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#and of course the nipple ring makes an appearance again

daisynik7 · 7 months

Text

Pairing: Takuma Ino x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~1.7k

cw: explicit language, mentions of a popular horror movie, smut – PIV sex (cowgirl position), nipple play, blow job, mask kink, slight degradation (slut, whore), use of pet names (cutie, sweetie, baby)

Summary: You and your new boyfriend Ino decide to watch a horror movie together in honor of spooky season. Halfway through, he notices how skittish you are, making him want to play a silly prank on you with his signature ski mask. It’s all fun and games until he realizes that you actually like seeing him in this way more than he anticipated.

Author’s Note: Happy October y'all! What can I say, I am VERY into Takuma Ino right now and I just had to get this out of my system. This is barely edited or proofread, sorry for any grammar mistakes or typos, I really was just letting my fingers fly through this in a moment of passion LOL. Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated, thank you for reading! MDNI banner by @/cafekitsune.

You turn off all the lights, the only source of illumination coming from the TV screen, paused at the very start of the movie you decided to watch tonight. With a big bowl of freshly popped kernels in your grasp, you huddle beside your boyfriend, Ino, on the couch, covering both your legs with a fleece blanket. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you in closer, reaching to grab a handful of popcorn to stuff inside his mouth. “Ready?” he muffles, pointing the remote to the screen, finger pressed to the center button.

Nuzzling your head against him, you answer. “Yup!”

It’s apparently one of those cult classic horror flicks according to Ino, who recommended it when you mentioned how you wanted to watch something scary for October. He’s seen it before, many times in fact, but he insists that you watch it. He has no clue how frightened you get over the silliest things, so tonight will be a treat for the both of you.

The opening scene plays out: a beautiful blonde picks up the phone and the conversation ends quickly short because it’s the wrong number. Normal so far, good. It rings again, but now the caller seems interested in talking. Do you like scary movies? Do you have a boyfriend? The man’s voice gives you the creeps, and you find yourself shuddering from it, cuddling closer to Ino, who glances at you with a smirk on his face.

You never told me your name.

Why do you want to know my name?

Because I want to know who I’m looking at.

This line gives you goosebumps and you lift the blankets up to hide behind it. “Ew, creepy!” Ino only laughs, throwing a few more pieces of popcorn into his mouth.

It escalates from here, getting increasingly chaotic and violent. By the time you’re halfway into the film, the bowl is down to its last kernels and you’re crouched in Ino’s lap, peeking through your fingers. He pauses the movie after one particularly brutal kill. “Snack break! I’m going to make some more popcorn and go pee.”

“You’re leaving?!” you whine, clinging on to him as he tries to get up.

He chuckles. “Babe! It’s just a movie. I’ll be right back, okay?” He kisses you on the forehead, heading into the kitchen, leaving you alone in the living room.

Of course it’s just a movie, but you can’t help feeling creeped out in the dark like this. You reach for one of the nightstands, turning on the lamp. You hear the drone of the microwave, and after a minute or so, the distinct sound of popping. Eventually, it comes to a stop, and the entire house is eerily quiet. You’re tempted to call out for Ino, wondering where he is, but you remember that he had to use the bathroom.

Suddenly, a shadowy figure appears right behind on you on the couch, grabbing your shoulders and shouting gibberish at you. You scream bloody murder, ready to punch him and run away when Ino lifts his ski mask up to reveal himself, tears streaming down his face, cracking up at you.

“Ino!” you yell at him, slapping his hands away from you. “You fucking asshole!”

He doubles over, cackling, wiping his eyes. It takes a good while for him to regain his composure as you glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m sorry, baby. I just couldn’t resist.” He sits beside you, stretching his arms out for a hug. “You have to admit, that was fucking hilarious.”

You shake your head, refusing. “You’re such a dick.”

“Oh, come on! It was just a little prank. Now you’ll be way more prepared for the rest of the movie!” He pulls the mask over his face again, everything covered except the holes for his eyes. “See? Not so scary anymore, right?”

You inspect him carefully, still pouting, not saying a word.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Truly. I promise not to scare you again.” He scoots towards you, nudging you in the arm.

You roll your eyes at him, relaxing. “Fine.”

“Can I get a kiss now?”

He tries to lift his mask up, but you stop him, pulling it back down. “I don’t want to see your face right now. I’m still annoyed, you know.”

“Aw man! Really?”

You hoist it just past his nose, leaning in to give him a soft kiss on the lips. When you break apart, he smirks at you. “You like this, don’t you? Seeing me with my mask on.”

You shrug, a sly grin on your face, neither confirming nor denying his accusation. Sure, you were a bit upset at first, when he scared the shit out of you. But seeing his face covered like that may have sparked a desire in you that you never knew you had, until now.

“Oh my god! You do, you do!” he exclaims, shaking your arm. “My cutie has a mask kink!”

“Shut up, asshole!” you yell at him, pretending to shove him off, smiling.

“You’re a fucking freak!” he giggles, pouncing on you. He starts tickling you along your ribcage, causing you to squirm beneath him as he straddles you, trapping you between his legs. His fingers flutter under your arms, stroking your sensitive skin.

“Ino!” you cry out, laughing from the sensation.

You can feel his cock growing hard in his pants, balls heavy on your stomach. Suddenly, he stops, mask still folded to expose his lips, leaning down to kiss you sloppily. He pins your hands above your head, locking his fingers with yours. He slips inside your mouth, grazing your tongue with his, hungry for your saliva. “Fuck,” he moans into you, nipping at your bottom lip. “You like this freaky shit, don’t you? Nasty slut.” His playful tone is laden with lust now, low and sultry, mouth brushing along your neck, sucking at your pulse points to mark you.

You whine his name, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding yourself against him.

“Look at you, getting so fucking dumb all because of my mask,” he purrs. “What else turns you on, cutie? Tell me.”

Without thinking, you blurt out, “Spit. Your spit. I want it.”

“Oh shit,” he swears, licking his mouth. He traces the outline of your lips, beckoning you to open up, dribbling a thick wad of saliva inside you. You gulp it down, sticking your tongue out for more.

“Oh fuck, you’re nasty,” he says, doing it again. “Makes me so fucking horny seeing you like this. Seeing my cutie act like a fucking whore.” He slips beneath your shirt, fondling your bare breasts, flicking your peaked nipples with his thumbs.

“Fuck, Ino,” you whisper, pussy throbbing in your panties, arousal leaking through the fabric.

“You like it when I play with your tits, huh?” Like it when I pinch them hard like this.” He squeezes them between his thumb and index finger, enough pressure to stimulate you, making you moan his name again and again.

He swears under his breath, shoving his pants down his legs, shimmying out of them until he’s only in his underwear now, erection stiff in his boxers. “You gonna suck my cock now or what, slut?”

You nod, kneeling in front of him, knees on the carpet, spreading his thighs apart. He lifts his ass off the couch to slide out of his boxers, letting them fall around his ankles. You kiss the tip of his dick, smearing his precum around your lips like gloss before swallowing him into your mouth.

He lets out a drawn out, “Fuck,” watching you with wide eyes as you bob up and down his shaft. Voice shaky, he asks, “Can I put my hands on you?”

Something about him in this ski mask makes you want to be submissive, makes you want to be used. You grab both his hands, guiding them towards the sides of your head, giving him free rein to manhandle you.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, gripping you tighter, gradually thrusting his hips in tandem with you. His cockhead hits the back of your throat, teasing your gag reflex, but you resist, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, enduring it.

Noticing you, he pulls out, a string of spit between you. “Baby, baby. Please don’t force yourself. I don’t want to hurt you.” He reaches to his side, grabbing a tissue from the table beside the couch, wiping away the spit around your mouth and the tears in your eyes. “Come here, cutie. I want to make you feel good too.”

You strip out of your bottoms, straddling his lap, pussy wet and aching against him. He moans as you rock back and forth on his shaft, pressing his thumb to your clit, massaging it. “There we go. Now we both can feel good, yeah?”

After a few more strokes, you beg him to fuck you, lifting up to guide his cock inside you slowly, sinking down on him until he bottoms out. You bounce on him, his hands gripped to your waist, guiding you, moaning your name between expletives.

As you approach your orgasm, you pull up his mask, placing it on his head as he usually wears it. He smiles brightly at you, nuzzling his nose to yours. “There’s my pretty girl. Can you come for me now? Come all over this cock?”

You kiss him passionately, arms wrapped around his neck as he thrusts into you, hands squeezed on your ass now. You reach your climax, moaning into his mouth. He comes with you, shooting his load deep into your womb, filling you up with his cream pie. The two of you continue to kiss slowly, catching your breaths. He caresses your back while you melt into his embrace.

“We need to establish a safe word,” he suggests, cradling you in his arms. “I want to make sure I’m not hurting you.”

You hum into his skin, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Popcorn."

He chuckles, stroking the back of your neck gently. “Alright. Popcorn it is.” A beat later, he exclaims, “Popcorn! I totally forgot about the popcorn!”

You laugh, giving your boyfriend a wet smooch on the cheek.

#takuma ino #ino takuma #takuma ino x reader #takuma ino smut #ino takuma smut #ino takuma x reader #takuma ino x you #ino takuma x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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moonjxsung · 4 months

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Begged & Borrowed

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 30.2k

Warnings: infidelity, drinking, smoking, use of pet names, unprotected sex, breast/nipple play, dry humping, clitoral stimulation

Synopsis: A turn of events causes you and your longtime best friend Minho to confront your true feelings for each other- except you’re already getting married to somebody else.

[this work was based off a request from “🌷” anon - thank you for requesting!]

18+. Mdni!

•

For as long as Minho has remembered, he’s been in a constant state of grieving. But no one’s passed, nor is there any reason to believe something should happen. Nonetheless, the feeling remains, a cruel reminder of the phenomenon when it hits him suddenly, eating away at his thoughts and boring into his flesh.

Like a seed planted deep in his body, one that suddenly sprouted, and won’t stop growing, and growing. And in his mind, this grieving takes its form in viridian hues of ivy, thin stringy stems that wrap around his bones and constrict him to a life lived within the cage of his own body. Rubbery leaves of green with venules that mirror his own veins and seem to mock him as they replace what’s left of him. And Minho can do nothing except coexist with this heavy sense of grieving, let the ivy strangle him in its unsuspecting embrace and rob him of his last breaths. He’s still in there, trapped somewhere, breathing in labored breaths and stiff at the limbs. But he can’t breathe, and he fears one day this grieving is going to kill him.

Minho exhales deeply, balancing a small cardboard box which houses a white cylindrical cake in his hands, his eyes darting nervously over the crowd inside. There seem to be 20, maybe 30 people, already acquainted with the space, chatting amongst themselves with glasses of champagne in hand. He’s tried your cell phone twice, to no avail- of course he knows you’re probably making your rounds, chatting with guests and double checking the hors d’oeuvres are to your liking. But he tries one more time just in case, bringing the phone up to his ear and letting it ring once, twice, three times- voicemail.

There’s no way around this but to go inside and socialize for the next hour, Minho’s personal idea of hell on earth. He grips the box a little firmer with one hand, using the other to slip his cell phone back into his pocket and make sure he can access it easily, just in case he needs to look busy. And with one more deep sigh, he begins the journey inside, mentally preparing to pretend as though he cares about any of this.

The venue interior is spacious, and admittedly a breathtaking view at this proximity, much to Minho’s stubborn dismay. Round white tables line the wooden floors, wrapped in velvety cream tablecloths and glowing in the dim lightning of tea candles. Similar cream-colored lanterns line the ceilings in neat rows, parallel to the strings of bohemian bulb lights that serve more as decoration than to actually brighten the place. And by the marble wall fountain at the back of the open space, there’s you, all dressed up and chatting enthusiastically with a group of women. Minho pauses for a moment, not yet proceeding, as he takes in the sight of your elegant appearance. Your figure is hugged delicately by a slim-fitting dress, a pair of strappy heels complementing the loose curls and simple makeup you sport. And he sighs again, feeling as though this is all going to be in vain the second he approaches you.

Yet he doesn’t even have to- you spot him from across the room first, whispering something in another woman’s ear before making your way toward him, an enchanted smile on your face and such purpose in your step as you near him. Minho’s heart quickens in his chest the way it always does when he’s around you, though his demeanor seems to relax fully once you’re in front of him, your arms extending for a hug as he shoots you a saccharine smile and pulls you into his embrace.

“You made it!” You exclaim enthusiastically, your arms wrapping around the broad shoulders he flaunts under his white collared button-up. He smells familiar, a comforting mix between fabric softener and his musky cologne, and it brings you right back to your days spent alongside him in college, catching late-night movies together and hitting up all your favorite fast food joints.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” Minho replies sweetly. He chuckles a little as he speaks, lost in the striking glow of your eyes at this proximity, your long eyelashes fluttering as you smile in response and nod.

“Thank god you’re here,” you voice, glancing around the room inconspicuously. “I think Jung’s friends have had one too many shots. And I asked for pink flowers on the centerpieces- do these look pink to you?”

You gesture to the bouquets of very magenta floral arrangements, shaking your head as Minho laughs in response.

“Hey, remember this is just to celebrate everything being finalized. You can get nit-picky when the wedding rolls around- for now, let’s just enjoy the magenta flowers.”

You smile up at him, always endeared at the way Minho finds the good in everything. He has a special way of taking your fears or reservations and making them seem so insignificant in contrast to the world around you. And he’s been that way for as long as you can remember, quick to fix things and stay by your side through the hardships whenever they crept up on you.

Like the time your car got impounded and he walked nearly two hours with you to get it back because neither of you could afford a taxi. Or the time your holiday office party was all but sleep-inducing, and he didn’t hesitate to drop what he was doing to take you out for burgers, instead.

And of course, being by your side throughout this very burdening wedding process. Minho’s the first person who got the news of the engagement when it happened, nearly shattering the dish he washed during a session of old cartoon reruns and fast food while you were out at dinner with Jung. And it was the last thing he’d expected, too, remembering how the week prior was spent lending a kindly ear to you as you ranted about Jung’s stubbornness and his poor temperament.

“Married?” He’d spoken into the phone, like the proposition of getting an engagement ring implied literally anything else.

And when you saw him again an entire week later, the marquis diamond hugged by delicate prongs and a sterling silver band around your fourth finger confirmed the words, as if your excitement over the phone hadn’t done so already. At first Minho was angry, declining invitations to hang out and forcing himself to stay asleep so as not to feel the sheer pain and regret that came with the news. What does she even see in him? He’d asked himself a dozen times a minute, mapping out the factors you complained about to him and weighing them against the likelihood that you’d actually follow through with this wedding.

He’s messy. He doesn’t like spending money on fancy dinners, so sometimes we’ll only do sides. My parents think he’s a little arrogant and when he’s with his friends, it’s like I don’t exist.

All signs point to negative. There’s no way you’d actually follow through with marrying Jung- at least not if it’s up to you. Maybe you had stars in your eyes, couldn’t say no to the sparkly ring and had thought back to the first date when he first got down on one knee. That has to be why you said yes.

The prospect of marrying him contractually is a headache when Minho thinks about it- and that’s not even inclusive of the idea that comes with spending the rest of your life cooped up in a house with him, with children and in-laws. It would mean years of him talking back to you, undermining you and rubbing his superiority complex in your face. Minho isn’t sure he could stick around for a lifetime of that.

At least he wasn’t sure before- and now, with just two months out till the wedding, Minho is panicking. It feels like some race against time to knock an ounce of sense into you, but the stars in your eyes are still there when he catches you glancing at your ring, or moved by Jung’s actions that scream the bare minimum.

“Did you see the champagne glasses? They’re iridescent! Jung got them just for tonight.”

Maybe that’s what you see in him. His noble trait of picking iridescent champagne glasses over clear ones.

“Cool,” Minho responds, giving you a small nod.

“What’s in the box?” You ask, gesturing to the small white box in Minho’s hands still.

“Oh, just a little something,” Minho replies a little softly, watching as you slowly lift the thin cardboard lid and peer inside. And the smile that grows on your face makes everything worth it again.

“From our favorite bakery? Minho! That place is so expensive, you shouldn’t have!”

“It’s a special evening,” Minho replies with a smile, watching as you admire the intricate icing display for a moment. White fondant ribbons and candy pearls line the frosted surface which enreathes decadent layers of chocolate- all your favorites. As Minho begins to close the box, he’s rudely interrupted by a finger prodding itself into the dessert, swiping across the frosting and moving the carefully placed cake toppers into complete disarray.

“Is this chocolate?” A voice asks from behind Minho, coming forward to sprawl an arm over your shoulders and lick the frosting off his finger. “Damn, that’s good!”

And Minho can practically feel every ounce of hope in his body dissipate as he watches you giggle enthusiastically.

“Hi, Jung,” Minho says flatly, observing your destroyed cake briefly before shutting the box again.

“What’s up, man? Thanks for the cake. Hey, wedding’s in two months- I hope you have your tux ready!”

Minho responds with a thin-lipped smile, not saying anything as Jung laughs loud enough to fill the awkward silence amongst the three of you.

“What do you say we go cut some real cake?” Jung asks, turning to face you as his grip around your shoulders tightens.

You smile back at him, turning to Minho and cocking your head toward the table by the wall fountain.

“You wanna join? We got a variety of pastries, too. There’s those little cream puffs you like, and macarons from the French bakery.”

Minho extends his arms, passing the box of cake to you and giving you both a small bow.

“I actually just stopped by to gift you the cake. I have a work thing really early tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving?” You question, a small pout on your face as Jung scans the room around you, desperate to ditch the two of you, but also stubborn about maintaining his dominance in front of Minho.

“We’ll catch up soon,” Minho replies, trying his best to convey a smile that will make it seem like nothing’s bothersome.

“Okay, okay,” you respond, separating from Jung’s hold on you and pulling Minho in for another hug.

“Thanks for the cake, anyway. I’m still glad you stopped by.”

“Of course,” Minho says, averting his gaze from Jung. “And congrats on finally getting all the wedding plans finalized. That’s a really big deal.”

“She’ll be hitched in two months!” Jung chimes in loudly from behind you. “And then we’ll be on an island celebrating married life!”

Minho just nods at him, shooting him the same thin-lipped smile and bowing to both of you.

“Catch you later,” he says, finally pivoting to exit the way he entered. And he can still hear Jung’s obnoxious laughter from halfway across the room.

Fridays were always your designated days with Minho. In college, they meant movie nights and greasy takeout food. Post-graduation, they involved bars and gossiping about your entry level positions and your bosses. And after Jung came into the picture, they quickly became every other Friday, which soon turned to Sunday brunch on a monthly basis, which then transitioned to catching up over the phone or in brief passing. Jung made sure you were always busy doing something with him, his arm slung possessively around your shoulders and speaking far too loudly about your relationship for the whole world to hear.

Minho began to ditch the Friday group dates when Jung started inquiring about his own relationship status, getting drunk off one-too-many jägermeisters and slurring questions and demands about when he’d finally bring a girl to the function. And Minho never had the heart to tell you why he stopped showing- he simply conjured intricate excuses for every instance you invited him out.

I have a headache. I have an early day tomorrow. The cats are lonely these days.

Of course, perhaps Jung could see right through him into the green leaves of ivy that enwreathed his bones and swallowed him whole with this grieving. Grieving for you, grieving for himself, grieving for this life he knew was bound to come to a close the minute Jung made his move. Which Jung did, practically setting the relationship in stone so that Minho would now be subject to a lifetime of his offensive slurred speeches and unsettling presence. And although the grieving grew heavier after the engagement, it’s always been there, perhaps even longer than Jung’s even been in the picture.

“Jung said no male strippers at the bachelorette party, which is a bummer if you ask me. But we are having an open bar, so I’ll be too drunk to care about naked men anyway.”

Minho chuckles softly, bringing the straw in his iced coffee up to his lips and taking a sip from the corner of his mouth.

“But he’s having strippers at his bachelor party, isn’t he?”

You shrug casually, brushing off the question as you take a sip of your coffee, too.

“I don’t really care, either way. I mean we’ll be getting married regardless, so he can look at whoever he wants. I just need him to show up in a tux on the day of, and stand at the end of the aisle crying when I come to meet him.”

Minho doesn’t reply, a string of questions circling his mind, which he chooses not to ask in order to maintain the peaceful silence that now falls over you both. It’s one of the only days this month you two have been able to get some time alone, although it did require Minho taking off work early and you lying to Jung about your whereabouts. You find yourselves at the coffee shop you’ve been meeting at since your college days, an iced americano in Minho’s grasp and a latte in yours.

As Minho takes in his surroundings, everything feels vastly different than it used to- the distance between you two feels much greater, like there are miles separating the beverages you consume at this proximity to each other. The baristas don’t shoot you curious looks like they used to when they were certain you two were an item. And the shiny ring on your finger makes an appearance every sip you take, glistening under the beams of sun that dance through the windows and fall over your enthusiastic figure.

“What are you up to this weekend?” You ask finally, meeting his shy gaze as he taps his fingers on the wooden surface of the table.

Minho shrugs, toying with the lobe of his ear as he thinks of a random commitment to voice back to you.

“Oh, you know,” he stutters. “Moving stuff.”

And he’s completely unsure, himself, of what the words imply as they escape his lips.

“Moving stuff? To where? Where are you moving?”

“I’m not moving,” he emphasizes. “Just… moving stuff. Things. I want to rearrange some picture frames. And maybe reorganize my bookshelf.”

You sigh in response, a small smile tugging at your lips as Minho does his best to maintain the bogus narrative.

“Minho, you never leave the house anymore. Why don’t you go out with Jung or something? He’s doing a golf thing with some of-”

“No, thank you,” he interrupts quickly. “I’m not a golfer.”

And you sigh again, cocking your head at him.

“Okay, mister ‘moving stuff.’ Will you at least call me when you’re done moving your stuff and your things?”

“I’ll call you,” Minho reaffirms.

“I mean it. I’m gonna call you when I get home from the party and you better not be asleep on the couch again.”

“I promise to answer,” he echoes.

You smile at him again, and Minho mirrors the action with a small smile of his own, his skewed teeth exposing from behind his plump lips as he grins sheepishly.

“Moving stuff,” you repeat, mocking his excuse.

“Moving stuff and things,” he emphasizes, chuckling lightly across from you.

Bachelorette parties are supposed to be one of two things: freeing, and cathartic. Luckily for you, yours checks both boxes, the two-day retreat to a luxury hotel in the city providing ample time to relax, and the shots you down at the open bar in your venue fulfilling the cathartic part of it. Your girlfriends shower you in presents, ranging from expensive dining sets and clothes, to humorous sex toys for you and Jung to try on your honeymoon. Even the bartenders join in on your two nights of dancing, parading your event with handmade signs and getting everyone in the bar to sing to you. And for the first time since the stress-inducing year of planning has begun, you feel excited, ready for your new life as a bride alongside Jung.

Husband and wife have a nice ring to it, you think to yourself, as you kick off your shoes and lie back on the thick white duvet of the hotel bed. And though you’re still a little tipsy, you keep your promise, selecting Minho’s contact in your phone and giving him a ring. The phone rings once, twice and then three times, before you conclude he’s definitely fallen asleep on the couch again, probably while moving around his stuff and his things. But you’re proven wrong on the fourth ring, a gentle click echoing in your ears as you hear him press the phone to his ear and speak in a tired voice.

“Hello?”

“You’re asleep on the couch, aren’t you?”

“…no,” he responds, after a short pause.

“You’re so predictable,” you chuckle back at him, shaking your head as you sigh into the phone.

“How was the bachelorette party?” He inquires, sitting up on the couch he definitely wasn’t asleep on, to speak a little clearer into the receiver.

“It was amazing,” you reply with a dreamy sigh. “We did karaoke, and danced and even the bartenders were wishing me good luck. It was like something from college.”

“I’m glad,” Minho responds, nervously picking at the hem of his ratty old t-shirt.

“I’m a little drunk,” you say with a gentle laugh. “But I couldn’t help but wish you were there. The girls are great, of course, but I feel like bars were our thing.”

Minho blinks nervously a few times, pondering your words and keeping his gaze locked on the array of neatly-placed picture frames on the wall across him.

“Yeah,” he settles on replying, his breath hitching in the back of his throat.

“Do you miss me?” You query, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. And Minho can’t comprehend what’s got you acting like this, flirting with him in the phone line while Jung isn’t around.

“I do,” he responds after a brief pause.

“I’m serious, Minho. As your best friend, I’d hope that you miss me sometimes.”

There it is- the clarification is enough for him to exhale the deep breath he’s been holding in all this time.

“Yeah,” he says again. “I miss you, as a friend. And I’m glad the night was enjoyable.”

“You hate bars,” you say to him. “But you used to let me drag you out to them. I miss you.”

And he nods on the other end, repressing the real emotions that eat away at him like, you might see them over the phone if he feels too deeply.

“I miss you, too. Get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say sarcastically. “Goodnight. Thanks for answering.”

“Sure thing,” Minho replies before ending the call. And the room is eerily quiet now that he’s awake, the clock on the living room wall ticking with the passing seconds, as the ivy in his chest constricts a little tighter now.

Jung’s bachelor party is nothing short of insufferable. It’s loud, it’s rowdy, and it’s neither relaxing nor cathartic. Unless you define the two as getting lap dances in a smoke-filled limousine driving down the freeway a million miles a minute.

Minho sits quietly on one side, refusing every advance from the female strippers as they flaunt their beautifully-sculpted breasts in his face and dance to the loud rap music. He pretends to use his phone, having no service in this part of town, and yet still resorting to switching frantically between the compass feature and the weather app. And then he tips each stripper a generous amount, apologizing to them profusely as he gets off at the first stop and orders a cab. Where exactly the limousine is taking them, he doesn’t even care to know. Jung questions no part of it, not even having wanted to invite Minho in the first place. And while Minho waits for his taxi, he calls you, frantically wishing he could remind you Jung’s possibly the worst person you could have chosen to marry.

“Hi Minho,” you speak into the phone, shuffling about on your end as you tend to some household work. “I thought you didn’t get reception wherever you were going?”

“I found a way,” he responds, lying through his teeth.

You narrow your eyes, pausing your work to listen in to the phone call a little more closely.

“Minho, did you… leave?” You question, taking note of the way there’s not a sound in the background of the call- not Jung’s booming laughter, nor any music of any kind.

“No,” he says quickly, and you let out a deep sigh.

“Now you’re lying,” you remark.

“I’m not-”

“You’re talking in short responses, and I can’t see you but I know you’re doing that blinking thing. Why would you leave?”

Unfortunately for Minho, you know him like the back of your hand, always quick to clock when he’s lying to you through his nervous habits. The same habits you’ve studied since your days together in college, and ones he’s never been able to stop doing no matter how hard he tries. Minho lets out a deep sigh and runs a hand through his hair.

“Look, it’s just not my scene, okay? I’m still going to the wedding, it’s not like ditching a bachelor party is going to ruin your marriage.”

You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance.

“What am I going to do with you? Why are you so opposed to just bonding with him?”

“I’m not!” Minho exclaims. “He wanted to go swimming. I can’t swim.”

Another lie.

“Look,” you begin. Would you just come over if you’re not going? We can talk about it here.”

Minho nods eagerly, the idea of spending time by your side sounding much more appealing than a weekend with Jung.

“I’m just waiting on a taxi,” he says. “I’ll be there soon.”

And when he hangs up, you stare briefly at the contact phone of you two, running your fingertips over the dimly lit screen. It’s an older photo, of you guys in college out at a bar, Minho smiling enthusiastically and giving you a piggy-back ride. And although it’s still Minho, it doesn’t feel anything like the version of him you know now.

“I don’t want this to set the precedent for the rest of our relationship.”

“Don’t want what to set a precedent?” Minho questions back.

“This! You running away from Jung every chance you get so that we’re only able to bond when he’s not around! You’re my best friend, Min. Why can’t you guys just make it work so that I don’t have to divide my time between the two of you like this?”

“You had no problem learning to divide it when we were in college,” Minho says frustratedly. “Now that you’re engaged it’s like I’m engaged to him, too. I don’t like the guy, okay? Whatever we make of that as friends isn’t in my hands, but it also doesn’t mean I’m gonna jump at the chance to go golfing with him every weekend.”

You’re quiet for a moment, his frustrated speech circling your mind as he remains sprawled out on your couch. He’s right, to some degree- you know very well that the two of them never got along well. And try as you might, they’re just incompatible in every way possible. Jung’s loud, he’s stubborn, he’ll never say no to a social outing and he’ll only make an effort to get along with someone for a finite amount of time before he’s disregarding their existence, much like he does Minho’s. And Minho is quiet, soft-spoken, only social when it comes to you and takes his stance on a person just minutes after meeting them. They’ve already reached the stubborn conclusion that they despise each other, and at this point in your life, there’s little you can do to change it.

“I just want to know things are okay between us,” you remark.

“Things are okay between us.”

“We haven’t had a proper hangout in months, Minho. I get married in a few weeks and then I’m afraid we just won’t see each other.”

Minho seems to understand the seriousness in your tone, sitting up from the couch to finally meet your gaze. You look disheartened, an expression Minho is used to seeing when you try to set him up with a date or when he can’t make it out to an event. But this time it seems like it has more weight to it, the way you sag your shoulders as you slouch over one of the barstools in the kitchen, completely terrified at the prospect of losing your best friend.

“I’ll tell you what,” Minho breaks the silence. “How about we plan something, just us? It’ll be like old times, and we don’t have to worry about Jung or your friends or anyone. Just for a weekend.”

You meet his gaze, too, promptly glancing at the ceiling as you think over his proposal.

“I don’t know, Jung probably wouldn’t like it-”

“This is exactly what I mean!” Minho interjects. “Everything you do is based on what Jung likes or doesn’t like. We used to go out together all the time- if you only want to hang out when he’s around then yeah, things might be a little different from here on out.”

And the words pierce through you like a dagger, yet again filling your mind with all the regrets that will come with shutting him out for the purposes of pleasing Jung. Minho is right- he’s been your best friend for years. Jung might be your future spouse, but that doesn’t mean your relationship with him has to be any more important than the lifelong commitment you’ve made to your best friend, too.

“Where would we go?” You ask reluctantly.

Minho shrugs casually, lying back down on the couch with his hands behind his head.

“Anything,” he responds. “Your pick.”

And you think over his offer again, mentally mapping out your schedule at work and what you guys might be able to do on a quick weekend together.

“Camping,” you say suddenly, straightening your posture.

“You hate camping,” Minho retorts, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah, but you love camping. I’m just doing this to spend time with you, Min. I already spent my weekend in the city. Let’s do something you like and we can have an old friend trip like we used to.”

Minho can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips, endeared by the way you always let him drag you to his favorite places just like you used to drag him. And he knows you’re a city girl through and through- you’ve always been very vocally opposed to accompanying him on his camping excursions. But maybe going together, you’ll have some change of heart if it means you won’t have to listen to Jung share all of his unwarranted opinions.

“Let’s do it,” Minho says confidently. “You’re gonna love it.”

“I’m only doing this for you,” you reply with a smile. “I still maintain that I’m going to hate it.”

A yoga retreat.

Jung is made to believe you’re at a yoga retreat, three hours out from your shared apartment, with a close girlfriend you haven’t seen in months.

And maybe it’s because he genuinely believes you, or he simply doesn’t care, but he doesn’t press you for any information about the event, sending you off with a chaste kiss and turning his attention back to the sports he watches on television. He doesn’t even inquire about why you fail to bring your yoga mat, leaving it folded neatly in the closet of your bedroom alongside all your workout clothes.

You do pack warm clothes, blankets and even a matching set of flashlights for when it gets pitch dark like you know the mountains do at night. And as you make your way to Minho’s house with your backpack slung over your shoulders, you’re actually a little excited, the idea of getting some fresh air sounding like a well-deserved treat after the week you’ve had in the city.

“Well aren’t you all ready to go camping,” you say to Minho in an amused tone, admiring the outfit he’s put together for the occasion. He sports a simple white t-shirt and a loose-fitting pair of jeans, coupled with a black cap he wears backwards over his brown hair. He looks a lot simpler than usual- in fact, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Minho in a cap before today.

“You look nice,” you voice to Minho, as he loads his duffel bag in the trunk of the car.

“Me?” He questions, furrowing his brows in genuine confusion. “I’m just dressed for comfort.”

“Yes, you. That cap looks good on you. God forbid I compliment my best friend.”

He chuckles lightly, helping you load your backpack into his car and closing the trunk when he’s finished.

“Ready?” Minho asks, turning to you with a small smile.

“Ready,” you echo, climbing into the passenger seat beside him.

The drive to the campsite is just over an hour long, taking Minho’s vehicle through narrow paths of dirt roads surrounded by trees. The treacherous drive doesn’t seem to faze him at all, as he keeps just one hand on the wheel, while the other rests casually on the car console. You can tell he’s done this drive a number of times before, judging by the way he needs no form of navigation and doesn’t stop to read the directional signs at any point.

“Do we need to pitch a tent when we get there?” You ask, and Minho laughs in response.

“That’s how I can tell you’ve never come here before.”

“What?” You reply with a chuckle of your own. “It’s a totally valid question.”

“Yeah, maybe if we were on Survivor. There’s tents all over the campsite. And picnic tables, and bathrooms and I think there’s a gift shop somewhere.”

You nod at his response, a little more intrigued now that you know it’s not going to be as hands-on as you thought. And when he pulls into the parking lot, he’s right- there are cabins that span the perimeter of the parking lot, presumably bathrooms and information centers about the place.

Minho puts the car into park as he helps you gather your bags, and then you both enter the cabin closest to you, being greeted by an older woman who sits at an information booth.

“Welcome!” She exclaims in a cheerful tone. “Are you folks staying overnight?”

“Yes,” Minho answers, hoisting his duffel bag further up his shoulder. “We’ll be here for two nights.”

“Wonderful!” she replies, gathering a thin stack of pamphlets. She uncaps a red pen, circling a little graphic that indicates a tent, and then slides it over to Minho along the counter.

“You two will occupy this location here- it’s just a few minutes up the hill there. The bathroom is attached to the unit, and there are a few clean towels in the drawers there.”

She slides him two more pamphlets, gesturing to their titles and keeping her gaze on the infographics.

“There’s a guide on plants to avoid, and some wildlife you might run into. Any questions?”

Minho shakes his head, stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket and giving her a small nod.

“No, thank you,” he says, looking over at you.

And the woman shoots you a smile now, gesturing to your hand.

“That is a beautiful ring,” she states, clasping a hand over her heart emotionally.

“Thank you,” you reply with a smile. “I’m getting married.”

She laughs lightly, shooting Minho a thumbs up.

“Enjoy it while you can!”

You’re quick to shake your head at her, taking a step away from Minho.

“Oh god, no, he’s not my fiancé. He’s just a friend.”

And Minho takes a step away, too, giving her a nod.

“We’re just longtime friends,” he echoes your words.

“My apologies,” the woman is quick to say. “Enjoy your stay regardless.”

“It never ends,” you say to Minho as you exit. “I can’t believe people still think we’re a couple when we go out.”

“It’s just a common equation,” Minho responds. “Two people. Engagement ring. Camping trip.”

“I know,” you emphasize. “It’s just so weird being so close to my own marriage and still having to tell people we’re not a couple.”

Minho swallows nervously, not entertaining the discussion any further as he takes your aversion to the idea of it as answer enough.

“It’s just up here,” Minho says, gesturing to the narrow dirt path that leads up to your tent.

The tent is a long, rectangular space, the beige tarp even accompanied by clear vinyl windows that zip up for added privacy. The inside houses a small birch wood table pushed against the side, two white folding chairs, and a single bed, just larger than a twin-sized one.

“One bed?” You say as you scan the room, dropping your bags and looking nervously back at Minho.

“All the units have one bed,” he explains casually. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You’re not taking the floor, Minho. It’s freezing.”

“I’ve done it before,” he says, unzipping his bag and pulling out a smaller pouch. “I’ll be fine.”

“But it’s so awkward to have you on the floor while I get a whole bed to myself.”

He disregards your concerns, tossing the pouch to you, which you catch in two hands and examine.

“Bait,” he says with a small smile.

“Bait?” You echo. “You mean like…”

“Fishing,” he says confidently. “We’re catching our dinner tonight.”

It’s a fair assumption to say you hadn’t taken Minho’s liking to camping very seriously. Sure, you knew he was partial to the great outdoors and to catching his own dinners. Of course he knows how to pitch a tent and gut a fish. But seeing him do it in action, string a spinnerbait onto his fishing rod and cast his line, watching meticulously as the bobber pulls underwater and he checks if he’s caught a bass yet, you’re admittedly pretty impressed. He looks completely in his element like this, uttering remarks about his “monofilament fishing line” that you don’t understand in the slightest, but you listen to regardless. For a brief moment, you can’t help but feel bad, seeing how much this interests him, when all you’ve ever done in the span of your friendship is drag him to clubs and get takeout together. Maybe you should’ve taken this whole thing more seriously. Maybe you should have accompanied Minho on one of his offers for a fishing trip when you still had the chance to do it without being under Jung’s watchful eye.

“We may need a smaller hook,” Minho says, as he adjusts his rod and stares out at the lake. The atmosphere is lazy and restful, the gentle lull of the lake’s deep blue water sloshing against the rocks that line the shore and swaying with the breeze. There’s a distant buzz of cicadas at this hour, and the swallows circle the vast green trees overhead that rustle in syncopation with the water. You and Minho remain seated on the flat rocks that line the shore, a cooler of ice and a small pouch of bait between the two of you.

Minho’s gaze remains set on the lake, attentively watching the bobber and praying for a bass to latch onto it so that he can instruct you on the de-gutting and cleaning process. But there seems to be no sign of fish anywhere, the only movement being the little ripples that vibrate with the sporadic activity of water bugs.

“When was the first time you went fishing?” You ask Minho suddenly, catching his gaze as he turns to you.

“First time?” He echoes. “I don’t know, maybe age seven? My dad taught me.”

You nod in response, picturing a little Minho alongside his dad, learning the ropes of monofilament fishing lines and all that jazz. You can’t help but smile at the thought of it, knowing Minho was probably so quiet, yet full of curiosity, the same way he is now.

“I wish I would’ve come,” you say finally, letting out a small sigh as you speak. “I wish I came with you on one of these trips.”

Minho shakes his head and waves you off. “Solo camping is one of my favorite things in the world. I didn’t need it to be ruined by all your city girl antics.”

“Hey!” You exclaim with a small laugh, hitting him lightly, and Minho hits you back.

For a moment, the two of you say nothing, admiring the way the sunlight glares overhead and sets the water aglow with glints of light that make it almost hard to look at. Minho takes notice of the more casual look you sport, too, void of any makeup and your hair tied back loosely. Similarly, the little imperfections that mark his skin remind you of the Minho you met in college, back when you were both riddled with zits and drank cans of soda for breakfast. And now across from you, acne scars and a handsome face he’s grown into so well, you can’t help but feel your heart swell at the fact that he’s still here, this many years later, regardless of the roadblocks your relationship has taken you through. It’s a miraculous thing to have someone stick by your side knowing you’re getting wed to a person he despises. And you refuse to part ways with him, too, despite the amount of outings he declines in the name of nothing important. What a fascinating prospect, to be reminded that your most unconditional form of love comes in the form of a best friend more than even your fiancé on most days.

You open your mouth to say something, being promptly interrupted by the reel of the fishing line being pulled back, the rhythmic buzzing of the handle startling you both as it’s pulled in circular motions to indicate a catch.

“Oh my god, what do we do?” You exclaim to Minho, a sense of urgency present in your voice as you await his instruction.

“I’ll teach you,” Minho says, as he rises from his spot and gestures to the fishing rod. “Grab the handle, like- yeah, just like that.”

And you do as you’re told, approaching the rod to steady the handle in your grasp. He guides you through the careful motions, steadying your hands a comfortable distance away from the reel seat, pulling back the handle with slow, yet purposeful movements and raising the fishing line away from the gentle current of the water.

“There’s a lot of resistance,” you comment, as you pull even harder.

“Really?” Minho remarks, his hands on his hips as he looks out upon the water. “I wonder if it’s going to be a big one. Keep pulling.”

And you do, heaving the rod desperately away from the water to pull in your catch. There’s heavy resistance at first, and then a generous amount of give to the force, as the line finally glides across the water and begins to pull up toward you.

“Get ready,” Minho says excitedly. “It’s probably going to be a little skittish, just hold tightly and don’t let go.”

As he watches you pull, he takes note of the way the line struggles to move past a barrier in the water, sending ripples down the shore as you continue to pull, to no avail.

“I need help,” you voice frantically. “Minho, take the rod-”

“Just relax,” Minho echoes, coming around behind you and placing two hands over yours. He stands close behind you as he helps steady the rod, gripping tightly and helping you reel it in.

The two of you watch with bated breath as the line finally begins to move again, erratic ripples of water vibrating in the otherwise still lake as you reel in the catch.

“Here it comes!” Minho exclaims, as he continues to reel over your hands with his, his veins protruding with every slight motion as his slender fingers work around yours.

And then the fishing line is promptly pulled out of the water, swinging in front of your view and slowing its swaying motions as you take a gander.

It’s a large, juicy, vibrant hunk of moss.

No fish in sight, no catch of the day, unless for a bottom feeder. Minho says nothing for a moment, placing his hands on his hips again as he takes in the sight of the forest green mass. And then you break the silence with laughter, doubling over and clutching your stomach as you laugh at the ridiculous view.

“What’s so funny?” Minho inquires with a breathy chuckle, transitioning into his own fit of giggles.

“It’s fucking moss,” you exclaim, gesturing to the fishing rod and laughing again. “We’ve been here for hours and we haven’t caught anything besides a fucking byrophyte.”

Minho laughs, too, setting the rod down to clutch his own stomach.

“It’s not funny,” he says between laughter. “We don’t have dinner tonight.”

“Yeah we do,” you say breathlessly. “We have moss.”

And the two of you almost collapse on the gravel, holding your stomachs as you laugh endlessly at the ridiculousness of the situation. The fishing rod remains propped up against the rocks, the slab of moss dangling and dripping murky water back onto the gravel.

When your laughter dies down, Minho sprawls out onto one of the big rocks, the palms of his feet flat against the warm stone as he meets your gaze again. You occupy the spot beside him, your knees bent too, keeping your gaze locked on his as you smile.

“I missed this,” you say after a moment of silence. “I missed hanging out with you.”

Minho responds in a breathy chuckle, running his hands through his hair and rolling his eyes in a joking manner.

“You should’ve come camping with me ages ago,” he says. “We could’ve been eating moss for dinner instead of fast food.”

You chuckle too, and the sunlight beams over your listless bodies sprawled out on the rocks, glints of light hitting Minho’s golden-brown hair and his sparkling eyes. He looks so angelic in this atmosphere, so at peace with the nature around him and in tune with his emotions. For the first time in a long while, there’s nothing present between you and Minho that hinders the relationship you have to each other. He’s just as important to you in this moment as you are to him. And not even the knowledge that you’ve lied to your fiancé to be here with him can come between that.

Lucky for you, Minho always comes prepared. Of course he’s dealt with the situation of catching nothing while fishing and needing a plan to fall back on for dinner. So it’s no surprise to you that his backpack contains cups of instant ramen and bags of chips.

“Shrimp or chicken?” Minho asks, as water boils on his portable kettle.

“Surprise me,” you shoot back, getting comfortable in one of the two camping chairs across the bed. You feel a wave of tiredness wash over your body instantly, but you also feel fulfilled, having bonded with Minho more in the last few hours than any of your double dates with Jung and one of Minho’s picks from a dating app.

Minho shuts off the kettle, tearing open packets of vegetables and mixing them with your noodles as he pours hot water in both cups.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Minho remarks, handing you a cup and sliding a pair of chopsticks across the table to you.

“Today was fun,” you say to him, as you blow on a generous serving of noodles and guide them into your mouth with the wooden chopsticks.

“You’re not half bad at fishing,” Minho states. “I think it’s just emptier this season. But your technique’s good.”

“Really?” You query. “I feel like you did most of the work.”

Minho shakes his head, slurping a portion of his noodles before speaking.

“Maybe if you ditched your lame golf nights with Jung and came camping with me more, you could get some practice.”

“Ha ha,” you muse sarcastically. “His golf nights aren’t lame, they’re actually pretty fun. You’d know if you came out to one.”

“Please,” Minho retorts, gathering more noodles with his chopsticks. “Artificial grass and polo shirts aren’t really my thing. Of course they’d be Jung’s, though.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means even his favorite sport is as fake as he is.”

“Minho!”

“What?” He says in a breathy chuckle. “You asked what I meant.”

You shake your head, stirring broth around in your cup with your chopsticks. You normally don't entertain Minho when he insults Jung like this, knowing he’s just going to get mad and list everything he despises about him. But tonight, being so far away from Jung, it somehow feels permissible. It’s not like Jung is going to materialize out of thin air and find out about his little remarks. You don’t get cell reception out here, and it’s possibly one of your last few intimate moments with Minho to just let loose and joke with him. So you don't say anything, allowing him free reign as he cracks jokes about Jung at his expense. And you don’t feel bad about it, either, knowing Jung wouldn’t hesitate to do the same back at Minho.

The tent falls quiet for a moment as both of you finish your meals, the only noises present between the two of you being slurping the remainder of your noodles and setting the cups aside. Minho runs his hands through his hair and spreads his legs out in front of him as he slouches back in his camper chair.

“I can’t believe you’re getting fucking married,” he says with a breathy chuckle. “That’s still so weird to me.”

“Imagine how I feel,” you emphasize. “The word ‘wife’ still kinda grosses me out.”

“Well you have about a month to get used to it,” Minho replies. And then he gets quiet, averting his gaze from yours as he blinks. “Or a whole lifetime, I guess.”

You stay quiet, too, pulling up your legs to cross them in your chair and nodding reluctantly.

“Yeah. ‘lifetime’ kinda sounds like a scary word, too.”

Minho purses his lips, and then he turns to meet your gaze again, a solemn smile on his face.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he voices. “It can also imply a lifetime of happiness. And of love. Permanence isn’t a bad thing.”

You smile at him, comforted by the optimism he brings to the atmosphere, despite his dislike for Jung, and especially the prospect of you getting married to him. He doesn’t change- he’s still the Minho you know very well, the one who takes your problems and makes them seem so small, so unimportant, until you can’t, in good conscience, worry about them anymore.

“You’re right,” you say back at him. “I’ll remember that when I say my vows.”

You think over his words momentarily, and then you meet his gaze with a knowing smile.

“Do you remember when we had to write an essay about where we’d want to travel if we won the lottery? In our literary analysis course?”

Minho’s eyes roll to the ceiling as he thinks for a moment, and then he nods.

“Yeah. You wrote about Europe or something.”

“I did,” you recall. “And you wrote about that one historical town. What was it called again?”

“Shirakawa,” Minho responds. “Small mountain village in Japan where it snows a ton and there are little farmhouses everywhere.”

You chuckle lightly, remembering the countless images Minho had shown you when he was producing his paper on the subject. You can still picture the little brown houses and the vibrant green hills in the summertime. And the winter photos looked like something out of a Christmas movie, fresh snow blanketing the village and painting the town with bright hues of white.

You think over his essay for a moment, remembering just how many times you’d peer edited each other’s papers, and Minho wound up getting the best grade in the class for how poetically he spoke of Shirakawa. He talked about it for several months after the assignment, too, always voicing his desire to visit one day and see all the farmhouses for himself.

“I wish we still had time to go,” you say finally. “I always pictured we’d go one day.”

Minho purses his lips in a thin line, your statement echoing in his ears and the words stinging. It’s moments like these he’s especially regretful you’re getting married to Jung- all the stupid, likely intangible plans you made together and promised you’d fulfill sometime down the line. And now with Jung’s obnoxious presence indicating that of permanence, Minho knows there’s zero possibility you’ll be able to fulfill any of the plans you made together.

“You have a whole honeymoon planned on a tropical island,” Minho says somberly. “That’s far better than little old Shirakawa.”

You say nothing in reply, nodding at his words and thinking back to the plans you and Jung have already booked for your honeymoon.

Honeymoon. Even that word sounds foreign.

“Maybe we’ll plan for when I get back,” you tell Minho. “Little camping excursion in the farmhouses. We can get shitfaced and pet all the little goats.”

He laughs lightly, giving you a smile.

“Sure,” Minho affirms. “We can do that.”

And then his gaze darts to his backpack which sits on the floor, his eyes widening as he sits up.

“Speaking of shitfaced,” Minho says. “I think I brought boxed wine.”

“Boxed wine?” You repeat with a chuckle. “Jesus, we really might as well be back in college.”

He rises from the camper chair to make his way over to his backpack, unzipping the larger pouch and pulling out two small black cartons of wine, giving them a small shake before scanning the room as though he’s looking for something else.

“What?” You query, waiting for him to say something.

Minho says nothing, standing up again and taking long strides to where his fishing rod is, grasping it in one hand and fiddling with the hook.

“What are you doing?” You ask, watching as Minho’s expression turns serious again. His slender fingers toy with the small hook, the two cartons of wine balanced in his other hand.

You watch as he unfolds one tab on the box of wine, and then brings down the fishing hook to pierce it through the thin cardboard and string it through securely. When he’s finished, he gives it a little tug, and then raises the box of wine as he lifts the fishing rod once more, reeling the handle in the counter direction to move it out toward you.

“What the hell are you doing?” You ask again, chuckling softly as you watch Minho struggle to balance the carton of wine.

He reels the carton out further, and then slows as he drops it into your lap, moving the rod around in erratic motions and pretending to stabilize the line.

“Get it!” Minho exclaims. “It’s getting away, you have to get it!”

You play along, grasping the carton of wine in your two hands and pretending to steady its slippery grip as it flaps around helplessly.

“It’s slippery!” You exclaim back, holding it up with two hands and angling it toward Minho.

Minho gasps, and then sets his rod down to applaud you generously.

“Congratulations,” he says in a proud voice. “Your first catch. You caught your own dinner.”

And the dark night around you seems to be set aglow as laughter fills the entirety of the tent.

Two hours later, it’s half past midnight, empty cartons of wine on the table between you as you talk through your starkly different lives.

Minho shares tales of work you’d missed out on, dating app horror stories and recounts days from college when you’d go to nightclubs together and use fake IDs. You listen attentively for the first time in a long time, no sense of urgency present, nor the desire to set him up with somebody else. It’s you who wants to be here alongside him, rekindling your friendship and reliving your glory days. And Minho feels the same way, a gentle buzz swirling his mind from the cherry merlot and your sweet laugh in response to his tales.

“They so thought we were lying when we turned 21,” you say through laughter. “In hindsight, it’s pretty lucky we didn’t get thrown in jail for a night.”

“Yeah, only because you flirted with the bouncer,” Minho says. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t throw you in jail after offering you a drink.”

You laugh lightly, remembering the bizarre encounter, and then you slouch back in your chair as you shut your eyes.

“We should get to sleep,” you say to Minho. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he responds. “I’ll get my sleeping bag on the floor.”

“Don’t be such a fucking drag,” you protest.

“What?”

“Just sleep on the bed with me. It’s big enough and there’s less of a chance that you’ll wake up with a broken back. I’m not listening to you complain about your fucked-up joints on tomorrow’s drive home.”

Minho laughs lightly, and then he gestures to the bed.

“If you snore, I’m throwing you to the bears,” he says plainly.

“Yeah, well you kick me, I’m dumping you in the lake.”

Minho brushes his teeth over the small steel sink in the corner of the room, swapping out to fix the bed sheets while you brush your teeth, too. When you’re finished, you meet him at the foot of the bed, pulling your corner of the blanket down and climbing in beside him. The ceiling of the tent is barely visible in this level of darkness, just an indistinguishable outline of fabric visible as you cross your hands over your chest and exhale deeply. Minho does the same, and though he’s right beside you, he feels miles away, his exhale sounding distant as he focuses on the ceiling of the tent, too.

“It’s really dark,” you comment.

“Yeah,” he says back. “That’s the outdoors for you.”

He thinks for a brief moment, and then he breaks the silence that washes over the two of you.

“Are you excited for the honeymoon?” He asks quietly.

There’s no answer for several moments, the only sound coming from the gentle sway of the trees just beyond your tent.

And you are excited, but you’re more nervous, uncertain and disappointed knowing that everything will be so different upon your return. It’s like exchanging an old life for a new one- one that could be far worse, for all you know.

“I’m nervous,” you say candidly.

“Why?”

“Because marriage is a big deal. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m even doing the right thing.”

It’s Minho’s turn to remain quiet now, his hands folded over his chest as he ponders your words.

“Are you happy?”

There’s no response from you. Not now, not after a minute and not even after several minutes have passed. And you are happy, but you’re still much of the same- nervous, uncertain and disappointed that this new life implies change.

“Jung hates me,” Minho says suddenly.

“He doesn’t hate you-”

“He hates me,” Minho reaffirms a little louder. “The way he looks at me, or interrupts us whenever we’re talking. I’m sorry that I’m so distant from you when he’s around. The guy hates me.”

You stay quiet, knowing he’s right, but not wanting to fuel the fire that burns between the two of them.

“He probably thought we had something going on,” Minho says. “He’d kill me if he knew I was in the same bed with you.”

You scoff lightly, dismissing Minho’s claims with a wave of your hand.

“Please,” you emphasize. “He hasn’t even touched me in a month.”

And you regret the words the second they leave your lips, bringing two hands up to cover your mouth as Minho props himself up to look at you.

“What? Why?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, I genuinely want to know,” Minho reiterates, keeping his gaze locked on yours. “You’re getting married and you haven’t had sex with your fiancé in a month? Who does that?”

“He told me it was a punishment,” you say in exasperation. “We had a fight, and he told me he wouldn’t touch me if I didn’t admit to being wrong.”

“What?” Minho says, turning audibly irate. “Are you serious? What kind of cruel and unusual punishment is that?”

“Look, I don’t know, okay? Let’s just not talk about it-”

“There go your excuses,” Minho says. “Your future husband won’t touch you, and you’re still defending him. Jesus Christ, it’s worse than I thought it was.”

“Would you stop?” You say to him, sitting up as he slings his elbows around his knees and shakes his head.

“Stop what? Stop being concerned for my best friend who’s clearly suffering at the hands of her own fiancé? Not gonna happen.”

“I’m not suffering,” you relay to him.

“Sure,” Minho says sarcastically. “So you never wanted to have sex in the whole month he’s kept this punishment going.”

You say nothing, swallowing nervously as you keep your gaze locked on Minho’s. He’s at a painfully close proximity to you right now, one strand of hair falling loosely in his face as his eyebrows furrow together in anger. His plain black t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders as he sits up, his basketball shorts riding up to expose a generous amount of his toned thighs. And his lips remain parted, waiting for you to say something, which you don’t. You simply stare at him blankly, your eyes darting over his gaze, down to his lips and then back up to his eyes.

Minho’s expression turns serious, too, unable to look away from your conflicted expression as you watch him.

“Not… really…” you manage to say in short words.

“Maybe not…” you continue, leaning into him a little as his arms loosen around his knees.

He somehow looks so tantalizing right now, in a way you’ve never seen him before. Sure, you’re aware Minho is good looking, and he always has been. And maybe your fleeting crush back when you first met him was short-lived, quickly moving on to date somebody else you met at a party. Maybe you were a little jealous the time his former girlfriend remarked how good he was in bed, or that she got to touch him when he wore that suit you loved so much at graduation. Maybe you even touched yourself once or twice to the thought of him, conjuring some stupid fantasy in your mind for the sole purpose of getting off to it. But nothing was ever going to come to fruition, not when he’s been your friend for years, you have Jung and you’re about to get married.

…At least not with any intention besides being fucked by him the way Jung has neglected of you for a month now.

“Maybe not until now,” you finally breathe out, your heart beating erratically in your chest as you await an answer from him.

Minho’s gaze flickers down to your lips, and then back to your eyes, furrowing his eyebrows as he makes sense of your words.

“Are you drunk right now?” He asks simply.

“No,” you’re quick to respond, shaking your head to affirm the answer.

“Good,”’Minho says. “Me neither.”

And the two of you meet in the middle, his lips crashing against yours roughly as you kiss him for the first time, hands flying to tug at his t-shirt as he brings to hands around the small of your back.

He tastes like wine, transferring the robust flavor of cherry merlot back onto your lips as you kiss him, his plump lips working perfectly against yours as you pull him closer. You want so badly to position yourself differently, to adjust your body’s awkward spot on the bed so that you can be a bit closer to him, so that you can cup his face and pepper it in breathless kisses. But you fear that the minute you pull away, Minho’s going to somehow realize that it’s you he’s kissing, his best friend of so many years, one who’s already engaged.

It’s Minho who pulls away briefly first, getting a little closer to you, while you scoot further back and lie flat on your spot on the bed.

“This is just to prove a point,” Minho says breathlessly, as he hovers over you now and steadies himself over your body with one strong arm. “It’s not cheating,” he emphasizes, and you nod eagerly at the words, suddenly aware that it’s not even the cheating aspect you were worried about. It was solely the possibility of ruining your friendship with Minho, who’s always been so vocal about his distaste for disloyalty.

“It’s just to prove a point,” you repeat, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him back down to kiss you. “Nobody has to know.”

Minho grins against your lips, pressing repeated, chaste kisses to your already swollen lips and trailing down to paint a line of kisses down the column of your neck. Your heart beats in ways you’ve never felt before, a rapid arrhythmia brought on by the sheer terror of being found out, by the knowledge that this is the one person who could single handedly ruin your engagement to Jung. And yet you couldn’t care less in this moment, as his teeth take your flesh between them and suck bruises down your neck, a generous purple color painting the goosebumps that rise upon your skin.

Are either of you in any place to return with hickeys painting your skin like you spend the weekend at a frat house? Not in the slightest. And yet you can’t help but feel this is what you missed in college all that time, the same actions Minho repeated with the few girlfriends he ran through. Fucking them sweetly in his dorm bed, roping scarves around their necks when he’d send them off and his ears turning a bright shade of red when you’d point them out in your 7am college lectures.

Was there ever a hint of jealousy present between the two of you? Maybe, you think to yourself, as a string of spit connects Minho’s lips to your bruises, peppering them in light kisses. You could never help but wonder what it was like, what those girls had experienced each time they disappeared from his dorm in the early hours of the morning. And Minho, being the gentleman he was, was never one to kiss and tell. The sex was intimate, private, the details living and dying with him only, even if the relationship went awry or fizzled out suddenly.

“We probably shouldn’t go any further,” Minho interrupts, pulling away from you to maintain eye contact. His eyes are hooded with lust, his lips pink and swollen from kissing you so passionately. And his eyebrows arch up in a state of concern, mostly worried you’re going to protest him taking it any further than this. But it’s all you’ve occupied your mind with now, wanting so badly to know what little tricks Minho wears up his sleeve, if he’s just as intrigued with the idea as you are, if he even wants to have sex with you.

“It’s not like we’re dating or anything,” you say to Minho, desperately searching for the words to indicate how badly you want this. “It’s just… some drunken hookup. It’s probably nothing Jung didn’t do at his party last week.”

“But we’re not-” Minho begins, promptly silencing himself. He begins to tell you that he’s not drunk, and you aren’t either- but he’s already caught on to your little plan.

“Yeah,” Minho then says. “I’m a little tipsy.”

“Me too,” you say with a soft chuckle. “Too much wine.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning into kiss you again. “And I get really horny when I’m drunk.”

“Me too,” you say between kisses. “It’s not like we can just leave each other hanging. Unless you want me to rub one out beside you, and that would be more awkward.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Might as well… help each other out, right?”

“Right,” you affirm, pulling down your panties as Minho separates to pull off his shirt.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, already having witnessed him in this level of undress at every pool party and when you’d come over to his dorm unannounced. But it feels different at this proximity, his tanned skin hovering over yours and brushing against your flesh with every eager kiss.

Minho begins to ask you if he can touch you, but you’re faster than he is, taking his hand in yours and guiding it to your aching clit, letting him circle two fingers around your bundle of nerves as he pulls back to look you in the eyes.

“Jesus,” Minho remarks. “You are wet when you’re drunk.”

And your breath hitches in the back of your throat as he rubs you gently, a smirk growing on his face as you let out little whimpers. It’s been so long since somebody’s touched you like this, Jung hardly even giving attention to the foreplay on most days. His nimble fingers rub at a steady pace, his eyes boring into yours as he makes you writhe in pleasure beneath him. Minho’s eyes are sparkling at this proximity, his big brown pupils exuding curiosity and tenderness as he gauges your every reaction to his touches.

“Minho,” you breathe out desperately, arching into his touch to chase the friction.

“What?” He asks sweetly, his expression shifting into that of concern as he waits for you to speak. But he knows what you’re going to ask, also aware of the tent pitched in his boxers as he works you.

“Don’t make me ask,” you say with a sheepish chuckle.

He chuckles softly, too, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your lips before pulling his hand away.

“Let me get a condom,” Minho says in a serious tone. And you’d completely forgotten about protection, not even having used a condom in ages, since your only partner for several years has been Jung.

With the painful ache between your legs, you wish so badly you could ask him to fuck you raw and help ease the weeks of waiting you’ve had to do just to feel some sense of relief. And a part of you can’t help but think back to your days of college, when Minho would always ensure he kept a new one between the crisp bills in his wallet. Ones that were put to use with other women, Minho always so careful not to make any stupid mistakes or take risks the way you and Jung often did.

But you can’t let him fuck you raw, being in the middle of nowhere, no access to pills and admittedly not the most punctual at remembering to take your birth control. The last thing you can do right now is show up to your own wedding with Jung- pregnant with Minho’s child.

Minho’s cock is fully erect as he fishes around his backpack for a condom, pulling out his wallet and sorting through the bills for one. You briefly wonder what would happen if he didn’t have one- you’d likely ask him to fuck you anyway, and to finish on your face or your tits. But it’d be such a waste not to let him finish inside of you, not when you’re both this aroused and desperate for some sense of relief

You silently pray he won’t think too hard about any of this. Don’t think about who I am to you. Don’t think about how this will complicate things, and don’t think about the fact that I’m engaged to another man. Just fuck me, and we’ll deal with whatever consequences arise tomorrow.

“Got it,” Minho voices, and you feel yourself exhale the breath you’ve been holding this whole time.

Minho approaches you again, pinching it between his two fingers, tearing open the silver packet with his skewed front teeth and pulling out the white rubber. You watch with bated breath as he rests a knee on the bed beside you, steadying himself with one hand and rolling the condom onto his length with one hand.

It’s the first time you’ve properly taken note of the appearance of his cock, and he’s bigger than you’d imagined. His thick, veiny girth is tinted a bright shade of red in anticipation, his head leaking a bead of precum as the rubber grazes his tip and coats every inch of his flesh. You’re a little disappointed at the sight being obscured by the protection, but you take a sharp breath, anyway, wanting nothing more than to just feel it inside of you.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Minho asks, as he hovers over you again and props himself up with two hands. “If you think we’re making some mistake-”

“We’re not,” you say quickly. “It’s not a mistake. I promise you I’m not drunk or out of my mind or anything. I’m just really fucking horny.”

Minho chuckles lightly, and then he leans into graze his lips over yours just barely, delivering a painfully light kiss as he positions himself in front of you.

“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, pressing another light kiss to your lips. “I promise I won’t get mad or anything.”

You nod eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck, and then you both maintain eye contact with his hands as he carefully guides the tip of his length inside of you. You feel like you could cum at the sensation of his tip alone, your walls contracting around him desperately as he shuts his eyes in pleasure.

“Jesus,” Minho breathes. “You’re tight.”

“It’s been a month since he fucked me,” you admit shyly. “I haven’t even touched myself.”

And Minho takes it as a signal to snake a hand down between your bodies, latching the pads of his fingers to your clit once more and rubbing in gentle circles.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Minho says plainly. “What a fucking joke.”

You weave your fingers in his golden brown tresses pulling him in for another kiss as he begins to thrust in and out of you with gentle movements so as not to hurt you. And it feels heavenly, like nothing you’ve ever felt with Jung before. There’s so much fear circling your mind, but it simply elevates the arousal you feel at the same time, your mind and body contracting in syncopation to echo the same sentiment that maybe you have indeed, been jealous of some of the other girls he’s fucked. Maybe your jealousy forced you to shut out the idea of anybody being pleasured like this by your best friend. You silently pray it never felt half this good for any of them, that he simply couldn’t get hard for them or maybe he’d neglected the same parts that drive you crazy in this moment. Because the thought of his cock inside of anybody except for you drives you mad, it feels so unnatural to think about when he’s fucking you so sweetly in the privacy of your tent, here in the middle of nowhere. Virtually impossible to feel an ounce of guilt when the nearest human is likely miles away, made even harder considering the only man who’d even care is much, much farther.

And Minho hopes you can’t feel that he’s been trying to stave off his own orgasm for the better part of 20 minutes now. His cock twitching with every thrust, his eyes shutting tightly to give attention to the sensation of your cunt clenching desperately around his thick girth. He can’t remember how he’d imagined it all those years, but he knows this feels much, much better than any fantasized version of you that ran rampant in his thoughts. One he had to stop himself from staring at a little too long when you’d opt to wear short skirts and tight little shirts to the clubs you’d frequent. A version of you he swore would one day come around to the realization that Jung isn’t meant for you, that he doesn’t fulfill you emotionally, or intellectually or even physically. Even a version of you that found exhilaration in fucking Minho behind Jung’s back, because having any version of you belong to Minho in one form or another would always take precedence over your inevitable absence following the wedding.

“Talk to me,” Minho says, as his thrusts slow a little. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You,” you’re quick to respond. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Minho captures your lips in a drooly kiss, gasping into your parted lips as he thrusts in again and holds it there for a moment.

“Is it still okay?” He asks, like he hasn’t already been fucking you for several minutes now.

“It’s more than okay,” you respond, folding your leg at the knee beside him so that he’s hitting an entirely new angle.

“Jesus Christ,” Minho breathes, squeezing his eyes as his cock grazes your cunt even deeper.

Your breaths are labored now, involuntary gasps escaping your mouth with every thrust inside of you. His cock is completely buried to the hilt inside of you, the condom completely coated in your juices and working out of you with complete ease as he fucks you.

And he fucks you like he’s yours, like he’s the one getting married to you, perhaps subconsciously to prove a point to both you and Jung. He could never fuck you like this. I’m willing to bet he never has. He could never want you the way I do so passionately and unrelenting.

“Minho,” you call to him, arching into his touch as he moves a strand of hair out of your face.

“What is it?”

“This is okay, right?,” you state, though your tone takes the form of a plea, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “It feels so good, I don’t want to ruin things-”

“It won’t ruin things,” Minho emphasizes. “We’re drunk, remember?” he says with a light chuckle.

His face is promptly buried in the crook of your neck, peppering kisses along the flesh and whispering promises against you that exist only in the intimate space of your shared tent.

“I’m just helping you out while we’re here,” Minho repeats. “And then you have a wedding to run off to.”

You smile up at him, fingers massaging his scalp lightly as he stays still inside of you, his cock pulsating lightly inside of the rubber as you take him.

“I would’ve asked for help a lot sooner if I knew it’d be this good,” you say with a saccharine smile, allowing your fingers to loop in his hair and tug lightly.

Minho chuckles down at you, his smile instilling an almost immediate sense of comfort once more as he begins to move again, his cock grazing your cervix with every slight movement as he lets out little gasps over you.

“I think I’m gonna cum,” you breathe through labored pants. Your tone sounds surprised, almost, at the prospect of your best friend coaxing an orgasm out of you.

And maybe you are, never having thought that this camping trip would end up with him inside of you, making love to you the way you picture the events of your honeymoon to unfold. Your best friend since college, and the most vocally displeased person at the reality of your engagement to Jung.

And the moment Minho’s been fantasizing since he first confronted his own feelings for you, a time completely unbeknownst to him now. Maybe it was the time you let him stay in your dorm bed when he wasn’t feeling good, or the time you baked him his favorite cake for his birthday most people seemed to have forgotten about. But the pinpointed time doesn’t matter right now- he’s here, your entire being is his for the night, and love or not, he’ll take any form of you he can grasp so desperately at.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, too,” Minho says back, his hands digging into your waist as he moves a little faster.

For several moments, nothing else is said between the two of you, only the echoing sounds of skin and drool and his toned body working itself in and out of you teeming around the dinky little tent like an erotic film on low volume. The sounds are muffled, both of you doing your best to remain hushed in your words and your breathy exchanges to each other, almost as if it’ll all be too real if you voice it any louder than this.

But all of this is very real, the actions serving as a sealed promise between the two of you to maintain this remarkable relationship you’ve developed with him. One in which you traverse the complexities of dating a man who’s never quite fulfilled you the way Minho caught on to very early on. And in turn, Minho uses the opportunity to fulfill you in every way he’s able to, whether it means being there at 3am to lend a kindly ear, concocting your favorite dishes after waking up hungover as a result of drinking to mask Jung’s shortcomings. And even to fuck away the stress Jung instills inside of you. To meet you halfway with his version of intimacy, one Jung has withheld from you for so long, and to remind you that although the marriage implies permanence, things could still be so, so different.

“Cum for me,” Minho says to you, leaning in to keep his lips pressed to yours. “Just let go of everything. Don’t think about him right now.”

And somehow it’s those words that assist you in reaching your finish, the subtle command to eject Jung from all your thoughts and replace him with Minho and Minho and more Minho.

It’s Minho easing the pain, Minho kissing you so tenderly, Minho thrusting his hardened cock in and out of your soaking cunt as you whimper helplessly beneath him.

And it’s Minho who finishes first, squeezing his eyes tightly as he feels his tip releases strings of cum into the constriction of the rubber condom, the finish feeling as though it’s the heaviest he’s had in months.

And the gentle pulse against your flesh coaxes out your own release, contracting around his wet girth and dribbling cum along the length of the condom as he fucks you through your fervent moans.

“God, you’re amazing,” Minho voices, as he pulls you in for a much gentler kiss. He holds his lips there momentarily, grazing them softly over yours, every part of him wanting to stay right here inside of you.

But as his cock begins to soften against him once more, he pulls out without another word, stripping off the condom while you watch him.

Strands of sweaty hair hang loosely in front of his face, framing his flushed appearance as his nimble fingers work to tie the condom off. He looks so attainable, so forgiving as he moves, and every part of you wants nothing more than to pull him close again and keep him tangled in your needy embrace.

“Minho?” You ask, as you sit up on the palms of your hands to meet his gaze.

“Hm?” He hums in response, discarding the condom and running two hands through his disheveled hair.

“Would you stay like this?”

He chuckles softly, occupying his spot again and pulling the blankets up to his chest.

“I’m not taking the floor anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, would you stay... close to me?” You ask shyly, your eyes flickering over his figure as he lies beside you.

He sits up to meet your gaze, reaching a hand out to you, his palm facing upward as he shoots you a sweet smile.

“I can stay close to you,” Minho reaffirms, pulling you close to his chest as he lies flat again, your head resting on his broad chest.

His chest rises and falls with every breath, his eyes shutting gently as he revels in the sensation of you seeking comfort beside him like this. And he can’t help but press a series of soft kisses to your temple, smiling when he hears a soft giggle escape your lips.

When the tent falls quiet once more, your listless bodies welcome the sleepiness that washes over you, euphonious melodies of crickets engaging in the sounds of nightfall outside. And Minho’s hand rubs gentle back and forth motions along the small of your back, reassuring for one last time that you have nothing to feel guilty about.

It’s like a moth to a flame, the way you’re drawn to Minho in the morning, despite the promise of it being just one night with him.

You’re hypnotized by the way he pulls on his sweatpants, chuckling as he nearly trips over himself in the confined space of the tent. His veiny hands working nimbly to chop vegetables and crush herbs as he prepares you one of his signature omelets. The silence that falls over you both while you eat, two fascinated gazes stuck on each other knowing very well you’d let him do it all over again if you weren’t so pressed for time. And when he’s helping you hoist your heavy backpack over his shoulders, the pressing urge to kiss him is present again, as though you seek a reminder that what occurred was indeed real and not some lucid dream conjured up within the darkened campsite.

An urge which you act upon, leaning into press your lips to his as he turns to ask if you’re all packed. And one which is reciprocated with a smile from him, grinning against your lips as he takes his time cupping a hand to your cheek and grazing his fingertips along your skin tenderly. With no real purpose, no sexual implication, no rush. Simply a kiss to conclude the trip, which may very well have been everything you needed as it precedes the wedding.

And with shared smiles between the two of you, Minho leads as you make your way back through the informational center. The same woman is sat at the desk, except she says nothing as you pass her by, a scowl on her face at the sight of you. You watch as she bows politely to other guests, inquires about their stay and offers them hard candies from the glass jar in front of her. Except she says nothing to you, almost appearing to shake her head as you pass her by.

“She was nicer yesterday,” you voice to Minho, your concerned gaze scanning his expression for a reaction. But he doesn’t give one, shrugging lightly as he holds the door for you on the way out.

“She’s probably having a bad day,” he says back. “Don’t worry about it.”

And it’s not until he takes your hand in his again that you realize it- this woman who you’d so confidently corrected on the fact that Minho is not in fact your fiancé, has witnessed you kissing him and holding his hand on your way out. Like a scarlet letter you wear upon your chest, except it’s you who put it there. Confirmation that you’re disloyal- a cheater, simply put. You want to defend your actions, but realistically, to whom? Not to Minho, who actively facilitated it. Not to Jung, who would kill you both if he knew.

And not even to the elderly woman, who you can’t explain it to, because it’s different. It’s not cheating, not when it’s Minho. He’s not some drunken hookup from a dive bar, or someone who’s relentlessly pursued you despite your protests. He’s your best friend, one who did you a favor in the absence of your fiancé’s desire to satisfy you. It’s different, you want to say to her. It’s not cheating with Minho- he’s different.

But you settle on the uncomfortable silence that remains when you climb into the passenger seat of Minho’s car, watching the trees melt into a blur of green hues as he backs out of the parking lot. And his hand meets yours over the center console, intertwining your fingers to put your mind at ease like he can somehow read your mind.

Perhaps he can, being the person who’s known every one of your thoughts so intimately since your time in college. And he also reads into your dismissal of the event when you finally let out a gentle sigh, lacing your fingers with his and allowing him to press a kiss to the back of your hand.

The arrival home is a non ceremonious one, Minho dropping you off a block before your shared apartment with Jung to avoid the interrogation he knows he’ll get.

He assists in gathering your bags, consolidating your items to ensure you can comfortably carry them up the block. And for a minute, the two of you say nothing as he sends you on your way, a kind of sparkle present in his eyes as he stares at you. He looks different today, a saccharine smile on his face and a much calmer demeanor overall. Every bone in your body wants to jump him and pepper him in kisses, to thank him for relieving the pent up sexual frustration in you and affirming that your fears surrounding this wedding are valid, but they don’t imply that you won’t enjoy married life, either. They’re just… feelings, ones you often find trouble confronting in the presence of Jung, and ones that you realize you’ve probably never confronted at all, if not around Minho.

The fears are valid, and they’re not fleeting in the slightest. But they are lessened with the reminder that Minho’s beside you every step of the way- regardless of how it manifests in your relationship. And the silence remains, as Minho shoots you a small wave, his eyes flickering briefly over the distant outline of your apartment.

“Hey,” you call out to Jung, who’s lazily sprawled out over the sofa, his feet laid flat upon the coffee table.

“How was the trip?” He asks enthusiastically, not taking his eyes off the sports channel that echoes loudly in front of him.

“Oh, you know,” you reply casually. “Just yoga. Always good to see old friends, though.”

“I’ll bet,” Jung replies, chuckling sarcastically as he speaks. “Seems like the only person you’re around these days is Minho.”

And then he reaches for the remote, lazily flipping through channels as you set your bag down.

“He’s my oldest friend,” you say casually, hoping he won’t notice the audible shakiness in your tone. It feels like he can hear how loud your thoughts are, the fears circling your mind, an expression on your face painted with incrimination. You think of your heart racing while Minho kissed you, the way his cock felt inside of you, your clit pulsating gently at the mere memory of it.

“Yeah, well, change is good,” Jung finishes. As you turn the corner, to meet him in front of the couch, you take note of his lap- a small, white cardboard box propped upon his sweatpants, the top ripped to keep it open and his hands working and out of it in rushed motions.

It’s the cake, you quickly realizing, your heart sinking a little at the sight of the frosting in complete disarray, almost half the dessert either smeared around the sides or piled on the fork he brings up to his lips.

“Listen,” Jung says, between a mouthful of food. “I have a golf thing this week and I want you to come see a couple buddies of mine.”

“This week?” You echo, your mind pondering all the potential excuses you can use against him. But nothing comes to mind, as Jung sets the box of cake aside and stands up from the couch.

“Yeah,” he says casually. “My buddy from college is gonna be in town, and he wants to get together before the wedding.”

You want so badly to protest his offer, knowing very well that Jung’s friends are nothing short of insufferable. They very seldom like you, openly voicing their concerns with your flaws, and they’re protective of him, as though Jung is the one who’s sacrificing more by being wed to you.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask, a small smile on your lips to offset the anger that could very well erupt in response to your statement.

But Jung just brings two hands up to your shoulder, rubbing the sides as he turns his attention back to the television.

“Not really. Hey, the game’s on again but make sure to clear your calendar on Thursday for me. And let’s bring that wine we got recently.”

“The white one?” You question, sagging your shoulders a little at his lack of hesitation to offer your favorite wine as a housewarming gift to his friends.

“Yeah, that one,” he says plainly, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead and slinging his body back over the couch.

“By the way,” Jung voices, motioning for you to move out of the view of the tv screen. “Where’s the cake from? Shit’s good.”

Your gaze lands on the box again, completely torn apart, the icing letters indistinguishable and the fondant ribbons in disarray on the cardboard. You can’t help but think of Minho and his careful attention to detail- the way he picked all your favorite colors, the flavors he knows you love, all from your favorite bakery you very seldom even visit because of the steep price points.

“Babe?” Jung calls again, spooning a layer of frosting into his mouth. “I asked where the cake was from.”

And you shrug casually as you pivot on your heel to exit the room.

“Minho picked it,” you say as you stride away from his still-slouched figure. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You have to freeze your cake and eat a piece of it every wedding anniversary,” Jung’s friend Kwang explains, as he brings a cigar to his lips and inhales generously. “That’s what we did, and we still have enough red velvet to last fucking years in there.”

“I love it,” Jung replies in a chuckle, slinging an arm over your shoulder and nudging you harshly. “Course, I’m not sure this one could stop herself from eating the rest of our cake for a whole year. She’s got a bigger sweet tooth than I do.”

You distance yourself from Jung a little, fiddling with your golf club as the men share echoing laughter between puffs of smoke.

The golf course Jung frequents is massive, spanning several hectares of land, which means you’re often stuck here for a long while during his golf sessions. His friends are the same detestable group of men he’s usually out with, all old friends from college you’ve since been forced to get acquainted with. And together they talk each others’ ears off about sports, food, making subtle digs at their own wives or partners, and of course, golf. The blinding shade of green hills contrasts harshly against a pale blue sky and depicts an almost cartoon scenery, and you can feel the headache in your temples worsening with every loud chuckle that escapes Jung’s lips.

He hasn’t asked once about your yoga retreat- which may be a blessing of sorts when you recall the events that unfolded. But you know it’s got nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the fact that he doesn’t give a shit.

He probably doesn’t even remember you were gone, nor does he care to fill you in on the details that unfolded while you were away. And it wouldn’t matter, because you know it would be exactly some version of this- his obnoxious friends, golf, sports on tv and bragging about his proximity to a married life with you. Strangely enough, you’re normally able to stomach these conversations when you’re forced to go out with Jung. But somehow today, every word he utters aggravates you, and you’re desperate to find some excuse to make it home again.

Except you also know very well that it’s something else eating away at your mind this afternoon.

“Y/n?” Kwang questions, and you snap your head to look at him, realizing you’ve tuned out most of his talking points up until now.

“Yes?”

“It’s your turn,” he says, gesturing to your golf club. Jung watches you and chuckles, almost embarrassed with you, as he mirrors Kwang’s gesture.

“Go on,” Jung says condescendingly. “Remember how I taught you last time.”

And with the golf club in your timid grasp, you approach the tee, positioning your club out in front of you and doing your best to mimic the way Jung taught you. Or rather the way he yelled at you to memorize, always taking his sports endeavors far too seriously.

The club head rests gently against the golf ball, pulling back momentarily as your hands shift and tighten around the grip again. And Kwang exhales another puff of smoke, a light chuckle escaping his lips as his eyes bore into your standing figure.

“Her form’s gotten a little better,” he remarks to Jung.

“Yeah, because of me,” Jung says back.

“And good thing, too,” Kwang voices. “If she’d gotten better without your help it’d mean someone else was helping her.”

He laughs as he finishes speaking, transitioning to a coughing fit as you turn to meet Jung’s gaze. But Jung doesn’t look back at you, he simply pats Kwang’s back and exchanges laughter of his own.

“That’s true!” Jung echoes through a fit of laughter, like it’s the best joke he’s heard all century.

“Could you imagine if she pulled up here better than you?” Kwang says, flicking stray ashes off his cigar. “Some other man doing your part for you?”

Jung chuckles again, pulling a box of cigars from the pocket inside of his blazer and thumbing at a fresh one. You watch as he flips open a small bronze Zippo lighter, a small metal clink emitting from behind his cupped hand, as he brings the cigar head to the little yellow flame and holds it there momentarily.

“Fuckin’ A,” Jung remarks with the cigar hanging between his lips.

When it’s lit successfully, he pockets the lighter again, taking a generous puff and blowing smoke just past the direction of Kwang’s still-laughing figure.

“They say that’s how you know your wife’s disloyal,” he remarks. “Her sports form never worsens.”

You stand awkwardly, your fingers grazing the rubber of the golf club grip as you say nothing. Their laughter continues to swirl the atmosphere around you, the sound of the birds and the buzzing cicadas drowning out amidst their cackles. The sun beams entirely too bright down over you, the artificial grass seeming to turn an even more obnoxious shade of green as you wait for them to finish.

“Better hope this one’s not disloyal,” Kwang says amidst his jokes, nudging your upper thigh with the tip of his own golf club. “That’s a lot of planning down the drain.”

And somehow the words trigger the familiar arrhythmic beat in your chest, flashbacks of Minho crossing your mind instantaneously. It’s like they know, the way their jokes seem to run on forever, their wicked cackling taunting you with every passing second. They speak of your form and your position, and you can’t help but picture the way Minho had you sprawled over the bed for you, his toned body looming over yours as he fucked you like he was consummating a marriage.

Beads of sweat trickle down your forehead as the sun glares over you, and the feeling is reminiscent of your sweaty bodies tangled together in the confined space of the tent. Was it you who came first? Was it Minho? The details are a little blurry right now as you try to steady your breathing, every single fear coming to life as you use your golf club to keep upright.

Disloyal. Another man. Cheater.

Their words replay in your mind and produce offspring of new ones, alluding to implications of broken trust and shattered plans. Hypothetical talks of one whole year of planning down the drain, another man with his hands all over you fulfilling Jung’s role in his absence and improving your form.

They know. They know you cheated, this is Jung’s way of humiliating you in front of his closest friend before he publicly calls off the marriage. He’s going to confront you about it any second now. He’s going to drag Minho’s name through the mud, and possibly also his corpse when he’s done with him-

“Y/n?” A voice interrupts, and your head snaps in the direction of their still gazes. The atmosphere is quiet now, birds chirping overhead once more, cicadas buzzing rhythmically in the distance again.

“Huh?”

“You want to forfeit your turn?” Jung asks with a chuckle. “We’ve been waiting for you to start for ten minutes now.”

Your gaze falls down to your hands, gripped tightly around the rubber of the club still, the ball remaining immobile on the little red tee.

“Uh, sure,” you reply, handing the golf club to Jung as he shakes his head.

You watch with an embarrassed expression as Jung grasps the club skillfully, pulling back and twisting his heel as he produces a robust hit, the ball lifting off its tee and soaring into the distance over the green hill.

“She can’t be disloyal,” Jung says with a chuckle, as he prods you with his golf club for the nth time today. “She can’t even complete one round successfully. Any other man would’ve taught her that’s not how you golf.”

At the one week mark since you’ve seen Minho, he’s aware something is wrong. You haven’t picked up his calls, haven’t responded to a single one of his texts, and you feign tiredness or some made up illness when he offers to stop by at hours he knows Jung isn’t home. But you don’t entertain any of it, fearing still that Jung knows, and that this is going to be the end of your marriage.

A fleeting physical endeavor caused by your fiancé’s stubbornness, and yet it’s effectively going to be the end of what was supposed to be your entire future. Seeing Minho will only reignite every fear present inside of you, causing it to coax the truth out of you and confront your fears in the presence of Jung.

The fear of what a lifetime of marriage implies. Are you meant to feel like teenagers in love for the entirety of it? Do the fights last a lifetime? Are you supposed to find a middle ground, or will there always be a need for somebody like Minho to provide some clarity and help you rekindle things to the best of your abilities?

What if in a week, you hate the cake flavor you’ve picked? What if you find yourselves so comfortable it doesn’t feel like love anymore? What if you spend a lifetime picturing it’s Minho fucking you instead of Jung, just to get off at night?

What happens to the marriage then? Does the love fizzle out until it’s a comfortable state of tolerance, one in which you’re sacrificing happiness for stability? Or does it simply exist somewhere else- or with somebody else? What’s implied by a lifetime of this?

Minho’s always been a worrier at heart, though, and he won’t let up until he’s certain your relationship to him isn’t at risk of dissipating, too. So at 11pm on a Friday, when he knows Jung is out with the same group of friends, he makes his move to confront you.

The living room is completely quiet at this hour, a soft ticking noise from the clock overhead as you flip past a page in your book. A romance novel, one littered with smut and cheesy dialogue, true to the lonely housewife you’re already conditioning yourself to be. And as your gaze falls over the first sentence of a new chapter, a knocking at the front door interrupts you.

It’s not Jung- it can’t be at this hour, his return home always signaled by his loud stumbling through the doorway, the jingling of his keys and drunken steps over the shoes he so conveniently forgets to put on the shoe rack.

You wrap your arms around the knit holes of your sweater, approaching the door hesitantly. It’s likely one of Jung’s friends, late to the party, or even one of your own girlfriends, here for a late night gossip session. But when you unlatch the door and pull it open, your heart drops at the sight of Minho, his hands shoved in his pockets and his figure standing slouched as his head looks up to meet your gaze.

“Hi,” says Minho, giving you a thin-lipped smile.

You give him a small nod, unsure of what to reply.

He looks handsome tonight, in a dark denim jacket and a pair of jeans. His golden-brown tresses fall loosely around his chiseled face, and his eyes look a little tired, like he hasn’t gotten much sleep.

“Minho,” you say plainly, fidgeting with a loose hem on the inside of your sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

Minho shrugs, peering into the doorway behind you, and then his eyes lock on yours again.

“I never taught you how to gut a fish,” Minho replies.

“I was just- what?”

“A fish,” Minho repeats. “I never taught you how to gut one.”

“Yeah, because we didn’t catch any,” you reply, a short chuckle escaping your lips.

“I know,” Minho says. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over and gut one.”

“Now?” You reply, glancing at the darkened street behind him. “It’s late.”

“Yeah, and Jung isn’t home until early morning. There’s a salmon defrosting on my counter as we speak, assuming the cats haven’t gotten to it. And I was wondering if you wanted to gut it.”

And he’s doing that thing again, where he takes the problem at hand and makes it so much more miniscule than it actually is. This state between disloyalty and tension you feel toward Jung, and the conflicting feelings you have toward Minho and the trip’s subsequent events. But he doesn’t address any of that- instead, he takes issue with you never having gotten to gut a fish. And that’s a relief, when you think about the other option of verbally confronting the emotions you keep at bay.

“Is it messy?” You ask with a little smile.

“It’s messy,” Minho replies.

“What if I’m bad at it?”

“Then you’re bad at it. But I’ll help you. Mess and all.”

You turn around to peer back into the hallway, at the book lying open and flat on the couch, the second hand on the clock moving painfully slow and the dim lamp illuminating the room around you. There’s not much of anything to stick around for, not when Jung’s still going to be out for hours on end. And not when a part of you is dying to confront the situation with Minho in the privacy of his place.

“You can’t laugh if I’m bad,” you say to Minho as you turn back to face him, slipping on your shoes in the process

“I won’t laugh,” he retorts. “No promises, of course.”

Two hours later, the kitchen is littered with napkins, plates, gloves, filet knives and scales. Minho walks you through how to remove the roe and the milt, discarding them for you as you prep your filet knife. He verbally instructs you how to descale the fish, and when you make minimal progress, he guides your hand up and down the length of the salmon with his, giving a little nod as the scales fall off with ease and uncover the smooth finish beneath.

He’s understanding when your reluctant hands fail to cut through to the back bone, chuckling lightly as he helps you cut that, too. And when you successfully pluck the remainder of the pin bones with tweezers, he nods proudly, giving you a thumbs up as you dispose of the fish parts and slide the plate of pink slabs to him across the counter.

“You did really well,” Minho says comfortingly. “You’re very attentive to detail. I don’t think there’s a single pin bone still on there.”

“It’s a little gross,” you say, shaking off your hands and chuckling lightly.

“But the end result will be worth it,” he replies. “Somebody plucked the pin bones off every filet you’ve eaten.”

You hit his arm lightly, as he laughs, coating the slabs in seasoning as you pull your gloves off.

“Minho,” you voice nervously, as he keeps his attention on the plate of fish in front of him.

“Hm?”

“Should we… talk about what happened?”

He sprinkles dried parsley atop the filet, not looking at you as you hold your breath for an answer.

“We can talk about it,” Minho replies simply. “Or we can choose not to. It was just a favor I ran you.”

You nod in response, watching as he swaps out parsley for onion powder and sprinkles lightly.

“Can we talk about it?” You say finally, twiddling your thumbs together.

Minho sets down the glass jar, turning to face you and pulling off his gloves, too.

“Sure,” he says, leaning back against the counter and giving you his undivided attention. Your heartbeat quickens momentarily at the sight of him focusing solely on you, and you struggle to find the words to say. But Minho is faster, taking reins of the conversation and breaking the deafening silence between you two.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Minho finally says, a kind of sadness evident in his tone.

“I was scared,” you reply. “I felt like Jung knew. It could ruin all of our wedding plans.”

“There’s no way he can find out,” Minho says. “I haven’t said a word to anyone. Unless you felt inclined to say something-”

“God, no,” you reply quickly. “I wouldn’t dare say anything.”

“Good,” Minho then says. “Then it was just a mistake in the heat of the moment. There’s nothing to worry about.”

And somehow the words sting a little, this conclusion that the affair was a mistake. Was it a mistake? You’re not sure- though you are sure of the complete sense of ease it instilled in you, and the fact that it hasn’t left your mind in a whole week.

“Are we okay?” You ask him, a nervous expression painting your face as you wait for an answer.

And Minho nods confidently, pulling on a fresh set of gloves as he reaches for the salt and pepper shakers.

“We’re fine,” Minho reassures. “If you think anything is getting in the way of a decade of you being stuck with me, then you’re mistaken.”

You laugh lightly, pulling on another pair of gloves too and joining Minho in front of the plate of fish.

“You want to pan fry this?” Minho asks, changing the subject. “I’ll walk you through it.”

Your eyes scan the well-seasoned strips of salmon, and then Minho’s comforting figure beside you, as he slides you a pair of tongs.

“Yeah,” you say to him. “Let’s finish this thing.”

Minho’s right- the end result is worth it. The fish is tender, well-seasoned, paired beautifully with his favorite bottle of white wine over an old comedy movie.

And everything feels like it’s back to normal once more as you sit beside him, your plates completely void of food as you finish your glasses of wine and sit back comfortably.

As the end credits roll, Minho lowers the volume, but he doesn’t shut off the television yet, taking another sip from his glass as your gazes fix on the names disappearing on screen.

Your eyes scan Minho’s mostly-vacant walls, at the things and the stuff he’s moved around. And he has, a couple new photographs displayed neatly on the wall in gold frames.

Most of them are black and white photographs you recognize to be cityscapes. And among the collage, placed right in the middle, the only photo with an ounce of color catches your eye.

“Shirakawa,” you say to Minho, cocking your head at the photograph.

It’s a wide shot of the town, bright green grass contrasting the traditional brown farmhouses that span the entirety of the landscape.

“Mhm,” Minho affirms, giving a little nod as he looks over the photograph, too.

You remain like that for a moment, reveling in the view, and then you finally break the comfortable silence once more.

“Could you tell me about it?” You ask him sweetly. “Just anything.”

Minho thinks back to the facts of Shirakawa he stores in the corner of his mind for a moment, sorting through facts and tales he’s held onto since college. Little stories he’s always wished to pass along again one day.

“Those are called Gasshō-Zukuri houses,” Minho says. “Which directly translates to hands in prayer.”

You cock your head in the other direction, nodding at his words, and seeing exactly what he speaks of. The houses do resemble two hands in prayer, the triangular thatched roofs almost reminiscent of a church’s.

“The roofs were designed to prevent heavy snowfall,” he continues. “Which the town is notorious for receiving. But apparently it’s like a little winter land when you’re there.”

His voice trails off a little at the last syllable, getting quiet again as he folds his hands in his lap.

“Which is pretty cool,” Minho finishes, pulling back from divulging too much information about the town he could go on about forever.

And he doesn’t know you’d gladly listen to him talk about it forever, being continuously fascinated with his appreciation for the centuries-old town across the world from you two. You nod in response to his words, imagining the winters those tucked away in that little town must experience- blankets of snow and freezing temperatures, and yet so warm inside those historical homes loved by people all around the world.

“We’ll go one day,” you say to Minho finally, turning to meet his gaze.

He turns to look at you, too, a somber expression on his face as he listens to you speak.

“We’ll go to Shirakawa one day. I promise it.”

Minho swallows nervously, well aware of how close you are to him on the couch now. Your face at such a close distance to him, your limbs resting right beside each other as his eyes flicker over your parted lips.

Minho engages in the nervous habits he always does, blinking nervously a few times and toying with the lobe of his ear. But he doesn’t act on anything, not wanting to push the boundaries you’ve practically just set in place. The same boundaries that concluded it was a mistake in the heat of the moment. So then why do you feel so inclined to kiss him all over again, let your body tangle with his and ease your stress as he assists in confronting all your fears preceding the wedding? Why does the idea of a lifelong commitment feel so much less intimidating when you’re in the presence of Minho? And what are you doing having these thoughts about your best friend when you’re getting married to somebody else in a month?

Thoughts that fail to induce an answer from you- instead interrupted and subsequently silenced by your lips on Minho’s again, kissing him with such desperation the way you did before.

And though desperate, it's still tender, his eyes shutting instinctively as his hands cup your cheeks and pull you closer. And you’ve nowhere to go but his lap, straddling his waist with your legs as you refuse to break away from the kiss, your kisses turning hungrier by the second as his hands find your waist.

This implication to fuck you is far greater this time, a pressing urge between the two of you to mirror the night’s actions and confirm it really did happen. That he did fuck you that night in your tent, and that you both came with each other and for each other, your bodies releasing the pent-up frustration you’re now certain has existed for years.

“Is this okay?” Minho begins to ask, his hands grazing your sides, and your kisses trail down his neck to provide a clear answer to his concern.

“Please,” you plead, nibbling a light bruise into his flesh. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty-”

“I don’t,” you say, moving to meet his lips again. “It feels so right with you. Please, could we do it again?”

Minho’s breath hitches in his throat as you palm him over the fabric of his jeans, his erection already visible for you.

“I want to,” Minho gasps. “But you’re getting married. I don’t want you to make another mistake-”

“It was never a mistake,” you say breathlessly. “Not the first time, not now. It feels so different with you. Do you feel it too?”

You pull away momentarily, hands cupped around the back of his neck as you wait for his answer. And Minho shoots a nervous smile in response; sheepishly toying with his hair as he struggles to voice his feelings.

“I… do,” Minho begins. “But I want you to-”

“Don’t worry about me,” you say, leaning in to resume pressing kisses along his neck. “Just fuck me like he doesn’t exist,” you finish, your lips working against his once more and guiding his hands down to your waist.

Although you were the one worried of getting found out, you can’t keep your distance from him, wanting nothing more than to feel him inside of you all over again. Coaxing your own arousal out of you, encouraging you to forget all about him the way you’ve been trying to do in the absence of Minho. But with him here in front of you, you know the only way to shut Jung out of your mind is to fill it with thoughts of Minho, and Minho and more Minho.

“I… can do that…” Minho says with another nervous chuckle, as you unzip his jeans and palm him through his boxers.

“Call me something other than my name,” you say to him, pressing a series of chaste kisses to his lips. “Say it like I’m yours.”

And Minho reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pulling away again to look into your eyes.

“Baby?” He questions nervously, eliciting a smile from you.

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Yeah, baby?” He says again, reciprocating confidently now as you stroke him over his boxers. “You want me to make you forget about him?”

“Please,” you beg again. “You’re so much better than him.”

And amidst the ego boost, Minho can feel his cock swell, painfully hard in your firm grasp now as you stroke him.

“Wait,” Minho says, wincing slightly as you slow your movements. “I don’t want to cum yet.”

“Then hurry up and fuck me,” you smirk down at him, looping your fingers in the waistband of his jeans and tugging slightly. And Minho sits up straighter, smirking back, as he moves to press you down against the couch and hover over you.

“You want me to fuck you?” Minho asks, using one hand to tug his jeans down to his thighs. “God, you haven’t stopped thinking about it, haven’t you?”

“Not once,” you admit, wrapping two arms around his neck and pulling him down toward you. “I would’ve asked you to fuck me years ago if I knew what I was missing out on.”

The two of you share giggles as his jeans are discarded on the floor, followed by his t-shirt, and then your pants and your t-shirt, leaving him in just his boxers, and you in your bra and panties.

Minho lowers himself against your clothed core, rubbing ever so gently against you to provide some relief to his aching shaft as he works his kisses against your drooly lips. And he smiles in between every slight movement, completely satisfied at the fact that it’s him rubbing against you like this and taking care of you instead of Jung. For the second time this month.

The idea that Jung is completely clueless to this game you play behind his back, that he still comes home thinking you belong to anyone except Minho. Both in mind and body, your entire being is intertwined with Minho in every way possible.

And you both know it, judging by the way you grab at each other like a pair of horny teenagers on a first date, trying everything in your ability to hold onto the feeling. Also by the way he’s so patient and forgiving with his movements, stil careful not to move too fast in case you decide you want to stop. And an unspoken promise between the two of you, that no matter what happens, the friendship will remain, that it simply can’t slip through your fingers after a decade of promises to each other.

“Let’s go to Shirakawa,” you say to Minho in a whisper, finally tugging his boxers down and freeing his erection against abdomen.

“You want to?” Minho asks, tugging your panties down, too.

“Yes, I want to,” you reply. “We’ve talked about it for so long. Tell me what we’ll do there.”

“Well we’ll definitely go fishing,” Minho begins, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips as he discards your panties on the floor beside you. “And I’ll help gut all the salmon with you.”

“Mhm,” you voice in a dreamy tone, massaging his hair with the tips of your fingers.

“And then we can see all the animals there,” he continues, positioning himself over you and lifting your leg a little to get a better angle. His hand massages gentle circles in your inner thigh, careful not to enter without ensuring you’re comfortable first.

“And when it snows,” Minho says. “We’ll be trapped inside. But we can occupy the little attic space, where the walls slant inwards. And I promise to make love to you until it stops snowing.”

“When does it stop snowing?” You ask, as Minho pumps his cock gently over you and positions himself in front of your entrance. He chuckles lightly as he leans in to kiss you, your entrance quickly swallowing his tip and caressing his girth with your arousal as he leans in to push himself even further.

“It doesn’t,” Minho replies finally, thrusting himself into you and letting his hands find the small of your back to steady himself. You let out a fervent moan at the sensation, quickly drunk on the feeling all over again. The mesmerizing sensation of his body hovering over you, of his cock inside of you, exactly the way you remembered it from the other night.

And it’s not right, but it feels so right to have him those close to you again, your best friend closing the gap of uncertainty between you and shutting you up with the confirmation that your souls have always belonged to each other this way.

“Fuck, Minho,” you breathe out, beads of sweat dripping down your temples as he buries himself to the hilt inside of you and holds it there, pulsating harshly against your cervix.

“Will you go faster?” You ask him, running your fingertips down his back in encouragement.

“Are you sure?” he says between labored breaths, still careful not to hurt you.

“Please,” you practically beg. “I’m so eager for you, please just do something about it, baby.”

Minho’s eyebrows raise a little at the utterance of a pet name. He’s never heard it from you- not in all your years of friendship. He’s hardly secured a nickname from you in all that time. And yet here you are now, taking him so fully obediently, throwing words like baby at him and begging him to fuck you so that you won’t have to think about Jung.

“Baby?” Minho says curiously, capturing your lips in a kiss.

“Baby,” you reply, rutting your hips up against his as he begins to move a little faster. “Baby, and honey, and fiancé.”

Minho chuckles a little at the last word, cocking his head as he digests your response.

“Fiancé?”

“Yeah,” you say back between little moans that escape your lips. “If we were in Shirakawa I think we’d be engaged. And you could fuck me whenever you wanted to.”

Minho feels his cock twitch at your words, his mind running rampant with the fantasy of being engaged to you. The implication of a lifetime of this, fucking you sweetly in the comfort of a shared home and coaxing all your stress out of you. And furthermore, a lifetime of you- of being dragged to all your favorite bars, takeout meals and cheap comedy movies, camping when the leaves turn orange and gutting salmon alongside you.

A lifetime of security, stability. One of sheer, unwavering happiness.

“What a dream that would be,” Minho voices, moving a little faster at your words now.

“You think?”

“I know,” he affirms, his hands finding the mounds of your breasts and cupping them gently to unclasp your bra.

“What a fucking dream it would be to have you like this every night.”

Your bra is promptly discarded alongside you on the couch, the cool air grazing your erect nipples as he brings his mouth down to latch around one in gentle sucking motions. You can feel yourself clench around his cock, taking in the sight of his drooly lips wrapped around your chest and working you in eager motions. It’s still the same Minho you recognize from years ago- still the dorky, yet handsome figure of permanence always present somewhere in your life. And it feels even less unnatural than the last time you slept with him, simply instilling another wave of eased stress and tranquility deep inside of you. It’s like this is supposed to be the relationship between the two of you now- you live your life catering to the stubborn, unmoving personality of Jung’s. Minho tends to his monotonous life away from you. And when you reunite once more, relishing in tales of your separate lives from each other and laughing over glasses of chenin blanc, he concludes the night with a slow, intimate session of love-making, one to seal the promise between your souls that regardless of where the future takes you, this is still permanent.

Neither the college girls Minho’s fucked so well, nor the shitty men you promise yourself to could come between that. And it’s a comfortable truth you both come to terms with as he gives himself to you so lovingly and wholly.

“Are you close?” Minho asks, moving to your lips once more and indulging you in a slow, sensual kiss.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, wrapping your arms around his neck a little stabler and bringing your gaze down to his cock, where he disappears inside of you with complete ease.

“Where do- fuck- where do you want me to finish?” Minho asks, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. “I don’t want to pose any risks to you right now.”

And he’s right, both of you knowing very well that just because you’ve addressed your mutual attraction to each other, doesn’t mean you can run around with Minho’s arousal catching in your walls like you just aren’t engaged.

You still have a wedding to tend to, another person to return home to and a promise in the eventual holy sanctity of marriage that Jung is your only lover. But right now that no official certificate holds you to that, you can’t find it inside you to care, wanting nothing more than to be filled by Minho, and Minho and more Minho, and yet knowing it’s simply not a possibility.

“Wherever you want,” you finally breathe out, placing the option in the hands of Minho. Your breasts, your mouth. Inside of you. You don’t care- all you care is that he’s here, and he’s upholding his end of sealing the permanence between you two.

Minho gives a few particularly harsh thrusts, and then he brings a hand to the base of his cock, pulling out carefully and wincing as he staves off his orgasm. Your hands remain wrapped around the back of his neck, your gaze fixed on his as he works himself in quick strokes and leans in to kiss you.

“Can we go to Shirakawa?” You ask him again tenderly, as he continues to pump himself over your lying figure.

“Of course we can,” Minho responds with a sweet smile, his breaths labored as he nears his finish. “We can go wherever you want.”

“As long as you’re there,” you say to him, smiling up at him as he leans forward to kiss you again.

“As long as it’s the two of us,” Minho clarifies. “We can go anywhere.”

His eyes shut once more, his long eyelashes grazing his eyelids as his lips part open, and then he lets out a whimpered moan as he finally reaches his finish, coating your stomach in the milky white release of his orgasm. He kisses you when he finishes, smiling against your lips as he brings a hand down between you and rubs your clit in gentle, circular motions.

Your moans turn whimpered, too, as you reach your finish, clenching around what you wish was his cock and letting go for him.

And the credits on the television reach their end, transitioning to the hushed echo of a commercial playing. But neither of you are in any rush to leave or clean up just yet, allowing your listless bodies to intertwine lazily on the sofa as your giggles fill the quiet space between you and reverberate off the walls with such mutual fondness.

Mondays are heavy with work. Tuesdays, Jung works late. Wednesdays and Thursdays are dedicated time for his friends from college, and every day after that is a toss-up, but they’re often days you spend with Jung, watching movies in your apartment, going on little dates or in uncomfortable silence alongside him as he spills details of his work and his friends.

And he believes this to be your schedule, because he’s clueless otherwise.

Mondays are really for late-night phone calls with Minho, where you run off to the patio for a few minutes of privacy while Jung catches up on sports broadcasts. Tuesdays, Minho cooks you intricate meals at his apartment, alongside old comedy movies and concluded always by his gentle love-making to you. Wednesdays and Thursdays feel like college again, Minho finally agreeing to accompany you to all your favorite bars again and paying for your drinks as he watches you dance for him, his hands all over you as the two of you exchange needy kisses for everybody to watch.

And though the lights by the bar are far too dim for anybody to recognize you’re out with somebody beside your fiancé, a part of you doesn’t care.

Bastard. Facilitator of cheating. Homewrecker.

Sometimes you and Minho joke about the names they’d call him if they found out. Every derogatory term under the sun, like they haven’t already thought it of him for being quieter than Jung’s douchebag friends. And yet they also fail to see he’s more kind, more attentive and more loving than any of them could ever bring to the table in the presence of their own wives.

You also know they won’t find out- not when you’re virtually invisible to Jung and his friends when he’s not showing you off like some trophy to be won. When corporate holiday parties arise, or the need for an even number of golf participants makes itself known, Jung’s there without hesitation, grasping your hand between his clammy fingers and recounting days of when you’d met.

And yet none of his stories involve the present you. They fail to include your successes at work, or the books you’ve taken a liking to recently, or even the valiant efforts you’ve put into decorating your shared space with him, despite his complete lack of assistance. His stories of you exclude the liking you’ve taken to “yoga retreats” recently. And they definitely don’t know you can gut a fish like your life depends on it.

“This wine is better than the last one,” you say to Minho, as he pours himself a glass and slips a crystal stopper into the spout.

“It cost me less than the loaf of bread,” Minho replies with a breathy chuckle. “I don’t think we’ll ever stop favoring cheap convenience store wine.”

You swirl the cherry red color around in your glass, admiring the way the liquid forms a little whirlpool and settles once again, the strong scent wafting upward in the process.

“Notes of cherry, wood, french vanilla and… pocket money,” you say to Minho wafting the scent up even further with a wave of your hand.

He laughs at your words, taking a sip from his own glass and smacking his lips together once.

“Undertones of fruit and nuttiness. And maybe penny pinching, like in our college days,” Minho replies, the two of you chuckling as you set your glasses down.

You look out at the view from his balcony window, the darkened sky providing little to see at this hour, but still outlining the silhouettes of the trees and the bushels that line his apartment terrace.

“The time passed us by so fast,” Minho says in a somber tone, not turning to face you. You keep your gaze on the trees outside, thinking over your shared actions over the past few weeks. It’s been nothing short of thrilling going behind Jung’s back the way you do, but you’re also aware that with every meetup, you’re a day closer to tying the knot with Jung, preparing for a lifetime of permanence alongside the same person you’ve never felt so unsure about before now.

You turn to face him finally, a sad smile on your face as he waits for your answer.

“I wish we did something about this earlier,” you respond finally, taking note of the glow in his eyes as you speak. He looks marvelous at this proximity to you, so attainable and so enchanting all at the same time.

“Did something about what?”

“This,” you emphasize. “Us.”

Minho blinks nervously a few times, and then he cocks his head slightly as he waits for you to continue, too scared to affirm your words with thoughts of his own first.

“All this time I was trying to validate the fears inside of me surrounding this wedding,” you explain to him. “And then there was you, the same person who makes them nearly nonexistent. I wish we did something about it earlier so that maybe the fear was just lessened to begin with.”

Minho nods nervously, as he understands very well now that you’re on completely separate pages.

Minho, who wishes he could shake some sense into you and confess that this isn’t just some physical endeavor soul-searching the way it is for you- that he’s so madly in love with you, and that he chases the reminder of your permanence because the ivy that constricts his veins will surely kill him in your absence.

And thus, he takes what he can get- you, at your most vulnerable moments, unloved and uncherished by Jung, just seeking a kindly ear and maybe a warm body to remind you that there is some semblance of comfort to be felt in the interim.

And yet you, who only partakes in this fleeting act of physical yearning because you’re scared of commitment to Jung, who maybe doesn’t fulfill you every way you wish he would all the time. So you go behind his back, and you chase the fulfillment yourself, and you act upon the fears and the anxieties that have always circled your mind in the presence of Minho.

Maybe he likes you, maybe he’s jealous, maybe he wants to fuck you.

Statements you’ve heard throughout the entirety of your friendship, ones you couldn’t help but ponder, too, as Minho would grow painfully quiet with Jung in the room. But ones you always brushed off, telling yourself that the two just don’t click. And yet the arousal present with the fear makes for some of the most pleasurable moments together in the privacy of Minho’s home, albeit for Minho, on time begged and borrowed from you. The affair with Minho is not indicative of permanence in any form, and yet it exists to confront your very fear of permanence.

Selfish? Surely. Contradictory? In every sense of the word. The concerns raised to you by Minho himself in any way? Never.

So it remains, this tragic cycle of sleeping with your best friend behind your fiancé’s back, blind to the fact that he’s irrevocably in love with you, in a comfortable state of mind knowing that at least you’ll have felt this state of peace for even just a finite amount of time before you give yourself away to the marriage completely.

And yet it’s a beautiful thing in essence, this shared love between the two of you. A trust instilled so deeply on both sides to give yourselves away to each other every night and close a chapter of what once was, regardless of the differences in how it’s perceived.

The incandescent glow Minho’s tender embraces bring forth in you, no matter the fact that he’s simply grieving a very real, living love that still exists between the two of you. Green leaves of ivy that constrict his throat and force words back down them again, so that he may never admit that he’s jealous, and it’s you, it’s always been you. The same suffocating feeling he ponders late at night, asking himself why he’s been so magnificently cursed to only love you under these circumstances, and never in ones that promise him your permanence in return.

But when you're across from him, a glass of cheap wine in hand and your gentle laughter accompanying his, he can’t help but embrace the grand feeling- tarnished, but still grand.

“Maybe it worked out the way it was supposed to,” Minho settles on saying. “Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be more than this little period of time.”

And there’s a pang of pain in his chest as he utters the words, but he’s met with your small nod in response, visibly comforted by the prospect of his implications.

“Hey,” you say after a moment of silence, sitting up straight and swirling your glass of wine around in your hand again. “There’s a dinner thing Jung’s hosting with some people from the guest list. Don’t say you didn’t get the invite.”

Minho exhales with an audible groan, slouching back in his chair and running his hands through his hair.

“I don’t even like his cooking,” Minho admits frustratedly. “He’s just going to make me feel like an idiot the whole night.”

“But I want you there,” you say to him in a pleading tone. “You’re my best friend. I can’t do this stuff without you.”

“I know you can’t,” Minho replies. “And I don’t want you to have to. But it’s going to be awkward, and painful.”

“I won’t let him cross any boundaries,” you reason with him. “I’ll diffuse anything that comes up. I just want you there, even if it means you’re going to sit there and say nothing. Even that would make me happier than seeing your empty chair all night.”

Minho groans again, swirling his own glass of wine around in his hands and averting your gaze. He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he speaks again, in a reluctant voice.

“He would kill me if he found out, you know. We would never see each other again.”

You feel your heart sink at his words, even the thought of it beyond unnerving to you.

“Why do you say that suddenly?”

“Just… thinking,” Minho finishes.

“Well he has no way of knowing,” you console him. “And I promise to keep things civil.”

Minho thinks for a moment, wanting to press you for more answers about what this even is, about why you’re choosing to let him waste his time like this and what possessed him to agree to attend your pre-wedding dinner as the other man.

But he says nothing, letting a generous sip of alcohol serve as the answer to the requests you press him for- yes, of course he’ll be there, albeit with his long list of fears and reservations. But he’ll do anything, twice even, at your behest.

The ebony wood dining table looks particularly elegant when it’s set up for guests. You line the seats with ceramic white platters, shiny silverware and iridescent glasses, paying special attention to even minute details, such as the direction of the prongs for each fork you place on white nylon napkins. Mixed peonies and birchwood make up the long centerpiece, and tall white taper candles are lit in the bronze candleabras.

And the mood is largely set by the guests, who laugh loudly around the table with glasses of expensive beverages in their hands. They speak of their jobs, and their spouses and pop culture references you can’t be bothered to pay attention to. Your eyes scan the emptiness in their eyes, most of them living lives you can tell they’ve simply settled for. And you wonder, briefly, if they’ve ever experienced the unwavering happiness you do in the presence of Minho. Do they ever crack open a bottle of convenience store wine? Do they still let loose at clubs every now and then? Could they gut a fish if they caught one?

You respond to their stories with little nods and fake chuckles, and your head snaps in every direction past your guests to the front door.

Minho’s fashionably late tonight, or at least you hope he is, still holding on to the promise that he’s going to be here. And Minho’s many things- but he’s not dishonest. He’ll show if he says he will, albeit for a few minutes each time when it involves Jung. But he’ll still show, dropping by with a timid smile and greeting the audience before sending you off with a lousy excuse again and leaving his spot vacant for the remainder of the evening. But tonight is different- tonight he’s here as the other man. And you can’t decipher whether that indicates a change in his subsequent actions, that perhaps he won’t show after all, and you’ll be left to your own devices with Jung and his obnoxious friends.

“… And one of our clients is an intern this quarter,” Jung says loudly, as he rants about his work in typical fashion. “Which means I’m going to be carrying most of our partnership.”

The guests laugh and raise their glasses, and you can’t help but wonder how on earth the comment warrants even an ounce of laughter. As Kwang’s wife begins to voice a response, the doorbell rings once, and your head snaps in the direction of the echoing bell.

“I’ll get it,” you say quickly, rising from your seat and smoothing down your skirt. “Excuse me.”

The guests glance briefly in your direction, and then turn their attention back to Jung, who begins to voice another chronicle of his inadequate colleagues. As you march down the hallway, your heart quickens in your chest, admittedly a little nervous to confront Minho after the recent events. You wonder if he’s going to be more awkward, or maybe even shut down entirely around the group. Maybe he’s just here to drop off another cake and send you off with a wave. Endless possibilities you’ve never had to consider when you weren’t actively sleeping with him. You unlatch the front door, taking a deep breath, and then pull it open, your gaze falling instantly onto the standing figure.

And it’s a wave of comfort when he smiles at you, his eyes forming little crescents as he grins and exposes his endearing set of skewed teeth, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips as he does. He’s much more dressed up tonight, in a black collared button down and a black tie, his light brown tresses framing his chiseled jawline so well. And seeing him is more exciting than any other guest you’ve seen tonight, a present urge to pepper him in kisses and remain right here alone, with him.

“Hey,” Minho says in a shy voice.

“Hi,” you respond, trying to stifle the giddy expression on your face from the guests around you who might be looking. “I saved you a seat,” you continue. “Come on.”

Minho enters reluctantly, glancing around the room and giving a small nod to the guests as you direct him to the vacant seat beside you. And somehow, he looks a little more confident, his posture much straighter and a knowing smile on his face as he occupies the seat beside you.

“Hi,” he says to the guests as they meet his gaze, and he even gives a small nod to Jung, who shoots him a subtle scowl.

“Jung,” Minho voices, gesturing to the table. “Pleased to be here.”

Jung just nods at Minho, and then goes back to telling a story of his business accounts.

But your attention is everywhere except for Jung’s story, hardly even able to take your gaze off Minho’s. His eyes sparkle under the hanging pendant lamp, his lips pulling into a little smirk as you watch him with such fascination. There’s something so enticing about the prospect that nobody here knows he’s fucked you, several times since the last time they saw him, and he’ll likely do it tonight when Jung thinks you’re out with a group of girlfriends. They don’t know the world you two have effectively built together, romantic nights of cooking intricate dinners together over glasses of cheap wine. And they don’t know the history you two share, years of walking through your fears and uncertainty alongside one another and bettering yourselves in the process. He’s your other half in so many ways, and you’re not sure it’s something anybody except the two of you could even begin to comprehend.

You watch as Minho picks up a bottle of wine from the table, rotating it in his grasp and examining the contents. It’s one of Jung’s favorites, an expensive bottle of zinfandel he picks up from a special market a few hours out of the city. And it all tastes the same to you anyway, pairing just fine with steak or fish or even fast food at 3am. In fact, it’s subpar in comparison to Minho’s favorites, which taste like safe intimacy, laughing at comedy reruns and love-making under the warmth of his blankets.

“Anyways,” Jung voices loudly, finally garnering your attention from beside him. “We’ve never been more ready for this honeymoon. I need tropical weather and some margaritas.”

“Amen to that,” Kwang chimes in, raising his glass for the nth time tonight.

I hate warm weather, you want to say. I wish it was Shirakawa, under the safety of the prayer hands thatched roofs and blankets of snow.

“If we don’t come back, just know we opted to stay,” Jung then says. “I’ll stay golfing on the beach and you guys can tough out the rest of winter here.”

Cue the obnoxious laughter, fake smiles, raised glasses.

“You’ll have the whole trip to help on her form,” Kwang says loudly, gesturing over to you with the wine bottle in hand.

“We went golfing the other day, and let’s just say there’s ample time for improvement.”

Roaring laughter, unsightly grins and clinking glasses.

And Minho glances over at you, who keeps a smile on your face at the stupid remark.

It’s exactly this that keeps him from acting upon the urge- you look content. You don’t argue, you don’t maintain a blank expression. Instead you smile, and you agree with his friends and your eyes look like they’re still on the same page of devoting entirely yourself to this less-than-desirable relationship you flaunt. Minho knows he’s just a stepping stone in this chapter, and that he’s going to come out of this hurt. But he also knows that despite your fears, you’re content, and he’s not going to insert himself between the love that you deserve, though it may take a while to materialize fully.

You glance over at Minho with a nervous smile, silently hoping he’ll say something. Just ask me to run away with you, you want to say. Tell me to run, and I’ll meet you there. Wherever.

But you know he won’t dare, too set on the idea that this is still what you want. So he’ll remain like this, in the unfamiliar atmosphere of a dining table you share with another man, and he’ll let himself face what becomes of it in due time.

“Are you okay?” Minho asks quietly, leaning in to fill your glass with more expensive wine.

“Peachy,” you say with a smile. And one he returns, shooting you another gentle smile and nodding at your confirmation.

The two of you listen as Jung segues into another story about his business client, and Minho’s leather heel finds your ankle under the table, grazing it softly as you stifle a smile.

There’s no sexual implication rooted in his actions, maybe not not even romantic implication, as his heel moves up and down the back of your bare calf. It’s just a reminder to say this will always be of permanence.

Minho’s hands work up and down the sides of your waist as he kisses you, smiling against your lips as you slot yourself between his legs and grasp the back of his neck.

He kisses Jung’s expensive wine back into your mouth, the flavor complementing the mouthwatering look he sports this evening, and you have to remind yourself several times to slow down.

“This looks so good on you,” you say with a smile, fidgeting with his tie and loosening it from around his neck.

“It’s the same one I always wear,” Minho says with a chuckle. “I can’t be bothered to buy a new one.”

“Don’t buy a new one. I want this one. I want it to be this one every time.”

Minho laughs lightly, a form of verbal agreement, and then he pulls you a little closer to him, rubbing little circles in the small of your back as you stay close in his embrace. He’s sprawled out on his couch, strands of hair hanging delicately in his face as he steadies you in his hold over him, his pink lips visibly swollen from having kissed you for the better part of an hour now.

“Tell me something about Shirakawa,” you ask him innocently, unfastening the first few buttons of his collared dress shirt.

”Anything?” Minho responds, bringing an arm up to rest casually behind his head.

“Anything. Something dreamy.”

“Hm,” Minho hums in response. “There are rice fields, and lily ponds and green orchards,” he says finally. “We can walk through all of them without a care in the world, and we can get drunk off little glasses of sake.”

“And the whole town can be ours,” you chime in, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his toned chest.

“The whole town,” Minho echoes. “It can be whatever we want it to be.”

“As long as you’re there,” you tell him, trailing your kisses lower and undoing the line of buttons as you near his navel

“Anything you want,” Minho exhales in a dreamy tone. “Say it and it’s yours.”

His eyes shut instinctively as the last of his buttons are undone, exposing his chest to you and promptly covered in eager kisses as you trail down to his hardening cock in his pants.

And his arms rest lazily behind his head, feeling completely taken care of, so needy always for your delicate touch. Your nimble fingers work to graze in slow back and forth motions over his flesh, and then you hoist yourself up a little higher to straddle your hips over his crotch.

“Thank you for showing up tonight,” you say to him in a sweet voice. “It means everything to me.”

“Anything you want,” Minho says for the second time tonight. “Say the word and I’m there.”

“You’re my best friend,” you voice to Minho. “I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

And the utterance of a friend doesn’t even sting for him anymore. It’s fact- you belong to each other, time and time again, as friends, and lovers in the evening, and everything else in between. He doesn’t fight it, because he’s grateful for any role he can play amidst the grand role you play in his.

“Are you hard?” You ask a little quietly, a knowing smile on your face as you rock your hips gently over his.

“A little,” Minho replies, though he’s in no rush to have you take care of it. It’s enough exactly like this, your bodies intertwined together and infatuated with each other in the secrecy of his home.

“You want me to take care of you?” You then ask, one hand trailing up to wrap lightly around his throat.

And as your slender fingers graze the column of his neck, it’s clear to you at this angle. Sticking out like a sore thumb, so glaringly wrong and indecent from this proximity.

Your left ring finger, completely bare, your engagement ring nowhere to be seen.

At first you’re sure you’re hallucinating, pulling your hand back quickly to examine the thin tan where your finger meets your knuckle, one that’s usually covered by the gleaming jewelry. But as you rotate your finger around under the dim lighting, you confirm it’s not in fact some illusion- your engagement ring is gone.

Minho sits up a little, craning his neck a little to examine your worried expression.

“Y/n?” He questions, taking note of the way your eyes remain fixed to your hand. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s not here,” you say simply.

“What? What’s not here?”

“My ring,” you say a little more panicked, climbing off him and glancing around the coffee table.

“Where’s my ring?” You question, moving aside stacks of books and magazines atop the glass table. Minho sits up, glancing around too, searching desperately for the little piece of silver jewelry.

“Let’s stay calm,” Minho says as he stands up. “It has to be around here. When was the last time you saw it?”

“I can’t remember,” you say in a panicked tone, now scrambling to the kitchen and searching the marble counters.

“Okay,” Minho says calmly. “Was it- do you ever take it off to wash it?”

“I never take it off,” you reply. “I never take it off, why the fuck isn’t it on my finger?”

“Let’s stay calm,” Minho repeats. “It has to be in here-”

“Calm?” You finally retort, turning to face him with tears pricking your eyes. “You want me to stay calm? Jung’s going to kill me, do you know how fucking expensive that thing was?”

“Of course,” Minho says, buttoning up his shirt as he continues to search. “Which is why we’re going to find it.”

And you don’t reply for several moments, still frantically scanning the kitchen counters for any sign of your ring. But it’s a moot point, every napkin you unball containing nothing, nothing in the trash cans Minho searches through, even the dishwasher thoroughly searched, to no avail.

And you can’t help but to cry, tears falling nonstop from the corners of your eyes as you rush about the kitchen and think of every worst-case scenario. This is it. Confronting Jung about it means he’s going to know what’s been going on, chew you out about the cost of the ring and your carelessness toward it. And then call off the wedding, and every single one of your friends will know you’re a cheater and a liar.

“It’s not fucking here,” you cry out to Minho, halting your movements to bury your face in the palms of your hands, letting yourself emit muffled sobs into the sleeves of your sweater.

“It has to be,” Minho says, glancing once more around the room, and then approaching you to pull you in for a hug.

“Don’t,” you order, pushing him away from you, and Minho furrows his brows together. “Just don’t fucking touch me right now.”

Minho gives a breathy chuckle, thinking at first you might be joking, and then his expression softens as he realizes you’re being completely serious.

“What- seriously? That’s it?” Minho questions.

“What?” You say with a choked sob. “I can’t find my fucking engagement ring. The one I was given to get married, in case you forgot. Sorry I’m not in the mood.”

Minho scoffs lightly, placing his hands on his hips and shaking his head. And then he meets your gaze once more, a solemn expression on his face.

“What are we doing?”

“What?” You query in response.

“What the fuck are we doing?” Minho repeats. “What the fuck are you doing here if you’re getting married?”

You shrug frustratedly, wiping tears with the back of your hand and saying nothing in response.

“No, answer me,” Minho commands, his voice raising a little. “What are we doing, going behind his back like this? You come here almost every night spewing your bullshit about Shirakawa and suddenly it’s my fault that you can’t find your fucking engagement ring? I mean, who even cares?”

“Who cares?” You retort. “I do. I’m getting married-”

“Exactly,” he interrupts. “So then what the fuck are we doing? Go get married, for fuck’s sake. Will you just leave, for good then?”

“You want me to walk out of your life just because I’m getting married?”

“I want you to leave because I’m in love with you,” Minho says finally, and a deafening silence washes over you two.

For a moment, all that’s heard are your echoing sniffles and Minho’s heavy breathing, as he struggles to find the words to continue.

“You really don’t see it in the way I look at you? You really haven’t realized I’m only okay being the other man because I’ll take any fucking version of you I can get at this point?”

Your gaze fixes on his, taking note of the way tears prick at the corners of his eyes, too.

“I’ve been in love with you for all these years,” Minho says, his voice coming out in a choked sob. “And what a waste, all these talks of Shirakawa when I’ve known all along it was always going to be him in the end.”

His words circle your mind with a sense of urgency, as you struggle to respond.

You have known it, maybe even reciprocating by this point, but knowing that you can’t, not when you’re getting married in mere weeks. You’re happy, and you’re safe here with Minho. But in terms of love, this isn’t permanent. It’s a fleeting thing, one that has to end like this as you approach the next chapter of the rest of your life.

And yet it hurts, like a knife pierced deep into an existing wound, like thick vines of ivy that caress your veins and pull tightly with every thought of it being Minho all this time, all these years.

“I love you,” Minho says almost sheepishly, throwing his hands at his sides in defeat. “I’ve always loved you. I love you in loud bars and over cheap bottles of wine. And I’m jealous- god, I’m jealous,” Minho admits in a choked sob. “And it’s killing me. I can’t do anything about it except watch you plan a life with somebody I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing was me instead.”

Your lips part to say something, but you can’t, simply wiping the tears that fall onto the sleeve of your sweater.

“I love you in the hands of another man and I’ll still love you if you choose him. But I can’t do it at this proximity to you anymore.”

“Minho, please-”

“There’s nothing else,” Minho says, gasping back his tears. “This is it for us.”

You watch as he exhales deeply, wiping his tears and gesturing back to the kitchen.

“Did you check the soap dish?” Minho then says in a quiet voice.

“What?”

“The soap dish,” he clarifies somberly. “For your ring.”

And Minho watches as your gaze falls to the stainless steel soap dish across the room, a bristle pad sponge occupying the rectangular dish, alongside the familiar glint of your silver engagement ring.

One you removed to ensure you didn’t lose it among the plate of pin bones from the cod you helped Minho prepare. And one you hadn’t even realized has been missing from your finger for several hours now.

Your gaze falls back to Minho’s before you retrieve the ring, and his eyes are swollen and mournful. There’s not a glint of hope present between you two- not in friendship, and certainly not in love.

And neither of you say another word as you pivot on your heel to collect the symbol of yours and Jung’s ode to permanence.

The polyester-spandex mix of your reception dress is much itchier than you remembered it to be. It’s a simple white piece, long and cascading behind the heels you’ve chosen, a generous v-cut enhancing the curve of your breasts as you adjust the hem in the mirror.

“Is it more comfortable than your wedding dress?” One of the bridesmaids questions with a smile.

You shoot her a somber smile, nodding at her and fidgeting with the long sleeve of your dress.

“Yeah. It is.”

“It should be,” she responds kindly. “Remember, try not to step on the bottom or we’ll have to get it cleaned off before the real thing.”

You nod at her, checking your reflection once more in the full-length mirror across from you. You love the woman you embody- she looks elegant, and sure of herself and well on the path to a lifetime of stability and happiness.

And yet the girl inside of you can’t feel further from the perception.

You want nothing more than to climb out of the tight-fitting dress and leave all of this, damn this rehearsal dinner to hell and call off the wedding. But this is it- the final stretch. Guests at every corner assume their positions and practice where they’ll stand and how they’ll move about so elegantly as you say your vows.

Jung seems so sure of himself, adjusting the cuffs of his suit and shooting you a wink from across the room as you stare blankly. And you can’t reciprocate, still far too preoccupied with the events of last week to care about any of this. Minho sending you off, the ultimatum to choose between your fiancé and the best friend you’re in love with.

Of course you couldn’t choose Minho, whose role in most of this has been to help lessen your fears and prepare you for a lifetime of giving yourself to Jung. And yet somewhere along the way, you couldn’t help but wonder if that was even true, completely smitten with every part of him, too. The fact remains that you’re in love with him, and yet you’ve both been so magnificently cursed to keep it at a comfortable distance and pray that in some version of this story, it’s you guys in the end.

Your family saunters about the venue in their fancy dressed and suits, and your guests chat amongst themselves and sample the foods that have been laid out for them. And your mind circles with images of Minho, and Minho and more Minho. And what he would look like, instead of Jung, waiting at the end of the aisle for you with a toothy grin and tears in his eyes. The cheap wine you’d choose to cater, just a handful of guests the way you know he’d want it. And an innocent, undemanding love shared between the two of you, sealing your promise to each other with a tender kiss and his breathy laugh.

Yet the fantasy is fleeting, it’s rooted in the delusion of a cheater, in every sense of the word, and it would effectively ruin your life had it come to fruition.

“Which way do we go from here?” Jung questions loudly, and your head snaps up in his direction.

“From here you’ll go to the right, just past the foyer there,” a coordinator responds. “Make sure to smile when you’re walking down an aisle at any given point.”

Stupid. The whole thing feels stupid.

“Did you get that?” Jung questions, and you nod meekly.

“Sure.”

“Let’s take five,” a coordinator says, clasping her hands together.

Jung resumes a conversation with the groomsmen beside him, and your eyes fall to the vacant seat across the table, where Minho’s meant to be sitting. A small white folded card rests delicately on a white platter, his name scribbled in loopy cursive to reserve his spot.

Lee Minho.

And you read his name over a dozen times, replaying every last word of your conversation in your head and wondering what he’d do if he were here. Probably criticize the wine, or make faces at Jung’s phony speeches. And love you from afar, but with his entire heart, regardless.

“What do you think so far?” Jung leans in to whisper.

“Yeah,” you reply, nearly evading the question altogether.

Your eyes scan the room at the carefully placed decorations- rows of lantern lights, white tablecloths and organized dishes for the guests, tapered candles are lit at every table. And in the center, bushels of magenta flower arrangements in cylindrical glass vases.

Magenta.

Your eyes do a double take, carefully examining the color as you furrow your brows. Magenta. Neon, obnoxious shades of magenta at every table. Nothing within the realm of the baby pink you requested. Harsh on the eyes and contrasting repulsively against the rest of the decor.

“The flowers are magenta,” you say to Jung quietly.

“Hm?”

“The flowers,” you repeat. “Are magenta.”

“Yeah,” Jung says, audibly a little confused. “They’re nice, right?”

“I said pink,” you respond. “Baby pink. These aren’t pink.”

Jung furrows his brows together, and then he cocks his head at the floral displays set upon each table.

“You’re right,” he then replies. He snaps his fingers at a staff member, and then he gestures to the floral displays.

“These aren’t pink,” he says harshly. “She requested pink and not magenta. Could we get these swapped out, please?”

A coordinator jots something down in a small notepad, and then gives him an understanding nod.

“That’s what we’re paying you guys for, right?” Jung asks sarcastically. “Come on, don’t let us settle for magenta flowers.”

And when he turns back to you, his chuckles get quieter as he observes the displeased expression on your face.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” You ask him quietly.

“What?”

“Why are you ordering them around like that? They’re just flowers.”

“What? But you just said-”

“You never make things feel like less of a big deal,” you say quietly, a little scoff escaping your lips as you speak.

“What are you talking about?”

“You just take something and run with it. You don’t make things feel like less of a problem than they are. You’re supposed to comfort me, or find the good in magenta flowers. Not yell at the service workers.”

Jung laughs nervously, taking your words for a joke at first, and other guests begin to stare across the table as they watch you rise from your seat.

“And why is the wine so fucking expensive?”

“Please, sit down,” Jung says nervously, waving the guests off as they shoot him concerned looks.

“No, I don’t want to.”

And as you search for the words to say, your heart beating erratically, you realize it’s exactly this that you’ve stopped yourself from doing all this time. Fighting back. Using your voice the way Jung so comfortably weaponizes his against you. Letting your emotions spill out from the years they’ve been bottled up inside of you, and finally coming to terms with the fact that this isn’t the life you want at all.

It’s Minho you love, it’s always been Minho and it’s always going to be Minho.

“I don’t want this,” you say to Jung, as you smooth down your dress and stand up.

“Please, sit,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you say in a shaky voice. “You don’t fulfill me, you haven’t touched me in weeks, I don’t think you even know that I asked for baby pink flowers, because you’re too busy showing off to all the shitty people you call friends. I don’t think we have ever been friends.”

All of the guests keep their gazes on you, taken aback by your words, but you don’t care, continuing your rant while they watch in horror.

“I hate expensive wine,” you say to Jung. “I want to go on a honeymoon somewhere it snows. I want to watch comedy movies, and go camping and be so madly in love it hardly feels like it some days, because we’re also such good friends when we’re not completely infatuated with each other.”

Jung doesn’t say anything, glancing nervously around the table as the coordinators maintain their silence, too. Your chest rises and falls with gasped breaths as you try to hold back from crying in front of them. And then you shrug, before finishing your speech.

“At the end of the day, there’s the man who tells me how to golf,” you say in a shaky voice. “And there’s the man who guts a fish alongside me, mess and all.”

Jung frowns at your words, visible confusion painting his features.

“What?”

“I have to go,” you say to him, sparing him any sort of explanation.

The hem of your dress is balled into the palms of your hands and pulled up to give yourself room to walk, as you kick off your heels and begin to exit the venue. And before you do leave, you pivot around one last time, letting your gaze meet Jung’s visibly irate expression.

“Here,” you announce, pulling the silver band off your ring finger and setting it down on the tablecloth.

“If you’re going to make a big deal out of anything, at least let it be this.”

The polyester-spandex mix of your reception dress isn’t made to run in. It’s much too long, the fabric bunches up at the sides and its bright white color begs to be kept indoors only. And yet you run- and you don’t stop, not even for a second, until the reception building is completely out of your sight, disappearing beyond the trees and the tall grasses that surround it.

Your bare feet scrape the squelching mud that surrounds the grassland after the recent rains, and overhead, the piercing blue sky and a harsh sun beams down over you in encouragement. And you normally hate blue skies and green grasses like this, always equating them to Jung’s stupid golf courses and the corporate events he’s dragged you to for years.

But today it serves as a sort of blessing, like the world is brighter, lighting your path and guiding you to the beacon that is Minho, and all his unconditional, unwavering love for you. Maybe it took you years to finally acquaint yourself with your emotions like this, and maybe you hadn’t even realized what true love was until Minho. And there’s the possibility, of course, that you’re also too late, and that Minho has already settled on the tragic fact that Jung would always remain a part of you.

And that’s true- he will maintain a role of permanence in your life. He was your first serious boyfriend throughout college, your first fiancé and your first true love before you understood it in a less superficial form. And yet he will also permanently remain the man whose life you walked out on, because he helped you realize he’s nothing near what actually fulfills you.

Once the paved roads are in view again, you waste no time waving down a taxi and uttering Minho’s address to the driver with such urgency. Your dress is caked in mud up to the ankles, and your hair is in complete disarray as you glance out the window at the rows of cars, all belonging to guests here for your dinner rehearsal. And you chuckle briefly, at the thought of them emptying the lot and walking out of your life forever.

Contrastly, Minho’s apartment is in complete disarray, too, as he hoists the last of his immediate belongings into a leather bound suitcase and latches it shut.

What a waste, he thinks to himself. What a waste to have spent so much time comfortably in love with the idea of a finite soulmate, and at such close proximity, too. You’re probably off at your rehearsal dinner, sampling finger foods and laughing at all of Jung’s surface-level conversation.

And he’ll never know you the way Minho knows you. He will never comprehend your fears, your reservations, all your little quirks and the things that make you tick. He’ll never fully understand the prospect of being so bound to somebody in both friendship and love that it’s almost indistinguishable what you are to each other. Perhaps that’s where you went wrong, too- because Minho knows it, that his role in your life has always been to love you, near, far and at every point in between. And yet you deem it just a fleeting thing, one implying an end.

There is no discernible point between the end of my friendship and my love for you, Minho wishes he could tell you. Just like the promise of my friendship to you, it’s a blossoming thing, this beautiful phenomenon. And we can run with it, or we can let it die like this- but it will always remain of permanence.

The chestnut suitcase is hoisted into the trunk of his car, also littered with boxes and duffel bags of his belongings. It’s a vulnerable feeling, to pack up and move on like this. Not forever- just for the duration of which you’ll be uttering your vows to Jung. He can’t bear to be in the same city as any of it, he refuses to let himself love at the proximity of you dolled up in a wedding dress, in the sacred environment of a church surrounded by your family. How could a higher power accept the felicitations of the same man who’s been fucking you behind the groom’s back? Within the four walls of which transforms hate to love, and sin to virtue?

What a waste, Minho concludes again. What a waste to have loved this deeply, and to pacify your fears only for another man to reap the benefits. Try as Jung might, he’ll never know you the way Minho does. And the vast trench that separates you from Jung, one which paints a clear divide of friendship and his superficial love for you- that will remain permanent, too.

As Minho starts up the engine, the last of his belongings all packed and ready to go, he glances around the neighborhood with a somber expression. The sun glares down on the empty concrete roads, birds circling the sky like there’s any reason to celebrate. Maybe they’re ravens, and maybe they circle in a mourning ritual. The only event fitting for an afternoon like this one, as Minho prepares to leave for his parents’ house- like the coward he knows he is.

His apartment grows smaller with every passing inch he drives down the concrete road, and a trembling hand reaches up to adjust his rear view mirror, letting out a deep exhale as he prepares to leave all this behind.

And as the faint outline of his apartment grows smaller, a white figure behind him grows bigger.

It starts as a fleeting blur, maybe a shadow, or perhaps the glint of the sunlight in his mirror. But as he quickens the push of his foot to the gas pedal, it grows faster, too, catching up to the drag of his car along the concrete and approaching him with such purpose.

An apparition of sorts, he thinks momentarily.

I’m fucking seeing things. I’ve officially lost it.

But as the frantic call of his name floats through the air and into the crack of his car window, his eyes widen, the lag of his brain finally reaching a halt as he slams on his brakes and throws open the door.

And in rushed motions, he’s climbing out to face you, doubled over as you catch your breath and hold a hand up in surrender.

“Stop!” You shout, waving your hands and motioning for him to cease his movements.

And Minho’s eyes don’t get any smaller, maintaining their shocked expression as he waits for you to speak.

Your white dress, tainted brown up to your knees in mud and grass. Even your face is muddy, streaks of it painting the otherwise stunning face of makeup you flaunt. And you speak in pleading gasps as you finally break the silence between the two of you.

“It’s you,” you say to Minho sheepishly.

“What are you-”

“It’s you, it’s always been you,” you breathe out. “I was so stupid, and I left as soon as I could comfortably come to terms with it. It’s you I love, Minho. Not Jung and not the idealized version of that life I created in my head. I can’t do any of this without you, and I can’t live the rest of my life without having said something. I love you- now, and in ten years time and I want to spend the rest of my life gutting fish alongside you- mess and all.”

Minho doesn’t say anything for a moment- in fact, he wears a poker face as he watches you continue to catch your breath. And then he scoffs lightly as he shakes his head.

“You waited until the day of your wedding to say something?” Minho retorts frustratedly.

“Rehearsal dinner,” you correct him. “This is just a dinner dress.

“Regardless,” Minho says. “I mean, what are we doing? There’s another man waiting for you, and we’re here doing something we should’ve done years ago if it was meant to be in the slightest.”

You feel your heart drop at his words, confirming the theory you’d feared the most. Too late.

“Please,” you beg, and Minho shakes his head.

“We’re terrible people,” he then states, his voice trembling in the process. “Cheaters, and liars. And this is far too rooted in dishonesty and selfishness to be love.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you watch Minho scan your expression. And perhaps he’s right- but it can’t be anything except for love, not when it feels this right with him.

“Where are you going?” You ask Minho quietly, moving a strand of muddied hair out from your eyes.

“My parents’ place,” he replies.

And you give him a small nod, pivoting on your heel to walk out of his life, forever.

Except it’s the realization of this that causes you to turn back around-

There is no forever in the absence of Minho- not when he plays a role of permanence.

He will forever be the man you fell in love with, the man you’ve been in love with for years, one you risked your life to come find and one who’s defined the limitations of what it means to be a best friend and simultaneously a lover.

That will remain with you always, and near, far and everywhere in between, the love will exist the way it always has.

“Loving me was the most selfish thing you ever did,” you call out to Minho, and he turns back around to meet your gaze.

“And yet you did it anyway,” you continue. “You made love to me and you drank my fiancé’s wine and we’re in love so selfishly at this proximity to each other. But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re in love, and that I’m not going back to Jung. And leaving here- depriving yourself of the love you’ve wanted for so long, that’s also a selfish move. You can go as far as you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that the love is still here between us.”

Minho’s lips part to say something, but he doesn’t, instead blinking nervously as he waits for you to finish.

“And at the end of the day, there’s the man who tells me how to golf, and there’s the man who teaches me how to gut a fish, mess and all,” you finally finish.

Minho stays silent, pondering your words, and scanning your expression.

And truth be told, he wants to take you in his arms and run, hearing the words he’s longed to hear all his life. But he stops himself, instead emitting a breathy chuckle from his lips and shaking his head.

“Well what do you propose?” He finally asks, cocking his head as he awaits your reply.

And his response is a weight off your shoulders, as you sigh deeply and shrug in his direction.

“I propose we let ourselves be selfish,” you say to him. “And we spend the rest of our lives seeking forgiveness together.”

Minho chuckles, taking careful note of the way your eyes sparkle as you approach him. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you so relaxed before, and certainly not so sure of yourself. You look like the woman he’s loved both near and far, exuding confidence and passion and unwavering comfort in your demeanor. His best friend and his lover, he thinks encouragingly, as he cups his hands around your cheeks and pulls you in for a tender kiss, one that confirms your proposal and implies all of this permanence.

The roads are still empty in the dull afternoon of the hour, Minho maneuvering the car with one hand as you sit beside him in the passenger seat, your hands intertwined over the center console as the harsh blue sky and bright hues of green grass melt into blurs of color beside you. And he speaks only of Shirakawa as he drives, promising you beautiful snowfalls and chilly walks along the lily ponds upon your arrival.

You can picture everything as the tales escape his lips, full of life as you imagine the brown farmhouses and green hills, where you and Minho promise to love selfishly under the prayer hand thatched roofs, the very place your forgiveness will coincide alongside the permanence.

And as he brings the back of your hand to his lips for a chaste kiss, he can feel the green vines of ivy loosen around his soul, but this time you feel it too, viridian leaves finally putting distance between your venules and their harsh grasp. And perhaps it wasn’t grieving all along, but love for you- love which you’re full of, too.

The vines tangle themselves beautifully between your seated figures, blossoming flowers and color and placing life back into you both.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Minho can finally breathe.

#stray kids #skz #skz smut #lee know fic #lee know smut #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #stray kids hard hours #skz scenarios #lee know stray kids #lee know #🌷 anon #request #Spotify

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fayes-fics · 6 months

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It Had To Be You: Epilogue - Wonderful You

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: How would you sum up your love story?

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f) cunnilingus. Err, there is also some swearing and soppy stuff, too.

Word Count: 1.5k

Author's Note: A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. This is the little decorative bow I wanted to wrap up this fic up with. If you've seen the original film, you know there are vox pops between 'chapters' where couples tell their love stories. This is my tribute to/explanation of that in this AU. Thanks to @colettebronte for betaing. Thank you again for reading this story, I hope you all enjoy this smidge of filth and humour! <3

When his phone lights up and vibrates on the pillow next to yours for the third time, the name HY flashing bright, you reluctantly realise you have to say something.

You slide one hand down under the covers to shake his shoulder lightly. “Ben…. Ben, your phone…” you stutter, not wanting to do anything to stop the wondrous sensations coursing through your body, but concern overrides your want for pleasure.

“I'm doing some of my best work here, you know…” he protests silkily, muffled against your body, curling his tongue around your clit in a way that makes your knees tremble and goosebumps break out over your limbs.

“Ngggg, fuck, I know you are, baby,” you moan, “but this is the third time it’s ringing, and now you’ve got a big text pop-up saying SOS…” you stumble out.

There is a rustling of sheets, and his handsome face appears, glistening with your arousal in the ray of Mediterranean sun that cuts across the bed.

“Whoever is interrupting us better have a damn good reason; they all know this is our honeymoon,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and crawling up over you, pecking a kiss onto the tip of your nose before reaching for his phone. As he does, it starts vibrating in his hand again.

“What?” he answers gruffly, in the way only siblings ever greet each other.

You watch as he pulls a variety of faces that make you giggle, pinned under him, his erection pressed distractingly into your left thigh.

“Hy…,” he groans after a bit, dropping his forehead onto your sternum. “How does any of this constitute an SOS?” he sighs wearily.

You can tell her answer is sarcastic by the strains of voice you hear from the phone as it's pressed against his ear.

“The answer, I'm sure, is yes, we will, and now, will you please leave us alone? We are busy…” he says pointedly. “...That's entirely none of your business,” he adds curtly after a beat.

You can easily surmise she guessed precisely what you are doing, and you chuckle. Benedict tilts his head up and shoots you a laden smirk that has you scraping your nails over the nape of his neck and into his luscious, thick hair, canting your body up into him and mewling softly as a hint.

“I'm hanging up now…” he warns, appearing to do just that as his little sister is midsentence.

“What does she want us to do?” you query, turning your head to kiss the flexing bicep that carries his weight as he tosses his phone aside.

He shuffles lower, his lips closing around your nipple, sucking insistently, making you arch under him and gasp.

“She wants us to appear in some documentary she is making,” he explains laconically, his fingers wrapping around the dip of your waist as his breath ghosts warm over the saliva he left, pursing his lips and blowing gently, watching your areola pucker under his attention.

You are rapidly losing the ability to give a shit in this moment but decide to get a little more information before you succumb. “What sort of documentary?”

“Couples talking to camera about their love story,” he hums, swapping to give your other breast the same wonderful treatment.

“She wants our story?” you frown distractedly, slightly non-plussed, running your fingertips along the play of his back muscles as he moves.

“Oh, come on darling, even you have to admit it reads like a film script,” he chuckles, rubbing the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast. “Twelve years, broken relationships, friends, not friends, both of us being idiots for entirely too long…” he trails off as he begins to wind his way back down your body, dropping hot kisses onto your diaphragm and belly.

“Oi,” you protest weakly, “I was not an idiot; I was merely cautious…”

“Sure, my love, a cautious idiot,” he amends, pushing your thighs open around his shoulders unseen under the sheets.

“Fair point…” you concede before crying out as he once again unfurls that magical tongue.

—

“How many couples are you interviewing for this?” you ask as Hyacinth fiddles with a microphone that will be out of shot on the coffee table in front of you.

It is three weeks later, and you are sitting on a two-seater sofa in a nondescript warehouse somewhere in Ealing—a digital camera and lots of bright lights trained on you. It all feels slightly unnerving, making you nervously pick at a tiny fleck of lint on your trousers.

“Oh, about ten or twelve, all sorts of ages and backgrounds,” she elucidates, obviously proud of what she is pulling together for her graduate film project.

“Why did you want us?” you inquire, genuinely intrigued.

“Well, your story is bloody fascinating, and I wanted to have at least one love story from my own family,” she explains. “I tried Kate and Anthony, but they bickered the whole time about what the truth of their story is. Then they started the tonsil tennis. It was too weird, even for me,” she shrugs.

“What do you want us to say?” Benedict checks, attempting to smooth his wayward curl of forehead hair that is always there, doing its own thing.

“Just go with the flow. Be truthful. Say whatever comes to mind; we can always go again,” she answers somewhat nebulously, rounding behind the camera as you exchange uncertain looks. “And ACTION!!” she calls suddenly.

“The first time we met, we hated each other,” Benedict begins.

“No,” you immediately interject, “you didn’t hate me; I hated you. The second time we met, you didn't even remember me!” you argue.

“I did, too! I remembered you! I approached you on the train,” he points out. “The third time we met, we became friends,” he smiles, wrapping a hand around your knee and shooting you a loving glance.

“We were friends for a long time,” you adjoin, nodding, before adding honestly, “Aaaaand then we weren't.”

“And then we fell in love,” Benedict drawls, his tone laden with affection. “Three months later, and we are married!” he holds up his left hand, proudly displaying his shiny new wedding ring.

“It only took three months,” you nod in agreement, then pause, “well… twelve years and three months…”

“We had a really wonderful wedding,” he comments, turning and smiling crookedly at you.

“It really was,” you agree, grinning back.

“It was great. We had a band with salsa dancing,” he explains, leaning into you fractionally.

“Yes, lots of salsa dancing,” you concur, hooking your chin onto his shoulder as he turns his head fully toward you, you matching his little knowing smile, wanting nothing more than to draw him into a kiss.

“Ok… CUT!!” Hyacinth calls.

“What was wrong with that?” he checks, reluctantly peeling his gaze from you to his sister.

“Urgh, you are as bad as Anthony,” she rolls her eyes. “Let's try again, but this time, you know, maybe a bit more story and a shade less mushy?” she suggests.

“Mushy?” Benedict echoes, his brow knitting. “How am I supposed to talk about my wife, the love of my life, and not be ‘mushy’?” he appends with air quotes, as if what he just said casually is not the sweetest thing ever… and makes you want to mount him instantly.

“Y/n, stop eye-fucking my brother,” Hyacinth sighs.

It’s your turn to whip around to her and look indignant. “I am not!”

“Please…” she withers, arching a single eyebrow, and you slouch down a little, realising you are being entirely called out.

“Okay, fine. But tell him to stop doing the same,” you mumble.

“Believe me, I’m trying,” she answers, fiddling with one of the lamps trained on you. “Now okay from the top,” she says. “I liked it until you got to the salsa dancing bit. Please, let's not cover that; it's obviously a trigger topic for both of your hormones,” she eye rolls.

“What do you want us to talk about then?” he shrugs.

“Tell me more about the very first day you met,” she proposes, then circles her finger silently to show she’s recording again.

“So it's the last day of university in the depths of Scotland, and both of us are driving to London...” he starts.

“Excuse me, I was driving my car to London; you very much hitched a ride,” you interrupt again.

“Please, it was your mum’s car. And you refused to give me a Malteser,” he disputes, pouting at you.

“Really? It's been twelve years. And still with the Malteser thing? You could have brought your own, you know,” you remonstrate logically.

“And you could have tried not to make me crash into a bus shelter, but here we are…,” he argues back, shooting you a sideways look that is all challenge and heat—it makes you want to strip him bare.

You can't help it; you lean in and capture his lips this time.

“For fuck’s sake, not these two as well,” Hyacinth mutters, head slumping into her hands.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #it had to be you fic

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auroradamned · 9 months

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Until he did - Eddie Munson x fem!reader

NSFW 18+ mdni

Summary: you think you might be in love with Eddie Munson, but you are convinced he doesn’t feel the same.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, fwb to lovers, oral(f receiving), handjob, vaginal penetration, safe sex, nipple sucking, afab reader, she/her pronouns used, swearing, Robin is a sweetheart, kind of anxious reader, mentions of reader being quite lonely, shy reader, canon divergence(no mentions of monsters or canon typical violence), readers thoughts are extremely lovey-dovey, she is a simp. If I have forgotten anything, please lmk<3.

Word count: 6.8K

You pushed your hands into the dark locks atop Eddie Munson’s head, letting out a heavy exhale as he brought his plump lips to your neck, sucking and licking fervently, fingers leaving a bruising grip on your waist.

‘You wanna take this off f’me sweetheart?’ Eddie asked, a little breathless, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

You nodded quickly, lifting your arms above your head, letting him pull it off you in one swift, skilled motion.

He breathed out through his nose, eyes scouring your nakedness, seemingly memorising every inch of you. It made you nervous.

‘I will never get enough of this,’ he teased, tone husky.

Goosebumps pimpled your body as he looked at you. He always made you feel so beautiful.

‘Eddie,’ you say his name with a whine, desperate for his hands to be on you again.

‘Yes, sweetheart?’ he cooed.

‘Please,’ you breathed. ‘Please…touch me’

He had an undeniable ability to make you beg, if it was anyone else you would get flustered at the thought, but Eddie made you different, more confident, alive.

His pink tongue poked out his pretty mouth ever-so-slightly, eyes on yours as he lay his hands on your bare skin, big palms cupping the expanse of your breast, his ring catching your pebbled nipple, you let out a soft gasp, heat rushing to your centre.

His delicate brown eyes swam with stars as he listened to your nosies, mouth up-turned in delight.

You wished he would look at you like that forever, like you were the only one. You wished he felt the same, you hoped, prayed, dreamed more than anything that you could be his, you wanted to give yourself to him in ways that were more than just sexual.

He didn’t.

You knew that. You had always known that. He had been open and honest from the beginning of your endeavours. You had agreed, because you wanted him, needed him. To feel his skin on yours was a sacred experience for you, and you knew without a shadow of doubt you could devote yourself to him, heart and soul, if he only asked.

He didn’t.

He won’t. You aren’t the only person Eddie Munson was having sex with. Again, you knew that, having known the truth from the start, because he told you, of course he did, first and foremost Eddie was an honest and respectful man who would never do anything to make you uncomfortable.

He made it so easy to fall for him. Too easy.

You told yourself it was fine, and that you were fine, but it had been a month of this, and you were getting weak. You could feel it, cracks appearing in your interior, as you withered away, mind splintering.

Perhaps you're dramatic, but it's difficult not to be around Eddie goddamn Munson. Every time you looked at him was exactly like the first, as if there wasn't enough air left in the world to make your lungs work again. Your eyes burned and your heart ached with the kind of gnawing, stabbing pain that made you want to rip it out. And yet you stayed.

His wet mouth took your hard nipple into its grasp, nibbling gently. Your hands flew to his strong shoulders, taking a shuddering gasp of air.

Eddie moved his head over, continuing his attack of your silky skin, sloppily running his mouth over you. Your insides quivered, as you gasped, rubbing your thighs together to try and create a little friction on your beating clit.

If you were acting like this with any other man, you would feel ridiculous, filthy. However with him, with Eddie, you could never bring yourself to care, he never missed an opportunity to tell you, or show you, how attractive he found you.

He noticed your squirming, and you felt him smirk into your neck, bringing his face up to meet your eyes, his eyes glinting mischievously. You pushed your hands under his faded Judas Priest ‘Defenders of the Faith’ t-shirt, wanting to feel his skin.

You ran your nails over his hips, revelling in the feeling of his cushiony skin. He sighed, closing his eyes, as he let you touch him.

You just stared at his face, tracing the shape of him with your eyes, memorising every tiny detail. The way his eyelashes kissed his flushed cheeks. The shape of his nose, the dusting of freckles across it, summer having brought them out of hibernation. His full lips, with a tiny smile on them, just begging to be kissed.

You restrained yourself, that wasn’t what you guys did, no matter how much your heart screamed for it. Although, in soft moments like this, you didn't think he would stop you if you pressed your mouth to his, and showed him.

Perhaps this would be the only way to tell him. The kiss, a whisper of a thousand feelings that held you hostage every minute of every day. A kiss from him would solve everything.

He ran his rough hands down your sides again, wrapping the string of your cotton shorts around one slender finger.

‘Is this okay?’ he asked, as he always does, pulling the tie undone.

You nod, eager, skin prickling with how hot you felt. Maybe it was the summer heat in the stuffy little trailer, air conditioning having stopped working months ago, Wayne being too busy to fix it, Eddie not knowing how. Maybe it was Eddie, (it was definitely Eddie).

‘Use your words please sweetheart’

‘Yes, s’okay.’ you say, voice thick with desire ‘Do whatever you want.’

‘Dangerous game to play with me, babe.’ he says, voice low.

As if he could ever scare you, those scintillating, doe eyes that wouldn't scare a newborn, and the way he positively dazzled everytime he smiled.

‘If you call anything you do dangerous again, I will laugh in your face.’ you warned, humour lacing your tone.

‘Haven’t you heard m’the freak?’ he asked, placing contusing kisses along your collarbone.

‘I think they call you that for a whole ‘nother reason now’

He laughed heartily at your comment, flashing his pearls, head thrown back. It was thrilling to watch, your tummy coiled as you listened to the sound, your heart bubbling at the fact that you were the one who got him to laugh like this. You couldn’t help but smile as you looked at him.

‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ he queried, tone light and teasing.

You made a noise of agreement as he sank to his knees, pulling your shorts and underwear with him, painfully slow. You wiggled with impatience. His eyes darkened as you were revealed to him, he licked his lips. Looking back to your face he pressed a gentle kiss just below your navel. Your breath faltered, begging him internally to continue his journey downward.

He continued, licking a stripe up your hip bone. You shivered.

‘Wanna lie down baby?’ he asked, standing up to full height once again.

You complied, hastily, stepping fully out of your shorts, making your way over to his messily made bed. His eyes on you were unnerving, his stare intense and unrelenting, it made you shiver as you sat down. You felt exposed.

‘You’re still dressed.’ you stated, eyes wide and desperate, as dark boots stalked towards you.

He chuckled a little before lifting the shirt over his head, throwing it to some far corner of the room.

You drank in the sight of him, his pale skin, although beautiful, was in serious need of some vitamin D. You ran your eyes along the length of his long arms, from his shoulder to the tips of his ringed fingers, moving to his slim waist, before travelling to the dark hair that trailed down his soft tummy disappearing into his tight jeans.

He clicked his fingers in front of your face, ‘My eyes are up here, sweetheart.’ he said, flippantly, shaking his head in mock disgust.

You rolled your eyes, ‘I’ll remind you of that next time you wanna see my tits.’ you replied jovially, crossing your arms over your naked chest.

He bent at the waist, looking down at your face, hands either side of your bare thighs. He was so close to you.

‘No, no, please don’t take them away.’ he begged, an exaggerated pout on his splendid mouth. ‘You can look all you want, pretty girl.’

Your heart gushed at the nickname like a fizzing candy. Sweet and delicious and sickening. You wished he had some sort of idea.

He didn’t.

You smiled. ‘I should think so.’

He chuckled. ‘Lie down.’

You did as you were told, pushing your hands into the sheets in preparation as he lay flat on his stomach.

Gently pulling your legs apart, he devoured the sight of you, eyes on your cunt, wet and wanting.

‘This all for me?’ he asked, gathering your slick on his thick index finger, pushing it into your hot entrance.

‘All for you.’ you whispered, watching him with greedy determination. You hoped he saw the meaning behind your words.

He didn’t.

Eddie pressed his tongue to your weeping hole, dragging it upward to your needy clit, groaning at the taste of you. You sighed at the vibrations, heels lifting off the bed.

He did it again, drawing the hot muscle along the length of your slit teasingly, watching you. Your pretty face pulled into an expression of elated pleasure, mouth agape in a slight ‘O’.

He took your hot little clit between his lips and sucked, the added pressure making you writhe, your stomach pulsating.

He let go with a soft pop. ‘Feel good, baby?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.

‘Uh-huh, yes, Eddie,’ you replied, chest heaving. ‘Mmm…so good.’ your voice excitable and whiny

He took your clit back into his mouth, rubbing a delicate circle with two fingers at your twinging hole.

Dipping his two fingers in, running them along the spongy walls, searching for your sweet spot.

Your hips convulsed, letting out a loud whimper as his fingers curled up into you, brushing your g-spot with every movement. With his free arm, he pushed your hips back down to the mattress, keeping you steady.

Your vision was becoming bleary, and you were finding it too difficult to hold your head up, deciding to let it loll back onto his pillows instead, revelling in the build of your orgasm.

He pushed his tongue to make a point, circling your clit with the tip of it, as he continued driving an onslaught of pleasure into your sensitive cunt.

Your orgasm took over hard and fast, not even giving you a chance to warn him as your fingers gripped his hair, perhaps a little too hard, wrapping your thighs around his head so hard you were sure he couldn’t hear a thing. You let out a cry of ecstasy as pleasure washed over you, white hot, and overpowering.

He continued lapping at your sensitive bud until you gently pushed his head away, attempting to gain control of your breathing.

‘That was incredible, handsome,’ you declared, eyes blown, still breathless.

He ran his hands up your thighs, giving soft squeezes, pulling himself above you. ‘What can I say,’ he mused. ‘I’m a talented man.’

‘Right now, I’m not sure how I’d disagree.’

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kissed the column of his throat, basking in his smell - like oak after rain, and something a little sweet, with an underlying hint of weed. Intricately and perfectly him.

He sat back on his haunches, and you reached over, undoing his belt and jeans. You could feel him, hard, almost throbbing as you pulled out his heavy cock, the weight and size it possessed would never fail to surprise you. A little precum leaked onto your hand, which you brought to your mouth and licked off, watching his expression morph into one of astonishment from lidded eyes.

He let out a groan, emanating deep from within his chest. ‘Whaddya tryna do to me?’ he implored.

‘Seduce you.’

‘Ahh’ he snickered. ‘Seduce.’

‘Is it working?’ you asked, seeking approval.

‘Course it is.’ he uttered, his voice so soft you could cry.

You felt the sudden and hopeless need for his touch again, outstretching your hand toward him. He obliged, linking your fingers together, a smile ghosting his lips, as he glanced at your entwined hands.

You blinked at him, captivated, shuffling ever closer to him. Your knees kissed. Taking your other hand, you wrapped it around the base of his shaft, thick with neat curls of dark hair.

Moving your hand over his length, teasing and slow, licking your lips in anticipation.

Eddie hissed, his head falling backwards, locks of his hair sweeping from his shoulder, behind his head, ‘Not gonna last long if you keep doin’ that, sweetheart.’ he confessed, eyes closed.

You giggled softly, ‘Come do something about it then.’

That snapped him into action, hands grasping the flesh of your waist, lowering you to lie on your back. He sat back again, admiring the sight in front of him, you, aglow with lust, a smile gracing your face.

He stripped the rest of his clothes, all slow and pretty-like, as you watched him, eyes glassy.

He reached over to his bedside table, grabbing a foil-wrapped condom, ripping it open with his teeth, making searing eye contact with you as he slipped in over his beating cock, tip still leaking.

You mewled as he ran his head through the folds of your hot cunt, spreading your release and his saliva.

‘You want this?’ he asked lowly, directly above you, using his free arm to brace himself next to your head.

‘Don’t tease, Eddie.’ you begged, needy to be filled.

‘You make it so easy though.’

You bucked your hips, trying to get anything you could from him.

‘Tell me you want this.’ he spoke again, the same low and sultry tone.

‘Fuck. Yes,’ you whimpered. ‘I want it, I need it.’

‘Good girl.’

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, teasing, splitting your ravenous hole open for him. You choked on a moan, watching him disappear into you, pressing your lips together in a tight line.

‘Lemme hear those pretty sounds babe.’

You opened your mouth as he bottomed out, a squeak escaping your throat. He stilled, letting you get used to the mouth-watering stretch.

‘Please move, Eddie. Please please.’

He pulled out and slammed in again, balls slapping wetly against your ass. As he clutched your hips, leaving a deliciously stinging pain, he did it again, pulling out and in, out and in, an unbelievable force that made your tits bounce and your head reel. A moan ripping from you everytime.

‘Pretty fuckin’ pussy baby,’ he groaned. ‘So fuckin’ needy.’

You clenched down on him at the praise, toes curling.

He began to go faster, keeping one hand on your hip, the other using your bent knee to keep him steady, bumping it to your chest.

‘Fuck, fuck, Eddie, yes!’ you babbled uselessly, as he continued his ceaseless fucking.

He was making almost as much noise as you now, strokes becoming sloppy as he began to reach his peak. Eddie forced his hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing your messy clit.

‘Need ya to cum again, can you do that? Cum f’me again, baby?’ he asked, quick and breathless.

You nodded just as fast, wrapping your hand around his tensed bicep. He rubbed quicker, as the heat in your tummy built again.

Your moans were lewd, nearly pornographic, a string of curses leaving your lips in a whisper.

‘You’re so good, such a good girl, so pretty.’ Eddie praised. ‘You can do it.’

You clenched again letting out a sob. Your eyes filled with tears, your back arching as you came, Eddie thrusting into you one last time, moaning at his own release.

Collapsing his head into your shoulder, both of you trying to catch your breath, you lazily ran your nails up his back.

You sighed at the intimacy of it all, the sex, the two of you lying together after it all, naked and glowing, words not needing to be spoken just yet. You willed him to tell you how he felt the same.

He didn’t.

He shifted from your neck, sitting back and kneading the softness of your tummy, pulling out gently, both of you hissing at the sensation, too sensitive for any movement.

Tying off the condom, and throwing it into the bin next to his bed, flopping down beside you. ‘Woah,’ he breathed. ‘That was goddamn mind-blowing.’

You laughed, nodding in agreement. ‘You sound surprised. We’re always good.’

‘Mhm, I know, but, I mean that was next level.’ He was wide eyed and flushed, so fucking pretty.

You understood what he meant, while the sex was always great, always passionate, tonight, it was different, more powerful. It was dizzying.

Suddenly, he turned, sat up on his elbow and put his palm out flat in front of you, close to your face.

You looked cross eyed at it, and then at his face. ‘What?’

‘High five.’ he demanded, deadly serious.

You snorted, gawping at him. ‘I’m not gonna high five you after we’ve had sex.’ you told him, still laughing.

‘High five me, woman. The way we just fucked deserves something.’ he smiled.

Rolling your eyes, you gave him a high five, grinning as you did so.

‘That was pathetic.’

‘You’re ridiculous, Munson.’

He cackled. ‘Perhaps.’

You groaned, popping your neck before continuing pushing the squeaky cart through the cool grocery store. Relishing the feeling of the air conditioning being pumped through the aisle, a serene relief from the blistering heat outside.

List crinkling in your palm as you tried to find the best net of tangerines, summertime drawing out a craving for them.

The sound of ‘Crimson & Clover’ by Tommy James and the Shondells played through the foam orange of your headphones, shutting out the buzz of the store, allowing you freedom to ponder.

A hand waved in front of your face, interrupting your mulling. ‘Hey.’

You stepped back a little in shock, looking at the offender.

Eddie.

‘Eddie.’ you breathed, taking off your headphones. ‘Hi!’

‘Hey.’ he grinned. ‘Didn’t mean to scare ya, but I said your name like three times.’

‘Sorry,’ you said sheepishly, gesturing to your headphones. ‘Music.’

‘No worries,’ he shrugged. ‘What’re you listening to?.’

You swallowed, feeling put on the spot, wishing your Walkman was playing something that was more him.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you pushed the headphones over his ears, gently moving his hair away from his face.

He listened for a few seconds, looking serious.

‘What’s this called?’ he asked, almost yelling.

You smiled, gesturing for him to remove the headphones.

‘Was I loud?’

‘A little.’ you said, still smiling at him.

‘My bad.’ he shrugged, not looking guilty at all. ‘But what was the song?’

You told him.

‘Hmmm.’ he mused. ‘Interesting, very interesting indeed.’

‘I thought you didn’t like those kinds of songs.’ you remarked.

‘I’m willing to keep an open mind for people I like.’

His words roared in your ears. He was so lovely. So lovely in the most horrid way, the worst way, because it wasn’t even on purpose, he was just like that. Your face was buzzing, so hot you might just combust here and now.

‘You can totally borrow this one.’ you began amicably. ‘If you wanna listen to the whole thing. There’s a whole lot more of ‘em on that too, if ya end up liking the first one.’

‘You sure?’ he questioned. ‘Wouldn’t wanna ruin your groove.’

You gave an exaggerated nod. ‘Totally.’

‘Sick, thanks Y/N.’

Removing the tape from the Walkman with shaking fingers, and holding it out to him. He took it carefully, thumb brushing against yours, placing it in the breast pocket of his denim vest, patting it twice.

‘You know, my friend is having a party tomorrow.’ Eddie began, handing your headphones back. ‘I’d love it if you came.’

You were floored. You were elated. You were nervous.

‘A party?’ you asked, pensively.

You hadn’t been particularly popular in high school, not to say you were bullied, more like people seemed to forget your existence, too quiet to be notable. So parties weren't an area you had a lot of experience in, unless your cousin's sweet sixteenth counted, where you’d spent the evening in a too tight turquoise dress, sporting a big bow on the back of it, a matching one in your hair. You had nursed a lukewarm glass of too sweet a punch the entire time, listening to your uncle tell you exactly how he believed ‘girls your age’ should behave. Safe to say your views didn’t align.

You decided it didn't count.

‘Nothing crazy, scouts honour.’ he assured you, hand placed to the right of his chest.

‘Your heart is more to the other side.’ you informed him.

‘Nerd.’ he jested, gazing at you through dark lashes.

‘You come up with that by yourself?’ you asked, sardonically.

‘As a matter of fact, I did.’ He laughed at his own joke, his laugh was thick, sweet. It was serene. He was alive and beautiful. It made you feel exhilarated.

He became nervous suddenly, quieter, making his fingers walk along a crate of crisp looking apples. ‘So, will you come?’ he swallowed, hard.

You don't think you could ever deny him.

‘Sounds fun, I’ll be there.’

He grinned, suddenly, as if he couldn’t stop himself. A beaming smile that pierced your heart gold, and set it alight. He was insatiable.

‘Awesome, great, I'll pick you up at two.’

You set your spine straight.

‘Oh-I, Eddie you don’t have to do that, I can find my own way there.’ you breathed, desperate to sound casual.

You yearned for him to take you, but you refused to be a burden.

‘Nonsense, we’re goin’ together.’

Together. How long you had longed to hear those words from him. You wanted him to tell you that he wanted to use that word from this day forward, because he wanted to be yours.

He didn’t

‘I don’t wanna put you out.’ you grumbled.

‘I invited you, didn’t I?’ he asked, not waiting for a response. ‘So we go together, I swear I’m fun.’

You stayed silent, deliberating. He had invited you. He must be okay with it.

‘I’ll even let you choose the music.’ he bargained in a sing-songy voice, as if that was what was stopping you.

‘If you’re sure.’

He nodded, earnestly, wide set eyes gleaming.

You conceded, ‘Okay, thank you Eddie.’

‘Two pm sharp, Y/N. I do not tolerate lateness.’ he cautioned, mouth set stern.

‘I won’t be late. Scouts honour.’ you repeated, hand at the left of your chest.

‘Nerd.’ he said, turning and heading towards the exits.

He hadn’t even bought anything.

‘By the way,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘my friend has a pool.’ shooting you a mischievous wink.

Your mouth fell open, you felt your neck heat up, skin prickling.

You left the store in a rush. You forgot your tangerines.

You pulled at a loose thread on your dress. It was a sweet summer yellow, like honey, with a flowing skirt that grazed your knees, chinching a little at the waist, before puffing out at the short sleeves, allowing the sun to kiss your skin. You had paired it with your favourite white Mary Janes, and frilly socks of the same colour, your bathing suit hidden underneath.

You glared at the astray thread before glancing at the clock in your hall. 2.07pm.

So much for not wanting to be late you thought, huffily.

Your face was pulled into a harsh scowl, possibilities swirling in your head on why he wasn’t here.

Perhaps he was lying about inviting you, him and all his friends now sitting at the pool, laughing at how gullible you are, and how excited you looked.

Or perhaps he’s completely forgotten you, and now he’s splashing away without a care in the world while you sit there and wallow.

But neither of those sounded like Eddie, he had never once made you feel like he was using you, or that he thought you were some joke. You don't think he's capable.

As the clock hit 2.09pm you heard his rickety van roar up the street, before coming to a harsh, screeching stop outside your door.

You shot up, gave yourself a once over in the mirror, and grabbed your bag. You weren’t sure what kind of party this was going to be, so you packed a variety of snacks, as well as a large glass bottle of homemade cloudy peach lemonade, a recipe you were extremely proud of. You were unsure if it was weird to bring lemonade to a party, but if it didn’t fit the vibe you would just keep it hidden.

You yanked open the door, and came face to face with a worried looking Eddie.

‘Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry I’m late.’ he practically panted apologetically, eyebrows upturned, eyes pleading.

You shook your head with a smile, ‘No worries, Eddie.’ you lied. ‘You don’t have to apologise’

‘No, I do, I’m sorry Y/N, truly.’ he spoke solemnly, ‘It’s my friend, he’s got no common decency whatsoever, kinda wish I’d left him to walk.’

You giggled, ‘Eddie, seriously, it’s fine.’

‘Stop being so forgiving.’ he scolded, ‘Now chop, chop, I got some party games to lose.’ clapping his hands.

He pushed his fingers under the strap of your bag you had slung over one shoulder, dragging it down your bare arm, knuckle brushing naked skin. You held your breath as this finger trailed over the pulse point on your wrist. It felt like he was moving in slow motion, drawing a line of heat on your skin. You barely contained a shiver as his trail ended and he threw the bag over his own shoulder.

‘I know, I know, you’re thinking “Wow, Eddie Munson is such a gentleman” right?’ he asked, twirling his hair round one figure in what you believed was meant to be an impression of you.

‘You’d be correct, you know.’ he continued, voice dropping lower, bending to get closer to your ear, ‘I am a gentleman, sweetheart.’ his minty breath crowded your senses, always with a hint of cigarettes. You used to detest it, now you couldn’t get enough.

You swallowed, and turned to him, faces much closer together than normal, due to his bent stature. ‘We both know that isn’t true.’ you said, hushed, a surge of confidence igniting in you. You smirked, looking at him through your lashes.

You were mere inches apart, staring at each other. You wet your dry lips. His eyes flitted to them, before he was back making eye contact with you.

You opened your mouth to speak when -

Bang!

You separated from Eddie in shock, and turned to whatever creature was making the noise.

A young, curly-haired boy stood, with fury on his face and one of his socks falling down. He had whacked the side of the beaten up van with his fist.

‘Eddie, let’s go.’ he bellowed with a lisp.

‘Can it Henderson.’ Eddie replied, not as loud, ‘You can walk if you’re in such a hurry.’

‘You guys can be gross at Steve’s, but please move your asses.’ gesturing for us to come hither.

‘Your odd little friend is right, we are late.’ you said, turning back to Eddie, who was now at a friendly distance, standing full height.

‘I know, but if I go now, it’ll look like I’m doing it ‘cos he told me to.’ he complained, ‘Can’t be fueling his ego anymore, his hat won’t fit.’ he said it scornfully, but he was smiling.

‘Eddie.’ the boy hissed.

‘Alright, alright man, we’re coming, jeez.’

‘Thank you.’ he sighed, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

You laughed at his actions, as he placed himself directly in front of you.

‘Dustin Henderson, at your service.’ he introduced, giving your hand a firm shake.

Eddie had mentioned him before, once or twice, a key member to his Hellfire Club, and ‘a little piece of shit’ as he had so kindly put it, although he had followed it up with ‘and one of my favourite people’.

‘Hi Dustin,’ you grinned, ‘I’m-’

‘I know exactly who you are.’ his smile was sly, and his eyes twinkled, he looked between you and Eddie, who was leaning casually against the side of the van, you weren’t quite sure what he meant.

‘Stop making her feel weird man, let’s go.’

‘I call shotgun!’ Dustin yelled, breaking out in a run towards the passengers side.

Eddie moved quickly, stepping in front of an excitable Dustin, staring him down, not unkindly.

‘This is not how we treat guests, Henderson.’ he reprimanded, smirking.

Dustin groaned in response, loudly, and dramatically, curls bouncing as his head fell back.

‘I don’t mind sitting in the ba-’

Eddie put his index finger on your lips. ‘Silence Y/N, you are getting in the front.’

You felt compelled to bite his finger. You controlled yourself.

‘Fine, you and your girlfriend can sit in the front. I’ll cover my ears if you start to make out.’ he snorted, stomping away.

Your face tingled, you glanced at Eddie in your peripheral and took note of his slightly tinted pink cheeks.

You wanted to laugh at the comment, or give some witty remark, but you were stuck, stuck without words, stuck with this boy who you couldn’t help but love. At that moment the world felt cruel, and you were stuck.

Everything moved again as Eddie spoke.

‘You’re lucky I don’t lock you in the back, Henderson.’ he said, although his voice shook a little, a strange kind of nervousness.

‘Oh yeah? Real nice, Eddie.’ Dustin shouted, swinging the doors of the van open.

The drive to the party was tenser than you expected, partly your fault, as you could barely glance at Eddie without internally begging the ground to swallow you whole.

The First Cut is the Deepest by Cat Stevens played gently through the crackling stereo, because Eddie Munson, true to his word, had let you choose the music, even though you were sure he couldn’t stand this song.

You hummed to yourself softly, watching as the trees whooshed past in a lush, green blur. You had rolled the window down halfway, letting the breeze surround your senses in a mind-reeling array of summer scents - fresh-cut grass, asters and suntan lotion paired perfectly with the smell of the boy next to you.

‘I really like your dress.’ Eddie breathed from next to you.

You felt giddy, and your face showed it, smiling animatedly, suppressing a squeal. ‘Yeah? I didn’t know what to wear.’

He glanced at you, before turning his eyes back to the road. ‘You chose well. You look beautiful Y/N.’

Beautiful.

Your body was on fire, bursting, blooming, beaming with the light of a million stars.

Beautiful.

How lovely he was.

‘Thank you Eddie.’ you said quietly, with full sincerity.

‘I just tell it how it is.’

The term ‘party’, was a loose description of the situation. It felt more like a family gathering, and you were the out-of-state cousin that no one knew.

Steve, who found out was none other than Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington (when you called him that to Eddie, he had thrown his head back like it was the funniest thing you ever said) had a massive back yard. Neatly cut grass covered the lawn, where pretty beds of flowers sat all in bloom, buzzing with life. Right in the centre was the pool, surrounded by white tiles that you couldn’t step on without shoes due to the sun burning so bright. The pool was a clear blue, and smelled like chlorine. Deck chairs sat either side of the pool, and a boy you knew to be Jonathan Byers stood off to the left, grilling some mouth-watering looking burgers.

There were more children than you were expecting, yelling, splashing and running excitedly, their faces shiny from sweat and sunscreen. You recognised a few of them; a tall, spindly, dark-haired boy you realised was Mike Wheeler, the younger brother of Nancy, who had been a year below at school, he stood next to Will Byers, smaller, paler, sporting an unfortunate bowl cut. With his feet dipped in the pool was Lucas Sinclair, bright-eyed, dark skin glowing, smiling at a freckled, ginger-haired girl who was listening intently to whatever he was saying.

In the pool with Nancy was another young girl you didn’t know, slightly frizzy, dark hair with a home-cut fringe across her forehead. It looked like Nancy was teaching her to swim.

You took a heavy breath, feeling nervous, looking for Eddie. You saw him, talking to Steve and a tall, short-haired girl. He caught your eye and beckoned you over, you went, anxiety bubbling in your chest, you really wanted these people to like you, they meant a lot to Eddie, and he meant a lot to you.

‘Y/N, this is Steve and Robin, dear, dear friends of mine.’ Eddie introduced sarcastically, placing his hand over his heart (in the correct place this time).

‘Guys, this is the girl I was telling you about.’ he continued, less sarcastic now, smiling down at you.

Your heart stopped as you focus your gaze on him. He had told people about you?

He continued smiling down at you. You could feel it, the difference in the way he was looking at you. You knew it was different. It was the way you looked at him, like there was no one else in the world. Your eyes got hot.

It felt like you stood like that for hours, in reality it was mere seconds before you got the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching you, and you felt as if they were talking about you, some private joke, a way to laugh at you.

You glanced at Robin and Steve, preparing yourself for scornful or disgusted looks, however they were just staring, slight smiles.

‘Welcome to the land of outcasts.’ began Robin, a delightful rasp to her voice. ‘Glad you could join us.’

‘We are not outcasts.’ reproached Steve, scowling. ‘I’m here, that makes us cool.’

‘Steve you stopped being cool a solid 5 years ago.’ Robin told him, rolling her eyes at you.

You laughed quietly, trying to gauge Steve’s reaction to the insult. He smiled good-naturedly.

‘Harsh. And lying. Lying is sinful, shame on you Buckley.’

This isn’t how you remembered Steve Harrington, King Steve. The Steve you remembered was arrogant, selfish, crass and all round not a great person, but the years away from school seemed to have changed him for the better, and you could understand why Eddie hung out with him.

They all began chattering about school days, laughing at how long it took Eddie to graduate, how Robin was in band, how Steve truly believed he was God’s gift, and how glad they were to be friends now. The love was radiating in waves, almost scorching you.

You felt a sudden longing feeling, it caught in your throat as you smiled and watched them. You felt lonely. Why didn’t you have this? Could you have this? Would they want you here? Would Eddie?

Lost in your ever-moving thoughts, you didn’t notice a certain tall almost 19 year old sidle up to you with a curious smile lightning up soft, freckled face.

‘You know, you’re staring.’ she teased, nose wrinkling at your aghast expression.

‘I-I’m not staring,’ you scoffed. ‘Simply gawking…subtly.’

‘Those are synonyms, meaning you admit you are staring.’

You narrowed your eyes at her. ‘Are you making fun of me?’

‘Oh definitely.’ she confirmed. ‘Only ‘cos I desperately want us to be friends.’

You gawped at her, visibly taken aback by her outright statement. You couldn’t remember the last time someone was so downright, openly, demandingly honest with you, specifically about wanting to be your friend.

‘I want to be friends with you.’ you told her, less confident, more wobbly sounding, but it seemed to please her immensely.

She beamed, the apples of her pretty cheeks nearly bursting from her wide smile, you copied her, feeling eyes burning into the back of your skull. ‘Okay then, we’re officially friends.’

You felt a sort of giddiness you hadn’t felt in a while. The kind you only get from girl friendships, where your chest is warm, your soul is full and you want to tell her all your secrets. You were almost star-struck, the beautiful, life-filled girl wants to be your friend.

The two of you sat on the deckchairs, admiring your surroundings, chatted, well, more like Robin chatted, and you listened in wonder at the mirage of thoughts that seemed in a constant stream in her head. She was funny, and endearing, and nerdy in the best way.

It wasn’t long before Jonathon was calling for everyone to come eat. You wandered to the grill shyly, behind everyone else, not wanting to seem pushy, although the burgers looked mouth-watering, placed between doughy buns, with fresh lettuce, melty cheese, and enough fried onions to feed fifty.

Eddie slinked over to you, grinning from ear to ear.

‘I see you’ve made a friend.’ he stated, eyes on you.

‘I don’t remember the last time I made a girlfriend,’ you admitted softly, ‘Or any friend for that matter.’

‘You know, I don’t get that, you’re like my favourite person to be around.’

‘I am?’ you asked, the disbelief obvious on your face.

He nodded. ‘You kidding? How could you not be?’ he wasn’t looking at you now, instead at the rest of the party, his face looking incredibly pretty and kissable.

You looked away from him, you couldn't cope with the emotions swirling in you. Frozen in place, with the boy you wanted to be with, warmth from the evening sun giving you a gentle hug as laughter surrounded your senses.

You sucked in a breath as Eddie’s eyes fell on you once again.

‘Eddie,’ you began, in barely a whisper.

‘You wanna go for a walk with me, Y/N?’ he interrupted, eyes bright and hopeful.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

His big hand reached for yours, wrapping round your fingers perfectly, moulding as one.

Steve Harrington’s street was quiet, the wind brushed the bushes and trees, but not a person was in sight, it was sort of perfect.

Looking at Eddie under the streetlights made your body numb with excitement as the two of you walked hand in hand in harmonious silence, it felt right, comfortable.

‘I have a confession.’ Eddie mumbled, so softly, that if you weren’t standing right next to him you might not have caught it.

He stopped walking, taking hold of your other hand. He looked like he was about to ask you to dance.

He didn’t. Of course.

‘I have a…confession,’ he repeated, louder this time.

You giggled, erratically, a little unnerved by his intense stare, ‘I’m listening.’

He huffed a breath of air, his small smile seeming nervous.

‘I have been the most ridiculous man.’

‘Well, I could’ve told you that, no need to walk me to the street for that.’ you joked.

He laughed, not big, the way he normally did, but a softer kind that made your thighs clench a little. His eyes shining, pupils so large you could barely see his irises.

‘What made you come to this conclusion then?’ you asked.

‘I am the most ridiculous man on planet earth, because,’ he paused, taking in a lungful of air. ‘Because I haven’t been honest with you, Y/N.’

‘Oh.’

You thought it might be quiet enough for him to hear your crazed heartbeat. You certainly could, the rush of blood in your ears.

‘I want to kiss you.’ he whispered, squeezing your fingers, as if he was trying to learn their shape.

‘You do?’ you asked, your voice equally as soft.

He nodded aggressively, his curls bouncing. ‘Desperately. Like, it’s all I can think about. You’re all I can think about, day and night, I think of you, of how beautiful you are, abo-about how much I want to be with you. You have completely consumed my mind, Y/N, without even meaning to.’

His shoulders sunk, like he felt all the tension in his back leave.

You were stunned, unable to move, unable to speak. Tears welled up in your eyes and you willed them not to fall.

‘Y/N?’ he wiggled your hands, ‘It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I just couldn’t stand another minute without you knowing how I feel.’

‘I-I-Eddie,’ you croaked, ‘You have no idea how long I have been begging for you to feel the way I do.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Kiss me, Eddie, please.’

He did.

A/N: halllloo, so this took me a annoyingly long time to write, I kept forgetting, also work is incredibly busy. pls like/reblog if you enjoyed. thank you for reading, ilyyy:3

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x female reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut

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hyunsuks-beanie · 2 years

Text

Enhypen Reaction to Another Member Staring at You While You're Not Wearing a Bra Under Your Clothes

Mellow speaks: Another reaction cuz they're easier to come up with than a whole fic (don't worry Yeonjun, I'm getting to you soon). And obviously, it's Enhypen because we just love those boys!!

Tagging: @sweethyuka @yedamology @enhacolor @axartia @hyunsuksmygod @duolingofanaccount @zurimochi

Heeseung

Okay, he knew you weren't planning on having someone sew you braless, he knew he's the only one you're comfortable enough to let your breasts have a breather in front of. But that doesn't mean he could keep a level head when you're standing there in the doorways, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and looking like the purest angel ever, and he wasn't the only one who got to see you like that. When he had invited Jay over to play video games with him, your boyfriend never would have thought he'd find himself in such a situation.

You, of course, couldn't have possibly known that you were having a guest over, and that's probably the reason why you had decided to pad into the room unannounced, still slightly sleepy, and with the tips of your nipples making their presence known through the thin fabric of your top. And as if that wasn't enough, his bandmate was sitting right there, his bottom lip stuck between his teeth as he shamelessly checked you out.

Needless to say, Heeseung wasn't pleased, but it's not like he could get into a fight and throw punches at him, because he knew you wouldn't approve. So all he did was call Jay out for his fallacy, an "Oi, quit staring mate, those breasts are mine to ogle at," slipping past his lips as he not-so-gently shoved the younger away. Yeah, that was enough, and the squeal that escaped you as you ran out of the room was totally worth it.

Jay

Park Jay absolutely hates it when people show up to his house unannounced, mainly because he can never know if the two of you will be in a position to see them without compromising on your dignity. Don't get him wrong, he's just worried about someone walking in when he's touching you, or when you're touching him, because that's what you tend to do at through every inch of your abode.

So it's not hard to imagine his annoyance when the doorbell had rung while he was teaching you how to cook while being distracted by your boyfriend fondling your breasts, and he was forced to let go, only to reveal a shamelessly grinning Sunoo standing in the doorway. "What d'ya want?," he had asked irritably, but no sooner had the younger opened his mouth to speak than you had walked in on the party, your nipples still perked up from the foreplay.

And the sight had been a little to hot for poor Sunoo to handle, his thoughts turning darker as his tongue ran across his bottom lip. Yeah, he was checking you out, and Jay wasn't sure whether to be mad at him or at you. But it wasn't like he could actually take that anger out on you, so Sunoo was the one who paid. By paid, I mean he actually got pushed back out your house, almost falling to the floor as the door slammed shut in his face, and "We're busy, get lost," was the last thing he heard.

Jake

Having had popped into the shower barely minutes before you could hear the doorbell ring, there obviously was no way on earth you could have known that it wasn't just Jake and you at home. And that's probably the reason why you had decided to step out of the bathroom wearing nothing but your top, your torso completely naked as drops of water trickled down your body. But thankfully, your ears hadn't deceived you, and you had heard the distinct sound of Heeseung's laughter just before you left the bedroom.

It's not like you couldn't have taken a moment longer to put on a bra, but after having been forced to wear it for a whole day, you weren't too keen on wearing it again. So here you were, making an appearance in front of two hormonal guys (one of whom happened to be your boyfriend, though), completely braless and with your perky nipples easily visible through the thin fabric of your (Jake's) T-shirt as you walk into the living room to greet your visitor.

The sight was, to say the least, enough to make the elder choke on the ramen he was gobbling up, his eyes raking over your entire form, and spending just a second too long staring at your breasts. Jake could see as well as you could that he was checking you out, and despite being the younger one, your boyfriend couldn't help but feel irritated. Yet all he actually did was only borderline rough, his hand flying to Heeseung's face and slapping hard against his eyes as he blocked his vision, a thick "Not yours" escaping him.

Sunghoon

It's totally your fault. You had no business showing up to a dorm filled with hormonal boys without a bra, and yet, you did exactly that. Yes, it's totally your fault. No it isn't, he's just being petty. It isn't your fault you didn't realize the crop top you had thrown over your thin camisole was nearly see-through, and it's not your fault for not noticing the way your nipples, all perked up, were completely visible to anyone who cared to look.

Nope, it's not your fault for having a wardrobe malfunction, Jake is definitely the one to blame for not taking his eyes off your form, and he's the one at fault for ogling at you despite knowing you're taken, and that too, when he knows your boyfriend doesn't like it one bit. He's going to have to deal with the Aussie, but that's something he'll save for later. Because he doesn't want to seem even more petty in front of you.

So he does the one thing he knows he can do, and that too, without seeming like a jerk. He drags you over to his room, his grip on your wrist tight as you continue to ask him what is wrong. You might think he's planning on being rough again, but not this time. He's just being a caring boyfriend this time, shoving his hoodie towards you as he mumbles out a "Wear this before coming out." Talk about pretending to be cold but actually being a warm softie.

Sunoo

He doesn't like it. He really doesn't. It's not fair that anyone who's not him gets to see you like this, wide-eyed and innocent, even though your perky breasts, saying hi to the world through the fabric of your tank top, might say otherwise. Of course, it's not surprising that you had wanted to wear that skimpy tank top to the building, the warm weather had made it nearly impossible to wear anything else.

But that doesn't mean he didn't get jealous when instead of him, Sunghoon had been the first to lay his eyes on you, and that too, in a way that made it obvious he was checking you out. The elder's eyeballs had nearly popped out of his head at the sight of you standing by the door to their practice ro, searching for your boyfriend without even noticing just how revealing your outfit looked.

He couldn't help biting his lip, and that, unfortunately, was what met poor Sunoo's gaze when he walked out of the washroom. But he still didn't do anything irrational, choosing to simply pull you away from the spotlight and take you over to the couch, needing nothing more than some cuddles and a bit of reassurance that he's the only one who gets to see you and what you hide under your clothes.

#heeseung #heeseung smut #enhypen smut #jay smut #jake smut #sunghoon smut #jay #jake #sunghoon #heeseung hard thoughts #jay hard thoughts #jake hard thpughts #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunoo #sunoo smut

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bbyquokka · 11 months

Note

heyy!! i hope u are okay <3

i was watching jisung's mcountdown s-class fancam and i came here to cry about his tummy😭 i have such a weakness for jisung's cute tummy and his thin waist... i mean i could spend hours just kissing and caressing and loving his little cute tummy AAAAAGHHHH i can even imagine jisung gasping when you kiss his belly while your hands roamed his waist and torso. he puts his hands in your hair and hesitates between pulling back and pressing harder 😖😖😖 okay okay okaaaayyy i'm leaving right now or i'm gonna faint

butterfly kisses

SUGGESTIVE THEMES BELOW CUT – MINORS, AGELESS & DEFAULT BLOGS; DNI

warning: gn reader, established relationship, idol au, hair pulling, suggestive content, pet names, lots and lots of kisses, babygirl jisung. words: 0.6k ~ (657)

dont repost. dont translate. feedback and reblogs are highly advised and appreciated!

“baby.. it tickles.” jisung's soft giggles ring in your ears. you hum softly as you look up at him through your lashes.

“want me to stop?”

“no..”

something about the way your boyfriend is looking down at you, his bright, wide eyes watching your every move, sends shivers down your spine. his naked chest on display, the only piece of clothing that rests on his body are his grey boxer shorts that cling to him in the most sinful yet delicious way.

a neatly trimmed happy trail disappearing below the waistband. his soft skin feeling hot to the touch as you plant delicate kisses on his chest and abdomen.

something about the hazy moonlight that's peaking through the gap of the hotel curtains makes the moment more special. the mattress dipping at the knees as the silk hotel sheets stroke and caress your skin.

jisung's hair fanned out against the fluffy pillows, a small pinch between the brows as he chews his plump bottom lip. the cute pink blush that's happily resting on his cheeks matches the colour of his perky nipples.

your hair tickles his skin as you trail your lips along his chest. your warm hands stroking and caressing his baby soft skin, leaving trails of fire behind.

“you're so beautiful, ji.” you whisper. “the most beautiful man i have ever seen.”

“you're going to make me blush.” jisung squeaks, his stomach filling with excitement as butterflies swirl around in it. you give him a simple hum of acknowledgement as you continue to attack his chest with kisses.

“you did so well today sungie. i'm so proud of you.”

“you are?”

“of course i am baby! you did amazing on stage. i'm always proud of you and proud of everything you have achieved and become!”

“thank you, yn..” as your fingertips delicately dance along his sides, goosebumps appearing on his skin to say hello, you move upwards to kiss his neck.

jisung muffles a soft moan as he tilts his head to the side to allow more access for you. you plant delicate kisses on his neck being careful not to leave marks, no matter how tempting it is.

“yn..” jisung softly moans, his hands gripping and bundling the hotel sheets in his hands. you hold onto his tiny waist, stroking it slowly with the pad of your thumb.

“i love you, han jisung.”

“yn..”

“i love you so fucking much. it feels like my heart is going to burst.”

with every word, every compliment and every touch from you, jisung's body and soul feels alive. his eyes welling with tears as he listens to you usher the three most deadliest yet beautiful words to him over and over again.

tears roll down his soft cheeks as he sniffles. you chuckle softly as you lean up to kiss his tears away. he laughs softly as you kiss his forehead, cheeks, eyelids, bridge of his nose, the tip of his nose before kissing his lips softly and delicately.

you pull after, trailing your lips along his jawline, neck and chest. butterfly kisses sit on his skin, fire burns in his stomach as his heart thumps over and over again against his rip cage.

a sudden whimper and gasps escapes his lips as you kiss his tummy. you kiss above the waistband of his boxer shorts, jisung holding his breath as he watches you. you hold onto his thighs, squeezing them as you eagerly watch him.

“yn.. please, you're teasing me at this point. i can't take much more.”

“you're such a good boy, ji.” you coo. you feel his hands rake through your hair, burying and massaging your scalp before suddenly gripping it and tugging gently.

you let out a soft groan before smirking at your flustered boyfriend.

“sorry! i didn't me–”

“oh. so it's like that then, huh?” you hum as you hook your fingers under his waistband. “ok, i see how it is, babygirl.”

note: ok look, i can explain. i know this wasnt a thought of any kind but like, it got me thinking back to his outfit and his tummy and his waist and JUST EVERYTHING ELSE. i had to, im sorry :((

tags (open): @sstarryoong ; @myprwttyhan ; @septicrebel ; @alyszaen ; @writerracha ; @hyunluvxo ; @aestheticsluut ; @xcookiemonsteer ; @telesvng

#fairylouist #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz hard hours #skz hard thoughts #stray kids hard hours #stray kids hard thoughts #han jisung #jisung #jisung smut #han jisung smut #jisung x you #jisung x reader #han jisung x you #han jisung x reader #skz x you #skz x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader

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kimetsu-no-yaiba-writings · 10 months

Note

I’m but a simple human with nothing but gay thoughts! If possible I’m interested in what you think Mitsuri and Shinobu (separately) would be like with fem reader that has nipple piercings?

-Simple human!

Honestly women? Beautiful! Thank you for sending in your gay thoughts (＠＾▽＾＠) I'm always open for having more of 'em!

Alas I'm also queer - I'll leave my sexuality a mystery - so send me more queer/gay thoughts and requests whenever!

But anyway!

Thank you Simple human Anon for sending this in, I hope you don't mind me writing this in a bullet-point format for the headcanons + thoughts i have on this (ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

I've also given you your own tag just incase you ever want to request again ☆ both as sh-anon and simple human anon.

Also I'll add abit more later when more stuff comes to mind (￣∀￣) which i hope you don't mind to much

Mitsuri Kanroji & Shinobu Kocho with a FEM! S/O with Nipple piercings - Headcanons:

I think that generically no matter what your appearance is - tall or short, chubby or thin, tattoos or not etc. - she'll absolutely adore you

In her eyes your perfect, even when you point out any flaws that you might have - or think you have - your still perfect in her eyes

Mitsuri loves all of you

That being said, Mitsuri is not prepared for your piercings

She goes beetroot red whenever you flash her your piercings, her voice catches in her throat and she starts stuttering out praises and noises of appreciation

She does tear up slightly cause she's kinda embarrassed how much you affect her - especially at the heat that curls in her tummy when she gets to feel and see your breasts + piercings

She's in awe of how beautiful you are and does get abit carried away with her groping

Doesn't matter what type of nipple jewelry you wear, she always see's beauty in it and it doesn't even matter if its as simple as a normal straight or curved barbell

Although she does like intricate, delicate or jeweled jewelry

Always makes sure that there's clothing that's airy for your piercings as she worries about you accidentally catching them on heavy or scratchy cloth

Gets matching piercings

You do have to help her the first couple of weeks in looking after them, especially with making sure the piercings don't heal to the metal of the nipple-ring

Absolutely loves them

Shinobu just gives me the vibes of someone who likes nipple piercings?? If that makes sense?

Like she finds them pretty and artistic

The piercings accentuate your breasts nicely and honestly her eyes are always drawn to them whenever your changing

She's a simple gal who's in love with you so obviously her eyes go to you - breathe catching in her chest as she blushes

Absolutely goes ape when you surprise her with beautifully intricate nipple shields that are in the shape of butterflies

Oh! Or pretty dangly ones

Cause she's a woman of medicine - and poisons which she'd never use on you of course - she helps look after your piercings (with your consent) and jewelry

Shinobu makes soft soaps so it doesn't irritate your skin when you have to wash your piercings + jewelry

And makes sure that the softest towels are ready for you to pat dry

While she loves your piercings shinobu's not confident enough to get nipple piercings herself, so she'll remain admiring you with yours

Will buy you pretty nipple rings that she thinks will suit you especially ones that only she's gonna be able to see

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matryosika · 2 years

Text

Day 3: Oil + Titfucking with Hyunjin

Wordcount — 1,673

Includes — Mentions of periods (and what they entail) and (implied) mentions of period sex. Reader is going through that time of the month but the description is minimal and somewhat relevant for the plot but absolutely irrelevant for the smut. Established relationship, fluff, teasing, oil massage, titfucking, handjob, body/facial cumshot, and cum eating.

Author's note — Truly a fantasy! This is day three of kinktober, and I hope you guys like it! I really never thought of writing something entirely for titfucking but here we are. Please keep in mind that english isn't my first language, so I apologize for any grammar/spelling mistakes in advance!

There’s nowhere to look but his hands.

Long and slim fingers, decorated with silver, cold rings that send shivers down your spine every time they graze against your skin; fadly reddened and prominent veins that change appearance ever so slightly as he massages your breasts, cupping them perfectly as if his hands were perfectly made for just that.

Hyunjin glares at you with concern when a faint cry falls from your lips, but you are quick to reassure him. “Don’t worry”.

“Do they hurt badly?” he asks, laying down next to you with his hands all over your chest.

You shake your head. “Feel so much better now”.

It is that week again, like every other month. You wouldn’t mind getting your period if it wasn’t that uncomfortable —painful pimples, cramps, lower back pain and sore breasts are just a few things you have to deal with whenever that time comes.

Hyunjin doesn’t like to see you suffering, especially because of something you have no control over, so he always try his best to make these days easier for you —he stops at the drugstore when you need him to, cooks for you when you are craving something and takes care of your body when the discomfort becomes almost intolerable.

He always does so without you having to ask for it and, truth is, he is always happy to comply with every necessity you have. But if there is one thing Hyunjin enjoys the most, and that he does not only for your comfort but for his own delight, it’s this.

“God,” you sigh when he squeezes your breasts softly, making sure he is smearing all of the oily lotion evenly. Hyunjin can be careless, rough and a bit clumsy when it comes to daily activities, but never when it is about your body.

When he has his hands all over you, he touches and caresses you like you are made of glass, as if one harsh squeeze or rough touch could turn you into pieces —he drags his hands gently, applying just the right pressure and massaging the places where you need him the most. In all honesty, the trust and intimacy between you remains unmatched; there’s absolutely no other man you would share with a moment like this.

“How was work?” he asks so casually, as if his hands aren’t stimulating you.

Of course, you know his intentions are pure, yet you are not oblivious to his touch.

“Awful,” you reply with a soft laugh that soon turns into a purr. “My tits have been killing me all day —the only good thing about it it’s that they look good”.

Hyunjin laughs along, but he knows it’s true. These days, especifically, they look bigger and swollen; they also get more sensitive, and the way you react to his touch drives him insane.

“How was yours?” you ask him, interrupting the comfortable silence that built around the two of you.

“Good,” he sighs, swiftly licking his lips when the tip of his fingers graze against your erect nipples. “Kind of stressful, but that’s nothing new”.

“Sorry I can’t help you make it better,” you coo, taking into account his words and glaring shamelessly at the bulge inside his sweatpants.

Hyunjin offers you an endearing and nurturing smile while he continues to massage your breasts, ignoring the painful tension between his legs. “Being with you already made it a thousand times better”.

“Yeah but-” your eyes glance at his erection before you continue, “on top of it being a stressful day, you will have to deal with that on your own”.

He smiles fondly once again.

“I don’t mind,” he shakes his head, a few strands of his dark hair falling to frame his face. “Just want to make you feel better”.

“If by making me feel better you mean turning me on,” you mumble in between whimpers, “then you are doing great!”

“You know that wasn’t my intention,” he laughs softly while shaking his head, teeth biting his lower lip. “But it’s a common occurrence between us two”.

The chemistry between you and him feels surreal —it’s like your bodies are more connected to each other than to their own minds; sometimes, you aren’t even planning on sharing an intimate moment yet it happens.

You know Hyunjin’s intentions aren’t perverse, but his body is not aware of that; just touching your body is enough to make him hard, and he somewhat feels embarrassed about that.

“I really want you tonight,” you murmur, eyebrows furrowed as his ministrations transition from innocent to sexual.

“You know I have no issue with-”

“I know you don’t,” you interrupt him, scrunching your nose at the possibility of engaging in period sex. “But I don’t feel comfortable doing that”.

“I know,” he understands, and applies more lotion to your breasts. When you feel the cold substance making contact with your skin, you arch your back.

“I still want to make it up for you,” you pout, placing your hands over his and following his movements. “You made me feel good, it’s only fair I do the same in return”.

“How come?” he asks with shortness of breath, getting harder at the sight of you massaging your breasts on your own.

“This is convenient,” you scoff softly, fixing your eyes in your slippery skin that is glistening underneath the dim light of your room. Hyunjin has been thinking of it for a while, but he didn't dare say it until you pointed it out. “I bet it would feel really good, you know?”

He sighs and shakes his head once again. “You are such a tease, you know that?”

You watch as he gets rid of his sweatpants and underwear, admiring him in all its glory. You aren’t wearing anything but your underwear and pajama shorts, so him being naked isn’t too out of place.

“Thought you liked that about me,” you murmur, getting comfortable underneath him.

He places both legs on either side of your body, supporting his weight and preventing him from sitting right on top of you. His hands reach out for the bed’s headboard and, conveniently, aligns his dick in the middle of your breasts.

It’s an odd position, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable for either of you.

“I do,” he breathes, cock visibly twitching when your oiled hands stroke his length. All the build-up tension it’s making him feel like he is going to come any second, but he doesn’t really care. “Fuck”.

“Does it feel as good as I thought?” you ask seductively, pushing your breasts together for him.

“A thousand times better,” Hyunjin sighs, closing his eyes while his hips acquire a pace of their own. He moves slowly and sensually, trembling at the warm sensation your skin provides. “But it doesn’t feel as being in you does”.

You smile fondly at the comment. The way he is doing his absolute best to repress all the sinful noises that want to escape his lips it’s amusing, yet somewhat cute.

He opens his eyes and he immediately fixes them on the lewd sight he has underneath him: your gaze staring right at him, with both your hands pressing your breasts together while he drags his dick between them, all slippery and sticky with lotion.

“God,” he whimpers, crestfallen and somewhat defeated. The grip on the headboard becomes rougher, and the veins in his arms and neck become prominent, but the pace of his movements it’s still all the same.

The sight it’s something you just can’t forget. He looks aroused, and needy, and too desperate for his release that you feel glad you suggested this.

“You want to come already?” you purr, one of your hands leaving your breasts to focus on stroking him off.

His body spasms when he feels you actively touching him, and you smile.

“I can’t help it,” he sighs, nostrils flaring when a quiet groan leaves his throat. “Feels so fucking good”.

You scoff softly, “Then come,” you whimper, getting aroused at the feeling of his hips thrusting his cock inside your hand. “I know you want to, Hyune”.

He licks his lips and gets immersed into the feeling. He isn’t selfish, but he knows this is about him —you can get your reward later on, during the week, but this moment it’s just for him.

So you stop stroking him to push your breasts together again, allowing him to be the one in control. He buries his cock between them and starts moving a bit faster than before, groaning at how easily he slips between them.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Filthy”.

He makes eye contact with you and, the second he does so, he feels the tension starting to unravel. He doesn’t slow down, nor stops his movements, but judged by his breathing and the frantic movements of his hips, you can clearly tell he is just about to come.

“C-can I-”

“Yes,” you don’t let him finish before you nod, letting him know that it is okay, that he can come wherever he wants to. So he exhales with relief when he no longer has to hold his orgasm, spurts of his hot cum landing between your breasts, chin and mouth.

He continues to fuck your tits through his orgasm, his cum creating a sticky messiness between your breasts as he slows down his movements with a few quiet groans leaving his lips. When he stares at you, you stick out your tongue and lick his remains near your lips.

“Stressful day, huh?” you query with a hum, surprised at the amount of cum.

He tries to catch his breath before speaking, still in the same position as he has been for the past few minutes: softening dick on top of your chest, sore legs on either side of your body and hands gripping the bed’s headboard.

“As I said,” he exhales with a smile, bringing his hand to smear the semen on his cock. “Nothing new”.

#stray kids smut #kpop smut #hyunjin smut #skz smut

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gabessquishytum · 7 months

Note

New prompt for a pervy Black Widow/Sugar Daddy AU - it's long sorry!:

THE SETUP -- Dream's family is broke and each sibling is tasked with (bullied into) trying to entice the new rich bastards on the block to marry them, without a prenup. Now, maybe the professed plan is a black widow end - 'cause the Endless family is sooooo less than honorable (and let's be honest, great, great, great Grandma Endless's 2nd husband only had his money and his short life to recommend him), but the plan is fluid. First, one of the children needs to snare the right mark.

They don't talk about why Destruction won't return his parents calls - like he's so much better than the rest of the family.

Sufficed to say Desire and Dream are seen as the ones with the best shot. So every rich dick (figurative & literal) party they can go to, every society invite they can wrangle, they dress Desire and Dream up in the newest sexy couture they can borrow based on the Endless name and the fashion worthiness of Dream and Desire; and as they get more desperate, the outfits get more sheer -- tits outs and hints of trimmed pubic hair on show. See, the recent Mugler RTW Spring 2024 (soooo many sheer outfits!).

THE SITUATION ON THE GROUND -- Dream has been on the block too f'ing long. Desire seems to be enjoying it, or at least the part where they are competing against Dream for the "win," but all of these men (/very rarely women) are absolutely gross. Handsy and odious and just evil, why, even for just as long as it might take to separate any of these people from their money, Dream would want them to touch him - he can't fathom. And unfortunately, the biggest interested mark so far is Burgess - and Dream thinks he literally, openly, traffics people and starts wars for "fun."

THE [NEW] MARK -- Enter Hob Gadling. Now, no one is really clear where Hob's reported billions have come from. They just know it's "clean" money now, and Mr. Gadling appears to be a respectable tech/finance guy, now. There are rumors that, 'Please, call me Hob', Gadling, is not a nice man and that people who go against him wind up suspiciously broken (many times in bloody pieces, not just broke), but well he's mostly charming.

_______

Dream doesn't want to like Hob, again Dream knows all these people are just the worst (and let's be honest, the "plan" still involves a convenient honeymoon accident), but they keep running into each other, and Hob is hilariously vicious in his quiet comments to Dream, and Dream can feel the heat in Hob's stare as Dream's "dresses" get shorter, and sheerer, and really, at this point, Dream is walking around these parties mostly naked (with nipples that Hob's stares make so hard). Dream doesn't even want to discuss what happened when Hob put his hand on Dream's lower back to guide him through the party. *shivers*

Dream allows Hob a kiss after a particularly cutting remark about Burgess that has the whole party laughing; Hob takes the next few kisses that night; smudging all of Dream's make up and walking away visibly, shamelessly, hard. Dream's own full body flush can be seen under his sheer dress.

I'm gonna add the second part to this post!

I love the concept of vaguely gangsterish mystery millionaire Hob!!! Honestly if Dream is being honest with himself Hob probably also made his money from human trafficking but the difference is that he's sexy, and funny. And he doesn't look at Dream like he's a piece of meat.

So yeah of course he's gonna let Hob buy him pretty things! At first it's all trashy but expensive stuff that Dream squirrels away to sell later. But Hob slowly persuades him to accept more tasteful (still very expensive) things. Floor length gowns and huge opals that glimmer in the light, and even a car (and a chauffeur to drive it, Hob doesn't want his darling having to do that). Dream’s parents are pushing him to get a ring on his finger, get married, get in the will... but honestly Dream is very happy as he is at the moment.

And the sex is obviously insane. Dream’s previous lovers have all been selfish and boring but Hob is just... he wants Dream ALL the time. He's always coming up behind him, gently groping him and whispering that he wants to go again, please, will Dream let him? And Dream has no inclination towards saying no. He'll let Hob do whatever insane sexual thing to him because he knows it's always going to be amazing. And of course Hob has the biggest, most perfect cock. Dream would be devastated if he didn't get it inside him every day. He doesn't care how many people see or hear him whimpering while Hob fucks him slow and deep over the bonnet of his fancy car.

He's getting fucked and the money is rolling in. What's no to love?

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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the-fiction-witch · 2 years

Text

Mine.

Media The Queen's Gambit

Couple Benny Watts X Reader

Rating Kinky Smut

Concept This. Means your mine.

Smut 'Pet' / No underwear/ fondling/ hj/ choking/ 'slut' / Blow job

I smiled as I stood at the small coffee bar, my heels against the light brown wood polished within an inch of its life. My little white wedge heels against the floor, if I looked down my blood red nails made an appearance in my open toed shoes. My little sheath high neck white dress hugged my every curve so much so I couldn't wear panties or even stockings with it. I had also forgone a bra half for comfort as this dress is supportive enough not to need one and half for… the attention me being braless often got at these events. My fairly chunky black belt around my waist, my long silver chain around my neck with my small black onyx stone as a pendent, two rings on my hands one on my right index finger my sweet silver flower, and on my left ring finger still making me blush my silver ring with an impressive kite cut smoky diamond I was still getting use to it but I did like having such an obvious sign of our relationship. The boy brought me the coffee and apple juice I had asked for and I slid over the cash as I did. I caught him staring at my breasts, and I gave him a glare which turned him red quickly handing my change over and returning to cleaning a glass. I didn't think much of it and took the two drinks in hand. I noticed why he was looking immediately. My nipples had got hard slightly poking out my dress, likely a result of some of the boys from this college opening the window which I theorized was part of their perverted plans but I didn't care.

I walked across the student union sitting my coffee In Front of the open seat so my coffee sat behind the chess clock for the board currently on the table sitting the apple juice on its requested milk glass beside his hand, immediately I noticed the chess problem on the board they were fiddling with so I moved the knight to the obvious solution and took my seat.

A shocked look ran across Anthony's face as he looked over the board repeatedly before leaning back defeated in his chair and slightly rolling his eyes.

"That's my girl" He smirked, making me glance to my other side, to him. Benny sat in the chair in his comfortable jeans, his belt sat as usual with his knife holster on his thigh, his black t shirt hugged him closely chains hung down his chest, holding the glass close to him about to take a sip his rings against the glass, he gave me a wink before having himself a sip.

"A game?" Anthony offered

"Go on then." Benny told him letting Anthony set the board back up as he sat his glass down, before clicking his hand to me twice

"What?" I giggled sipping my coffee

"I gave you a dollar if you recall a pet" he smirked at me, lining up his pieces a little better "that's thirty five cent coffee and sixteen cent apple juice. So" he smirked clicking his fingers again and opening his hand expectantly "forty nine cents" he smirked waiting for me response

"Fifty cents benny" I correct handing him his change which he double checked

"I know. Testing you" he winked "tip?" He asked so I smiled leaning over the corner of the table to give him a gentle kiss which only grew his smirk more

"We playing or what?" Anthony asked

They began there game and I watched A usually sipping my coffee every so often as they plaid I noticed some boys hovering but that wasn't unusual when benny plays he noticed them too but thought little of it too focused on his game, but not long into there game I realized they weren't watching benny, they were staring at me. I suppose I should be used to it. Boys always stared at me when I attended tournaments and such being of course one of the few women in the chess world. I didn't play much as I wasn't really that fond of playing more of a puzzle and problems chess player but I always attended if nothing else to support benny. That and if I didn't I'd be sitting in that damn dismal basement nine months out of the year at least this way we got to spend time together. Once the game was over Anthony resigning once again Benny glared at the hovering boys.

"Oi!" He called in the boys direction making them all jump not expecting him to actually speak up "come here" he encouraged for a moment they didn't move but slowly stepped over clearly college boys from the campus clearly not knowing much about who we all where, the three boys stood at our table nervously "what where you staring at?" He asked but none answer "come on enlighten me"

"Just uhhh" one stuttered looking in my direction

"Oh I see. Beautiful isn't she?" He smirked stroking under my chin to make me tip my head up a little

"Ohh uhhh yeah yeah she is" the boy nodded

"In your looking did you boys notice this?" Benny smirked moving his hand down my jaw, down my neck, down my dress, down my arm and taking my hand holding it gently in his own his hand under mine of course my ring immediately catching the light and their attention. And the boys turned as white as sheep "this kite cut natural black diamond, set in 999 silver. Almost pure silver. Without one flaw or fault. Doesn't come cheap. Do you know what this means?"

"We uhh we're -" they stuttered

"It means she's mine. So fuck off. And I catch you staring again we'll have some problems" he warns and the boys quickly scurried off

"Just because you're marrying her doesn't mean you need to show her off all the time" Anthony said setting the board up again

"When you get your own little lady I'll allow you too show her off. Course she won't be as beautiful as my y/n" he smirked kissing my hand "come on come here pet" he smirked to me so I smiled moving my chair a little so we could sit closer together and I could lean on his shoulder "I want my little good luck charm" he smiled kissing my head

They continued on with their game so I just happily sat nuzzled into his shoulder feeling the soft cotton of his shirt against my skin, the sweet smell of the aftershave on his neck I watched for a while but admittedly I was a little board but my mind hatched a rather wicked idea.

I waited for benny to do his move and then I moved my hand down to sit on his thigh, his chocolate eyes flicked to me for a second and returned to the board, seconds later his hand came and moved my hand back to my own leg giving my thigh a stroke as he did he did his move and shot me a very warning glance but I merely closed my eyes and cuddled a little closer I waited a little while making sure he was fully focused on his game and I moved my hand back to his thigh giving the inner seam of his jeans a suggestive stroke, he merely ignored me focusing on the game at hand so I continued stroking up his leg until I met his belt, still he ignored me so slowly but surely I loosened it making sure to be quiet and make sure knowone noticed until it was loose enough I could tug back his jeans. I tugged them enough away from his skin that my hand could slip in feeling his warm lower stomach, the little small hairs much like what graced his face, ticking my hand as I moved down feeling the shaped v his muscles provided I moved down my hand meeting the elastic waistband of his boxers gently stroking my fingers across the stretched elastic. He glanced at me, his jaw tight, his brown stern, as if threatening me with nothing but a look. I only smiled and nuzzled closer into his neck rubbing my nose against his skin. He continued with his game so I waited making sure to let him relax a little before I moved my hand down meeting the soft squishy bulge of his soft cock, I took a gentle grip of him and stroked my hand against him through the cotton. He ignored me, not wanting to give me a reaction. Which only fueled me more I began to stroke and play with him much more passionately and attentively making sure to touch all the places he needed and slowly but surely it grew stiffer and harder in my hand I continued making sure my movements couldn't be noticed until he was completely hard, it was then I moved my hand under his boxers stroking my fingers across his tender head and shaft making sure to stimulate his hard erection, once I saw Anthony resign I giggled and pulled my hand away fixing his belt as I went. He gave me a very dark look so I just gave his cheek a kiss and went to sit my hand back in my lap but he grabbed my wrist

"Again?" Anthony asked

"No, I think I've had enough for one night. I'll see you tomorrow" benny told him

Before getting up so I quickly grabbed my bag and we said our goodbyes before heading out onto the campus I followed along with him even if I couldn't help my sly smirk seeing he was still hard

"I-" I began

"Not. A word. Out of you" he growled as we turned into the dorm we were staying in for the tournament the lights all already off for the night, we went through the door to the stairwell climbing up as our room was on the second floor but as we reached the landing between floors he grabbed my neck and pushed me against the wall putting his knee between my legs "what the hell was that?"

"What?"

"You know what."

"I was just a little board benny"

"Board? That's not an excuse to be a slut pet" he warns "we could have gotten in trouble, gotten kicked out. You're little stunt could have cost me the tournament" He warns moving his hand up my dress until he meets and began softly stroking my clit "I'm already having to bat boys off you like flies to ice cream. And you go pull something like that"

"I just wanted to make sure you where concentrating"

"Did you. I don't need you rubbing on my dick to keep me focused, pet." He smirked "you are not going to pull something like that again"

"I-"

"Are you." He warns "because if you do, I won't wait till the games over and we leave to punish you pet. I'll put you over my lap and spank that slutty ass till there's tears streaming down your face"

"In Front of everyone"

"Yes In Front of everyone. Then they'll all see how bad you like it." He smirked "so. You won't pull something like that again?"

"No"

"No?"

"No benny"

"Good girl." He Cooes giving my neck a few gentle kisses "and tomorrow when we go down to the tournament you will not look like this"

"Like what?" I giggled

"You know what. Everyone can see every inch of you. A Lot of those inches are only for my eyes." He warns "bra. And panties tomorrow. Or I'll wrap a chain around your neck and dress you myself" he smirked

"Yes benny" I nodded

"Good girl" he smirked "apologize"

"I'm sorry benny"

He chuckled "you know that's not how we apologize pet" he smirked moving his hands away to unbuckle his belt and his jeans "apologize"

I blushed hard but fixed my hair a little and moved down pressing my knees against the cold stone floor, I pulled down his boxers immediately being faced with his hard erection, I knew how easily we could be caught so I didn't waste time I took him completely into my mouth and began to suck moving my head back and forth as quickly as I could it didn't take long to get into a rhythm even if at times he held my hair and forced me a lot harder or faster which often made me choke a little in shock but I also regained my rhythm, he grunted and groaned but often low and quietly till he held my hair tightly pulling me as deep as possible and he finished inside my mouth "uuughh" he groaned Bucking his hips a little

I pulled back and swallowed as much as I could as he did his jeans up I was about to wipe my mouth but he stopped me and pulled me to my feet

"So. My little pet going to behave herself from now on?"

"Yes benny" I nodded

"Good. Remember pet. This" he smirked taking my hand stroking a finger across my ring "means your mine. And I will have it drilled into you by the time we get married. That clear?"

"Yes benny"

"Alright, back to the room. we have a long tournament day tomorrow" he smiled wrapping his arm around my waist and tugging me up the stairs

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nameless-12345 · 8 days

Text

…

Three little dots.

One dot.

Two dots.

A third dot.

You can’t really remember why you are so focused on the dots. Each dot turns a darker shade of gray and back to light gray. One at a time.

Then the dots are replaced by another bubble. This one contains a message. That’s right! You had been messaging someone online.

“Deep breath in… and out… in… and out…”

More dots in the message! Below, another bubble with the captivating dots. Seconds tick by.

“The dots that appear as I write are mesmerizing, aren’t they? Yes, you see them and know a very important message is on the way. No thoughts. Just dots.”

You slowly blink and nod.

“No thoughts, just dots.”

Another dot bubble. As they flicker, you grow more and more eager. What will they say next? Will you reply? Or will you sit and wait for more dots?

“The anticipation makes your entire body tingle. You may be feeling warmer, needy. How about you roll your hips, hmm? And fidget with your tits?”

Of course the message is exactly what you need. So you are not surprised by how much better you feel, grinding your slick cunt into the chair and roll your thumbs over your nipples. Staring at the screen of your computer, at the next three little dots that appeared in a new bubble.

No thoughts. Just dots.

“Are you feeling better, slut? That’s what you are. A slut. No need to feel bad about it, you just need to be a good slut. You are already halfway there.”

You want to be a good slut. A Good Girl. But you don’t know how! The dots appear again, soothing your worries.

“Remove your clothes. Sluts don’t need clothes, they only get in the way. Clothing is for when you are in public. Now drop to your knees. You kneed to show that you respect your superiors.”

Clothing left in a pile somewhere behind you, you crawl back to the floor in front of your desk and computer. Once you roll your desk chair away you fold your legs beneath you.

“I expect that you have obeyed me slut. You are my slut now, so you will obey. Good slut. Good girl. Now, I will allow you to play with yourself however you’d like. I only have two conditions. One, put on a show. Imagine I’m there watching you. Two, after you cum, message your thanks. Then I will call you. When you hear the call, you will accept your position as my fuckpet completely, eager to hear what will come next. Start.”

Your mind is empty. Writhing on the floor, working your tits and pussy in tandem. It feels so good to let your thoughts leak out, making room for your dominant’s new adjustments.

Everything you shatter. You are not who you were. You are a blank slate, sated and corrupted.

“Thank you dominant.”

Ringing—

“Good slut. Good Girl.”

#degrading k1nk #hypno k1nk #hypno pet #praise k!nk #degredation kink #praise and degredation #nameless-stories

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omegawhiskers · 7 months

Text

COLLISION 14/10/23

Setting foundations

Collision opens with Adam Copeland who is here to address Christian's comments. Before the Rated R Superstar can speak, security make their way to the ring followed by Christian Cage. There is one enhanced talent in a brown suit. He looked important but didn't do anything noteworthy. Christian is still the best heel as he continues to be a real bastard. Bryan Danielson, Big Bill, Ricky Starks and the former champs, FTR come to the ring as everyone is ready to brawl. Starks and Adam take some fun shots at each other while Danielson demands the match for the TNT Championship right now. Of course, that doesn't happen because wrestlers should not have the power to demand such things. This was a criticism I had with Smackdown this past week. The commentators inform us that the main event will remain the main event. This was an enjoyable segment as it featured some of AEW top stars

SEQUE!!!

Due to the Israel-Hamas war there was some controversy last week when Juice Robinson threatened to hit MJF with a roll of quarters. I didn’t find this segment to be offensive. MJF being pelted with quarters has been a part of this character’s history. I merely saw this as Robinson taking a shot at a weak point in Max's life. Wrestling is also art, and art always reflects the climate we're in. AEW addressed this controversial segment where MJF and other leaders in sport met up to send a positive message regarding antisemitism. This showcased the real side of Max which was refreshing to see during this babyface run.

Samoa Joe defended his TV title against Willie Mack. I have no idea who Willie Mack is, but I liked what I saw. The match up was great as Joe and Mack are similar in size. At one point Mack leaped over the top rope and almost took out the announce table. Willie also gave us the unforgiving nipple twisters. There was also a point where Joe powerslammed Mack and it looked real rough. This was a bout worth checking out.

CJ Perry is backstage once again. She makes it clear she wants to manage. Action Andretti steps up and requests Perry's services. Perry doesn’t say yes or no, but giggles after he leaves. The excitement she emoted is that of a schoolgirl who finds out her crush likes her back. Later, Miro appears as he tosses Andretti's corpse to the side. He says, "I am willing to destroy every man to protect the one woman." which is weird. Didn't he want nothing to do with CJ? But at the same time, he doesn't want her to manage anyone. I find the whole thing strange, but it will be interesting to see who she lands with.

The Fallen Angel makes an appearance in gods knows how long. Man, I remember when he was featured with Kazarian and Scorpio Sky during the early days of AEW…any who, he is up against Juice Robinson. It was an okay match that added more heat onto Juice who promises to win the Dynamite Dozen Battle Royale so he can face MJF and take the ring. There was a mention of the man in the devil mask but no follow up from the people who attacked Jay yet.

Skye Blue is now a heel since she’s been sprayed by mist from Julia Hart. Blue took on Kris Statlander is a decent match. I’m always impressed by Statlander's strength. Of course, the TBS champion would retain, but I think it was important that Blue gets some character progression and there seems to be more to the story as Willow Nightingale came to the ring post-match to care of Blue as she told Statlander to leave.

Another good match was the Bryan Danielson versus Christian Cage for the TNT Championship in what felt like a real main event match. Danielson stretched Christian in horrific ways while the champ worked on Bryan's right arm. Ultimately Christian retained due to Big Bill and Ricky Starks getting involved. Also, due to the injured right arm, the LeBell Lock could not be used to its full effect.

There was so much going on in this show that I don’t have time to reflect on, but a lot of it was to build storylines. AEW needed to rework its foundation and start to mould it's show in a clear direction. It's just a matter of sticking with what they are presenting and follow through.

#aew collision #christian cage #adam copeland #bryan danielson #tnt champion #samoa joe #aew #cj perry #skye blue #bullet club gold #mjf #wrestling

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spyridonya · 1 year

Note

30. harsh whisper for the micro story meme

Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase - (30) harsh whispers

So, I did a lot of things that Kafka never intended to be done with long sentences. However! I wanted to write something really steamy for you since you're waiting for one of my other prompts!

Trigger Warnings: Consensual bondage, female-on-male anal, mention of safe words, grammar abuse, and edging.

Stretch Pairing: Lann and Knight Commander Kadira (mentions of a thruple with Daeran) 'Sentences': 10

A moment between just the two of them isn't unusual, but the actions transpiring are that make this moment entirely clandestine, and with the door locked, no idle duty will draw her away; incandescent from Lann's lips will be the way to make Kadira stop before she's done.

Kadira's stroke begins at Lann's bound wrists, the silk cord stupidly expensive (they both agree) but they find themselves at a loss in finding an excuse to have not made the purchase, and down his arms to follow the pattern of vein and nerve that make his breath hitch as she leisurely makes her way down his body - a pretty silver flask rests within her hand's reach.

Over collar bone, pectoral and and over his nipples, Kadee repeats that caress again and again as she sits about his hips, his arousal pressing to the curve of her ass to leave silky-sticky stains against her ruby skin. Lann’s hips are held high by pillows tucked under him and his legs are spread akimbo and if the door was open, the world would see exactly what Kadira was doing to her stoic lover.

The sphincter muscles are tight and flinching about about her tail, her tail so slick with the oil from that pretty silver flask that it drips and stains the old cloth that's spread beneath them, making the glide as smooth as she can - Kadira isn't about rough this moment; she's about filling Lann up. Her tail is thick at the base, but her tip is whipcord thin and steadily increases with girth, her tail processing the dexterity of a finger, and Lann is slowly being stretched.

Lann's chest heaves and she feels his stomach move with each motion, her undulating tail tip isn't in deep yet though she holds it in a crook, she recognizes the little bump from her her Ring of Seeming and Daeran (who is having wine and memories with Ramien; with permission of course); and when she fucks her tail against it, Lann’s hazel eye is blown dark with desire and nearly mirrors the pupil in his golden eye; his hips struggle under her as he fights against shame of a decade among the mongrels and the safety she gives him, before his body gives in and bucks lowly with pleasure.

"Kadee," His voice is deep and growly, all pretense of humor gone, the tenor turning harsh undertones as he whispers, the mongrel’s hips roll hard as if to throw her off while chasing that need of his, his human slide gleaming with sweat while his scaled side simply gleams emerald; Kadira’s tail flickers inside of him, working against the little knot of pleasure buried deep in his muscular form in maddingly slow motions, "Kadee, Kadee, please, I need... I need more..."

The tiefling tips her head, her long black hair piled high so as not to block his hungry gaze from her mude body, her mound pressed against his groin and her lower lips wet from her enjoyment of feeling his pleasure, watching his desire mount, studying the way how he breathes, the admiring how he pleads, the way how he is free to enjoy himself and yet held in check - the very same way both he and Daeran do to her.

"Of course you do," Kadira purrs, stopping her endless caresses and reaching for the flask; the length of her withdraws from the tight, wonderful heat of his body and she hears him moan in frustration as she twists open the flask of oil to apply to her tail; after all, you can never have too much lube.

Ring of Seeming is a homebrew item in PF1 that allows someone to change their appearance. I'll likely do a drabble about it later!

#answered ask #turbulentpumpkin43 #lann the mongrel #knight commander #commander x lann

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writing-with-zoe · 1 year

Text

Their minds connected and all at once Jessie felt herself opening up mind, body, and soul to this demoness. There was something creeping inside, spreading to every part of her, she didn't quite understand what was happening but She let her in and the name of her dark Mistress rolled through her mouth like a luscious lollipop, the flavor sticking sweetly to her tongue - Nikki. Take me, teach me, mold me, make me yours. The thoughts ringing through her mind but she felt that Nikki could hear her every thought, pull out her every buried desire. She reached down and grabbed Nikki's breasts, tracing her fingers across her nipples lightly before pinching them between her fingers. She wanted to thank Nikki and used her tongue in earnest to show her appreciation for the mind-blowing orgasm.

She was pulled away from her gratuitous show of tongue admiration by morphing in her body. Screams coursing through her from the feel of bones breaking and shifting in her legs and feet, the pain was incredibly horrible which caused her to hold tightly to Nikki. Jessie felt the transformation moving from her legs all the way to her head, she was changed, different. Fire flowed through her that flicked on a switch within her mind, she felt alive, energized, confident, most of all she felt horny still. Her mouth spreading to hungrily devour at Nikki's pussy, bathing her face in the demoness' juices until she came all over her face. Something had been trying to pull at her, take her away, but Nikki held on so tightly to her that she felt safe and kept her focus on providing pleasure.

"I...I...Who are you?" Jessie was breathing heavy when their bodies untangled, her eyes blinking up at the ceiling as she tried to make sense of it all. There was an excitement that grew with every beat of her heart, easing herself up onto her elbows, she looked over at Nikki. So beautiful with her raven hair, her busty chest, long tail, Jessie licked her lips as she examined Nikki from top to bottom. Already she wanted more, to experience everything she'd denied herself over the years. Nikki was the key to that, she had remade Jessie into something new, better, and Jessie wanted to find out just how much she could do now.

She crawled across the floor and pushed up onto her knees in front of her mirror, not recognizing the reflection that looked back at her. The changes were shocking to see at first, her hand gliding across her ears, lightly touching the edges of her dark eyes, moving to the tattoo, she smiled at how delightfully wicked she appeared now. Gone was the shy girl under baggy clothes who followed the plan laid out by her parents. Her parents... The thought of them pulled her back to reality for a moment and the realization that they would be here the next day. A flood of panic hit her and she jumped up, eyes frantically moving around the room at the horror before her, symbols of magic, dead bodes... what was she going to do? But then her eyes fell on Nikki again and she felt calm, the previous thoughts drifting from her mind.

Jessie knelt next to Nikki, hands reaching out to run up her legs, squeezing her ass before caressing her hips. She moved over her, lips moving up her body with a trail soft kisses. Mouth seeking out a nipple, swirling her tongue around it before taking it between her teeth. Nikki was like an addiction, every touch and taste, making Jessie crave more. Her now black eyes staring longingly up at her maker, moving her mouth over to the other breast. "What's happening to me?" She asked, wrapping her lips around Nikki's nipple.

#my writing #old partner stories #elliquiy #Jessie

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stay-midnight · 2 years

Note

could you possibly do a hyunjin x male reader sub with a bunch of slut shaming and grinding i.......

The Door Should’ve Been Closed

cw// Explicitly Graphic Smut, Big Dick Hyunjin, Slut Shaming, Grinding, Penetration, Masturbation, Degradation, fwb, Hyunjin fucks the space between your ass cheeks (tmi).

Hyunjin always appears on your apartment spontaneously, at that point you already had given him your keys to your apartment since he always comes at the dead of night and when your asleep. It annoys you when he rings your bell that cause you to wake up from your beauty sleep.

The reason he usually pops in is because, he either got into a fight with one of the members and dramatically decides to spend the night on your house, wanting to ghost said member — or, the dorm is too noisy therefore he wants a getaway.

As he’s a childhood friend and you hold him dearly, you allow him to spend the night and raid your fridge whenever he wants which he of course gloriously fills up with food again afterward.

Tonight was no different, except he really visited at the worst of times.

Hyunjin’s AOTM performance has been affecting you recently, his talents and skills in dancing was a wonder to watch but how hot he was in that video was making you feel butterflies at the pit of your gut.

The shenanigans in bed that you and Hyunjin do is not healthy for you, though you hate being used merely as a stressed reliever or when he wants makes you awfully feel bad but to be honest — it feels good and pleasurable. Sex is one thing but romance is another, being friends with benefits is not always good but it consumes you to let go of it.

Right now, your hands was inside your shorts, your flaccid cock slowly hardening up as you the repeating clip keeps playing that of Hyunjin crouching down with his thighs flexed and a hand on the ground. You moaned breathily when you imagined him nude in that, his big cock hanging between his legs and his muscular thighs that he makes you ride whenever you and him have fun. Fuck, and his chest too — those pecs and nipples that you can't seem to resist to suck on as you ride him languidly.

Your once-flaccid cock began to harden as you stroked it into hardness, moaning and grunting Hyunjin’s name as you did so, perfectly unaware of the shuffling that was happening in the kitchen.

You bit your lips and breathed heavily as the hand that was holding your phone started shaking a bit.

You let go of your cock, edging your own release as you reached your hand down to your hole, you thought of him fingering you with those long and slim fingers.

Gulping, you hiked yourself up a bit before inserting a dry finger making you writhe at the pleasure and your sexual thoughts.

Unaware of the oncoming footstep, you continued. Your dry finger going deeper before you decided to slip in another one.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here.” your unlocked door, creaking open.

A familiar voice surprising you and snapping you out of your thoughts. You immediately pulled your finger out and tried to steady your breathing.

“Naughty, are you fingering yourself, baby? That familiar music, oh. Is that...” You identified the mystery man as none other than Hwang Hyunjin, the intrusive and self-centred man that is also your friend and fuckbuddy.

“What a little slut, jerking off to a video of me.” He said smirking, his form lit up by the lights outside your room.

You turn away from him and said, laying your phone on the table. “Shut up, Hyunjin. What are you doing here again at the middle of the night?” you asked, annoyance apparent on your tone.

He clicks his tongue multiple times, “Ah ah, Don’t change the subject, whore.” he says, his shitty smirk from his handsome face taunting you.

Hyunjin always had a way with words and that annoy you but it also turns you on alot.

Hyunjin walks over to you as you hide your clearly erected dick from him with a blanket to no avail.

He rolls his eyes and pulls off the blanket eliciting a squeak from you.

He eyes down your red tip with piqued interest. “You haven't come yet. Good.” he simply stated before he started stripping himself down.

You glared at him to which he just grins down at your awkward form, “God, couldn't you look any more fuckable.” He whispers as he got on the bed once he threw away his clothes.

“You’re so annoying, it was a bad idea to give you that key.” you stated, gasping once Hyunjin gripped your sensitive dick.

“Shut up, let me do the talking, my little cumbucket.” Hyunjin hums, chuckling amused at the end.

“Hey, who are you calling cum—” you were about to protest at the lewd words, he raises an eyebrow at you which caused you to immediately shut up.

“Good, you’re good at following orders. And you know who else are good at following orders? Needy sluts.” Hyunjin says, his tone filled with arrogance. His eyes looking at your own straightly, causing a shiver to run down your spine. He was enjoying this. Hyunjin always loved to degrade you and you got used to it and actually developed a kink for it — I don't know if that's something to be proud of though.

“Now, move your ass on all fours.” He commands, slapping said ass causing a moan to get stuck on your throat.

Hyunjin stood up, watching as you get on all fours for him, you were facing the wall.

Hyunjin dips his hand between your asscheeks and groaned at the sight, slapping your twitching hole after, your body flinching at the sudden contact.

“You jerk off to me often, baby boy?” he teased, hand spreading your cheeks even wider before spitting straight on your dry entrance. He slaps your thigh causing your body to jump again.

“Speak whore. And don't lie, as a matter of fact, I jerk off to you often to. To the sight of you speared on my dick.” he reveals, his voice had no hint of him lying.

“I— I do, I jerk to you often..” you confessed, your voice dripping with shame.

He cooes at you faintly, “No shame in that.” he says before he slaps his large and girthy cock on your hole. Causing a whine to rip out from your throat.

“Oh, the slut likes that.” he grins, slapping his cock again before slowly thrusting up in between your cheeks, grinding down on you so.

Hyunjin grabs your cock and presses the nail of his thumb down your slit, eliciting an utmost delicious sound out of you causing Hyunjin’s ego to further inflate. Hyunjin is hot and he knows it, he’ll always know what to say to bring you down on your knees for him, temptation is fatal thing and Hyunjin always knows how to press the correct buttons to get you going.

Hyunjin sighs in pure satisfaction as he ruts his dick between your cheeks but you were not getting the pleasure that he was receiving and your patience is wearing thin.

“Hyun, could you get any slower?” you grumbled against the sheets as he stopped thrusting, he was surprised especially when he told you how good you are at following orders.

He laughs.

He fucking laughs, oh my go—

Smirking he didn't even hesitated to slam his cock into you, his dick fitting snugly inside your soft velvety walls that he always craved.

Whilst you let out a broken gasp, biting into the pillow as he pushed in deeper and adjusting the angle of the insertion. Too fucking deep, it felt like he was pressing against yoir gut or something.

You swallow up the burn and the pain of the sudden intrustion, Hyunjin gawks at your form — Head buried in the sheets, hips shaking but also pushing back against the top with much need, your own dick was dripping dirty the sheets a bit too much as Hyunjin’s length stimulates your prostate with the slightest movement. Your hand was squeezing the white drapes tightly too and Hyunjin was all too amused by how much you were struggling to adjust.

“You asked for it~” He lulls, grinning at your back. You could feel how he was taunting you just from the tone of his voice.

“The gratifying sight of you on all fours will never get out of my mind.” He says landing a loud smack on your ass, all you could do was moan at it because just having his dick inches inside you felt like a chokehold.

Maybe you should actually barricade the door with your couch instead of relying on a simple lock, a dick friend that has a big dick always seems to end up inside the house instead of the doorstep.

#blog anniversary special #midnight requests 2021 #kpop x male reader #stray kids x male reader #skz smut #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop x reader #sub male reader #kpop smut #skz imagines #hyunjin smut #skz x male reader #mlm fic #stray kids x reader

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