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#CAGE FACE: Case One
loveintoxicated · 2 months
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Dawei "Dove" Xia | he/they | Paved in Ashes
Joe had been explaining things in the meantime. He said it was again the beginning of the unfinished, the re-discovery of the familiar, the re-experience of the already suffered, the fresh-forgetting of the unremembered. Hell goes round and round. In shape it is circular and by nature it is interminable, repetitive and very nearly unbearable. — Omitted excerpt from The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien, found in a letter to William Saroyan in 1940
#if.png#if: paved in ashes#notes: there is no demo so i decided to temporarily put one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books... that was omitted...#WHYterrycrew.mp4#what is it when you try to leave your battered and hurt shell behind but tendrils pull away and stretch with you and twist and choke you?#because you can't run from the past and you can't just ignore it and you can't pretend it never happened#you are both yesterday's you and not#that kid is dead. that kid is alive. you are uprooted and planted elsewhere. your roots keep seeking the same minerals. it thrives. it dies#dove tries to kill his past self but ends up stuck in a spiral hell of his own making#because too many doors are left open and changing his fashion style & fucking every single men that gave him a heated look won't change it#btw i didn't realize you could make a tony hawk joke with his nickname until much later#cause you know. doves and hawks are birds... and they are skateboarders.... lmao maybe it's just funny to me#birds on top left are a sign of his nature loving and specifically birds btw— he wants to become an ornithologist#i kinda went ham on the bird symbolism with this baby lol see: bird in the cage escaping#glittery toilet for letting loose. puppet strings for how his social trauma controls him. quote for his bad relationship with his family#patch for how he used to be innocent and chaste but felix absolutely broke him (among other things) and now he is a little nymphomaniac#fun fact: he is 5'7" which is average but he is actually pretty durable and strong due to a very active lifestyle#he doesn't really look like it tho. his muscles are subtle and lays flat but you don't want him punching you— he can AND will level you#he has great arms and broad shoulders and watermelon-crushing thighs and gazelle-like legs#a case of 'face of an angel on the body of ryan gosling' if you will
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angelltheninth · 6 months
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The Muzzle Problem
Pairing: Wriothesley x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, rough sex, muzzle, breeding, possessive sex, creampie, mentioned marking, doggie style, feral!Wriothesley
Word count: 0.7k
A/N: Expanding on that post I made the other day cause got damn I want him in a muzzle so bad!
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He fucked you like he hated you, and maybe in this moment he did. Not because you did something wrong per se, not because he had a reason to hate you, his pretty girlfriend, but all because you wanted to see what would happen when you put a muzzle on him while he fucked you.
"Think you're safe from me when my mouth is caged up?" The cold bars of the muzzle pressed against your face when he attempted to nuzzle in closer to you, his frustration palpable in the loud smacking of his hips into yours. "Think again, there's many way that I can mark you as mine." Your pussy tightened around his cock, legs feeling weak and suddenly you found yourself grateful that you had the bed to fall back onto.
You reached behind you and felt the cold cage of the muzzle, "You know you can't leave marks on me. What if someone saw? They'd know... ah... about us... and..." Wriothesley tightened his hold on your hips and pressed your hips fully against the bed, clit grinding against the pillow under you while he fucked you hard, fast, possessive, almost feral. "Wrio! Careful! Your hands!"
"My hands, my cum, my cock, yes all of them, I can mark you with all of them. I don't really have to though, do I? Because at the end of the day you already know that you're mine." Behind closed doors you were his, but to everyone else you were his right hand woman, to be respected and feared as such too. In both cases though you were his and he was yours, secretly ready whenever you called for him.
Unlike you Wriothesley didn't have any problem teasing you during work hours, which lead to situations like these, getting fucked on his bed right after the shift ended, a puddle between your legs and a pulsing ache that grew every time his cock sunk back into your wet...
"My pussy, it's all mine, and you know what? I think this pussy could use some of my cum in it. It's been so good for me lately, so good for me. You've been amazing, I don't know what I'd..." He groaned as you hooked your fingers on the muzzle and pulled him forward, causing his cock to sink in balls deep into your drooling cunt.
"There, yes, fuck... fuck me there..." Again you tugged on his muzzle and felt the full weight of him on top of you, doing everything you could to keep your ass smacking loudly against his, "Fuck me however you want, just don't leave any marks where people can see." Those were some very dangerous terms you just agreed to.
You could feel yourself dripping with arousal as he began going faster, fucking you like he wanted to see you break on his cock. And maybe he did, as punishment for denying him the pleasure of biting and kissing you. "Breed you, I'm gonna breed you, get my cum in your wet little cunt. Let's see who owns your pussy then huh? When you're dripping, when your womb is flooded with my cum. Say it, say it, say it!" Your hips met his one final time before your mind went blank with pleasure, warmth spreading both inside and out, your orgasm making your stiff against his rock hard body.
Hot cum rushed into your spasming walls, your abused, sensitive pussy taking all of it before he collapsed next to you.
A few minutes passed in silence, the only sounds being each other's breath, slowly getting back to normal. You turned to your side, trying not to squirm as Wriothesley's cum dripped down your thighs. He looked happy, hair very messy and eyes a little hazy still but happy. When you reached behind him and undid the clasp of his muzzle he let out a long sigh before opening his mouth wide, flexing the soreness out of his poor jaw.
"Sorry." You snuggled up to his chest and kissed him on the chin, "But it's not my fault you can't keep your mouth to yourself."
"Yes it is. You're too cute for your own good." Wriothesley pressed a long kiss against your forehead, another content sigh leaving his lips. He was finally able to do what he wanted to do all day, kiss you as much as he wanted.
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mellowwillowy · 5 months
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Yan! Lawyer Husband x GN Spouse Reader HCs
CW: mafia related stuffs
—𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓 - 𝑳𝑰𝒇𝑬 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕
Yan! Husband is a gentle soul to you, he can't and will never lay a finger with the meaning to hurt you! He just doesn't have the strength to do so, almost as though he was set to be so. It's another whole story when it comes to the others though, can you guess how many times he has pulled the trigger of a gun?
Yan! Husband who spoils you rotten with everything you could ever think of. Luxuries, reputations but never the forbodden knowledge he has tried so hard to keep away from you. No, he won't clip your wings. You are his songbird who gets to only fly inside the gilded cage but never in the outside world. He will create a stage of the outside world for you, but never the real deal.
Yan! Husband who paints a portrait of you whenever he's stressed over the cases he has to handle. To move the brush without any problem as your form starts to appear on the blank canvas, he has no trouble remembering you. Sculpting is no problem for him as well. He has spent all his lives honing his artistic skill just to eternalize you as pieces of art.
Yan! Husband loves you so much that he deems children as a burden and bothersome (adoptive too). He only needs you to build a family, he had no need for children to continue this lineage. His whole life revolves around you. If you pass away, he too, will pass away shortly after. That's how much he loves you to the point that death cannot separate you two.
Yan! Husband who might not look like he's able to do it but he is actually an S-rank gaslighter. He will trick you into believing that what he is suggesting is only to keep you safe! He doesn't really enjoy taking your autonomy directly unless it's needed (of course, in a way where you will not confront him about it).
Yan! Husband who will cover and remove all your bad track records (if you have any). He has the power and connection to erase any kind of dirt that is on you, you are his pristine pure lily-of-the-valley and you should not be defiled with those records. Live without any worry clouded in your mind dear, the laws will never tarnish your reputation when you have this lawyer backing you ^^
Yan! Husband who adores any sort of physical touch when it comes to you, yes, anything. Even if you hit him silly, he'd still love every moment your skin feels his. He loves hugging you the most, his face buried into the crook of your neck while taking a scent of you.
Yan! Husband who enjoys humming lullaby of yours to the point everyone's ears around him is bleeding from the repeating lullaby. Can this guy please hum something else for once?
Yan! Husband who will read for you whenever he has the time to sleep with you. He doesn't know what to say to you as his work is either foreign to your brain or a tad too shady. Childhood memories are not great too as he has long forgotten about everything the moment he pledges eternal vow to love you. He abandoned everything and lives only for you.
Yan! Husband who prioritizes you as his number one, even above his own well-being and career. He can still live even if he falls ill, his career would never fall out of track as he has the mafia under his grasp, but you can slip out of his grasp. And he doesn't want that to happen again.
Yan! Husband is without a doubt an infamous lawyer. Especially with how many times he has let the ringleader of that renowned mafia group slip out from the prosecutor and judge's grip? If you seriously think you'll be pronounced guilty of that murder, you better throw that thought out just like how he throws all the scapegoats and falsified evidence into the court. (Should I write a fic for this?)
Yan! Husband who will always make time for the two of you. While vacations are not as often as he wishes he could have, cuddles and tea parties sound nice enough for him to kill time with you.
Yan! Husband who has this cute journal that's filled with what you have been doing every day instead of his own daily stuff. Oh, your diary is almost his if you know how he reads it daily like a refreshment.
Yan! Husband who as much as he hates having to show you to the people at the official parties and events he has to attend, he just can't shake away the butterflies in his stomach as well! You are not just some trophy spouse, you are his beloved! A hand on your waist and a face that is seen whispering sweet nothings into your ear with a glass in his other hand. Oh, he looks so o-godly-handsome like a man who comes out from a romance novel!
Yan! Husband who is a man of greed, the embodiment of Mammon. Wealth is not something that he has never not possessed. So whatever the fuck you do, gambling or blowing it off somewhere in a dumb investment or stock, he won't make a fuss out of it. Instead, he'll teach you more about money management instead :/
"Do you want to learn how to invest? I know a way or two from my predecessor."
He will let you play all the money game you want and gives you the illusion of success despite all the trials and errors you made (he's the one who clean up all the mess lol)
I know that this is AFAB! oriented BUT Yan! Husband never wishes to impregnate you even once. No, he doesn't like the idea of you being in pain over a damn baby(ies) that could just take your life as well. He does enjoy fucking you without any protection on but that is after he tracks your safe day (man is literally fighting the fate of having you pregnant). He prefers you to not consume any birth control for just in case it causes harm rather than good to you. (Shots are a pass if you are scared of syringes)
He is A-OK with adopting if you are persistent enough about this matter and is B-OK if you want to get pregnant (AFAB). He just can't refuse and upset you...
So please don't imagine what would happen if darling dies during delivery :)
Yan! Husband who will always open his pocketwatch and kiss the picture of you in his pocket watch. How many times and lives had passed just for him to enjoy the solace of being your husband?
𝐀 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫.
Yulian de Alpheus is a man of ambition. While he does share the same look as his 'father', the ambition he has is the complete opposite of Castiel. Castiel created him to seek the truth of life, Adam existed to be the Genesis of Life, Alan existed to be someone he didn't recognize and Yulian existed to live beneath the shadow of his spouse.
𝐘𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
Taglist: @vinivave @destructa1 @szde8-blog @luminous011 @ush0 @annbourbon @randomnl @cassanderasblog @maam-appreciator @lem-hhn @fanatic-fan @flesh-eating-ladybug
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i-drop-level-one-loot · 7 months
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*NSFW* How to train your pet Human (Yandere!Alien X GN!Reader)
CW: Mind break, training, human pet, pet/owner relationship, humiliation, dub-con, non-con, dead dove
Pt 2, pt 3
(Reader) sat quietly and fearfully in a small cage that didn't allow for any wiggle room, their legs falling asleep under them from being in the same position for so long. They didn't remember how they got here, in a cage surrounded by freaks in what seemed to be a street market, only remembering walking home from the convenience store a little past midnight and seeing a white, blinding light before passing out.
Aliens of all shapes stuck their disgusting faces towards the bars of (Reader's) cage, speaking in sounds that didn't sound like speech at all. (Reader) watched as sniffling cages near them were bought one by one, and feared for their future.
After nearly an entire day (Reader) felt their cage lift high above the ground without shaking, and witnessed a tall creature draped with beautiful deep blue robes raise the cage to get a better look at (Reader's) face without needing to bend down. And bending down to the tiny cage must have been impossible without dirtying it's knees, since it seemed over seven feet tall.
It's face face was smooth, with large, opal colored eyes eyes in a hard shelled face. There was no nose, or lips, on its black and purple iridescent face. It spoke in a human like voice, in an earth language (Reader) couldn't understand.
"What?" Their voice was dry from dehydration.
"I asked what language you speak."
The voice was higher than expected, and melodic, yet still masculine. He lowered the cage to his hip, but didn't set (Reader) down, exchanging chatter with the seller and handing over a bag full of, what (Reader) assumed to be, some type of currency.
(Reader) was carried back to what looked like to be a large ship, dying of anxiety over what was going to become of them. They passed through multiple corridors and gateways, before entering a room decorated with glass cases and blue drapery the same color as the alien's cloak. He placed the cage on the floor and unlatched it, stepping back to give (Reader) space.
They tried to stand, but their legs were dead from the hours they spent bent doubled over. They cried in pain as the feeling began to slowly tingle down their thighs to their feet.
"What is wrong, human?"
(Reader) wiped away the snot and tears rolling down their chin. "My-My legs are numb from sitting in the cage. It hurts."
The one who bought (Reader) reached under their arm pits, raising them up and sitting them on a very high desk. He reached with what looked like scaled hands and began to massage their legs. (Reader) whined in discomfort, both at the pain and the uncomfortable situation, fearful to push the much taller creature away. Now that they were out of the cage, the alien was much taller and imposing, visibly sleek bodied under the fabric, but not scrawny, (Reader) could feel his strength.
"What is your name, human?"
"...(Reader)."
"(Reader)." He practiced saying their name, still massaging their legs. "I am Kirtch."
(Reader) nervously fiddled with the bottom of their shirt. "Why am I here?"
Kirtch pried his eyes away from their legs, looking down into (Reader's) scared face. "This will be your new home."
"What?" (Reader's) heart dropped into their stomach.
"I promise your safety, (Reader). I will do my best to provide you with comfort." Kirtch picked (Reader) up again, but didn't set them down, carrying them around the room giving them a little tour. The room was actually three, entering from the main hall into a study first, with another door leading to a bedroom, a small restroom hidden within that.
"I didn't expect to be bringing you home, so I don't have any human furniture yet. Although I've never owned a human before there is no need for you to fret, I have done extensive research, and I am confident as a first time owner."
(Reader) only just began to fully realize what was happening to them. "I.. I want to go home." The back of their throat got tight, choking back a sob painfully. Their nose began to tingle and they knew they wouldn't be able to hold back their tears for long.
Kirtch rubbed their back in what was supposed to be a comforting manor, but his hands were harder than a humans, and it was rough against their skin. "You'll feel better once your adjustment period is over. I shall bring you something to eat. It won't be a cultural dish from your planet, but it will be made of human safe ingredients."
(Reader) stretched their legs while trying to smile through their tears. 'Like hell. I'd rather die.'
They watched as he left the room, wondering how far away the kitchen or dining area was from the room they were in. (Reader) waited for a few minutes after Kirtch left before shakily rushing towards the door. But the door had no handles or knobs, it was a flat wall with barley any indication that there was an opening at all. They touched all over the spot (Reader) had seen the tall man had placed his hand, but nothing happened.
"no no nO NO!" They slapped the "door" in frustration. Time for plan B. (Reader) pressed their back against the wall, as flat as they could muster, just trying to make sure they wouldn't be visible in Kirtch's peripherals. The fear was destroying the lining of (Reader's) stomach, gurgling uncomfortably.
A whirring noise activated as Kirtch entered the room, holding a tray in his hands. It was quick, but (Reader) snuck right behind Kirtch and out the room without him noticing, right before the automatic door slid shut. The walls of the hallway were very tall and slightly rounded, made out of a blue metal. (Reader) began running in the direction they remembered entering from. They knew the probability that they were still on land was slim, but dying was better than being kept a prisoner without any hope of returning home.
(Reader) made it down only one hallway before strong hands effortlessly lifted them under their armpits. They kicked while crying, not seemingly phasing Kirtch in the slightest. He brought them back to his room, and his lack of anger hurt (Reader's) pride; it was good that he wasn't furious, threatening to hurt them, but his calmness reinforced the futility of (Reader's) escape attempt.
"That was my fault. I read that humans were prone to escaping, especially in the adjustment period. I should have expected this." He sat down, a deep imitation of a sigh rumbling through his hard chest. Kirtch sat down in his large chair in front of his desk, and laid (Reader) across his knees as their face fell. "Knowing this is my fault brings me no joy for what I need to do, however the manual did say that humans will test authority and will continue to do so if not punished."
(Reader) protested while squirming, incapable of breaking free as Kirtch slid their pants down to their thighs, exposing their bare bottom. His shelled hand was cold against their skin. (Reader) clenched to prepare themselves for contact, but it was useless against the inhuman slap, his hard flesh resulting in a sharp pain like they had been struck with a paddle instead of a hand. They yelped, squeezing their thighs together as the tears began to form again.
Another slap connected with their ass painfully, stinging as their tender rear began to bruise.
"I'm so-sorry!" (Reader) blubbered, another whack rippling their buttocks aggressively.
"Humans may appear remorseful, however this is self defense tactic to cease the pain they are experiencing. Unless one establishes themselves as the dominant force, they will continue to act out."
"No! I really am sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!!" Their voice cracked as they screamed out the apology between sobs and slaps.
Kirtch smiled, rubbing the skin he had split open, stinging the fresh cuts. "I shall finish with your punishment for now. I do not wish to spoil you, but I would be lying if I didn't have a soft spot for you, my cute little pet. The next time this happens I will not be so gentle.."
(Reader) widened their eyes in horror. That was gentle?!
"Would you rather spend your first night in my bed, or shall I prepare a nest on the floor for you? I will buy a suitable human bed for you tomorrow, of course, but until then..?"
"The floor." (Reader) replied a little too quickly.
A "nest" of bedding was constructed, and (Reader) did find it quite comfortable, but refused to sleep, fearful that at any moment they would be in danger. They rested for what only felt like three or fours hours, max, before Kirtch rose from his bed and begun his day. His routine was uncannily similar to a human's, rising and dressing in his robe, stretching and leaving to five something to eat. It only enraged (Reader) further at their inhumane treatment.
"I am not a dog." They whispered to themselves, as though fearful they would forget.
The ship must have been still docked at the trader's colony, because throughout the day gifts for (Reader) were brought into Kirtch's room and office. With each piece of "human" furniture Kirtch would happily rub (Reader's) head, petting them like an animal and waiting for them to show some kind of sign that they enjoyed their new toys. But (Reader) showed no such sign, feeling humiliated as they were treated like a cat instead of an adult human. But they didn't snack away Kirtch's hand, or tell him off, scared of being punished again, so they simply sulked, trying to hide from his gaze so they could disassociate without interruption.
His new pet's attitude was making Kirtch worried. He flipped through the human owning handbook, wondering what he could be doing wrong. They seemed so stressed, and Kirtch felt it was far worse than the normal stress of a new environment. Then Kirtch flipped to an interesting chapter on chemical responses. "If your human has pent up frustrations or stress, a fun way to help them relieve themselves is the manual release of the chemical oxytocin..."
(Reader) hid under a box, hating the irony of their hiding place while they tried to formulate a new escape plan, now knowing that they were in fact still connected to some type of land. Not every alien could be a cruel monster, there had to be some kind of interplanetary animal rights group or space hippies. The box was lifted and removed from (Reader) sat to the side as Kirtch smiled down on them.
"I'm sorry I haven't been playing with you, pet. I've been so busy trying to make this room more comfortable for you that I have been unintentionally neglecting you." He scooped (Reader) up into his arms, and brought them over to his desk, which he had already cleared off. (Reader) nervously glanced around, wondering what was going to happen to them. "But I wanted to help you become acclimated to your new home. And you still feel more comfortable the sooner we ease your stress." He pulled out a box and a couple of strange bottles with syringes.
(Reader) scrambled to get away, but was quickly held down by one hand, being shushed in what was supposed to be a calming manner. One of the strange bottles filled the syringe, making (Reader) thrash harder. Kirtch pulled down their pants, revealing their still sore ass cheeks, and stuck in the needle, injecting them with the unknown liquid. (Reader) cried out as a warm sensation rippled through their body, turning their limbs to jello and making it difficult to breathe.
Kirtch released them, seeing that they could no longer run from him. (Reader) growled, pissed off that their body wouldn't act as they wanted it to. "What did you do to me?!" Their body was rapidly heating, becoming to feverish to hold up.
"If your human has pent up frustrations or stress, a fun way to help them relieve themselves is the manual release of the chemical oxytocin..." Kirtch opened the box next, revealing a strange rubber looking object shaped like a cup on the outside with polyps inside. "I have always wanted a pet human, (Reader), so I was very excited to see you for sale. You are the most attractive like human I've ever seen, and I promise to give you a long, happy life."
The device was placed on (Reader's) crotch, attaching itself to their pubic area without needing to be held on. It came to life, each nub moving on it's own as it rubbed (Reader's) growing erection. The contraption grew against (Reader's) body, enlarging to fill every hole and crevice, pulsating and writhing like a living creature.
"No! It feels gross! Take it off!" (Reader) screamed in fear, watching as their hips bucked against their will and their nipples hardened through their shirt. Tears over how unfair everything was pricked at their eyes. Kirtch lifted (Reader) into the sitting position, rubbing their back soothingly while giving them a better view of the throbbing toy violating them.
"Shh. There's a good pet.." His words felt like taunts to (Reader) as they kept approaching their orgasm.
(Reader's) body was shaking as it begged for release, but (Reader) held strong, trying to rob Kirtch of the satisfaction of seeing them crumble. Another bottle was opened, this one however was poured down (Reader's) throat before they had a chance to cognitively force themselves to close their mouth. The warm liquid was tasteless and odorless, but the effect was like an immediate five shots of vodka, clearing (Reader's) sinuses and plunging them into a drunken stupor.
"What..? What..?" (Reader) couldn't even form their sentence correctly. Their unfocused eyes drifted around confusedly before snapping down to their lower regions, feeling their stomach muscles clench in anticipation.
Kirtch continued to rub their head and chest, gently rubbing their head like a good puppy while he rolled their nipple between his harsh fingers. "Whose my good little pet?"
"Ahh! No.. I'm not a pet.." (Reader's) whimpering voice mewled pathetically, their quivering lips complimenting their sweaty visage. The tingling feeling that had been building was ready to overflow.
"Don't you want to cum, little pet? It's okay. I'll make sure to always keep you happy like this, all you have to do is ask nicely." Kirtch leaned in, amused by his human's drenched thighs soaking his desk, shaking from being denied their orgasm. Behind (Reader's) back, Kirtch held a remote. They would not achieve relief until they played the part of a good little pet.
Drool dripped down (Reader's) chin, unnoticed by their hazy mind. "I-I want to cum."
"What was that?"
"Please let me cum?" They moaned, trying to press themselves deeper into the toy.
A button was pressed outside of (Reader's) peripherals.
Their body rocked violently as (Reader) was finally allowed to achieve their climax. Kirtch continued to stroke their head affectionately, whispering words of praise to his little human as liquid dripped from between the toy and their wet holes.
Kirtch kissed the top of their damp head, still smiling over how adorable (Reader) was. Although he hoped his pet would come to love him and enjoy his company on their own, he was secretly excited to use this toy on his little pet again. He peeled the appliance off, causing (Reader) to twitch sensitively in Kirtch's arms. Their eyes were unfocused and glazed, but Kirtch found that it wasn't a bad look on (Reader).
"Why don't you lay down for a nap, little pet. We'll play some more when you wake up."
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Note
Different positions w/ Miguel 🤭
okay I have MANY thoughts, scooch closer and listen up
word count: ~1200
✧.┊ MASTERLIST
18+ fem!reader, mdni !!
firstly, I think he's a simple guy when it comes to sex. he doesn't really like anything too crazy or too experimental. he's a sexy beautiful HUNK of a man, but I think he's particular in who he's intimate with, so I don't think he does one-night stands. he much prefers to do it with the woman he loves, simple
missionary
✧ I feel like it would be the most intimate and intense, most passionate too
✧ he loves to cage you against the mattress, and his big huge muscly arms would be either side of you and he'd be so close to you, omg?? like literally no space to breathe ! ? ! ?
✧ he'd be only focused on you- your eyes, your facial expressions and your noises. solely you
✧ he also loves the feeling of your boobs pressed against his big ol' man titties
✧ loves to take it slow in this position, like he's making love to you. fucking you like he loves you. it’s turning me on too much to think of a way to expand this thought (😶)
✧ kisses your throat and neck a lot too !!
✧ loves to put a pillow under your hips to hit into you in a tad deeper
✧ he loves when you wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging and holding onto him
✧ he can feel you swallow him and clamp around him much more in this position and it does wild things to him
✧ cups your jaw and holds behind your neck
✧ he tells you how pretty you are
doggy
✧ he's a BEAST when fucking you from behind, I feel like the position is naturally that, but he probs gets carried away
✧ he's maybe a little rough on your hips and ass cheeks, squeezes you and leaves a ton of marks and scratches
✧ fucks you into the mattress for sure!! even if you collapse against the bed, he'd grip your waist, pulling your ass back up so he can plough into you
✧ sometimes he forgets how BIG he actually is (not just his dick) probs crushes you a lil, but he’s angelic and it's cute, so it's okay <3
✧ he reaches around to circle your clit with his thumb
✧ kisses your back and shoulder when he leans over you too
✧ you go extra cockdrunk in doggy, and he loves it
✧ fucks you like he hates you
✧ he tells you how good you are for him, how you take him so well
cowgirl
✧ he def likes control so this isn't always one he opts for. but if he's inside of you, he literally doesn't care
✧ but sometimes if he's had a long day, he loves to have you straddle his hips and look up at you when you rock over his cock
✧ if he's led down, he grips your upper thighs, waist, hips, the lot- just anything he can reach. he guides you over him if you're being too slow, or if you're teasing him too much. he prefers up and down, rather you circling your hips/ side to side
✧ but if he's sat on a chair and you're on top, he loves to bury his face in your tits. his arms would be wrapped around you, fingers spread wide, gripping your back and practically holding you to his face
✧ plays with your nipples too (tongue or thumb and index)
✧ and bc he's just so fucking big and tall, you'd probs be in each other's eye line when you're straddling his lap (maybe?? depending on proportions)
✧ but slow and kinda sensual, he def swallows your moans and whimpers
✧ he tells you how good you look (in case you're insecure about the angle) and tells you that you have pretty tits
spooning
✧ feel like this is a slow, easy morning classic for him
✧ and SO touchy, omg ????????
✧ plays with your tits from behind and teases your clit too
✧ kisses the back of your neck, shoulder area
✧ skims his fangs over your skin too
✧ dirty talk… behind your ear… quiet and gravelly… raspy and strangled (good lord)
✧ you’re tighter in position so he goes extra slow as he knows he won’t last
✧ he tells you how good you feel
against the wall
✧ he's a hunk so he carries you like it's nothing
✧ holds you up against the wall from under your ass (his huge hands spread over your cheeks) pinning you to it as he fucks up into you
✧ he loves it when you grip his meaty shoulders for support
✧ ESPECIALLY when your face drops into the nape of his neck and you kinda go all limp
✧ when you whine and cry out against him… it drives him crazy !!
✧ he tells you how good you're making him feel
extras, bc ily and I just can’t stop myself 😌
✧ ladies first!! he's a firm believer that you should cum at least once before he gets inside you, let alone cum. but that's different depending on the session, ie, you sucking him off or you being the dom
✧ praises you, sometimes degrades you, but it’s sprinkled in praise (“pretty dirty girl” or something)
✧ doesn’t mean to hurt you, but he always kisses and caresses the parts he hurt
✧ he's big on eye contact
✧ very touchy and grabby
✧ he can’t relax if you can’t, he needs you to be into it, ready and in the mood, if not, he can’t fuck you (it feels wrong) so he always preps you to assure that
✧ king of “oh, yeah?” and “hm?”
✧ calls you a bunch of sweet terms of endearment
✧ rambles spanish curses when he cums
✧ loves to cum inside. breeding kink
✧ he’s HUGE so maybe has a size kink
✧ love when you use him for your own need, like thigh riding, loves that shit. he always encourages you, touches and holds you, praises you as well
✧ hip and thigh kinda dude. loves your tummy if you have a bit of squidge
✧ he’s a needy bottom
✧ grunts and groans !! he doesn't whimper (unless he's overstimulated, then he makes these strained and strangled noises, and a couple incoherent blabbers)
✧ heavy on communication (he wants to know that you're enjoying yourself too) and for you to tell him he's making you feel good bc that turns him ON
✧ AFTERCARE ???? NEXT LEVEL OMG especially if it was an intense session
✧ he'd be so sweet and gentle with you after (bc he loves you, duh)
✧ would reassure you, saying that he doesn't actually think you're a whore or a slut. it was just something spur of the moment
✧ wash together, then eat and watch a movie or something
✧ treats you like a princess… his princess 😩
— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —
artwork by shuploc**
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lingeriae · 7 months
Text
PUSSY TALK! FT AOT MEN
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STARRING - CONNIE, ONY, ARMIN, EREN
SYNOPSIS - just aot men, and times they wanna eat you
WARNINGS - very suggestive (duh), boys being downbad, cursing, gramar errors, reader is black and female.
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CONNIE
peering over the edge of your phone screen to see a very tired looking connie, his shoulder sagging as he makes his way towards you slowly. you allow him to push your legs apart and slot himself between them, landing on your tummy and rubbing his face agains the material of your (his) shirt. naturally your hands come to scratch his head, which is freed from his usual beanie, smiling at the soft hum he lets out because of the action.
"hi papa." you say with a soft voice, continuing to scratch his head while you scroll through your tumblr feed. he shifts momentarily the pressure on your stomach gone as he gets up but before you can question him you stiffen, the feeling of lips pressed against your cunt has your phone almost landing in your face as you sit up on your elbow to look down at connie. He presses his lips against it once more before pulling away with an exagerated 'mwah' which has your body heating up, and your thighs closing as you look at him with wide eyes.
connie licks his lips, leaning towards you and caging you into his forearms, his nose brushes against yours as he leans in to peck your lips. "you so nasty." you whisper, scrunching up your nose at him playfully.
he gives you a panty-dropping smile, dimples showing and all. "she looked like she wanted a kiss though." rolling your eyes, your arms move to wrap around his neck pulling him towards you so that you can kiss him. moaning into the kiss connie leans back, lifting up your legs which makes you fall back with a squeak, he licks his lips again when his honey coloured eyes drifts down to your pussy and back to your eyes.
"m' so hungry, mama. lemme eat your pussy, please?"
ONY
you can feel his eyes on you as you talk to your homegirls, drilling into the side of your head and making you feel warm all over. yall only fucked once, and it's like this undeniable tension between the both you since then. shifting on your feet you turn your head to look at him, rubbing your glossed lips together because of how good he looked.
white dress shirt tucked into his slacks with a few of the top bottons opened, his gold chain flashing brightly and matching the grills on the bottom row of his teeth that looked so good with his jaw-dropping smile. he was so shameless, not even attempting to hide the fact that he was staring at you, not giving the person infront of him a glance as he talked to them, no, he would rather have his eyes on stuck on you.
clearing your throat you turned back towards your friends who all had raised eye-brows and a amused look on their face. "girl please do not tell me yall about to fuck at this wedding." one of them said, laughing loudly as you bit your lips with a smile and played with the wine glass in your hand. you shook your head as you brought the glass to your lips, "bye, it's not even like that."
the table suddenly went quiet, and everyone looked over your shoulder with shocked looks on their face they started giggling which caused your face to scrunch up in confusion. "what's funny?"
they shook their heads looking at each other as they sipped on their wine, one of them waving behind you with a smirk. "hey ony." your back straightened as you felt his warmth surround you his chest pressed against your back causing your homegirls to look at you with wide eyes and smiles, you tried to feign ignorance continuing to drink your wine with a blank face.
"hey, girls."you could hear the smile in his voice, and by the way your friends were reacting you knew he was. he leaned down so that his mouth was beside your ear his chain brushing against your bare back causing a shiver to run down your spine. his next words not helping your case either.
"tell your lil friends buh-bye so I can eat your pussy, and stop playing with me."
ARMIN
armin was fidgety. spacing out way too oftenwhen eren or anyone else was asking him questions. everyone was over your house for some party, and you decided to dress to impress. weain a cute little dress that fitted your figure perfectly, not to mention the colour compliemented your sun-kissed skin very well.
his eyes were constantly scanning over the room, looking for you watching the way your glossed plump lips widened as you laughed at something sasha said. feelings eyes on your, you looked over at your boyfriend smile widening when you see his gaze already on you.
you excuse yourself and walk over to him, sitting on his lap a warmth fluttering through you when you feeling his hands immediately find their way to your waist. a strand of blonde hair is twirled around your finger repeatedly as you look down at him, cheeks flushed with a pretty blush and ocean blue eyes glossed over, his pretty pink lips pushed out almost in a pout-like manner. "hi blonde."
he kisses his teeth at your nickname, squeezing your waist as he leans up to kiss your lips only for you to press a finger to his lips. shaking your head with a smug look on your face, armin's eyebrow raising as he looked at you. "nope. spent way too long putting this make-up on, your not about to ruin it."
it's cute, the way you think he needs permission to kiss you. the way you think he ould actually care to listen to your words.
armin leans back, pushing up his hips to the 'fix them' which pulls a gasp from your lips. his lips curl up, head tilting as he looks you up and down with a glint in his eyes. "so I can't eat your pussy?"
your eyes widen at his words, slapping his chest which causes him to snort, looking at you through his lashes with amusement. "why are you so vulgar?" you hiss out moving to get up off his lap only for him to hold you down, you rub your lips together staring at him, feeling your pussy pulse at the way he looks at you.
"m not being vulgar. one way or another im gonna eat that pretty pussy, even if it 'ruins' your make-up."
your make-up was ruined btw!
EREN
coming up behind you eren delivers a slap to yout ass, squeezing the flesh and snickering at the way you cuss him out under your breath. it becomes silent as he takes in your attire, your bottom attire to be specific, his hand linger on your ass while the other comes up to rub your waist.
"this new?" he pinches the material of your tights between his finger, eyes glued to your ass and how nice it looked in the material. you hum, not paying him much attention as you wash the plates.
"yeah, you like it? got it offa temu for - eren!" the water splashes as you jump, erens hand cupping your pussy pressing as his face holds a smug look.
"yeah, makes your pussy look fat. your ass too." his voice is raspy, he applies pressure unto your cunt with one of his finger, smirking at the moan you let out. a mouth is on your neck and you unintentionally lean back as eren fingers you through the material of your new tights, you'd be sure to cuss him out later for ruin it but for now you feel too good to say anything.
his chest vibrate as he hums, burrying his head in your shoulder. "you smell good." whimpering at his words, the pace of his finger sped up and your back arched into him pawing at his wrist as you felt yourself getting close.
eren suddenly removed his finger, spinning you around, teal eyes almost seeming dark as he looked down at you, his fingers squeeze at your waist as he swallows.
"lemme eat you out, pretty please?"
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queen-of-fanfics · 10 months
Text
Stay Away From Him
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader
Prompt: Miguel is jealous of your closeness with Hobie and tells you to stay from him.
A/N: Well I have had too much free time at work and all I've been doing is writing. Kinda love it. Also, how did y'all like Across the Spider-Verse? I saw it four times in theaters, it's like a drug in my veins. Anywho I figured I wanted to do a fanfic in a world that I haven't done yet so here it is!
Part 2
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“Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey, Peter!”
“Hey, Y/N”
“Oh hey, Peters.”
“Oi! Y/N!” Recognizing the accent, you look up in the air and see Hobie swinging his way over to you.
“Hobie! What are you doing here?!”
This was your second week working inside the Spider-Verse headquarters. You were the only person there who wasn’t some version of Spiderman. One day, Miguel O’Hara was in your universe for a job, bing bang boom, next thing you knew, he offered you a job. Your job here at headquarters was to act as his assistant of sorts. Help him with errands, help him on missions, and fetch him lunch because the poor man will work until he starves. That was exactly what you are doing now. You had finished locating the latest anomaly and went down to the cafeteria to grab him some empanadas.
Working at headquarters was like a living dream. So far, everyone seems to like you and you’ve already made friends. Hobie and Gwen welcomed you with open arms and the three of you became inseparable. During your time working with Miguel, you may have developed a little crush on your boss. You never told anyone about how your heart starts beating faster or how your breath gets shaky when he stands a little too close. Though, you never had to say because everyone could see it. And everyone warned you away from the infamous Miguel O’Hara.
“He’s not for you. He’s obsessed with his work and barely knows what having fun or being nice is. I doubt he even knows there’s a life outside of this place.” Gwen said one day during lunch.
“Who’s not for me? What are you talking about? I’m just here to work.” You shovel food into your mouth in an attempt to hide your face.
“Mmhmm, sure. You can deny it all you want but if you keep staring at him all weird like that, even he’s going to start to notice. Just trust me, you should just try to stay away from him. Which I guess isn’t possible since he’s your boss but you know what I mean.” 
“Though it does raise the question as to why he recruited her, don’t it?” Hobie chimes in. 
Hobie jumps on your back and it pulls you back to the present.
“I’m here for it! Whatchu think? I would willingly come here? Nah.”
“Actually! We just finished a mission so we just came to check in with Miguel.” Gwen swings down and lands right next to you. The three of you continue walking side by side down the hall to Miguel. Hobie throws his arm casually around your shoulder, keeping you close to his side.
You walk into the main room and see that Miguel is standing on his platform up in the air. There are a few people milling around the room, minding their business. People tend to hover around Miguel in case any missions come up or if he needs help.
“Miguel! I got you some empanadas!” You yell up at him.
He turns and barely glances over his shoulder at the three of you. He grunts and rolls his eyes in annoyance but his platform starts its slow descent. Gwen runs over to Jessica and they start talking. Hobie walks with you over to your little desk that sits on the ground floor …. like a regular person.
“So we still on for tonight?” Hobie asks.
“What’s tonight?” You turn and ask Hobie. You lean your butt against the desk to look up at him. He gets in close, places his hands against the desk on both sides of you, and cages you in with his arms.
“Whatchu mean what’s tonight? Did you forget already? Thought you and Gwen were staying in my place tonight!” Hobie teases you.
“Oh, Hobie! I forgot about that, I can’t come over.” Gwen yells over before she turns back to her conversation.
“Guess it’s just us then.” He mumbles and gives you a wink.
Before you could respond, Miguel’s voice booms through the large chamber.
“Y/N isn’t going anywhere tonight.” Looking over, you see that Miguel has lowered his platform as far as it could go and he is staring directly at the two of you with a deadly look on his face. All the conversations in the room died down and you could tell that everyone's eyes were looking between you and Miguel. Everyone treads carefully around Miguel … everyone except Hobie. 
“What? You keeping her hostage now?”
All of a sudden feeling nervous, unsure as to what put Miguel in a foul mood and not wanting to make it worse, you try to straighten up and stand in attention but Hobie isn’t moving. 
“We’ve got work to do here, Hobie. Unlike you, some of us have things we have to do.” Miguel crosses his arms and stares down at Hobie. 
“What work? We caught all the known anomalies already. Plus I was going to work on my bike, give it some more bells and whistles.” Jessica pipes up.
“There’s more work to do than just waiting around for things to happen.” 
“Then what do I gotta do, hmm?” Jessica sasses back to him.
“Nothing. I, uh, just want to do some surveillance. Never know ”
“And what Y/N got to do with it, then?” Hobie asks, giving Miguel a weird look.
“Y/N is my assistant. Y/N must assist me. And get off of her Hobie.”
“Right, but it don’t sound like there is any real work to do. I don’t see why Y/N gotta sit here and suffer being around you. And, uh, I’m actually quite comfortable where I am.”
“No no, I don’t mind. It’s my job. I can stay” You rush to say as you start pushing at Hobie’s shoulders. 
Hobie turned slowly to look at you without budging and you just stared up at him. “Move.” you mouth to Hobie with beseechment in your eyes. But all he does is smile at you and barely visibly shakes his head ‘No’. Eyes wide, you think to yourself, I’m not going to have a job after this. The room is still silent and no one speaks as the tension rises. 
“Everyone out!” Miguel booms, “Looks like no one wants to work anyways. It’s not as if we’re trying to save the entire universe or anything.” 
“Oh! Miguel, we wanted to check in about the-” Gwen is cut off when Miguel turns back around to his monitors and yells, “OUT!”
Everyone exchanges nervous looks around the room while they pick up their things. The whole time though, Hobie is looking down at you with a knowing smirk on his face. “What are you smiling about?” You hiss at him as you push him up so you can grab your bag and head out. 
“Oh just something I think you should find out for yourself. And you might soon.”
“Ugh, I’m going to kill you.” 
Hobie throws his arm around you and leads you out, “Yeah sure, but hey, looks like you can come over after all, aye?”
“Everyone except for Y/N!” You whirl around at the sudden sound but Miguel is still just looking at his monitors.
“Damn, looks like you’re going to find out real soon. See ya sweet cheeks.” Hobie gives you a wink and walks out with everyone else. 
You stood in the doorway waiting for Miguel’s instructions but after a few beats, you realized that he wasn’t going to turn around and talk to you. Slowly walking back to your desk, you couldn’t help but notice how the tension in the room did not leave along with everyone else. It still lay thick and heavy in the air. Taking off your bag and placing it on your desk, you turn around to face Miguel. You open your mouth to say something to break the silence but he cuts you off. 
“Come up here and help me look at this.” 
Your eyes grew wide and you hurried over to the dais. Your heartbeat started quickening with excitement, you have never been invited onto the platform before. Miguel looks down his nose at you with a disgusted look on his face as you struggle to even get your leg on the platform.
“Sorry, don’t got webs like y’all. Give me a second.”
You finally heave yourself up and flop over on your back, gulping down deep breaths of air. “You know, I’m starting to think I’m out of shape.” Figuring that it was time to actually get to work, you jump up to your feet and face the monitors.
“Alrighty, so what am I looking at?” All of the monitors were showing different videos of different universes. Some other monitors had new articles and alerts of potential disturbances. 
“Just, uh, keep an eye on some of the security cameras we have posted around. See if you catch any suspicious activity.”
“Were you expecting something to happen tonight? Did you get a tip?”
“No, just doing our due diligence to keep everything in line.” 
Your brows furrowed in confusion and you gave Miguel a side-eye look. This is what he’s keeping me here to do? To watch some cameras? 
The whole time he was talking to you and giving you instructions, he did not glance at you, just busily pressing buttons and typing something.
About 10 minutes went by in absolute silence with Miguel working and you … “working”. Getting bored and tired on your feet, you start leaning around the table and let out a sigh. Miguel looks at you over his shoulder but turns back to his work. Another 10 minutes go by before he asks, “So you and Hobie are friends?”
Surprised by the question and surprised he even spoke, you responded, “Yeah, I would like to think so. He’s nice, I like hanging out with him.”
“You two have gotten close?”
Getting confused by his line of questioning, you give him a weird look that he doesn’t see. “I mean, I don’t know about close. We hang out with Gwen too. It’s usually the three of us.”
A few silent beats fall between the two of you before he responds, “I didn’t know you were visiting different universes.”
“Hmm, I’m not really. Besides my own home universe, I’ve only just been to Hobie’s. I haven’t seen Gwen’s though not even she goes back there.” 
Again he doesn’t reply immediately and the comfortable silence continues. 
“I would advise you to stay away from Hobie. He could be a bad influence on you or something.” He mumbles so quietly that you almost didn’t catch it. 
“I’m sorry?” You asked, turning your body full to look at him now. 
“I said ‘you should stay’-”
“No, I know what you said. But I don’t understand why. What’s going on with you? Are you stressed about something? Do you not like Hobie? Because Hobie has been nothing but nice to me and he’s a friend. He keeps me safe even when I visit his universe.”
“And exactly how many times have you visited his universe, hmm? You two seem pretty comfortable flying across universes together.” It was his turn to turn and face you. Standing at his full height, the tops of your head barely came up to his collar bones. 
“I-I- … I don’t know. A few times I guess? 4? Maybe 5 times? But-”
“5 times?! You met him not even two weeks ago and you’ve already been hanging around him that much?” You were trying to explain to ease whatever caused his temper to rise. However, with every response you give, it only seems to anger him more. With every response, he is taking a step closer to you and walking you backward.
“I guess? But he’s my friend! And I’ve always been safe if that’s the issue. He keeps me safe. I know I’m not a Spider-Man like you but-” Miguel ignores your argument and cuts you off again.
“Right right and he keeps you safe which I am sure he is more than happy to do seeing as how he’s always getting up in your space. And what exactly do you do in his universe? You run around town like some hooligans and go back to your home universe when it’s late enough to be considered morning?”
“Ah- No, we hang out at his place and have dinner and stuff, I don’t know! And when it gets late I just stay over at his place!” 
“Stay over?! What? Like overnight? He’s got guest rooms now? He’s hosting house parties?” There’s sarcasm dripping in his words but your brain was running too fast to notice.
“N-No he doesn’t. He’s not. He just lets me use his bed when I’m too tired to go home and I’d just wake up the next morning to come here.” 
All of a sudden, he takes one last step forward and you take one step back but your backside hits the table. He drops his hands on either side of you, exactly like how Hobie had you pinned against your desk earlier but this is different. This feels different. The tension is palpable. With Hobie, it was friendly and playful. With Miguel … it feels like you’re getting hunted and just got caught.
“He what?” Miguel’s voice isn’t loud and angry anymore. No. It’s low and deadly. His question comes out always like a whisper as he leads in so close that your noses are practically touching.
“I don’t understand what’s happening. Hobie is just my friend. Why does this feel like it’s a problem?” You whisper. Miguel doesn’t reply. He simply stares at you with such intensity in his eyes, you’re surprised you didn’t evaporate. Suddenly, he’s looking at your lips. Acting almost instinctively, your tongue shoots out to wet your lips and his eyes immediately shoot back up to yours. There’s the intensity in his eyes again, only this time, it’s different. Definitely not anger.
Suddenly, an alarm from Miguel’s monitor goes off and the sound is thunderous in the silent chamber. 
After a few beats, Miguel drops his forehead on yours, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. The whole time, you never take your eyes off of him. Your heart is beating so fast and the blood is rushing in your ears. Very abruptly, he pushes off of the table and whirls around to the monitor. He turns off the alarm and starts typing away, completely ignoring you. Slowly pushing up from the table, you turn back to your own monitor and stare blankly at the empty alleyways and random buildings. 
Where there was comfortable silence before, now, the silence is deafening. 
“You should go home Y/N. I can finish this up on my own.”
Not sure of how to act or how to respond, you slowly climb down from the platform without saying a word and fetch your things.
“And I mean home, Y/N. To your home universe. To your own house. To your own bed.”
Looking back up the dais, Miguel is still facing his monitors, not even looking at you when he talks. Hitching your bag higher up on your shoulder, you respond, “Of course. Goodnight, Miguel. And … for what it’s worth … he always slept on the couch.” 
And with that, you take off running down the hall and teleport back home. 
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moonjxsung · 3 months
Text
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.
2K notes · View notes
fairysluna · 3 months
Text
the wolf's cage.
After being captured by the Northerns, you found yourself with the Lord of Winterfell whose strange politeness makes you doubt his true intentions.
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MASTERLIST
PAIRING — Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader.
TAGS — smut (p in v, m!oral, spanking, use of the word whore, face fucking, hate sex(?, dirty talk, degrading/praise, belly bulge), cursing, mentions of war, blood and bruises, kind of enemies to lovers, dilf!cregan, and idk if this counts as dark!cregan but I'll add it just in case. If something is missing let me know!
AUTHOR'S NOTE — it's the first time that i write smut after a very long time, and i wrote this in a rush, so it's not perfect but i loved it anyway bc i fell in love with this trope. Reader is loosely based on Osha from GoT. REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOMED.
WORD COUNT — 5.3k. (oh damn)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤenglish is not my first language.
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“We found her close to the Godswood,” one of the men said. “She was hiding and preparing herself to kill, my lord.” 
Cregan walked slightly closer to you, his curiosity peaking when he noticed how small you looked curled up in a corner of your cell, covered by thick pieces of fur. Your face was stained with dirt and dried blood. His men had told him you were a menace, but after looking at you, he didn't believe it. 
“She seems harmless,” he pointed out, kneeling beside you. 
“She is not, my lord. She's responsible for the death of three of our men,” the same man explained. They were all in combat position; holding the hilt of their swords just in case you would dare to attack their leader. Cregan, however, seemed to be unafraid, getting closer to you and trying to see more of you. He was certainly intrigued.
How was a young girl like you able to kill a group of ruthless men? 
He raised his hand and gently pulled a strand of your hair out of your face; he saw a scar on your cheek and a cut on your lip. Then, you met his eyes with yours. Your cold and mercenary haze did little to intimidate him. You were finally in the presence of the man you hated the most; the man who had killed your people in cold blood. He could see your wrath burning through your haze, and he understood it. 
With his thumb, he removed the drop of blood that was dripping from your lip — a soft touch that felt so foreign to your skin. He attempted to do it again, but you moved your face away and he knew it was enough. With a sigh, he stood up casting a large shadow over your smaller frame; you looked down at the floor, ignoring his penetrating stare on you before he turned around and walked out of the cell. 
“Tell a maid to give her a bath, then bring her to the dining room,” he ordered. 
“My lord, I don't think-”
“Tell the cooks to make a meal for two, and tell a maid to keep Rickon out of my room tonight,” he abruptly interrupted him, the guard was left in surprise. 
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I do not think it’s a good idea at all,” The maester advised him, talking in whispers so you would not hear a word. “I believe that being in a room alone with that savage would put your life at risk. We cannot afford that, not when we're in the middle of an imminent war.” 
Cregan turned to give one more look at you before one of the guards locked your cell again. You looked so fragile, and you were probably starving after spending days in the merciless Winter cold. He knew you would not be such a threat in such a condition, so he did not follow his loyal Maester’s advice.
“The decision has been made,” he spoke as he started to walk away from the dungeons. The old man quickly followed his pace. 
“I would advise you to make some double thinking about your decision-” 
“Are you questioning my methods?” His voice came out low and slow, but it carried a bit of an intimidating undertone that was easy to catch. The Maester took a step back when his superior turned around; his Lordship was an imposing man, tall and with wide shoulders and some grey eyes that would pierce through your soul. Lord Stark was a kindhearted man, but whenever he was angry he was unrecognisable. 
And the Maester trembled when he saw a small glimpse of his anger. 
“Of course not, but it is my duty as your advisor to give you the best options… risking your life it's certainly not.” 
“That girl is craving for a meal, I will not let her starve,” he grunted. “Besides, I might steal some valuable information from her. She's just a girl, and she's unarmed. She will do no harm.” 
The old man simply nodded, knowing that it was a lost battle and not having the guts to continue to defy his lord. Cregan cleared his throat, repeated the instructions and then turned around to leave his men behind. They shared confused looks, doubting his plan and how unusual it was for him to have mercy with the people of your kind. This new and sudden sympathy towards you raised suspicion among the northern guards, but they were all too afraid to speak up. 
They just obeyed the orders of their Lord. 
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Cregan was tapping his fingertips against the table, patiently waiting for your arrival as he was blankly staring at his half-empty cup of wine. The only sound that was heard was coming from the fireplace, and the rest of the room was deadly silent. He was wondering how much time would it take for you to arrive when two guards opened the door, and two others were carrying you inside. They were grabbing your arms, tight enough to leave a bruise behind. Cregan stood up the instant you showed up, and, with a slight nod from him, you were freed from their grip. 
Lord Stark took the time to look at you, shamelessly glancing at every inch of your body. He noticed how your skin was glowing now, freed of any stain or impureness on your face, except for that scar on your cheekbone that seemed to be quite recent. Regardless of that, you were such a sight for his eyes, so pretty and young and fierce all the same. The glow in your eyes was still yelling your hate for him and, somehow, that would make you even more appealing to him. He followed the trail down your neck and found your bossom being squeezed by the dress which looked a bit too small for you, but that fit your body like a glove; shaping your curves and enhancing them, he had to take a deep breath after seeing you. 
All the beauty that was previously hidden under thick layers of clothes and dirty hair and face was now starting to show.
“You can leave now,” he indicated to the guards. They nodded and followed his orders immediately. 
Once they were alone, Cregan pointed at the chair on the other side of the table, inviting you to take a seat. You were reluctant, staring at the large amount of food with distrust; you thought this was a trap, no one ever invites their foes to supper. You did not obey him at first, standing still in your place, using a pair of borrowed shoes that were almost crushing your feet and making you feel like walking on burning coal. 
You knew one thing for sure; you needed to get out of there as soon as you could. Or, better yet, you had to kill that man. 
“Please, be seated,” he spoke so softly and politely that you could not believe it. It was so blatantly obvious. “The pork it's better when it's warm.” 
A glance at the table and you saw your plate already served; this did nothing but increase your mistrust. However, you walked towards the spot, slowly and with your guard up. The sound of your shoes clacking on the wooden floor as you made your way to your seat until you finally sat. 
Then, a silence fell over the room. Cregan's eyes seemed to never look away from you as he raised his cup and brought it to his lips. You nervously played with your cup, already filled with wine. 
“I gave myself the liberty to fill your cup,” he said. 
Besides that, your plate was full of beans, pork, carrots and mashed potatoes. Everything was already cut into tiny pieces, and only then did you realize you only had a spoon; no knife, and no fork. 
“Is wine not of your taste?” Cregan asked after your long silence. “Would you rather have some ale? or juice?” 
Nothing came out of your mouth. Cregan was losing his little patience, but he knew better and he stayed calm. Upsetting you would only make things worse. 
“You might be wondering why I spared your life today,” he started, attempting a two-sided conversation. “If you were any other, your head would be in a spike by now… but you might be useful for us.” He made a pause, sipping his wine so delicately and manly. Then he added, “For me.”
Again, no answer. 
“I believe you have valuable information that would help us to understand your people better,” he explained, trying to sound likeable and friendly, even giving you a warm smile. “Maybe that way we'll understand your reasons.” 
“Why would I give information to the one who's murdering my people?” You finally spoke. 
Cregan heard your thick northern accent and a smile was drawn on his face. He hid the gesture by grabbing his fork and knife and cutting a piece of meat before putting it inside his mouth. You realized that contrary to you, he had a knife; you wondered how you could reach it without him noticing.
“Ah, so you can speak,” he claimed, cheerfully. “For a moment I thought you were mute.” 
“I am not,” you grunted.
“You could stop an imminent war, you know?” He continued the previous conversation. “Save the lives of your people, avoid a bloodbath.” 
“You are the only one causing those things, my lord,” the mocking tone in your voice when you uttered the last two words was obvious. “This war carries your name.” 
“You are the ones taking over our lands,” he debated. 
“We're escaping,” you snapped. “You have no idea what's beyond that wall. You and your men would do the same in our position.” 
“And what is it that's up there with all of you?” 
“You wouldn't believe my words. You'll have to see it.” 
He hummed, not convinced at all. He leaned back on his chair. 
“How did you get that scar on your face? It looks quite recent,” he slightly narrowed his eyes. 
“An accident while climbing the wall,” you simply explained, not wanting to give out too many details. 
“When did you cross it?” 
“A few weeks ago.” 
“And what have you been doing all this time?” 
“I already told you… trying to survive.” 
Cregan clicked his tongue, sipping his wine once more and letting the topic go. “You haven't touched your food,” he pointed out. “Nor your wine. The cooks work hard on this food.” 
“I'm not hungry.” 
“It's not poisoned,” he let you know as if you would believe his mere words. “If I ever kill you it wouldn't be with a drop of venom, that it's not an honourable way to murder your opponent.” 
“Honour,” you repeated with a mocking tone. 
“Does that word sound funny to you?” 
“It does when it's you saying it,” you muttered, clenching your jaw. “You have the blood of innocents in your hands, you have no honour.”
The tense environment was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Soon, a small child entered the room and ran towards Cregan; it was his son, his spitting image standing right next to him. His weakness. You looked closely, and you noticed how Lord Stark's demeanour was briefly replaced by a softer one when he held his child in his arms, only to get angry again when one of the maids walked in rushing behind the boy. You were observant, and then quickly an idea of escape lighted up your mind. 
“I apologize, Lord Stark,” the maid murmured, shaking and breathing unevenly. “Little Rickon wanted to say goodnight and he ran away from his chambers-” 
“Don't let it happen again,” he stopped her before she could go on with her explanations that were of little interest to his Lordship. “Just take him to bed, and don't let this happen again.” 
“Yes, my lord.”
He kissed the child's forehead and hugged him one last time before the maid pulled his arm and took him away. The boy was looking back at his sire with saddened eyes as he walked, and once he was out of sight, Cregan was back to his tough facade. However, you knew new information, and now you knew exactly how to manage to escape.
“Was that your child?” 
“Indeed,” he nodded. 
“Beyond the wall, children are taught to fight and hunt from a very young age,” you randomly told him. “Does he know how to do that?” 
“He's still learning.” 
“How old is he?” 
“We are not here to talk about my child,” he snapped, growing impatient with each passing second. 
You stopped, only for a brief second to let it rest and prepare yourself for the next thing. The suddenness of your next question left him speechless.
“Where's his mother?” You noticed how he tensed, clenching his jaw and forming a fist with his hand. There it is. “Is she around?” 
His silence gave you the answer you were expecting, you had to hold back a smile.
“Let me guess,” you murmured, “Childbirth?” 
His fist smacked against the table and you noticed how all the plates jumped due to the impact. He stood up, fuming, all the kindness and politeness vanishing from his body as he lost his patience with you. Yet, you did not seem fazed by his roughness, you barely flinched. You stood up too and slowly started to walk around the table, to get closer to him. 
“I bet your nights might be lonely now that you've lost your wife,” A false tone of empathy was heard in your voice as you kept taking step after step. “Does your bed feel empty at night?” 
“That's enough,” he growled. 
“You dressed me, bathed me and fed me… perhaps you're trying to convince me to stay by your side,” you deduced, using your seduction skills to distract him from the fact that you were getting closer to the knife on the table. “Is this your intention? To make me yours? To turn me into your whore?” Your voice lowered itself a few tones, getting raspier and more seductive.
You reached his side, his eyes were stuck on your face as his breathing was starting to get faster with each second. You saw his jaw, sharp as the knife you were trying to grab, and tensed as he tried to hide his growing arousal. Of course, he has noticed your attributes before, and of course, he had secretly —and shamelessly— fantasized about ripping your dress to see what was underneath, but now your words would only make his struggle grow. 
Perhaps the Maester was right. Perhaps this was a bad idea. 
“Have you heard what they say about the women from the Free Folk?” You were teasing him, boldly raising your hands until they went to his thick coat and untied it; it fell around his leather shoes, and only a thin shirt was beneath it. Your eyes glanced at him, noticing the chest hair on his skin as your hands felt the hardness of his abdomen; years of training with the sword had certainly made its effect. “People say we're difficult to handle, but that we fuck like goddesses. Wouldn't you want to try it out?”
One of your hands travelled lower and lower until it was able to feel the shape of his growing cock in your palm and through his pants. A winning smile appeared on your lips. His growing lust did not allow him to see the moment when your hand took the knife. Luckily for him, his reflexes were quite fast, and he was able to stop your hand right before you almost stabbed his neck. Your eyes widened as he grabbed your wrist and turned your body around, slamming you against the table. He pressed himself against you, your dress now ruined with the food beneath your frame. 
Cregan's hand grabbed a big portion of your hair and pulled it back, roughly, forcing you to arch your back. You could not help but whimper due to the pain in your skull. His breathing soon reached your neck and caused shivers down your spine; it smelled like wine. 
“You little whore,” he mocked you, “you thought you could've killed me?” 
His voice was completely different to the one you have heard before; it was almost like a growl, so deep, slow and hoarse. You would be lying if you said you did not find it amusing. His touch was rough and lacking the gentleness and delicacy that it had hours ago when he wiped the blood off of your lip. 
“It was worth the try,” you breathed out, laughing at him when you felt his arousal pressing against your arse. 
“What's so funny, huh?” he grunted, pulling you harder and making you hum. “I could kill you right here, right now,” he threatened. 
“But you won't,” you murmured. 
“That's right,” he mumbled, breathing in your scent. Even after taking a bath you still smelled of pine tree, it was an intoxicating smell. “I will prove your word first. Let's see if the wildlings whores fuck like goddesses, mhm?” 
Your eyes widened when you felt his hand freeing your hair and going towards the skirts of your borrowed dress. He lifted them, holding them in place on your waist behind your back. He saw how your pussy was already starting to glisten with your arousal, even when he had barely touched you beforehand. His cock twitched inside his pants when he noticed that all of this was because of his rough touch. 
You filthy slut, he thought. 
You heard a soft stump on the floor as his pants fell down his thick legs. It did not take too much time for you to feel his leaking tip brushing against your folds, spreading them open and smearing your slick all over it. You had to bite your lip, holding back a gasp as he teasingly rubbed against your clit; this was certainly not what you were expecting, but it felt good enough to make you want more. 
Slowly, he started to make his way inside you, grabbing your arsecheeck with his free hand and spreading it only to see your needy cunt taking him. Cregan gasped, your soft walls were wrapping around him perfectly, squeezing him just right and creaming all over him. He hummed in delight as he felt your legs already starting to shake. Gods, he was big, stretching you out as of you were a fucking maiden, providing you with that sweet pain that made your eyes close. 
When he was halfway in, he pushed himself all in with a single thrust. His head touched that sweet, spongy spot inside of you. “Fuck!” you cried out, involuntarily spreading your legs further, at the same time your hands pushed all the plates and cups away from your side. It all ended up spilt on the floor. 
He remained there for a few seconds, still inside of you and not moving an inch. Cregan's hand reached for your hair once again, pulling it back until your back was pressed against his chest and his lips were brushing against your ear. His breathing was ragged and unsteady; his tongue licked his lips as they started to get dry. You were able to feel him, his veins pulsing inside of you as he would twitch each time you clenched around him. Cregan hummed against your ear. 
Without warning, his hips started to move and your legs suddenly felt as weak and giggly as jelly. Your hands gripped the border of the table as his movements started to increase his pace. He was filling you up so good, so deep. You found yourself murmuring senseless words as you slowly started to lose your mind, which was a weird thing for you; you would usually be the one in charge. 
Though you did not mind submitting to him for a while. All your morality was soon gone, and all thanks to the man whose cock was good enough to make you forget about how much you hated him.
His hips started to meet yours with more force, thrusting hard but slow. It was just the beginning, and he wanted to make sure you would feel every inch of him, to feel every vein. All while he was also losing his mind over how good your pussy was taking him; your tight grip around him was sending him to the heavens, his eyes never looking away from the place where both of your bodies would join. Your walls contracted around him whenever he was pulling out, almost as if they were reluctant to let him go. Cregan loved that a bit too much, he might have become addicted to it. 
Then, he sped it up. His grunts and moans were falling from his lips in cascades that reached your ears. A vocal man he was, expressing his lust with the most arousing sounds you have ever heard. It brought a sense of pride to your chest, having such an imposing man as him reduced to a moaning mess. But the truth was, you were not doing any better; his animalistic movements were now sending you over the edge quicker than you thought. The sound of your bodies slapping against each other and the feeling of your arousal falling down your thighs was enough to pull you into a cloud of raw lasciviousness. Your mind felt dizzy. 
Suddenly, Cregan grabbed the knife you were trying to reach and threw it right next to your hand. You saw it through your heavy eyelids as you panted and gasped. You felt his lips pressing against your ear once again, but this time he spoke,
“Try to kill me now,” he hoarsely said. “Go on. Where's the girl who tried to kill me? Not so brave now with my cock ripping you apart, huh?” 
“Fuck off…” you managed to say in a murmur. Cregan mockingly laughed, and his hand fell against the soft skin of your rear, leaving a pinching pain behind. Gods, you hated the fact that you loved it so much.
“So fiery, and yet you're a mess…” he chuckled, his heavy breathing against your nape making you tremble under his touch. “I wish you could see how your little cunny is taking my cock… you're fucking soaking for me.” 
You moaned, louder than you should have. 
“Want to take a look?” he teased you, pushing deeper inside of you. You tried to mumble an answer, but nothing came out of your mouth. His hand met your arse again, this time slightly harder. “Answer me,” he demanded, using his lower tone which made your knees go weak. 
You had no choice, “Y-yes…” you whimpered as tears of pleasure were gathering in the corner of your eyes. 
He pulled out of you and you immediately whined, complaining about his absence. His hands went to the ties on the back of your dress, starting to pull them out to get them loose enough to remove that piece of fabric that was just bothering him. When he finally did, he pulled it down in a single movement, and just like that you were completely exposed to him. 
He took a quick look at your body once you turned around, glancing at your breasts and your perky nipples, and then looking at the glistening mess between your thighs. His hand wrapped around your jaw, and he leaned forward; his leaking cock rubbing against your belly as his nose touched your cheek. Suddenly, his lips trapped yours in a heated kiss that lacked any delicacy; he was claiming your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours and devouring you. You heard how he pushed the rest of the dishes, plates and cups on the ground, then he lifted your body forcing you to spread your legs. Only then he pulled away. 
He looked down, watching your pussy drenched with your arousal and chuckling at the sight. “Didn't know wildlings women were such whores… getting this wet when I fuck you rough,” he mocked you, tightening the grip around your jaw and forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 
Cregan guided his cock towards your slit, repeating the same teasing game as before, rubbing his tip against your now throbbing clit soaking it with the mixture of your juices and his. He gave a few taps afterwards, making you whine and your legs shake. You never, in a million years, thought you would be thinking of begging a Lord like him, yet there you were, about to plead to have him inside of you once again because the ache between your thighs was becoming unbearable. 
As if he had read your thoughts, he soon pressed his cockhead against your entrance, pushing just the tip. You sighed, biting your lip as you looked down at it. You could have come right there as you saw how he slowly filled you up and stretched your walls once more. The way your labia would spread to take him in; such an obscene sight it was, yet you couldn't bring yourself to take your eyes off of it. 
Once he was fully sheathed in you, you managed to perceive a small bulge forming in your lower belly which would appear each time he would bury himself deep inside of you. He did not take too much time to be rough this time, starting to snap his hips against yours and making you moan and drool until your mind was fully gone once again. His big hands were grabbing your hips, his nails digging into your flesh and making it slightly painful for you; yet, you didn't want it to stop. The sound of him entering your wetness was enough to make you mumble nonsense, and it wasn't long before you managed to see a ring of your juices around the bottom of his shaft. Your eyes rolled back. 
His animalistic movements were sending you over the edge, and it was humiliating how loud your cries of pleasure were; you were certain that they could be heard in the hallway, but neither you nor Cregan cared enough to stop. Both of you were consumed by each other's touch, it was rough and passionate, you could feel the heat running through your veins as he possessed every inch of your insides until you were nothing but a moaning mess. Your skin was glowing with a layer of sweat, and Cregan leaned forward to lick on your collarbone, his tongue creating a path to your breasts; his lips closed around your nipple, sucking and nibbling. You grew desperate for release. 
“Fuck- I need to… I'm so close,” you whimpered, your eyes locking with his. 
“Come on,” he hoarsely murmured. “Show me how good of a whore you are, and make a mess on my cock.” 
His words blurred your mind, sending a stimulus right into your core. You felt that sweet sensation of culmination when he touched your most sensitive point inside of you over and over again until you were sobbing with the tears of pleasure gathering in the corners of your eyes as you felt your release exploding and washing over you until your legs felt sore. You felt weak, trembling and overwhelmed. Your hair was sticking at your forehead due to your sweat and you were far gone into the pleasure he had just provided you. Yet, he seemed to not have enough. 
Lord Stark pulled out of you. His length had a layer of your release coating it, and you felt your cheeks grow warm. It was unusual for you to feel this shy in this situation, but this whole thing was something rather unusual and rare. Sleeping with the biggest foe, you were a traitor now. 
But Gods, it felt so damn good.
“Get on your knees,” he ordered. His hand wrapped around his leaking cock stroking himself, legs slightly parted as he looked at you with darkened eyes filled with lust. He was achingly hard, you could tell; his stones seemed heavy with his seed, which you would rather feel inside of you. 
Yet, you obeyed, kneeling and looking up at him through your lashes. He cursed with a sigh, twitching with the lustful sight of you ready to take him once again. 
“Open wide,” he instructed, brushing his cockhead against your swollen lips. You did what you were told. “Wider,” he demanded, and you obeyed again. “That's a good little whore…” he hummed, content. 
You stuck your tongue out and felt his salty taste as he tapped his cock against it. You moaned, and he grabbed the sides of your face to keep you still as he started to move in and out of your mouth. He groaned, looking up and then back at you; such a skilful little minx you were, taking him so well. 
Soon, your gags were echoing in the room along with your gulps and his moans. You were drooling; your saliva running down the corners of your lips as he fucked them as fast and hard as he pleased. 
“There you go, take it all just like that,” he praised you, and you felt the warmth of the tears falling down your cheeks. “Mhm, fuck. I might start to believe what they say now. You're sucking my cock like a fucking goddess…” 
You felt the back of your head pressing against the border of the table as he sped up. You were choking around him, and the sounds that came out of it were obscene and filthy, and Cregan loved it. 
Before you could tell, he spilt himself inside of your mouth, forcing you to swallow every drop that left him. And you did. 
Once he freed you from his grip, you pulled away. A string of saliva was still hanging from your lips as you desperately gasped for air, and only then Cregan noticed the big mess you had become. Hot and soaked cheeks, eyes tearing up, your lips swollen and covered with his thick and pearly seed. You were such an unholy sight. 
His thumb reached for your lip, wiping your drool out of it. Such a gesture brought you back to that very same evening when he wiped the blood out of the cut in your lip. It did not feel foreign anymore. You were breathless, trying to regain composure as Cregan looked down at you with a satisfied glance. 
“Seems like the rumours are not false,” he muttered, starting to pull his pants up again. “I might keep you so that I can feel those pretty lips around my cock again.” 
“Keep- keep me?” you asked, confused and overwhelmed.
Cregan arched an eyebrow, “You think because I fucked you I will let you go?” he chuckled. You felt his hand wrapped around your jaw once again, forcing you to stand up. You trembled a little, feeling your legs shaky and weak. “So naive of you… to think that I would have a taste of you and then let you go.” 
You felt your heart sink inside your chest as you heard him. 
“Since you offered so nicely before, I will accept,” he sighed, picking up the dress you were wearing and throwing it up to you. “I’ll make you my personal whore, how about that?” You went silent. “Oh, come on, don't pretend this was not your idea… I was going to let you go with a warning but you came out with a better proposal. How could I say no?” 
“I don't- I-” you shook your head. 
“You belong to me now,” he chuckled. “A wildling made just for me to fuck as I please… Sounds perfect, does it not?” 
You look into his grey eyes, perceiving and reading the mischievousness in them. You tried to escape and return to your freedom. Instead, everything went wrong and now you were trapped in the wolf's cage once again. 
You were not sure how to feel about that.
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1K notes · View notes
visionsofmagic · 5 months
Text
◜ mk1 men showing their kinks to you ◞
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▸ characters: liu kang, kuai liang, bi han, tomas, johnny cage, kung lao, raiden, syzoth ◂ ▸ wc: 4k+ [wow, once again]
▸ tags: nsfw, soo spicy, lord kink, various kinks, power play, master kink, inappropriate usage of abilities, begging, licking, nudness, humiliation, praising kink, dom/sub dynamic, sub!mk1 characters, dom!mk1 characters, pet names, filming, spanking, ropes, fingering, cum, eating out, kneeling, brat!reader, f!reader, use of yn, personal assistant!syzoth, and more in the work! first time writing kung lao, hope it fits him well. ^^ enjoy! ◂ ▸ m.
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THE TITLE • LIU KANG doesn’t have a god complex, not at all, he’s a humble creator – demi god, even though he has great power of fire, martial arts, and more. he expects all of his friends to see him as an ally, not a mighty god, and kneel before him because he wants to be accepted as one of you, staying beside you and protecting the realms at any cost.
well, it is like that for any other – including you, for most of the time anyway. however, he has a thing for a certain title whenever it leaves your pretty shining lips, making him go dizzy even though he is steady, not leaving any of his emotions getting away so easily – but around you, he loses focus a little bit, desiring to have you – wanting you to call him ‘lord’ again and again until he makes you cum, creating a mess on him – your lord.
it’s your idea – to call him by his ‘lord’ title as if it’s blessing coming out of your parted lips, additional teasing by your fingers, hands, and gazes don’t help at all – they just make him lose his control of being an ally, the rising heat causes him to give you more so that you can scream his name within the title.
it has both an affection tone, showing how much you love and trust him – using his title out of respect you have for him, for what he does for the sake of all realms – and a seductive tone which drives him crazy, and having you under him the moment he has a chance to do such thing. he makes you cum again and again as he listens to all the pretty noises you’re making because of him and how his warm cock enters your clenching pussy.
“ohhh – my lord!” you scream, “l-lord liu kang! it’s so good – sooo good.”
“oh, is it my love?” he will sound innocent even though his actions prove otherwise, cock slapping into your warm walls rapidly, “then cum, make a mess for your lord.”
his white eyes shining brighter than before as you hug his arms, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lips to lips, you cum on his cock, making sheets go dirty within it as you moan his name so loud that he smirks down at you – cock side of him showing, “ohh, my pretty love is so good for her lord. let your lord give you more, will you?” you nod and it turns out that he hasn’t enough of you calling him by the title – he wants more.
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ROPES • KUAI LIANG only used his weapons as defense and attack tools – well, it was the case until he met you, got to know you better, fell hard, loved you with his soul and heart, and finally got intimate with you.
it takes some time until you both bring the things you like to the bed – both afraid that the other will not approve. when you tell him first, the thing you want to do to him, he makes it come true because he is there to satisfy his lover, you, in the most pleasurable way – you deserve the whole world after all.
then, he brings his desires into bad as the sessions become more intense with each one – he learns how to give you pleasure and how to receive – yet, there is a certain one he likes to have – the one which includes one of his weapon, kusarigama without its kama, only cold metal chains he likes to see on your body – using it as a rope whenever he has you in front of him – ass up, face on the pillow, moaning mindlessly, body jolting forward whenever he spank your ass since you move so much, try to get your hands release – however, it’s impossible to do it even though you want to touch him.
the cold metal around your body, ending on your wrist, and being held by the warm hands of kuai liang sends chills down your spine because of how cold it feels compared to his body and cock buried deep inside you. he has a tight hold on the chain, using it as a rope to help you arching your back, ass getting higher as he fucks you from behind. “is it too much love?” he will ask, a bit teasing, looking at the beautiful sight in front of his eyes – red marks on ass cheeks, pussy soaking, breasts bouncing – the chains around them make them look delicious, face full of heat.
“you have no idea how beautiful you look right now my lady, as always, magical,” he says, increasing his warmness to make you moan his name louder, “will have you like this, wrapped with these chains, until you cum again and again. will make its marks appear on your whole body.”
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MASTER • BI HAN is the grandmaster of lin kuei – it gives him power and authority. he likes to have it since he’s crazy for power for his clan, being stronger, better, and more determined with each passing day, doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied –he knows he has great strength but he seeks more and more – so, he doesn’t get satisfied even a bit – however, he can’t hide the truth that he likes to be master only for power, yes, it was the case for him but it changed a little bit when he saw the power he has on you while fucking you.
he doesn’t think of it as a kink, he’s too careless to think about what a kink is – he just enjoys it, it amazes him how he turns on immediately in the moments you call him your master, showing him respect, giving yourself fully to him both as a warrior and his lover.
he prefers being delicate with you but his true instincts make him go crazy around you, losing the control of creating a balance between a gentle lover and a rough fucker for you – he doesn’t think about it that much yet he knows he does two of them at the same time – love you so delicately, protecting you at all costs, telling all pretty names whenever you’re alone while fucking you rough, making you turn into a mess for him and his cock, earning lots of moans and rapid breaths from your agape lips.
he tries to stay calm yet when you use his title in a way no one dares to say it, affection and greed can be heard through it as he fucks you – every hole you have from pussy to ass and his favorite, your shining lips.
eyes rolling, salvia appears, tears wash your pretty face – what a magnificent sight to have in front of him as you stay on your knees, hands gripping his thick thighs, soaking onto the floor under you, and moaning how good he tastes while he has a grip inside your hair, pulling and pushing you, fucking your mouth as he pleases. he feels his empowerment inside your eyes – the look you give him scream how you are pleased to give your master pleasure at the highest level, letting him use you as his personal fucktoy – he smiles at the idea, the free hand caresses your chin full of wetness, creating two opposite sense and sending it to your core.
“how pretty,” he says lowly, “master’s favorite fucktoy,” adding, he smirks at his own statement when he earns a loud moan from you which is shut down by his thick cock inside your warm mouth. “yeah, like that? sure you do my personal toy – offering every hole of her to me – to his grandmaster,” he leaves your mouth, holding his dick and slapping your face with it, “say it,” he orders, “say who’s your owner.”
waiting for a response, he laughs when you give an answer, “master -! my grandmaster bi han!”
“that’s right pretty. let your master fuck your remaining holes as well after I fill your pretty mouth with my cum.”
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PRAISING • TOMAS is so shy that he can’t tell his kink aloud even when you encourage him to say it after you explain yours one by one, feeling shy too yet wanting him to know what makes you turn on right away, wanting him to have you in the exact same moment.
he doesn’t judge you, not for a single time, contrary to that, he gets turned on as well, smiling widely, scratching his neck hair, and telling you how he will make them turn into reality the moment he has a chance to. he tries to get better in every one of them as well, wanting you to reach the highest pleasure, not leaving them only as statements.
so, it’s not surprising to discover his kink while having an intimate session with him, not paying attention to it fully but after it ends, you spend alone time, thinking about it with a logical and peaceful mind, you realize what turns him on in sex – putting attention to them and discovering which one is the most effective one on him.
can’t wait until you get together, alone, in the room you share, you just use your theory after a mission ends. you watch him closely yet do not alert him that you do it on purpose, calling him ‘good boy’ after he does his best in the mission, and completes it effortlessly. the word you use shows its effects immediately – he freezes for a moment, eyes shining as he looks at you with them widening, furrows raising, and chest going up and down rapidly for a moment before he gets himself together, saying thanks but sounding so delicate.
you know it’s not just the word – it’s the thing you do – praising him, his efforts, his support – all of it.
the next thing you know he literally moans loudly when you praise him as he eats you out, kneeling before you, the head between your inner thighs, fingers playing with your breasts as you hold him by his grey hair, pulling it and moaning shamelessly, “ohhh, such a good boy for me – baby, doing soo good!”
he freezes once again – yet, rather than turning into an innocent one he prefers to let it go, understanding what you’re doing and finding great lust in it as he moans again and again, eating you further, wanting to get more praise – even his fingers find your pussy, entering it, doubling the feeling up.
it makes you go crazy when you see his hardened cock inside his boxers, “pretty boy!” you scream, head throwing back, eyes going white as he fucks you with his tongue and fingers. soaking wet, you add, “be a good boy and make me cum tomas!”
“yes, yes, yes – ohhh, my goddess, will be a good boy – your good boy, will earn lots of cum from this pretty pussy – ohhhh, so delicious.”
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FILMING • JOHNNY CAGE would never thought he would have a certain kink like this one – yes, he has lots of them – and having them with you, well, the ones you’re comfortable with as well as doing the things you want him to do. he pleases his woman as best as he can – giving you pleasure boosts his ego, wanting to please you further until your mind is only full with him – nothing else.
when he has you under him, below him, in front of him – in every position, he watches how your pretty face lightens up with the lust, desire to have more – listens to the lewd voices your pussy creates, mixing the sweet voice you make, especially moaning his name – smiles and looks down at your pussy as he clenches around his length, sending a jolt that flows through his entire body, making his mind go dizzy.
it’s perfect – from the beginning to the end, it’s just the description of perfection – you are the perfection for him. and being a great actor, addicted to his camera – his phone, he realizes something he wants ultimately, the reason why he pictures you even after he has you – he daydreams about you all day, waiting for it to end and finally getting together with you again.
he misses you so much that he can’t stand it, and he understands what he needs to do.
the first thing he excepts from you is to laugh, can’t take it seriously, then, not agree – but, you don’t utter a word when he says it, only looking at his face with heat on your body because of hearing how he thinks you look so beautiful – out of this world, dreamy, while you have his cock inside your holes – he expresses his desire to capture it, watch it later, and seeing you in every aspect as possible as he can.
then, you agree, don’t judge, just accept it and realize how you want him to film you whenever you have mind-blowing sex – it becomes a habit of yours now – he films when he fucks you from behind, the camera captures your pretty face so close that he cums the moment he watches it. he puts his camera on the table beside him when he has you on his lap, riding his cock as he drinks his favorite alcohol, watching you fuck yourself on his dick. he even takes a video of you while you suck his cock – his favorite so far because how obedient and cock slut you’re for him.
he smirks, taking you by the chin, making you look up, and winking at the camera of his phone as you suck his cock as if it’s the most delicious thing your tongue taste of – salvia leaves your mouth, eyes shining, nose has a little redness, cheeks burn, and tears flowing down to your face since his thick cock fills your entire mouth. “oh baby –“ he says, chuckling, “you’re my favorite sight to see in a movie! in our personal fucking movies – ohh, how much I like to watch ‘em only to see the expressions you make – so innocent yet lustful. my pretty lady will make you watch it too!” he laughs, caressing your face, “taking my cock so well – maybe will publish it so that everyone can see what a slut you’re for me! would’ve been my biggest hit!”
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HUMILIATION • KUNG LAO is full of ego – thanks to his wins strength, and attractiveness, he has great self-love and he acts as such, telling his best qualities again and again – he does it around others just because he has a habit of doing it but with you? oh, the reason is different for doing it when it comes to you.
he remarks them to show off – to make you fall for him even though you’re literally his lover who fell hard for him, getting excited to see him – to watch him as he fights, and listening to all the bubbles he says including his ego. you leave chuckles, bright eyes shine with enjoyment, letting him show himself off because it entertains him that his favorite girl loves him as a whole – for who he is!
he can swear even he can’t think one of his desires would include an opposite kink compared to his general self. he can’t say it aloud either – he’s too shy to do that, to allow himself to get the knowledge of his deep desires – turning on by you humiliating him in bed out of all places – not to joke, not to tease – to take out his secrets into the surface.
it happens when he utters a few words about him being the greatest in bed, and you tease him about it by mocking, “oh, really? is magnificent kung lao the best fuck? maybe if you try enough you cute boy, being my personal fucker, it can be. what do you think?”
he can’t think about anything at that moment – his mind freezes – he even can’t think!
it takes some time for him to get back, hearing your worried questions about whether he is okay or not – you say sorry if it makes him uncomfortable – then, both you and he look down at his hardened cock, the tip is pink, dripping precum as he exhales the air rapidly than ever, words being cut as they reach to his dry throat.
“y/n –“ he nearly moans your name lowly, looking so fragile with the way his hands on your thighs shake as he holds them – you try to move your hips, caging him between your legs, getting closer, you chuckle, hands find his shoulders as you sit down on the table still, letting his exposed hardened cock press to your bare pussy.
you clench around nothing, and his cock twitches with your husky voice, mocking him more, “oh, will all mighty kung lao cry? will make a mess because of me? hm, is it the case you got a boner now, pretty boy?”
he moans this time, hands gripping the flesh inside his palms tightly, trying to earn a kiss from you as he leans closer but you put your forefinger on his lips, smirking and pointing the ground under his feet. “to earn it, you have to please me, my personal fucker,” you lick the side of his lip, winking as he begins to blush – redness appearing on his shocked face, the tip of his dripping cock hitting your pussy, wanting to get inside. your finger enters his mouth, pulling his warm tongue out as he whimpers, getting harder as if it’s possible, “on your knees, my good boy. show your owner how good this tongue is.”
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BEGGING • RAIDEN is a humble man who knows his worth. he’s well aware of who he is, what his worth is, what he wants, and in which cases he will lose it all – only for you, his significant other, the owner his heart and soul.
he’s a gentle lover indeed, you can give him that – bringing gifts to you, kissing you fondly, showing great affection and love, especially when you’re both alone and comfortable – the peace runs in the air as you show the love you have for one to another openly, no fear of getting rejected – the knowledge of your worth in each other’s eyes is visible through the gazes, words, and actions.
it feels like a miracle when he finds both love and friendship in one person – and he thinks he is the luckiest person in whole realms when the tension you share completes each other perfectly – getting closer to you, he discovers his self – his kinks as you tell him about, he still has questions about them though yet he tries his best to please you while he gets you better, further – no one else, only him.
the help he receives from you about these all kink situations deserves a big thanks and he tries to give it to you by fucking you with his cock, his tongue, his fingers – which one you would like to have.
he puts more focus on you than himself, yet, you have other plans – you want him to understand the importance of being aware of knowing his deepest desires to take the best feelings from your body as well as his.
so, you tell him how words have a different and effective role in intimate sessions mixed with actions – you try to make him see its effects on him firstly because it’s the most remarkable and permanent way to learn about it – so, you study him, trying to see what makes him turn on and what turns him off. among others, one thing catches your attention – begging.
raiden never begs – not to others, or for other things. however, he is ready to beg for you even though he’s yet not know it fully – it takes time for him to get there, and being a helpful lover, you take your role gladly, using your knowledge in one night when you begin to make out. raiden appears behind you, hands wrap around your belly, pulling you closer to him, his cock slowly getting hard as it touches the lower part of your back – the thin fabric you have makes the sense breathtaking.
you chuckle, looking at his face as he rests his chin on your shoulder, “needy?” you tease and he blushes. nodding, he does his little tricks and before knowing it, you find yourself on top of him, cock is buried deep inside your walls – it twitches, wanting you to move and ride him.
“y/n –“ he whimpers, eyes getting brighter, tears ready to leave them.
“yes, my pretty boy?” you ask, head tilting to the side as you rise up and sit down on his length suddenly, making his head thrown back onto the pillow, moaning. “need something?”
“need you – to move – y/n, move already!” you chuckle, hands on his exposed well-built chest.
“then beg for it! we both know you can do better than that farm boy.”
and he listens, starting to beg loudly, hands positioned on your waist, holding tightly, tears washing his pretty face as he begs for you to move – then, he begs for more – he begs so beautifully that you ride him so well and he even begs as he cums into your pussy, making a mess. “yes, yes, please – oh my love, please! ohh – s’ much! s’ good!”
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PERSONAL PLEASER • SYZOTH chose to be your personal assistant and lover at the same time – the idea of being by your side all the time, giving you the support you need, being the one you call first is always amazes him, causing him to accept your offer and take the title of right-hand man, giving aid and help in every way he is capable of.
he doesn’t feel any humiliation because you’re there to show your love for him, how you think of him as an equal, not below you, no – he’s your lover before being your personal assistant and protector. you are at the same level, and you don’t stay back by showing it to him and all the others – you have him beside you every time you attend meetings, parties, festivals, and business works. he’s always there – he lets you introduce himself as your lover first, then says how he’s also your right-hand man who is best at everything – your own luck.
yes, it makes him feel shy but not as shy as he feels when you have him alone – in your office, in your bedroom, in your garden – it doesn’t matter, the shyness he has is exactly the same in every place. it’s the way of help that makes him go all red, or warm, or crazy even.
you say besides being his right-hand man, he’s also your personal pleaser – you let him fuck you rough, showing the beast he has under his pretty face, “agghhh – fuck – syzoth!”, you let him get undressed and jerking himself off as you watch him – his eyes don’t leave yours, watching every expression you have on that pretty face of yours he likes to see as he jerks himself, cum into his fist and earning the same one from you, “syzoth – so – so good to watch!”, you let him go invisible and eating you out in public as you sit down under a table, trying to suppress your moans when he’s tongue swifts into his natural form, entering deep inside, “syzoth!”, you let him kneel before you, on his knees, watching you approaching him slowly, and then, taking him into the bed as he begs for it. “ohhh – syzoth!”
his answer will always be the same, “yes, my goddess? need me?” he mocks you as if he isn’t the reason why you’re like that – weak on the knees, shaking, soaking wet, wanting nothing but him.
the way he enjoys being your personal pleaser besides assistant drives you crazy – the intensity of having him both as a lover and pleaser rising up. you can’t even blame him for using his power inappropriately – it feels too good to utter the words that warn him. he doesn’t care – he does what he needs to do – what you deserve – his full attention and effort.
“my goddess, let me show my gratitude to you – as your right-hand man, it’s my duty to make sure you get what you want.”
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iwantyouinacage · 4 months
Text
Topless
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Bully!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, dirty talk, bully Leon, perv Leon, fingering, bratty reader, bullying (obviously), slight dub-con (reader is secretly into it), semi-public sex, name calling, pet names
It was friday night, you had just left your dorm room through a cloud of your favorite perfume, slipping a pair of earrings into your ears. You hadn’t made it very far when you felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up at the familiar deep, timbre behind you.  “Hey, princess.” 
Title from the song Topless by Breaking Benjamin.
part 1 / part 2 / part 3
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ ♡ ˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
It was friday night, you had just left your dorm room through a cloud of your favorite perfume, slipping a pair of earrings into your ears. You hadn’t made it very far when you felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up at the familiar deep timbre behind you. 
“Hey, princess.” 
You didn’t stop walking, trying to ignore the guy who had been making your life a living hell since move in day at the red brick dorm building. A few months back, you had gotten into the university of your dreams after being awarded a very generous scholarship. All thanks to your academic feat and perfect gpa, heaven knows you couldn’t afford this school otherwise. Maybe, you thought, just maybe if you pretended not to hear him, he would just give up and leave you alone. 
“Where are you going, princess? It’s past your bedtime.” 
Nope, that made him follow you. You could practically hear his cocky smirk on his dumb, perfect face. His voice came from the right, as he fell in step behind you. Leon S. Kennedy, one of the most gorgeous men you’d ever seen. Who also just happened to make it his life mission to bully you any given chance he got. It was almost like he camped out on the third story of the dorm building, where your room was. Waiting for you to come out so he could descend like a vulture on you. 
You rolled your eyes, hopping on one foot to buckle the strap of your high heel. “I’m going out.” you kept going, didn’t even spare him a glance.
“And what kind of trouble are you going to be getting into tonight, hm?” Leon practically purred. 
“I’m going to the club with my friend.” 
“Don’t want me joining you?” Leon easily slipped his arm around your shoulders, leaning too much of his weight against you to be comfortable. A grin playing at his lips, as he leaned in way too close to you.Just to nose at the nape of your neck. Taking in the scent of your perfume, making you duck your head away. A touch too familiar to you, as if you were two friends and not mortal enemies. If you had one enemy, it was Leon fucking Kennedy. Leon knew you didn’t appreciate his plastic friendliness. And that only made him want to do it more. You shrugged his arm off.
“As if I’d invite you. Don’t you have a night of playing video games and jerking off alone to get back to?” You snarked back, with an annoyed groan. You tried to keep your steps in a straight line, so Leon wouldn’t notice the way his nose in your hair, and his thick bicep on your shoulder gave you goosebumps. Leon drank in your attitude,you were always prickly as a little cactus to him. It made him want to rough you up a little more each time he ran into you “by accident”. Which seemed to happen a lot. He would never admit to anything like nabbing your class schedule from your bag. 
“Aww, princess, is someone being a little extra bitchy today?” Leon feigned surprise, raising his eyebrows. He grabbed your hand firmly,planting his feet. It was like he dropped an anchor. Your body went one way, your arm went another, tugged back so sharply it almost had you on your ass. Your jaw dropped slightly from the sting to your pride at Leon calling you bitchy and the dull ache in the socket of your arm. Before you could get on his case, Leon was crowding you against the wall of the hallway. Pushing and caging you in with his arms. 
This absolute prick… you thought immediately. Here you were already going to be late meeting your friend at the club, and now this. You felt heat rush to your cheeks, annoyance picking at your nerves. You recovered quickly, eyebrows furrowing in a scowl. You had to tip your head back to look him in the face due to the height difference between you two. “Excuse me?” 
Leon’s sharp eyes roamed leisurely down your curves, making a point to peek down the front of the skimpy little dress you had thrown on for a night out. The satin material hugged your body like a second skin. He leaned into you, slotting his legs with yours. The material of his jeans rough against your bare legs. He hummed by your ear, you could feel his eyes on your breasts. It made you regret not wearing a bra under your clubbing outfit. Leon didn’t seem to care, in fact a little grin curled his pouty lips as he saw your nipples hardening through your dress. It was cold in the hallways of this old dorm building, okay? You reasoned in your head, even though he wouldn’t hear it.
You held your breath as Leon bent down, his lips barely ghosting against the shell of your ear, like he was going to say something. Instead, his large hand cupped the curve of your ass, dragging the edge of your dress up and over it. The sudden cold air clashing with his warm grip on the fat of your ass made you start. Now, flushing for a completely different reason than your initial annoyance. Leon had never gotten this handsy with you while he was bullying you before. Maybe a few smacks on your ass here and there as you walked through a doorway, but he’d never gone so far as to expose you like this. Your free hand was trapped between his muscular chest and your own. Confusion had  spun your brain like top. “Leon! What are you-” you gasped, demanding answers. You squirmed but your wrist was still in his firm grasp, somewhere by your head last time you had checked. Your brain almost didn’t register he moved it until the blond had tugged your hand down. Roughly pressing your palm onto his half hard cock in his jeans. 
“Just seeing if you're as much of a slut as everyone says you are, princess.” he teases you easily. Dropping a soft kiss to your neck and a chuckle that clashes with the mean thing he just said to you. Leon kisses up your neck, stopping just short of your ear, to nose into your hair again. Your sweet perfume fills his senses like a cloud of smoke. You feel his dick twitch against your hand.
“What the hell!” You bark at him, your face darkening in anger. This guy just pushed and pushed, with no care for your boundaries. You weren’t going to sit here and take this! Who cares if his cock felt huge and heavy in your hand…and it wasn’t even full hard yet. You tugged your hand out of his grip, biting your lip. Only because he let you  though, looking down at you with a smug snort. Leon always found it funny when he finally got you to crack. When he got your anger to boil over and splatter like hot oil in his face. He loved turning the quiet little good girl into an angry, sputtering mess in front of his eyes. He could appreciate a good brat. He loved to knock girls like you down a peg. 
You were so sweet that first day of the semester. When you came up to none other then him. He was a lazy junior, and you were a bright eyed, bushy tailed freshman. You had looked up at him with those big, doe eyes and asked him where the Arts building was. He’d never forget how your cute little face was all flushed in the winter air and nerves. He told you the wrong directions, of course. Just to watch you erupt into the classroom fifteen minutes late to your first class, with a panicked look. He guessed you didn't like wandering aimlessly around campus, lost and running even later then you already were. He couldn’t help it, maybe you didn’t find it as funny as he did. Tough crowd.But Leon didn’t just find it funny, no. Leon felt his body thrum with excitement, his blue eyes glued to the way you stumbled stuttering apologies into class. The hairstyle you probably meticulously put up for your first day of college, ruined by the winter wind. He almost broke out into a grin when those cute muji pens you must have been so excited to use to doodle notes in your textbooks came spilling from your pencil case due to your shaking hands. The way you nervously looked back at all those faces of the other students who watched your walk of shame. Everyone staring at you. You must have felt so small, so embarrassed. It was intoxicating. And it was all thanks to him. Leon couldn’t hold back his amused crooked grin when your eyes found his in the lecture hall, where he sat near the back. That sweet, lost puppy expression of yours turned into ice queen cold. Full of unbridled disdain. You looked at him like he was a walking, talking piece of shit. Leon loved it. You were wearing that same look now, as he towered over you. Pinning you to the wall.
“Do not call me a slut.” You huffed at him, your hands giving him a hard shove to his chest. Well, it probably felt like a hard shove to you. A good girl like you never had to shove anyone before, probably. To Leon it felt like a little kitten hissing and spitting at him, it was cute. Trying your best to puff yourself up, and look big and tough. You tugged your hand away from his dick like it was a hot brand. 
“Well you sure aren't acting like a princess right now.” he smirked, slipping a leg between yours, pressing his thigh into your hot cunt, It made you gasp and press yourself harder into the wall. Trying to escape it.”Why are you acting like so much of a brat tonight?” he got in close to push the words directly into your ear, making your shoulders hike up. 
“I’m not.” you say quickly, your face burning. Your hands pushing at his knee to try and dislodge it from your cunt. Your thighs squeezed his leg to force him out. “I can’t do this right now, Leon- I’m supposed to be meeting my friend at the club right now.” but Leon’s muscular body was unbudging as a statue, a mean chuckle rumbling in his chest as you switched tactics. Instead, you tried lifting your crotch off his thigh. That didn’t work either. It was thick enough that it made your legs spread impossibly wide just to avoid it. In truth, you were just trying to hide the way your panties were sticking to your pussy, growing uncomfortably wet. But he didn’t need to know how hot being pinned to the wall and called a slut was getting you. Leon could probably feel your pulse against his leg. 
Leon clicked his tongue disapprovingly as you tried to push him away, but in reality, your squirming was turning him on. It had been a while since Leon had seen you so feisty. “Can’t do what right now?” he scooped both your wrists up in one hand. Easily pinning them to the wall by your head. “We do this whenever, and wherever I feel like it, sweetheart.” his voice full of fake sweetness, pushing his leg more against your panty clad pussy. He bit down on his lip as he felt your cunt squeeze at that sentiment. His free hand dropping down, palming at his thickening cock. “damn, doll, look at you, dressed up all pretty for me.” 
Your belly swooped, Leon’s pupils swallowing up the blue of his eyes as he took in your outfit and make up. You had spent over an hour perfecting both for a night of drinks and maybe dancing at the club. Your expression soured as he implied you’d done all that primping just for him. Your heart kicked around inside your chest as you watched his hand stroke the sizeable bulge in his jeans. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you try to sound angry.  But your voice turns breathless at the last moment. God, it’s huge. You can see the outline of his uncut cock as it strains against his pants. There’s no way Leon is wearing underwear, those jeans were leaving nothing to the imagination. They were practically vacuum sealed to his junk. 
You’d caught glimpses of before, of course, when he walked around in those damn gray sweatpants. Commando, always commando. You could just tell this asshole didn’t believe in wearing underwear. The confident jerk.
“I’m enjoying the view. Why, does that bother you?” Leon was practically begging to get clocked in the jaw with the smug smirk on his face as he said it. Yes, it bothered you, your panties were losing their battle to keep your juices leaking from down your thigh. He’s holding your wrists against the wall. His other hand is hiking up her thigh, to the hem of your dress up slowly. Til his fingers are brushing up against the lace of your panties. “so pretty.” he groans under his breath. 
Your back goes straight as a rod in shock, as his eyes grow heavy raking over your cute panties. You stammer quickly, “D-dont touch-” you’re trying to close your legs before he can see it. Before he can realize how wet you are. He already find enough ammunition to  bully you as is. He doesn’t need to know how much his touch is making your clit throb. Your heart is thumping in your chest. You wish you wore a different pair of panties, because the lace on these is absolutely sheer enough that Leon can see your fat pussy through them. He grinds his leg into your cunt just to watch you squirm. You pull at your wrists in his hand only making him grip tighter.
“What’s the matter, baby? You’re acting like you’ve never been felt up before.” Leon coos mocking in your ear. Your bully’s hot breath ghosting over the shell, followed by his lips. You shake your head, trying to form a rebuttal. “don’t close your thighs on me, princess.” he chides softly, using the hand between your legs to nudge them open. Your thighs were gripping his leg like a stripper pole. You had to look away from him to regain your voice.You put on your best irritated look. 
“Quit it, Leon.” your voice came out like a soft whine instead, betraying you. “W-what’s gotten into you?” 
“Someone’s little princess pussy is getting worked up, isn't she?” he kept his hand between your legs, holding them open. “Don’t try to squirm away either, this is the same kind of treatment you’d be getting at that club anyway. Some rando pressed up against you, with his hand up your little skimpy skirt. Trying to fingerbang you on the dancefloor.” Leon scoffed meanly, drumming his fingers in almost…annoyance? He felt himself growing more excited as you hold back an embarrassed sound. ”Come on, be nice and sweet to me,baby, like you’d be to him.” 
You scrunch your nose up, “Nice to you? Why would I be nice to you a horny, perv like you?” you turn your nose up at him, as if you’d let some guy on a club dancefloor feel you up like Leon’s doing now. You wouldn't. At least, not without some tequila shots involved first.
Leon doesn’t seem to like that, he tuts at you. His eyes darkened as his eyes flit to your tits. “Just wait til you see how not nice I can be then.” he took his hand off your thigh, only for you to quickly try to snap your legs shut. Leon catches you in an instant, shoving an arm between them and blocking you. “Just for that, I think you need to be punished.” His palm cups your mound. He bullies you even more against the wall with his thick body. His fingers slide from the gusset to the cute bow on the top of your panties,feeling out your pussy lips then dragging just barely over your swollen clit. 
“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?” you feel like a chihuahua barking at a doberman, but you don’t back down. 
“I’m gonna do more than just spread your legs, princess.” His fingers slip into your panties, now touching your bare slit. Just barely squeeze your clit between two fingers, not touching it directly. You can feel and hear his breath in your ear as he feels how wet you already are. You don’t let the rush of heat to your face crack your cold expression. An unimpressed hmph leaving your throat. Your false confidence crumbles fast as he pinches it harder between his fingers, rolling your clit in its hood, making your thighs jump. So much for acting tough. Leon’s hands move like he knows exactly how good that feels for you. 
“Oh, you like it when I play with that pretty little clit, don’t you?” His voice sounds exactly the same way it does when he bullies you. Except, it’s sounded so horny before, that rough and heated. Like he’s basking in the feel of your velvety soft cunt. You’ve never seen this side of Leon, he’s practically elated with sadistic pleasure at the way you shiver and squeeze his thigh with your own. He keeps at it, moving slow and deliberately. Just taunting you with how much he knew that little trick worked on you. 
You and the plenty of other girls he’d gotten in his bed over these couple years in university. You were practically dripping by the time he actually swiped his fingers through your folds. Wetting them before returning to rub and pinch your pudgy clit. His hand held down your quivering thigh as he worked you over.. 
“I don’t-” Yes, you do. You love it. He’s rubbing with barely any pressure and it’s making you so sensitive that your fingers are curling around his hand that’s pinning them. Hoping for anything to anchor you as your legs begin to shake and- no, no you’re not cumming on your bully’s fingers. You refuse. “Don’t touch it. I’m gonna be late to m-meet my friend.” yeah, that excuse sounds plausible. Honestly, you’d try anything at this point to save your pride and get unstuck from this damn wall. You two were practically in plain sight in the middle of the dorm hallway where anyone could walk by and see. Your cunt throbbed at the thought, a pathetic whine leaving your lips. 
“Mmh, your thighs say otherwise.” He nuzzled against your neck, peppering kisses to your heated skin. Sweat forming on the backs of your thighs by the time he decided to stop playing with your swollen clit and start caressing your wet pussy. Slipping his finger between them, making your hole flutter. “That’s too bad about your friend, but we can’t have you leaving like this.” he laughed, “wet pussy is just crying for me, fuck. You better get used to me, princess, you’re mine now.” he smushed you further into the wall. Grinding his hard cock against your leg with a low groan. Words you probably would never have expected or wanted to hear from your bully.
You felt yourself blush to your ears, a twisted knot of arousal in your gut. It was getting harder and harder to ignore it. All you could do was shake your head and breathe through your hard nose. In an attempt to stifle the whimpers leaving your throat, you bit your bottom lip hard. Leon’s hand slips around your throat. He pressed the back of your head into the wall and you swallow thickly under his palm. His voice rumbling in his chest. “What a good girl, getting so nice and sloppy for me. This is what happens when you’re brat. Do I need to punish you some more?” You fixed your blissed out expression when he leaned away from your neck to admire your face, a smirk tugging at his lips when you couldn’t hide it fast enough. 
“Punishment? Yeah, right.” You retorted, making a show of rolling your eyes.”You can’t punish me, I didn’t even do anything.” Your voice felt raw from holding back your moans. Save for a few grunts and whines that slipped through. Leon looked positively amused at that. 
“Well, since you like being bratty so much, why don’t I show you just how much I can punish you.” Leon’s heart racing in his chest. Holding you here, with his hand around your throat like a collar. He gave you a warning squeeze to your windpipe, before he was pulling your panties to the side.His digits rubbing small circles at your entrance. You squeezed your eyes shut, hating how much you were loving this. A small breath hissed between your teeth as he teased you with his thick fingers. 
“Say sorry, princess.” Leon said almost out of nowhere. There was a warning tone in Leon’s voice that made your cunt feel hotter. You wondered, just for a moment. Then for longer than a moment. What if you just refused? His fingers stroked between the slick folds with a wet sound. Your cunt throbbed at what he might do if you said no. Maybe you really were a brat. Leon looked you in the eyes, his heavy brow. Sharp eyes narrowed, boring into your skull. His thumb swiped your clit without warning, making your hips buck as your breath hitched. He wanted to look you in the eyes when you apologized to him, he wanted to hear you apologize even though you didn’t do anything wrong. Leon tried to hold in the smug grin when you hadn’t even noticed he had let go of your wrists a while ago. You were stuck there up against the wall, with your hands free looking up at him with a dumb expression. And you weren't using those free hands at all.You were too caught up in how good his fingers felt fucking into your needy, wet hole. He wanted to watch you cave in on yourself and apologize for being a little brat.
“No.”
Leon’s eyebrows went up. “No?” He could feel the way your heart rate spiked after you said it. your fear anticipation was practically pouring out of you. He couldn’t be happier that you were not backing down to him with your tail between your legs like he had expected. Yet. “Well, if you're going to be a naughty girl like that…” 
A squeal of satisfaction left your mouth as he fucked his fingers roughly into your soaking cunt with schlick sound. Your eyes went wide, a thrill ran up your spine. A zing! straight to the base of your skull at the idea that you were defiant, naughty. You were being bad and you got punished for it. For real this time. It made you hot like nothing had ever before. But you weren't going to let this asshole know that. Leon’s thumb flicked your swollen bud to distract you from the stretch. “Mhm, did those big fingers hurt in your little pussy? Say ‘sorry, Leon’ sweetheart.” his breath hot against your face. Leon actually had to laugh at the way you refused and turned your nose up at him, like that. Like he was a pesky fly to be ignored. 
“You call that a punishment?” You taunted him, His fingers were so much thicker than your own, they reached deeper than yours could. They filled you up perfectly snug.Your breath hitched as his thumb brushed your clit over and over til your sounds grew higher and higher. Leon gave you a condescending chuckle. 
“It’s just a taste, I could always do more.” His tone shifted to a more playful one, but there was a coldness in his eyes as when he had shoved two fingers into you, that you couldn’t ignore. “Now apologize, princess.” he demanded into your ear. Your pussy squeezed his fingers, practically buzzing with arousal at being put into line and teased like this. You wanted him to be meaner, stricter. His fingers werent moving, and it made grow desperate, as you chased that feeling. You bit your lip, shaking your head because you didn’t know if you could muster up the courage to tell Leon ‘no’ again. 
“I-I won't apologize.” you scowled up at him, your voice dropping to a whisper, a hint of challenge in your tone. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to rile your bully up like this. He seemed to get a little more cruel, more rough each time you put up a little bit of fight. You knew you could pull his strings a little if you played this just right, you could see the way his eyes stared down at you. He was searching for a chink in your armour, even as his fingers were knuckle deep in your clenching heat. He was breathing so heavy, as you stood your ground.It felt refreshing to him. Leon had always had it so easy with girls around campus, using his looks to get what he wanted out of sorority girls, freshmen, even girls with boyfriends. Which was all well and good. Usually he didn’t even have to try before he was balls deep in some jock's girlfriend’s pussy. With her legs over his shoulders as he pounded her hard and deep. But you were different, you seemed to hate him. But you also couldn’t hide the way being around him got you not so secretly wet. Leon loved it. You were a challenge and Leon found himself pulling out all the stops to make you feel so damn good you cried. It was like his years of coasting on easy mode, going through college girls like it was a damn marathon race. It all lead up to your sweet little cunt wrapped around his fingers, while he played you like an instrument. Using the skills he’d picked up to ruin your pussy for anyone else with just a couple fingers. He was holding onto your neck like his life depended on it. Leon was getting off on your pleasure like he was starving for it. He had barely even noticed his aching cock weeping precum into his jeans. Far too focused on the way you glared at up at him, and tried to hide how wet you were.But he could feel it. Leon groaned into the crook of your neck as he began to rock his fingers deep into your pussy. Reveling in the way your thighs twitched. 
Your stern glare was replaced quickly as your eyes grew wide. You inhaled sharply as you felt his fingers touch something inside you that made your toes curl. You blinked in horror, and shock, your face going hot. That tough girl act shriveling up and dying quickly. Leon felt you full body shudder against him. “W-wait, hold on-”
He knew the exact moment he had found your g spot. You all but melted against him, your brain turning to mush in your pretty little head. Poor thing, you probably never could hit the right spot on your own. Leon’s body weight bearing down on you is heavy and comforting all at once. Your body involuntary reacting to his fingers. Leon sunk his teeth into your shoulder to stifle his own low moan. “Aw, did I hit the spot?” He could feel the way your pussy spasmed around his digits. The way you mewled, all that teasing got your sweet spot so sensitive to his touch. It was almost worth how painful his cock felt right now pressing against his zipper. He would have to rethink his usual decision to go commando whenever he thought he was going to be around you. “You’ve got to be the most sensitive woman i've ever met, princess, fucking hell. What? Have you never been touched like this before?” Leon teased to cover up the way he growled at your pussy sucking his fingers.. 
Your eyes drooped, your hands clinging to his broad shoulders. Your nails digging at his skin through the thin fabric. You felt your orgasm ramping up like you’d never felt before. It was heavy in your belly, like a ball of twine unraveling, faster and faster. Your thighs shook hard, “Oh my god!” you keened, he was rocking his fingers deep into your cunt, stuffing you full over and over, never pulling out just pushing deeper. “I-I can’t- what the-”
“I can feel you getting close, baby,” he grunted, pressing his thick pecs up against your chest, trapping you between his body and the wall. You felt like he was holding you up by your neck at this point, so weak in the knees. “Say my name.” Leon commanded. He didn’t choke you, not yet. You inhaled sharply, your hips bucking with each curl of his fingers.
 “O-oh god-” you tried to speak but it came out as a jumble. Leon could see your dazed look, his fingers were fucking you stupid. You felt like your lower half was buzzing, he could see you shaking apart. For just a moment his hand clenched around your throat, cutting off your air a little. Just to show you who was in charge.
 “Say. my. name, princess. Tell me whose making this cute fat pussy feel so good, hm?” Leon pumped his fingers in and out of your clenching hole, his palm smacking your clit. 
“Leon.” you sighed softly, your voice small and fucked out. Your hips twitching in his hand, slick dripping down his fingers, to his wrist. Your pussy making sloppy, wet noises embarrassingly loud in the dorm hallway. Leon couldn’t help but grind his hips against your thigh, matching your soft moan with a growl of his own as he watched you shake apart on his fingers. He rubbed hard into your g spot, til you were shuddering and your eyes were rolling back into your head. Pleasure making your brain work syrupy slow. 
“And you don't ever disrespect me again.” Leon grit his teeth, breath hot against your cheek, squeezing your neck. His voice sounded almost hoarse as he struggled to hold back from choking you out through your orgasm. “Or this will happen more often than you could even fathom. Do I make myself clear, princess?” 
Leon’s eyes held you captive with his eye contact, he wanted you to agree without a trace of defiance. 
Your breath was short, shaky and shallow. You looked up at him, fucked out, your mouth hanging open, eyes glassy and half lidded. Cheeks blooming with red hot humiliation and arousal. You felt like your legs were going to give out under you as they quivered from your bully making you cum the hardest you've ever cum in your life. Nodding weakly with a loud, broken moan. A whimper escaping as he pulled out of your sensitive cunt.
Leon grinned, his breathing coming in slow, measured breaths like he was trying to calm himself down. He looked down at you, his eyes skirting your swollen lips, plump from you biting them. Leon dipped down to kiss you, his hand finally leaving your neck as he pressed his lips against yours gently. His warm tongue brushing the seam of your lips, making you sigh. He kissed you like he needed to taste you. But he controlled himself, pulling back with a sweet smile. “I'm proud of you, princess. Now go get ready to see your friend like nothing happened.” Leon stepped back all too quickly, looking at your scramble to catch yourself on the wall. Giving you a look like you were the weird one for being so unsteady on your feet. 
Reality dawned harshly as you felt embarrassment up to your ears. You kept your mouth shut as you fixed your skirt with the little scrap of dignity you had left, wiping at your messed up lipstick on your mouth. You shot one last uncertain look to your bully as he crossed his arm, and donned his trademark cocky smirk. You padded off toward your dorm without a word. 
As you left, Leon watched you go. He stood there in the hallway. When he was sure you were gone he took a deep breath and rubbed the hand with your slick all over on his pants to remove the traces of you on it. 
What in the world was he doing? Jeez, getting a kick at bullying and harrassing such a cute, but bratty girl as you? It was so wrong,but it was so. much, fun.
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doki-doki-imagines · 4 months
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Who falls for the mistletoe trick? feat. mk1 Liu Kang, Johnny Cage, Tomas, Mileena, Kuai Liang
author note: another severe case of "I'll die if I don't post them today" LOL. Hope you'll like them!
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Liu Kang -He falls for it. -For real? The creator of this timeline didn't expect a mistletoe from his partner at the entrance of their shared house? -Yes, Liu Kang knew from day one that this would happen, and he waited, breath itching and hands tingling in front of the doorstep each day since December started. -You point up, a knowing smirk on your face and Liu Kang acts surprised, white eyes widening a bit before looking down at you. "What a surprise, dear one." His voice is steady, like always, but your ears twitch, a mischievous undertone you can hear thanks to the time you spent together. "You knew this would happen right?" You said now in his open arms, steps lulling you, door closing thanks to Liu Kang's graceful kick. "Maybe" He looks up smiling like a fool "Now it is time to celebrate traditions." -You are the first to get closer, your lips pressed against his soft ones, his right hand finding peace in the back of your head, pushing you closer, the other on your lower back, moving in slow circle, his fire slowly enveloping you, his tattoos hidden under the bandages glowing faintly. -Liu Kang loves Earthrealm traditions.
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Johnny Cage -He doesn't fall for it, but you do for sure. -Not like you had any chance when all the ceiling is filled with mistletoes. -He welcomes you with open arms, smiling from one ear to the other knowing perfectly well that you won't avoid celebrating the tradition. -He asks for a kiss each step you make, they are fast, simple smacks. -Till, one step at a time, the back of Johnny hits the table, your body now laying on his one, not a single breath of air to separate your bodies. -His kisses trail down your neck, his moist lips leaving you warm all over, his right hand lifting one of your legs. -It's time to take the matter in a more comfortable place… -Bonus: How could you not expect Johnny to have mistletoe-themed boxers? "Since you have been so loyal to the tradition it would be bad to break them now, no kitty?" He says smirking, while you don't know if you wanna die or laugh at the situation.
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Tomas Vrbada -He falls for it! Congrats, it's not easy to surprise a ninja. -Tomas knows what a mistletoe means, he remembers when he watched with his sister Christmas movies, disgust plastered on his face. -Tomas feels giddy, a warmth that envelopes him completely. -He feels like a fool, a dumb kid during Christmas, a giggle escapes his mouth "So, don't I get a kiss?" His arms are open. -'It should be the other way around' you think, but it doesn't develop further, more excited to kiss your lover. -He is so overjoyed his legs become jelly, Tomas could only dream of being so loved by someone. -A simple gesture that brought him immense joy, fingers tapping on your back, playing your skin like a piano. -"Why so happy Tomas? Did I do something funny?" You question, lips barely apart. "You just reminded me of happy memories." He replies, hands now steady on your hips, grey eyes twinkling with joy.
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Mileena -She…doesn't fall for it. Not because she knows what a mistletoe hanging from the ceiling means, but because of her observation skill. -"Dear, why there is a plant on the ceiling?" Voice rasped, head bending slightly. "Well, it's a long story…" -You explain to her what it means, never looking at her in the eyes, worried she find the tradition (and you) stupid. -She smiles, 'thank god' you think, her plush lips finding yours before you can finish the explanation, making you stutter. The kiss is fast and for sure not satisfying, leaving you aching for more. -"Is this fine, dove?" her arms lay on your shoulders, keeping your bodies close, lips so close, but also so far away… "I think I'll have to show you how to do this, Empress" You finally close the distance, courage finally sparked your soul. Mileena grunts, a shiver runs down her spine thanks to her fave honorific. -You didn't exchange just one kiss that day.
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Kuai Liang: -He totally did notice the mistletoe but also doesn't know the meaning behind it so he just walks by. -"Ah, mister! Stop right there" Index finger touching his chest, hidden by so many layers of clothing "It's time to pay up." one hand caresses his cheek, while the other glides in his onyx locks, smirk plastered on your face. -But…he doesn't move? His brown eyes look at you questioning. "So you don't know about the mistletoe tradition, mh baby?" "Care to explain, fireball?" His eyebrows furrow, way more focused than he needs to be. -And so you do, looking at his face getting softer and softer at each phrase, just to end up snickering, a familiar sparkle in his brown eyes. -"You really find any occasion to get a kiss from me." "Are you saying you'd rather not?" You pull away, watching him in fake annoyance, eyes glued to his to notice if he takes the bait. -He does, a kiss fierce as he is, a kiss that leaves you breathless but that you wish it to be neverending. -"Is this fine?" Kuai Liang asks, a hint of jolly in his voice. "Yeah, but I think you should do that again, you know, just to be su-" -You won't need to finish the phrase.
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levitiquee · 4 months
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“Daaa-ddy.”
Levi startles, looking up. The little girl stood before him, all wide eyes and beaming at him.
“Yes? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
She shrugs, then thrusts out a hair brush and a set of scrunchies. “Do my hair today!” She grins.
Levi is taken aback slightly, not at all expecting such a request. It’s not that he had a bad relationship with his daughter really, if anything Levi spends every second that he can spare with her. But even so, it was so sudden and specific, not to mention she has never asked him to do it before. It was you who helped her get ready.
“Doesn’t mommy usually do that?” He asks slowly. “Is she busy?”
She shakes her head quickly. “I just want you to do it today.” She smiles, holding the brush out to him, waiting for him to take it.
Levi glances at it then looks back up. How could he say no to that?
So, without a word, he motions her to turn around which she follows happily, pulling a stool nearby to sit between Levi’s legs. Levi takes the brush, though slightly hard to hold without his missing fingers, he manages, combing through the black silky strands.
Like his.
Though, his own hair was stranded with gray now, a sign of the long years he had lived. Even Ackermans don’t stay young forever.
But it’s still so strange to him, having her here, right in front of him. He still freezes a little when she smiles at him, watching her with awe. She looked almost exactly identical to him, starting from the shape of her face to the color of her eyes, just the exact shade of the silvery blue that his own eyes hold. But there was a brightness in those eyes that Levi doesn't think he ever had. She was like this little ball of sunshine, always so bright.
And her smile, that came from you.
She was his. Yours. Theirs.
A part of him and a part of you. A whole other human being. A child. A blessing.
It was the hardest at thr beginning. For him to get used to it. Despite the 9 months of pregnancy, it was when he first held her that the realization finally hit him. That she was his daughter. His.
And the moment his eyes locked with the newborn, he knew he was doomed.
That there was nothing he wouldn’t do for this small, small, absolutely tiny person that came to earth no more than half an hour ago. That he had just met.
It was crazy how it only took him only a moment for him to swear his life for her, to become so protective. It was actually ridiculous, how he felt anxious even when it was the nurses holding her, he’d been so rigid, so poised. Even when handing her over to someone else’s arms, he had his hand outstretched because just in case. It took a shit load of convincing from you for him to let Jean and Connie hold her.
It was crazier watching her grow up. Never had he felt this ridiculous amount of pure joy and excitement ever. Only to hear her first words, to watch her take her first steps, holding his hand. He swears it was only yesterday.
His chain of thought was cut off as she started to happily chatter about things. Unlike Levi, she talks. A lot. Levi doesn’t mind, he listens quietly. Every once in a while, inserting a comment.
“I’ve read about you. In the history books. Our teacher taught us.”
“Yeah?” He mumbles, brushing softly. “What’d you learn?”
“They called you humanity’s strongest.” She stumbles on the word a little, which was a bit heavy for her usual vocabulary. She turns around to look at him with awe and wonder, wide eyes asking for confirmation. “That’s so cool!”
He only lets out a small hum in response.
"Will I be as strong as you one day?"
"Sure. You already are." He hopes she never needs to be.
“I saw your picture too. And mommy’s. Also, Uncle Connie used to be bald back then.” She finishes with a giggle, the idea of Connie’s lack of hair amusing her. “You were like a superhero, weren’t you daddy?”
“I wouldn’t shoot that far.” He answers with a small smile.
Back then, Levi had never imagined the idea of having a family. There, caged between the walls, surrounded by those tremendous monsters. When there was no guarantee that you’d come back alive once you’re out there. How could he even think of bringing a child to the world, if he couldn’t even do the least that is to promise their safety?
But now, here she runs and plays outside, without a worry in the world, tirelessly. She doesn’t have to starve like Levi had to, she grows up with only all the good the world has to offer. She doesn’t know the worst of how things could be and Levi hopes she never does. She doesn’t yet understand the role Levi and you had played in creating this world, but she does understand the value of it. She asks questions sometimes, about the wheelchair and the eye and the hand. About your scars and why somedays you can't get yourself from bed. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to answer. And Levi knows, one day, he’ll have to tell her all of it, life back then and the life he had. But for now, he prays, let her grow up with only love and pureness. Let her see the world in her rose colored glasses. Something he never got to do.
She taps Levi’s leg as he bunches the hair to tie a ponytail. “Do braids.” She says.
“Braids? Don’t you always wear a ponytail?” Levi asks.
“Yes, but,” She tries to explain, stumbling for words. “Tash always pulls by it.”
Tash was one of her classmates, Levi knew from her frustrated rants about him. From what he could gather, neither liked each other much. “Next time he bothers you, you do the thing that I taught you.” He tells her.
“The thing with my hands?” She asked brightly, balling her hands to show him.
“Hey, no beating up kids at school. Levi!” You appear in the doorway, only catching the last bit of the conversation. “Don’t give her ideas. And you,” You look at your daughter who was smiling smugly. “I’ve been looking for you–wait, is Levi doing your hair?” You say, finally noticing and very surprised.
‘Yes!” She replies excitedly, “He’s doing braids! He’s very slow though.”
Levi playfully pats her head. “It’s because you keep moving.” He sighs. “Must you need braids? I’m not sure if I can–”
“Yes.”
Levi was about to say something else until she turned around, giving him the most adorable pout ever, eyes all round and needy, her brows pinched together. “Please?” She asks sweetly.
Well damn.
Levi tries, he really tries. But the word no somehow managed to disappear from his vocabulary, along with all of its synonyms. So he sighs, nodding.
“Levi, I can–” You start.
“It’s okay.” He puts up a hand, stopping you. He doesn’t know much about the process, but he’s spent enough time watching you do her hair. So he thinks he can manage it. “I can do it. Probably.” He says uncertainty.
It was slightly difficult to manage multiple sections of hair when you’re missing two fingers, but even surprising himself, he does manage it, after a few attempts. A little uneven, but works.
"Happy?" He asks her, patting her head.
It was good enough for the girl, who jumped up right after it was finished and cheered happily as an answer to Levi. She jumps to his arms, pulling him by the neck to plant a big smooch in his cheek.
“You're the best.” She beams at him, then running off to grab her bag which was by the door.
“Wow, mommy’s nonexistent now?” You fold your arms in mock offense.
She doesn’t answer, only picks up her bag and runs to hug you full speed, wrapping herself around your knees. “I love you.” She calls out, then turns to Levi. “And I love you too! I'm leaving now!”
Then she was out the door before you could say I love you back.
“Don’t run, you’ll fall.” Levi calls out to her, who was already far out of hearing range.
You closed the door. Then leaned against it, staring at Levi.
Levi looked away, cheeks heating up slightly, noticing the strange way you were staring at him, already knowing what comes after.
“So.” You said.
“So, what?” He said, glancing at you.
“Where'd you learn how to do braids?"
He huffs. "From you. I watched you do it.''
"Really?' It was so cute you could melt.
“Stop looking at me like that.” He grunts. “She’s my girl. I can do her hair sometimes, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“So, I’m not your girl?” You pout, exactly the same expression your daughter made just moments ago. “How come I don't I get braids?”
“I–” Levi starts, then huffing frustratedly. He can’t even say no to his daughter, who was he to say no to the mother? He tries nevertheless.
“I’m not doing it. Stop looking at me like that.”
You did not look away, pouting out your lips more.
“I won’t.”
You blinked, turning your expression sadder.
Levi gives up.
“C’mere.” He sighs.
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klineinie · 1 month
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drabble!! | no warnings | 📼 — uiscefhuaraithe; hozier
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thinking about luke’s little things, the everyday mundanities of him;
he ties his laces tighter around his toes than his ankles because he runs fast and doesn’t want his shoes falling off, but he also likes being able to slip them on and off conveniently.
his favorite socks are gifts from you, worn for so long that they've gone thin, grey, and soft around the soles—they’re white, yellow around the toes and heels, and have a badtz-maru pattern at the ankles. the knit underside of them have been inexpertly darned over and over again, blue and black and grey and orange thread crisscrossing over each other like a mismatched tapestry—his very own theseus' paradox. he only wears them on saturdays, his favorite part of the week.
luke loves cheeseburgers, especially the ones that camp serves on tuesdays, even though he gets stuck in the latrines for an hour because his stomach can’t handle dairy. he eats mandarins at breakfast for vitamin c but forgets that acidic foods on an empty stomach also make him need to take a shit.
he knows exactly three mandarin phrases (ni hao, xie xie, bing qi ling), is bad at spanish because chris talks too fast and can’t teach, and only knows that ‘aishiteru’ means ‘i love you’ in japanese because it’s what his mom always repeated when he was a kid.
luke walks with a little tilt to his shoulders, his right side heavier than the left by just a hair's breadth; it's because he holds your hand on that side more often. he can't sleep without caging you in his arms, and you struggle to get out of his bed for the bathroom at the eggshell crack of dawn because he holds on so tight.
he says that he only listens to alt/indie, but if you asked him to name a song off the top of his head, he'd say something like 'olivia rodrigo'. he knows hamilton's 'non-stop' bar for bar, can rap and sing all the lyrics by heart but slightly off-beat. he thinks that the musical itself is a stupidly inaccurate portrayal of hermes' favorite son, and oftentimes wishes that his father would stop posing as lin manuel miranda.
luke has a mottled scar on his right palm, just under the first joint of his thumb, from when he'd burned his hand fighting the dragon ladon; he had picked up his sword, skin still blistering, and cut a claw from the beast. when he cups your face, you tend to turn your head and kiss it softly.
his skin is a canvas with a constellation of freckles and scars, many of which are either raised or concave, and silver-like stretch marks arching like lightning. he tells you that the most vulnerable part of a swordsman's body is his back but doesn't say anything when you trace your hand down the indents and dimples of his spine, fingertips bumping over the thirty three juts of bone.
luke takes off his shirt often because he gets hot easily, but sometimes he does it just to see you avert your eyes in shyness. he likes it when you connect his freckles to his moles to his pockmarked scars with the barest brush of your nail, how the tingle of it jitters through his nervous system when you reach the base of his neck.
he tells you that he loves you in the morning, at noon, after curfew hits, and any time in between—just in case something happens, you can have peace, knowing that he loves you. he kisses you soft and sweet like a longing fulfilled every time you part ways, even if you'll see him again in an hour; you always have something to look forward to.
so yea, luke's little things. how he loves, the foods he likes and the worn-out socks he wears and the way he laces his shoes, the stories folded into the star-spun, white gold stretch of his skin and the way his spinal cord juts out when he lays stomach-down on the bed.
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p.s; umm procrastinating on jubi but i’m still thinking abt luke. sorry for being a freak about him it will absolutely happen again...also- the part about 'aishteru' meaning ily is bc google says that charlie's mom is half japanese so i thought it'd be cool to include that as part of luke's character :) + star dividers from a post by @/driaswrld
comments, asks, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!
luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @niktwazny303 @arsonnaire @mischiefmoons
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hintsofhoney · 5 months
Text
Don't Forget It
Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader
Summary: While working a case with Dean, he gets jealous of the way you interact with a suspect and decides to remind you who you belong to.
Tags: 18+, p in v, unprotected sex (be smart), rough sex, jealous dean, spanking, light dom/sub dynamics, sex in a public place, begging, voyeurism if you squint
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: Just another finished work that's been sitting in my drive, collecting dust. Beta'd by my loves @makeadealwithdean and @wayward-dreamer; love you both to the moon and back 🤍 GIF is mine. Enjoy!
You can also read me on Ao3!
DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST |  SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST |  MAIN MASTERLIST
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You don’t miss the way Dean’s eyebrow raises when you lift one leg to sit on the man’s desk, twirling your hair and batting your eyelashes as you try to get him to confess. You’re fully aware of the way your pencil skirt is riding up, revealing more skin than you care to show to this douchebag probably-murderer, but it’s clear that he’s way more interested in speaking to you than Dean. If it helps move the case along, you can turn on the charm.
Dean’s watching you from the corner of the room as you flirt with the sleazebag, his jaw clenching as he reminds himself that you’re just doing your job, but it doesn’t make him want to remind you who you belong to any less. Especially when you look like that . Tight skirt, the top three buttons of your blouse undone, and then when you lean over pretending to laugh at something this guy had said, he catches a glimpse of your black lace bra, and he finds himself trying not to think about ripping it off of you. Not that it was working.
“You know, you’re a pretty little thing, Agent,” the man smirks, and then he’s reaching for the exposed part of your thigh and you’re wishing he wouldn’t , and Dean clears his throat so loudly it startles the both of you. You hop off the desk as the suspect turns around to look at him.
“I think we’re done here,” Dean says, walking over to the desk and pulling a fake business card with his real phone number on it out of his inner suit jacket pocket. “If you remember anything, Mr. McAnn, give me a call.” He tosses the card carelessly onto his desk.
Mr. McAnn huffs. “Yeah, alright, Agent.”
You and Dean both know the phone call isn’t coming; you’re going to need to find another way to prove the dickhead sitting in front of you murdered his wife — possessed or not.
“Let’s go, Y/N,” Dean grits out, his eyes not leaving Mr. McAnn’s as he walks to the door. You follow suit, and the anger in your boyfriend’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Dean’s already ten steps ahead of you by the time you’re fully out of the office.
“Dean!” you call after him, speed-walking to match his brisk pace down whatever corporate building hallway you were in. “Slow down, I’m in heels!” 
You catch up to him and grab his wrist, spinning him around. 
“The hell’s gotten into you?” 
He huffs in disbelief, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he tongues the inside of his cheek, thinking of how to answer that question. 
“You can’t be serious,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your eyebrows, realizing what’s gotten his panties in a twist. “I was trying to get him to confess , Dean.”
“I’m not — I know. Okay? But —” he pauses, beginning to stalk towards you, a hunger in his eyes that tells you exactly where this interaction is heading. You nearly trip over yourself as you walk backwards, a soft gasp leaving your lips when your back hits the wall. “Doesn’t mean I like watching you slutting it up for the asshole.” 
He’s got you fully caged in between his arms now, one hand on either side of your shoulders, his face inches away from yours. 
“You’re mine .”
You roll your eyes. As hot as he is when he’s jealous and possessive, it’s not like he can fuck you in this hallway. Plus, he’s being ridiculous anyway. 
“Your point ?” you prod, probably further than you should. 
“My —” he huffs again, his hands back on his hips, shaking his head before looking around. “Oh, I’ll show you my fucking point, sweetheart.”
He grabs your wrist, ignoring your squeal, and drags you a few feet down the hall, turning into the women’s bathroom and locking the door behind him. His eyes quickly scan underneath the three stalls before he determines the two of you are alone. 
“Dean —”
He cuts off your protest with his hands on your waist, walking you back into the nearby sinks before hoisting you up onto the counter. 
“Dean!” you yelp in surprise. 
He pays it no mind as he reaches for your blouse, tearing it open in one quick motion, plastic buttons clattering to the floor.
“Dean!” you scold, and Jesus, how many times can you say his name in different ways in one minute?
He remains unphased, focused on two things and two things only, both of which he reveals as he pulls down the cups of your bra.
“Christ, Y/N,” he breathes, cupping your breasts in his hands as he stares at them like it’s his first time ever seeing boobs. His thumbs flick over both of your nipples at the same time, and you arch your back as a moan escapes you.
“Mm, fuck.”
He leans in, his breath fanning over your earlobe as he continues tweaking your nipples. “Might as well have shown that dickhead in there these fuckin’ tits, the way your shirt was hanging open. Left really fuckin’ little to the imagination, Y/N,” he whispers, drawing more sounds from your throat. “He was probably sitting there thinking about doing all the things I’m doing to you right now. And I don’t like that. That’s my fuckin’ point.” He pinches one of your nipples, a yelp leaving your lips. “Understand?”
You nod, unable to form words.
“I can’t hear you.” He pinches the other peak and pulls a little. 
“Oh — fuck! Yes, I understand,” you answer. “I’m yours, I’m yours.” 
“And don’t forget it.” 
His lips find your breasts, and soon he’s sucking bruises into your skin and teasing your nipples with his tongue. He’s everywhere at once, everywhere but where you really need him, and you’re not sure how much more of this torture you can take.
“Dean, please,” you gasp, and he lets out an irritated grunt as he pulls his mouth off one of your breasts, seeming annoyed that you had interrupted his fun with your begging. You can’t blame him – he’s a boob guy. Especially if they’re your boobs. 
“I’m not done yet,” he states, before resuming his attack – for lack of a better word – on your breasts.
You groan in protest, the heat between your thighs building, and you spread your legs as far as your skirt will allow. The cool air that hits your core reminds you that you had chosen to forego underwear today, and you reach down to shimmy your skirt up to your hips while Dean’s still focused on your breasts. You’re able to spread your legs a bit further now, and you can’t help but chuckle at the fact that your boyfriend still hasn’t noticed you fully on display. 
He pulls away an inch or so when he hears your giggling. “Somethin’ funny?”
“You really are a boob guy, huh?” You shake your head in disbelief, biting back a smile. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, and you use the opportunity to lean forward, simultaneously pulling him towards you by his shoulders so you can whisper in his ear. “You’ve been so focused on them you haven’t taken the time to look down yet, have you?”
He pulls away, still confused, until his eyes dart down to your core. “Jesus – wait – did you –”
“Was debating between those panties you really like or just foregoing them altogether,” you shrug.
“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at your dripping core for a few moments before a second wave of feral hunger hits him. “ Fuck .”
Before you can even process his movements, you’re bent over the counter instead of sitting on it, your legs kicked apart with two fingers plunging into your heat. 
“Oh my – Dean !” you squeal at both the abruptness and the roughness of it all.
“Don’t know what you expected, sweetheart, walking around with everything on fuckin’ display.” He crooks his fingers at just the right angle, and you bite back a scream.
“I – fuck – nothing w-was on display – oh God !” 
“Might as well have been. This tight little skirt of yours doesn’t leave much to the imagination, either. And then to find out there’s been nothing underneath it this whole time?”
“Ow!” you exclaim, as a loud smack fills the air, courtesy of Dean’s hand landing on your bare ass. 
“ Louder ,” he growls. “I want the whole fuckin’ building to know they can imagine whatever they want, but I’m the only one who gets to act on it.” He pulls his fingers out of you and spanks you again.
“De – oh, fuck !” you choke out. “Please, Dean.”
“Please what?” he asks nonchalantly, and you can hear his belt buckle clinking behind you.
“Fuck me. Please, I need you to fuck me.”
“ Need me to, huh?” You hear the zipper of his slacks, and you shift your weight in anticipation, your ass squirming. He lands another smack on your left cheek – the hardest one yet.
“DEAN!” you yelp, and you’re certain the entire building heard that one.
“There you go. Now beg that loud and I may just give you what you want,” he chuckles, grabbing a fistful of your hair and bringing your face up from the counter while he runs his cock through your soaked folds. 
“Please!” you groan.
“Mm-mm, not hearin’ you, sweetheart.”
“Deaaaan!” you whine, pushing your hips back, trying to force him inside you. 
“You know what to do, Y/N.” 
You close your eyes and take a deep breath – there’s only so much of this you can take. You focus on his cock teasing your folds for a few moments, and that’s all the encouragement you need.
“Please, Dean! Please, fuck me!”
“That’s better. Louder.”
“Jesus fucking – FUCK ME, NOW!”
You’re rewarded immediately, and he bottoms out inside you with ease. 
“Was that so hard?”
“Fuck me,” you reply through gritted teeth, “or I’m gonna go get Mr. McAnn to do it.”
That is both the very wrong and very right thing to say. 
You yelp as he yanks up harder on your hair, your chest leaving the counter. His hand moves to rest on your neck – not choking you, simply holding you in place – and then he pounds into you harder than he ever has before. 
“You are something else, you know that?” he hisses, his thrusts hard and fast. “I know you were only acting like a slut for Mr. Douchebag back there, but it just comes so – fucking – easy – to you, doesn’t it?” He punctuates his words with more thrusts. “And not wearin’ any underwear – that wasn’t for the act, hm? That was because you were hopin’ to end up like this, yeah?” His hand moves from your throat to grip underneath your jaw when you fail to answer. “ Yeah ?”
“Yeah – oh m-my God – fuck , D-Deaaan.”
He smirks, watching you in the mirror above the counter as you slowly come apart on his cock. “No, you don’t have to act like a slut for me, sweetheart. You just are one, hm?” 
You nod to the best of your ability. 
“Open your eyes, look at yourself,” he orders, his grip on your jaw tightening as his thrusts speed up. You do as you’re told, meeting your reflection in the mirror. You’re not sure if your mascara is smudged because of sweat or tears, your hair looks like a bird has made its home in it, and you can’t remember a time that you’ve looked this fucked out. “See what I mean?” Dean questions. “Sluttiest you’ve ever fuckin’ looked. Not that I’m complaining.” 
You feel the dam inside you about to break, and you let out a whimper in warning. 
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, almost out of breath, his tone laced with pity. “Are you gonna cum?”
“Mm-hm,” you nod, whimpering again.
“You like being my slut that much, hm?”
“Dean, please,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, stalling your release as much as you can. You’re not sure why – it’s not like you have to wait for his permission – but you find yourself wanting it. 
“Christ, Y/N,” he breathes, quickly realizing what you’re asking for. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you know he’s close too. “Hold it, baby. Can you do that?”
“I don’t –”
“Mmm, I think you can. I’m – fuck – I’m close. Be a good little slut and hold it. Want you – shit – want you to cum with me, sweetheart.”
You find yourself nodding, focusing on Dean’s pants in your ear instead of the precipice of your release, and a few seconds go by before expletives are falling from his lips and you know it’s safe for you to let go.
Your dam breaks. “Oh, God – fuck – Dean!”
“Fuuuuuck,” he moans, filling you up. He lets his forehead fall to your shoulder as he catches his breath, post-orgasmic shivers running through him as you ride out your high, your walls clenching around his cock. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he pants, lifting his head to press a kiss behind your ear. “Such a perfect fuckin’ slut.”
You manage a soft giggle as your body settles. “Only for you, babe.”
He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder as he stares at your reflection in the mirror. 
“And don’t you forget it.”
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qdbs-writes · 9 months
Note
You don't have to if you're uncomfortable: but would you do Lao, Liu, Johnny and Takeda having to work with a very attractive MILF who calls them "pretty boy" and such?
MK Lads Get Called "Pretty Boy" By A Hot MILF
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Johnny Cage
Now Johnny knows he's good-looking, his decade-spanning career in front of a camera is testament to that. But it's still rare for someone so beautiful to be so bold with calling him "pretty boy".
"Hope you know I'm more than just a pretty face, ma'am" he'll wink in return, while he leans in to match her proximity. "Is that so?" she chuckles, "Well, I hope to get a fill of some of your skills tonight" manicured hands raking across his sculpted chest. "Oh, fuck yes." he gasps while her palm presses into his nipple, the night would be fun.
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Kung Lao
Kung Lao lives under the generally erroneous judgement that he's 'top dog' so to speak in any situation. Naturally, when someone like him is reminded that this is not the case, it's... strange, but in this case, in a very pleasant way.
Lao will take being called a "pretty boy" as a fun challenge. "Really? How about I show you just how much of a man I am?" he laughs. She purrs with satisfaction, "Oh I would love to see you try". Lao dives in to kiss her; determined to prove himself.
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Liu Kang
Naturally, being the chosen one is a lot of pressure, and Kang is diligent with himself about not letting any of that crushing responsibility or prestige to get to his head, he's still human after all.
But getting called "pretty boy" is enough to make him choke on his drink. "Excuse me?" he coughs, "Was just saying you seemed tense, pretty boy" she hums. "I suppose I have been" he exhales, she steps closer, pulling soft knuckles to stroke his cheek so intimately that he whimpers. "I could take care of you if you like?" she whispers. Pupils blown and chest heaving, he looks at her, and without words, she knows his answer.
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Takeda Takahashi
With the amount of mommy AND daddy issues swimming around in Takeda's head, calling him a "pretty boy" would have him ready to drop to his knees and start barking if you so wished.
He may also entirely miss what was said if a particularly voluptuous pair of breasts are involved, being far too distracted to meet your gaze. In this case, please feel free to grab him by the chin and pull him in close while you repeat yourself. "'Pretty boy', huh? You're not so bad yourself" he smirks. Nose to nose with a beautiful woman, Takeda can't think of a better place to be.
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