#webtoon fic

[sunripeneddragonfruit]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64184143

does anyone care for my trashy villianess manhwa oneshot... I do infact love I will live the life of a villianess!!

+ the link to the original webtoon

I Will Live the Life of a Villainess

After a fatal car crash, Yuna Jeong awakens in the body of Elena Rosaria, a character in the novel she read in her previous life. But there'

It's so good bro 💔💔

[syneilesis]

[fic] 10:47 PM

10:47 PM

The Boy Next Door | Eun Jeongwan x Main Character (Reader) | Explicit | 3.3k words | ao3 link

Eun Jeongwan spends the night in your place. What happens then is hardly surprising.

Content tags: kissing, mutual masturbation, vaginal fingering, hand jobs, gratuitous use of the word noona, one Notting Hill (1999) reference

A/N: I don't know what possessed me to write this. At the time my thought process was: I like this webtoon, then Oh, 1st-person POV MC, where the reader is the MC, I like it, then Eun Jeongwan is so cute, I want him, then finally, I want to write smut of Eun Jeongwan. I'm sorry I have sinned.

This fic is based on the webtoon, The Boy Next Door. It's about a college student who reunited with her childhood neighbor, Eun Jeongwan, who's carried a torch for her the entire time despite immigrating abroad. The one-shot just portrays their spending time together, until the end when Eun Jeongwan asks her out. It's cute, Jeongwan's cute, I need more webtoons (1st-person POV) like this. You can read the raws here. The series is actually an anthology, so make sure to click the chapter titles with this text: [일] 정완과 as this is Eun Jeongwan's chapters.

Well, I don't what else to say. I don't think anybody would read this lmao. But if you're reading this, thank you 😂

For quick reference, this is what Eun Jeongwan looks like:

It's been a couple of months since you accepted Eun Jeongwan's confession. His sincerity touched your heart, and that little flutter inside your ribcage had not gone unnoticed when he intimated that he had never forgotten you—not even when he was in another country, living his own life there. That train ride home, with his large hand on yours, and his whispers of affection, his You were in my mind every day, noona. He was all so cute, but also charming, and even just to yourself, you admit that you're swept away.

And now, he's right in front of you, your boyfriend. Jeongwan. That button-nosed little kid who lived next to you, replaced by this tall, well-built, beautiful specimen of a man. Still cute, though.

And still calls you noona.

Not that it bothers you. It's actually cute, like him. And every time that deep voice shapes the word—noo-na—something tingles inside you, from the base of your spine, slithering upwards, rests upon your ears, where they gather heat, and something else.

“Are you even listening to me, noona?”

You snap out of it, and finally focus on Jeongwan, who's bent over, peering up at you in a way that you want to squish his cheeks and ruffle his hair. His eyes are set wide like a cat begging for scrumptious food, and you can't deny him for it. So you smile at him and say, “I'm sorry, what were you saying?”

He pouts, cute little thing. “I was saying—” He casts his gaze down, coy all of a sudden, before flicking it back to you. “Can I spend the night at your place?”

All your organ systems shut down, frozen immobile at his request. His expectant expression wrinkles as if you'd turn him down—and would you? Does he know what he's asking of you? What the implications of his words are?

The only thing you can say in return is, “Why?”

There's a sweep of redness across his face, dusty yet vivid. He brings both his forefingers together. “Well … Since we're already dating, I just want to spend more and more time with my noona.”

My noona. Heavens above, there's only so much self-control you can manage.

“I … see.” You're inwardly grateful that your voice doesn't sound strangled. “Okay. Okay. Do we have to stop by yours to bring something?”

He thinks about it. “Or we could meet here in two hours? I'll cook you omelette rice again tonight.”

“All right. See you then.”

He's waving goodbye as he jogs backwards. There's a coffee shop near the corner where you can spend the rest of your free time waiting for him. While you're giving your order to the barista, your mind drifts to Jeongwan and the night that will come later, and you hope that things go smoothly, for your sake.

+

Jeongwan does make you omelette rice, and it's as delicious, if not more, as the first time you tasted his cooking. He beams like he's won the lottery when you tell him this. Afterwards, you watch a movie in the living room. You've given him free rein of the film choice, content with sitting beside him and going along for the ride. As he scrolls through the list of options, Jeongwan's eyes keep flicking over to you, as though waiting for your feedback. But you don't react; you just let him decide for the both of you.

In the end, he settles for a romantic comedy, which earns a pleasantly surprised hum from you. “I didn't expect you to pick this one out, but all right,” you say.

“I was also thinking of you while I'd been deciding,” he replies, and you resist the urge to hug him. “Do you like what I chose, noona?”

“Of course! Now let's relax and enjoy the movie.”

The film Jeongwan played is about an unassuming bookshop owner and a world-famous actress falling in love. Before you know it, you're invested in the story. The male and female leads have chemistry, and the dramatic moments are gripping, yet still entertaining. You almost don't notice the weight of Jeongwan's head flopping onto the base of your neck.

“Hmm?” You tilt your head a bit, aiming for a glance at his face. It's obscured by his hair, but the downward direction of his long eyelashes hint of sleepiness. You smile to yourself and raise a hand to guide his head into a more comfortable position, taking care not to disturb him too much. He sighs, and his puff of breath is warm on your exposed skin.

With that kind of response from you, Jeongwan interprets it as a green light to become bolder. Not even a few minutes have passed and he shifts, wrapping his arms around your waist. His face buries itself further into your neck, his lashes, nose, and lips brushing against you.

“Jeongwan?”

He only groans in reply, nuzzling, then releases a contented sigh.

You let him, thinking that he's probably more tired than expected. And he's behaved himself afterwards. But as the film's climax unfolds, you feel a soft, ticklish sensation on your neck—one that raises goosebumps along your skin.

He's placing butterfly kisses along the column of your neck, up and down, up and down, and then he stops just below your ear. Inhales once, then nips at the skin there. A prickly yet pleasant sensation blooms, and a low sound escapes from your throat.

“Jeongwan?”

He hums. He nibbles at your earlobe, warm, moist exhales heating the side of your face, and it tingles your ear, causing you to flinch away. His arms around you tighten, trapping you. He moans, and something in you cracks.

“What are you doing, Jeongwan?” Your voice is breathy, but at least you've managed to speak without stammering.

“Noona,” he says—no, whines. He's talking against your skin, so you can also feel the words reverberate across your heating body. “Noona,” he repeats, “I want to be closer to you.”

From this lack of distance, you can smell his shampoo. Surprisingly enough, it's floral-scented, and the cologne he's using has woody notes with a hint of lavender. All unexpected, but not unwelcome. It makes you wonder, sometimes, whether Jeongwan does this to entice you further to him. You don't want to tell him he's succeeding.

“We're already close though?”

“But I want more. Closer. More.” Jeongwan makes a show of inhaling your skin. Then he tilts his face so you can see the sparkle in his mischievous eyes. “You smell so good, noona.”

The credits start to roll, and you miss the ending. But that's hardly your immediate concern right now. In fact, your gaze has never left Jeongwan since he's stolen your attention from the film. The movie's ending song has become background noise, and Jeongwan's increasingly heavy breaths occupy your hearing as every second ticks by.

“Do you …” You hesitate, biting your lip, and Jeongwan's eyes fall to your mouth. He's so obvious with his desires, his wants; has always been. You still remember the playful bite he gave your finger when you two spent the night at a hotel. He was never secretive of his attraction to you.

And it's because of his boldness that you shed your worries and go for it.

“Jeongwan, what do you want to do tonight?”

He jolts at that, caught off-guard by the question. He's probably used to your digressions whenever he articulates his attachment to you, but now that you're addressing it, he flounders, a momentary shock to his system.

Regardless, you still want everything to be clear and certain, because after this there's no going back.

“I want to—” he begins. Swallows. Tries again. “I want to … touch … you, noona. I want to touch noona.”

You exhale, mustering strength. “Okay. Okay. I want to touch you too, Jeongwan. I'm going to touch you.”

He shoots up from his slouched position, suddenly awake. Very awake. He nods vigorously at your response. “Yes, yes, please touch me, noona. Go ahead.”

He's blushing all over. Red as if he's been out under the sun for too long. When you lean forward, to him, and caress your knuckles down his cheek, his whole body shivers, his sand-colored eyes wide and locked onto your own.

You press into him. Shoulder to shoulder. Chest to chest. Groin to groin. You feel him harden against you, and you swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.

Your face is centimeters away from him. This close, you can count the lashes on his eyes. They're so pretty, just like everything about him. “I'll kiss you now, Jeongwan.”

His entire body shakes with anticipation. He reclines on the couch, taking you with him, and breathes, “Okay,” and you waste no time to align your lips with his.

He makes a sound when you come into contact. Like a thirsty man offered water for the first time in a long while. His lips are full, plump, and soft, the sort that feel good to nibble and toy with. So you do: tug his lower lip with your teeth. Gentle, tentative. The hitching moan that slips out of him ignites your blood, and you tug his lip harder before you press again, then try to pry open his mouth.

“Noo—” he tries to say in between the kiss, but the opportunity presents itself: you slip your tongue in, one of your hands capturing his jaw, cradling it for control.

Jeongwan gasps, shuddering at every moment your tongue touches his. At one point you suck it, and unbidden his hips buck, his cock straining prominently in his jeans.

“Noona, wait—” he tries again, hands clinging to your shoulders. A trickle of saliva lines down his chin, and you give in to your crazy thought: lean down and lick the drool back up, kissing him again, open-mouthed and wanton in your movements. Jeongwan sighs loudly—almost a whine; you moan in response. He sounds like music to your ears: innocent yet eager, wanting to please. Unrestrained with his reactions—just the thing that you like. “Noona, please.”

You pull back to study him: chest heaving, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, red red red like a blush. Face aflame. Your scrutiny proceeds downward and stops at the impressive bulge between his legs. You're straddling Jeongwan, and it occurs to you that it's so easy to move just a tiny bit and feel that thing against you. Sneaking a glance at his face and finding his half-mast gaze on your own, mouth parted, gulping lungfuls of air—the epitome of sublime debauchery.

Another crazy thought: you hold his gaze as you scoot back, lowering your head to his crotch. You can see in his widening eyes the dawning thought of your next move.

“Noona, wait wait wait—”

You bring your wet, hungry, parted lips to the head of his clothed cock.

His body jerks as if electrocuted, a sob emerging deep within him. His left hand shoots to grab the back of your head, and your own hand responds by gripping his wrist, ready to control the limb in case he does something that might derail your plan. You continue to mouth his erection, pulsing underneath the layers of fabric in between. Above you, Jeongwan whines and sobs in alternating fashion; gasps your name so loudly you're thankful that you live alone in the apartment. He's yanking at your hair—not too strongly, but the dull ache registers into pleasure, so you let him do it a little more.

Jeongwan calls your name again, the crack in his voice deliciously crisp that you groan around his length—which elicits another broken whine from him.

“If you keep this up, noona,” he pants, “I'm not going to last long.”

That makes you pause, retreating slightly—which also drags a groan out of him, hips chasing your heat.

“Do you—” you begin, voice husky and wet. “Do you not like it?”

Jeongwan straightens up at that. Gasps a little when the movement jostles his aching cock. “I do like it! I love it! I just …” His expression crumples in distress. “I want to make you feel good too …”

“Oh,” you say eloquently, mouth hung open. You glance down at yourself. So focused on Jeongwan's pleasure that you fail to realize that you're aching and dripping. And to think, you're both still fully clothed. The fact makes you laugh a little.

“Noona?”

You smile at him, so fond, so very fond. “Jeongwan. Jeongwan. Seeing you feel good makes me feel good, too. Come here, feel it.”

You bring the hand you're still latching onto, underneath your skirt, between your legs, and the moment Jeongwan's hand comes into contact with your soaked panties, you both jerk—a moan flying out of your lips.

“Noona, you're …” He tests a touch: slides a finger across your panties, right over your slit. You shut your eyes and shudder, sighs spilling out of you. The hand on his wrist tightens. “Oh …” he breathes.

“S-See?” you say, forcing your eyes open and meeting his gaze full of wonder.

“I …” He stumbles, takes a steadying breath, starts again. “Noona, I like you so much.” And he kisses you, tongue pushing and thrusting and he kisses like he's wanted to kiss you all his life, all thirst and hunger, the boiling point of his years-long-kept want.

His finger keeps stroking your slit, and you're already a mess: trembling legs and hips, sloppy kisses, weakening resolve. It comes to a head when Jeongwan's fingernail catches the swell of your clit, and you cry out against the corner of his mouth. He does it again, and again, and again, rubbing the hard nub until your face is wet with tears and drool. Jeongwan watches you unravel, his shallow breaths tickling your already-sensitive skin.

“You're so pretty, noona. So beautiful, so pretty … My pretty noona.”

Without warning, a finger tugs aside your panties and unfurls its narrow length across your cunt, dipping shallowly inside, and the direct contact sparks fireworks all over.

“Jeong—wan…!”

Not wanting to lose—even though this isn't a competition—you push past the overwhelming pleasure to unzip his jeans. You ignore his stuttering gasp, grabbing the band of his boxers and wrenching down, freeing his aching, leaking cock.

Red and huge and pretty and desperately in need of your touch, his cock is. You waste no time indulging it, indulging him, and his answering quiver and cry feed into your own pleasure. You give his erection a couple of pumps before pouring attention to the head, your thumb pressing into his slit.

“A-ahh, haa, noona, noona—”

In retaliation, Jeongwan presses his own thumb against your clit and slips his middle finger inside you.

“You're—tight—”

“Jeongwan,” you sigh, keeping your strokes rhythmic, and soon enough, Jeongwan's hips meet your movements.

Then he pushes another finger.

Your parted mouth on his skin crawls upward, to his ear, where you nip and nibble and suck. You lick the hole on his lobe, then bite at the flesh. When it leaves an indent, you move slightly downward and suck a hickey behind the ear. Jeongwan reflexively winces, and it's followed with a groan, and the fingers inside you curl and heat bursts at your core, spreading outwards like oil, viscous and thick.

Earlier, when he asked you to let him spend the night in your apartment, you had an inkling that something like this would happen. But the expectation is a little different from reality, the now. In your head, the scenario progresses more gently: you and Jeongwan on your bed, he reclined and you straddling him, guiding him patiently to your pleasure and his wide-eyed innocence slipping shut, your name tumbling out of his mouth in profuse sighs. But here, this: you and Jeongwan on your couch, he sat upright and you astride him, partially clothed, touching each other in frantic strokes, wet and drooling and burning desire all over, loud in your need for each other. It's baser, but in truth that's what you prefer—the uncontrollable overflowing, a waterfall, making a mess of each other.

After passing an invisible threshold, both your paces speed up, and Jeongwan increasingly gasps your name like a mantra. He's babbling, sprinkling phrases like so good and the best and my noona and yes, there, more in between. His cock pulses like it's ready to spill, pre-come smearing at your inner forearm.

“I'm going to come,” he slurs, catching you in another open-mouthed kiss. The hand between your legs is working harder as well, and you gasp in answer:

“Me too. Let's—ah—come together.”

“Y-Yeah … Oh, noona—”

You shift the angle of your caress and at the same time, using your free hand, slip under his shirt and drag your nails across his nipple. He cries out in response, a full-body jerk that derails the pace of his touch inside you. As a result his fingers hook something that makes you bowl over, and the thumb on your clit presses enough pressure to tip you over the edge, and you wail as white-hot waves crash over you, unstoppable in its intensity. Jeongwan keeps touching you, rubbing and pumping until your orgasm tides over. His eyes never leave your wracked-out form, absorbed by the bliss-out look on your face. He almost forgets that he's near the edge himself.

When you remember yourself, Jeongwan kisses you, cradles your body, lowers you in his lap, uncaring of the mess that's dripping between your legs.

“Oh,” you mumble, “sorry. Let me finish you—”

You resume stroking him, and gradually the pleasure takes over Jeongwan's face and whole body. Soon enough he's shaking and trembling and it's such a sight to see. You lightly scratch at his chest, and when he groans at that, you pinch one of his nipples.

His euphoria fills you with such satisfaction.

You don't stop your ministrations, and in mere seconds, Jeongwan repeatedly chants, “I'm coming. Noona, I'm coming. I'm going to come. I'm going to—”

He comes with a long, drawn-out cry, broken in places, loud in others. His spill reaches across your chest, soaking your damp shirt even further. His head falls onto the junction between your neck and shoulder, energy sapped by his climax.

You retrieve your hand and study the come splattered across your forearm—and mindlessly take a lick. Eyes following your movements, Jeongwan sees the moment your tongue sweeps the fluid off your skin and he groans, presses further into the crook of your neck.

“Noona,” he whines, glaring at you. “Don't do that! You're going to make me hard again!”

You glance at him, sly. “And that's a bad thing because…?”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then it clicks. He reddens all over again, disbelief and embarrassment brightening his expression.

“At least let me catch my breath first!” He pouts, and you're overcome with the urge to bite at his lower lip again. “And savor the feeling, you know? I made my noona feel good, I'm so proud of myself.”

And now it's you who's embarrassed. Looking away, you clear your throat to move on from the topic. “Well, let's clean up first before continuing in the bedroom.”

Jeongwan shoots up at that, excited all of a sudden. “Got it, noona!” He stands, and you admire the speed with which he moves as if he hadn't just nutted furiously seconds ago. “Stay there, I'll get a washcloth.” Midway through, he pauses and throws you a coy look. “Later, I want you to be on top of me, noona. I like that, I love watching you enjoy me.”

And he walks on as though he hasn't upended your entire world from a few words alone.

[justminawrites]

it was only her (first) invitation

AO3

Summary: A little one-shot exploring the aftermath of Tonny's invitation to the bonfire Party.

The circus was a strange place for Julia Lazarett.

Painful in its unfamiliarity, every unexpected sound, every unwelcome color scraping at her already withering moral compass, paper cuts bleeding her of everything she’d once known. Everything she’d once been.

Julia mouthed the word into the mirror slowly so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud: alive. She’d once been alive. The girl in the reflection stared back at her in bemusement, brown hair hastily braided, loosely at the roots and far too tight at the ends as though the braider had tried to correct their mistake halfway through.

Light bounced off the glass, into her eyes and for a second a shadow loomed over her. The same heavy breathing, writhing, glowing mass that had found her in the attic; the smell of rotting fruit as it sighed into her mouth. The same eyes that chased her out of her dreams, silently reminding her how she’d signed her life away; reminding her the hourglass hadn’t yet stopped spilling, grains of borrowed time gradually trickling to the bottom.

Julia tugged the tresses free and tried to weave them into submission again. One year left; that’s why she’d agreed to attend the party. At least, that’s what she’d admit out loud anyway. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with the way she’d been serenaded into accepting the invitation.

“I’ve left you to deal with this madness by yourself.. I’m sorry..”

Tonny had sounded so sincere in his apology that Julia was sure she’d agreed only so he wouldn’t see how close she was to dissolving into tears. He’d been the only one to acknowledge her death, her loss, her mourning, while everyone else was quite content to sweep all this dying business under the rug when they’d welcomed her into the circus.

Julia’s hand slipped and the riotous curls tumbled around her shoulders. But it wasn’t just that, was it?

“I want to be there for all of you..”

How long had it been since someone had tried to take care of her? Shame overran her cheeks and washed down her neck, watercolor against her pallid nightgown; and she feebly bunched up her hair in an effort to hide it from the girl in the mirror.

Julia had always been good at taking care of herself, she didn’t see the need for any of that to change even after her mother disappeared. Her father had been content to accept her silent steadfastness, relied on it even during the months following the absence, as the warmth seeped out of the house just as steadily as the loneliness seeped in.

She hadn’t even noticed the switch until she’d met Kamille.

A quarter of a year had passed and her father had been away on one of his military trips, and nine-year-old Julia had convinced herself she could sew a loose button on one of her mother’s old dresses.

The house had remained eerily quiet all day, holding its breath as she bought the shiny new buttons, spare silk she threaded through the needle, and inevitably pricked her index finger with the sharp silver point.

A tiny red droplet blossomed onto the cuff of the ivory gown, blooming peony, and it was as though the room had momentarily become submerged under water. Isolation rushed through the open windows and Julia found she couldn’t hold her breath fast enough to keep the waves at bay.

Her heart spasmed with panic and she became aware of a sudden, painful tightness in her chest that seemed to have been there all along, waiting for her to notice. Her empty hands had begun to shake and the dress slipped onto the wooden floors; she couldn’t remember where she’d put the needle and half-heartedly wondered if she’d swallowed it.

The waves of seclusion threatened to overwhelm her, her father was gone and Julia was alone. Alone, alone, alone. She was all alone in this world, and she was drowning in an empty house and she was drowning and drowning, and nobody would find her because she was–

“Ow!”

The waves retreated momentarily as a voice drifted through the open windows. Her neighbour’s daughter had somehow wandered into the rosebushes, and was peering into her room with the doe-like confusion of someone who’d never lived in a flooding house.

Julia had managed to get Kamille untangled from the thorns and Kamille had offered to sew on her button. The two had been inseparable ever since; and the waves had stayed away.

But lately, Julia had begun to feel them steadily lapping at her feet, in sync with the rocking of the cart-ship-vehicular-monstrosity carrying the entire circus. Cold seeping through her socks as she crawled into bed, goose-pimples on flesh, she could feel them watching, lying in wait to take her to her mother. Even Dotty had remarked on the chill in her fingers before she’d quickly snatched them back.

Julia could always feel the water. Until she couldn’t.

“I can’t let you stay alone in this room every night... I’d like you to come to the bonfire party..”

It retreated under her bed when Tonny knocked, and sulked like a child as he fidgeted by the doorframe, unwilling to rob her of modesty. It stayed away the rest of the night too, long after he’d gone, and for once Julia’s bed had been blissfully warm.

Julia put on the fuzzy pink-and-yellow vest Plip had lent her and fastened the buttons, trying to ignore the rosy hue of the girl in the mirror. It must be the vest; pink had never been colour.

She couldn’t put a finger on what had tugged at her heartstrings (as Dotty would call it), the sincerity of the apology or how nervous Tonny was giving it.

Perhaps it was the way he sensed how Julia’s fate hadn’t been her choice, maybe even related to it a little, and was bent upon allowing her as much say as he could.

Perhaps it was even something as simple as shouldering her happiness, making it his responsibility. Offering a hand to help her up; and how she couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that for her unprompted.

“I want to be there for all of you..”

“–for all of you..”

for you.

Kamille had always needed taking care of; her naiveté had led her into more trouble than Julia had been able to get them out of, but Kamille was gentle in a way Julia had never been.

Gentle, trusting, kind.. too kind. Kind enough to be swindled by a Three– by someone like Sahed!

Julia shook her head in disbelief. That’s right, she’d never be Kamille. She’d always be Killjoy Lazarett (as her classmates kindly pointed out), but for a moment she imagined taking his words at face value.

She wondered how he’d react to the contract she signed, chicken scratch on golden paper; pondered how to bring up the conditions of her release. The girl in the mirror mouthed the words because she couldn’t. “–to kill you.”

Julia felt her chest stir as she recalled the softness in his dark, dark eyes; gentle with understanding. But would he truly understand, she wondered, if she’d said she had no choice? Would he understand what it felt like to be so wary, so afraid to take a breath for fear of it just being water? 

Would he understand if she told him the needle might still be in her throat?

I have to kill you.

Tonny hadn’t tried to scold her into submission; he hadn’t growled or grumbled or berated her for her purposefully shutting herself out from everyone else (even if some of her prejudices were warranted). He’d made her feel safe, feel wanted; even Kamille acted like she hadn't wanted Julia around lately.

Out of everyone in the circus, it had to be Anthonn Gremminger, the one person she was predestined to end. Though Julia occasionally wondered whether he had the capacity for unkindness, what with the way he let himself get pushed around by everyone- even children.

I have to kill you.

The girl in the mirror looked back at her sadly, hair undone and for the first time, Julia was struck by how much she felt like a puppet. Slick golden threads descending from above to wrap around her knees, her wrists, her neck; steadily guiding her knife to the ringmaster’s throat.

No– telling him was a stupid idea.

Julia pinched the blush out of her cheeks; who knew what these crazy circus people would do to her when they found out why she was actually here? They’d probably lock her up in the basement and perform some voodoo-magic nonsense on her until she lost all her memories and Kamille.

No, there was only one way out of this. Julia would just have to do something about it herself.

She gave herself a long, hard look in the mirror: This circus was the enemy; Tonny was the enemy; but she wasn’t about to kill him.

There must be some other way to get rid of the contract, some way to break the seal. She was sure Sahed was hiding something from her - she’d need a way to break into his room later.

Yes, there was only one way.

Julia half-heartedly smiled at her reflection and tried to ignore the ominous swooshing of water in the distance.

‘It's the wind,’ she told herself as she left to attend the bonfire party, ‘A storm must be brewing.’

Right, just the wind.

_______________________________________________________________________

A/N: So I was in a deep deep writing slump but then I happened to catch up with the most recent episodes of Marionetta on Webtoon and it just {DID SOMETHING} to me man. The way Míriam does the expressions?????? *chefs kiss*

[4x01]

webtoon fic updated!

i saw!! chapter 3!!

[kyrptonian]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary:

spoilers up until the end of season 2

Camille focuses on blocking out all the screams. She’s used to this; the compartmentalisation of self, blocking out things she cannot hear, and using her magic.

And—

Well, Athalie has the audacity to smirk at her. And that indignity, somehow, is what finally cracks her open like the wound on her shoulder.

[justminawrites]

The Portrait

AO3

Summary: Syrah holds an impromptu group therapy session to take everyone's minds off the curse-curing crystal. Somehow the topic drifts to First Loves i.e. first portraits, and Whitney is peer pressured into revealing the truth of the first colourful picture he'd ever laid eyes on.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

“All right, that’s enough– get in the therapy bubble, all of you!”

Whitney languidly opened one eye to witness the debacle unfolding before him. 

It was a perfectly normal day for the Cursed Princess Club, the birds were twittering and the weather in the Haunted Forest behind the Pastel Kingdom was uncharacteristically pleasant, enough so that Syrah had scheduled an impromptu tea party (much to poor Curtis’ chagrin) complete with picnic blankets, freshly baked goods, and the most motherly attitude she could muster up in the wake of Prez’s absence. 

Whitney wasn’t sure where exactly Calpernia had gone but had taken one look at the withering glare Curtis’ shot Syrah behind a tray of slightly steaming muffins and realised he’d probably be safer not knowing. 

It must be something to do with the gala anyway, everything did these days. 

Syrah had intended on lightening the mood after the disaster that was Gwen’s Dinner Party, but the impending introduction of a curse-breaking crystal had soured everyone’s appetites for the usual fluffy gossip that doubled as a means of relieving tension in the club. Dragging a begrudging Saffron along, the Pinocchio-fied princess held a mandatory sit down to discuss the pros and cons of portraits being used to arrange marriages (a topic she’d found in one of Prez’s abandoned lecture portfolios). 

Whitney happened to be meditating nearby when the first sign of disagreement began. 

Thermidora knocked over a cup of tea onto Abbi’s new dress, but instead of getting angry, the 80-year-old teenager tutted, shook her head and said something along the lines of ‘-see, this is why you need the crystal more than I do.’ 

This simple, offhand comment set off a chain reaction across the entire tea party and within a matter of minutes everyone was at each other’s throats about why a curse-breaking crystal would be the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. 

Pillows were thrown, names were called and it looked like it was going to turn into a real brawl until Syrah picked up a metal tray and banged on it loudly with a pair of dessert tongs.

“That’s enough!” She repeated, setting down the tray, “Bubble. Now. You too, Whitney!”

Whitney started as she stabbed the dessert tongs in his direction accusatorially, but obliged. Everyone at the CPC was a force to be reckoned with, in their own way, and he had no intention of having more than one member be angry at him. 

Once they were all sitting in a circle, Whitney sandwiched between Saffron and Monika, Syrah (on the other side of Saffron) released a breath. 

“Now we all agreed that we’d wait till Prez got back to talk about the crystal didn’t we?”

“Yes Syrah,” a chorus of girls, and Saffron, echoed obediently. Whitney pretended to be deeply interested in the red-and-white fibres of the picnic blanket to avoid meeting her eyes. 

Nobody had asked him what he thought about the whole curse-breaking crystal situation, but of course, why would they? Whatever claim he had on the item was likely lower than even Frederick; not that he coveted it of course. As far as he was concerned his curse wasn’t a curse at all but the consequences of his behaviour. A punishment that had slowly begun to flare up more and more since he’d gotten here. 

“Great! Then let’s forget about all this woe-is-she business and get back to talking about what really matters!”

“But the history of portraiture is so bo-Oring,” Abbi whined, draping herself across a tired looking Renée, who sighed in agreement. A murmur of assent seemed to ripple through the Bubble as the princesses looked at one another and winced.

“You know Prez’s lectures never fail to put me to sleep, Syrah.”

“Yes, that’s why we won’t be doing history but your-story instead!” Syrah replied, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Forget about the ‘Olden Days’– this group discussion is going to be all about your very first portrait-crush!”

A chorus of oohs and aahs filled the glade, as the prospect of a fun, shared experience, temporarily overshadowed the gloom of a cure. Whitney must have looked confused, because both Saffron and Monika simultaneously leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Its like your first crush-“ Monika began.

“-but only from seeing their portrait.” Saffron finished.

“I had mine when I was only twelve,” Syrah grinned, eyes sparkling, “What can I say, I was a pretty popular child.”

“Yeah,” Saffron scoffed, “Or your parents just wanted to get rid of you as soon as possible.”

She smacked his uncursed arm and he yelped. 

“Wait, aren’t portrait crushes usually the result of a marriage proposal.. or an impending one?” Monika asked, anxiously twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“Don’t tell me you got proposed to when you were–”

“Mm, yeah,” Syrah’s momentary preening turned tart, her lips curling into something like disgust, “–and he was well into his twenties too. Luckily my father saw right through his charade.”

“He hired a man to paint him ten years younger, but the artist did his job too well and my parents insisted on meeting him in person. Long story short, there’s a reason I don’t wear chevron.”

Saffron fell strangely silent and Monika turned a greenish purple colour, looking like she was either about to choke or vomit or both. Even Whitney felt a twinge of pity stirring in his chest for the once tween-aged girl; therapy bubble indeed.

“Anyway,” Syrah continued, completely oblivious to her friends discomfort, “Who’s next?”

“I haven’t had mine yet,” Abbi sighed, catching only the tail-end of the mildly horrifying conversation, “Though I don’t think it’ll ever happen.”

“Oh don’t say that, Abbi,” Syrah frowned, pulling the girl in for a hug, “It just means that when it finally happens, it’ll be all the more special won’t it?”

“I guess so,” Abbi huffed, turning to the lobster princess on her right, “What about you, Thermidora?”

“Lobsters are excellent portrait-connoisseurs,” Thermidora replied easily, waving her large, clawed  arms inches away from Monika’s face, “I had many a suitor in my day, but none ever caught my eye quite like Benedict did.”

“Was there something different about his portrait?” Syrah prompted as Monika burst into a puff of feathers and landed in Whitney’s claws. He steadied the quaking magpie on his other shoulder to keep her out of harms way.

“Oh yes,” Thermidora resumed, unbothered, “He had the most well-kept moustache I’d ever seen, on a man or a lobster. It was quite the fad at the time!”

“Hear that Saffron,” Syrah snickered, elbowing her friend, “Lobster or man..”

“Oh, lay off would ya.”

“I- I haven't had mine yet either-” Monika twittered once she’d recovered her breath. 

“But I can’t really sit still long enough to get one. Sitting still means I have to keep quiet, keeping quiet means all I can listen to are the thoughts in my head, and one thing leads to another and I get so anxious about it all that I just–“

The magpie squeaked as if to make her point and slumped unto herself.

“You could try listening to some relaxing music while they paint,” Jolie chimed in from across the circle.

“Or Read A Book.” Renée scribbled on her pad of paper.

“It shows that you have hobbies and interests!”

“Sorry.. um.. am I interrupting?” 

The CPC looked up to see a familiar golden head hover at the edge of the glade, his bright green getup easily marking him out from the trees and foliage. 

“Frederick!” Syrah exclaimed, waving over the young prince, “Not at all! Are you looking for Gwen?”

Whitney held up a hand in greeting which he mimicked, albeit hesitantly, once he caught his eye. Though the dinner was almost a catastrophe, Whitney remembered feeling relief burst in his chest when Frederick had called him his friend and saved their cover. 

“Uhm.. yes. Is she- is Gwen- uh- around?” 

“No, she’s probably busy getting ready for the gala,” Syrah huffed, “-but you’re welcome to join us.”

“Yes! Come, come!” Thermidora echoed.

Frederick looked like he’d rather pull a llama uphill in a makeshift cart again but swallowed his disappointment like a champ and reluctantly walked over to take Monika’s place.

“We’re talking about first portrait-crushes,” Syrah explained quickly and watched as the young boy brightened but then immediately turned pale.

“O- oh, I see.”

“So,” Abbi nudged after an uncomfortable pause, “Was Gwen your first?”

“My family doesn’t have the best reputation with portraits,” Frederick admitted, beads of sweat forming on both sides of his temple as the rest of the club members fell silent to hear his story.

“Our castle was haunted for years, and Father didn’t see the value in paying for an exorcism so all the pictures we commissioned were.. interesting, to say the least.”

“Oh! A friend of mine had the same problem!” Jolie interrupted, popping open her eye sockets to dig around for a picture. Whitney watched Frederick’s face turn two shades lighter; some curses would definitely take a while to get used to. 

“Here!” 

Everyone leaned in to see the palm-sized sketch the princess had dug out from her eyeless void; though barely qualifying as a portrait, the distinct silhouettes of a king, a queen and a young princess with green hair was overshadowed by a looming maw of darkness punctuated by two sharp jewels of red light, burning like coals.

“No matter where they went, the shadow seemed to follow them!” Jolie explained cheerily. Now it was Saffron’s turn to look perturbed.

“In the end, they gave in and had the exorcism. Good thing they did too, apparently the medium had foreseen that my friend only had three days left to live..”

“Did they... ahem.. ever find out what it was that was haunting them?” Saffron asked gruffly, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice by coughing. 

Jolie turned her sightless eyes on him then, a wicked grin spreading over her features as she leaned in to finish her tale.

“No,” She didn't budge an inch, “But the king and queen had it released into a haunted forest right behind their castle.. a forest just... like... this.. one..”

“BOO!”

Saffron screeched as two glowing red orbs lit up inside her eye sockets, and toppled backwards into Syrah taking the both of them down in panic. Frederick clung to Whitney in fear, temporarily displacing Monika from his shoulder, the latter squawking and spluttering as she launched herself onto Renée’s head and hid in her soft blonde hair.  

Jolie giggled amidst all the hysteria and knocked on her temples with the flat of her palm a few times until the small, unmistakable form of a mouse popped out into her palm, blinked in surprise, then took one look at Whitney and scurried away for its life.

“Everyone’s a critic.” She shrugged noncommittally. He almost snorted.

“Get. Off.” Syrah huffed, extricating herself from Saffron as she tried to maintain a semblance of dignity but it proved to be a struggle since he’d already passed out cold from all the excitement. Frederick sheepishly dusted off his friend’s shoulder and scooted away, embarrassed.

The sun had begun to inch towards the horizon, smearing the sky in yolky oranges and browns, studded with milky white stars.

“Alright,” Syrah began once everyone’s heart rates had returned to normal, “Where were we?”

“Maybe we should call it a day, Syrah,” Monika quipped, peeking out from under Renée’s hair. 

“Nonsense,” She frowned, gesturing for Curtis to pass her a butter-knife, “We haven’t heard Whitney’s story yet!”

Whitney blanched as all eyes now turned to him curiously. Even Curtis, who’d been appearing and disappearing from this conversation at whim paused to flick the cutlery right at Whitney’s face. 

“I’m sure you must’ve received tons!” Syrah said, snatching it out out of the air, a hair’s width away from his eyeball.

“I don’t-“ Whitney gulped, pretending to remain unaffected by the attempted assassination that no one else had noticed.

“Don’t be shy,” Renée held up her sketchpad comfortingly. 

“Yeahmmff, we’re all ears, cat-man,” Abbi mumbled sarcastically, mouth filled with macarons. It seemed that she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about Whitney’s status as a club member, though she commended his effort to help out. 

He looked around helplessly but even Frederick had perked up now, intrigued by the idea of discovering more about his strange friend and his foreign mannerisms. 

“Portraiture was difficult for my family as well,” Whitney caved in and began when he realised there was no getting out of this one, “-but our reasons were not supernatural, at least, not as far as was told.”

“The Monochrome Kingdom has a very particular relationship with colour; it was both a treasure and a taboo. Nothing in the kingdom naturally produces colour on its own, from the grass to the cloud cover, everything came in shades of either grey, white or black - so any products that did require other hues had to be imported. Raw dyes and paints were especially reserved for the nobility and only brought out during the most important occasions, and even then what was left was quite muted and dull.”

A blanket of silence descended over the CPC as they watched the former prince recall his home with a mixture of guilt and pity. 

“I myself hadn’t seen a single bright colour till I turned 17,” Whitney continued in his usual flat manner, but Frederick thought he could hear something like wistfulness in his friend’s tone. 

“And much like everything else - it came from outside the kingdom.”

“But the Monochrome Kingdom is very well-renowned,” Thermidora mused, claw on chin, “Even under the sea, it was quite the popular subject of debate– surely you must have gotten far more alliance-based proposals.”

“One would assume as much,” Whitney agreed, “-but if there’s anything the King and Queen loved more than their wealth, it was their privacy. Before Blacquelyn was born, they didn’t even bother attending galas or parties.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit, I was ignorant to the outside world for much of my youth. Perhaps that was why I was so hasty to get married.”

“Oh right! I was wondering that too!” Monika chirped, fluttering back to his shoulder, “You got engaged to Prez awfully quick!”

“R-right.”

Frederick raised an eyebrow as Whitney’s demeanour shifted minutely; if he didn’t know better, his friend almost seemed.. flustered?

“As I was saying,” Whitney cleared his throat, “My parents valued their privacy and our obedience, so any portraits that were sent in were burned before either Greyden or I laid eyes on them.”

“It was the eve of my seventeenth birthday when everything changed.”

“Well don’t keep us on edge! Get on with it!” Abbi huffed; despite herself, she was starting to enjoy the story.

“Very well,” He acquiesced, “We had just finished one of our violent gladiator-style fights to win Father’s approval that week when a courtier came in to announce an invitation to a ball–“

“Woah woah woah– a WHAT?!” Syrah gasped.

He trailed away in bemusement as the CPC exchanged horrified looks between themselves.

“Wait, like actual fights, with real weapons?” Monika ruffled her feathers in alarm.

“Yes? But it was strictly torso and below the belt,” He added quickly, as though that made it any less appalling, “I nicked Greyden’s face once and my Father had me thrown in the Tiger Pit for three days.”

“Three.. days..”  Saffron, rising from his fainting spell, looked at Whitney as though he’d just confessed to murder.

“You must have a lot of scars!” Jolie gasped; he nodded.

“Are you.. okay?” Renée volunteered, making way for Saffron to return to the circle, and Whitney shrugged.

“It was a long time ago,” He said, “And I learned to make peace with my experiences, different though they may be.”

“We’re always here if you wanna talk, ‘bout it, bud’,” Saffron sighed, passing him a pillow, which Whitney took bewildered.

“I- uh- Thank you, Saffron.”

“The courtier came in..” Frederick prompted finally, as a mixed silence descended on the group.

“Right- my parents had been invited to a ball being held the next day,” Whitney began again, stumbling over the newfound support he was unused to receiving, “It was a debutante ball.”

“A princess from a neighbouring kingdom had reached a marriageable age and they were holding a party to introduce her into society. Since it was such short notice, my father declined, but it was too late. I had already caught sight of him by then, and hunted the courtier down after supper.”

“I’m ashamed to say my methods weren’t the friendliest,” He admitted, knuckles tightening as he recalled an undoubtably violent memory, “-but after a lot of.. persuading.. I managed to convince him to tell me the whereabouts of the portrait that came with the invitation.”

“The stars must have aligned for me that day, because they hadn’t defaced it yet. The courtier led me straight it, and that’s when I saw her.”

The CPC was once again at the edge of their seat, now because Whitney’s tone had taken on a kind of softness, his claw-like nails relaxing for the first time since he sat in the circle. 

“She had hair the colour of a sky I wasn’t born under, and eyes like a sun I’d never seen. It was the first time I’d ever seen someone so.. full of life. At that moment, I knew I had to have her.”

Whitney winced as he realised what he’d said.

“In hindsight, I realise that those were the whims of a spoiled, selfish prince who had never understood how to correctly treat another human being, but at the time, all I could think of was that if I met her, somehow my life would get better, even marginally.”

Frederick listened to all this, wide-eyed; why did Whitney’s story sound so familiar? Could it be that both of them shared a need for escape from their respective toxic family dramas– perhaps the former prince was a lot more like him than he’d assumed.

“So, what happened?” Syrah demanded, restless for the reveal, “Who was the princess?”

“I took the portrait to my father and insisted on getting married,” Whitney replied.

“AND?” Renée held up the pad of paper.

“He said no and had it burned.” He finished, “So I never found out who the princess was.”

The CPC groaned collectively, completely unsatisfied with the ending of the story but Frederick knew better than to give up hope. He’d noticed that his friend’s shoulders were tense– a tell. 

Whitney was lying.. but why?

“Well,” Frederick rose, dusting off his trousers, “This has been really fun but I’ve got to get back before my Father notices I’m missing. Coming Whit?”

Whitney looked up puzzled, but then noticed Frederick subtle attempt at winking and hurried to his feet as well.

“Oh- yes- I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

Syrah narrowed her eyes at the two newest members of the club and crossed her arms, but before she could point out how suspicious they were being, Curtis appeared once more, now looking a little more mellow than before.

“If you’ll excuse me princess, it’s well after twilight and I need these dishes to entertain the rest of the club members tomorrow. I trust you’re finished with your therapy group?”

“Oh, Curtis–”

Whitney didn’t end up hearing the rest of her sentence, since Frederick hastily bowed a goodbye and yanked him out of the glade, much to the disappointment of the other princesses, who were only starting to get used to the strange striped, tiger-man. 

Once they were far enough that he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, Frederick turned to his friend and gave him an awkward, one-armed hug.

“What–“ Whitney seemed to freeze at the touch until Frederick pulled back (it was like hugging a rock anyway), and shook his head knowingly.

“I don’t know why you lied about the portrait,” Frederick began, watching as Whitney’s claws involuntarily curled into fists, “-but you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I just want you to know, I consider you one of my closest friends.”

“Thank you,” Whitney’s shoulders slumped, and Frederick nodded, turning back to the path at hand. 

After a few moments of reflective silence, only punctuated by the occasional cicada chirping, the former prince released a long, drawn out breath. 

“I lied so they wouldn’t discover the truth,” Whitney said finally, “I didn’t want Calpernia to pity me– she was the princess in the story.”

Frederick had guessed as much. He offered him an encouraging look, prompting him to continue. 

“My father burned the portrait, yes, but only after I had found out who the princess was. The courtier informed me that it was a neighbouring princess, from the polygon kingdom. So I hid it in my room and approached my father with a marriage proposal the very next day.”

“He laughed in my face first,” Whitney said ruefully, “But I kept asking, the next day and the next and the next, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He had the guards search my room and found Calpernia’s portrait and burned it right in front of me.”

“That’s awful,” Frederick couldn’t help himself. He was usually good at keeping his emotions well hidden but the monochrome prince’s tales always had a way of eliciting a reaction from him.

“I still refused to give up,” Whitney nodded, “My obsession with marriage, and Calpernia, heightened tenfold. I became convinced that she was the only way out of the hell that had become my home.”

“I studied and fought relentlessly, and met every morsel of praise my father offered me with ‘let me marry her.’ This displeased him to no end. He had me take ten lashes for each time I mentioned her name. Still, I kept at it. Eventually my mother caved and began accepting portraits from influential families both within and outside the kingdom in an attempt to placate the monster I was becoming.”

“But even then I didn’t budge,” He shook his head, “My fixation with Calpernia’s burnt picture had grown so intense that the rest of the women looked paltry and lacklustre in comparison. It would be three years of constant quarrelling with my parents before an artist was brought in to paint my portrait, for the sake of a proposal.”

“They gave in?” Frederick asked, surprised.

“Not exactly,” Whitney frowned, “My parents didn’t care what I wanted, they’d sooner have me wed to a daughter of monochrome nobility, so they could still have control over their oldest son.”

“But every time they invited one over, I’d find a way to miss the event. Pleasing them no longer mattered, nothing mattered, except getting what I’d been denied for so long. I’d lock myself in and when my father had the doors removed, sneak myself out. I’d send Greyden in my place, cause a scene, sabotage the food, even hide out in the Tiger Pit to avoid these events.”

“I got punished, of course, but it all seemed worth it when my parents finally, finally yielded, realising they couldn’t stamp the insubordination out of me no matter how hard they tried. So they sent my portrait to the Polygon Kingdom, along with a proposal to marry their oldest daughter.”

“Nearly four years later, on my twenty-first birthday,” He stopped suddenly, forcing Frederick to turn around, “-I saw her again.”

“No longer a portrait in my mind, but a person of flesh and blood; Calpernia was beau- um.. she exceeded my expectations.”

Whitney was now completely flustered, and Frederick realised he’d never seen his friend blush before, even the edges of his tiger stripes seemed to glow with a reddish hue.

“I was drunk with power, dizzy with winning for the first time in my life,” Whitney said sheepishly, almost like he’d forgotten anyone else was there, “-that when Calpernia confessed to me that she might be in love with a male nurse.. I reacted rather poorly.”

“The rest is history.”

“Why didn’t you tell her any of this when you apologised?” Frederick asked, leaning against a nearby tree.

“Because it wouldn’t have made a difference,” He replied matter-of-factly, “None of it could erase all the hurt and suffering I’d caused Calpernia.”

“But don’t you think it’s unfair–“

“It was unfair to make her the object of my salvation, when she isn’t an object at all,” Whitney interrupted without malice, “She wasn't and will never be responsible for my unwarranted affection. It isn’t her obligation to care about me.”

“I- I see,” Frederick’s mind was so abuzz he wondered if he imagined his hair twitching with all the thoughts inside it.

“If I was worth forgiving-“ Whitney continued, “-it should be based purely on my actions alone. Not on any excuses regarding my upbringing.”

“Do you still love her?” Frederick blurted out, expecting his friend to revert to mortification but the former prince’s face remained indifferent, perhaps even a little sad.

“I don’t think what I felt was love as much as it was desperation,” Whitney admitted.

“I don’t think I could ever love Calpernia as much as she– oh. Spider.”

Frederick jolted back as Whitney reached over and easily plucked a small, black arachnid from what was indisputably his blonde hair, and tried to stay calm as his friend released it back onto the tree. 

He immediately put several steps between him and the bark of the old oak, watching it crawl onto the lowest branch before disappearing into its leafy folds– Frederick could’ve sworn the little insect winked at him as it vanished.

“D-Do you think it was there the whole time,” Frederick stuttered, forgetting their conversation as he now imagined the spider crawling around in his hair for hours without him knowing.

Whitney did snort then, and clapped the young prince’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Let’s get you back home.” He said, with a small smile.

As the two of them made their way back to the plaid kingdom, deep in the Haunted Forest, miles away, a tiny spider crawled onto the palm of a certain blue-haired, gold-eyed club president returning from her journey, to tell her something she would certainly be very interested in knowing.