#this is ass

he walks into your room, the smell of you immediately filling-his nostrils. he sighs. opening the top drawer of your dresser, a lacy lilac thong sitting right on top, his cock twitches in his boxers,he lets out a whimper, “f-fuck.” he shoves the pair into the pockets of his sweats, moving quickly out of your bedroom.

he hurriedly walked towards his bedroom, nearly slamming the door, on instinct his hands dug into his pockets, pulling out the pair of your stolen panties. brings them to his nose, inhaling your scent, his eyes rolled back. he cupped his cock through the soft fabric of his joggers.

yuta felt like an animal.

though his hand snaked lower.

and lower. till he reached the waist band of his boxers, he’s dripping in precum, absolutely soaked. the sight alone was full blown humiliating. but yuta couldn’t bring himself to care.

not when it felt so good.

the relief and pleasure he felt. the second his hand wrapped around his hard shaft. immediately letting out a pathetic moan, “s-shit ah!” he threw his head back, fucking into his palm harder, his hand slide up and down repeatedly, sheets drenched in precum. your name leaving his lips ever so often.

you were fortunately coming to surprise him- well actually your weekend vacay was sort of a disappointment! so you decided to spend the rest of the weekend with your roommate. who was jerking off right across hall.

you entered your shared apartment. immediately looking for yuta, you walk down the hall. “yuta? you home?” you called out softly, you press you ear against the door,

you hear crying? you lightly knock on his door.

no response?

you’re kinda worried so you open the door only instead…of crying,

you see..

“fuck..i’m gonna cum ngh!” he moans, thick ropes of cum dripped down his wrist, soaking his bed sheets. and your panties.

that…

he was so dazed he didn’t even notice you standing right there.

you try to say something. but your throat had gone dry. “yuta….are those my underwear?” you nervously muttered. his body froze at the sound of your voice.

did you really see that?

he’s mortified. “i- i’m sorry I’m sorry-“ he apologized repeatedly, anxiously running his hands through his hair, feeling so ashamed of his stupid horny actions.

“don’t apologize i’m not mad” you entered his bedroom, walking towards him. “just…surprised is all, i didn’t know you felt that way about me.” he couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye, “though im very flattered”

“wish you’d said something to me… i could’ve fixed this problem.” you murmur, sitting on the edge of his bed. “you think i could have those back when you’re done?”

oh he’s so fucked.

You sucked in a breath and yelped.

“That is tight enough, Meredith!” Your fingers curled around the oak of your bedpost, a bead of sweat dampening your hairline as your handmaiden yanked at the lace of your corset.

She was one of the younger handmaids from the depths of The Sootrows, a muddied low-lying slum closest to the gates of the Kingdom of Solmere. Raised on the cobbled streets made up of soap boilers, fortune tellers and pickpockets, you were sure that Meredith had enough grease in her ears that it hindered her ability to adhere to your wishes.

When she curled the lace around her white-knuckled fists to pull once more, you swatted at her hand blindly; a smile curling on both your lips.

You turned to the wild-haired girl with a look of amusement. “You’ll cut me in half in a moment.”

“My deepest apologies, my lady.” Meredith spoke in a sardonic tone.

She could get away with it when around you. You had little time for the division between highborns and lowborns, which was a dreaded topic that your father had to cruelly remind you of when you went gallivanting in your finest silks to scour the food stalls for hearty food made out of genuine love rather than infatuation with the regality of your family.

With that, you brushed at the bodice of the dress they had sewn you shut in. The corset made of pearlescent shell, encasing you in the upmost delicate design that if you tapped your nails against it, it would make the funniest tink, tink, tink sound. You looked as if you had been hauled by the fishermen from the sea. A precious shell. On par with the aesthetics your father had bestowed upon you with his kingdom being flush against the sea and all.

That being said, if you thought about the sea, the waves, the creatures that lived amongst the blue waters, all of it moved with such fluidity.

You—on the other hand—did not.

Waddling to the floor length mirror adjacent to your bed, you inspected yourself with a fine-tooth comb approach.

“Ridiculous.” You mumbled and turned to admire the back of the dress. “I look utterly ridiculous. I’m a walking conch.”

Meredith stifled her laughter behind the back of her hand, “A beauty, my lady. Any suitor would be privileged to listen to the whispers of your sea.”

You gave her a pointed look. A reminder that despite your closeness in the confines of your living quarters, it did not warrant her to prod fun at a sore-to-touch subject that caused the greatest rift between father and his only daughter. The subject of betrothal, the intention to wed his daughter in a gallant attempt to strengthen the alliance between his kingdom and one across the Narrow Sea. Your father had given you a grace period to be a free woman, to learn and to explore without the duties of being a wife to some Lord who wouldn’t give you the time of day once wed. However, the deadline had been pushed against its seams, and you ran the danger of being titled an obsolete spinster.

The heir to the throne superfluous. A waste of coin from the working man. A trinket to drop to the depths of the seabed. You had heard it all in the echoes of the hall, tensions growing taught against your father’s ability to rein in his free spirited offspring that had little loyalty to the crown that was moulded for her head.

The king was growing weary of your feet deeply embedded in the sand. You were your mother’s daughter in all the ways that had grey hairs speckled across his beard. He’d spoken to the stars above many a night, about how if she were to still be alive, she might’ve had some insight on how to wrangle such a wildebeest of a child.

They had married for love. Not honour.

And, you had every intention in follow the footsteps in the white sand beach beneath the castle walls.

“No matter, Princess.” Meredith’s guilt-ridden tone tugged you out of your deepened thought. She met your gaze in the mirror. The all-knowing glint of mischief returning so soon to her eye. “Your knight will be here soon.”

Oh good. You thought.

Your hideous trick of fate made up of chainmail and iron plates.

Love was a peculiar thing. A concept you ran from, and it somehow managed to embed itself deep within your ribcage like a gnawing parasite eating you from the inside out. Your knight was at the centre of your visionary utopia where he wasn’t bound so valiantly to a creed of honour, and you to a seaside kingdom.

Ser Clark was title, for formalities. Just, Clark—to you—in the candlelit shadows of the endless corridors of the castle. Assigned by your father to squash your incessant need to frolic in the clouds, Clark had been given the noble job to be your babysitter.

He had been apart of an abundance of tourneys, battles and one-on-one combat to defend one’s honour. Littered with scars from head to toe and a reputation that proceeded him, Clark had thought with naivety that being the caretaker of a princess would be a mere wade in shallow waters.

Instead, you had him sucked into an angered whirlpool with a tumultuous force, that no joust or dagger pierced into the flesh of his skin could compare to the task of chasing you round the kingdom.

(He wouldn’t address the time you had managed to swipe his dagger from him.)

Four moons had passed in the abyss of the sky, and Clark had learnt the depths of your soul that no other man had scratched the surface on. To others, you were sharp-tongued, a bundle of trouble wrapped in glossy gossamer fabric and pretty hair styles. To Clark, you were a woman on the brink of something brilliant. You refused to adhere to outdated policies forced upon young women to exploit them in exchange for a man that sat upon a throne with no intention of the upkeep of a sworn promise to not stab their ally in the back. You cared deeply for those beneath you, and he had spent many of the sun basked afternoons in amongst the low-borns of Solmere, exchanging pleasantries, attending puppet shows put on by travellers, and dancing barefoot to the music in the town square.

You were creative in ways that had Clark chasing his own tail round the castle to locate your whereabouts. Intelligent and cunning whilst wearing your heart on your sleeve. Beautiful to your rotten core.

He had seen your refusal in proposals from men dripped in gold and riches beyond his own comprehension, because your love couldn’t be bought.

To love you was to see you. And, Ser Clark saw it all.

You, in all your wide-eyed wonder, craved something more than regal titles and servants that pressed kisses to your feet whilst they struggled to put food on the table for their own.

Clark supposed he could give you that. If his entire existence hadn’t been to prosper by an oath he knelt for years prior to his arrival at the doors of Solmere.

For the time being, he’d bask in your presence until his duty had been fulfilled.

Three knocks came to your door, and if you listened careful enough, behind the wood that kept you separate from your own responsibilities, you’d be able to hear the clink of chainmail as your knight beared his weight from one foot to the other. You shot Meredith a warning look that telepathically translated into: ‘Don’t meddle.’

The handmaiden gave a simple shrug and opened the heavy door to reveal Ser Clark, all heavy armour and helmet that he refused to remove from his head. (Sometimes you had caught yourself thinking about if the man slept with the thing on.)

Despite his identity concealed, you were still able to see into the window of his soul. His blue eyes; which never lied. The candlelight caught the way his eyes descended upon your figure constricted within your dress, and even in a ravenous hunger to unravel you, his gaze always returned to your face.

You breathed out a laugh. “Pray tell what you are thinking, Ser.”

If it weren’t for that godforsaken helmet, you may have seen the curl of a smirk beneath it.

“You look like a conch.” Clark stated openly to the room. There was a tight-knit friendship between the three of you, enough that he could drop his stoicism to allow space for jest and not have the words carry in whispers down the corridors.

“A pretty conch.” Meredith corrected.

You rubbed at the shell corset, “Yes, well, I’d like to think that the conches on the beaches of Solmere allowed more breath for their residents.” You shuffled toward Clark, his arm readily available for you to take for stability. You angled yourself to look at your handmaiden once slotted next to him, “Wish me luck.”

“I wish the rest of them luck.” Meredith bowed her head with a conniving smile and shut the door to your chambers with a heavy thud.

Clark began to guide you down the hallway that you knew like the back of your hand. Your hand clammy against his iron armour, the dress only allowed you to take small steps rather than long strides, meaning Clark was rendered to a dawdle rather than a clean cut walk to get you into your carriage.

You were quiet. Quieter than usual.

Distracted by the stone floor beneath your feet, Clark looked down at you; unnerved by your silence.

“Is everything well?” He asked out of curiosity. Partly as it was his job to ensure you wouldn’t become a flight risk on the short trip to the carriage. Partly because he cared for your feelings, more than you realised.

“Fine. I just hate the theatrics of it all.” You mumbled.

“It’ll be over before you even know it has started.” Clark assured you to the best of his ability. Something he had become accustomed to on the lead up to any banquet held in the extravagant hall of Solmere, where you were required to take a carriage to the other end of the kingdom in order to attend. He watched you from behind his helmet and frowned, “Plus, I’ll be there.”

“Aren’t you always?” You joked.

As you turned the corner to the courtyard where the carriage awaited, Clark lowered his tone, “Always.”

There wasn’t time to spare a glance up at him as one of your father’s squires came bounding over in a frazzle.

“Princess, we must walk with haste.” He babbled, “Our guests are on their way.”

“Yes, yes.” You waved him off as Clark guided you past him and toward the open door of the carriage. You threw your voice over your shoulder, “They can learn the act of patience on their way too.”

You were brought to a halt at the side of the carriage, the white horse in front pawing at the ground beneath his feet. You stared at the golden step that you were required to step on, and then to your knight who held out a gloved hand for support.

There was hesitation. Not due to the lack of desire to attend the banquet that your father had so graciously held to welcome visitors from across the Narrow Sea—although you weren’t partial to that notion—but more so that the fabric of your skirts limited your ability to raise your foot. At all.

The stubbornness trait was a fickle thing. Gifted with a knight, and yet, you’d rather fight the clothing clinging to your frame in order to raise yourself into the carriage.

Clark spotted the crease in your brow whilst you fidgeted on the spot.

“What’s wrong?” He asked in his usual deep tone that sent sparks to your core.

You huffed out, “I—The dress.” You gave it another attempt before deflating in defeat. You looked up to Clark and spoke, “I can’t get up.”

Behind closed doors, Ser Clark Kent may have shared a hearty laugh at your demise. The heir to the Solmere throne, defeated by mere fabric and shell. In public, Clark had duties, and that meant biting back the smile on his face and resolving your problem for you.

He bent at the knees, one hand sliding down to the bend in your legs, the other pressed against the small of your back as he lifted you with minimal effort. The edge of his helmet brushed against your chest, sending goosebumps across your skin as he lifted you into the plush seat of the carriage.

Once placed carefully into your transport, his gloved hand smoothed across your back until he stepped back into the stones of the Courtyard; hand resting upon the heavy sword he carried at all times for your protection and his own.

You stared at him openly. Lips parted by a fraction, despising the fact that the simplest of touches had set your skin alight. Chest rising and falling quicker than usual, you gripped at the velvet cushion of the seat beneath you, hating Ser Clark Kent for the way he sent you into a dizzy frenzy.

“Are you coming in?” You shot at him.

He shook his head in a smug sort of way, toying with your fluster. “I’ll be in the front, Princess. You’ll be able to see me.”

Bastard.

The door to the carriage shut and you were left alone with your thoughts of naked flesh against iron armour.

──────────

You had found—or much rather, was dragged to by Ser Clark—your place at the top table within the hall. Your family emblem draped across the balconies, where people sipped at their ail and nodded their heads to the joyful tone of music played. Sat next to your father, who took one look at you and said you looked much like a conch on the Solmere beach, you poked and prodded at the food placed in front of you as your father spoke closely with the guests from beyond the Narrow Sea.

Steamed broccoli pierced on your the end of your fork, your eyes drifted from your plate into the crowd to find your knight cosied up against the back wall. There was enough distance to presume he was scanning the surroundings for any sign of threat, but you knew Ser Clark well-enough to know that he had already done in thrice, in order to spend the rest of his time watching you.

You waved the fork in his direction and he returned it with a curt nod and point to the guest sat beside you, seemingly rather lonesome and bored.

He was a bald man, clad in his family colours of blood red. Murderous, was your first inclination to what part of history fell behind their name.

Luthor.

You stared at the knight from your peripheral in a meek attempt of an escape out of pleasantries with the uninterested male. Ser Clark met your resistance with another point.

You sighed in defeat. “Solmere has treated you well so far, my Lord?”

The man turned his narrowed gaze to you and sneered, “Supposedly.” Your lips pulled into a frown as you nodded, unsure of where to step in the game of conversation, until he began again, “It is rather hot here. I can smell the Sootrow pigs from the castle. It’s off-putting.”

Before you could whip him with the sharpness of your tongue, your father interjected to prevent a public altercation so soon into the evening. “We have made arrangements to resolve the scent that carries from the Sootrows, rest assured.”

He gave you a fatherly look of a thunderous warning and you sunk back into your seat.

The tone of the night had been set, and you had grown to dislike the man—you had soon learnt’s name was Lex—that slumped in his chair and looked down his nose at the festivities held on the floor. You weren’t fully aware of his problem, chin rested against your palm in utter boredom, the corset that Meredith had tied too tightly dug into your organs; leaving little room for food and to sit comfortably.

Ser Clark remained against the back wall, occasionally flitting his blue eyes from you to the merry dancers. He knew you would enjoy a spin round the room, silently cursing the man beside you for not seizing the opportunity by the scruff of the neck. Until, who he presumed, was his pale, scrawny father tapped his shoulder in passing and flicked a slender finger in your direction.

Clark felt his breath halt, jaw tight as the bald-headed Luthor flippantly asked for a dance. When you politely agreed, he stood without offering you his hand, leaving you in the dust of his boots as he sauntered into the crowd. Less than enthused about it all.

You shuffled down the steps awkwardly, a smile faltering on your lips when you took Lex’s hand and began to dance to the best of your ability in the tight dress.

Ser Clark looked in the opposite direction.

You looked up at Lex through your lashes. Taller than you by a margin, his chin tilted upward with his lips pulled into a thin line. “Are you well?”

“As much as I can be given the circumstances, Princess.” Lex retorted sourly, leaving you confused. He missed an apology when stepping on your toes, and eventually let his gaze drop to look at your mild confusion.

“I understand you aren’t in favour of Solmere.” You began in an attempt to mend any bad feelings, “I’ve heard your home is made of snow and cold breath.”

“Yes. But that isn’t why my mood is dampened, Princess.” Lex rolled his neck and chuckled in response to your blank expression, “Haven’t you heard? The betrothal has been agreed by the King and my father.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Hm.” Lex hummed, “Here I was, told that you were intelligent.” He stared back at the table that sat your father and his, “Solmere and Metropol are to be combined in the marriage of the princess of Solmere and the Lord of Metropol’s son.”

Your breath became ragged.

“Yes. We are to be wed before the visit is over. And, I, to be pulled from root and stem from my home to live in this squalor of a Kingdom.” Lex spoke with enough venom that you were projected backwards into another dancing body. He observed you in your pearlescent dress, attempting to find the lung capacity to breathe. Lex cleared his throat and bowed his head, “Deepest of gratitude for the dance, Princess. I assume we will have time to practice before the wedding.”

You tracked Lex’s movement with horror at his emotionless deliverance of the news, as he retired from the floor and back to the safe place of the wooden chair at the long table. Amongst this, you caught your father’s eye and his jolly grin died on his lips at the reaction on your features.

You shook your head in disbelief. He nodded.

“Fuck.” The profanity slipped from your mouth before you could catch it. The room began to shrink in size, bodies bumping into you as you stood cemented to the middle of the floor.

The attention was drawn to you, strangers of Solmere quick to request if the princess had fallen ill at the sight of her shallow breaths and fear stricken eyes. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of the banquet, Ser Clark straightened his relaxed posture when he noticed your lack of regal composure.

Foot pushed off the stone wall, he moved the ocean of people with his hands, parting the sea to reach you. His gloved hand wrapped around the bareness of your elbow and you snatched yourself away as if you had just been scorched by the fire of the sun.

“Princess?”

“I need to—” Your eyes darted around for the exit, “—I need to leave. I need to leave, now.”

As soon as the words had left your mouth, you had shoved past the body of your knight in a desperate attempt to put enough space between yourself and the banquet that sealed your fate for you. How could your father be so cruel? You angrily questioned with your hands pressed against your chest, hot tears swelling in your waterline. His only daughter, presented like a pig for slaughter in the form of a marriage that she took no part in agreeing to.

You turned the corner in the corridor, wishing nothing but the tide of the ocean to sweep you away underneath its sea salt waves.

Ser Clark had been hot on your heels. Armour clanging as he chased you down the moonlit corridor and into the gardens concealed by hedges and sun-worshiping Zinnia flowers. Being a knight with a duty, he scanned the surroundings for potential eavesdroppers before he found you pressed against the foliage of the tall hedge; its little leaves encasing you as you put your weight into it.

“What is the meaning of this?” Clark queried sternly.

You shook your head, dropping your chin to your chest as your breath evaded you. “I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Clark searched your face, “What did he say to you, Princess?”

Eyes squeezed shut, you bent over as best as you could, “I am to be wed—” You gasped, “—Wed to that man. That beast of a man.”

That was an astute observation made with little evidence. But, you’d stand by it.

Clark fell silent at that. Brains wracked for any possibility that you may have misheard over the loudness of drunken men and their disastrous taste in melodies to dance to. Your father was a man of intimidation, ruled the Kingdom of Solmere with an iron fist, however, he hadn’t thought that he would extend such punishment to his daughter.

The Luthor’s were known for their sadistic ways to torment people. Rumours spread of the Luthor boy who plucked wings off of butterflies and pulled a rabbit by its entrails down the beaten path. Lex Luthor was not the man fit for a betrothal with you.

Clark’s expression soured beneath his helmet.

“I need to get out.” You rasped.

Clark hesitated in his chance to console you with a gentle touch, and chose words instead. “You will need to speak with the King. Perhaps it has been a grave misunderstanding—”

“Oh, give your head a rattle within that helmet, Clark!” You seethed. “This was the plan all along. I’ve just been too busy capering with my knight to notice the series of events that had led to this moment.”

“Capering?”

You sucked in a short breath, “Yes. Capering. Acting like a child within the castle walls, whilst my own fate was being sealed by my father and his cluster of pig-headed council members down the corridor! I’m so stupid!”

“You aren’t.” Clark shook his head in disagreement. “They wouldn’t have involved your opinion where it mattered the most. The intention was to keep you in the dark, Princess.”

Suddenly, your vision began to blur with black splotches at the corner of your eyes. Ser Clark continued on his honourable tangent, defending your intelligence as your body began to sway on the spot. With all the sudden induced panic, your body had swelled against the corset, making it near impossible to catch the breath you so desperately clung to being able to inhale at full lung capacity.

You raised your hand to halt the knight in his rampant train of thought.

“Clark.” You spoke his name in a drowsy whisper, “I cannot breathe.”

His body stiffened, hands held out in front of him, unsure of how to ail whatever plagued you. Eyes dropping to your chest, your cleavage tight against the shell corset that he believed was never created with the intentions of the Princess of Solmere to breathe.

So, he did what any nobleman would do in order to save the kingdom a funeral. His gloved hands came to your waist as he whipped you around, your face pressed into the hedge with a grunt of displeasure escaping your drying lips. In an attempt to not ruin the corset, the knight used his hands to aggressively pry the stubborn lace apart.

You yelped in protest, fingers clinging to the branches in front of you as Clark loosened the corset with his brute strength. Body jostled, you felt the breath return to your lungs with each pull you had endured. Mouth agape, one hand left the branches to cling to your dignity in the form of pulling the corset upward when it had began to slip past your breasts.

Once Clark had finished, he took a step back, his eyes set on the length of the bareness of your back, skin dipping below the skirts where he could presume the rest of you remained as naked as the day you were born.

Corset clung to your chest and a few leaves nestled in your hair, you slowly turned to stare at the knight.

You looked ethereal under the light of the moon.

“Thank you.” You whispered, sheepish under his gaze. You let your eyes cast downward as you composed yourself, “I apologise for my outburst. It was improper.”

Clark found his own breath and nodded a little too vigorously. “Of course. I, uh, I will return you back to your chambers, Princess. Here—” His hands came to unlatch the royal blue cape that hung from his broad shoulders, extending it out as he wrapped it around your shoulders. “—We can say you caught a draft on the way back.”

An anxious laugh left your mouth, “A draft I hope kills me.”

“Don’t say such things.” Clark chastised, his own heart filled with unexpected sorrow as he eyed you carefully.

“Why not?” You spat sarcastically.

There was a pregnant pause, of unspoken rules forbidden by oaths and of betrothals to unify two kingdoms.

Where your knight, armour shimmering beneath the pink moon, looked to you with a heart swollen with an immense amount of desire to remain close to your being and spoke the words: