “excuse me,” as you sit down in your seat.
You don’t look at him. You refuse to look at him.
But you can feel it. The smugness radiating off of him like heat from the sun.
Less than two hours left, you remind yourself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. You’re more than ready to land, grab your bags, and part ways with this cocky stranger for good.
Thankfully, the plane ride lands smoothly and you wasted no time getting the hell off. You retrieve your luggage and flag down a taxi without any qualms.
Currently, you stand in the check-in line at your all-inclusive resort, waiting to grab your room key. The cool air conditioning is a welcome contrast to the humid Hawaiian breeze just outside the glass doors.
Glancing around the open-air lobby, you take in the modern island décor, woven textures, tropical greenery, and view that opens right up to the Pacific.
Despite your hectic morning, you finally feel as if you can relax, more than ready to kick off your solo trip.
After receiving your key, you ride the elevator up to your floor and head down the quiet hallway. When you finally reach your room, you slide the keycard in and step inside.
An open layout greets you, bright and inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft, golden light, and the king-size bed looks like something out of a dream, topped with a neat arrangement of sweets and a dolphin-shaped towel that makes you smile.
But it’s the bathroom that really seals the deal. Spacious and sleek, with a deep soaking tub that practically calls your name. You can already picture yourself sinking into it, letting the stress melt away.
Near the sitting area, there’s a door that looks like it leads somewhere, maybe a closet? You’re not sure, and honestly, you don’t have the energy to find out right now.
The only thing on your mind is a long, hot shower, and getting ready for your first night in Hawaii.
Dinner at the resort was delicious. Fresh seafood, tropical flavors, and the kind of indulgence that reminds you why this trip was worth every penny. You’re already looking forward to taking full advantage of all the included meals. Workout plan be damned.
Back in your room with a glass of champagne in hand, courtesy of the lobby bar, you kick off your shoes, finally deciding it’s time to unpack.
Halfway through, you start to regret your ambitious packing. You really didn't need over twenty outfits. Stuffing the last few clothing items into the dresser with minimal effort, you take a step back and eye your suitcase, which is still taking up too much space.
That's when you remember the door by the sitting area, the one you brushed off earlier. Hopefully the closet is deep enough to fit your suitcase.
Walking over, you take a sip of your champagne, and twist the handle open.
A gasp escapes your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.
It’s not a closet at all... but a full suite, completely identical to yours.
You step across the threshold, curiosity getting the better of you. “Is anyone in here?” you call out, voice a little unsure.
The delayed response pushes you to take a cautious step further.
But then a door swings open, hot steam releasing, as your heart practically sinks to your ass.
“Yes! I’m coming! Just leave it on the table, please,” a deep, familiar voice replies, striding into the room, fresh from the shower.
A towel hangs low on his hips, clinging for dear life as he rubs another through his damp hair, completely unaware of your presence. Water trickling down his chest. No, his abs. So many abs.
Too stunned to speak, you freeze, tipsy brain short circutting. Failing to understand how in the hell out of all people, he had to be the one on the other side of the door .
He must sense your staring because his arms falter slowly, head raising up enough that his eyes lock with yours.
The towel unravels, hitting the floor with a muted thud.
——
Read Part 2 Here | Masterpost
A/N: Thank you guys for reading!! PT:2 Dropping soon!! Hopefully this fic has 3 parts max <3 Let me know what you guys think🫶🏽
there would be a class difference in my Akotsk!british2000’s fic.
I actually was inspired to create this because of the stories people around me have told me from when they were teenagers back in the early 2000’s.
And since I’ve been obsessed with this show since it came out, i thought it’d be interesting to mix them both.
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I’d imagine the Targaryen Manor to be in the countryside. Cool, Elegant, Elite.
In the main house they’d have four floors, including a cellar. This is where Baelor Targaryen, and his wife Jena and their two sons -Valarr and Matarys- live.
Acres of land.
A garage which held cars with names you’ve never heard off. (Vintage)
A separation portion of the manor where Maekar (the youngest brother), his now deceased wife Dyanna, and their children -Daeron, Aerion, Aemon, Daella, Aegon and Rhae- live.
A garden with a basketball court, an indoor pool, a fountain, a bar, a barbecue area and not another house in sight for miles.
The Targaryens are royalty in Westeros. Basically like Englands royal family.
The Targaryen children’s allowance is around £50 a week, depending on their behaviour.
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The Reader’s home is vastly different. Warm, Chaotic, Cultured.
A detached home which they privately rent.
The family consists of the Readers parents, two younger siblings - one boy & one girl. Her auntie (dad’s sister), and her two children. One boy (same age as Reader) and one girl (A year younger)
They live on a main street where the town markets is just a bus ride away.
The house consists of two floors and an attic.
Reader shares the attic with her younger sister.
Her dad owns a convenience store and her mother works with her sister at their tailor store.
Since the Reader and her cousin are the eldest, her allowance was ranged between £10-£15. The rest of the kids has an allowance of £5. These were all from child benefits that were sometimes not seen.
