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#of COURSE he owns a marble table
moonjxsung · 3 months
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Begged & Borrowed
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Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.
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.
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caraphernellie · 3 months
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cowboy like me // e.w. [chapter one]
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summary: a modern day princess living under outdated royal protocol in which your own existence is forbidden. in a typical state visit to strengthen your country's relations with the united states, you find it harder than ever to keep your sexuality secret when you meet the president's daughter, ellie williams, and sparks fly.
wc: 2.1k masterlist
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content warnings: fluff, angst, eventual smut. homophobia, governments, monarchy, politics. reader is specified as lesbian with she/her pronouns used for plot purposes i sorry, smoking, making out, femme! reader. u-haul lesbians fr. reader plays piano. ellie is a disaster lesbian lmaooooo. she's also super privileged and a bit of an ass. mostly based off of the british royal family in terms of royal protocol and all that shit, don’t kill me if things are inaccurate i’m not american, this chapter is more an intro to ellie's character and establishing tension
authors note: i'm so excited about this fic... but i might hate it in the morning so we'll see!! i've never read/watched red white and royal blue but it did inspire this fic (do not expect it to be anything like rwrb as i said i don't know what happens in it lmao). ellie's the president's daughter obvs. if your country doesn't have a monarchy just pretend there is one. if you're from the us then L 💀 play pretend
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converse sneakers pelting across marble tiled floors with an onslaught of urgency, ellie makes her way through the halls. she stops at a mirror for a second, a muse in her mind– eh, good enough.
smoothing down flyaway hairs, ellie realises spending free time in the courtyard outside may not have been the best idea on a cool spring day such as this. the winter is still lingering, breezes battering the flag of red, white, and blue on the roof of the building as warm temperatures are still fresh. still- she needs as much a distraction as anyone else. as if procrastinating on something like homework, assignments, except the only thing ellie has done is make herself late to the introductory banquet of the royal family. all she knows is the president won’t be happy with her. 
bringing her wrist to her nose, ellie sniffs, though it’s less sniffing and more inhaling, trying to figure out if she has masked the smell of the cigarette she wasted or if she needs more cologne.
ellie’s caught by a housekeeper with her face stuck awkwardly into her suit jacket, furrowed brows as she inspects her own scent. pausing, a strained smile takes its place on chapped lips.
“he–”
“goodness, miss williams, you’re terribly late,” the housekeeper says, quickly approaching. “staff have been searching everywhere for you.”
“right,” ellie mumbles, straightening up her posture. “sorry. i’ll be on my way to the state dining room right now.”
approaching said room, ellie can already hear the fuss– loud and polite conversations, the snapping of photos, subtle classical playing over the speakers. christ, ellie thinks, how do i render myself invisible?
ellie’s worries ease the minute she steps inside, however, as the commotion isn’t around her own family today. it’s the royal family. and that realisation almost sparks up yet another mini freakout in ellie’s mind. she’s been looking forward to this for weeks, of course she has, a hot princess living in her home for an entire month..? that’s something she could get used to. but it’s real now, and just staring at you is sending a chill down ellie’s spine.
flash photography and yelling of the invited press is suffocating ellie as she ventures further into the room. she hasn’t even been noticed yet, thank god, so she decides to humbly busy herself at the table of finger food. until–
“ellie williams?”
a delicate voice smooth and sweet, ellie’s ears prick up to the sound of an accent unique and she knows exactly who this has to be.
fuck.
ellie makes quick effort to swallow the stupid cocktail frank she was eating and turns around, wiping her clammy hands on the ass of her slacks.
a princess standing right in front of her, of course these things only happen to ellie in her most cringeworthy moments. demolishing a table of finger food… what can she say? she’s an anxious snacker.
“ah-” ellie’s eyes meet your own and she gulps, extending a hand. “a pleasure to meet you, princess…”
get your head in the game, ellie. she clears her throat, putting on her famous, confident smile. and as you place your hand in hers, she acts purely without thinking, lifting your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. nobody was watching, but ellie drops your hand in an instant- is flirting with a princess the right move? even if it’s humorous?
your brain just about short-circuits, and ellie’s reeling. that was stupid, so stupid. acting on total whim.
the collar of ellie’s shirt feels too tight as she observes the split-second utter shock in your eyes, though she relaxes as you reward her a smile. and it isn’t that typical, media-trained smile, either.
“charming,” you murmur in response, eyes fixed on ellie’s piercing greens. however delighted you might be to be treated in this way by a girl like ellie, the way in which you hide it is effortless.
and charming, of course, is exactly what ellie is. messy, shirt creased and hair tousled and she honestly reeks of expensive cologne and faint smoke – but she has that handsome smile and that confident demeanour that the girls of washington d.c. fall for so easily.
“i hope so,” ellie says with an awkward chuckle, shoving her hands into her pockets. “that’s the aim of the game.”
you laugh similarly, politely, and make it as clear as possible to glance ellie up and down. “i’ll play.”
and the look on ellie’s face is plain silly at the least, her brows furrowed and eyes wide. “wh- uh..”
“say, it’s a little stuffy in here,” you say, gently fanning yourself, “you wouldn’t happen to know of any quiet spaces we could disappear to?”
ellie’s lips form a small o-shape as she processes the question. you want to be alone with her. a smirk crosses ellie’s face and she nods, “absolutely, your highness. my office.”
“would you be so kind as to show me to it?”
“of course, follow me,” ellie nods her head to the direction of the door. “we’ll have to sneak around.”
your heels click against the floor while ellie leads you down the hall, the sound a constant reminder to her that you’re actually walking alongside her. approaching a large door adorned by a gold plate with ellie’s name carved into it, she pulls a key from her pocket. and yet her eyes are on you the whole time.
the door clicks open and ellie holds it for you, only for her face to turn red when met with the sight of her office.
“excuse the mess,” she mutters, closing and locking the door behind the two of you. “i was uh, in here late last night. i had a speech to work on.”
“it’s alright,” you say, “some organised mess makes it homely.”
“right,” ellie nods. she’s beyond sensical thought now, just going along with anything you say. try harder. this is ellie’s issue, she eggs herself on too much, gets too overzealous, does things for the sake of doing them because her life has quite literally no direction if she doesn’t set herself these impossible dares. “just take a seat anywhere if you like. the couch is pretty comfy.”
ellie makes a pointless attempt to tidy some papers on her desk. she doesn’t necessarily do a lot of work here, though she enjoys being an activist, often writing speeches and finding causes to help others. though it did only begin in the first place as a way to increase the votes for her father’s party during the election- that doesn’t mean it isn’t genuine!
it’s just that ellie’s lazy ass needs pressure to do these things.
she gnaws her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, watching as you sit on the two-seater, eyeing the guitars along the wall of the office. “you play?”
“hm? no,” you say, watching ellie take a warm toned acoustic and sit beside you. “i’m a pianist, though.”
“pianist?” ellie chuckles, thumb stroking over each string of the guitar. “you’ll have to play for me sometime.”
you nod, watching intently as ellie begins playing a quiet tune. she can’t help but notice your rigid, straight posture. she can’t tell if you just have great posture, or if you’re uncomfortable.
but, noticing your eyes lingering over her nimble fingers as they pick at the guitar, ellie’s lips curl upwards just slightly.
she knows well when she’s got a girl worked up. she’d never expected the princess to be this easy.
“music is just beautiful,” you say with a small nod, again, that genuine smile small as ever on your lips insecurely. “nothing like it.”
“you think so?” ellie muses, and when you manage to finally stray your eyes from her hands, you meet ellie’s own soft gaze. “because i think… even the most beautiful ballad couldn’t compare to the solid view i got right now.”
you scoff, turning quiet as heat fills your cheeks. your brows furrow as you tilt your head a nod to the side, studying ellie’s features, searching for any hint of dishonesty. and it’s like she can tell that, with your gaze silently begging her to not be messing with you- she turns her expression more serious.
“you’re something else, williams,” you retort, though adjusting yourself a little closer. knees touch, and you don’t flinch away.
“yeah?” ellie grins. the room goes silent, ellie no longer continuing to play her tune. the guitar on her lap, she rests her chin over it. “something good, or something bad?”
there’s a more subtle smirk on her face now. she begins to move, setting the guitar down and leaning it against the couch as she shifts even closer.
“mmm…” you think for a moment, a smaller expression of interest visible across your features. “something that my head tells me is not a good idea, but my heart says is just fine.”
how the fuck did i get here, ellie wonders? she’s running on pure luck at this point. stumbled in late and somehow she’s got a princess way in over her head.
and ellie doesn’t leave you waiting a moment longer– the second you lean closer she’s grabbing your head and meeting your lips in a fervent kiss, one you gasp into and immediately lean into, hands falling into place with one on her chest and the other on the back of her neck.
pulling away breathlessly, ellie chuckles a bit and shrugs her shoulders, “eh- oops?” she looks almost embarrassed by her own reckless act. “sorry.”
there’s too much going on for you– just too much in your head. your first kiss, the first other lesbian you’ve ever met. her words get you weak in the knees, yet she gets just as flustered by her own actions which seem to only ever work on impulse. so you start laughing, and you can’t stop.
ellie herself laughs a little, watching you giggle at her pink face as you lean into the back of the couch and hold up a cushion to hide your face. it’s all snorting and snickering and ellie’s face is getting redder.
she snatches the cushion out of your hands and raises a brow at you, “if you keep being that cute i’m gonna–”
“sorry,” you laugh, “sorry-”
ellie can’t help but notice how much it seems like you really needed this laughing fit, the way it’s instantly relaxed you…
“that’s it,” she mutters with a chuckle, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer. “c’mere.”
the yelp of surprise that ellie’s movement elicits has her beaming, holding you on her lap. she rests a hand on the back of your head, the other cupping your ass. it’s indecent, indelicate to touch a princess like that, and yet you’re not stopping her. ellie’s already found herself addicted.
because this time ellie lets herself just go, pressing her lips to yours. she swipes her tongue over your bottom lip, grunting as you gasp. with your lips parted she slips her tongue into the kiss. she isn’t just kissing you, she’s devouring. she’s making sure not to leave an inch of your mouth unexplored, nor will she allow it for your body, getting rather handsy. every pretty little sound you breathe motivates her to continue, pulling you back in every time you pull back for air.
a hand slides under your dress, gripping your thigh, the other squeezes your breast before gliding to the curve of your ass, and she slumps into the couch. her boxers are growing uncomfortably wet and she needs to do something about it, hold you down on her desk and–
a key turns in the door and her eyes snap open, as do yours. not a single word is said but the panicked look you share tells all as you move back onto the couch beside ellie, smoothing down your dress. she grabs her forgotten guitar and moves it onto her lap.
and in mere seconds, the door opens to reveal a housekeeper who had used the master key to get in. and she’s clueless, though a little discomforted by the taut smiles you and ellie offer.
“sorry to interrupt you, ladies,” she offers awkwardly. “nobody has seen either of you in a long time, it was requested by president williams that we search the place.”
“ah,” ellie muses, clearing her throat before her voice can come out as weak as it feels. “i understand. we’re alright, yes, sorry, um… we needed a quiet place.”
sitting there with that prim and proper posture once again, your leg crossed over the other, you stare at ellie, resisting the urge to reach over right now and fix her hair after having ran your hands through it with desperation.
this is going to be an interesting state visit.
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tag list (msg me or find my tag list in my pinned post if u want to be tagged!!): @dinasvampgf
🙈🙈 omg this fic..
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suashii · 2 months
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— 𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽 ౨ৎ
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suna rintaro x reader. 1.3k wc. ノ sfw ノ fluff ノ college au
note: this is a repost! just wanted to share it again for his birthday
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you like the enigma that is suna rintaro.
you aren’t sure exactly what you like about him, but you know that you like him. it’s something that your friends will never let you live down.
you don’t blame them for it—their teasing and the never-ending questions that are thrown at you every time they happen to catch you stealing a glance at him. your infatuation confuses you, too, because suna rintaro is a weird guy—certainly not someone most people would have a crush on.
he comes to class in his pajamas, pokémon pants and a plain hoodie—the hood pulled over his head, scrunched around the edges, the strings tied into a messy bow. you rarely ever see his hair but on the infrequent occasion that you do, it’s never brushed and the dark strands are either tangled or sticking up, out of place. every so often a pair of black-framed lenses are perched on the bridge of his nose, sliding down the slope with the downward tilt of his head. suna has little regard for his appearance and a clear lack of professionalism, but still, you like him.
he sits in the third of four rows in the classroom, the one in front of you. the screen of his laptop is always dimmed but not so much that you can’t see what’s on it. the device never displays the course material, rather, it often plays an episode of whatever anime suna’s currently watching. you’ve never gotten the chance to see if his eyes flit up to glance at the projector or to follow along with the professor’s written examples, but the absence of anything to write with or on gives you the impression that he doesn’t. suna’s priorities aren’t straight, but still, you like him.
he eats alone, at least whenever you see him in the dining hall. you’ve noticed that he leans toward the build-your-own-sandwich place, though you have seen him swap out the subs for a salad or whatever homestyle meal was being served. one thing holds true for whatever he chooses to eat—he stuffs as much food into his mouth as he can. it can be cute, the way his cheeks puff up and his lips pout out, but his technique leads to an inevitable mess. any sauce or crumbs left behind on his face are wiped away with the back of his hand instead of a napkin. suna doesn’t know the first thing about table manners, but still, you like him.
you like suna and you’ve yet to figure out why.
you plan to change that today—the liking him part or uncovering the reason behind your feelings, you’re not sure, but your professor has given you the perfect excuse to figure out what the hell is going on.
“what are you doing?” your friend asks, the rustling of your papers catching her attention. you don’t answer but your eyes do dart down and slightly to the right where suna’s sitting. words aren’t needed for her to know what’s running through your head. “seriously?”
the girl easily pieces together that you’re on your way to recruit suna as your partner for the upcoming assignment. so does your companion sitting beside her. he speaks up this time. “you’re going to risk your grade over a crush?”
“it might not be that bad,” you shrug, the weight of your bag making the action more difficult than it should have been. “i’ll talk to you two later.”
they share a knowing glance before waving you off. you can feel their eyes burning a hole into the back of your head as you make your way down the step and past your classmates to steal the seat next to suna. as usual, his eyes are glued to the screen ahead of him, intently following the events of the animated show playing on it.
you’ve never sat this close to him before. your proximity warrants you a closer look at him. he looks more delicate than you ever thought he was—skin that seems as though it was carved from marble and incredibly unique greyish yellow eyes. he’s pretty and you could stare at him forever but you decide that would be creepy. instead, you lightly tap his shoulder to gain his attention.
suna’s finger reaches out to click the space bar on his keyboard to pause his anime. he turns to you, countenance blank.
“suna, right?” you ask despite knowing his name. “do you want to work on the paper together?”
a short moment passes before his reply. “sure.”
“great!” you’re not so sure his agreeance is a good thing or if it’ll end with you doing the entirety of the essay, but he doesn’t need to know that you and just about everyone else doubt his work ethic. “so, we can pick any topic that falls under the umbrella of-”
“the edo period,” he finishes your sentence.
you blink and nod, surprised at suna’s correct interruption. you wouldn’t admit it to your friends, but it’s become a habit for your eyes to wander to suna during class. you were sure he spent the entire time up until now preoccupied with his anime. you look to the board—it isn’t written there. your gaze whizzes over to his laptop—he hasn’t changed tabs on the device. he must have actually been listening to the lecture.
so you do pay attention in here, you think with a breathy laugh.
“it was a filler episode so i took one of my earbuds out.” his unexpected statement makes you stiffen. did you say that out loud? right beside him? you turn to apologize for the jab but suna doesn’t look offended; he’s grinning. “i’m usually not that attentive.”
you huff out a laugh. despite the comment, suna’s unforeseen diligence—albeit short-lived—is enough to give you a little hope about the paper. it’s possible that he isn’t as unproductive as he appears—maybe his priorities aren’t askew.
the scale that is your like of suna seems to be weighing heavily on the ‘you totally like him!!’ side. you clear your throat and shake your head to rid your mind of thoughts of him. “anything specific you want to write about?”
you and suna spend the last few minutes of class discussing your project. he brings up multiple interesting topics that the two of you could explore. it’s impressive and he exceeds any expectations you had of him. you can feel your pulse quickening with every word he speaks until it jumps at your professor’s dismissal of class.
for the first time ever, you’re not rushing to get out of the building.
as you pack up your belongings, your traitorous eyes drift to suna’s figure. you didn’t notice it earlier, perhaps because you arrived later than him this once, but his usual attire is traded in for some still comfy sweatpants and an oversized crewneck today. you voice your surprise. “no pokémon pajamas today, huh?”
he shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “sorry to disappoint.”
you’re far from disappointed. while you have no problem with his typical apparel, the simple outfit looks good on him. the sleeves hang low on his arms, hiding his hands so that he has to make an effort to grab anything. it’s cute, you think. the ensemble isn’t much of a step up from what he typically wears, but maybe he isn’t as careless about his appearance as you thought.
interacting with him closely has done nothing to shake your unexplainable feelings for the man. if anything, all it did was make you tiptoe farther and farther to the edge of the diving board. there’s one more thing you have to see before you dive into the deep end of what is suna rintaro.
“hey, do you want to work on the paper over lunch?”
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hope you enjoyed this short little fic! if so, consider reblogging and telling me about your favorite part :3
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sister-lucifer · 3 months
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Things the Creepypasta + Marble Hornets crew would do that would give me the ick 
Toby is very childish, sometimes in ways that aren’t cute. He’ll throw a whining, foot stomping tantrum if he doesn’t get something he really wants. He’s also as messy eater and will just walk around with stains on his mouth and shirt 
Tim is inconsiderate and apathetic a lot of the time and will put out his cigarette in your canned drink before thinking to ask if you’re done with it, and he’ll not only make you get another one but also ask you to get him a beer ‘since you’re up’
Jeff holds grudges against random people he doesn’t even know for insane amounts of time, like someone so much as brushes his shoulder on the subway you’ll hear about it for weeks. Also he can never ever see himself as being in the wrong in even the slightest way in any scenario no matter what and it’s impossible to hold a civil discussion with him
Brian has no idea what he wants out of any relationship, platonic or otherwise, and will accidentally lead you on jumping from ‘let’s be friends with benefits’ to ‘i’m deeply in love with you’ to ‘let’s just be friends’ and everything in between, not necessarily in that order
Jason The Toymaker is a bit effeminate with his way of dress and general self expression, but is so embarrassed and in denial about it that he does a 180 and accidentally turns into a misogynistic trad guy when he talks
Laughing Jack is not and will never be over his severe abandonment issues and will consistently invade your privacy (like breaking into your phone or laptop) to make sure you aren’t insulting him or planning to leave him behind his back
Eyeless Jack is generally very quiet which wouldn’t be an issue if it didn’t lead to very passive aggressive displays of unhappiness instead of just telling you what the issue is. Like instead of just asking you to do the dishes he’ll take the dirty dishes and stack them on your bedside table in the middle of the night. Doesn’t matter how good you usually are with meeting his needs and wants, this is his first course of action
Jane doesn’t really have feelings of her own anymore and sort of forgets that others have them. If you come to her to vent you’ll only feel worse because she’ll keep saying things like “well why don’t you just _____?” thinking she’s being helpful by offering a solution but failing to realize that’s not what you need right now
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roguerogerss · 4 months
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complaining
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pairing: coriolanus snow x reader
w/c: 3.6k
warnings: literally full on SMUT, bit of swearing, underage drinking but only if ur american, coriolanus is a warning in himself.
a/n: help my smut writing has gotten so good the past few months this popped off so hard. been obsessed with coryo since the movie came out (you cant expect a mentally ill woman not to fall in love with him. you just cant.) so here’s this. i’m disgusted by myself too. bye. (requests r open, send me stuff here)
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Livia Cardew's 18th birthday had been a mistake to attend. The party had been held at Pluribus Bell's nightclub, a place in which you only found yourself when you made an appearance at your friend's birthday parties, and the entire club had been packed, not only with Livia's family and your classmates from the academy, but with their friends and families, too.
Overall, there must've been three hundred people there, all tightly packed together, some drunkenly pressed against eachother, dancing, others swaying silently by the bar or stood by one of the table booths, yelling in eachother's ears to get their points across. You thought that, of the three hundred, you might only have known thirty.
Livia, unfortunately, considered you as a close friend, which was certainly true when you were young children, but, as the years had gone by, you'd actually found her, and most of the other girls in your class, to be almost insufferable. Nevertheless, you'd managed to land yourself an invitation to her family's mansion before the party had started, and you'd pretended to be having a good time, even although the crystal glasses that you were drinking from and the buffet that Mrs Cardew had set out on the gold-trimmed marble dining table, had settled a queasy feeling into the pit of your stomach.
The only other face in the Cardew's enormous living room that wasn't constantly grinning, was Crassus Snow's own son, Coriolanus, who you'd make eye contact with on occasion, and he'd send a small, knowing smile, and an eye roll back in your direction.
You liked Coriolanus, a lot, actually, you considered him to be your best friend, sometimes you even dabbled with boyfriend. But your classmates couldn't know that, simply down to the type of bond that you shared, and so, after every bout of eye contact, every blush-inducing smile, you'd simply turned your body away, back to Clemensia, or Livia, or Arachne, and waited for the next time you'd catch Coriolanus' eye. Of course, he was almost always staring - he thought you were the only thing in the room worth looking at - even while speaking to his fellow classmates, and so, every time you turned around, you'd repeat the process over again.
"Are you even listening to me?" Arachne would say, voice as booming as ever, and Livia would intervene, calling your name to have you rejoin the conversation.
The party had been terrible to begin with, the opulent nature of the Cardew household having you feeling sick, right from the get-go, and had only gotten worse when you'd all left and gotten into chauffeur-driven cars to be taken to the nightclub. You'd been sweaty just looking at the crowd when you arrived, and saying hello to classmates that you didn't like but had to pretend to for the social status of it all had exhausted you even further.
But the night had ended the same way it always did, with you leading Coriolanus Snow back to your apartment, hands loosely intertwined with eachother.
You and Coriolanus lived in much the same circumstances, both in the same apartment building, where the exterior and most of the homes inside were packed with marble and precious stone, the two of yours being an exception to this.
You'd both come from rich families, of course you had, this was the Capitol after all, but, after being orphaned in the war, you lived alone, in an apartment that seemed to have crumbled more every time you arrived home, with pieces of plaster falling from the ceiling day by day, and new cracks appearing in the walls as often as every hour.
Coriolanus was only slightly better off than you were, what with Tigris and the Grandma'am still living with him.
Ever since the war, you'd been on eachother's side, no matter the circumstance. If either of you had chance to sneak food from the dining hall of the academy, you'd share it between you, and if there ever came a cold winter, Coriolanus would invite you over, and let you share the scarce warm clothes and blankets he and his family owned, topped with a bowl of cabbage soup from Tigris.
You supposed your sleeping together after the very occasional night at Pluribus' nightclub had come naturally, and the sleeping together most every night for the past few months had been only the normal progression. You didn't mind it, but, of course, no one at the academy was ever to find out. It would only spark rumours, which would certainly mean that, soon enough, your classmates would find out about both of your financial positions, which could absolutely not happen.
Your nights together remained simply intimacy in the dark, and you supposed you were both okay with that.
Coryo had his first two fingers interlocked with your last two, and your arms swung between you as you walked ahead of him. Neither of you were particularly drunk, a personal choice rather than an inability, as Livia's parents had paid Pluribus Bell extra for their daughter's party to feature an open bar, which could've been taken full advantage of by the pair of you, considering you'd never have enough money to even get into Pluribus' normally, nevermind buy enough drinks to make you both feel lightheaded.
But the Cardew's were high up in the Capitol, and Livia's entire family was in attendance, which meant that, with them, came the rich and famous, government officials, celebrities. The two of you, not having rich parents to fall back on, couldn't risk getting blackout drunk. It was the kind of thing that was funny if you were affluent enough, but embarrassing and ill-mannered if you weren't.
"You know," Coriolanus gave your arm a particularly hard swing, "I think we're getting pretty good at that."
"Good at what?"
"The whole, pretending we don't really know eachother, thing."
You scoffed and turned your body slightly to face him. "We don't pretend we don't know eachother."
"Well, whatever you'd call it. Pretending we're just acquaintances?" Coriolanus moved his tongue around in his mouth a little, mulling over the words like he'd only been asking himself the question. And then he gave his head a shake. "No, we're definitely pretending that we don't know eachother."
"It was your idea." You shrugged. Your conversations seemed to often be pointed, but it was all in good spirits. You knew that you loved eachother really.
"I'm not saying it wasn't." You laughed at his remark, "I'm saying we're good at it."
"And you're happy to do it?" You raised an eyebrow at him and he shook his head almost too enthusiastically. Maybe the posca was stronger than you'd thought.
"Not particularly, but if it means that this keeps happening, and you keep sharing the food that you steal from the hall, then I could keep going." Your mouth fell open in feigned hurt, and you clamped a hand over your chest.
"You're only sleeping with me for stolen leftovers?"
Coriolanus shook his head and grinned at your joke, looking down at his feet, which were aching with how tight his boots were. "I'm kidding, obviously. Of course I don't like it, but you know what everyone's like."
"Yeah, but it wouldn't hurt to be friends in public." You swung your hands between you for a few seconds while Coriolanus considered your proposal. You were nearing your apartment, and you fumbled in your coat pocket with one hand for your key-card.
"No. No it probably wouldn't." He said finally and you gasped.
"Are you agreeing with me for once?" You'd reached your apartment complex, now, and the LED lights on the archway into the building were almost blinding when paired with the crystal chandeliers that lined the lobby. The pair of you began climbing the marble staircase that brought you to your apartment, which was situated on the second floor. You always found it almost comical, how the Capitol had kept it's glory in apartment buildings but that the people housed within some of them were one missed rent payment away from eviction.
"I always agree with you." Coriolanus laughed, giving your hand a tight squeeze. You pressed your keycard against the lock-pad and, the second the door buzzed open, you'd untangled your hand from Coriolanus' to undo the buckle on your too-high heels which had once belonged to your mother, who's feet were only one size bigger than yours and so you were able to just about get away with wearing her old, but still stylish, shoes.
"Only when we sleep together." You gave him a seductive wink which had him laughing.
"Which seems to be more often than not these past few months." Coriolanus took off his blazer and tossed it over your tattered sofa, which was beautiful in it's glory days, but was now cracked and moulting.
Your face had broken into a cheeky smirk as you approached him, your back still to the door as he faced you. "Are you complaining, Snow?"
In one, swift movement, Coryo had backed you into the door and had one hand on your waist, the other above your head. He cocked an eyebrow at you in a way that had you weak in the knees, "Do I seem like I'm complaining?"
"I'm not sure, pretty boy, you'll have to do better than that." Your smirk was still present, and, without hesitation, Coriolanus' lips were crashing down onto your own, with just as much hunger for you as you were used to.
He moved fast, he always did, and he'd removed your coat from your shoulders and thrown it to the floor without even a second thought, and was now twirling the straps of your dress between his fingers teasingly. Your hands roamed his chest, blindly searching for the buttons of his shirt, and, when you found them, you fumbled with them until you'd undone them all, and then you pulled it from his arms, so that he was in nothing but his father's old black slacks.
Your dress was Livia's - you'd told her you just couldn't decide what to wear, and she'd offered it up - and it was huge and puffy and made you vaguely resemble a cupcake, and so, when Coryo's fingers finally slipped under the straps and began peeling them down your shoulders, you felt an incredible sense of relief to finally be out of the thing.
When you'd stepped out of the dress, Coriolanus almost dropped it on the floor, but you stopped him, "Ah, ah! That's Livia's, I can't get it ruined. Her father would probably skin me to make a new one. Can you put it over the sofa?"
He laughed and obliged, he always did, draping the dress neatly over the arm of the sofa before coming back to kiss you, this time even rougher than before. His lips trailed down your neck, hands roamed your body, fingers familiarising themselves with the black lacy set you'd worn under your dress, the only reason being that you knew Coriolanus would be the one taking it off of you that night.
He pulled back from you for a second, admiring your form, how your waist dipped in and you curved back out at the hips, how perfectly the bra sat on your chest, and, most of all, how you were all for him in that moment, how you seemed to always be all for him. "Oh my God." Was all he seemed to be able to muster.
The underwear had actually been stolen from a boutique near your house, one owned by Coriolanus' own cousin's boss. But you figured he didn't need to know that.
Coryo's head had dropped to your collarbone, and his lips travelled all the way across your chest, occasionally sucking or biting, which had your breath hitching in the back of your throat. "You're taking your time tonight." You observed.
"Mm." He hummed against you and then brought his head up so that his icy blue eyes were staring straight into yours, "Do I still seem like I'm complaining?"
"Oh, shut up, Snow." You giggled and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Coriolanus seemed satisfied with his teasing of you, because his hands had started to travel south, until his lithe fingers had pushed your underwear to the side and he'd pressed one of them inside of you, earning a mewl of approval and making your back arch away from the door.
Coriolanus chuckled against your lips. "Every time."
"Again," You tried to sound convicted but whined when the tip of his finger brushed against a sensitive spot, "Shut up, Snow."
Your hands reached for his belt and he didn't stop you as you made quick work of unbuckling it and pulling it from his belt loops. As soon as it was on the floor, the button on his pants was undone and they were on the floor, too.
"Eager." Coryo remarked and you moaned as he added a second finger and increased his pace. Normally, by this point, he'd have you on your bed, or at least the sofa, but it seemed he wanted things to be different tonight.
As soon as a third finger found it's way inside of you, you were a moaning, whining mess, and your teeth sunk into Coriolanus' shoulder as you tried to stifle your whimpers. Your knees had started to buckle and you knew your legs would give way any moment now. "Coryo...Coriolanus, I can't...I can't stand up." You were so breathless that even trying to get a sentence out was next to impossible.
Coryo's free hand held you steady by the waist, fingers gripping your back and thumb pressed firmly into your stomach. "You can take it, honey. Know you can."
His words had you melting and you felt yourself nearing the edge as he curled his fingers inside of you. "Coryo, I'm gonna...God, you have to stop-"
"I'm not stopping. Want you to finish on my fingers before I fuck you." He'd never spoken so lewdly to you, ever, and it had you wondering what had gotten into him, at the same time as it had you clenching around him.
"Coryo!" You called out as you felt yourself getting there. "Fuck, Coryo-"
"I know, baby. I know, come on." He looked you right in the eye as he said, "Cum for me."
That was all you needed, you came undone right there, pressed against your apartment door, moaning so loudly you were certain that Tigris and the Grandma'am would hear you, ten floors up. You, once again, sunk your teeth into his shoulder to try to quiet yourself, but it was hardly of any use.
Your legs had given out halfway through your orgasm, and Coriolanus' hand had dug into your waist harder to keep you held up. When you'd finished, he grinned at you, breathless, and scooped you up with minimal effort, only to dump you onto the sofa. His underwear was gone in seconds, and you were still wearing your set, but he was hovering over you, seemingly ready to sink into you and make you feel even better than before.
His lips found your neck again, and he was saying right in your ear, "You did so well, sweetheart. So well."
He was one for praising, and you were one for receiving, so it only made your pupils dilate even further. "Are you ready?"
His eyes were locked onto yours, fingers wrapped around your chin, always so caring, whether he'd just finger-fucked you against a door or not, always making sure you really wanted it. You nodded, "Yes. Ready."
"Okay." He kissed you again, "Let me know if you need to stop, yeah?"
"I will. You know I always do." He'd pushed your underwear aside again, and slipped into you with a slight effort in no time, which really reinforced his, 'sleeping together more often than not', statement, as it had taken at least a few minutes and some words of encouragement the first couple of times.
You gasped and dug your nails into his back, which had Coriolanus' face screwing up slightly. He'd always liked when you dug your nails into him, the pain feeling more pleasurable than anything. "You feel amazing. You always feel amazing." His hands found your breasts, squeezing them through the sheer lace.
"Do you want me to take my underwear off?" You asked through breathy moans. Coryo shook his head quickly and kissed over your bra.
"No." He said, almost authoratively, and thrusted into you harder, faster, as his hand wandered over your body and his eyes raked over you. "Want it on."
You nodded and obeyed, unable to do anything but almost scream his name, with how fast, and rough he was pounding into you. "Coryo, I'm getting close again-"
"You can hold it." He threw his head back in pleasure and a guttural moan left his throat. "I'm nearly there too. Can't hold it, seeing you like this." He gestured to your underwear.
"You like it?" You asked seductively, earning another moan and a nod from Coriolanus. "Got it for you, wore it tonight for you. Knew you'd like it."
"Fuck, who's all this for?" You knew he was close now, could feel him twitching inside of you. You were close too, but you liked the hold you had over him.
"Sorry, I'm not sure what you mean." You teased, still breathless but with a smirk on your face. Coryo shook his head at you, convincingly disapproving, and then his hand was on your throat. Lightly enough that it didn't hurt, but just hard enough that your breathing was slightly laboured and he had more power over you than you had over yourself.
"Who is this for?" Coriolanus asked again, voice harder this time. You weren't sure where this was all coming from, but you certainly enjoyed it. You were cocky at the best of times, and you liked having someone keep you in check.
"You, Coriolanus." He groaned and thrusted into you so hard you were seeing stars. "Fuck, Coryo, it's all for you. I'm always all for you."
"Good girl. That's a good girl, all mine." He gave your throat a light squeeze and then released you, leaving you gasping for air. "Shit. Gonna cum." He dropped his head again, still unrelenting in his pace or roughness. "Are you there?"
"I'm there too." Your moans were strangled, so loud you could hardly even quiet yourself by clamping a hand over your mouth. "God, Coryo!"
You came for the second time, Coryo following right behind you, and you felt his load come out in ropes inside of you, only making your high even higher. Coryo collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing heavily and bodies shaking together. "That was amazing, Coryo." You cooed, hand stroking his white-blonde curls back from his forehead.
"Might've been the best we've had." Coriolanus was so out of breath he could barely form a full sentence. You hummed in response, nodding your head and then letting it fall back against the arm of the sofa.
"So you liked this?" You teased, plucking your bra strap from your skin and then letting it ping back on you. Coryo's face turned a light pink colour and he laughed.
"So what if I did?" He lifted his head, chin resting against your belly, "I liked it, a lot. Think you're beautiful. You know that."
You nodded. "I do."
Coryo shook his head, really laughing now, "There's the arrogance."
"Arrogance? You live in the Capitol, Coryo, there's many more arrogant than me." You hadn't stopped stroking his head, and Coriolanus thought he could've fallen asleep, your voice always calmed him, someone safe, and the added touch and his physical exertion made sleeping sound even more appealing.
"I'm kidding. You are beautiful, you should know that." His voice was soft, quiet, and you were glad that his eyes were closed, because your cheeks felt warm and you were certain you were blushing. "Do you think we should start acting like we know eachother?"
"I'd like that." You admitted. "Should we introduce ourselves? Maybe tell eachother two truths and a lie?"
"You know what I mean." Coryo finally stood from where he'd been laid, between your thighs, and gave you a kiss on the forehead as he bent down to retrieve his discarded clothing. You sat up aswell, fixed out your underwear, and reached for your dress. "I'd like people to know that I know you."
"In this kind of way?" You gestured to both of your nakedness as Coryo pulled his underwear back on. Your cheeky grin was back, the one he loved so much. Your constant teasing made it hard to know whether or not the pair of you were actually in love or just best friends sleeping together, but Coryo didn't mind too much, as long as he had you, he was happy.
"Maybe this can wait until we've passed first base in public. Cant skip straight to fourth, you know?" You'd put your dress back on by now, and Coryo had just finished zipping his trousers and was fussing over his hair. You crossed the room to him, and his hands settled on your waist and he pressed a small, fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose.
"Oh, that would be dastardly." You checked the time on your mothers watch, which you still had encircled around your wrist.
"Pluribus' doesn't close for another two hours, should we go back?"
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reve-writes · 11 months
Text
—all in; leon kennedy.
ʚ leon kennedy x reader | resident evil | 1,3k words. ʚ he reassures you when your insecurity comes up following your recent encounter with ada wong. ʚ misunderstanding trope; slight angst, but happy ending; kissing; profanity. ʚ a/n i love ada wong but i've just been reading too many angst about jealous!reader i needed something happier.
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It has become a routine at this point.
The two of you come home after a mission, battered and bruised and a little worse for wear. All sweat and dirt and grime from the past week. It's supposed to be all smiles. You're supposed to be slipping into the shower together, rubbing all the traces of the terror from each other's skin and settling into the softness of your comforter in your shared bedroom.
Supposed to.
Of fucking course, it isn't.
You've been quiet. Leon isn't stupid. He knows that you've withdrawn into yourself, lost in your own head and you're now ticking like a time bomb, ready to explode from whatever conclusion you've come up with. He's preparing for it, bracing for the impact.
It never comes.
You drop your bag near the couch of your living room and then you're slinking into the shower. Within seconds, he hears it running. You still haven't said a word.
He sighs, settling into one of the four chairs at your dinner table. He has already grabbed a drink, an expensive bottle with a shot glass. It's unbearable—the anticipation, knowing that there's an upcoming disaster, waiting for it, but it doesn't come.
You're trying not to think, but in the confines of your shower walls, the white-marbled tiles do little to distract you as your head pounds, running back the interactions you had with her.
Bobbed black hair. Red body-tight dress. Red smear of her lipstick on his cheek—he pulled away, yes, but the smudge is still there even when you landed. The smell of her perfume. Hell, you swear you can even still hear the click of her heels.
So many years into your relationship, you think you're over this. You think you won't be so hung up over a phantom of your past anymore, but whenever she shows up as she pleases, it's as if the domesticity you've built with Leon crumbles before your very eyes.
Maybe this would be easier if you know she's indifferent towards him. Maybe it makes you a bad person to hope for such a thing. It would be so much better if he's the only one who feels anything, but you know it's the furthest thing from the truth.
You leave the shower, the heat from the hot water is getting into your head.
“Are you done?” His voice startles you as you're towelling off your hair, trying to get into your shared bedroom. You need to think, but thinking is the only thing you've been doing since that fateful run-in. You need to talk, but you don't think you're ready for that conversation.
“Mhm. You can have the shower,” you reply, trying to sound as nonchalant as you can. It's probably the longest sentence you've said to him recently.
He throws back another shot. “I'm not talking about the shower.”
“So?” It's a curt reply. Short. Not at all close to the storm brewing inside of you.
“Baby.” The sound comes out as a half-whine. “Let's talk.”
“We don't — We have nothing to talk about.”
“Don't do that,” he presses again. “Talk to me. Come on.”
“I am talking to you, Leon.” You sigh out. You've never wanted to bolt into your bedroom faster, but you can't run from this forever. So, instead, you clench your fists, approaching the dinner table. As he's holding his glass, about to down another, you grab it from him. He lets you, watches you as you pour the liquid down your throat.
“What's on your mind?” He grabs the glass from you, pouring another for himself.
“Oh, I don't know, handsome. Maybe you can enlighten me.”
In any other situation, he wouldn't have been able to hold a grin blooming on his face at the nickname, but you're so obviously mocking him. Your tone and inflections shift to imitate hers.
Ada Wong.
“We've been over this before.”
“And yet every time she shows up, we're back where we started. Again.”
“We're not,” he protests. “You like to circle back to the same old argument. I'm over it.”
“Sure, you are. That's why you keep letting her take whatever she wants and leave.” You can practically taste the bitterness on the roof of your mouth. “If you don't look so — if you don't look like you're so ready to drop everything for her everytime she shows up, maybe we won't have to keep having this conversation.”
His eyebrows scrunch together and he puts his shot glass down on the table with a clang. “That's not true. What are you implying?”
“I'm saying that I'm not sure if I walk out right now, you'll chase after me. I'm not sure you won't end up looking for her instead.”
He frowns. A flash of hurt falls over his face. You've gone too far, but you want to. You want this to hurt. You're tired of constantly being the one he settles for.
“Is that what take me for?” He snarls. “You think I'd just go around, begging her to let me on her bed? Even after all these years of—” he swallows harshly. “—of us.”
“Won't you?”
His hand falls on the table with a harsh, cracking sound. It jolts you. Even as he's visibly seething, he doesn't yell. “You're so fucking cruel.”
“What am I supposed to think, then, Leon?”
“That I love you.”
“But do you love her, too?”
“No!” His reply comes quick, with conviction—the type of conviction that devout preachers have and you know then that you're being unfair. “I don't.”
You bite the inside of your cheeks. It feels silly. After all these years, it still doesn't take much to ruffle your feathers when it comes to her. He reaches for your hand, squeezing once, twice.
“I don't know about you,” he says, “but I'm all in on this, ___. On us. Don't ever doubt that.”
Leon pushes his chair backwards, making space for you to step in between his legs. He pulls you towards him, arms wrapping around your waist. You let him, even as you know he's getting all the dirt and grime you've washed away back onto you.
“She's someone from my past. We'll keep bumping into her on missions. I can't help that.” When he speaks, you feel his voice reverberating in your chest. “I need you to know that she's not you and she will never be you. She's not even an option. There's only you, okay?”
You nod, tangling your hand in his hair. The strands used to be lighter, sun-kissed, but with age it has taken on a darker shade. Almost black.
“Okay,” you say. You pull back slightly, brushing the hair out of his face and your eyes fall to the red smudge on his cheek. Another reminder of her. As you craddle his face, you run your thumb over the smudge, rubbing it—removing the traces of her.
He leans into your touch. “And I don't 'look so ready to drop everything for her' because I'm not. That version of me doesn't exist anymore.”
You nod again. “I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He frowns. “Say it back. We're not in a Star Wars movie.”
That draws a chuckle out of you. You tilt his chin up as you bend forward. The tip of your noses touching.
“I love you.”
You kiss him. His body reacts almost immediately, his hand finding its way up your arm to the back of your neck. The other squeezes the skin of your hips. He pulls on your thigh, coaxing you to sit on his lap. Your hands tangle through his hair. He humms into your mouth when you tug. He draws back slightly, you feel his racing breath on your face.
“I think you're going to have to shower again.” His nose nuzzles your ear, trailing down your jaw as his lips press brief kisses down the column of your neck. “With me, preferably.”
[ ]
not me writing kissing scenes as if im not touch-starved. this is a short one. i stayed up so late reading angst on ao3 and they're all along the lines of being the second choice to ada wong. i needed something to wash away the angst. very self-indulgent piece. i also slipped in the han solo/leia star wars reference. thank you for reading!
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nevernonline · 3 months
Text
✧.* he's not into you; hvc
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synopsis: curious what the problem is in your dating life where you just can’t seem to get guys to commit fully to you beyond a second date, your work associate offers his help.
part of my ninety minute movies one shot series. ♡︎
paring: vernon x fem! reader.
genre: co-workers2friends2lovers (? lmao)
warning/s: mentions of substances (alcohol, weed, cig, vape etc.) swearing, very bad jokes!, sexy time (y/n has female genitalia!) pls no minors!!
word count: 6.3k
content: . non-idol idolings, some other svt members. y/n and vernon work at a bar.
note: our next stop in my fav little movie inspired writings is he's just not that into you!! a true classic in my eyes. and who better to be our male lead than bernon himself, a perfect silly goofy man. i acc tried to edit and be good?? for once.. lmao. love u xo. HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Waltzing around your co-workers behind the bar like a choreographed dance, handing out drinks to some of your familiar customers, soaking cherries in alcohol, and stuffing your tips inside of your folder for the night it was a perfect distraction from the thoughts running through your mind about that awful date you had gone on the night before. 
You were convincing yourself all the guys you’ve been out with just weren’t for you, maybe to make yourself feel better, maybe just to put blame on someone else for the reasons you can’t seem to surpass a second date. 
“Y/N, could I get two vodka martinis. One dirty and one with a twist, twice shaken please.” 
“No problem, Som.” 
Somi was one of your co-workers and someone you’ve become close friends with working with her over the course of a year when the bar first opened. standing by your side on  the busiest night of the week, the other was Vernon,  he was slightly newer and unfamiliar standing next to you behind the bar, girls flirting with him left, right and center hoping to crack open his quiet yet charming exterior. 
Taking orders upon orders your body was craving a moment to yourself, being an introvert and working in a high volume environment with the type of company that spends hundreds of dollars a night just to sit at a table and feel important takes a toll on you. 
“Vernon, would you be cool if I stepped outside for a second?” 
“Yeah, no problem. I’m good.” 
“Alright, thanks I’ll be back in five.” 
“Sounds good.” 
Nothing more than his simple answers, for the most all you know about him is he’s your age, in college not sure what major he could possibly be studying, and he lives decently close to the bar, coming in on his days off with groups of his friends to have a drink of his own made at your own hands. 
Stepping outside the employee entrance into the back of the building, feeling the cool air light up your body, you decided to light up something of your own, a small perfectly rolled cigarette wrapped up in its signature strawberry flavored paper and vanilla tobacco inside. 
Three minutes into your first break of the night, the door slid open revealing the quiet boy standing in its frame. 
“Shit. I’m sorry, I actually need your help. A big group of finance dudes came in.” 
“It’s alright, I’ll save it for later.” 
Dipping the pastel candy like cigarette into the ashtray, basically kissing it and saying you’ll see it soon, you stepped back in with Vernon to your front strolling through the back room full of fresh liquor bottles. 
“This is a weird question. But what were you smoking? It smells good. Actually, normally cigarettes make me nauseous as hell.” 
“Oh. It’s a vanilla tobacco, but my rolling papers are strawberry so it’s kind of sweeter that way.” 
“No wonder. I always thought you smelt like vanilla musk, but I knew it was something different. I just assumed it was perfume. I like it.” 
“Thanks, Vern.” 
“Yeah. Want to take the table? Or wait for them to come up to us?” 
“I’ll go.” 
“Alright.” 
Cutting around the marble countertop, trying to avoid the patrons sitting at the end of the bar. You spot the group of men wearing their fancy suit jackets, and various colors of button down tops. One of them in particular was your date from a few weeks ago. The one who left you a post it note on your nightstand to wake up to basically telling you he wouldn’t call but thanks for the fuck. 
Swilling your pride, you stayed walking towards them, now with the pretty smile usually wiped across your face lost and turned into a closed lip grin. 
“Hey, what can I get for you guys?” 
“I’ll take you with a side of bourbon on the rocks please.” 
“Clever. I’m not on the menu. Anything for you.” 
Your fingers pointed towards the rest of the helm just patiently waiting for more unusual comments and weird flirting tactics. 
Your date though, kept his head buried in his menu, avoiding making eye contact with you out of his own embarrassment making you decide to fuck with him a little in front of his annoying crowd of friends. 
“And anything for you, Chris? Jack Daniels and Coke with a splash of cherry I presume? Or are you going to write your order down on a post it note?” 
His crowd erupted in laughter, clearly aware of his tactics when he leaves girls and decides to not call them back.
He muttered back it was fine as you walked off back to Vernon watching on with a smirk on his face. 
“You know him I assume?” 
“Unfortunately I do.” 
“Can I ask how?” 
You contemplated telling him a lie, just something simple like he was an old friend or an ex-boyfriend, but in order to keep him from opening up to you, you chose the real reason. 
“Actually we went out a few weeks ago. In the morning I woke up to a note taped to my pillow saying how he wasn’t interested in seeing me anymore but thanking me for being a good fuck and being so accommodating and sexy.” 
“No fucking way.” 
“I’m not kidding.” 
“Want me to spit in his drink?” 
“Yes. But I don’t want you to lose your job. It’s alright, not the first time for me unfortunately and actually maybe one of the nicer ones.” 
“Not the first time a dude you’ve fucked wrote you a note saying he’s not into you?” 
“There’s been worse believe it or not.” 
“You’ve piqued my interest.” 
“I’m sure.” 
“How do you meet dudes like that?”
“I’m a lucky girl, now do me a favor and take these drinks to them, because if I do I’ll probably say some shit I’ll regret.” 
“Alright. What’s his name?” 
“Who?” 
“Asshole over there.” 
“Chris” 
“Cool. Thanks.” 
“Vernon why?” 
“No reason, keep working.” 
“Don’t do anything stupid.” 
“My whole vibe is stupid, be back in a second.” 
Watching the boy out of the corner of your eye, you watched as he placed everyone’s drinks for them, reaching Christopher last, pretending to trip over his chair, spilling the alcoholic concoction over his pants. 
“Dude what the fuck?” 
“Oh shit, my bad. Let me get you a new one.” 
“Why the fuck are you so clumsy, how am I going to get a girl here when I look like I pissed myself?” 
“The girls that come in here don’t want some bitch who drinks cherry whiskey and Coke, they like real men. But I’ll be back in a second.” 
“What the fuck did you just say?” 
“You heard me, man. One second alright I’ll be back with your bitch drink.” 
Chris’s friends seem to be enjoying watching his night being turned into a shit storm, assuming they maybe don’t enjoy his company much either. 
“Why did you do that?” 
“He seems like a tool, he’ll be fine.” 
“Well thank you. It was funny, I had to hold my laughter in so he doesn’t think I made you do that for me.” 
“Safe bet.” 
Your night continued on until midnight when all the happy and drunk patrons exited the restaurant and you got to cleaning up the bar space, leaving you, Vernon, and Somi alone in the dimly lit room. 
“Vernon? Want to stay and have a drink as a thank you for helping me out. Somi would but she has to get back to her ball and chain.” 
“Are we allowed to do that?” 
“Well my dad owns the place, I don’t think he cares much.” 
“You’re dad? Wait what the fuck, I never put that together.” 
“Yeah. Him and his friends.” 
“Holy shit.” 
Laughing along with Somi at his amazement, you bid her goodbye before sliding into a bar top table, holding the glass of vodka in your well manicured fingers. 
Much to your surprise your more than shy coworker decided to stay with you sliding in next to you holding his own glass of beer. 
“So wait. I’m confused. Your dad and his friends opened the bar. Why do you want to work here?” 
“Easy. I always liked the idea of being a bartender and my parents would kill me for being a kid who didn’t have a job or work ethic and just using their money.” 
“Got it. Aren’t you in school?” 
“ I haven’t decided what to go for yet so I’m taking some time. Not sure yet. You?” 
“Journalism.” 
“For real? That’s cool as hell.” 
“Yeah.” 
Your phone lit up on the table blasting the ringtone really loudly in between you and Vernon, flashing the name Matthew on the screen. 
“Hey. Yeah, this is her. Oh really? Can you hold on just ONE second. Thanks.” 
Vernon waved you along letting you go on with the conversation with the guy who's been taking you on dates for the past week, curious why he’d be calling you late. 
 “Wait since I’m out of the loop, who was that?” 
“You really want to know?” 
“Yeah.” 
“Okay, so his name is Matt. We met at the coffee shop a few weeks ago. He was cute. He paid for my drink and we just sort of hit it off.” 
“Have you guys slept together?” 
“Yeah. The first day we met.” 
“Y/N no. You’ve got to make these guys wait. Like they’re getting exactly what they want from you before you even know if they’re fucking idiots or not.” 
“Really? Does that actually work though? I mean you heard him say he likes his ex there’s nothing I can change about that?” 
“Did you ask when his last relationship was before you guys started dating?” 
“Yeah he said he’d been single for two months.” 
“Two months? And he’s already back with her? Or was he always seeing her when you guys were together? What kind of dates did you go on? Dinner? Or?” 
“Coffee sometimes, then he’d just come hangout at my place most of the time.” 
“So you never went to his?” 
“No.” 
“So he was cheating on his girlfriend with you?” 
“What? No, he said he was single.” 
Vernon ran his hands through his hair and let out a sigh before looking back at you. 
“You guys met for coffee, you’d have him over to your place during the day, you’d have sex and he’d leave? You never saw his apartment? He just confessed that he’s been seeing his so-called ex over the phone the whole time you guys were quote on quote dating. He definitely lives with her and was fucking you for fun. You weren’t dating.” 
“Speaking from experience, Vernon?” 
“No. I’ve only ever dated one person seriously.” 
“So why are you giving me advice about my dating life?” 
“Because I had a successful five year relationship and you’ve had none? And you seem to need it.” 
“Wow. I would normally be pissed, but you’re right. I can’t seem to tell what I’m  doing wrong actually. Maybe I'm destined to be single.” 
“Not true. You’re pretty, nice, and you’ve got a cool ass life. You’ll be fine, you just need some editing maybe.” 
“So what? You want to be my relationship guru? Or?” 
“Yes.” 
You outstretched your hand to his and he shook it for you, confirming your now partnership where he would help you with your dating life. 
“Wait, before we go further. Try this.” 
Lifting the straw to your lips for you, Vernon offered you a sip of the drink he made.
“Wait, that's good, what is that?” 
“That assholes drink.” 
“I hate that I actually fucking like it.” 
“Me too.” 
You and Vernon spend the rest of your night together shooting the shit and getting to know each other more, once two am rolls around you both decide to head out and walk home. 
“This is me.” 
Much to your surprise Vernon swipes his key card to enter the same building as you. 
“Wait, you live here? How come I’ve never seen you in the building?” 
“I just moved in like three weeks ago. I spend most of my time in my apartment with my cat if I'm not at school or work.” 
“What floor?” 
“Seven.” 
Pressing the number seven on the elevator button before you tapped number thirteen, you and Vernon rode silently up to your separate homes. 
Before stepping off onto his floor, he pressed the hold door button.
“Come over tomorrow around six? I know you have the night off so we can hangout or whatever.” 
“Okay. What should I wear?” 
“You’ll figure it out. You always look nice. Casual is fine.” 
Rolling your eyes to his back as he strode off to his front door, you yelled a goodnight out of the door before they clocked shit and ran you up to your own place. 
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Waking up the next morning you stepped out of your bed and pulled out all the ingredients to make a perfect cup of coffee, something that was like a religious ritual for you to clear your head before starting your day. 
After the brew was finished dripping though your pour over carafe you decided to take in some sun on your balcony and prepare your mind for the rest of the day until you were set to get ready to hangout with Vernon. 
The unexpected invitation to go on a quote in quote fake date with the boy had your head confused. What should you wear? What should you do with the little information given to you about what’s going on? 
After spending a few hours outside with your coffee and disconnecting from your phone, you decided to head back inside and go through your closet in search of the perfect casual outfit. 
Placing options on your bed, you hopped into the shower and spent time under the hot steam scrubbing your body from head to toe. After you were satisfied with your cleanliness, you stepped out and sat at your vanity, drying your hair and curling the front two pieces of your perfectly done up-do, painted your nails a perfect cherry red color, and put on your typical makeup look. 
Sliding your slippers back on you stood now in front of the three tops hanging in front of you feeling them for the perfect vibe. Eventually selecting a simple white button down top to match your gray pleated short skirt, slipping up a pair of simple tights and black heeled knee high boots. 
Finally the time came for you to run down seven floors and step off to find Vernon, knocking on the door to the left of the elevator a woman who you’ve seen around the building once or twice answered. 
“I’m sorry, I think maybe I have the wrong apartment. Excuse me-“ 
“You’re y/n?” 
“Yes. Hi.” 
“Hi, I’m Vernon’s friend Chae. I like your outfit, it's super cute.” 
“Oh. Thank you.” 
Stepping into the similar shaped apartment to yours, you notice the colorful paintings all over the walls, the beautiful soft blue couch, and the cozy smell of fresh linen hitting your nose, as you walked in further you saw a group of various people sitting around in his living room, some pouring themselves drinks, some standing around eating snacks and talking. 
“Would you like water or a beer or anything?” 
“Oh no, I’m alright for now thank you.” 
“No problem, I’ll just go see what he’s up to. Excuse me.” 
“Sure.” 
After waiting five minutes in the threshold of Vernon’s front entry, he peeled around the corner, dressed in an oddly similar outfit to yours, minus the heels and mini skirt. 
His crisp white shirt and matching gray coat and pants, a black leather bag, carrying a pair of nice black sneakers in his hand. 
“Hey, sorry I accidentally spilled cola on my other shirt, I had to change.” 
“That’s alright. I like your outfit though, you look cool.” 
“Thank you, I like yours too. I told you about casual dress though.” 
“This is casual?” 
“If you say so. Want a cocktail or something?” 
“Uh, sure? Wait though I thought we were going out or something, I didn’t know you had company. I can leave?” 
“No. Well, we’re going out a little later to a party,  I wanted to invite you, come on.” 
You stepped into his kitchen where he had various types of alcohol scattered on the counter, next to slices of pizza and a couple bags of chips. 
You looked around the room at the new faces, some of them you recognized from Vernon bring them to the bar with him. 
“Want the asshole special again? I actually made myself one.” 
“Weirdly I do, yeah.” 
Vernon laughed as he mixed you the same concoction he spilled the night before, handing it over to you gracefully. 
“Thanks.” 
“Yeah, no problem. This is a weird question, but did you roll any of your cigarettes or have any of those cute papers you use? I told my friend about them and he wanted to find some to roll a joint with.” 
Digging through your bag you pulled out the small case full of tobacco and papers from inside, holding out the pack to him to give to his friend, someone who you’re sure you’ll meet at one point or another. 
“Wow. Thank you.” 
“It’s cool, I have a bunch anyway. So, what does this have to do with you being my relationship guru anyway?” 
“Nothing actually. Just wanted to hangout with you more.” 
“Oh, right.” 
Something about Vernon being so kind to you and sticking up for you last night and today was making you see him in a different light almost like you were starting to have a crush on him. But he could never be into you that way, especially seeing how he interacted with his friend Chae. 
Walking around his apartment and saying hello to his friends, you chose a seat adjacent to the couch, one that was unoccupied and slightly out of the way. 
Some of his friends knew who you were without you even having to mention it. Talking and getting to know them. You excused yourself to the bathroom, but stumbled upon a room adorned with movie posters and music equipment. 
“The bathroom is right here.” 
Vernon pointed to the unlatched door down the hall, the same position as yours. 
“I know. I live here too. I was just being nosy.” 
“Oh. That's cool, you can check it out if you want.” 
Stepping into his office space, you smiled looking around at his various media and collectables, staring at the framed record on the wall signed by an artist you like yourself. 
“This is yours?” 
“Yeah. I got it as a birthday present when I was like eighteen. I love it.” 
“Sick.” 
“Sick? You’re so weird. Do people say that shit still?” 
“Fuck off. People definitely still say that.”  
“Not cool people.” 
“You literally told me I was cool yesterday?” 
“I spoke too soon.” 
As you and Vernon were standing in his room laughing, Chae appeared behind you both without your knowledge and gripped Vernon’s side, scaring the both of you with his reaction and finding her laughing her ass off. 
“You should have seen your guys’ faces. It was too easy.” 
“You’re such an asshole, I almost hit you.” 
“I’d like to see you try, big boy.” 
You just smiled, feeling a little awkward watching Vernon flirting with his friend.
“We want to head out, are you guys ready?” 
“I’m good, I think Y/N had to use the restroom though?” 
“Yeah. It’s okay, I think I might just head back to my place. I have a headache, but you guys have fun.” 
“No way, come on, take some tylenol and let's go.” 
“Chae. Let her leave if she doesn't feel good.” 
“She obviously wants to leave because she found your weird collection of fucking disney vhs tapes, not because of her headache.” 
“Not true.” 
“It’s fine. I’ll come, just let me use the restroom fast. I’ll meet you.” 
“Are you sure?” 
“Yeah.” 
Leaving you to do your business, Chae handed you two small white pills from her bag, and a swig of her beer to wash them down with before heading behind Vernon as they got ready to leave for the next location. 
After a few minutes  of walking you and Vernon’s friends  pulled up outside a bar you’ve never been to but heard a lot of your friends enjoyed, amply titled Love Bites.  
Vernon held onto your shoulders and walked you into the front door of the bar, pushing you towards a table where he told you to sit down and wait, as he walked away and left you with his friend to order everyone a round of drinks. 
The seat next to you that you’d hoped Vernon would fill was taken by a dark haired boy you hadn’t recognized from earlier back at the apartment. 
“Y/n? Hi, I’m Joshua. 
“Oh. Hi, nice to meet you.” 
“Vernon’s friend just so you don’t think I’m some random dude.” 
“Right. I figured.” 
“Actually I was the one who asked for the papers, thank you by the way.” 
“Yeah, no problem. Do you smoke? Like weed or?” 
“Yeah, just weed. I used to smoke cigarettes and vape for a while or whatever, but I stopped for a while. I just realized it was a boring habit.” 
“How’d you know I had strawberry papers, did Vernon tell everyone?” 
“No, no. He just said you were cool. Very friendly, but you didn’t talk about yourself enough and that you have nice smelling cigarettes that you smell like sometimes. Nothing too much really.”
“Oh. No dirty details about my weird dating life he pressed me about?”  
“Nothing about that, but he knows about my awful habits too. He always tells me I need serious help.”
“Yes. Me too, I called him a relationship guru.” 
“He thinks he is, but he’s had a crush on the same girl for a while. I'm not sure who she is, he never told me anything more about it. I’m not sure he’s the guy I’d trust to set me up that's for sure.” 
“Oh really? Is it, you know?” 
You pointed with your eyes across the table to Chae who was seated next to Vernon’s side. 
“I don’t think so. She’s definitely been in love with him forever, they were friends when they were kids and rekindled a few years ago when she moved back to town. She's really obvious about it, but he never said anything.” 
“Ah, I don’t know he seems to flirt with her alot.” 
“He’s just like that with everyone, overly friendly, kind of dorky.” 
“I see that.” 
You spent the entire night talking and getting to know Joshua, surprisingly finding out a lot of things that made you more and more intrigued about him. 
When the night finally came to a close, you left with his number and a plan to go out with just the two of you a few days later. Maybe Vernon being your friend was going to pay off more than you knew and his relationship guru advice brought you right into the hands of his very good friend. 
In the next few weeks you continued working and getting to know the pervious shy boy you thought Vernon was and going on actual good dates with his friend Joshua, who much to your surprise wasn’t the type to fuck you and forget you on a first date. 
Months passed by as your casual dating with Joshua went on and on, thinking that while it was good something with him was missing. But, you kept giving him a chance anyway. Unaware what that something was. 
On a night where you were getting ready to go out for a date you found Vernon outside of your apartment door, knocking on it wildly waiting for you to come and answer. 
“Is everything alright?” 
“Y/n.” 
“Want to come in?” 
“No. Yes? Is that alright?” 
“Are you okay? You’re acting weird as hell.” 
Vernon just nodded his head and sat down on your couch. 
“Are you getting ready to head out? You look really nice. I feel like I’m interrupting something.” 
“No. I just got home from a date actually. Why?” 
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” 
“It would help if you stopped saying sorry and told me what was wrong.” 
“Chae.” 
“Oh?” 
“She was over at my apartment. We were just playing video games and having some beer or whatever, but she tried to kiss me. And I let her at first, but I didn’t want to kiss her. I never have. I know she’s pretty and whatever, but like..” 
“Wait. So why did you come up here?” 
“Because I didn’t know what else to do? She’s still downstairs, she said she won't leave until we talk about what happened and she’s crying. I tried to tell her I wasn’t interested in her romantically and I liked being her friend, but she won’t take no for an answer. I just didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry I interrupted your nice night like this.” 
You walked over into the kitchen and poured Vernon a glass of water to hopefully settle him from rambling so much. 
“Can I ask you why you aren’t interested in her? I always assumed you guys had something going on.” 
“No. Never. She’s not my taste, I mean she’s really cool. But we’re really similar and I don’t want to date someone who reminds me too much of myself otherwise I’d get bored, but never break it off maybe because I’m too nice or maybe because I feel too comfortable. Does that make any sense?” 
“Yeah.” 
“Plus, I told her I liked someone else anyway and she got even more upset. She started accusing me of being a liar and leading her on.” 
“I’ll be honest and when I first met her I thought you liked her too, but the more I got to know you I realized you pretty much act that way around everyone you’re comfortable with.” 
“Right.” 
“Want me to help you get her out of your apartment?” 
“You would?” 
“Yeah. I still owe you for spilling that drink a long time ago.” 
“My god, no you don’t” 
“Shh, in my heart I do. Are you staying here or coming?” 
“I’ll come.” 
Heading down the elevator still in your nice date outfit, you grabbed his keys and unlocked his front door to find Chae still sitting on his couch, waiting for him to come home. 
Looking her up and down you found her dressed in shorts two sizes too small with Vernon’s T-Shirt draped over her body. Clinging to his pillow and looking you up and down. 
“What the fuck is she doing here, Vernon? She’s not a part of this at all.” 
“Actually, I’m here to ask you to politely get the fuck out of his apartment and stop making him feel bad for not liking you.” 
“You’re such a bitch, he does like me. The person he doesn’t like is you, so maybe you should get the fuck out of here. He just feels sorry for you.” 
“Chae, that’s not true and don’t talk to her like that.” 
“You’re actually defending her? She hasn’t been nice to me once since she met me. She just acts like an entitled brat around me all the time, making me feel stupid. She’s not a part of this conversation at all, don’t you understand how insane this is?” 
“She is a part of it actually, because she’s the girl I have a crush on and if I wasn’t so focused on making everyone else around me happy at the price of myself I would’ve been able to tell her that already instead of doing it like this.” 
“Verno-” 
“Her? You fucking like her? Seriously? She told me she never would date someone like you and that you’re dorky and a loser.” 
“What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s never happened. You’re the one who parades around making me feel like an idiot and that I'm not good enough to be friends with Vernon. You know who’s being an entitled brat? You. You’re kicking this poor guy out of HIS apartment for not liking you back like a child, you’re sitting on his couch in HIS clothes, waiting for him to come back to you to try to pressure him into being with you when he told you he likes someone else. If you’re such a good ass friend to him like you constantly claim to be, then maybe be that good friend and get the hell up, give him his shirt back and get the fuck out or you can talk to him like the adult that you are and try to understand how he feels and continue being his friend. If you don’t like either option I don’t know what else to tell you. So, what will it be?” 
“If I talk to him, you need to get the fuck out of here, I don’t want you around.” 
“Fine with me, but stop being such an insufferable bitch and maybe have some compassion. Goodnight.” 
Not wanting to wait around for the elevator, you slammed Vernon’s door shut leaving them to have their conversation and walked up the seven flights of stairs back into your cozy home untainted by her bad energy. 
Hours later after you were showered and ready to destress from the absolute chaos your night has been, you poured yourself a glass of wine and sat on your to smoke a nicely rolled joint as a treat to yourself, leaving your phone inside your room and out of your eyesight. 
Suddenly mid-inhale another knock came to your door, half of you wanted to pretend you were asleep, but another part of you assumed whoever it was must have an issue with you smoking inside your home. 
Looking through the peephole of your front door, you saw for the second time in the night Vernon standing outside, now in his plaid pj pants and a hoodie pacing around waiting for you to answer. 
Taking in a deep breath you opened the door and took one look at his messy hair, realizing he must have been trying to sleep, but couldn’t. 
“Yes?” 
“Can I come in?” 
“Be my guest. Sorry I’m smoking weed inside, it smells weird.” 
“Can I have a hit actually?”
“Sure.” 
“Thanks.” 
Handing over the pink flower, Vernon took an incredibly long hit of the weed, exhaling it creating a cloud over the two of you. 
“Wine?” 
“Uh, not yet. Can I confess something to you?” 
“Is it about the girl you like?” 
“Sorry you had to find out like that. I was planning on telling you, but then you started seeing Josh and whatever else it just got away from me, it wasn’t the right time I know. I just let it slip.” 
“It’s okay, Vernon” 
“It’s not, especially when you’re not single. I feel like I ruined any relationship we had with saying it, even our platonic one.” 
“When you talked about ruining my nice night before? Didn’t you wonder why I was coming home from a date at 7:00pm? It was because I actually just broke it off with Joshua. He was really nice about it of course, but I just felt like we were friends and nothing more.” 
“Oh. So you’re not?” 
“Dating him? No.” 
“So I didn’t ruin it?” 
“My night? Not at all, it wasn't that great anyway.” 
“Seriously?” 
“Yeah.” 
Vernon took the opportunity to steal your glass of wine and downed it right then and there whispering a small sorry to you for doing so. 
“Okay, so. I knew I liked you the moment we started working together. I wasn’t sure how to tell you ever, I wasn’t even sure how to talk to you because you made me feel so awkward, not because you were mean or anything, just because I knew I’d sound like a fucking dumb ass. But, that night we first walked home together and had a drink. I found out so much about you, I liked you even more so I asked you to come and hangout with us at my place, I figured I could get some courage to finally ask you out, which ultimately I failed at again and it just spiraled out of control. It’s just gotten more and more bad for me, like bad in the sense I just can’t stop falling for you and you didn’t know. Until I essentially fucked it up further telling you I like you infront of Chae, which was a mistake too. I keep fucking it up.” 
“You're doing pretty good if you ask me, but you should’ve just told me a long time ago then none of this crazy shit would have happened.” 
“That's charming, no?” 
“Only because it's you.” 
“Look, I don’t need an answer from you now or ever, just know I wont be fucking weird about it anymore. I’ll let you go to bed. I’ll see you in a few days at work and everything will be good.” 
Vernon got up and tried to walk towards your front door for an exit, but you caught up to him in time, grabbing him by his shoulders and spinning him around just in time to plant a perfectly placed kiss on his pink lips. 
“I like that you’re fucking weird and for your information I admire your dumb vhs tape collection.” 
Vernon took his opportunity to kiss you again, even longer this time than the first one, pushing his tongue into your mouth, making you moan as his hands snaked their way around your body. 
“You taste like vanilla too.” 
“Nice?” 
“Perfect.” 
“Would us having sex count as us fucking on the first date?” 
“This would be considered fucking before the first date.” 
“Ah, I see. Is that a no-no?” 
“I’ll let it slide.” 
Vernon lifted you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his long torso, and carried you onto your couch, setting you down to be perfectly face to face with his enclosed penis, now beginning to grow inside of his pants. Dipping your fingers into the waistband of his pants you grazed the tips of your fingers over the head of his dick, making him shiver from the cold touch of your hands. 
Unwrapsping him like a present, his penis flew from his waistband and you quickly wrapped your lips around the soft pink skin, slightly creating a suction cup with your lips as his hands found their way to the back of your head and he fucked your face gently. 
As his speed picked up, the head of his dick was pounding its way to the back of your throat making him weak in the knees and unsure how much longer he could go on like this without relieving himself inside of your mouth. 
In order to savor this moment further, he against his better judgment pulled you off of him and got on his knees in front of you, running a finger down your neck, placing soft kisses on your lips and all the way down to your sternum, his fingers following along. 
Pushing over your panties to the side he ran those same fingers up and down your wet center, making you moan and push onto him, begging for him to put them inside of you without many words. 
When he was finally done teasing you, he placed his first two fingers at the entrance and ran his thumb over your clit making you squirm and let out a small moan, trying to grind your way further onto him. 
With the same speed as before he started pumping his fingers into your wet center, crawling his way into your body and making you overwhelmed with pleasure. 
Suddenly he was four fingers deep stretching you out as a preparation for you to be comfortable fucking his much larger dick when suddenly you squirted all over his bare chest, slinking back onto the couch in a fit of heavy breathing. 
Vernon didn’t let you off the hook though, he grabbed onto you hips, carrying you onto the floor under him. Finally fucking you through your previous orgasm, riding into the sensitive waters of your clit, softly sucking on your nipples as he slowly thrusted himself onto you, almost like it was the only way to cure the aching in your center. 
As the sweat and your bodily fluids mix their way together, the heavy breathing slowed to near silence, watching him in ecstasy fucking into you, noticing the beauty of the way his eyelashes ran across his cheeks and the small light gold flecks in his eyes. He’s never been more beautiful to you than he was tonight. 
Suddenly in your daze his lips came onto yours before he slightly lifted them off of you to whisper while they still grazed over the top. 
“Can I come inside?” 
“Please.” 
And with your verbal confirmation Vernon filled up your body with his semen and rode into his very own orgasm as well. 
Kissing you once again he got up and ran into your bathroom to grab a clean towel for you both to clean up with and laid back down next to you on the floor. 
Suddenly the two of you erupted into laughter, just thinking about how stupid you both were to see chemistry between you was about as hot as the sex you both indulged in. 
“I can’t believe you were going to leave.” 
“I can’t believe I thought you weren’t into me.” 
“Who said I wasn’t lying?” 
“The way you were moaning and fucking into me told me all I needed to know.” 
“Ok, hot shot.” 
“So about that first date?” 
“It’s on.” 
362 notes · View notes
loveliestlovelygirl · 20 days
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cashmere, cologne, & white sunshine | 𝟙
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money is the anthem, god, you're so handsome
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dilf!finnick x nanny!reader
synopsis: you arrive at the odair estate for your final interview with finnick's mother mrs. odair. when she offers you the job on the spot, you're so surprised. quickly, you learn that the children might be a challenge for you, but finnick's support and kindness is enough to cheer you on. it seems he even wants to get close to you...
w.c: 2.7k
highlights: {minors dni} extreme wealth, nepotism, children & childcare, flirting, a hint of suggestive content near the end, slow burn romance, power imbalance
table of contents | 𝟚 {coming soon}
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You had never considered yourself to be the kind of person who falls for their employer. Not even coworkers. Out of the myriad jobs you picked up here and there to finance college and now grad school, never once did you develop romantic feelings in a professional setting.
But the Odair Estate... is an experience, one dreamed up by a romance novelist with its white rose greenhouse, angel water fountains, and vintage cars. And inside, gold and marble, crystal chandeliers, and winding staircases. And yet the majesty of the home could never blot out the brilliance that surrounds the man who resides here. In your gaze, a halo of light outlines his silhouette. You can’t be the only one who sees it. 
He draws you into this fantasy world. A world of sweet pleasure and romance.
Finnick Odair draws you to his arms, to his lips, to his love—all so effortlessly.
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“Smith! Come here! You’re going to get jelly all over the furniture!” A handsome man half-dressed, only in a pair of khaki slacks, sprints down the stairs to chase after a small blonde boy with a smear of grape jelly across his cheeks and hands.
You couldn’t help but steal a glance, even during your interview, when you heard the low, melody of his voice. You see the urgency upon his sharpened features as he dashes after the boy, Smith, you assume, who looks to be four years old. Smith leads the chase into the parlor where you are being interviewed.
The greying woman, Mrs. Odair, across from you almost lunges from her loveseat to capture the tiny boy between her two delicate arms. She picks up the child in her arms and seats him on her lap. On the side table is a box of tissues, and she recruits several to wipe the sticky jelly off his face.
“Smith,” she scolds lovingly, “Nana is talking. You are being quite rude. Did you even say hello?”
Smith crosses his arms and pouts his lips, blowing air through them. He looks at you with these big, bright-green eyes surrounded by thick, doll-like lashes, finally acknowledging your presence.
“Hi,” Smith sighs.
“Hello,” you say back.
His nana grounds him, though holding onto his shirt as he tries to scamper away. “Be good!”
A manly laugh to your left startles you. “Smith isn’t interested, Mom.”
 You gaze over your shoulder to watch the man crouch down to his son’s level. “Come now, Smith. You have to get ready for school. I’m already late for work!”
Nana snorts. “Finnie, Daddy understands!”
He gives her, who you assume is his mother, a firm glare. Then he looks to you and smiles. You like his crooked teeth. He offers his hand, and you shake. “I’m Finnick. Thank you for coming to interview with us.” His hand is a little calloused but very warm and very strong.
“Thank you for having me,” you say back, on autopilot because ever since he stepped in, the rest of the world, including your own thoughts, have faded into the background.
He smiles again. “Of course. I typically would be a part of the process, but I’ve got to take Smith and Ruby to school now.” He waves. “Nice to meet you.”
He turns to his mother and mouths something to her with the same smile on his face. You wonder if it’s about you. And you wonder if it’s something nice. You haven’t exactly done anything to offend them... yet.
“Nice to meet you too,” you say a little too late because he’s already walking away with his back turned. You doubt he hears you.
Once Finnick and Smith are upstairs, Mrs. Odair looks back down at her clipboard and continues the interview. Your background is flawless of course. The agency cleared you. You’ve yet to have a single encounter with the law, though you speed often when you’re late to work. To Mrs. Odair, you explain why you are interested in the job, how you need to save up for graduate school for next year’s applications. She seems impressed with your academic successes and your determination to pursue higher education.
While the interview went well, you didn’t expect a job offer on the spot. As you got up to leave, you step over to shake her hand, and she says, “You are taking the job, right?”
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The next day you drive back to the estate to begin. Mrs. Odair promised to show you the ropes of taking care of her two precious grandchildren Smith and Ruby the first week of your employment. And you were glad she did that first day. Smith, who you learn is five years old, is more than a handful. Ruby is eight and loves only her daddy.
You park your dated Prius—the paint has finally begun to flake off—on the stone road between the three-tiered fountain and the concrete pathway to the manor. At the door, you rang the bell once, and the butler answered.
He says, “Good day, Miss,” and he shows you to Mrs. Odair’s room.
She’s sipping tea and reading the paper. When she notices your arrival, she stands to greet you. The butler disappears without a sound. It’s impressive.
“So glad you are here. And so punctual!”
“Of course,” you say. Never would you show up late on the first day. “I studied the children’s schedules you sent over last night.”
She claps her hands twice. “Marvelous, dear! When do the children need to leave the house for school?”
Put on the spot, you shift a little. Geez, she’s testing me already.
“Seven-forty-five at the latest. But preferably seven-thirty.”
She smiles. “Good job! We should probably wake the children now. I’ll go up with you today. Wouldn’t want to scare them.”
“You did tell them that I would be here today, right?”
Caught up in her own musings, Mrs. Odair must miss your question because she starts to ramble on about the greenhouse as you leave her guest room. She tells you she’s only staying here for a while because the old nanny quit. There’s bitterness in her tone as she mentions the former employee, and you wonder what exactly happened.
On your way to the stairs, you catch a glimpse of Finnick alone at the dining table for breakfast. He’s also reading the paper like his mother did. His brow is furrowed as he reads. It’s a mystery what he finds so interesting on that paper. He’s so oddly invested.
The stairs creak on your first step, and he looks up from the paper. His smile is immediate and dazzling. “Mother!” he calls. “You didn’t tell me she was here.”
Mrs. Odair rushes into the dining room. “Darling, I didn’t want to interrupt your morning routine.”
Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically. “Ah yes.” He waits for a moment and says, “I haven’t had a routine since the moment Ruby was born, Mother.”
She shrugs. “Maybe with this beauty’s help, you’ll have one.” Mrs. Odair pats your shoulder. “Come along. The children are slow to rise.”
As she drags you along, you can’t help but look at Finnick. He’s ungodly pretty. It almost hurts to look at him. And you find it strange that he’s looking back at you with a vivid curiosity. You chide yourself for ogling him like that. One, he’s sky-high out of your league. Two, he’s employed you. Three, he might not be single. Usually, the second reason to not crush on him would be enough. But your previous bosses have never looked like Finnick.
As you ascend the stairs, the walls are covered in family photographs. They’re clearly arranged by the time they were taken. When you arrive at the second floor, the photos are black and white. Mrs. Odair moves fast for someone her age, and you’re panting as you try to keep up with her. Your vision is slightly blurry when you reach the top.
“Smith’s room is...” she pauses, staring at you, clearly expecting you to recall from the floor plan of the house she also sent you along with their schedules.
You close your eyes for a moment. “First door on the left?”
She claps for you. “Such a smart girl!”
You smile, unsure how to respond to such a compliment.
Entering Smith’s room, the thick curtains are closed, and it’s because of the seashell nightlight that you can see at all. The boy is lying on his stomach on top of all the bed sheets but his head at the wrong end.
“Smith,” his nana calls.
Easily, Smith wakes. He rubs his eyes and sits up. He stares at you for a long time.
“Who’s she?” he asks, pointing right at your face with his tiny index finger.
“This is your new nanny. Isn’t she lovely?” Mrs. Odair gushes about you. Her support is endearing. But you’d be lying if you didn’t find it disconcerting.
Smith crosses his arms. “No!”
“Isn’t she pretty!” Mrs. Odair exclaims to Smith.
“I miss Herbie. Bring him back!” Smith shrieks. “I don’t like her.”
Wrinkled hands on her hips, Mrs. Odair hangs her head in momentary defeat. “Smith, I am so disappointed. You are being very rude.”
The child crosses his arms and sticks his tongue out.
She grasps your forearm. “I’m sorry about Smith. I promise he will come around.” She moves around to his bureau. “I can show you where his uniforms are and the proper way to dress him.”
You watch the elderly woman chase Smith around the room for a minute or two without breaking a sweat. She finally snatches him up in her arms and holds him down on the bed. He restlessly wiggles, trying to get away, but she is strong. Somehow, she manages to dress Smith and she scolds him for behaving dramatically.
“Smith, Daddy will be very, very upset when he hears of your actions.” He remains unfazed, as if discipline is a foreign concept to him. “Now, go down for breakfast.”
When his nana opens the bedroom door, he sprints out like a racehorse. You blink and he is gone.
Mrs. Odair turns to you again and sighs. “He’s a handful. Just like his father.”
“It’s quite alright. He won’t be my first difficult case. I just hope he warms up to me. My last family never did.”
“That’s wonderful for us. We desperately needed a nanny!”
Promptly, she leaves with sudden, passionate intent. And you follow her anxiously.
“What happened to the last one?” you ask.
“Ruby is much easier than Smith,” she halts at a room near the end of the second-floor hallway. 
Just when you think that she didn’t hear your question, she says, “We do not speak of him.”
Stomach dropping, you step back and swallow. “Oh. Oh, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend.”
She scoffs. “He’s not worthy of a mention.” Mrs. Odair quickly breaks into her granddaughter’s room, as if to escape the topic.
Ruby’s room is a true girl’s room. You hardly step past the entrance before you are frozen over in wonder.
Cherry red must be Ruby’s favorite color. Everything is cherry red. The armchair by the column window is topped with cherry red velvet. There are red roses on each nightstand. Her headboard matches the armchair. The curtains match too. Her frilly duvet stands out in ivory lace embroidered with clusters of little cherries.
Ruby’s long red hair fans out over her pillows. She’s a sleeping angel. And you hate to see Mrs. Odair wake her.
Her brown eyes flutter open when her nana taps her on the shoulder. She looks up and her freckled lips smile widely.
“Good morning,” she whispers and stretches. Quickly, she notices you and sits up to talk. “What’s your name?” She has the slightest hint of an English accent.
You reply, hesitantly inching closer to the bed.
Mrs. Odair gets in the way of your conversation, picking up her granddaughter to dress her. She’s eight years old. By this time, you were responsible for dressing yourself for school.
In a few minutes, she dresses Ruby in her private school uniform. Together, you all go downstairs to fetch Smith, and then Mrs. Odair takes them outside to the car where the driver will escort them to school. Once the children leave, Mrs. Odiar pulls you aside to discuss your other duties while the children are away.
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Rummaging through the cabinets is not how you planned to spend your afternoon, but you were told to treat the estate just like you would your home. It’s completely new territory to you, much like a castle with so many secrets you’ve yet to uncover. Today, you’re only trying to find the tea. A cup would do you well. Your thoughts have been a little more unorganized than usual. There’s much you must learn about Mrs. Odair’s standards for childcare. She seems to be more involved than the father, which bothers you.
“Left door. Top shelf.”
You glance over your shoulder.
There he is. Smith and Ruby’s father. You scold yourself for already having an opinion about him. You haven’t even known him for a day.
“Excuse me?”
He smiles. “The tea.”
You can’t think to respond in an intelligible way. How’d he know you were looking for the tea?
“Make me a cup while you’re at it.” He looks at you steadily. “If you don’t mind.”
Pulling the correct cabinet open, you see the boxes of tea neatly stacked on top of each other. You select a black tea and pour boiling water over the bags in porcelain mugs. They steep for four minutes.
You pick at your cuticles and glance out the window. Finnick sits at the table on his laptop, typing frantically.
Once the timer goes off, you walk over to the table to hand him his cup of tea. He doesn’t immediately register your action, but when he does, he offers you the biggest smile.
“Thank you. I do appreciate it.” He closes the lid to his laptop and pushes back the chair next to him away from the table with his foot. “Sit. I would like to get to know you.”
Shaking ever so slightly, you situate yourself beside him. He smells of luxury cologne, too expensive for your tastes. In your previous jobs with the agency, the families never were too interested in developing a personal relationship with you.
Finnick rests his chin on an open palm. “You’re really a lifesaver. Work has been a nightmare, and with Herbie gone... I’ve had to also look after Smith and Ruby more.”
For a moment, you narrow your eyes in judgement.
“Before you form opinions about me, let me say, they are my greatest joys. However, working a job that requires eighty plus hours in a week and two kids isn’t as easy as it sounds.”
You set your cup down before you. “Sounds like a lot of pressure.”
Finnick massages his brows. “That’s an understatement. Dad won’t be around forever. I’m to take over the family business. I’m planning to make a lot of changes when that happens. For Smith and Ruby’s sake. They might not want this.” Finnick quickly covers his mouth. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”
You shrug. “I think I might understand. You want them to have a choice.”
Finnick nods. “Don’t tell my mother. You’d get me in trouble.”
You laugh together.
“Snitches get stitches.”
Finnick laughs again. “And disciplined.” He hides his expression as he takes a sip of tea.
Though you don’t quite know what he means by that, you laugh at him anyway. “I don’t think Smith likes me very much.”
“He doesn’t like many people. He’s like me in that regard.” Finnick looks at you. “But I know that if you stick around his feelings will change.”
“I hope that’s true.”
He leans close to you. Your senses are suddenly overwhelmed with his fragrance and his golden warmth. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
You giggle. “What?”
“Smith likes anyone who will play hide-and-seek with him. That and chocolate chip cookies are the way to his heart.” Finnick pats you on the shoulder. His hands are massive. “Besides, I’m on your side. I’ll put in a good word.” He winks at you, and your heart drops in your chest.
This is... bad. You really shouldn’t be having these feelings for your employer. But his charming nature is hard to resist. He must have lots of girlfriends.
“Thanks,” you whisper, too caught up in your own worries to recognize that he’s flirting with you.
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riphobisbraces · 7 months
Text
The Lucky Seven | BTS ot7 x reader
Hybrid/Royal AU
~ Chapter 1 ~
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[ word count 3400+ ]
❀ genre: dark royal core, hybrid au, royalty au, hybrids/knights!ot7 x human/ princess!reader, afab (she/her) reader, polyamory (mostly ot7 x reader), strangers to lovers, daddy dom, smut and sexual sometimes. tiny bits of horror
❀ warnings: smut, swearing, murder, death (not the reader or ot7 though, I'm not evil), mentions of inbreeding (not between reader or ot7) some unsettling horror depictions, it won't be every chapter though or the whole story, just little bits here and there. (I'm willing to re write chapters for you to read if you can't do horror but still wanna follow along, just ask!🖤)
——— summary ———
In a world of hybrids and humans, following each other closely to extinction, you are one of the last full humans, Princess y/l/n of the emerald nation. humans are essential for the survival of hybrids so why are assailants hunting you and your family down? because of this, the court has decided it’d be best for you to be guarded at all times by the nations strongest knights, you’ve only ever heard of them but have never seen their faces. What will happen once you come face to face with the infamous “lucky seven”?
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[ chapter 1 ]
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“you will not go.”
Your father states lowly but firmly. The voice sharp enough to slice the chatter amongst the servants into silence. you were having lunch with your mother and father when you made the fatal mistake of bringing up the possibility of you attending tonight’s annual masquerade ball and thereby making your debut to the kingdom.
Ever since you were a little girl you had been sheltered your entire life. You’re told it’s for your own protection, for your people. you have to stay safe and alive to be able to nourish your nation.
being one of the last full blooded humans, you are a target. No one knows what you look like and you don’t know what anyone else looks like as well. Aside from your staff and servants, no one has ever seen your face. The kingdom and nation knows of your existence of course and they love you nonetheless but because of the scarcity of humans, your father has hidden you away in fear of you being kidnapped or worse.
Your father sees you as a priceless pearl, something he has the strong urge to protect. You were his treasure and he himself had a dark past he never got into as to why he was so overprotective. “but father… I’m 22 years old..” you say but as soon as it leaves your mouth, you wish you could take it back.
“Daughter, I know your age. And to question me is to disobey me, please leave your mother and I at once and make your way into your chamber” your father ends the conversation with that, wiping his mouth with his hanker-chief. He’s always been strict and what he says is always final. As you sat across from your mother, you stood up, placing your hands on the cold grey marble table.
You give her a look, furrowing your eyebrows as to say “please say something” but to your dismay she does the same as your father, wiping her mouth then clearing her throat before looking down to finish her meal. You sigh before you give in with a feeble “yes father”. standing up, you make your way out of dining room, feeling sympathetic glances from the staff as you leave the room.
Walking to your chamber you notice the marbled white floor feels a bit chilly today. you walk through the corridor, onto the white stairway, feeling the relief of warm velvet carpet beneath your chilly feet. Walking up the stairs, one by one, you reach the halfway mark.
The sun from the large glass windows on top of the staircase beams through, tickling your eyes. you squint and use your hand to shade your eyes before looking up. You see two birds fly by, disappearing as quickly as they appeared, almost looking like as if they flew into the clouds.
You feel your heart fall heavy, filled with desperation to be like one of those birds, even just for a second. how lucky they were, to be able to go anywhere, anytime they want. no responsibilities.
It’s a little cliche but people are right when they say they wish they were birds you think to yourself. You’ve read hundreds of books and definitely have come across some descriptions of people wanting to be birds. Never understanding though as a child, you would think to yourself “why on earth would one want feathers? And to have a beak? How bizarre” But as an adult, you understood why now. It was about the freedom.
“Your highness, are you alright? Is your heart okay?” No it isn’t. You snap out of your thoughts before you realize you were still standing halfway up the staircase, clutching your chest all the while an old male servant by the name of Lloyd, looked at you with a face of concern. How long did you space out for, you thought.
“Oh yes, thank you. I guess I just got lost in thought” you give a half smile to your servant. His face of concern turned to relief before quickly turning sour again. while waiting for his response you realize he was one of the servants that was in the dining room when that whole theatrical happened with your father.
“Your highness, please forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn but I do feel sorry for you and your predicament. Please let me know if there is anything that I can do to lessen your grievances.” He tries to smile before dismissing himself with a bow and turning away. this of course isn’t unusual, your servants do seem to pity you a lot, which you find ridiculous and kind of ironic, that your “sheltering” has gotten to the point where servants pity a princess!
you’re grumbling as you think and make your way through the upstairs corridor, before eventually finally reaching your room. the oh so familiar two large and tall, white doors stand in front of you. you’ve seen these doors more often than you’ve seen your own face you thought to yourself.
reaching for the diamond knobs you turn them before pushing your way in. The breeze of the outside immediately hits your nose. It’s so fresh and delightful.
Your maids know how stuffy it gets in your chamber and how much you love fresh air so they leave your window open whenever you’re away from your chamber. Your room is cream coloured and filled to the brim with gold accents. High ceilings and lots of books.
Walking towards your desk by the window, you feel your mood start to shift. you feel a bit better despite the little argument you had with father this afternoon. you take a seat in your chair, it’s plush seating immediately coaxing your back into comfort and relaxation.
Inhale… exhale… you look up to your painting above the desk. it’s of two women, dancing in glee at some sort of outdoors festival. you always loved this painting, the happiness they seem to exude, the freedom and love.
They look like they don’t care about the past nor future, they are just focused on the present and what’s in front of each other. Oh how you longed to be that free and content. you feel the familiar heaviness sinking into you chest once again.
you have to feel that freedom, you have to have that happiness at least for one night, dear god, please, just for one night. The desperation in your chest starts to grow more and more. The desperation turns into fear and anxiety.
You feel your palms sweat and your face get hot just at the very thought. Your hands start to shake once you come to the very obvious conclusion. you HAVE to sneak out to the ball tonight.
“But Lloyd, you said you would do anything” you whine with a pout to your servant. “Your highness I-I might’ve of offered but I didn’t think you would need this! And your father- ohhh no, your father is a very scary man and I don’t think if I-“ you shush Lloyd, the same old male servant from before from the stairway. “shhhh. Keep it down! you aren’t doing anything you aren’t supposed to be doing, just play along. Just- Please.. “ You reply with hopelessness at this point, looking down.
you had hatched the perfect plan. You made it as though you were sleeping in your bed, forming your pillows to the shape of your body underneath the comforter. You were all dressed and had your mask on but even so, you would just have to avoid your personal staff and your parents, no one knew you were the princess and what you looked like.
Your father had luckily assigned Lloyd to sit outside your chamber with the guards. The routine is usually a servant will come in and out, checking on you from time to time making sure you are okay before letting the guards know. they would sit there all night which you had gotten used to over the course of your life.
You were always being watched and protected. a sigh interrupts your thoughts “if you’re caught, I knew nothing.” he says in defeat. your eyes widen with a bright glow and you feel your heart skip a beat before jumping into his arms “thank you, thank you, thank you” you whisper. he knows he shouldn’t be doing this but he can’t help but feel for you and your situation.
But the way you lit up and how fast he heard your heart go at his answer, he didn’t regret agreeing. Suddenly he pulled away from the embrace to face you, “Okay princess but you have to promise me not to leave the castle! please stay within the ball and please don’t get recognized. If you’re in danger please just run back to your chamber and reveal yourself to the servants so we can help you. And-“ the old man was about to continue before you cut him off “I promise I’ll be safe. just leave it all to me” you smiled at him.
He sighed out before he looked down at you and tried to return the smile but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. “Okay your highness” He replied. You give him one last smile before you let go and he dismisses himself.
Hearing your chamber door closed, you slowly walked up to your mirror, taking one last look. you were adorned with a long black dress, thin short sleeves resting on your shoulders, décolletage exposed wearing a pearl necklace with a dark green emerald laid in between your collarbones. your bangs were slightly pinned back just enough to show off your black lace mask.
Wearing your silk black gloves, you pulled up your mask to your face. this was the night. Tonight would be the night of your life. you feel yourself start to shake, before you suddenly feel the urge to throw up from all the adrenaline already.
you swallow it back holding your stomach. You thought this would be easy, thinking of it so many times before but now that you’re actually doing it, you are very frightened. You’ve never been by yourself, you’ve never been in public and mostly, you’ve never disobeyed your father.
You start to rethink your decisions. It’s not too late to undress and head to bed your good conscience says. father would never know. no. something snaps in you saying “it’s now or never”.
you shake your hands breathing in and out walking back and forth from your window before looking out to check for the outside night guards. You planned on jumping out your window and making your way to the ball since you’re only up on the second floor. There was also a small tool-shed in front of your window so you decided that you could easily make that jump to on top of it.
Once you’ve noticed that the guards finished their round near your window and were out of sight, you decide you have to just do it, or else you never will. without thinking, you opened your window ever so slightly before making the jump to the top of that very shed you’ve thought about jumping onto for years.
breathing in and out while looking up at the stars, you just lay there, on top of the tool shed. “I did it” you thought. You start to quietly giggle to yourself.
Even if you didn’t make it to the ball, this was enough. this was the furthest you’ve ever been outside the castle by yourself and it was simply outside your window. you catch eye of the Big Dipper, noting how prettier it looks outside.
You’ve seen the Big Dipper many times before from your window but to be apart of it outside, feels different. there are no walls surrounding you, just miles and miles of horizon. you feel like you’re in space.
“wow..” you say. You’re enjoying being in this new space before you’re brought back to reality with the sound of a snap of a twig. you quickly sat up and gasped.
you looked around into the darkness, squinting in hopes that would somehow improve your night vision. you quickly climb off once you decide that the coast is clear, making your way into the night. you can’t shake the feeling that someone or something is watching you though so you pick up your pace to the entrance.
Turns out your feeling was right. someone was watching you, not a threat though. the hybrid watched in the dark with curiosity as you made your way to the front of the palace. “Hmm” a low voice grumbles from the dark as you’re already long gone.
“woah…” you say in amazement at the crowd. You made your way to the front entrance where every hybrid of all ages were laughing and chattering. everyone looks beautiful and exquisite, definitely fit for a Royal ball.
You can’t help but smile like you never smiled before in your life. in awe of the different faces and smells, you find yourself all of a sudden getting pushed inside as everyone makes their way in. the crowd forming a moving wave toward the entrance with you in it so you decide to just go with the flow hoping you won’t trip.
As the crowd moves towards inside, it doesn’t take long before everyone starts to disperse into a large and grand ballroom. You gasp in astonishment, why haven’t you ever seen the ballroom when it was decorated like this?
Yes you’ve passed by it many times but the room was always empty and plain. It always felt spacious and dark, a lonely room. but tonight was different, the room had come alive with warmth and gold.
It was as if what was missing were people, smiles and laughter. It felt like an another dimension, the layout was your home but you were somewhere completely different. You made your way to the side of the room, leaning against the wall and just taking in the scene before you.
The sound of trumpets startle you from your bewilderment, panicking and immediately ducking down because you know that could only mean your father is going to make his entrance. “Woahh there miss, it’s just the horns for the king” a deep voice makes you turn your head.
A tall man standing in front of you makes your stomach drop. Looking him up and down real quick you realize, he’s a knight. you’ve never been this close to anyone but your servants, let alone having to speak to them. “o-oh yeah. I know” you quickly say before trying to hide again.
You look at the grand staircase in the middle of the room where it looks like your father will be entering from. Feeling your heart beat faster you turn back to get another look at the man’s face beside you before realizing he hadn’t broken his eye contact on you since he’s spoked. he was wearing a black eye mask but you could tell that he was handsome.
His heart shaped lips and angular jawline. He had dark hair and dark eyes to match, you could feel your palms getting hot and a weird fluttering feeling go off in your stomach just by looking at him. “is there a reason why you don’t smell of hybrid miss?” he broke your thought whilst smirking.
Wait what, smell? “what do you mean?” you question. He continues “well it’s just that, every hybrid has a certain scent that others can decipher as hybrid but it seems that…” he leans closer to smell you as you shiver from the sudden close contact “you don’t have a scent. Not a hybrid scent anyway, and as a hybrid, I shouldn’t even be having to explain this to you as you should know this… right?” He smiles. Shit, you are screwed.
You didn’t know that. otherwise you would’ve stayed in your chamber. Humans and hybrids have differentiating scents? your father never really told you these things as he thought you wouldn’t need to know them.
God damn it, father, you thought to yourself. “I just-“ you were about to continue when you were saved by the bell, or at least you thought you were. It was your father speaking. “Welcome to the 34th annual masquerade ball! please help yourself to refreshments and dance to your heart's content! please enjoy!” He finishes with a bow.
Everyone begins clapping as you find yourself sneaking away to get back to your chamber. Making your way out, you suddenly feel your wrist being grabbed, you gasped before your turned to face the same man you were talking to before. “I know you’re the princess, and I know you shouldn’t be here” he admits with a soft voice.
You feel your knees turn into noodles as you’re caught. “Please oh please don’t tell my Father, I was just about to go back into my chamber-“ you’re cut off when something quickly partially covers your sight. the room went quiet from the sudden fast flying object. you look above the thing partially covering your sight before you realize what it was.
An arrow. in between yours and the man’s face. You gasp, breath hitching, trembling as you look at the man in front of you who also has wide eyes. he suddenly covers you and picks you up bridal style without a thought and yells “THE PRINCESS IS BEING ATTACKED” everyone starts to scream and duck once everyone registers what’s going on.
“the princess?” “What is she doing here” screams and confused chatter quickly spread amongst the ball all the while, your father is standing on top of the stairs frozen in bewilderment.
What were you doing here? Who was attacking? Who’s going after his little girl? Why can’t he move? He can’t do anything but watch everything unfold in shock, still like a statue.
The voices of servants and knights trying to get orders from him, just registering as ringing in his ears. His mouth slightly agape, amongst the chaos, one of his best knights pulls him by the shoulders. “MY LORD” suddenly a loud voice abruptly brought him back from his frozen shock.
He looks up before realizing it’s one of the lucky seven. Ironically, he feels lucky because of this. “get my daughter out of here” is all the king could muster before the knight gave him a stern nod.
Running down the stairs, the knight yells out to his pack member carrying the princess “HOBI, GET HER TO NAMJOON” hobi nods while running to the front to where the said knight named Namjoon resided. The aforementioned knight running down the stairs then took out his sword and quickly looked for his other pack members to take down the asalients.
you’re frozen. You can’t do anything but watch the horror unfold. This is all your fault, it had to be. People were pushing each other, screaming and crying.
Everyone was running for their lives all the while you were being carried by this unknown knight. You could feel the regret and fear in your stomach churning together to create this whole new awful feeling. You just wanted to go home, you regretted ever coming out.
Your train of thought is broken when the two of you finally made it outside. An even taller and buff looking man ran up to you guys. “Hobi, what’s going on?” he asks concerned while looking back at you both and everyone running past you guys. Who you guess is Hobi, puts you down and replies “this is the princess, she’s being attacked. We need to hide her until the others calm everything down, king’s orders”
Namjoon looks at you in shock “the princess?” before quickly shaking his head, snapping himself out of his own shock before saying “alright, I’ll take her from here”. The buff looking man quickly shape-shifts into his animal form, a large dark grey wolf.
Hobi quickly puts you on top of his back before saying “hang on tight your highness” you do as your told and hold onto the wolf around its shoulders, not being able to wrap your arms fully around because of how truly large he was. Letting your hands sink into his fur, you grab on before he suddenly starts running.
You turn around as the palace behind you becomes smaller and smaller and the screams become quieter and quieter. You turn back to face forward before letting yourself succumb to your adrenaline, now feeling safe. This fur is warm you think to yourself before drifting to sleep, all the while you somehow held onto the hybrid tight the whole ride, too scared to let go or be alone even whilst asleep.
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a/n; okay so I know I said I would start writing chapter one tomorrow but I couldn’t wait, I wanted to get the story rolling before I started writing tomorrow again. anyway what did you think? why didn’t Lloyd tell y/n about humans and hybrids having different scents? who was watching her while she was on top of the tool shed? and how did hobi know y/n was the princess 🤔 also who was the knight that broke the king out of his thoughts? So many questions unanswered but continue reading to see what happens! we will be meeting the boys properly next chapter :)
Next chapter:
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Text
Hit My Spot *SMUT*
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Summary: Helping your husband out has never felt so good before
Word Count: 2.5k
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire characters nor do I claim to own them.
You slowly made your way into the war room where Cregan was planning with other lords, you only caught your name being said before everyone looked at you, glancing around at the lords before looking at Cregan curiously as to what this was about that he had a servant come and get you. "I was told you needed me?" You softly spoke only to hear you were there to help keep the lord of the North calm and relaxed, which proved true as you easily kissed his cheek causing him to be slightly calm. Cregan smiled softly, seeing his wife, “Indeed my love,” he said, holding your hand and tugging you close to wrap his arms around you, “I do want your assistance; would it be alright if I asked you for something?".
You looked up at Cregan as he pulled you close to him. The feeling of his touch was like the warmth of home, and you enjoyed the feeling of being held in his arms. You chuckled at his question. "Of course, my love. What is it?" “May I have the pleasure of having you at dinner with me this evening? I miss you, my love, and would like some private time with you,” Cregan asked, his eyes meeting yours, you smiled widely as you leaned your head against Cregan's shoulder. "You know I love spending time with you, my love. It would be my honor to join you for dinner this evening," you replied excitedly, eager to have some much-needed private time with your husband.
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Cregan waited patiently in the dining hall of Winterfell, for he wanted to wait for his wife. He was glad for the privacy as that was what he had wanted from the dinner. After a while of waiting, he heard footsteps approach from down the hall, and he couldn’t help but smile as he noticed your pace grow faster and faster the closer you got. And there his wife was, as beautiful and striking as he had expected. You walked briskly down the hallway, your feet hitting the marble tiles with a gentle thump. You were dressed in a black gown draped over your curves perfectly, accentuating your figure. The deep crimson of your lips stood out against the black of the dress, making you look stunning in his eyes. You looked up as you entered the dining hall, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw Cregan waiting for you, looking as handsome as ever. As you approached the table you held your hand out towards your husband, allowing him to take it.
Cregan couldn’t take his eyes off his wife; you looked breathtaking, and Cregan felt a fool that he didn’t tell you this more often enough. Cregan gladly took your hand, and together the two walked into your shared chambers as he no longer could help himself and Cregan closed the door behind him. Cregan led you to the bed and began to kiss your lips, “I want you, my love,” Cregan murmured softly, wrapping his arms tightly around you. You gasped as Cregan's kisses hit your face like a shockwave. You felt a spark ignite inside your body and you could not contain the heat that it generated. You let all your worries and fear fade away as your husband's touch felt like a fever that you wanted to succumb to. Your heart started to beat faster as you felt his arms wrap around you, holding you close. You wanted to drown in his kisses, to feel his affection surround you, leaving your mind clouded before moving closer to the bed.
Cregan could feel the heat of his desire growing as he felt his heart beating frantically against his chest, and Cregn was pleased. He wanted this moment to be a memorable one, not just another average night. Cregan moved one of his hands to the curve of your hip, and with the other, he began to untie the laces of the dress. Cregan continued kissing you passionately, his hands exploring your back as he pulled your body closer to his own. He was determined to make you his once more; that this would be one occasion where Cregan would not let other concerns or worries take priority. He wanted this to be about you both—an evening just for the two of you to enjoy each other, to make up for the lack of time that recently you had been apart.
Your heart raced as felt your husband's rough fingers work at the laces of your dress. You wanted nothing more than to feel his body against your own, to be closer to his warm, comforting touch. You gasped as Cregan's calloused hands slid underneath your garments, brushing over your skin, and making it tingle. You felt a tremble begin at your core as your bodies made contact, stirring something primal within you. As the dress fell to the floor revealing the curves of your body, Cregan’s eyes widened in pleasure at the sight. He made to take off his own garments but realized that he was too eager, and before he did that, he kissed you passionately, his hands roaming your body, his thoughts only of you and nothing else.
Cregan's hands roamed over your body, feeling every curve and dip with a sense of reverence. He couldn't believe how perfect you were - so soft yet strong, delicate but durable. As he pulled back from the passionate kiss, he looked into your eyes and saw the desire burning there, reflecting back at him. "You are truly a sight for sore eyes," he whispered, "and I can't wait to show you just how much I appreciate everything about you." He lifted one hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear while the other slid down to cup your ass cheek, giving it a gentle squeeze before pulling you even closer to him, pressing your hips against his erection. "Are you ready for me to take you?" As Cregan's hands moved across your body, he gave you a moment to feel the touch of love. You closed your eyes and savored the sensation, basking in the sensation of being held close against his warm, strong body. When he brushed your hair behind your ear, you shivered from the touch.
You found yourself unable to resist the urge to press your hips tighter against his growing arousal. You nodded eagerly, letting out a small moan as he asked if you were ready for him to take you. Your heart raced with anticipation as you gazed up at him with wide eyes, biting your lower lip slightly between each breath you took. The thought of being filled by your husband sent a thrill through your core, making you clench involuntarily around nothing. Cregan grinned widely at your enthusiastic response, feeling an intense surge of satisfaction and pride coursing through him. He knew that he had been right to choose you as his wife, knowing full well that you would be more than willing to indulge in the physical intimacy that they shared together. With a final deep kiss, he broke off the lip lock and looked down at you with a determined expression on his face. "I'm going to make you scream my name so loud that everyone will know just how much I love fucking you," he growled, "and no one else will ever be able to compare to the way I take you."
Your heart raced faster as Cregan spoke about taking you with such intensity, making you feel incredibly desired and cherished. You bit your lip harder this time, trying to hold back the moans that threatened to escape your lips as you felt his erection pulse against your thigh. The thought of being claimed by your husband in such a primal way sent shivers down your spine, making you clench uncontrollably as you awaited his next move. "Yes… please…" You whispered, "Take me like only you can." As he prepared to enter you, you spread your legs wider apart, inviting him deeper within your body, wanting nothing more than to be completely consumed by his love and lust for you. Cregan's eyes gleamed with possessiveness and desire as he gazed down at you, feeling an almost animalistic instinct to claim what was his. He positioned himself at the entrance of your wet pussy, feeling the tightness wrap around him firmly. With a grunt of effort, he pushed forward, feeling every inch of resistance give way until finally, he was buried deep inside you, filling you completely. "Fuck, you feel amazing," he groaned, "So tight and hot around me." He began to move inside you, driving into you with powerful thrusts that made your walls clench around him tightly, coating his shaft in your slick essence. "This is mine," he growled, "And no one else will ever have you like I do."
Your nails dug into the sheets beneath you as Cregan filled you completely, feeling every inch of his thick length stretching you open and pushing past any barriers that tried to keep you both apart. You let out a long, drawn-out moan as he claimed you with such forceful possession, feeling his size pulse against your sensitive inner walls and causing an explosion of pleasure throughout your body. Your hips bucked involuntarily as he continued to drive into you, relentlessly marking you as his own. "Oh god… yes… I'm yours…" You whimpered, "Fuck me like only you can… Please…" Cregan's hands gripped your waist even more tightly, feeling the pull of your flesh against his palms as he increased the pace of his thrusts, driving himself deeper into you with each powerful stroke. He could hear the sounds of his hips slapping against your own ass as he pounded into you relentlessly, feeling the sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. "I'm claiming you," he growled, "And no one will ever take you from me." His balls slapped against your ass cheeks with each powerful thrust, sending waves of pleasure through both him and you. He looked down into your eyes as he drove into you, seeing the fire and desire burning brightly within them, feeling more connected to you than he ever had before. "My wife... My possession..."
As Cregan's powerful movements sent shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body, causing your insides to clench and release in waves of ecstasy, you found yourself completely lost in the moment. You let out a series of gasps and moans, finding it difficult to form coherent thoughts or sentences as you reveled in the sensation of being completely owned by him. The idea of being marked as his property sent a thrill through your core, making you clench even tighter around his throbbing member as you begged for more of his dominance. "Please… Take me completely… Make me yours forever…" You moaned loudly, "I want nothing more than to be completely possessed by your love and lust." Cregan's eyes blazed with an intensity that could only be described as predatory as he gazed down at you, feeling his cock twitch with need as he imagined claiming every last inch of you. He increased the tempo of his thrusts, feeling his balls draw up tight against your ass cheeks as he pushed himself deeper into you with each brutal plunge.
He could see the look of raw desire in his reflection in the mirror above the bed, seeing himself looking every bit as savage and primal as any male could possibly be. "I'm going to fill you up completely," he growled, "And leave my mark upon every inch of your beautiful body." As Cregan's thrusts became even more forceful and relentless, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through your entire being, you let out a long moan and arched your back, pushing your chest towards his as you encouraged him to take you even further. You could feel the heat of his cock burning against your inner walls as he continued to drive into your depths, making you feel utterly consumed by his power and desire. "Yes… Yes!" You cried out, "Fill me up completely… Mark me as yours…" Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke, feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion and sensation coursing through you. At that moment, you felt like nothing more than his devoted subject.
Cregan's cock pulsed with each deep thrust, spurting a few drops of precum onto your inner walls as he reveled in the sight of watching himself take you so thoroughly. He grunted with satisfaction knowing that there was nowhere else he would rather be than buried deep within his beloved wife's pussy. His hand reached around to grab hold of your hip, pulling you closer to him as he drove into you with even more ferocity, feeling your walls clench around him tighter than ever before. "You're mine," he growled, "And there's no way anyone could ever take you away from me." As Cregan's hand grabbed hold of your hip, pulling you even closer to him, allowing him to penetrate you even deeper, You felt a sense of security and belonging washed over you. You knew without a doubt that you belonged to this strong, dominant man and that there was no place you would rather be than nestled safely between his powerful thighs as he took you to new heights of pleasure and fulfillment. Your cries grew louder and more desperate, signaling your complete surrender to his authority. "Yours… Only yours…" You whispered.
Cregan's hand dug into your hip with enough force to leave bruises, feeling a primitive urge to claim everything about you as his own. His other hand reached up to grip onto the headboard behind you, using it for leverage as he pounded into you with even greater intensity, feeling the tightness of your pussy clench around his length like a vice-grip. He pulled out briefly before slamming back into you with even more force, feeling your walls clamp down on him tightly as he emptied his load deep within your womb. "I claim you as mine," he growled, "No one else will ever have access to this perfect pussy except for me." As Cregan's hand dug into your hip and his cock unloaded deep within your womb, sending a surge of pleasure throughout your entire body, you let out a loud moan feeling the warmth of his seed pouring inside of you.
You closed your eyes and let out a long, satisfied sigh, feeling completely owned and possessed by your husband's overpowering presence. "Only yours…" You whispered. In that moment, with his cum filling your womb and his hand still gripping tightly onto your hip, you felt a profound sense of connection and intimacy with him. Cregan had never seen his wife quite like this, it was a side that he had never seen before, like you were completely consumed by him, but he wasn’t complaining, not at all. Seeing you look so utterly satisfied with him as your body was filled with his seed, he also felt a sense of profound intimacy, like there was no one else in this world that he would rather share this moment with. Cregan leaned down and kissed you softly, “Mine…” Cregan whispered back, gripping your hip even tighter.
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illyrian-dreamer · 1 year
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Congratulations on 500 darling!!!!!!!! Can I please request 30 with azriel? Thank youuuuuuu 🤍🤍🤍🤍
Confessions at Starfall
Azriel x Reader one shot
Summary: It's the night of Starfall, and you're hopelessly in love with the Shadowsinger. When Azriel keeps flirting with Elain, you're pushed to your final limits.
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HELLO AND WELCOME TO DAY 1 OF 5 FOR 500!
Thank you @cityofidek for requesting 30 - Unrequited love/pushing loved one away.
Warnings: None.
Words: 3,048
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It was the night of Starfall, and you were utterly miserable. 
Sitting at the dining table with your family, the rest of the inner circle exchanged jokes and light-hearted conversations as plates of steaming roasts, vegetables and pies were passed around. While it was usually your favourite holiday – the night ahead promising dancing and celebration, you were feeling far from festive. 
It had everything to do with the male you loved, who sat across from you now, dotting over Elain Archeron. His eyes rarely left her, and you would know, because yours rarely left him. You noted the way he sat, his body tilted slightly in her direction, his wings folded back to make provide her more space to move. To the untrained eye, it wouldn't look like much – but for Azriel this spoke volumes. 
That was the kind of detail you had learned to read over the past year. It had been twelve excruciating months since you had realised your own feelings for the Shadowsinger. Gone was the comfortable friendship you two shared – instead it was quickly replaced with blushing, timidness and uncontrollable awkwardness, all thanks to you. And while you once held out hope that Azriel might notice, or even return your feelings, overtime your friendship had drifted – pushing him further into the arms of the middle Archeron sister. 
Elain made you seethe with jealousy. It wasn’t her fault, she was nice really, all be it a bit simple. But she had a way about her, like a doe-eyed fawn their first steps. It made you uncontrollably angry the way people would line up to help her, especially the males. Not to mention her undeniable beauty. You knew she and Azriel made a very handsome couple. 
So you sat here tonight, marking every bit of attention the Spymaster gave Elain, longing for him to look at you the way he did her. Jealousy didn't even begin to cover it. 
“Y/N?”
You blinked, not realising Azriel was speaking to you even though you had stared off straight in his direction. You coughed, straightening in you seat. “Sorry, pardon?” Your heart beat at the thought he might have started a conversation with you. 
“Can you pass the potatoes?”
Your heart dropped, and you tried to hide the disappointment on your face. Of course he wasn't interested in talking to you, he hadn't in weeks. Without replying, you passed over the dish, reaching straight for the white potatoes instead of the orange kind. Azriel didn't like how sweet they were, and you knew that. It was the kind of detail you remembered about someone when you’re hopelessly in love.
“Ooh, can I please have the sweet potatoes?” Elain chirped. “They’re my favourite.” Of course the sweetest female in all of Prythian liked yams the most. You had to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. You passed the dish over silently, and watched Azriel load up his plate with those too. It took everything you had to stop the scowl that twitched at your eyes. 
You pushed your fork and knife to the centre of your plate, suddenly having lost your appetite. 
————
The luminescent glow of the stars shooting above had been going for over an hour, and the party was in full swing. You breathed in, letting the magnificent sight lighten your heart the way they did the night sky. 
Gathered on a large marble terrace of Rhys and Feyre’s river home, almost a hundred guests had come in fine gowns and suits to celebrate the event. 
Wearing a dress of midnight blue that sparkled with night, you laughed lightheartedly as Cassian and Nesta joked with you, champagne in hand. The musicians at the base of the terrace reclaimed their seats, raising their instruments and beginning a new set of elegant melody. 
“I hope you don’t mind Y/N, but I must show off my mates dancing,” he winked at you before offering his hand to Nesta. She smiled, placing a delicate hand atop of his, nodding to you before being lead to the dance floor. 
Couples now twirled and stepped in unison, the sight almost as magical as the sky above. You felt a large presence slide beside you, and your heart fluttered as shadows caught the corner of your eye. 
“Are you enjoying your night?” Azriel had finally come to spend some time with you. 
“Of course,” you lied, smiling softly as you gulped the rest of your champaign, earning a slight raise of Azriel’s brow. “And yourself?”
Azriel nodded. “It’s as beautiful as always.”
“Yes, it is.” You couldn't help but stare straight into his hazel eyes, your heart lurching as your words hung with double meaning. Ask me to dance, you begged in your head. We dance every year on Starfall, c’mon, just ask me. If Azriel was paying any attention, he would have read your pleading gaze. But he wasn’t, of course, because his eyes fell beyond you, at the pretty Archeron who wore a gown of delicate blush. 
You looked down, suddenly overwhelmed with insecurity as you smoothed the ripples in your dress. Of course he didn't like you – you looked like a witch of death compared to the femininity that blossomed from Elain. 
“You look quite beautiful tonight.”
Your heart leaped. Your anger from earlier quickly vanished as you breathed in to thank Azriel, already blushing. But as you looked up, your heart immediately sank as you realised Azriel wasn't complimenting you at all, but rather Elain, who had made her way over. 
It felt much like being punched in the gut.
Your mouth was dry as you silently watched Azriel offer her an arm, her petite hand slipping through as he guided her to the dance floor. 
That felt much like being kicked in the gut while you were down.
You couldn't help the steady flow of tears that now stained your cheeks, or the broken crumple that formed on your face. Unable to withstand any more blows, you fled the party.
————
Slumped against the frame of a large window, your body shook with cries so hard they fell silent. You didn't care if it was the most special night of the year, you had never felt more abandoned, underserving and unloved. 
You were crying too hard to hear the footsteps that trudged up to the lookout room you were hiding in, and you didn't hear the faint knock at the door. It wasn't until Cassian placed a gentle hand on your shoulder that you noticed his presence, his face soft with concern as he crouched next to you. 
You blinked back at him, your vision completely blurred by your tears. You were broken and there was no hiding it. 
“I love him, Cas,” you sobbed, your voice break halfway through as a cry shook through your body again. 
“Oh, Y/N,” Cassian said softly, his voice full of understanding as he immediately embraced you. You flung yourself to him, wrapping your arms around his solid waist as he rocked and stroked your hair. You weren't surprised that Cassian knew, anyone could have noticed months of hopeless pining and one-sided puppy love.
You continued to cry, your voice muffle by the embrace. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing Y/N! There’s not a thing wrong with you.”
“Then why doesn't he love me?”
“Because he’s a damn fool.”
You sniffed against his chest, trying to regain yourself. “But he loves her.”
Cassian sighed, the strokes on your hair pausing for just a moment. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Of course he does. She’s perfect.” Jealousy was not a good colour on you, but you were unsuccessful at hiding the bite in your words. 
Cassian drew back, levelling his eyes to yours. “I know it hurts right now doll, but I promise, any male that doesn't see you for the beautiful, intelligent and fiery bombshell you are, is an outright imbecile. Even if it is my own brother.”
You chuckled at that, shaking your head as you gently wiped the makeup your were sure had stained under your eyes. “Thank you Cass,” you whispered, reaching for his hands tightly. He stood now, leaning down to plant a kiss on your forehead. 
“Will you come back to the party with me?”
You forced a fake smile, but shook your head. “I happiest up here. Thank you though Cass, I mean it.”
Cassian nodded, throwing a tight smile of sympathy before ducking out of the room. 
You paced to the other side of the viewing room to the window facing the terrace below where celebrations continued. Dresses of all colours fanned against the marble of the terrace, the music flowing up to the height of the room. And the stars, Gods they were beautiful. 
You saw Cassian rejoin Nesta, his arms snaking around her waist as they admired the view. Next to them were your High Lord and Lady, and beside them, a dress of pale blush. Your heart stung with envy at the site of Elain, and you narrowed your eyes as you scanned the crowd for Azriel. 
“Y/N?”
You jumped, whirling on the spot to find Azriel sheepishly standing in the doorway. 
You cleared your throat, quickly wiping under your eyes again. He had hurt you, broken you without even knowing it. You straightened your spine – the least you could do was have your pride. 
“Are you ok? Cassian said you left the party.”
You nodded tightly, not trusting yourself to speak. 
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The words flew out of your mouth too quickly. 
Azriel frowned, stepping through the door towards you. You stiffened, drawing one step back. “Go back to the party Azriel,” you said tightly.
“Have you been crying?”
You scowled. How dare he note that detail when he was the one who caused it. “Don’t pretend to care,” you spat. Gone was the ache in your heart from moments ago. Seeing Azriel here now, it was quickly replaced with fiery hurt.
“What?” Azriels brow was now contort with confusion as he reached for you. You stepped back again, your arms folding over your chest.
“Why are you angry with me?”
“How can you ask that?”
“Is it because we’ve been distant lately?” So he did have some clue after all. You didn't answer, instead breaking from the intensity of his stare, your eyes focusing outside as glowing spirits that shot past the other side of the window.
“Listen, I know I haven't been around much, or maybe it’s that we haven't spent time together lately. But things have been difficult between us for a while now Y/N. I can't help but feel you’re pushing me away.”
A scoff escaped you before you could stop it. “I’m pushing you away?!”
“Yes!” He exclaimed, his hands outstretched. “For months now. You don't open up to me like you used to, every time I look at you, you look away, and you never suggest spending anytime together.”
You blinked at him, biting your lip as you tried to process what he had said. You hadn’t realised that in an attempt to burry your feelings for Azriel, you had actually pushed him away. 
“Tell me, what have I done?” Azriel’s voice was pleading as he stepped closer.
“You haven't done anything,” your voice was barely a whisper, and you were unable to meet his eyes. You had stepped away so he could explore his feelings for Elain, that was your truth. But when was the last time he made an effort for you? “But you can't pretend like you’ve been trying either, Azriel.”
He sighed then, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re right, I’m sorry ok? I’ll make more of an effort from here on.”
You nodded, tears welling in your eyes again as you blinked quickly, casting your gaze sideways yet again. You couldn't tell him – it would ruin everything.
For once, Azriel caught on to how upset you were. “You’re still angry with me?”
“Gods, Az! I wish I was angry!”
The male blinked at you before frustration overtook. “Well perhaps you could stop talking in riddles, and actually tell me what’s wrong!” he gritted.
You let out a quick breath, shaking your hands as you blinked upwards, trying your best to stop the tears that welled. “I can’t,” you whispered. It would kill you to say it, and it would kill everything you two had. 
Azriel’s gaze softened when he saw how tortured you were. Uncrossing his arms, he walked over, cupping the side of your face. “You can tell me anything, Y/N. Just tell me, what’s going on?”
His hazel eyes scanned your face, begging you to open up. But there was so much at stake here, and even if you confessed, you knew his heart lay with Elain. 
You shook your head, moving out of his hold. “If you can’t see it for yourself Azriel, I don't know what to tell you.”
Azriel frowned. “You’re speaking in riddles again.” 
You threw your hands up in defeat. “Perhaps I am,” you sighed, suddenly drained of any energy you had left. “Listen, I’m exhausted. Please Az, just enjoy the rest of your night, ok?”
“I’ll walk you to your room.”
“No,” you said too quickly. Guilt struck you at the twinge of hurt on Azriel’s face. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” Your voice was tight, and you quickly turned your heel, leaving Azriel still and silent as he watched you leave.
These feelings – these stupid, foolish, unrequited feelings. They hurt you and everyone involved, and you hated yourself for it. It was obvious Azriel didn’t return your affection, so why did you have to drag him down and cause a scene? You needed to do better, needed to push your love for him down, burry it in the depths of your heart so it would no longer get in his way. 
————
You were in your room for barely an hour before there was a forceful knock on your door. You jumped, pulling down the length of your silk night slip as you spoke out loud. “Who is it?”
You door flew open then, Azriel’s large frame filling the entrance as he stepped inside, his expression wild, with another emotion you couldn't quite place. His wings were outstretched, and you could tell he had winnowed here hurriedly as his chest heaved with quick breaths.
Shocked, your eyes darted over him in panic. “Azriel, what –?”
Azriel stalked towards you, closing the distance as he towered over you.
“You love me?”
You gawked, your eyes moving back and forth as you tried to connect the dots. “Who–?”
“You love me?”
Cassian. You gritted your teeth and your fists clenched. How could he share something so private? 
“No! I mean, yes, I mean, I have feelings for–”
“You, love, me…” he repeated, slower this time. It was no longer a question.
Your body burned in shame – you needed air. Pushing the double doors to your private balcony open, you grasped the railing as you tried to breath deep. Azriel was right on your tail.
“Az, I’m sorry. I’ll get over you. I promise. These feelings, they’re— they’re only temporary, I swear. I—I’ll get over you–”
Azriel bought a single scarred finger to your lips, hushing you instantly. You swallowed, panic in your eyes as they darted between his hazel ones, trying to read his reaction. As per usual, Azriel’s face was unreadable, the only movement was the gold that swirled within them. 
“How long have you loved me?” he asked, his voice cold as ice. You felt as if you were tied to a chair, under his interrogation. 
“Twelve months,” you whispered against his finger, your cheeks stinging in shame. 
Azriel raised his brows. “So for a whole year, you have loved me, without so much as a thought to share that information?”
Your frowned in confusion. “I had no plans on telling you, Azriel. I didn't want to get in your way. You and Elain–”
“What of Elain and I?”
You levelled a look at him now. “C’mon Az, its clear you have affections for her.”
“You have no idea how I feel.” There was a bite to his words, something you weren't used to from the Shadowsinger. “I am a friend to Elain, because her transition as fae has been difficult. I enjoy her company, that’s true. But I am there to support her as my High Lady’s sister, and a member of our family. If I am someone she can trust, someone she can open up to, I will be there to support her.”
You sighed. “I understand that Az, but–”
The finger returned to your lips, cutting you off. “That does not mean –” Azriel drawled, his voice low, almost dangerous. “– that I have affections for her.” He was dancing with your emotions, using them against you to teach you a lesson.
You blinked back at him, your heart fluttering with realisation before denial quickly took over. “You love her,” you whispered, more to yourself, refusing to believe the dynamics you had built in your head were an embellishment of your own idiocy. 
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I do not.” Azriel’s voice was a growl now.
He moved in closer, and your heart began to thunder. The finger against your lip fell to cup your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. Azriel’s eyes swirled with dominance, his expression almost predatory as shadows danced between you. He leaned in close, his fresh scent filling your nose as his lips were now mere inches from your own. 
“I have affections for someone else,” he said huskily. “One might even say I love her, for many years now.”
It took all that you had not to gawk. Instead, you kept your eyes on his. “Don’t mock,” you replied, your voice a half gasp as you tried to control your breathing. 
Azriel’s mouth pulled into a smirk. “I’m not mocking.”
You flicked your gaze to his lips, then back up to his eyes, your expression bewildered and completely uncool. 
“Azriel–” was all you got out before he closed his lips over yours, his arms snaking around your waist as he dipped you back, kissing you as the stars continued to fall around you.
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AN: I just want to say another HUGE thank you to anyone who's been following along with my fics, you mean the world to me <3 I hope you liked this story, I would love to hear any feedback you have. Please take care, and comment if you'd like to join any of my tag lists ✨:)
Tag list:@kennedy-brooke @cosmic-whispers @jazmin2211 @psychobookaholic @fieldofdaisiies
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angelltheninth · 1 year
Text
The Mirror Effect
Pairing: Yuuji Itadori x Fem!Reader x Ryomen Sukuna
Tags: nsfw, smut, established relationship, semi-public sex, fingering under the table, cunnilingus (via Sukuna's hand-mouth), bathroom sex, dirty talk, kind of threesome, mirror sex, name-calling, encouragement, gentle!Yuuji, rough!Sukuna
Word count: 1.6k
A/N: This has been on my mind for such a long time, I finally sat down and wrote it.
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Celebrating with your boyfriend and friends seemed to be a good way to unwind after a mission gone well. You sat next to Yuuji of course, your legs touching his under the table, watching as he, very energetically and animatedly recounted the details of the mission to Gojo.
You thought nothing of it when his hand landed on your thigh, lightly rubbing up and down in a soothing manner. He was very hands with you pretty often, not at all holding back on showing his affections with gestures small and big. This... was not that, as you find out when you feel his hand go under your skirt and into your underwear.
The sound that leaves you is a shocked gasp, which you manage to mask with a cough when heads turn your way. Yuuji turns too but only smiles at you, "Take it easy babe, don't take more then you can swallow." Good advice but with his fingers secretly playing with you cunt it has a bit of a different meaning.
No, not only his hand, a warm, long, wet tongue that flicks over your clit, exposing it to greedy lips that wrap around it. Your eyes widen in alarm, but Yuuji doesn't move his hand away, no he curls his fingers and pushes then inside of you, not moving them at all, just giving your pussy walls something to squeeze around while Sukuna works your clit in long licks and hard sucks.
"You okay babe? You look a little flustered." Yuuji turns to you, his expression that of worry, false worry, he knows exactly what he's doing, what they are doing. As you try to answer him Sukuna's teeth press against your clit and the only sound that leaves is a needy whine, mistaken for that of pain by everyone other then Yuuji. The sorcerer in training moves his hand away and lays it on your lower back. "You're not looking so hot. Come with me, I'll walk you to the bathroom okay? Maybe splashing some water on your face will make you feel better." He pecked your forehead and helped you up, your legs clenched together as you followed him with a pretty pissed off expression.
"What the fuck was that Yuuji?!" You hit him on the arm as he followed you into the bathroom and locked the door behind you, "What were the two of you thinking?" Your unamused face did not matched the burning ache you felt between your legs in the slightest.
Yuuji chuckled, "I just wanted to have a little fun with you. I'm sorry if I upset you."
"Upset her? She's dripping wet." Sukuna's voice sounded from Yuuji's palm, a visible smirk on the mouth as his tongue licked the wet palm, "I'd say she enjoyed the thrill. Didn't you wench?"
Yuuji shut his fist quickly, "Sukuna, if she doesn't want it then we don't do it, it's that simple. Now keep quiet, I wanna hear her out."
"And I wanna eat her out." The demon spoke from the other hand.
You sighed, "The two of you are unbelievable, and you're not doing a very good job controlling your little friend Yuuji."
"Huh? It's not my fault that he's an asshole!"
"Wasn't talking about Sukuna." You looked down at his pants, the bulge betraying his own lust. "I can't let you go out like that." You marched up to him, determined and yanked him forward into a kiss, clumsily stumbling back until you took a seat on one of the cold marble of the faucets. "You made me horny, both of you should take responsibility for that much at least."
Yuuji hummed into your mouth, his hard bulge rubbing against your wet panties, his hands under your skirt, the mischievous demon tongue tasting your heated skin.
"Told you she wanted it. Look at her Yuuji, spreading her legs for us like a slut. You may be an idiot, my vessel, but I can't argue with your tastes." Sukuna's voice sounded like he was right there next to you, whispering in your ear, making you more willing to bend to his and Yuuji's will. Yuuji's hands pulled your panties down your legs, let them fall to the floor as his hands quickly undid his belt, his pants and boxers falling to reveal his impressive, hard cock.
Before he could put it inside Sukuna's mouth was on your pussy again, licking inside, "Sukun- ah!" You pulled Yuuji close, your legs crossing over around him, his warm cock brushing against your thigh.
"What did I tell you Yuuji, if she walks like a whore, talks like a whore, then she's a whore. And she's all ours." Sukuna's tongue moved lighting fast, making a slobbering mess between your legs, your legs shaking, your grip faltering.
"Let your voice out pretty girl, let us hear you. Wanna hear you feeling good, make all kinds of pretty noises for us, come on." Yuuji's lips found your neck, mimicking Sukuna's mouth perfectly, sucking, kissing and licking. You couldn't stop the sounds from coming out under the pleasure of their tongues, "That's it, that's what I'm talking about."
It felt good, it felt wonderful, to have them both, to feel them both but... "I need more. Yuuji please, I need your cock." You'd long since learned that Yuuji needs, and loves to be told what to do. And when he is, he delivers better results each time.
He nodded, giving you one last chaste kiss before he moved his hard cock between your legs, poking around your wet entrance.
"Yuuji..." You whined bucking into him, "Don't tease. They'll come looking for us."
Yuuji tilted his head like he didn't understand the meaning of your words, his hips lazily moving forward, the tip of his cock rubbing against your clit. As you were about to demand it again Sukuna's mouth was on yours. You moaned at the taste of yourself on his skilled tongue, "Beg him bitch. You want him to hurry up right? Ask him properly."
You bit Sukuna's tongue as he pulled away to allow you to speak, "Yuuji. Hurry up. Hurry up and put it in already." Not a demand, a desperate plea, begging, asking, needing.
As the words left your mouth Yuuji chuckled and smiled at you, "So cute when you beg. How am I so lucky? Well mostly lucky." His words weren't directed at you, much to Sukuna's own amusement, "Of course I'll give you what you want." His cockhead passed your entrance, pushing inside, stretching you out as his other hand rubbed your thigh, "Relax. Let me take care of you now. Let me make you come. Let us."
God he was so soft, so gentle and caring even with his whole cock buried and throbbing in your pussy. He winked at you before he started moving, dragging his length out, then easing it back in, each thrust hitting your sweet spot perfectly.
"Watch." Sukuna growled against your lips, Yuuji's hands grabbing you by the jaw and pushing you back, pushing your head back enough for you to get a glimpse of yourself being fucked by him. His fingers still tasted of you, or maybe it was the lingering taste of when Sukuna kissed you, "She's a pretty one, a real keeper. If you go even louder I promise to fuck you later. I won't just make you moan, you'll scream for me. You'll take my cock and you'll love every second of it. So enjoy this gentle treatment from my vessel while you can."
Yuuji's soft fucking into your sensitive cunt, Sukuna's unforgiving tongue on your heated skin, the sight of it all reflected in your eyes and in the mirror before you, it was almost mind-numbingly good. "Yuuji..." You moaned, not caring anymore, you needed to come, you needed him to come, and you needed it fast, "Sukuna's mouth, I need it."
There was no doubt that you'd get what you asked for when you used that begging tone with them. Yuuji was more than happy to oblige, setting his warm palm, and Sukuna's mouth on your clit. Sukuna didn't miss a beat, firmly sucking on your the little sensitive bud.
You couldn't take your eyes off them, of how they made you look.
"Come." They spoke in unison, causing your orgasm to shoot through your body, back arching, mouth open and drooling, incapable of stopping your moans and whimpers. Yuuji followed soon after, his cock trembling, pulsing, unloading his warm torrent of seed into your pussy which drank it all up.
Yuuji's mouth descended back onto yours while Sukuna's cleaned you up, licking everywhere, ever last drop of you and Yuuji as his vessel pulled out.
The two, three, of you stayed like that for a few more minutes, bathing in the afterglow. Yuuji would have gladly fallen asleep here it this wasn't a bathroom, and if your friends weren't still waiting for you to come back.
"They'll definitely ask questions." Yuuji chuckled against your cheek, "We better get out there. You think they'll buy that you were throwing up like hell?"
"No and definitely not if they walked past the door." Curse your friends for being so observant. "We'll just have to stay quiet about it and avoid their eyes." Spoken like you didn't have a meal to go back to, one that just started, at the same table. Yeah, you and Yuuji were never hearing the end of this. Sukuna through seemed pretty pleased and proud of himself judging by his amused chuckle as you and Yuuji walked out of the bathroom.
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multifandomgirl08 · 5 months
Text
Sugar Daddy!Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!Reader Part 2
The Arrangement Masterlist
Formula 1 Masterlist
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He said that he would be flying to Italy for a few weeks and wanted to see you
You would have your own room in the Villa that he was staying in, and before you could even bring up paying for a plane ticket he said that he would e-mail all of the flight information to you
You agree to go and he’s quick to tell you that if you need anything you don’t have for the trip he’ll cover the costs
Over the course of the trip, you start to notice things
On your second day in Italy, Daniel takes you shopping at all of the big-name brands that you can't afford while paying for college
He buys you Chanel, and Dior, even insisting on going into Cartier and Van Cleef. He says, "We'll just be looking."
You spend a little too much time standing in front of the display with all of the paved Love bracelets and see a pair of butterfly earrings in Van Cleef
You and Daniel end up getting lunch at a little Café at the end of your day of shopping
He tells you that he made reservations at 8 pm at some restaurant and that he's already picked out something for you to wear
When you get back to the Villa, there is an Oscar De La Renta Box on the bed in your room
You're hesitant to open it, let alone put what's in the box on
In the end, you end up putting on the stunning red jeweled dress and you take the new Dior bag that Daniel bought you
When you walk out of your bedroom you see Daniel standing there in the foyer of the house in a suit
"Wow," He says, his eyes constantly looking at you. As if you're gliding on the marble floor. "You look... beautiful."
He's quick to try to meet your eyes before you notice that his eyes fall to your neck.
"I knew something was missing." He quickly mentions before walking over to the table that's by the front door. There’s a small white bag with green letters reading Van Cleef & Arpels.
Your eyes go a little wide when Daniel pulls out a green box and presents it to you.
He's quick to motion at you to open it. You pull the ribbon and open the box of the lid to reveal the butterfly necklace that you had been looking at earlier in the day.
Daniel takes it out of the box before clasping it around your neck
"Something to remember me by." He off-handedly says before offering you his arm.
While you're at dinner, you notice that Daniel is quiet and not as animated as usual
Something is going on. Maybe he's calling this off, but he doesn't seem like the type of person to fly you all the way to Italy just to end the arrangement that you have
Daniel had chosen a bottle of wine, and you both ordered dinner. He ordered you pasta, the most expensive option on the menu before fidgeting with the sleeves of his dress shirt
"So, I know that we've been doing this for a while... and I was wondering if you would be interested in taking it a little further?" He asked.
You weren't really sure what further meant for the two of you. You were basically at his beck and call, although he never forced you to do anything that you didn't want to
"What does that mean? Do you want to see me more?" You ask back.
"Yeah, or maybe I could start to give you an allowance every month and pay your rent or get you an apartment."
Your hand drops to your neck without thinking about it.
Was this why Daniel bought you the necklace? In case you said no to his offer?
You liked spending time with him when you could, it wasn't often but he wouldn't be driving in F1 next year so you hoped to see him more.
It would work well for you really. To take up his offer while you were in search of a job. He could cover your rent for however long you needed.
"Why don't we start small, like we have been." You offered, you never wanted Daniel to think that you were taking advantage of his generosity.
Both of you agreed.
A few weeks after you got home from your trip, there was a yellow package from Daniel.
In it, a red Cartier box, and a letter with the word Enchanté in cursive.
You opened the letter first, leaving the Cartier box too scared to see what was on the inside. You still wore the Van Cleef necklace that Daniel gifted you every day.
The letter read.
Hey babe,
figured it was time for a bit of an upgrade from what you're used to. I'm going home to Australia for the holidays and I know that we won't get to spend them together so I figured I'd get you all of your gifts early.
If you look through the rest of the envelope from this letter there is a card with your name on it (again), we talked about an allowance in Italy and I intend to keep my promise. It's already activated and everything. Don't worry about the limit on it.
But knowing you, you won't try to spend me out of house and home. Is it bad that I kind of want you too?
I meant to give you what was in that red box before we left Italy but there never seemed like a good time.
Talk soon
- Danny Ric
You end up opening the envelope the letter came in to see a thick metal-like card before pulling it out to see a metal American Express card. It had his name written on it.
As you look at it you're not sure if you even want to use it. But Daniel seems to trust you with the money that he gave you.
You end up putting the letter and the card to the side before reaching for the Cartier box. It's wrapped with a red ribbon. You delicately pull it off the box, and then pull the lid off the reveal the signature Cartier Love bracelet box.
You press the button on the box seeing a fully paved Love bracelet with its matching 14k gold screwdriver.
You leave it before reaching for your phone and take a picture of it to send to Daniel with the message, Thank you, I love it!💕
You only had to wait a little bit before Daniel messaged you back.
Anything for my girl, you read.
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johnwickb1tsch · 2 months
Text
bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 7 all chapters
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I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in.
–Jane on Mr. Rochester, Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
-It's no real mystery, why you dig out your beloved old copy of Jane Eyre. From the early 1900s, it had seen better days when you’d scored it in the local used book store, many years ago. You’d been a teenager then—and those days were long behind you. It seems you never outgrew your liking of a dark and broody anti-hero.
It’s safer to read about it though, than pursue the real thing.
Lately every time Mr. Wick comes into the shop you feel slightly agitated, as though you don’t quite fit into your own skin. You remember the sensation of his fingertips on yours, like a burn.
Mr. Wick sees you reading your tattered novel on your break, but doesn’t comment. You’ve seen him with old classics in hand and reckon he must be something of an aficionado.  
You put it away in your shoulder bag in the back after the break.
The next day, it’s gone.
You know you left it in your bag. Where the fuck could it have gone? Why would someone fucking steal it?
A couple of weeks later, it reappears on the counter by the register you favor.
You hardly recognize it at first, for it has received an encompassing makeover. It has new leather covers with gorgeous embossed gold lettering, and marbled end papers, and the tattered thread of the binding repaired. There are gilded arabesques on the spine and delicately drawn climbing flowers on the cover. You wouldn’t have even thought it the same book, if not for the intricately printed title page unique to your edition, with an old pencil mark in the corner you recognize.
Such a restoration would have cost a fortune.
You knew, because you’d looked into it.  
Further compounding the mystery, there is a beautiful jacquard embroidered ribbon bookmark inside. It’s on the page where Rochester has sat Jane down in the arbor, and is telling her that she has rejuvenated him from his unhappy existence without actually admitting anything, asking in the most roundabout way possible if it would be so very bad to take a second wife who would make him a new man, while his first is still living, the big idiot.
“Is the wandering and sinful, but now re-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the world’s opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?”
Jane tells him, of course, that a man shouldn’t base his redemption on another person, but within himself. You are not sure you would have had the strength to speak so frankly to a man you secretly loved.
Well, maybe you would.
You are utterly mystified by the whole thing, to say the least.
But later, you are browsing the local book store, and the owner is reading Anna Karenina in what looks like freshly bound leather. The style looks familiar.
“Did you have that restored?” you ask, feeling like Nancy Drew hot on the trail of a fresh lead.
“Yeah, that new guy in town, John Wick did it for me. He says he’s just a hobbyist, but he does amazing work. Usually you have to send off to Florence for quality like this, seriously. It’s a dying art.”
Darren lets you look at the book, and you are impressed by the craftsmanship.
The spine decoration matches yours. There is a plate in the back that proclaims: Bound by John Wick.
The sneak.
You are touched to the tips of your toes, your heart filled with butterflies. Was the bookmark purposely left on that page, or just a random placement?
You hardly dare hope, and tell yourself it’s an invention of your own fancy. The gift of the book is magnificent enough. No need to further muddle things with secret communications that aren’t really there.
The next day you approach Mr. Wick’s table with hands on your hips, affecting annoyance. “You stole my book.”
He actually has the grace to look sheepish about it, casting those lovely dark eyes downwards.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I really love it.” It’s the understatement of the century.
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He looks up through his hair, the surprised sparkle in his eyes taking your breath away. Suddenly, he looks ten years younger.  
“Yeah?”
The corners of your mouth twitch. This man speaks like he’s paying five cents per word, you swear. “Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me you bind books?”
He just shrugs, and you cannot help but laugh.
“I’ve never owned anything so fine. Thank you, truly.”
 He nods again, and you sense that you’re maybe making him uncomfortable with your gratitude. You suspect it’s not why he did it at all.
“Will you show me sometime? How you do it?”
There is a flash of something dark in his eyes before he turns his attention back down to his own book. It feels like dismissal, but you have no idea what he’s hiding underneath it all.
Still waters run deep.
“Anytime you want,” he offers as you turn to go.  
You smile at him over your shoulder as you go back to your station, a secret lightness fluttering in your heart. On your break you flip through your refurbished book once more, taking even more pleasure in it knowing that John poured over every detail of it. You don’t know much about bookbinding or leather work, but you suspect he freehanded the little flowers on the front, and that moves you to your toes.
You flip to one of your favorite scenes because you find it so funny, when Jane puts out the fire that nearly burned Rochester up in his sleep, because undoubtedly he’d drank too much earlier to easily rouse, the lovesick scoundrel. Afterwards he doesn’t want her to leave but can’t outright keep her in his room without behaving an absolute blackguard.
“Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.”
You cannot help but glance up at your tall dark bookworm in the corner, an aching warmth spreading in your heart for the sight of his furrowed brow, his concentration (you think) focused on the tome in his hands.
You know you are a ridiculous thing.
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thebearer · 8 months
Text
nothing between my ears except me and my little marble of a brain rolling around thinking of carmen holding you in his lap after you cut your finger open, bandaging it up for you.
he told you to be careful, to pay attention to what you were doing. you huffed, rolling your eyes at him, continuing to chat, eyes flicking from the carrots back to carmen until. you felt it, your hand immediately going to apply pressure, eyes cutting to carmen's to see if he noticed.
of course he did. he heard the hitch in your voice, the knife falling on the board, before he looked over. "let me see." he muttered, taking your hand in his, turning down the heat on the stove.
your lip wobbled, the burn setting in now when you showed him, pearls of blood blooming and spilling out of the sliced skin. carmen shook his head at you, giving you a stern look. "you weren't looking were you?" he asked.
you pouted, refusing to respond, reaching for the paper towels instead. carmen shook his head, a hand on your back to guide you away from the sink, grabbing the first aid kit underneath.
"c'mere." carmen nodded, pulling a chair from the small dining table. you climbed into his lap, still holding your hand, while carmen opened the kit.
"do i need stitches?" you asked, looking at the long gash.
carmen shook his head. "no. i'll put a butterfly bandage on, it'll be alright. might scar. but you gotta keep it clean alright?" you nodded, letting him press the paper towel to it firmly, opening the antiseptic.
"this is gonna burn." carmen warned, eyes cutting to yours. you squirmed on his lap when he poured it in, watching the blood bubble to the top while you squealed gently at the sting.
"'s alright." carmen shushed, hand running down your back. "that was the worst part, promise."
you watched him, so gentle and purposeful, placing the gauze and wrapping it after he put the cream on. your head on his shoulder, legs on the outside of the chair, carmen's arms around them to keep you in place. he seals it with a kiss, sweet and goofy, leaving you blushing before his hand cradles your jaw, pulling you closer, lips slotting over your own.
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coralseacourt · 2 months
Text
🧡Broken Love🩵 🐚@coralseacourt🐚
✨Summery:✨ The youngest Acheron Sister gets rejected for Elain.
Love is sweet but revenge is sweeter. After a broken heart comes a broken court part three of broken love.
✨Warnings:✨ naughty scene
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,
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Part 3:
I m a traitor.
A liar.
The evil Personified.
At least that’s what they want to believe.
That the innocent girl I was, had turned on them without good reason.
They would never understand that revenge led me.
Revenge for all those hours I had spent alone locked up in their prison tower.
It had been a golden cage.
A prison I would never return to again.
🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸
The doors opened and a cruel smile played around my lips.
With Eris right by my side I entered the High lords meeting Room.
Every pair of eyes found us in an instance.
Gasps and shocked faces all around us.
One Face particularly shocked. Azriel.
Just for a second my eyes swiped over his beautiful but furious face.
The newly crowned High Lord next to me chuckled and laid his hand on my bare back.
The game was on. And I was ready to play.
“Violet?” Of course feyre was the first to speak.
But I didn’t gave her any indication that I had heard her.
The growling from the other night court members was harder to ignore.
“ Tztz would you please not growl at my pet. She has claws and I rather don’t want her to use them.” I smiled dangerously at Eris.
“ I thought you promised me that I could play.” I said with a sensual tone. “I haven’t played in so long.” I glanced at Rhysand who looked like he could throw up at any given moment . My eyebrow raised I walked closer to the table where everyone sat.
My mental walls pulled up and tightened.
“Soon my sweetness. Nightmares are not made overnight.”
Eris strolled to the only free chair left and sat down like a king ready to conquer.
I narrowed my eyes and let my fingers drive over the top of the marble table.
Long fingernails clacking on the cold stone.
“I like to play. Don’t you High Lord of the Night?” I smiled cruelly at him.
His mask slipping away for just a second.
But I saw. I saw straight through him.
Then the moment was over, he straightened up and narrowed his eyes.
Ah there he is.
Rhysand.
The most powerful High lord of prythian.
“Violet. I see you.” He paused for a second pulling invisible dust from his jacket.
His pause seemed intentional and I had to think back to the words that had started it all.
Do you want to be seen?
“are in great company. And I thought you finally had the guts to go and be on your own. Seems you only changed sides.”
His face changing to a cruel mask of authority.
I tilted my head to the side looking at him like a predator analyzing its prey.
“I like being in his company and being his pet. It gives me satisfaction to know he can do whatever he wants with me.”
I smiled devilish and let one of my hands glide up my throat over my chin.
Playing with my lips and licking one of my fingers.
The growl that came from behind Rhys let me look up.
Azriel. His hand on his knife, teeth fletched and his black eyes staring me down.
”What has become of you? Look at you being the whore of autumn scum.”
I laughed out loud not bothered by his hateful words.
I put a innocent face up before saying.
“Oh but Azriel. I have only become what you have made me.” All night court eyes turned to the Shadowsinger surprised.
“Az? What does she mean with that?” Feyre, her eyes had teared up and my face softened for just a second before putting my mask back on.
“I don’t know what she is talking about.”
I giggled.
“Of course you don’t honey. But it doesn’t matter either way.”
I turned around and walked to the waiting hand of the only man that knew the rules of our new game.
“Now that we have this issue cleared, I want to announce our marriage.” The Autumn High Lord took my hand and kissed it gently.
Feyre gasped.
“No, you can’t do this. Rhys do something.”
But the Lord of Night only stared.
“Rhys, please she is my sister. He can’t marry her. What about Azriel’s Connection .” “Feyre stop talking.”
I stiffened.
First because of the mention of any kind of connection with the Shadowsinger.
But then because this asshole had dared to quiet my sister down.
Now I was angry.
And angry me did not hold back anymore.
With only a wink of my power, that no one had ever known about I called my shadows and let them rise behind me like a black wall that would withstand anything and anyone.
Eris was chuckling next to me while I stared at the shocked faces of all high lords and their companions.
My teeth fletched and my eyes glowing green with power.
“ If you ever dare to talk to my sister like that again you will regret it.” Everyone tensed at the words of my threat only Eris stayed calm.
“Wonderful now you angered my little nightmare. “
He pulled me into his lap and put a hand on my neck squeezing it softly before pulling my hair to the side to kiss my throat. Calming me down I realized.
My shadows disappeared in an instance.
“She is a Shadowsinger.” Helion leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“I m right here you don’t need to talk over my head I can and will talk for myself.” He only raised his eyebrows in response.
“You haven’t been like this before, what changed? Please tell me violet. We can fix this. I know we can. “
Feyre was now pleading with me and deep inside my heart broke but I had to do my part, had to play this character.
“There is nothing to be fixed. I m exactly who I want to be.” Was all I said and the attention finally was turned to the official meeting points.
But I could feel his eyes on me, could feel something else too. I scrunched my forehead in confusion.
Why could I feel jealousy.
Hot headed blatantly obvious jealousy.
The problem was that it wasn’t my feelings.
I looked up Azriel’s eyes gleaming at me.
And that’s when I could see what I clearly felt. Jealousy.
🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸🐚🪸
It had been hours for the high lords to finish. We were the first to leave for the room we would spend the night in to continue the meeting on the next day.
A fire was burning when we entered. Cozy.
“Violet come here. “ I turned around to look at the male with the softest red hair.
I walked slowly towards him until we almost touched. His hands cupping my cheeks.
“Are you alright?” I blinked a couple times before catching myself.
Eris was a great High Lord but concern was not his strength.
So, for him to try to be gentle was new.
I pulled away.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I? This is what we’ve been working towards. Remember?”
He straightened up and back was my sensual Companion.
“I have to say , i was surprised how good you handled yourself.”
I only raised my eyebrow before strolling back towards him letting my hands slide softly down his chest pulling his dressshirt up to have better access to him.
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.
A moan escaping his full lips while I was letting my fingers glide over his hot skin, down to his leather belt wich I opened with swift fingers.
“You are a naughty little vixen.”
“I know, but would you want me any other way?”
He chuckled before laying his hands on my shoulders and slowly pulling my dress down making it pool around my legs.
I was now completely bared in front of him.
“You really are as beautiful and cruel like one of my darkest nightmares.”
With strong arms he suddenly lifted me up and pressed me against the wall. My head falling back while his tongue circled around my peaked nipple.
Nipping, biting, licking.
“I need to be inside of you like you are inside of me every second, every moment of the day.”
And with that he pulled his pants down and started to slip into me first slowly until he was completely hidden inside of me, then hard and fast until the world erupted around us.
Stars filling my vision and moans leaving my lips.
And while i experienced complete Bliss the Shadowsinger next door was drowned in darkness having to listen to us.
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