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beautyandcare · 11 months

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ALL DAY SLIMMING TEA ⚠ WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW ⚠ Review | Slimming Tea

✅ All Day Slimming Tea helps to burn fat faster and improve your metabolism. It comes in two packets. The Morning Tea will increase your metabolism, reduce your appetite and cravings and even reduce fat production in your body. The evening detox tea helps to reduce constipation, cravings, appetite, and bloating. The evening detox tea helps exacerbate your body's weight loss mechanism naturally. It has ingredients that help in faster weight reduction

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- Lemongrass

- Ginger

- Monk Fruit for sweetness without the calories

- Natural Honey

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It tastes so good that you'll recommend it to all your friends and family, and you'll enjoy it every evening after dinner because it will help you:

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✅ Check the review: https://youtu.be/aMrm3mFaQgU ✅ Check the review: https://youtu.be/aMrm3mFaQgU

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raimundoreviwes · 2 months

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ALL DAY SLIMMING TEA

All Day Slimming Tea is a natural herbal tea blend specially crafted to support weight loss and promote overall wellness. Infused with a combination of herbs and botanicals known for their metabolism-boosting and detoxifying properties, this tea offers a convenient and delicious way to aid your weight loss journey.

Key Benefits of All Day Slimming Tea:

Metabolism Boost: All Day Slimming Tea contains herbs like green tea, oolong tea, and yerba mate, which are rich in antioxidants and natural compounds that support metabolism. By increasing metabolic rate, this tea helps the body burn calories more efficiently, facilitating weight loss and fat burning.

Appetite Control: Feeling satisfied and managing cravings is essential for successful weight loss. All Day Slimming Tea includes ingredients like garcinia cambogia and gymnema sylvestre, which have been shown to help suppress appetite and reduce cravings. By promoting feelings of fullness and satiety, this tea supports portion control and healthy eating habits.

Digestive Health: A healthy digestive system is crucial for overall wellness and weight management. All Day Slimming Tea contains digestive herbs like peppermint, ginger, and fennel, which help soothe the digestive tract, reduce bloating, and support regularity. By promoting optimal digestion, this tea aids in nutrient absorption and elimination of toxins, supporting overall health and well-being.

Detoxification: Toxins and impurities can accumulate in the body and hinder weight loss efforts. All Day Slimming Tea includes detoxifying herbs like dandelion root, nettle leaf, and milk thistle, which help cleanse the liver and kidneys, supporting the body's natural detoxification processes. By eliminating toxins, this tea promotes better metabolic function and overall health.

Hydration: Staying hydrated is essential for overall health and vitality, including weight loss. All Day Slimming Tea provides a refreshing and hydrating way to increase fluid intake throughout the day. Hydration supports optimal metabolism, aids in digestion, and helps maintain energy levels, contributing to overall well-being and weight management.

Convenient and Delicious: All Day Slimming Tea is easy to incorporate into your daily routine. Simply steep a tea bag in hot water for a few minutes, and enjoy a flavorful and refreshing beverage any time of day. Whether enjoyed hot or cold, this tea provides a convenient and enjoyable way to support your weight loss goals.

Incorporating All Day Slimming Tea into your daily regimen can help you achieve your weight loss goals and promote overall wellness. However, it's essential to remember that tea alone is not a magic solution for weight loss and should be combined with a balanced diet and regular exercise for best results. As with any dietary supplement, it's advisable to consult with a healthcare professional before starting a new regimen, especially if you have underlying health conditions or are taking medication.

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mrpenguinpants · 1 year

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Low Battery Warning - Touch Starved HCs

— If he goes too long without you by his side, he starts to get irritable and too frustrating for anyone to deal with. For the sake of everyone, please remember to recharge your battery before leaving for extended periods of time.

— Tartaglia, Kaveh, Ayato, Alhaitham, and Dottore

[Masterlist]

I JUST WANT TO WRITE WHIPPED MEN OKAY? What do you mean I have to write a part 2 for two different fics??? I'm honestly surprised I managed to finish this. Also, ALHAITHAM NATION REJOICE, YOUR BOY IS HERE AND I CAN FINALLY MAKE A BANNER. I wasn't going to write him (I'm a kaveh stan) but now that he's here...

Tartaglia

While Tartaglia is the most favored to work with compared to the other Harbingers, that's only by a very slim margin. The closest you'll get to death is when the man gets bored and randomly picks someone to fight, but they usually make it out alive. Maybe a couple weeks in the medical bay and a few broken bones but they aren't dead for the most part. He's also the youngest and therefore the most easy-going even if he's a bit childish. He's a soldier first so he knows the pain of listening to someone verbally beat you down and not having the power to do anything back. But he's still a person at the end of the day and after so many people messing up and delaying his work, he's starting to get irritated. First, it was someone spilling tea onto important documents that he just finished signing, then the Fatui agents stationed near Jueyun Karst being defeated by some no-named treasure hoarders, and then finally being held hostage in his own office because the Liyue Qixing wouldn't leave him alone. God, he slumps over his desk, he just wants to go home and see you!

By the time he finally stumbles through the door, you're already passed out on the couch. He can't blame you, it's very late into the night and he would probably be more upset if you forced yourself to stay awake just to welcome him home. But he can still pout that he was taken away from you for so long, he didn't even get to see you all day. That's borderline torture. But he supposes he can forgive you since you look so cute bundled up in his red shirt. If he happens to take a picture or two that's for his knowledge and eyes only. So he easily scoops you up into his arms, taking a couple seconds to just stand there as he basks in the comfortable weight before he takes you to bed. Just for tonight. This will be the last time work takes him away from home for so long.

It lasts for two weeks. Usually, Childe could hold himself together, he's been away for far longer, but the fact that you're right there and he can't hold you is driving him insane. By the 14th day, Childe is ready to snap his pen in half and hurl it at the next person that comes through that cursed door. He doesn't though because it's usually Ekaterina, the only one that has the balls to talk to him right now, and she deserves far more than she's paid to deal with. But he's touch-deprived and tired. Even Zhongli with his infinite amount of patience advises him to sort himself out before inviting him out to lunch next time. He tried to deal with it on his own, this isn't the first time he's felt claustrophobic, but after the fifth Hilichurl camp he doesn't feel any better which only makes his mood sour further. He might even beat Scaramouche in how short-tempered he is right now. There's heavy air wherever he goes and whatever carefree persona he usually has on is thrown out the window.

It's Zhongli who clues you into how bad Childe's demeanor has gotten, the rascal looks horrible both physically and mentally. Despite the consultant and Childe being on friendly terms, you don't really know the man that well. But he doesn't seem like the type of person to lie so you thank him for the information and make your way to the Northland Bank. To be honest, you've been feeling the effects of not seeing Childe as often as you usually do. You know his work can get so hectic that it keeps him cooped up in his office but it's been a while since you've even seen that fluff of ginger hair. He usually doesn't want you near his work considering how it might put you in danger, but if he isn't taking care of himself then what kind of partner would you be if you didn't help?

Even outside the building, you can feel the effects of what Zhongli talked about. All the agents look like they're on their last legs, there's a gloomy atmosphere surrounding the building even though the sun shines brightly across Liyue harbor, and you can vaguely hear an annoyed Harbinger scolding someone. As soon as you set foot into the building Ekaterina nearly tackles you off your feet. Desperately thanking you for coming and looking at you as if you're the Tsaritsa herself.

As soon as Ekaterina says your name, Childe whips his head around at such a speed that you're afraid his head might fling off as his eyes lock onto yours. You know Childe wouldn't hurt you, never you, but he's looking at you like he's about to devour you and you're suddenly very glad you've never been on the receiving end of his anger. He shoves the papers in his hands into the agent's chest he was probably reprimanding and marches over to where you are.

"C-Childe?" "S-Sir?"

Ekaterina mirrors the wary call of his name until he's finally in front of you and without a word, throws his arms around you. You stumble a bit under his weight but you quickly circle your arms around his back and hold on tight so you don't trip over your own feet. You can only imagine what it looks like for Ekaterina to see her stiff boss suddenly deflate in your arms. A pleased groan escapes from him as he basically lifts you off your feet just so he can hug you closer to him. You almost feel like a child's teddy bear with your legs dangling in the air trapped in a crushing hug. You know that your relationship with Childe isn't a secret but you both don't show any displays of affection, you don't even really interact in public in general, so this is pretty open for the two of you. Well, for you at least. You don't even think Childe is registering anything around him except that you're here.

"Are you okay милый?" you whisper into his ear, nuzzling into the side of his head that's nestled into your shoulder. Your snezhnaya is a little rough around the edges but from how he seems to purr you think he enjoys it nonetheless. "Although I'm happy to see you too, don't you think we should move so we aren't blocking the main entrance?"

He sleepily blinks awake and slowly starts to acknowledge that you're both very much standing at the bank's entrance with everyone shamelessly staring. He frankly looks like he doesn't care, people have working legs, they can walk around you both. But he also doesn't want anyone to find another reason to take him away when he's very comfortable.

"If you need me, don't," is the clipped order that rings out through the bank. You know he's heavily censoring what he actually wants to say but from how everyone cowers away, they can probably tell what would happen if they disobey him. They all give him a nod and a salute before he's picking you up, cradles you into your arms, and swiftly walks upstairs. With a kick of his boot, the door slams shut and he sinks into his chair, you seated pretty on his lap.

"Please never leave me, I think I might die," he groans, re-wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You can only sigh fondly as you gently run your fingers through his hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp and he melts into goo. As if you would want to leave.

Kaveh

You know Kaveh is a bit...eccentric to say the least. He always says what's on his mind and most of the time his thoughts are things he should keep to himself. Even you're not totally immune to his blunt honesty despite the fact he tries to watch how he phrases things when directed to you. He doesn't want to accidentally hurt your feelings, regardless if you know he means no harm. It's rather cute that for someone who doesn't care about what others think of him, he's a bit insecure around you. He likes you, really likes you, and he often finds himself plotting out what he's going to say hours before your lunch date with him. But as soon as you greet him with that charming smile and a brief hug, he turns into putty and whatever flowery language he conjured in his mind is swept away. The confident architect that graduated with honors is reduced to a red-faced mess of stumbling words. It doesn't help that you find it adorable enough to press a chaste kiss to his red cheek and he swears that he's going to pass out from a heat stroke.

He's both extremely glad and terribly conflicted that your love language seems to be touch. He loves it when you brush your fingers through his hair but it always lulls him into sleep so he doesn't get any work done. He loves it when you hug him tightly but then he never wants to leave so he doesn't get any work done. He loves it when you cup his cheeks and pull him into a kiss but then he goes in for seconds, then thirds, and so on that he doesn't get any work done. If he went into alchemy rather than architecture he would dedicate his life work to studying why you have the touch of an Archon that compels him so. But he didn't and now that he's drowning in debt, he really needs to concentrate and finish his work before the deadline.

So now he has the painful task of trying to find an extremely polite way of asking you to leave him alone without you taking offense and breaking up with him. He would be devastated if he couldn't see your loving gaze on him again. But the situation is dire because as soon as he sees you, all he wants to do is curl up in bed with you in his arms. Preferably forever but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there. But every time he tries to bring it up it only takes one look from you for him to stutter and wave off his words. He tries to pep talk himself and every single time he claims that this will be the day that he, very politely, pushes you off, it ends with him melting into goo and waking up the next day with all his untouched work judging him from the table.

It gets to the point that he begins to air his grievances to Alhaitham of all people. To be fair, he doesn't expect the scribe to listen to a word he says and if he did, it would only be because Kaveh needed to pay his share of the rent. But he's pleasantly surprised when you pop up with a guilty smile and that Alhaitham explained his circumstances to you. He tries to clear up the situation, he has no idea what Alhaitham said specifically but it must have been put in the worst way possible, but you take his hands and he shuts up immediately. You give him a light giggle that melts his heart and you tell him to call for you once he's completed his work.

It was the worst decision he's ever made. Second to moving in with Alhaitham. Maybe his judgment of you being an angel was a lie and you were secretly the devil from how often his thoughts were plagued by you. He could draw a circle and think of your eyes. He knows that he's smitten in your presence but he didn't expect that to double when he's suddenly alone. His only motivation is that as soon as he's finished, he'll be able to see you again. But his mind and his work bleed together and he ends up drawing your face instead of buildings and pipes.

He ends up locking himself in his studio and slowly deforming into slime with how awful he's taking care of himself. Alhaitham has to pry him from the table only for Kaveh to flop in his arms that the scribe gives up and hauls the corpse over his shoulder and makes his way to your home. Kaveh still needs to pay his share of the rent so he's not allowed to die before then.

When you opened the door you weren't expecting Alhaitham at your doorstep with Kaveh over his shoulder. He doesn't seem to want to be in this situation either because it looks like he's two seconds away from throwing your boyfriend across the room. But he manages to reign everything in front of you and quickly explains Kaveh's situation, dumping said man into your arms, and telling you to fix it. You shoot him an apologetic smile that he waves off, it's not like it's your fault, before turning around and making his way back to his own home.

"Kaveh?" you whisper gently against his ear to not startle him. It only takes him a second to register your voice before he's perking up and beaming at you. He easily shifts positions so you're in his arms instead. Twirling you around and using the momentum to tuck an arm under your knees and smoothly picking you up, somehow supporting your entire weight in one arm while the other closes the door. Sometimes you forget that Kaveh is really strong despite his lean stature. He is a claymore user after all.

"Darling! What are you doing here?" Kaveh questions while he makes himself at home. If only your living space was big enough for him to store all his work otherwise he would have moved in with you by now.

"Alhaitham mentioned that your recent commission was taking up all your time and you weren't taking care of yourself. Are you alright?" you ask, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself while Kaveh takes his shoes and coat off. In these types of moments, no matter what you do or say he'll refuse to let you out of his arms. If he has to live with one arm then he'll gladly do so just so long as his other hand is wrapped around you.

"Never better," he replies with a smile. He's obviously lying given the dark circles under his pretty red eyes but the soft look he sends you is enough to tell you that right now, he's never been more comfortable. It makes you a bit flustered to have such an intense gaze on you but Kaveh is always forward with his affections and this isn't any different. With you in his arms, there's nowhere for you to run to when he tilts your chin down and brushes his lips against yours.

"Be still for me..." he whispers, the vibrations of his voice tingling against your skin as both of your eyes slowly close. Only for the moment to shatter by loud knocks on your door. You both jerk apart and turn to the disturbance with varying expressions. You're a flustered mess while Kaveh scowls as if the door offended his entire life's work. He finally sets you down on your feet and gives you a quick peck on the cheek. Before marching to the door, flinging it open, and telling the man on the other side to shoo before slamming the door in his face. Unless the world is ending, don't knock.

Ayato

To say Ayato works hard is an understatement. There are several nights when he's glued to his desk rather than resting in bed. Such are the woes of him being forever dedicated to his duties as the Yashiro Commissioner. On days when there are big events and everything needs to be perfect, he's nearly inconsolable that Thoma weighs how much he can get away with if he knocks Ayato out with a frying pan. His pondering doesn't go far because even though Ayato looks like a corpse from the lack of sleep, he'd probably knock Thoma off his feet before the housekeeper could even raise his arms. Ayaka has better luck but she's only able to drag him away for a few minutes before he points in a random direction to divert her attention before disappearing as soon as she turns back. It's just something everyone is aware of and they try their best to support Lord Kamisato. But if it starts to look really bad, like Ayato might drop dead at any second, then you're called in. The last defense and their ace up the sleeve. Not to brag or anything but you have a spotless record and you intend to keep it that way.

It only takes one word from you to have the dignified and cunning Ayato turn into a scared rabbit. His name. None of the wary calls of Lord Kamisato, a dismissal of his titles, and certainly not your affectionate terms of endearment. It always brings the temperature of the room to zero and Ayaka has to double-check that her cyro vision didn't accidentally activate. Unlike Thoma and Ayaka, you're not soft on him and you set your foot down when it comes to his extremes. One of the many reasons he fell in love with you but it's coming back to bite him now. He hates seeing you unhappy, doing anything possible to wipe that frown off your face, but when it's him that's making you so displeased he can't help but look like a scolded puppy.

It doesn't take much for you to know that Ayato has overworked himself to the breaking point again. You understand his duties mean that he's going to be riddled with work but you're his partner first and foremost. You're there to care about Ayato, not the Yashiro Commissioner. And Ayato looks like he's falling apart at the seams. Heavy eye bags, pale complexion, and his body swaying back and forth before he catches himself from falling over. It pains your heart to see him like this and yet still push himself to keep going. So you take one, two, and three steps towards him to delicately take his hand in yours, rubbing soothing circles into his palm before intertwining your fingers together.

Unlike Thoma and Ayaka, he doesn't disappear as soon as you take your eyes off him. Just stands there and stares dopily at you while you issue orders to take over his work. God, you look so attractive when you're in control. It's been a while since he's seen anything but paper and ink but did you always look this beautiful? He's so glad he's going to marry you. Maybe he can force the elders to move the ceremony date up. Everyone in the room politely ignores the fact that Ayato is saying these thoughts out loud and how red your face has gotten.

He doesn't object when you pull him out of the room with you, blindly following you wherever you happen to lead him by the hand. As long as your hand is in his, he'll follow you to the ends of the earth if you'll allow it. It's a bit comical how the dignified Yashiro Commissioner recedes into himself and crumbles away into a love-sick man just by a simple touch. At much as it makes you feel a bit shy, it's nice to know that Ayato won't try and weasel his way out of your grasp and return to his work.

If anything he clings to you like an onikabuto on a tree. You have to waddle your way to the baths with an oversized blue-haired man refusing to let go and draping himself over your back. You know he's making this as hard as possible on purpose, just do you can dote and pamper him a bit longer before he succumbs to slumber and has to return to work. It dampens his mood thinking of the future but it's quickly ushered away by the warm water poured over his head. It's fitting that his vision is hydro because he fits himself into the space you provide as you begin to scrub his hair clean.

There's something meditative about having his hair washed by your hands that no one else can replicate. It's a luxury that he only receives when he works hard enough that his arms hang uselessly at his sides and his body slumps into itself. Soft and malleable, completely willing to bend and mold in whatever shape you wish. But your hands scrub through his hair gently, rubbing all the stress out of his body and never complaining. Right now there's nothing else that matters more than being here with you and you with him.

"I'm going to rinse your hair out. Close your eyes now," you softly say and he follows your instructions. The rush of warm water is soothing to his ears although it sparks something in his memory that momentarily takes him out of this romantic moment. He reaches blindly behind him to take your hand, rubbing circles into your palm to halt your actions.

"It's just occurred to me but aren't you supposed to be on a trip to Watatsumi island?" he opens his eyes to peer up at you, his long eyelashes tipped with water droplets reminding you of just how pretty Ayato is. It's almost a good enough distraction for you to forget why exactly you're here rather than speaking with Kokomi right now. Almost.

"I was but someone had to go and work himself to death again. You need to take better care of yourself Ayato. I don't want to see Thoma running across all of Inazuma just to drag me back because you can't seem to sit still for a few seconds," your frown deepens with each sentence. Your free hand that's not in his grasp is knocking against his forehead, albeit not hard enough to cause any actual pain. He only chuckles before pulling you into the water with him until you're sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His head lay comfortably against your thighs.

"Apologies." He's not sorry at all. "When you're not beside me I have to throw myself into my work or else I may go insane."

"Oh so now all of this is my fault," you huff exasperated but he can hear the undertones of how happy that sentence makes you. "Come on, you'll catch a cold if we stay here any longer."

"Mmm, indulge me," he mumbles into your skin, his eyes closing once again with a content smile on his face. He doesn't need to see to know that you have an equally fond expression.

"Oh, so now my lord wishes to relax?"

"Only because you're here."

Alhaitham

You know that your relationship with Alhaitham is unusual to onlookers. You're both polar opposites and yet somehow stumbled into a rather healthy and committed relationship. To others, Alhaitham is a talented and intelligent man. The perfect bachelor if it wasn't for his "extraordinary sense of individualism" that he doesn't pay attention to people around him. He's notorious for being hard to get along with that not even his handsome face is enough for people to sit around for too long. Meanwhile, there's you. A wandering traveler who takes work whenever anyone needs an extra pair of hands. You're a bit well-known for accepting any job that pays well regardless of how dangerous or weird it might be. But unlike Alhaitham, you're more than happy to make conversation and you're often seen conversing with scholars from every one of the Six Darshans.

To everyone's knowledge, it's you that's the clingy one. You always have a hand around his arm or throw yourself at him shamelessly. Everyone assumes that Alhaitham tolerates it because he never pushes you off but he doesn't reciprocate affection to the degree that you do. If only those nosy scholars could see him now. Your newest job has you traveling to the Chasm to help collect and study the newly opened area. While the Chasm is close to Sumeru, a series of mysterious accidents led the entire mine to be closed. With the Liyue Qizing gradually reopening the area there's a lot of ground to cover. Alhaitham doesn't care much for the details except that this means you'll be away from him for a few years rather than a few weeks. As soon as you told him the expected date you'll return his face instantly soured. It was so cute that you couldn't help but press kisses to the corners of his mouth until they lifted. But one thing led to another and you're now trapped underneath his strong figure for the past couple of hours with no signs of him letting go. Every day you're gone equates to one minute he gets to keep you here.

No matter how much Alhaitham wishes to make you stay, even going so far as to bribe you, you eventually gather your things, press one last kiss to his lips, and leave him in his too-quiet house. He doesn't want to admit it but as soon as he closes the door he already feels lonely. But he'll learn to cope and continue with his life. He's been through more challenging obstacles and made it through. It's only two years, 3 months, 14 minutes, and 58 seconds. Alhaitham sighs and leans against the door. He's not going to make it.

Everyone else is content to whisper behind their hands about how the scribe seems to be more hostile. While Alhaitham doesn't have the most friendly personality, he's still somewhat polite until someone gives him a reason to exit the conversation. But now Alhaitham can barely get two sentences in before insulting someone. He doesn't even mean to do it on purpose, it just slips out. A girl who happens to share your eye color is met with a backhanded compliment that she should eat more fish. A man whose skin color is just a shade lighter than yours is met with an irritated scowl before he could even say anything. It's only now that people start to miss your presence because anything is better than a walking warning sign.

It only takes a few weeks for him to crack. He's not usually this starved of attention but the knowledge that he won't see you for another two years has him itching at his wrists. While on the outside there doesn't seem to be any changes, he's perfectly calm and collected, but his facade breaks when he starts making rash decisions. When he heard that his senior Kaveh needed a place to stay due to his financial situation, he offered to live with him much to everyone and his own surprise. Even Kaveh suspiciously asks why Alhaitham is being so generous. He doesn't dignify it with a proper answer, only that he better get his situation fixed within the next two years or the scribe is kicking him out.

As the second year rolls past, it's Kaveh who brings up Alhaitham's sudden mood change. He seems...excited. Kaveh chalks it up to Alhaitham being happy that Kaveh is finally moving out but that'd be kind of low even for someone like Alhaitham. As someone who cares about the arts and romance, there's a certain care in how Alhaitham cleans the house. Every systematic movement is laced with a longing gaze. His wrists are rubbed raw that Kaveh has to physically step in or he might rub so hard he reaches the bone. But above all the dangerous aura around Alhaitham is replaced with something Kaveh can only describe as restless patience.

"Honey, I'm home!" your happy voice is accompanied by the loud slam of the door crashing against the wall. Kaveh is startled by a random stranger entering their house but mostly at the term of endearment. Alhaitham only lowers his book at your voice before going back to reading. A bit rude in Kaveh's opinion but he can see the small smile that Alhaitham tries to hide behind the pages of his book. It's not like you aren't a bit devious yourself. So you retaliate by plucking the book out of his hands, taking a quick glance at his page number before placing it on the desk.

"Welcome back. I assume your job went well?" Alhaitham sighs as you kick his legs apart, plop yourself down into his lap, and rest your head against his chest. If you weren't so enthralled by the masterpiece that was Alhaitham's physique, you would have laughed at how the blond-haired man seemed to stare owlishly at the scene. His eyes almost fall out of their heads when Alhaitham doesn't push you off, doesn't throw you over his shoulder, or even make the slightest hint of being irritated or embarrassed. He just places his hands around your waist, rests his chin on your head, and sends an icy glare to which the blond-haired man scoffs before excusing himself. It's not anything different from what he usually does to onlookers although this is you and you can tell just how weary he is. How deeply he relaxes in your hold as the tension melts from his shoulders. How his eyes search over your body for any injuries that you might have gotten. It does look like you got a bit roughed up during your stay at the Chasm. Your hair is cut shorter than he remembers, you've put on some muscle, and there are a few nicks and cuts running along parts of your skin that are visible. But none of that matters because you're here. You're finally here.

"Aww, Haitham did you miss me?" you tease only to quickly eat your words when he manuever's you sideways so he can pin your back against the couch. You're hit with a sense of deja vu back to two years ago when you were about to leave for this trip.

"The next time you take a commission that lasts longer than two weeks, I'm coming with you or you're not going at all," he grumbles as he tucks himself into the crook of your neck with no signs of leaving. You laugh now but he's dead serious.

Dottore

You aren't sure when it started but at some point, you've been labeled as "Dottore's Favourite". He always seems to be the slightest bit nicer if you happen to be there, his voice a smidge less aggressive, and a lot more touchy. He's a Doctor first so he doesn't want to be contaminated by whatever bacteria people have gathered. But with you, he always seems to have a hand on you. Either harshly pinching your cheeks like a child with a crazed grin whenever you mumble something he deems stupid or pulling your arm of out its socket as he yanks you through the hallways of his lab. You act almost as his shadow, permanently glued to his feet and forced to follow wherever he goes.

You wouldn't consider yourself exceptional at your job but you did know how to listen. Perhaps it was your blatant disregard for your lack of safety since your head was always in the clouds that let you do your job with a steady hand. You don't blame your college's, it's hard to work under so much stress. If you had to do quantum physics and whatever the hell smart people do with someone who could, and would, kill you on the spot if you couldn't tell him what 3567 x 438 was on the spot, you think you could have exploded and crumbled on the spot. But you were just the ditzy receptionist who twirled a pencil on her nose more than on a paper. The only thing you were required to do was make sure Dottore was never bothered and let him know if anyone important needed his attention.

You've seen the Regrator the most compared to the rest of the Harbingers. You don't know what a banker needs from a doctor but you're not about to ask. It's not your business and you aren't paid enough to care about what your boss does. Besides, for such a handsome face his presence creeps you out which is saying something considering there's a maniacal doctor that treats human lives like numbers on a stats page. But since you are his "receptionist" you have to make conversation with him. Most of your interaction extends to him asking if the Doctor is in and you politely saying that he's out. You both pointedly ignore the loud crashes and angry yelling from one of his segments behind the closed steel door.

Once again, you don't consider yourself exceptional at your job. You're just a lousy receptionist at a place that doesn't require it and who spends all their time spinning in the office chair than doing actual work. You're just as replaceable as any grunt in this hell hole. So when Tartaglia waltzes through the doors, blinking at you with his dead fish eyes, before nodding to himself and hauling you out of your chair you can only hope that Dottore manages to remember that he has a meeting with Pantalone at noon.

You're hardly gone for an hour. Tartaglia was just bored, bored enough to come to Dottore of all people, that he happened to spot you who looked equally as bored. He just roughed you up a little before he deemed you completely useless and a horrible fighter before sending you back on your way. Seriously, if he wanted a fight he should have just picked one of the skirmishers instead of a damn receptionist. Although you may have to reconsider your position because as soon as you walk back into the lab, a girl is throwing herself at you and demanding where you've been.

You don't get the chance to answer before she's hurriedly running down twisting hallways, down the stairs, and punching in codes so complicated it looked like she was trying to make music out of them. Whatever questions you have are ignored in favor of getting you somewhere as fast as possible. It begins to make sense when you're finally shoved into a room, the girl who dragged you all this way throwing herself onto her knees and begging for forgiveness for letting you wander off.

The lab is an absolute disaster. This isn't the organized chaos you're acquainted with but the aftermath of a manic episode you're familiar with. Glass shards dripping with fluorescent liquid, research notes torn apart that flutter around the room as faux snow, and one mad doctor in the middle.

"Where have you been?"

For someone who destroyed years worth of progress, he sounds oddly calm and collected. His deep voice is firm while he fiddles with a test tube of blue liquid, watching it slosh around before placing it onto a broken table. He barely pays any mind to the girl currently on her hands and knees, forehead pressed to the ground while she glares at you to say something.

"Out," is your reply. A casual shrug of your shoulders even though the Dottore's back is to you. He's not wearing his usual white coat. That's too bad, you think it looks kinda cool. Really goes with his bird aesthetic.

"Out...out you say. Out. Out. Out," he mumbles softly, each time he say's the word "out", he taps the test tube harder onto the table. The lull in conversation only makes the pressure of the room drop lower before the tension snaps and he hurls the test tube at the girl still on her knees. It's only thanks to your reflexes that you manage to grab the collar of her uniform and throw her back just as the test tube collides with the floor, the liquid melting away the concrete where her head was. You can only give her a nudge and a look towards the door for her to scramble to her feet and flee as far away as she can. The slam of the door behind her acting as the nail in the coffin as Dottore's body seems to slump in on itself.

"Where have you been?" he asks again, running a hand through his messy hair. He sounds and looks far more tired, his fingers twitching to reach out and hold you but his pride stopping him. So you push yourself and step forward into his space, reaching your hands out to cup his face and rubbing soothing circles into his porcelain skin. He doesn't lean into your touch but he doesn't push you away either.

"Getting tossed around by Tartaglia. He came by saying he was bored and I just so happened to be there," you say absentmindedly, twirling the long lock of blue hair that hangs off the sides of his mask. He responds by snatching your wrist, squeezing hard enough until your bones creak. "Were you worried? Did you think I ran away?"

He doesn't dignify your question with a response. Simply shrugging your hands off his face before he reaches up to pinch your cheeks, a familiar cackle vibrating from his chest.

"As if you would have anywhere to go."

———

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moonjxsung · 4 months

Text

Begged & Borrowed

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 30.2k

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

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

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

18+. Mdni!

•

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you sigh again, cocking your head at him.

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

“I’ll call you,” Minho reaffirms.

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

“I promise to answer,” he echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now you’re lying,” you remark.

“I’m not-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Things are okay between us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where would we go?” You ask reluctantly.

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

“Anything,” he responds. “Your pick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A yoga retreat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She laughs lightly, shooting Minho a thumbs up.

“Enjoy it while you can!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bait,” he says with a small smile.

“Bait?” You echo. “You mean like…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does that mean?”

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

“Minho!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You wrote about Europe or something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honeymoon. Even that word sounds foreign.

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

He laughs lightly, giving you a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s really dark,” you comment.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m nervous,” you say candidly.

“Why?”

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

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

“Are you happy?”

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

“Jung hates me,” Minho says suddenly.

“He doesn’t hate you-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,”’Minho says. “Me neither.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you stay like this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disloyal. Another man. Cheater.

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was just- what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s messy,” Minho replies.

“What if I’m bad at it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

“Should we… talk about what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want you to feel guilty-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fiancé?”

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

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

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

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

“You think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bastard. Facilitator of cheating. Homewrecker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did something about what?”

“This,” you emphasize. “Us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you say that suddenly?”

“Just… thinking,” Minho finishes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” Minho says in a shy voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cue the obnoxious laughter, fake smiles, raised glasses.

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

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

Roaring laughter, unsightly grins and clinking glasses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything. Something dreamy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not here,” you say simply.

“What? What’s not here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are we doing?”

“What?” You query in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minho, please-”

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

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

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

“What?”

“The soap dish,” he clarifies somberly. “For your ring.”

And Minho watches as your gaze falls to the stainless steel soap dish across the room, a bristle pad sponge occupying the rectangular dish, alongside the familiar glint of your silver engagement ring.

One you removed to ensure you didn’t lose it among the plate of pin bones from the cod you helped Minho prepare. And one you hadn’t even realized has been missing from your finger for several hours now.

Your gaze falls back to Minho’s before you retrieve the ring, and his eyes are swollen and mournful. There’s not a glint of hope present between you two- not in friendship, and certainly not in love.

And neither of you say another word as you pivot on your heel to collect the symbol of yours and Jung’s ode to permanence.

The polyester-spandex mix of your reception dress is much itchier than you remembered it to be. It’s a simple white piece, long and cascading behind the heels you’ve chosen, a generous v-cut enhancing the curve of your breasts as you adjust the hem in the mirror.

“Is it more comfortable than your wedding dress?” One of the bridesmaids questions with a smile.

You shoot her a somber smile, nodding at her and fidgeting with the long sleeve of your dress.

“Yeah. It is.”

“It should be,” she responds kindly. “Remember, try not to step on the bottom or we’ll have to get it cleaned off before the real thing.”

You nod at her, checking your reflection once more in the full-length mirror across from you. You love the woman you embody- she looks elegant, and sure of herself and well on the path to a lifetime of stability and happiness.

And yet the girl inside of you can’t feel further from the perception.

You want nothing more than to climb out of the tight-fitting dress and leave all of this, damn this rehearsal dinner to hell and call off the wedding. But this is it- the final stretch. Guests at every corner assume their positions and practice where they’ll stand and how they’ll move about so elegantly as you say your vows.

Jung seems so sure of himself, adjusting the cuffs of his suit and shooting you a wink from across the room as you stare blankly. And you can’t reciprocate, still far too preoccupied with the events of last week to care about any of this. Minho sending you off, the ultimatum to choose between your fiancé and the best friend you’re in love with.

Of course you couldn’t choose Minho, whose role in most of this has been to help lessen your fears and prepare you for a lifetime of giving yourself to Jung. And yet somewhere along the way, you couldn’t help but wonder if that was even true, completely smitten with every part of him, too. The fact remains that you’re in love with him, and yet you’ve both been so magnificently cursed to keep it at a comfortable distance and pray that in some version of this story, it’s you guys in the end.

Your family saunters about the venue in their fancy dressed and suits, and your guests chat amongst themselves and sample the foods that have been laid out for them. And your mind circles with images of Minho, and Minho and more Minho. And what he would look like, instead of Jung, waiting at the end of the aisle for you with a toothy grin and tears in his eyes. The cheap wine you’d choose to cater, just a handful of guests the way you know he’d want it. And an innocent, undemanding love shared between the two of you, sealing your promise to each other with a tender kiss and his breathy laugh.

Yet the fantasy is fleeting, it’s rooted in the delusion of a cheater, in every sense of the word, and it would effectively ruin your life had it come to fruition.

“Which way do we go from here?” Jung questions loudly, and your head snaps up in his direction.

“From here you’ll go to the right, just past the foyer there,” a coordinator responds. “Make sure to smile when you’re walking down an aisle at any given point.”

Stupid. The whole thing feels stupid.

“Did you get that?” Jung questions, and you nod meekly.

“Sure.”

“Let’s take five,” a coordinator says, clasping her hands together.

Jung resumes a conversation with the groomsmen beside him, and your eyes fall to the vacant seat across the table, where Minho’s meant to be sitting. A small white folded card rests delicately on a white platter, his name scribbled in loopy cursive to reserve his spot.

Lee Minho.

And you read his name over a dozen times, replaying every last word of your conversation in your head and wondering what he’d do if he were here. Probably criticize the wine, or make faces at Jung’s phony speeches. And love you from afar, but with his entire heart, regardless.

“What do you think so far?” Jung leans in to whisper.

“Yeah,” you reply, nearly evading the question altogether.

Your eyes scan the room at the carefully placed decorations- rows of lantern lights, white tablecloths and organized dishes for the guests, tapered candles are lit at every table. And in the center, bushels of magenta flower arrangements in cylindrical glass vases.

Magenta.

Your eyes do a double take, carefully examining the color as you furrow your brows. Magenta. Neon, obnoxious shades of magenta at every table. Nothing within the realm of the baby pink you requested. Harsh on the eyes and contrasting repulsively against the rest of the decor.

“The flowers are magenta,” you say to Jung quietly.

“Hm?”

“The flowers,” you repeat. “Are magenta.”

“Yeah,” Jung says, audibly a little confused. “They’re nice, right?”

“I said pink,” you respond. “Baby pink. These aren’t pink.”

Jung furrows his brows together, and then he cocks his head at the floral displays set upon each table.

“You’re right,” he then replies. He snaps his fingers at a staff member, and then he gestures to the floral displays.

“These aren’t pink,” he says harshly. “She requested pink and not magenta. Could we get these swapped out, please?”

A coordinator jots something down in a small notepad, and then gives him an understanding nod.

“That’s what we’re paying you guys for, right?” Jung asks sarcastically. “Come on, don’t let us settle for magenta flowers.”

And when he turns back to you, his chuckles get quieter as he observes the displeased expression on your face.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” You ask him quietly.

“What?”

“Why are you ordering them around like that? They’re just flowers.”

“What? But you just said-”

“You never make things feel like less of a big deal,” you say quietly, a little scoff escaping your lips as you speak.

“What are you talking about?”

“You just take something and run with it. You don’t make things feel like less of a problem than they are. You’re supposed to comfort me, or find the good in magenta flowers. Not yell at the service workers.”

Jung laughs nervously, taking your words for a joke at first, and other guests begin to stare across the table as they watch you rise from your seat.

“And why is the wine so fucking expensive?”

“Please, sit down,” Jung says nervously, waving the guests off as they shoot him concerned looks.

“No, I don’t want to.”

And as you search for the words to say, your heart beating erratically, you realize it’s exactly this that you’ve stopped yourself from doing all this time. Fighting back. Using your voice the way Jung so comfortably weaponizes his against you. Letting your emotions spill out from the years they’ve been bottled up inside of you, and finally coming to terms with the fact that this isn’t the life you want at all.

It’s Minho you love, it’s always been Minho and it’s always going to be Minho.

“I don’t want this,” you say to Jung, as you smooth down your dress and stand up.

“Please, sit,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you say in a shaky voice. “You don’t fulfill me, you haven’t touched me in weeks, I don’t think you even know that I asked for baby pink flowers, because you’re too busy showing off to all the shitty people you call friends. I don’t think we have ever been friends.”

All of the guests keep their gazes on you, taken aback by your words, but you don’t care, continuing your rant while they watch in horror.

“I hate expensive wine,” you say to Jung. “I want to go on a honeymoon somewhere it snows. I want to watch comedy movies, and go camping and be so madly in love it hardly feels like it some days, because we’re also such good friends when we’re not completely infatuated with each other.”

Jung doesn’t say anything, glancing nervously around the table as the coordinators maintain their silence, too. Your chest rises and falls with gasped breaths as you try to hold back from crying in front of them. And then you shrug, before finishing your speech.

“At the end of the day, there’s the man who tells me how to golf,” you say in a shaky voice. “And there’s the man who guts a fish alongside me, mess and all.”

Jung frowns at your words, visible confusion painting his features.

“What?”

“I have to go,” you say to him, sparing him any sort of explanation.

The hem of your dress is balled into the palms of your hands and pulled up to give yourself room to walk, as you kick off your heels and begin to exit the venue. And before you do leave, you pivot around one last time, letting your gaze meet Jung’s visibly irate expression.

“Here,” you announce, pulling the silver band off your ring finger and setting it down on the tablecloth.

“If you’re going to make a big deal out of anything, at least let it be this.”

The polyester-spandex mix of your reception dress isn’t made to run in. It’s much too long, the fabric bunches up at the sides and its bright white color begs to be kept indoors only. And yet you run- and you don’t stop, not even for a second, until the reception building is completely out of your sight, disappearing beyond the trees and the tall grasses that surround it.

Your bare feet scrape the squelching mud that surrounds the grassland after the recent rains, and overhead, the piercing blue sky and a harsh sun beams down over you in encouragement. And you normally hate blue skies and green grasses like this, always equating them to Jung’s stupid golf courses and the corporate events he’s dragged you to for years.

But today it serves as a sort of blessing, like the world is brighter, lighting your path and guiding you to the beacon that is Minho, and all his unconditional, unwavering love for you. Maybe it took you years to finally acquaint yourself with your emotions like this, and maybe you hadn’t even realized what true love was until Minho. And there’s the possibility, of course, that you’re also too late, and that Minho has already settled on the tragic fact that Jung would always remain a part of you.

And that’s true- he will maintain a role of permanence in your life. He was your first serious boyfriend throughout college, your first fiancé and your first true love before you understood it in a less superficial form. And yet he will also permanently remain the man whose life you walked out on, because he helped you realize he’s nothing near what actually fulfills you.

Once the paved roads are in view again, you waste no time waving down a taxi and uttering Minho’s address to the driver with such urgency. Your dress is caked in mud up to the ankles, and your hair is in complete disarray as you glance out the window at the rows of cars, all belonging to guests here for your dinner rehearsal. And you chuckle briefly, at the thought of them emptying the lot and walking out of your life forever.

Contrastly, Minho’s apartment is in complete disarray, too, as he hoists the last of his immediate belongings into a leather bound suitcase and latches it shut.

What a waste, he thinks to himself. What a waste to have spent so much time comfortably in love with the idea of a finite soulmate, and at such close proximity, too. You’re probably off at your rehearsal dinner, sampling finger foods and laughing at all of Jung’s surface-level conversation.

And he’ll never know you the way Minho knows you. He will never comprehend your fears, your reservations, all your little quirks and the things that make you tick. He’ll never fully understand the prospect of being so bound to somebody in both friendship and love that it’s almost indistinguishable what you are to each other. Perhaps that’s where you went wrong, too- because Minho knows it, that his role in your life has always been to love you, near, far and at every point in between. And yet you deem it just a fleeting thing, one implying an end.

There is no discernible point between the end of my friendship and my love for you, Minho wishes he could tell you. Just like the promise of my friendship to you, it’s a blossoming thing, this beautiful phenomenon. And we can run with it, or we can let it die like this- but it will always remain of permanence.

The chestnut suitcase is hoisted into the trunk of his car, also littered with boxes and duffel bags of his belongings. It’s a vulnerable feeling, to pack up and move on like this. Not forever- just for the duration of which you’ll be uttering your vows to Jung. He can’t bear to be in the same city as any of it, he refuses to let himself love at the proximity of you dolled up in a wedding dress, in the sacred environment of a church surrounded by your family. How could a higher power accept the felicitations of the same man who’s been fucking you behind the groom’s back? Within the four walls of which transforms hate to love, and sin to virtue?

What a waste, Minho concludes again. What a waste to have loved this deeply, and to pacify your fears only for another man to reap the benefits. Try as Jung might, he’ll never know you the way Minho does. And the vast trench that separates you from Jung, one which paints a clear divide of friendship and his superficial love for you- that will remain permanent, too.

As Minho starts up the engine, the last of his belongings all packed and ready to go, he glances around the neighborhood with a somber expression. The sun glares down on the empty concrete roads, birds circling the sky like there’s any reason to celebrate. Maybe they’re ravens, and maybe they circle in a mourning ritual. The only event fitting for an afternoon like this one, as Minho prepares to leave for his parents’ house- like the coward he knows he is.

His apartment grows smaller with every passing inch he drives down the concrete road, and a trembling hand reaches up to adjust his rear view mirror, letting out a deep exhale as he prepares to leave all this behind.

And as the faint outline of his apartment grows smaller, a white figure behind him grows bigger.

It starts as a fleeting blur, maybe a shadow, or perhaps the glint of the sunlight in his mirror. But as he quickens the push of his foot to the gas pedal, it grows faster, too, catching up to the drag of his car along the concrete and approaching him with such purpose.

An apparition of sorts, he thinks momentarily.

I’m fucking seeing things. I’ve officially lost it.

But as the frantic call of his name floats through the air and into the crack of his car window, his eyes widen, the lag of his brain finally reaching a halt as he slams on his brakes and throws open the door.

And in rushed motions, he’s climbing out to face you, doubled over as you catch your breath and hold a hand up in surrender.

“Stop!” You shout, waving your hands and motioning for him to cease his movements.

And Minho’s eyes don’t get any smaller, maintaining their shocked expression as he waits for you to speak.

Your white dress, tainted brown up to your knees in mud and grass. Even your face is muddy, streaks of it painting the otherwise stunning face of makeup you flaunt. And you speak in pleading gasps as you finally break the silence between the two of you.

“It’s you,” you say to Minho sheepishly.

“What are you-”

“It’s you, it’s always been you,” you breathe out. “I was so stupid, and I left as soon as I could comfortably come to terms with it. It’s you I love, Minho. Not Jung and not the idealized version of that life I created in my head. I can’t do any of this without you, and I can’t live the rest of my life without having said something. I love you- now, and in ten years time and I want to spend the rest of my life gutting fish alongside you- mess and all.”

Minho doesn’t say anything for a moment- in fact, he wears a poker face as he watches you continue to catch your breath. And then he scoffs lightly as he shakes his head.

“You waited until the day of your wedding to say something?” Minho retorts frustratedly.

“Rehearsal dinner,” you correct him. “This is just a dinner dress.

“Regardless,” Minho says. “I mean, what are we doing? There’s another man waiting for you, and we’re here doing something we should’ve done years ago if it was meant to be in the slightest.”

You feel your heart drop at his words, confirming the theory you’d feared the most. Too late.

“Please,” you beg, and Minho shakes his head.

“We’re terrible people,” he then states, his voice trembling in the process. “Cheaters, and liars. And this is far too rooted in dishonesty and selfishness to be love.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you watch Minho scan your expression. And perhaps he’s right- but it can’t be anything except for love, not when it feels this right with him.

“Where are you going?” You ask Minho quietly, moving a strand of muddied hair out from your eyes.

“My parents’ place,” he replies.

And you give him a small nod, pivoting on your heel to walk out of his life, forever.

Except it’s the realization of this that causes you to turn back around-

There is no forever in the absence of Minho- not when he plays a role of permanence.

He will forever be the man you fell in love with, the man you’ve been in love with for years, one you risked your life to come find and one who’s defined the limitations of what it means to be a best friend and simultaneously a lover.

That will remain with you always, and near, far and everywhere in between, the love will exist the way it always has.

“Loving me was the most selfish thing you ever did,” you call out to Minho, and he turns back around to meet your gaze.

“And yet you did it anyway,” you continue. “You made love to me and you drank my fiancé’s wine and we’re in love so selfishly at this proximity to each other. But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re in love, and that I’m not going back to Jung. And leaving here- depriving yourself of the love you’ve wanted for so long, that’s also a selfish move. You can go as far as you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that the love is still here between us.”

Minho’s lips part to say something, but he doesn’t, instead blinking nervously as he waits for you to finish.

“And at the end of the day, there’s the man who tells me how to golf, and there’s the man who teaches me how to gut a fish, mess and all,” you finally finish.

Minho stays silent, pondering your words, and scanning your expression.

And truth be told, he wants to take you in his arms and run, hearing the words he’s longed to hear all his life. But he stops himself, instead emitting a breathy chuckle from his lips and shaking his head.

“Well what do you propose?” He finally asks, cocking his head as he awaits your reply.

And his response is a weight off your shoulders, as you sigh deeply and shrug in his direction.

“I propose we let ourselves be selfish,” you say to him. “And we spend the rest of our lives seeking forgiveness together.”

Minho chuckles, taking careful note of the way your eyes sparkle as you approach him. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you so relaxed before, and certainly not so sure of yourself. You look like the woman he’s loved both near and far, exuding confidence and passion and unwavering comfort in your demeanor. His best friend and his lover, he thinks encouragingly, as he cups his hands around your cheeks and pulls you in for a tender kiss, one that confirms your proposal and implies all of this permanence.

The roads are still empty in the dull afternoon of the hour, Minho maneuvering the car with one hand as you sit beside him in the passenger seat, your hands intertwined over the center console as the harsh blue sky and bright hues of green grass melt into blurs of color beside you. And he speaks only of Shirakawa as he drives, promising you beautiful snowfalls and chilly walks along the lily ponds upon your arrival.

You can picture everything as the tales escape his lips, full of life as you imagine the brown farmhouses and green hills, where you and Minho promise to love selfishly under the prayer hand thatched roofs, the very place your forgiveness will coincide alongside the permanence.

And as he brings the back of your hand to his lips for a chaste kiss, he can feel the green vines of ivy loosen around his soul, but this time you feel it too, viridian leaves finally putting distance between your venules and their harsh grasp. And perhaps it wasn’t grieving all along, but love for you- love which you’re full of, too.

The vines tangle themselves beautifully between your seated figures, blossoming flowers and color and placing life back into you both.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Minho can finally breathe.

#stray kids #skz #skz smut #lee know fic #lee know smut #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #stray kids hard hours #skz scenarios #lee know stray kids #lee know #🌷 anon #request #Spotify

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hellavile · 1 year

Text

LUV THIS SHIT | eren yeager.

‍ ‍ ☆. warnings — 3.1k. fem!reader, eren’s pent up from working out, asmr sexting, submissive reader, impact play [ face smack, spanking ] public arousal, indecent behavior, mating press, f!oral, fingering, profanity, established relationship, lots of making out, unprotected sex, eren’s aggressive, floor sex, riding, creampie, artist!reader, pet names, reader has black features, minors aren't allowed!

‍ merry christmas! ♡

eren starts his day the same every morning. the alarm goes off at six o'clock which is never your favorite thing to hear considering you're not an early bird. usually groaning in your state of sleep and tugging the blankets away from him after he kisses you on your forehead and steps out of bed. you always snuggle on his side before the warmth he created grows cold. proceeds to take a steaming hot shower, tilting his neck back to let the heavy beats of water dampen his long hair. lathers his body with african black soap you picked up from a shop while SONDER plays from his speaker, careful not to blast it too loud to wake you up. it's your off day so he's respecting your wishes to hibernate all day.

he honestly hates leaving you alone in bed. sue him but being your little spoon is the best thing he's ever known. he's never slept so good in his life until he met you. never knew it felt so comfortable being in another persons arms. eren’s next step is to dress for the gym, the only reason he's up this early three times out of the week. a dark gray towel is wrapped low around his slim waist, tatted chest and arms running with water droplets as he wipes the foggy mirror clear to see his reflection. washing his face with a kale, spinach, and green tea cleanser along with brushing his teeth, cleaning his tongue with a scraper and gargling mouthwash. he forgets to do this backwards sometimes considering he has to eat first. the taste lingers and makes his food nasty.

afterwards, he’s moisturizing his face with cerave healing ointment and his pouty cotton candy lips with one of your babylips sticks. lathering his body in vaseline coca butter lotion and slipping on a olive green colored sweatpants with a black cropped metallica muscle tank, wrapping a matching black bandanna over the top of his towel-dried chestnut hair. he spritz this cologne you picked up at the mall when thinking of him called art deco amberwood by clive christian. makes you fall to your knees to suck him off every time now that he thinks about it.

by then it's near seven and he's down in the kitchen with his black airpod max’s over his ears listening to jazz while he blends his smoothie with spinach, kale, strawberries, blueberries, and pineapples. he gulps that down after filling a mason jar completely. and for further consumption, he makes avocado toast topped with chia seeds, himalayan salt and pepper and two strips of bacon each.

before he leaves he makes sure to run back up the stairs to double check on you to see if you needed anything before he left such as picking up a coffee from dunkin or anything from the art supply store. he peaks his head through the door to see you sprawled out, mouth open and snoring peacefully, cuddling his pillow. he smiles to himself, mumbling ‘my pretty girl’ before quietly tiptoeing close to the king-sized bed with satin sheets to give you a kiss or two before heading out, moving your bonnet aside to whisper that he loves you.

he's got his gym bag and his car keys when he leaves, taking the elevator down the parking lot of the loft you two live in, three years now. he finds his car parked directly next to yours. cute. the pretty wolf gray kia k5 besides his onyx lexus rc 300. there's a gym located in the building but he prefers the one your brother owns a few minutes out of the area.

it's around ten o'clock when you fully wake up, missing his presence already and pouting about it before heading to the shower yourself. sitting in a towel for a full hour stuck on tiktok and getting a craving for samyang carbonara noodles and rice cakes. it's really the only thing that made you leave the house today, throwing on a pair of eren’s gray nike shorts you had to roll up to properly sit on your hips, and a black tank, jewelry remaining on your skin everyday from layered necklaces to multiple bracelets.

you're sitting in the starbucks drive thru which has an incredibly long line but you're not minding the wait, craving a pink drink suddenly. the sun was hitting nicely into your car so you decide to take photos to pass a little time, thumb slipping and accidentally opening the voice memos app with only four recordings, one of them fairly new. created about two weeks ago and you vaguely remember that night. it's about an hour and fifteen minutes long

'luv this shit <3’ is what it's titled. not remembering exactly how it went. you and eren only used this app whenever you're having sex, meaning those four audios were strictly nsfw. you bite your lip in curiosity, deciding to press play to hear it, flinching when you hear how loud you were screaming on top of forgetting that your phone is connected to your cars bluetooth. you swallow in panic, turning it off and sitting back in silence, twiddling your fingers, becoming impatient with the line now because you wanted to hear it. it had to be something the two of you made when you were intoxicated. or else you would've remembered it.

you've retrieved your pink drink, and now it was time to park, too impatient to wait and hear this. sipping your drink, you get comfortable, holding your phones speaker to your ear and pressing play yet again. there's music playing in the background, luv this shit by august alsina in specific, now you knew where the title came from. probably eren’s doing. a rush of heat swarms your cheeks and gut as you hear your boyfriend’s voice, deep and stern as he talks to you while skin connects and your moans overshadow the music. the sound of you kissing wetly makes you shift in your seat, feeling his soft lips on yours at the moment. you loved kissing him.

it lasts for about two minutes before eren’s voice becomes louder than yours when he's fucking you hard, your voice muffled by your hand you assume, doing that a lot since you think you're too loud. “let me fuckin’ hear it,” there's his voice again, unconsciously whimpering along with yourself in the audio. eren’s whining with you, the two of you gasping and listening to how wet you were. a loud smack erupts and you're crying his name, the memory slowly coming back. he smacked your face. the jewelry on his wrist prominent when he does it again, this time it's the outside of your thigh.

“rennnnnn! fuh-uuck.”

“i hear you, baby. come on, come on, come on, cum, cum, cum.” with every thrust he gets louder, hissing as your pussy constricts around his dick. “that's it, pretty. yeah.”

you nearly spill your drink over your lap, the cup slowly slipping from your grip after you zoned out, catching it quick and collecting yourself, setting it in the cup holder. you need to leave. actually, you need to send this to him. he has to be done at the gym by now. then again, you're never sure with him. the man could work out all day if he wanted.

being risky, you grin, pulling up his contact and sending him the audio, following with a text that said . . .

NEW MESSAGE

kuromi princess hello kitty baby star ♡

don't we sound pretty? <3

follicles of eren's hair stick to his sweaty forehead, putting it up before he started his workout, going on for about three hours now. RICH FLEX blasts in his headphones. the neckline of his top is doused with sweat, removing the boxing gloves off his hands to sit down and gulp a full bottle of water. checking his phone, he sees your message. lifting his brow at the audio you had sent, reading your response, and clicking it without hesitating. immediately when he hears your desperate pleading and skin smacking, his pupils dilate, clenching his jaw and checking his surroundings. not many people were in this area of the gym.

“fuck me, baby. fuck me, baby. fuck me, babyyy,” eren listens with wide eyes as he hears your pretty moans, skipping through the audio to hear bits and pieces.

“yeah, speak to me like that.”

eren grows shamelessly aroused from what he's hearing, swallowing hard and shifting his dick back in place, breathing heavier. he's mad at you. mad because you know he's in public and he gets easily turned on by anything regarding you. whether it be your scent, your smile, your eyes, or your fucking voice. when you talk, or scream his name. it's all the same. he's triggered by it all. and you know this, so why test him? not to mention the two of you haven't been sexually active because you've been caught up with work and painting and he's been working doubles. the only time you spend together is brief mornings in bed or one day weekends, usually sleeping all day or being lazy.

all he can think of this moment is fucking you rough and raw. gathering his belongings without another thought and sending you a brief text.

pretty boy ren <3

yea, okay.

it's so stressful walking with a hard dick, and eren really can't wait until he gets home to fuck you up. such a dirty girl needing to be put in place. he forgets his headphones have noise cancellation, so when he's speeding home like a dummy, music continues to thrum in his ears, acting like a complete madman. exactly five minutes before he enters the apartment, you're sitting in your usual corner of the loft where you've made your art station. sitting on the ground while incense flows and sza’s new album plays soundly. a canvas laying on the ground where you sat on a cushion, finger painting a collage of the weeknd’s discography since it's the 11th anniversary for echoes of silence. unaware of the message you received.

that is until you hear the familiar sound of keys jangling and in a matter of seconds, the front door flies open, there standing a big, tall, visibly irritated man. your eyes go wide from seeing him, eren kicking off his shoes, heavy feet stomping towards you and you sit up with curiosity, trying your hardest to hide your devious smile. you knew it'd have that effect on him. eren’s hot hand grabs your jaw fervently, clenching his before yanking your face close to his to connect your lips in a heated kiss. smacking his lips roughly over yours, moaning into his mouth, his eyes focused on your face as you close your eyes too comfortably for his liking. as if you're not in trouble for the shit you pulled.

your hands kept to yourself on either side of his wide shoulders, eren dragging you down to lay on your back onto the cushion you previously sat on, slipping off the black panties covering your neglected pussy, weeping, and waiting for him to get home to do exactly this. staring up at him with glee in your eyes, it's the opposite in his. he can't hear a thing you say because of his headphones, not bothering to toss them off because the only thing on his mind is sliding his dick inside of you and getting his nut off.

raising your knees without his help, he's pushing them further up to your chest, folding you still before arching his neck to release globs of spit onto your cunt three times max, each one emitting a ‘puh’ sound. you clench from his dirty act. his big body hovers over yours, heavy dick practically drenched in precum resting on your mound before eren angles his hips to slip into you. he doesn't give you time to brace yourself, gasping as he groans and thrusts his hips fast, your skin clapping and body jerking under him. beautiful green irises switching darker as he stares into your soul, your moans faintly being heard.

“think you fuckin slick, baby?” eren rasps, your mouth agape, his grip on your thighs harsh. “did that shit on purpose just so i can fuck that pretty pussy stupid on my cock, right?”

“y-yess,” he watches you nod drunkenly, your hands digging on your sides into the rug beneath you. every pound into your slick pussy vibrates into your throat, following his rhythm. happy tears brim your eyes.

“s’okay. ‘cause i got something for you.”

his pace hastens, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he drills deep, jackhammering almost, like a needy, inexperienced boy. your cunts squelching loud, hand pressing at his abdomen in attempt to slow him down but he only fucks you harder, air knocking from your lungs. it's so fucking hot the way he's handling you right now, like he's been so deprived of you for so long he couldn't stand it. couldn't even take his clothes fully off, keeping every piece on because he needed you that badly.

“ooh, i'm fucking cumming. ssss, fuck,” eren moans. you squeal as eren takes both your arms and crosses them over your tummy, holding them there while he puts his weight on you and grunts in your face. sweat dampening his bandanna, breath mixing with yours as he cums inside you. coating your walls with thick spurts of white. your knees buckle from the feeling, his lower halve twitching from the rush.

eren licks his lips, stilling his movements to take a breather, knocking back one of the ears to his airpods to hear how desperate you sound, slowly pulling his dick out, still hard.

“eren, i didn't cum,” you whine, squirming with an attitude.

“i think i knew that.”

you put your middle finger up to him for his smart ass tone, eren arching a brow and scooping you up without another word. smiling, you cling to him as he moves towards the couch, deciding to stay seated on the floor, lifting you so you sit on his lap. his cock resting on his stomach where you're able to see toned abs and a dark, neatly trimmed happy trail to match your cute brazilian strip all cause of that slutty, grunge crop top he has on. his back rests against the furniture. you take the initiative to remove these stupid headphones so you could put your hands and mouth around his neck.

“i don’t think you understand how much i thought about fuckin’ you today. you really fuckin’ don’t.” eren lands a heavy hand on your ass causing you to jump and scoot forward from leaning back on his knees. “could barely fucking focus. all because you sent me that shit.”

“and because you miss me,” you whisper, delicately skimming your lips over his, arching into him as he spreads your ass cheeks apart after smoothing over them. spanking you hard on either side until you gasp into his mouth and he could kiss you again.

“sink on it real slow,” eren taps your clit with the tip to say he wants it done now. sucking on your lip, you raise yourself till he's kissing the entrance and gently easing down, indenting crescent moons into his broad shoulders momentarily. dragging your hands to your waist, you rub over your body, hissing and throwing your head back, feeling a storm of euphoria fuel you. eren hums in fascination as you lose yourself in the bond.

“g’na say sorry with your pussy, baby?” eren taunts in a baby-like tone.

“mhmm,” what eren wants, eren gets. and if he wanted you to ride his dick you were going to. getting up on the tips of your toes and rode only on the tip first, eren choking on his spit with brows furrowed and praising you. soon, inching lower to bounce yourself up and down to his liking, being sure to clench your walls a little tighter just to hear him whine. when eren gets really feral he gets really loud. unable to control what his vocal cords let out. he used to think it was embarrassing, but the two of you have shared enough time together to dismiss judgment. he sounds so pretty when he's getting fucked good.

“shit, you keep fuckin’ me like that m’ not gonna last,” ignoring him, you continue to clap your ass down, skin interaction picking back up, eren’s hands on your hips just for leverage. he never needs to guide you. a few squeezes occasionally since he's so sensitive. painfully aroused it makes no sense.

“i can't last long,” you warn, pawing at his chest as you raise your ass and fuck him faster, eren moaning and helping you out by pounding up into you. you fall forward into his arms, yanking you down each time you'd rise back up. smacking your ass just to hear your voice pick up. “eren, fuck baby!”

“unh huh, keep goin’,” eren’s face scrunches up, whining in your ear while keeping one of his tatted arms wrapped around your backside. your thighs begin to burn but you know stopping isn't an option when he sounds that good in your ear. eren gets aggressive and hits into you harder, same time ass you drop down with more force, tugging at his hair and he whimpers your name. “keep that shit up, baby. yeahh.”

it feels so good you start crying, missing this so much. holding onto him for dear life as he somehow moves quicker, slouching in his spot so his neck settles back onto the couch, slipping his right hand under your right thigh and raising his hips to fuck up into you, lifting you like you're one of his weights at the gym. you watch as he mumbles ‘fuck’ with his eyes scrolled back and mouth wide open, jawline sharp, and adam’s apple in his throat prominent. he looked so fucking good right now you just had to kiss his neck. eren hitting that spot so good you can't control yourself from screaming, mouthing at his neck and leaving hickeys. he smells good, hints of musk and that damn cologne you love, feels good, looks even better. then wonders why you act the way you did. he’s made a monster.

“you fuck me so good, ‘ren. love you so much, missed you so much,” at this point you're babbling, saying anything that comes from your brain mindlessly. it's enough to make eren bellow streams of curses before hiking your ass off and nutting over your back, eren releasing a high-pitched gasp as he stares up at the ceiling in a daze. vision blurry.

before you complain, eren’s lifting you higher and scoots further down to sit you on his face, hot mouth munching on your soaked cunt with puffy lips. your eyes cross and you scream into the air, gripping the couch as he slides two fingers, middle and pointer, deep into your hole, thrusting while his fat tongue laps at your clit, silver cuban link on his wrist cold on your stomach. he's swallowing your arousal like he's drinking a glass of water, moaning into your pussy and spanking your ass with his unoccupied hand.

“oh my . . . god,” you're breathless as you cum, legs twitching and squealing from the intensity of your orgasm, losing balance and falling forward. eren smirks and smacks your ass one last time before moving from below you, sitting on his knees behind you and pushing your back down to fix your arch, turning your head to face him, fucked out face staring at him like he was crazy for putting his dick back inside you. you already feel so sore.

eren arches his brow. “oh, you thought i was done?”

˖ ࣪ ⌨ ˚ ﹢tags :: @sailewhoremoon @dejwrites @getosbunny @massivelynervousprincess @gatoru @satotokii @sintiva @shamelesshoefairy @minniecums @kiitysstuff @itsn0ct @7inaa @444yeager

#☆. hellavile.#eren x black reader #eren yeager x y/n #eren x y/n #eren x you #aot eren yeager #eren yeager x you #aot smut #snk smut #eren smut #eren jaeger x black reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x you #eren x reader

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scenteddelusion5 · 2 months

Note

Hi, can I request a platonic Rosie(or several overlords if that’s okay) with a Female reader who’s a teenager overlord who accidentally became an overlord?

The Overlord of Disasters

Fem teenage reader x platonic Rosie (and other overlords)

This got way too long so I tried to shorten it, hope you still enjoy it.

Word count: 2886

Note: I actually am working on a young adult/teenager oc that has the powers to become an overlord, so the fact that this is my first request is very funny. When I've finished her design, I'll write about her. But for now, here is the story of Y/n the overlord of disasters.

Y\n had to admit that she wasn't the nicest person but she never expected to end up in hell. HELL, like yess she was a bit of a troubled teen... she was a petty thief, yess, but some of her peers were much worse. Besides, she was only fifteen when she died. She never had the chance to do better. That should've given her at least some leeway? Right?? RIGHT???

But no, she ended up in hell.

When Y/n first arrived, she roamed the dangerous streets looking for shelter. Her face and slim goat-like stature was hidden by a torn cloak. She tried to be inconspicuous, discreet, low-key but she overlooked one thing... Our Y/n was ridiculously clumsy. So when she tripped over her own foot, her arm bumped into the light pole causing it to fall over onto a postal van. That in turn caused all the letters to fly out on the street. Some of the papers got carried up by the wind, eventually getting stuck onto the cord of a power pylon. Then there was fire, which spread onto a building...

Everyone's eyes were focused on her, including a set of hollow eye socket. It didn't take long for the demons that lived in the now burning building to storm her.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!" One incredibly tall shark demon took the lead. "I'm going to rip fucking longs out of your chest and feed it to those CANIBAL FREAKS!!!"

At first Rosie didn't want to intervene. It really wasn't her style to get involved into random street fights, even though she found Y/n's disastrous display hilarious. But now that the loan shark insulted her people, she felt it was her duty to step in.

"Gentlemen, whatever might be the problem?" Rosie stepped in between you and the threatening hoard and flashed her sharp teeth to them. "You aren't bullying this poor newcomer, right?"

"Uhm, n-no miss, uhm Rosie. We're sorry." Before Rosie could open her mouth again, they ran back into the still burning building.

The overlord then turned to you. "Now darling, I take it you don't have a place to stay?"

Y/n shook her head.

"Then you can stay with me. I'm quite the powerful demon."

From that day on Y/n stayed with Rosie. During the years of living together, the two grew quite close. The overlord took over a motherly role for the teen. Everyone in cannibal town loved the unofficially adopted daughter of Rosie, they were even willing to put up with Y/n's clumsy nature.

Rosie truly loved her and when Y/n accidentally called her mom while helping out in the store, she was the happiest demoness in all of hell.

From that day on Rosie introduced Y/n as her daughter to anyone and everyone, even some of her fellow overlords.

Alastor and Y/n had met many times and often had tea together. The man often joked about how it's never boring with her. She had also met Zestial and Camilla a few times, but she wasn't as close with them as Alastor and Rosie.

One day Y/n had to make a trip to the Doomsday district. Rosie had, reluctingly, sent you to deliver a dress to a customer. She was all alone, her hand rested on the angelic steel knife on her belt. Rosie had given it to her so she could protect herself, just in case. Most people knew you were close to several overlords but you could never be more careful, especially Y/n.

Y/n was repeating her 'safety protocol' in her head.

Stay away from the walls

stay away from the poles

stay away from the demons

Stay away from the fire

Look where you step

Hold th-

She walked into something and fall back on her but. Looking up was a demon she recognized... An overlord, he was in charge of the Doomsday district.

"WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!!!" This situation seemed awfully familiar.

Y/n clenched her shirt. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to."

"I DON'T CARE!!!"

The demon was menacingly towering over her. She crawled back and pulled herself up. Seeing as this wasn't going to be resolved with a pleasant conversation over tea, Y/n pulled out her knife. Her arms were shaking and the knife felt heavy in her hands.

"What do you think that toothpick is going to do?" He stepped forward and you stepped back. On and on until she hit the wall... OH no... she hit the wall...

Her elbow hit the random waterpipe on the side of the building and broke it. Water spewed out right into the overlord's face. The demon fell back. The water had landed on the street, causing a car to slip and running over the overlord and crashing into the wall. This in turn caused the satellite aerial to fall down and slightly bumped your back. The knife shot out of your hand right into overlord. The aerial send out a weird frequency.

"Spare me... Please..." The overlord gasped out.

Y/n was still shaken up. "What?... Uhm I don't plan on killing you." her voice sounded unsure, which the overlord took way different than you meant.

"Please!" He wailed. "I'm begging you... You can have all my souls, just please."

"I don't uhm..."

"PLEASE!!! TAKE THEM!!!"

"... Sure...??" She said very confused. "I'll take them." The two shook hands and immediately, Y/n could feel the pure power flowing through her veins. "Alright... Bye now?" As she stepped away a shadow covered the overlord. Before Y/n could look up a piano hit the demon, pushing the knife deeper in effectively killing him.

What the fuck just happened?

Everything was quiet. All eyes were on her, again... As always, only this time, she doubted she would be saved this time. She was prepared to be killed again... Only nobody did anything, no demons threatening to kill her, no stray bullets that got way to close to her head, not even another butterfly effect disaster... The demons around just stared.

One small demon with black eyes walked up to you... "What are you going to do to us?"

"What...?"

"What are you going to do to us?" He repeated. "You are the new overlord of the Doomsday district, you own our souls."

"I... I don't." She awkwardly grabbed at her sleeves. "I'm not an overlord."

"Yes, you are. You defeated the previous overlord of doom, took over his souls and territory, you became an overlord." Y/n stayed silent at this. "How about we talk in private?" He took her into a smaller building nearby, away from all prying eyes. "Let's start over. I'm Piper. You own my soul." The small demon introduced himself.

"Uhm... Y/n, and I'm no overlord. Overlords are like scary, like WHA!" She made grabby gestures with her hands. "And BOE! I'm anything but that."

Piper looked at her like she had just grown another head. "How about this? I'll keep your territory in control while you think this over a bit? And in turn, you'll keep me in high up in the social latter here."

Her mouth was dry. "... Deal..?" She was so confused.

From that day on Piper took care of the Doomsday district for her. Y/n never went to Rosie about this. She always wanted to keep her daughter safe and would be so mad to find out she got into trouble again... At least that's what Y/n convinced herself.

Even though Piper took care of most of the problems in the Doomsday district, word got around of the new overlord of disasters; a terrifying force of nature that shouldn't be reckoned with. So of course there were demons that wanted to challenge her. Every other day y/n needed to sneak out of Cannibal town to 'fight' these challengers. See 'fight' as in accidentally defeating them.

Y/n was filing her bag with a cloak and a mask she picked up to hide her identity when a knock came from her door.

"Y/n darling! It's me and Alastor." Rosie opened the door and summoned a table. "Please sit down, we want to talk to you."

She sat down in the Victorian style chair, but not before stumbling a bit.

"Little lamb, your mother is worried about you." Alastor broke the silence.

"Deary, you've been sneaking out a lot and staying away for longer and longer and when you come home you're exhausted-" Rosie took a deep breath "- what I'm trying to say is that you can talk to me if something's wrong... You know that right?" Her cheeks were droopy, a frown plastered on her porcelain face, it made Y/n's stomach turn.

"I'm fine, mom. There is no need to worry about me." She lied.

Alastor's eyebrows down, almost like he wanted to frown, but he still had that giant smile on his face. "Are you sure? If somebody is bothering you, we don't mind serving them for tonight's dinner. Hahaha." He joked, underneath, however, he was nervous. The Radio demon had grown quite fond of her and, knowing how clumsy she could be, he couldn't help but worry.

"No, one is bothering me... Thank you for offering though." At this point, Y/n had grown used to the cannibalistic tendencies of the people around her and so shrugged Alastor's joke off.

Rosie had a bad feeling about this. "Can you at least tell us where you've been sneaking of to?"

Shit

Y/n didn't have excuse for this. "J-just some friends... I.. I didn't want them to be scared off, so I didn't tell them about you. I'm sorry mom." Tears filled her eyes, she didn't want to lie to her. Rosie had done so much for her... She was planning on giving this whole being an overlord up anyway, there was no reason for Y/n to tell the truth now. It'll be like it never happened and then she can go back to her normal life with her mom.

Rosie stared into her cup. "Alright deary, but please make sure to be careful. Genuine friends are rare in hell."

"Thanks mom." Y/n stood up again and left the imperium, through the front door this time.

Alastor squinted his eyes, following your silhouette. Something was wrong, you were lying. He could feel it... But this was Rosie's responsibility, so he should leave it up to her. "She is lying."

"I know but if she isn't ready to talk about it, then I'll wait."

"On a different note, did you hear that the Doomsday district has a new overlord." Alastor took a sip from his 'Oh, Deer' mug. "They've been defeating demon after demon. I've been meaning to meet them for my radio show, would you like to come with me?"

Y/n was walking down the street to the Doomsday district. I should've just told Rosie the truth. She thought. But she had panicked and lied, only making it harder for herself.

Stepping into the same, small building where Piper first dragged her off too, Y/n put on her overlord disguise.

"You didn't break anything, right?" Piper asked, dressed in a brand-new suit. "I don't want to fix the sewerage again."

"It went fine!" She put up her thumb, before knocking over a chair that landed on a vase, breaking it in two thousant pieces. "Sorry."

Y/n and Piper walked around the district for a while, more so to let the demons know that the overlord of disaster was still around and that they were close with Piper. She caused chain reactions all around her, letting people know she got her title for a reason... Not her fault the denizens of hell took it the wrong way.

The two were rounding the corner when a familiar set came into view... What were Rosie and Alastor doing here? Y/n's panic only grew once she realised Alastar was trying to get her attention. Did they recognize her? What was happening?

As the two overlords came closer and closer, Y/n ducked into an alleyway and seemingly disappeared~

The dumpster wasn't Y/n's first choice of hiding place but it was the only one she had.

Piper was left alone on the burning streets with two dangerous overlords heading straight for him.

"Where did she go?" The woman, who Piper recognized to be the cannibal overlord, asked. "I swore she was just here."

"And what relation do you have with this new overlord, my incredibly short fellow." The second man Piper knew all too well. The terrifying Radio demon. "I was hoping to speak to her."

"Ah, I- I'm incredibly sorry... B-but the disaster overlord doesn't like dealing with overlord stuff, so she makes me represent." Piper sputtered.

"I see, but you see I want to speak to the REAL overlord. Not some pathetic representative." Dials appeared in Alastor's eyes and strange symbols started floating around. "GOT THAT."

"YES!"

"Lovely, then you can set up an audience for me. How does Friday sound?"

"Perfect, Friday at 5 p.m."

"Great, I can't wait to meet her." The two overlords went on their merry way again through the streets of Doomsday district.

Friday came around and nothing. Alastor had waited for twenty minutes, yet there was no sight of the disaster demon or her little pet. This was rich, never before was the overlord stood up like this. Who would dare to waste his time?! Alastor's stature as well as his antlers grew. That day there was a very horrifying broadcast and Y/n was at home with Rosie. She had to admit she almost peed her pants when Alastor openly threatened her on the radio broadcast...

There was no way she could come clean now. From that day on, you didn't show your overlord self once. Always letting Piper deal with everything.

That was until he came running to you, a letter in hand. It was an invitation to an overlord meeting, one she wouldn't be allowed to send Piper to. At first she didn't want to go, but Piper thought that would be a surefire way to piss off even more overlords. She had to go.

That's how she ended up, dressed in her cloak and mask, in front of an office building in Carmilla's circle of the pentagram. Stepping into the building the place was quiet, no one was around... Was this a trap? Y/n continued on the conference room, although more cautious. Room 666.

Everyone was already there. Were you supposed to come early?

"Disaster demon, glad you could join us." Carmilla spoke first. "We weren't sure you would show up anymore."

Y/n kind of shrugged trying her best to hide her voice.

"How rude, this new generation of overlords ought to know their place. Don't you think so Zestial?" Alastor commented half-jokingly.

"Yes, I must agree." The oldest overlord answered.

You wobbly sat down in your seat, but in doing so breaking the seat. A metal leg shot out to Vox, who protected himself. It ricocheted to the chandelier, which luckily kept hanging. Unluckily though, one of the more heavy ornaments fell down onto the table. It broke in two.

With each sound and broken item, Y/n hugged herself more and more until she resembled more of an hedgehog than a goat. She felt incredibly awkward, tears came out of her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I'M SORRY!!!! YOU ALMOST BROKE MY SCREEN AND DESTROYED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AND ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY IS SORRY?!!!" Vox screamed, he was about to launch over the broken table but Alastor stopped him.

"Not a step closer my pal." Alastar's horns grew, showing that he was serious in protecting the newest overlord.

"There is only one demon in the entire universe who could create such a mess." Rosie spoke to herself. "Y/n is that you?" Rosie almost couldn't keep herself from smirking when she removed her mask.

"Yes... I-"

"Alright, everyone out this meeting is over!" Carmilla said. The demons left but only with some push. "Not you three."

They were all looking at you, Carmilla, Zestial, Alastor and Rosie, waiting for an explanation.

"Be- Before you get mad at me, this was an accident."

"I'm not mad about my conference room, now explain." Carmilla's eyes stayed focused on her, like lion waiting for its prey.

"I don't just mean the conference room, this was an accident." Y/n points to herself. "I didn't mean to become an overlord. It just kind of happened and I thought you would be mad at me and then I dug myself into a deeper hole, and now I'm here dressed like this embarrasing myself in front of everyone." The tears that had been slowly building up, started flowing.

"Oh deary." Rosie stood up and gave you a big hug. "I could never be mad at you. I just wish you would've told me. We can work this out together, besides this means you have the power to protect yourself. You don't know how worried I was if you would ever find yourself in a sticky situation alone."

"Thanks mom." Y/n hugged her back.

"If I may interrupted your lovely bonding time, but how exactly did you 'accidentally' defeat the previous overlord?" Alastor asked.

"Oh, I didn't defeat him." She explained. "He got runover by a car, then he decided to give me all his souls and a piano dropped on him."

"Excuse me?"

Masterlist/request guidlines

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel rosie #rosie x reader #Rosie x you #x reader #reader insert #child reader

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atinystraynstay · 4 months

Text

In Sickness and In Health - Choi Seungcheol

Synopsis: Being an only child, you were accustomed to taking care of yourself. It almost pained you asking for help from others. When Seungcheol noticed you are sick, he was quick to step up to the plate to offer his help. As stubborn as you might be, he found you to be the most adorable person alive.

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x fem reader

Genre: Fluffffffff, sweet considerate Seungcheol to warm the heart on the coldest of winter days

Word Count: 1.2k

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

You were curled up on your couch, two blankets covering your body. You woke up this morning congested as ever. You tried running yourself a warm shower when you had to get up for work, but to no avail, you felt worse. You were forced to resign to the fact you were going to have to call in sick for work.

It also meant that you had to cancel your plans with your boyfriend, Choi Seungcheol. The two of you were supposed to go out this evening on a date. He had bought tickets to a musical you've been wanting to see. With your weakened state and the cold temperatures outside, you knew you were just asking to remain being sick. And you were determined that you were going back to work tomorrow.

"Are you sure you don't want me to bring over anything?" "Yeah, Cheol, I'm positive but thank you ☹️ the last thing I want is to get you sick." "Alright, my love. I love you."

The perk of living alone was the fact you didn't have to be confined to your room. You didn't have to worry about anyone else catching whatever virus you got. On the other hand, you didn't have much motivation to move anywhere else. The moment you got yourself situated on your couch, you knew the chances of you getting up were very slim.

Used tissues were scattered all over your living room floor, especially by the couch. You had a cup of half-empty tea on a coaster on your coffee table. The thermometer on stand by for when you were ready to check it again. You felt absolutely awful. Your bones ached and your body felt cold, hence why you trying to get warm with the two blankets. You also had a heating pad underneath you to warm up your back, trying to spread warmth throughout your entire body. Nothing seemed to help.

Some sitcom was playing in the background which you were half paying attention to. Your mind was bouncing between you phone and the TV, not really having much energy to do anything else.

This was not how you envisioned your weekend. You were very much looking forward to spending time with your boyfriend. You two have been trying to find time to meet up, but something always came up. Whether it was Seungcheol being needed at the company as he was trying to get back into the regularity of his idol lifestyle, or it might have been a meeting for work on your end. This was the first weekend in a considerable amount of days that you were both free.

Or at least you were free until you got sick. And the last thing Seungcheol could afford right now was a delay in him getting back to what he loves most. Though arguably, he would say he loved you more than performing. You knew deep down that Seungcheol had been waiting for the all-clear to resume activity.

Life is so unfair.

You sunk a bit deeper into the couch. You couldn't help but sulk. There was nothing more that you wanted than to be wrapped up in the arms of your lover. Or maybe have a bowl of warm soup.

Suddenly, you heard the sound of what you believed was your front door unlocking. Or someone trying to get in from the other side of the door.

Your heart rate picked up as you quickly looked over towards the door. In your weakened state, you were trying to get up as quickly as possible. You weren't expecting anyone nor did you order anything that would be delivered.

The last thing you need right now is someone breaking into your apartment. How could you even defend yourself? Throw your used tissue balls at them?

"Woah, woah, honey, sit down."

You instantly froze from trying to flee from the living room. You recognized that voice anywhere. You slowly eased down onto the couch as you looked over.

Slowly, you looked back over to confirm your suspicion. Choi Seungcheol. He stood with a plastic bag in one hand, the other holding the golden key to your apartment unit. You pouted as you looked at him. Yet, he looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Your heart was slowing down as you eased yourself to sit up. Cheol couldn't help but laugh a little at the scare he gave you. You whined in response, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You don't think a text would have been a good idea?" "And ruin the surprise?" He asked, a playful smirk on his lips.

Watching from the couch, Cheol first locked the door but this time locked both locks - the top and bottom. He set the bag of mystery items down on the front table before slipping off his shoes. You always loved Seungcheol's visits, but not today.

He began to make his way into your apartment but froze as he saw you move slightly. Instantly, he frowned at the sight which nearly broke your heart. Your boyfriend was always filled with gold intentions, but you couldn't risk getting him sick.

"Baby, I told you I didn't need anything. Why are you here?" You frowned. "And be labeled as worst boyfriend of the year for leaving my sick partner at home alone? Yeah, no thanks. Besides, I see the makeshift bed you made," he commented, gesturing towards the couch. "Can't get warm?"

You sighed in defeat. There was no use in arguing with Cheol because he was right. You were struggling to keep warm despite being under a mountain of warm blankets and a heating bad. The thought of being wrapped up in the arms of your boyfriend sounded more appealing, and could probably help you feel better. It would definitely cause an end to your sulking.

"But what about you? I don't want to get you sick."

The smile was back on Cheol's lips. He grabbed the bag before he made his way over to you. At least if you needed something, it was now in front of you on the coffee table rather than across the room.

"If I get sick, I get sick. I'd rather be sick knowing I made an attempt at helping you feel better than not trying at all."

Ever so gently, he leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead lingeringly. You closed your eyes at the feeling, a light smile curling onto your lips. You didn't even notice you were naturally leaning into his body. Almost as if you were magnetized to attract towards his body heat.

"See, you need me. Now, come here, pretty girl." Slowly, as to not cause anymore discomfort, Cheol wrapped his arms around you. Your back resting against his chest, his arms around your torso. You sighed in relief as you relaxed into his embrace. He grabbed one of the blankets, moving it onto your lap before pulling you in closer.

"Isn't this much better?" "Don't you dare tell me 'I told you so,' Choi Seungcheol."

Cheol didn't need to say anything. He only chuckled before pressing a lingering kiss into your cheek. It only caused you to melt further into him.

"Of course not, my stubborn girl. But now that I am here, we can stay here for however long you need. I did bring over cold medicine, in case you were running low. I also brought gatorade and snacks. But we can also order something if you want. Whatever you need, you got it already."

Okay, maybe it's not so bad having your partner around when you are sick.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Hi! Thanks for taking the time to read 🩷 this week I've been a bit MIA since coming down with a head cold. I think that's what I get for working with kids. Definitely wrote this wishing I had my own Scoups to take care of me haha

I hope you all are taking care of yourselves and staying warm

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ineylesian · 1 year

Note

Hey!! If it’s not a bother, could I request sleeping hcs with the TSF boys (+ könig and graves??) You can do fluff or NSFW (or both.) If you do thank you so much and have a wonderful day!!

SLEEPING HCS

— TSF, KÖNIG & GRAVES X GN! READER

MASTERLIST | AO3

— FT. / simon “ghost” riley, kyle “gaz” garrick, john “soap” mactavish, john price, könig, & graves.

— WARNINGS / partial nsfw, mentions of insomnia, mentions of nightmares & terrors, mentions of separation anxiety.

— AUTHOR’S NOTE / found this in my requests and thought i’d do it to try and clear my writer’s block. even though i’m technically not accepting requests, i’ll most likely do small things like hcs!

CERTAIN PARTS OF THIS WORK ARE MEANT TO BE WRITTEN IN AN ADULT READER’S POINT OF VIEW. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

— SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

SFW

⤫ in all honesty, simon doesn’t sleep much, especially after or during deployments. he has a particular habit of pacing around during the night, and will often sit by you on his side, but he won’t sleep. part of this stems from deep rooted anxieties concerning war; he’s seen what happens to people who let their guard down, and he’s not willing to even think about taking such a risk.

⤫ if you’re also the type of insomniac he finds himself to be, your nights will often be spent staring out of your nearest window or balcony, indulging in mindless chatter until it’s time to hit the road again. in these moments, you’ll find simon more vulnerable than usual, and he’ll take it upon himself to talk about things he wouldn’t dare speak of other times. there’s always an underlying look of distance in his eyes when he speaks of his past, and you know as much as him that he wishes it was different.

⤫ when he does sleep, it starts off distant. he’ll quietly shuffle himself onto his side of the bed, give you more than enough room, and bid a whisper of a good night call before he’s silent. if you choose to face him, you’ll see that he often sleeps straight on his back, half-lidded gaze dragging shapes into the ceiling, and, when he does finally succumb, that’s when he tends to get handsy. part of you assumes it’s because of his dreams, and he’s subconsciously latching out, but you don’t stop him.

⤫ you tend to find yourself being greeted by an ever so slightly contorted face of shock and rapid shuffles every morning. simon knows his sleeping habits, he ends up clinging to you every time he falls asleep, yet he can’t help but utter an apology every morning and scramble to get off you. it takes time to get him to let go of this habit, and eventually he does, waking up only a little less shocked and reluctant to pull away.

⤫ is amazing at making tea for any occasion. if you’re restless, don’t fret, simon has something that’ll put you to sleep halfway through the mug.

⤫ following that, if you don’t like tea, simon is always willing to talk you to sleep. he’s nothing if not a great listener, so he’ll have you ramble until your words are drifting off to meaningless drawls.

⤫ contrary to what others may believe, i don’t think simon would sleep with the mask on. he would only be open to sleeping in the first place if he knew he it was impossible to be compromised, and he knows you, so he’s okay with it. however, when he first started sleeping with you, he did wear it, and it took nearly a year for him to take it off.

NSFW

⤫ simon doesn’t see sleeping sleeping as a terribly different thing than the regular, but the question of whether he’d succumb to such a thing depends on his mood.

⤫ on deployments, chances of sleeping with simon are slim, as the threat of being somewhere he doesn’t know makes him cautious. adding onto that, if you did end up sleeping together, you wouldn’t hear much, as his mind is typically elsewhere.

⤫ cautiousness is a major turn off for him. the chance of you being compromised in such a vulnerable act is something he just won’t risk, so you’d only get to be with him in secure areas.

⤫ his energy fluctuates depending on the type of missions you’d led that day. if something went wrong, (especially concerning you) expect simon to be on the more brash side. scolding flows in and out of as many rounds as you can manage, and when you tap out, he’ll be soon to follow.

⤫ the softer side of simon only really comes out in the safety of your home. not having one himself, being welcomed in the comfort of your place is akin to a haven for him. he’ll treat you as if you were the finest piece of glass he’d ever seen, and would stay in bed with you no matter how restless he feels.

— KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK

SFW

⤫ i’m just gonna say, either a totally chaotic sleeper, or so quiet you can’t even tell there’s someone next to you.

⤫ gaz usually tends to lean on the more hectic type of sleeping on deployments, as the adrenaline doesn’t quite leave until he’s completely knocked out. this could be really bad, or really good, depending on if you like to be smothered when you sleep.

⤫ no matter what position you’re in, your limbs are bound to get tangled with gaz’s. on particularly “bad” mornings, you’ll have to wait until he wakes up to escape.

⤫ however, gaz does have a calm side when it comes to sleeping. he’ll knock out with a hand wrapped around your waist, subconsciously pulling you up against his side.

⤫ gaz is a snorer. a quiet one at that, but if you lean in close enough, you can hear it. if you tell him, he’ll insist that he doesn’t and you’re just teasing him.

⤫ i cant stress this enough, but night chats with gaz are a regular. he could talk for hours on end, and it only gets worse when he’s tired. if you’re chatty as well, expect a multi topic conversation with your lover before bed.

NSFW

⤫ accidentally (?) loud. every place you touch seems to be a sensitive spot for gaz, and knowing that, it’s rather simple to get him going. keeping him quiet is always fun, especially when you’re in close proximity to others.

⤫ always has enough energy to please you before bed. though, he does prefer taking it easy so you can both relax properly.

⤫ aftercare is a little tough with gaz, as once he’s tapped out, he’s nearly spent. despite this, he has an iron grip and will refuse to let go despite how sweaty you both are.

⤫ pretty big pillow talker. gaz loves to ramble about the things he wants to experience with you one day, and the intimacy of laying beside you makes him feel like a love struck boy.

— JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

SFW

⤫ hugger, plain and simple. soap’s grasp is so tight that you can’t even begin to pry yourself from his grasp.

⤫ soap is big on swooning over you when he’s tired, no matter how disheveled you may look. he typically puts you to sleep by mumbling sweet nothings in your ear while drawing soft kisses over your hair.

⤫ can also be a chaotic sleeper like gaz, however, he’s usually more on the calm side. he has trouble sleeping if your skin isn’t touching, though.

⤫ would never admit it, but soap loves to be the big spoon. something about feeling you flush against him develops a sense of security in his mind, and makes sleeping much easier.

⤫ sleeps with an eye mask on, and is not ashamed of it one bit. his favorite is the one with cat eyes and ears that you bought him for his birthday.

NSFW

⤫ unlike some of his comrades, soap is down to sleep with you almost anywhere. he’s willingly to play a game of risk if it means he can satisfy you.

⤫ missions tend to get him riled up, and with that, he’s more aggressive in bed. if you can handle it, he’ll take you for a few rounds in a row before abruptly tapping out.

⤫ is super into cockwarming you during the night, especially if you’re too tired to do anything else. the feeling of being inside you puts soap to sleep faster than anything else.

— JOHN PRICE

SFW

⤫ heavy, heavy sleeper. once he’s out, he’s not waking up until the morning.

⤫ prefers to have a cigar before getting into bed. will gladly share a light with you if you’re interested.

⤫ only sleeps on his back, but loves to hold a grip on you. his favorite way to sleep is with your arms wrapped around his neck.

⤫ if you have a hard time falling asleep, price has a few tactics in the back of his head to help. depending on the night, he usually ends up raking a hand through your hair, or softly droning on about something you certainly don’t care about. tea also works if you’re particularly restless.

⤫ on deployments, price doesn’t tend to sleep nearly as much as usual. on some nights, all you can do is stay up and talk until you fall asleep. during the later hours is usually when price lets his words slip, and in those moments do you truly hear how much he values you and the task force.

⤫ doesn’t sleep until the later hours of the night due to his duties as the task force’s captain. however, when he can, price will sit beside you in bed while you drift off, and humor any of your requests until you’re asleep.

NSFW

⤫ despite the pent up stress that follows him through the day, price isn’t a big fan of drawn out sex at night. adrenaline will only allow him to manage a quickie before he’s knocked out.

⤫ however, price is super into giving you oral before bed if you’re willing. and, knowing him, he’ll have you shaking out an orgasm (and exhausted) before the five minute mark.

⤫ off deployment, price is one of the best service partners you could ask for. if you’re restless before bed, he’ll make sure to take his time and deliver whatever pleasures you desire.

⤫ on the other side, if he’s in some type of mood, price will have you singing until your vocal chords run dry. when this happens, you’re both passed out just barely after your last round.

— KÖNIG

SFW

⤫ absolutely massive. in most cases, way larger than you and will absolutely smother you (accidentally.) if you happen to be around the same size as him, expect to be wrestling over blankets every night.

⤫ on the topic of blankets, könig simply takes up so much of the bed that he ended up getting his own blanket. it’s weighted, too, and he is very possessive over it.

⤫ huge fan of soft touches. könig typically isn’t in the mood to talk much when he’s tired, and would rather fall asleep holding your hand.

⤫ always bids you a quiet “schlaf gut” with a kiss on the cheek before bed. it’s one of his odd necessities, but sweet nonetheless.

⤫ pretty clumsy sleeper. könig tries his best to be cautious, especially if you’re a margin smaller than him, but it’s pretty much impossible to keep him from flopping around once he’s asleep. you’ve just learned to deal with sleeping below a giant mass.

⤫ has a similar case as ghost when it comes to wearing his mask to sleep. will only take it off if he’s sure the both of you are safe.

NSFW

⤫ like soap, könig is a huge fan of you cockwarming him to sleep. the feeling puts him at ease, and usually has him asleep pretty fast.

⤫ if he’s more needy, könig will silently plead for you to give him some sort of relief. his favorite way to relax is with your hand wrapped around his cock, and silencing his whimpers with your lips.

⤫ most of your more heated make out sessions are in bed, when you’re too tired to do anything else. könig will be on your lips for hours, and he really gets going when you trail kisses down his jawline.

— GRAVES

SFW

⤫ stomach. sleeper. always has one of his hands on his stomach, and the other is usually wrapped around your back.

⤫ if you’re not allergic to animals, expect to share a bed with one. graves has a small tuxedo cat at home that adores him to no end, and will always manage to shove in between you.

⤫ (reluctantly) graves allows you to pamper him before bed. he’ll be too tired to even complain about the extensive routine you put him through sometimes, and will fall asleep with cucumbers over his eyelids.

⤫ in the summer, graves sleeps like a 50 year old dad. won’t sleep without the window open or ac on, and snores at a moderate volume. however, he’s completely silent in the winter.

⤫ instead of one or two pillows, graves has a singular massive one that he sleeps with. you argue that he should buy something softer, but he wouldn’t trade that pillow for anything.

⤫ if it’s possible, graves needs to sleep with white noise. whether it’s the soft buzz of a random channel on TV, or rain patterning on the window sill, any noise will help him sleep.

— NSFW

⤫ graves sleeps with you, a lot. having sex in the later hours is just his thing.

⤫ if you have the night off, graves will make sure he takes his time with you. he’ll go numerous rounds over a couple hours, and it’ll end with the both of you completely knocked out before it’s really that late.

⤫ on deployments, graves has the drive of a rabbit. he’ll take you almost anywhere, as long as it’s sheltered and safe.

⤫ relating to the last points, if the two of you were on a particularly dangerous mission and couldn’t sleep together, he will be all over you the moment you arrive home. most times, he’ll take you right on the couch in your living room, and you won’t even make it to bed.

#arqhms #arqhmsthirst #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader #könig x reader #phillip graves x reader #soap x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick #könig smut #könig call of duty #john price #simon ghost riley smut

3K notes · View notes

emeritusemeritus · 1 month

Note

hii! i love your work soo much, you are so talented. both weasley twins x reader, so like both the weasley twins getting jealous because reader has been spending so much time with her male best friend and one night she gets home late and they are mad. (smut and a bit of fluff at the end). so sorry if this is bad this is my first request

Hi my love! Thank you so much, not bad at all! I hope this is what you wanted (I need a very cold shower now) 🖤

Warnings: SMUT, graphic smut; threesomes, PIV, fingering, slightly cumplay, fingering, possessiveness, Dom!sub roles, dominant twins, jealousy, a bit of angst, beginnings of an argument. Swearing. Fluff and smut. Getting fucked in the kitchen. Sorry Dean, I’m sure you’re lovely.

Word count: 3k

Summertime was upon you and as the days got longer and brighter, the temperature increasing, it brought along an endless stream of possibilities and fun.

The twins had been really busy lately, trying to stock up ahead of the impending return to Hogwarts for the students, the few weeks before term time being one of the busiest peaks of the year for them except for Christmas, April fools day and bonfire night. You really shouldn't complain, they were successful, bringing in a lot of money and still took great pleasure in their work. They were inventing all the time, wanting a new product to launch before school resumed and though you were happy for them, you felt like your hadn't truly seen them in weeks.

The days went by in a blur of waking up alone in bed, making yourself a cup of tea and some breakfast, showering alone and then trying to fill your days with work and meeting friends. Occasionally you'd help at the shop when they needed cover but you tended to stick behind the scenes working on the accounts and ordering, with the occasional potion brewing for the big restocks. Every night you'd cook dinner and set aside two plates, eating alone with the company of trashy muggle tv before you cleaned up the kitchen, put the two wrapped plates in the fridge and eventually drifted to bed. If it wasn't for occasionally needing the bathroom in the middle of the night and seeing your two husbands asleep either side of you, you could easily have believed that they never came back to the flat.

You'd tried to surprise them and take them lunch to try and steal some time together in the office but they were always too busy, too close to nailing their project so you stopped bothering. You tried waiting up late at night for them to show but they'd simply given you sleepy smiles and had fallen asleep on the sofa not twenty minutes later when you tried that. And sex? You could hardly remember what that felt like.

To say you were feeling a little neglected was an understatement. So when you ran into Dean Thomas in the Flourish and Botts Friday morning, you didn't hesitate to agree to a proper catch-up with him Saturday evening at the Leaky Cauldron. He'd extended the invitation to your husbands as well and you'd politely thanked him, telling him you'd ask them but in reality you knew there was a slim chance of that actually happening.

You hadn't seen either of your husbands that day from the moment you woke up til the moment you stepped out of the door, slightly dressed up and ready to meet Dean. You'd tried to catch them last night and then again around early morning when the shop was supposed to be quieter but they'd barely even acknowledged your presence. So you left them a note, telling them that you were going out and that you'd be home later.

You had a wonderful time; you'd actually run into Neville and Luna and they had joined you for dinner. You fell easily into conversation, just like the old days, with Dean of course asking about Ginny, your husbands and the shop. Neville and Luna were engaged and you were told all about their wedding plans which completely warmed your heart. You were on high as you walked back to the flat, a smile still on your face after catching up with good friends.

The smile disappeared pretty much as soon as you stepped through the flat, took off your jacket and shoes and found Fred and George sat at the kitchen table, your note placed between them. There’s a tension in the air that you can’t place. They don’t look mad, but they definitely don’t look happy either.

“Oh here she is,” George says, his voice dropping with sarcasm.

“Remembered that you have two husbands have you?” Fred says, his voice even harsher than George’s. You fire up with anger, biting your lip as you look between them with a glare, unable to push down your feelings anymore.

“That’s ironic coming from you two,” you mumble, walking over to the sink to get a glass of water.

“Care to elaborate princess?” Fred says blankly from behind you.

You snort, not believing that they’d really be getting into this now, the biggest hypocrites in all of Diagon Alley.

“Did you forget lately that you had a wife?” You ask, turning to them and looking between them. “She’s about yay high,” You say, gesturing to your height, “* colour hair, surname Weasley.” Your voice holds almost no humour to it now, feeling fired up.

“Yeah I’m looking at her,” Fred says with an equally unamused, expressionless glance.

“Doesn’t seem like her though, our wife’s normally a good girl,” George adds. There it is, that’s what the tension is.

A smirk slowly spreads across your face as you realise what the real issue is- they’re jealous.

You shrug dramatically, placing your glass into the sink, knowing just how to get them, “boys prefer bad girls.”

It’s instantaneous, both of them rising to their feet with the implication of your words.

“Is that right little slut?” George says, beginning to move closer. “Men, like us, prefer our good girl.”

“I reckon she’s forgotten who she belongs to mate,” Fred says, casting a glance at his brother, hanging back a little as a devilish twinkle begins to shine in his eyes.

“Yeah I reckon so,” George agrees, looking up and down your body.

“Have you forgotten sweetheart?” Fred asks teasingly, his bottom lip sticking out just a tad to mock you.

“Probably,” you say defiantly, knowing exactly what you were doing.

“Try again,” Fred says darkly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he advances on you, moving in step with his twin as they crowd you, towering over you. Their stares are dark, devilish and hungry have you flushed in seconds as their towering forms loom over you menacingly, both with smirks tugging at their lips as they notice your heaving chest and flushed face.

“Who do you belong to Angel? Hm?” George says, reaching out and pulling up your top over your head, seeing absolutely no resistance from you.

“Fred,” you say breathlessly, having to suck in your cheeks to stop yourself smiling as you watch George’s eyes widen in disbelief.

You gasp as your bra strap pings on your body, Fred’s fingers having purposefully let it go as a mild form of punishment for your act of defiance.

“And?” He pushes. Your eyes never faulted from George’s, allowing a hint of a smile to appear on your face that is a complete contrast to his thunderous glare.

“Bill?” You say innocently and within seconds you are turned around, pressed up against the kitchen counter and spanked, the loud thwack echoing through the kitchen.

Hands begin creeping up your legs and you’ve never been more thankful that you’d chosen a skirt, enjoying the feel of hands creeping up your bare skin under they stop just as they reach the lace of your panties. You feel long fingers begin to touch your pussy through the lace of your underwear and you throw your head back at the sensation, so close to where you need them but not close enough.

“Try again princess,” Fred says in your ear, body pressed against your back so you can feel the bulge of his erection against your bum.

“George, George,” you moan out, just as Fred finds your clit, rubbing it gently through the lace.

“See, told you you were our good girl,” Fred coos, pressing his erection against your bum harder now, giving the most delicious friction.

“Not quite,” George days darkly from the side and after a few seconds, Fred pulls away. Your bra is almost ripped from you leaving your breasts exposed and you’re mercilessly turned around by strong hands so they can see.

When both twins suddenly crouch down in front of you, their mouths instantly fixing upon your breasts, focusing on the pebbled nipples as their tongues dance around the sensitive peaks, you cry out, hands going into their hair to keep them just where you need them.

George’s hand traces up your leg and slips into your underwear, tracing his long fingers through your wet slit as you moan out, his fingers finding your sensitive little nub almost instantly.

“You do you belong to?” George says into the skin of your breast, pulling away to look up at you.

“You, fuck, you, both of you,” you moan out as George’s finger slips inside you at the same time, slowly thrusting as your hips cant trying to get him deeper.

“Good girl.”

“Who’s got you this wet sweetheart?” Fred says, his own fingers joining George’s as he rubs your clit whilst George stretches out out with his fingers, adding a second one slowly.

“You, geor, Fre,” you cry out, not even able to finish their names as they work together, hitting every pleasure point as Fred’s lips wrap around your nipple again and give a harsh suck.

“Not Dean?” George says, not holding back the jealousy.

“No, only you,” you cry out, beginning to feel your climax approaching.

“Not get Angel,” George says, suddenly pulling his hands away, as does Fred, leaving you whining and pouting at their actions.

“Bend over the table,” George instructs and you mindlessly follow his command, cringing as your naked breasts press against the cold wood of the table.

Your skirt is flipped up from behind you, exposing the little strip of lace you’d been wearing underneath until it’s unceremoniously ripped from your body at the side. You gasp, hips lifting up as your pussy is exposed to the air, to their eyes and in no time at all you can feel the head of a cock pressing against your wet lips.

“Tell me darling,” George says from behind you, “who do you belong to?”

“You Georgie!”

Your moan echoes throughout the apartment as the thick head of his cock slips inside you, the slight upward curve of his length making you gasp as it presses directly against your sweet spot inside.

“George!” You cry out as he immediately sets a rough and fast pace, your hands clawing at the table for purchase as your hips repeatedly knock into the side of the table.

“So fucking wet,” George growls from behind you as he fucks into you perfectly. “My fucking good girl, so fucking perfect for us.”

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, body already clearly worked up from being so expertly fingered earlier. He curses from behind you as your walls clench, squeezing his perfect cock tightly as you writhe and cry out with the ecstasy coursing through you. He lasts about three more thrusts as your pussy bares down on him and you moan out again as his thrusts get sloppy and sporadic as he cums, crying out your name in a whine.

“My little princess fucked out?” You hear from the side and your eyes widen as you realise that Fred had been watching all this time, waiting to pounce as he stands before you naked. George hadn’t even undressed, he’d simply bent you over, unbuttoned his work pants and fucked into you without any care.

“Think you can take me too sweet girl?” He asks, hand ghosting over your back as his twin slips out of you. You nod eagerly, already feeling empty as George’s cum begins leaking out of you and down the skin of your inner thighs.

Instead of getting behind you as you expected, he takes a seat on one of the wooden chairs beside you, beckoning you to join him as he pumps his cock in his hand. The sight has you near drooling, the sight of his long, big fingers wrapped around his thick cock, the wide shoulders and strong upper body so deliciously on display.

You back up from the table and remove your skirt and ripped panties that were clinging to one of your legs. He let’s go of his cock and it bobs back to hit his lower abdomen as he outstretches his hand to help you climb into him, both of you completely naked now.

You rest your legs on his and grab his wide shoulders for support as he grabs the base of his cock, allowing you to sink down on it. He’s slightly wider than George and you cry out at the feel of being stretched out again, your wetness and what’s left of George’s cum acting as lube to allow him to slip straight inside of you, reaching deeper and deeper until he was snugly pressed against your cervix. Your fingers paw at the flesh of his shoulders as he gives you time to adjust, sucking on your breasts in front of his face as you lift one hand and stroke back the hair from his face. He pulls away and looks up at you seating in his lap and there’s a moment that passes where you stare at each other with a smile, pausing to share a passionate kiss whilst his cock nestled deep inside you, your walls already clenching around his big member.

His hands fall to your bum as you slowly begin to lift yourself up until he was almost completely out of you before you quickly sink back down, his length filling you completely. Your loud moans are completely synchronised at the sensation of him fucking all the way into you and as you quickly begin to find a perfect rhythm, you begin to feel completely cock drunk.

Your hips buck on him as you chase the fire in your belly that’s beginning to ignite; feeling as if his cock was filling you completely. Your thighs burn at the exertion of bouncing on him and the sight alone of his scrunched up, pleasure filled face is enough to make you let out a string of moans that sound almost inhuman. You lean forward to kiss him again and the new angle hits something inside you that propels you right over the edge, crying out his name against his lips as you fall completely over the edge.

Your orgasms has nearly subsided but you can’t move anymore, legs burning and tired, as much as you want to keep riding him. He senses your slowing immediately and quickly grabs you by the ass and in a wicked feat of strength, he lifts you and him, keeping his cock deep inside as he placed you onto the edge of the table. You fall back, resting your head on the wood as he grabs your hips and snaps his own into yours, making your breasts bounce in time with his thrusts. He’s unable to look away, eyes dancing between your bouncing tits and your stretched out pussy, all on display for him. He begins to fuck you harder and harder, your cries getting louder as you grab hold of the edge of the table behind you, tits jiggling wildly as he bruises your hips.

“Gonna, fuck, oh fuck baby,” he whines as he watches your right hand snake down and rub circles around your clit, feeling like you could cum again.

“Let me,” you hear from the side and George’s fingers immediately take the place of yours, toying with your clit in the most deliciously sinful way. Fred cock slams into you as he starts to cum before he slams your hips down against his, cock buried right to the end of you as you feel his perfect length twitch and spurt inside of you, filling you with another load of hot cum. The sensation of being filled along with George’s sinful fingers has you reaching your peak again, calling out their names as you fight against Fred’s strong hold, unable to keep your hips still.

Your breathless and sweating, completely fucked out as you mumble their names over and over again. Fred slips out of you and pants as he throws himself back down onto the chair that would undoubtedly need cleaning in the morning.

“Come here Angel,” George says, grabbing your attention as he extends his hands for you to take, pulling you up. He stops and pulls you in for a sweet kiss that only increases your breathlessness as you pull away with half kisses eyes, tired and blissfully fucked out.

“Want a bath?” He says, much softer than he’d been when you entered. You shake your head with a smile, covering your slightly chilly body.

“Pee and bed,” you say, reaching for his hand but this time to entwine your fingers. He gives you a small, shy smile as he brings your entwined hands to his lips and kisses the back of your hand.

“Did you have a nice time?” He asks as you hop down from the table, cringing at the wetness you can see on the wood, knowing that you probably shouldn’t have fucked where you eat. You look at him questioningly, not wanting to start an argument but he gives you a little smile that tells you everything is okay.

It’s a little later and you’re cuddled up to Fred on the sofa, having been convinced to stay up with them a little while.

“We are sorry princess, never meant to pull away so much, we just needed to get the new products right snd it’s been none stop,” Fred says, stroking your leg as it rests across his lap.

“It’s okay, I understand,” you say, looking away from the terrible muggle tv show you were watching.

“It won’t happen again,” George says and you smile, reaching out to grab hold of his hand in understanding.

“Better not,” you say, the hint of a devious smirk crossing your face. “Or next time I go out to meet Dean I won’t wear any panties.”

“Bed.”

“Now.”

#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #george weasley #george weasley x you #weasley twins smut #fred weasley smut #george weasley smut #weasley twins x you #weasley twins x reader #requests

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luffyvace · 4 months

Text

SHOTO HCS FOR HIS DAY

THIS GIF IS SO CLEANNN 🤩 ANYWAY TODAY BABY SHOTO CAME INTO THIS WORLD AND WE GON TURN UP WITH SOME HCS‼️‼️

#turn up w shotoooo🤪

At the beginning of your relationship it was definitely giving awkward phase..

but don’t worry it definitely won’t stay like that forever

but for now he’s doing little gestures he knows you’d like

buying tickets/seats to any concert/movie you said was your favorite

Anime cons too

he likes to share his soba with you

yes typical, but he’s not self absorbed or anything, so if you want to share ‘okay!’

if not he will bring snacks he knows you’d like to school and give it to you during lunch

he likes to hang out in your dorm a lot

it gives him a warm sense of home

very comforting to him

he doesn’t really know what to do much in relationships but the amount of effort, time, thought and care he puts into it makes him seem so knowledgeable about them??

like shoto I thought you said you’ve never been in a relationship before?? 🤨

tbh the awkward phase doesn’t necessarily seem awkward it’s just, a lot of your time is spent in silence or quiet chit chatting

I mean unless your a extrovert who likes to talk

after you get out that phase though

he starts to be more confident

he likes to trace your hands (and face, in private)

he will kiss your knuckles, not because someone told him it was romantic, but because he really likes your hands

Soft, big, small, rough, long, short, slim, chubby, vieny, bro he just likes your hands!!

he doesn’t break eye contact much either

this might have intimidated you at first because he has a strong gaze (or maybe it didn’t)

but it’s more so of him observing every detail of your face

if feel like if shoto spoke his mind a little more he would be sooo romantic

like instead of the conversation going

“uhh need something shoto? You’ve been staring at me for a while”

“oh nothing I’m just observing your every feature so that even when I close my eyes I can remember the way whatever god that created you sculpted your ethereal face.”

it’s going

“Uhh yeah? Your staring, why? 😅”

”oh” *looks away*

LIKE WHAT??

that difference is TOO huge 🤦‍♀️

random

You love the way shoto softly smiles around you

it makes you feel special

btw shoto probably won’t introduce you to his family for quite a bit of time for two reasons

1: he doesn’t wanna get you involved with his mess

2: if you two don’t work out he doesn’t want his business on the streets

now of course he trusts you but you can never be to cautious, he doesn’t go around blabbing his business, why would he want you to??

the solidarity silence is real

like, he could be reading as your working on homework with music playing in the background

Maybe you occasionally ask him for help on some questions

and he occasionally sips some tea momo made

speaking of which momo is your biggest supporter

along with izuku

shoto likes to go to the beach either really early or really late for two reasons

1: not many people are there

2: you get to watch the sunrise/sunset together

3: he likes the feeling of walking on sand

And yes I said two and added a third one bc he really likes the beach

I’m gonna make the other half of these hcs about his day bc it is! <3

so all of class 1A gets up early everyday, weeks before shoto’s big day to start planning :)

you get up early and others start working on the decorations, others buy gifts and needed things, y’all even buy him a outfit!!

and your going all out because you told everyone shoto told you he never celebrated bc of his past :(

so your bigging it up this year!!

you bought him a soba maker to store in his dorm<3

and yes it was very expensive bc it’s high quality!!

it’s so worth it for him tho

everyone’s gift varies depending on what they bond with him on

although shoto is kinda to himself so you had to help out some people but that’s okay

some people set things up, others wrap gifts, another making a card, ironing his outfit, etc! Bright and early on his big day!

when he gets up that day he’s truly in shock

he doesn’t know what to say

”…….you guys planned this?”

he figures your the main instigator since he told you

and he was right :)

first you planned the amazing breakfast momo made for him, it was delicious

next you guys went rolled skating

then you all went out for lunch

after you guys came home and opened gifts, along with a party you invited friends to, such as class 1B, shiketsu, etc everyone! 💓

lastly you all eat dinner (soba) & party til midnight before hitting the hay ♥︎

and man I summed it up a lot bc it was epic!!

there were so many funny moments and you can bet Mina recorded every second of it!!

She sent it to the group chat and shoto saved it

he looks at it quite often

It was a ”brings tears to my eyes” experience for him 💖💖

He’s so happy about it, and he tells you all about how happy it made him, opening up to you even more as you cuddle in bed late that night

💛

ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE ENDING IM SO GLAD I WROTE THIS!!

I’m gonna try not to miss too many anime character’s days but i can’t guarantee..LOL!

112 notes · View notes

boa-h · 10 months

Text

【Kibutsuji Muzan】 Mean!

*high school dessert shop au

*human+sick+rich Muzan

*fluff, a little OOC

Ring.

The bell rang as the door of the small dessert shop was pulled open.

“Welcome!” You stood up from your stool at the back of the counter, surprised by a sudden customer during such a lazy hour of the day. “Eh? Riku-san?” Your eyes landed on the figure of the tall butler of the Kibutsuji family before drifting to the person he was holding the door for, “Muzan?”

The teen’s pale skin was even paler on such a rainy day, which made a fine contrast with his beautiful ruby eyes, gloominess took over his young features as usual. Muzan stepped into the shop and dismissed his butler that was a head taller than him. Riku bowed to the both of you before closing the door, returning to the black G-Wagon that was parked outside and drove away.

“Welcome.” You repeated, putting on a wider, sweeter smile as you leaned your elbows on top of the counter

“Do you smile like that to everyone who walks in this door?” He asked, red orbs peered into yours. Just as you were about to answer him, he threw you another question, pointing his slim finger at you, “Why are you working here anyway? Wearing such ugly uniforms.”

You puffed out your cheeks, a small thump on the floor created by your heel showed frustration, “Is this how you’re going to start your day with me? Mean, you’re so mean!” You backed away from leaning on the counter, “Now, dear customer, I would rather you sit down somewhere as I make you a warm cup of tea, so you don’t accidentally get a fever again like the last time you went out during a rainy day.” You turned away from him as you reached for the teapot.

Muzan stayed silent for a few seconds before speaking again, “Come here.” He ordered.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “No,” you rejected, before focusing on your hot water again.

“You— ACK!” His sentence was stopped by an intense coughing fit. Muzan brought his pale hand up to cover his mouth while the other one clutched onto his stomach as he slouched in pain.

“Muzan!” You rushed out from behind the counter after grabbing a bottle of water. Patting his back and leading him to the nearest chair, you sat him down and lowered yourself next to him. “Want a sip of water while you wait for the tea?” You asked gently, twisting open the new bottle of water and placing the bottle mouth near his soft lips. He leaned forward and you tipped the bottle downwards so the water could flow into his mouth.

“Better?” You wiped off the water that dripped from his lips to his chin.

He almost nodded before turning his head away from you, covering his nose. “Too sweet.” He said, distancing his upper body away from you, “You smell too sweet… and smokey too.”

“It’s only ‘cause I’ve been in a bakery all day.” You frowned and sniffed your sleeves, “Do I smell so bad that you have to turn away from me?”

He looked back at you and nodded. You stood up and thumped on the floor once again — a bad habit really.

“So mean! Fine, whatever, sit and wait for your tea, I’m gonna call Riku-san to pick you up.” You huffed, turning away to walk back behind the counter, but stopped when Muzan wrapped his fingers around your wrist.

“No, you’re going home with me.” He simply stated before letting you go again.

“Huh? Wait, really? I’m spending the night at your house today?” You asked him, voice coated with excitement. “Do my parents know? Should I call them?”

“No, Riku called already.” He said.

“Yes!!” You cheered, but stopped when you realized something, “Wait, but my shift ends at 9, there’s still a few hours left, you shouldn’t wait here all day.” You bent over, face extremely close to his.

“That’s what I’m saying.” He furrowed his brow in annoyance, “Just quit already, you act like I don’t have enough money to keep you well.”

“But.. but I just wanna earn some extra allowance.” You frowned as well, your voice dragging the pronunciation of certain words to show you’re upset. “Plus, the owner of this place is very nice, I don’t have a proper reason to quit.”

“I told you that I’d— ack!” He started coughing again, but this time not as intense, “You-” His sentence was interrupted again by the bell, alerting that someone had opened the door.

“Welcome!” You looked over instinctively, “Ah! Aoki-san!” You called out the surname of the store owner respectfully.

“Oh my, what’s happening here.” The older male looked at Muzan in surprise, as he was still panting from the coughing fit earlier, “Kid, are you alright? You look awfully pale.”

Muzan’s eyes suddenly widened and he took a hold of your wrist again, panic written all over his ruby eyes, but only you could tell. “Do I look awfully pale? Do I look like I’m going to die any second from now?”

“I- I mean, you do look pale but you’re always pale, but it’s not like you’re gonna die anyti-”

“You’re just waiting for me to fall over dead right? So you can elope with another healthy man, and you’re gonna leave me here all by myself. But I’m telling you, you’re never gonna leave me, as long as our wedding contract is still signed by both of our parents! If I die, I’ll make you marry my corpse!” He grit his teeth and his eyes were bloodshot with anger and jealousy, his grip on your wrist tightened subconsciously and a few coughs escaped his mouth.

“Ow! It hurts!” You placed your other hand on top of his, trying to pry him off, “Who would I elope with? I like you the most out of everyone, but you’re always so mean to me, but I really do like you a lot!” You sobbed to him, “Wahhh!! You’re so mean! So mean!”

“Hey, kids…” Aoki tried to step in, it was his store after all, he wouldn’t want two high schoolers to make a ruckus and scare away customers, although today is really not a busy day… at all…

“You stay outta this!” Muzan snapped at the rather confused adult, pulling your sobbing form closer into an embrace, as if Aoki was the one who made you cry.

“No, I mean.. maybe you guys can go upstairs and sort things out, it’s a storage attic, I just cleaned it before the store opened today.” He pointed to the stairs that led to the attic.

“Tch.” Muzan shot him a glance before standing up and walking to the stairs, with you still in his arms.

“Just make sure not to do anything inappropriate up there!” Aoki called from behind.

It wasn’t so unreasonable how Muzan had said those words, as your marriage engagement wasn’t even your decision. There was a marriage contract signed the moment you two were born, because your mothers are best friends. They had made a promise even before high school, saying that if one gives birth to a boy and the other gives birth to a girl, then they would marry each other, unless they don’t fall in love and break the engagement themselves upon turning 16. But 17 years flew past like a winged monster, yet the engagement still holds strong as steel.

“Look at me.” Muzan called out your name softly, placing you on his lap as he sat on the newly cleaned floor, back pressed against the wall. His hand cupped your cheek and guided your gaze to meet his. “That was my fault, my apologies.” He brought your wrist that was red from his grip up to his lips and planted a soft kiss. “I can give you anything you want, but I cannot let you away from me, that is one thing I cannot grant you.”

“I want oden.” You sniffed your nose, “Mom’s oden. Tonight.” You referred to Muzan’s mother.

“I’m sure she already plans on making it.” He wiped away your tears, “She left for groceries right before I left the house, but I’ll let her know regardless.”

You stayed silent for a minute, head against Muzan’s chest, “Can I go back to work?” You muttered your question. “I’ll make you your tea.”

“Why can’t we just go home right now, we have tea at home too.” He frowned, pissed how you’re choosing work over him.

“Because I told Aoki-san that I could work full day today.” You looked up at him, frowning as well.

“Quit.” He repeated for the nth time today.

“N- Ah!” Your voice was cut off by your own yelp that escaped your lips as Muzan slapped your bottom rather harshly.

“I don’t care, we’re going home now.” He says.

“So mean! You’re so mean!!”

#kibutsuji muzan #demon slayer #muzan x y/n #muzan x you #muzan x reader #demon slayer oneshot #demon slayer fanfic #boa-h

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petermorwood · 1 month

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Words change meaning - another example.

@tartapplesauce reblogged my (long) post about Dublin coddle, which mentioned a weird version called "New World Coddle" using chorizo and squash.

TBH, my Mind Palate suggests it would taste quite good, but it's so far from traditional or even well-tweaked-traditional coddle that it's not coddle any more, and should have a different name entirely, possibly in Latin American Spanish.

Also TBH I've already amended the recipe thrice in my head, (1) chipotle powder not smoked paprika; (2) finish with a scatter of toasted pine-nuts; (3) restore the chickpeas mentioned in the Method to the Ingredients where they'd been forgotten.

I've already admitted to breaking the Dublin coddle rules by browning things, so all bets are off. :->

(BTW, this wasn't ours; @dduane's spine and hip have been rather a trial this past couple of days, so we just took things easy and let the Ibuprofen do its thing.)

Re. coffee mornings, what about various tea-breads, fruit sodas, barm brack etc.? Those could be made either trad or tweaked-trad, and though I'm not sure how they could be made "dainty" like petits-fours and so on, I bet it could be done.

*****

As for the changed-meaning word (getting there eventually) it's "notions" and @tartapplesauce added this link.

"To have notions" in Ireland is to think highly of yourself, often without justification - though if the justification is, er, justified, "begrudgery" will often follow. I've encountered "begrudgery" before, but this version of "notions" is a new one.

I have, however, experienced the Northern Ireland - or maybe just my family - version, which is "don't put yourself forward". This is a bad notion to have when thinking about author profile and book publicity and as DD can confirm, it took me far too long to shake it off.

On the flip-side, having notions can mean thinking outside the box, being imaginative, boldly going where no-one has gone before...

Um, got a bit carried away there... Right to the NYT bestseller list, in fact. Twice. ;->

*****

Neither of those are MY usual meaning.

Whenever I use "I have a notion", either said or written in a post, it's either "I have a thought" with the thinking-intensity dialled down a few notches, or "I have a vague memory of", otherwise known as IIRC or AFAIK.

And the other OTHER meaning of "notions", the one I first thought of (maybe with notions of food already in mind) was this:

That book was published in 1890, and the title, translated from Victorian English, is something like "Tips and Tricks" or, in more modern English, "Household Hacks".

There's nothing derogatory about it.

*****

DD and I have both posted about Mrs de Salis in the past; all her books are what's usually referred to as "slim volumes". Here are six of them alongside Mrs Beeton's doorstopper:

I inherited a copy of "Savouries a la Mode" from Mum, who inherited it from Granny, and we've made several things from it, all of which worked - though far and away the best so far are the Parmesan Biscuits, which are...

Well, "more-ish" is a good start, though it doesn't hint at the underlying desire to get in there with both hands...

tumblr

Here:

All of Mrs de Salis's books are Public Domain, and while we intend eventually to have a full collection of the Slim Volumes, they're also available as PDFs here.

I have a notion that anyone reading this Tumblr will like them... ;->

#food and drink #linguistics #notions #word meaning changes #Dublin coddle #Mrs de Salis #Victorian cookbooks #parmesan cookies

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earthry · 9 months

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Papas and Arranged Marriage (Regency AU Headcanons)

sfw mostly, mild reference to sex but nothing descriptive. reader x papas, arranged marriage, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, tw: talk of weight loss from depressive episode. inspired by pride and prejudice for the most part.

Primo

The Emeritus family boasts wealth and status, and though your parents offered your hand, the chances of the proposal being accepted were very slim. The Emeritus brothers were always receiving and rejecting proposals, after all.

Primo never married because he never fell in love, but he ends up accepting your proposal due to the fact that he’s not getting any younger and he would at the very least like to have someone by his side for the last decade of his life.

You were a little dismayed by the fact that Primo was much older than you, but from the first moment you meet, he’s a gentleman. Courts you properly despite the marriage being arranged. You’ve more than a little charmed by his modesty and humor.

You leave that first meeting feeling butterflies in your chest you never thought you’d experience.

Spends a lot of time with you so that you can learn more about each other and choose the best flowers from his garden to gift you every time you see each other.

Always takes your hand in his and presses a gentle kiss to it.

The fact that he’s older actually gives him a edge, he’s very well versed in the art of seduction (in other words, the slow courting to bringing you to his bed, it’s all a very sensual and pleasurable process).

He ends up falling half in love with you by the end of the first month of meeting you and on your wedding night, he confesses his love wholeheartedly as he holds you in his arms.

Enjoys spending sunrises in his garden with you snuggled in his lap as you share stories and conversation over tea.

Secondo

Bitter old man who breaks your heart from day one and regrets it as he slowly gets to know more about you.

At first viewed the marriage as purely transactional and told you he would be a good husband but never fall in love with you so don’t have any expectations.

The wedding itself was lavish and a huge party because it’s Secondo (who had a lively night), but for you, you were very lonely. You were the first to retire to your rooms.

He’s attentive to your needs but emotionally distant and you resign yourself to your loveless marriage. Though you sleep in the same bed, he never touches you. You assume one day— probably soon, he’ll probably find a mistress and the thought makes your heart ache.

As you live together he begins to learn more about you; especially as you get more comfortable around him. The first time you snap back at him he’s taken aback but also impressed.

Your confidence only grows from there and he learns how headstrong and witty you are.

One night as he’s staying up late to work to figure out a hard situation, you make an off handed comment about something that catches his attention; it ends up solving the issue he was struggling with and since then, he’s gone to you for advice more than a handful of times.

Secondo finds himself drawn to you more and more and one day, you wake up with your arms wrapped around him like a koala. He’s staring right at you and you immediately apologize, letting him go and untangling yourself, but he stops you. He says it’s okay and he doesn’t mind.

You agonize about this all day, and end up crying to him and telling him not to get your hopes up— this breaks his heart because he didn’t expect to fall in love with you but he has and his previous words at the start of your marriage haunts him.

He comforts you and takes you in his arms and promises that he’s serious and that he was a fool.

You share a kiss— a real kiss, tender and sweet and full of emotion. You end up crying again, but this time with happiness but it alarms Secondo all the same. You end up laughing through your tears and telling him he’s an idiot and he pouts but woefully agrees you might be right.

Redoes your wedding night, ravishing you and treating you the way he should have that fateful night. He kisses apologies against your skin, intertwining your fingers together as he makes love to you. He makes a vow right then and there that he will always do his best to make you the happiest wife ever. He tells you he will be a good husband and he will love you for the rest of your lives together and even after.

Terzo

Didn’t really agree to the proposal but Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator threatened his inheritance if he didn’t accept. The marriage was mostly to keep him in check because of his behavior and constant partying and troublemaking.

Actually pouted when you told him that you wouldn’t sleep with him until your wedding night. The few times he tried to tempt you before time, you gave him a run for his money, leaving him horny, strangely still aroused, and confused.

After he realizes that you won’t be just another one of his conquests and that you’re serious about this engagement; serious about this marriage, he become a little more mature about the whole thing. Which is a good thing because you’re about this close from calling the whole thing off.

Tries to court you properly; the first time he does so, sending you a proper letter and having flowers and gifts delivered to you, you are suspicious.

You interrogate the poor man the next time you meet in person and he apologizes for his previous behavior; you’ve caught his intrigue and he wants to make things work between the two of you.

Begrudgingly, you accept his apology and tell him that he’s on thin ice.

From there, he’s on his best behavior which stuns and surprises most people including Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator (”Maybe this was a good idea, after all.)

On your wedding night, you expect Terzo to jump your bones immediately but at this point he sees you for so much more than just another body; he’s already half in love with you and takes you to bed slowly, taking care to go at a comfortable speed and to be attentive to your needs. He’s a good lover, after all, and he’s eager to prove it to you.

In the morning, you wake in his arms with him gazing at you with affection. He kisses you good morning and tells you that he’s a very lucky man. He admits he’s falling in love with you and you tell him he’s cheesy-- he blushes and flusters and is about to protest when you catch his lips in a kiss and tell him ‘me too’.

Copia

The youngest of the Emeritus Brothers, and your childhood best friend. The two of you would get into all sorts of trouble as kids and you were often scolded by your parents for playing with him. Despite his high standing as a Emeritus, they thought he was much too strange and odd for you, their beloved only daughter.

You would always disobey their orders to stay away from him, and when the two of you were of age, social balls and parties were spent at each other’s side; gossiping and giggling about others and sneaking out to the garden for a more quieter atmosphere where he could let his rat out of his pocket.

When he first received the news that he was to be married, he was heartbroken. He’d always imagined it to be you by his side— but your parents always refused any request of his to court you.

The news of him being engaged hit you hard. You locked yourself in your room to cry and refused to come out for days. When you finally came out of your room, your parents scolded you and told you to move on. You were of age after all, and would soon be married off as well.

You were out with a chaperon one day when you passed by Copia with his fiancé, escorting her to a beautiful restaurant. Your favorite restaurant, actually. When you return home, you lock yourself in your rooms again and refuse to eat.

You’re so miserable that your health begins to suffer and you fall very ill— this alarms your parents who despite their strictness, love you very much. They call many doctors to see you, but none are able to help.

Word of your health reaches Copia who visits you immediately; he’s still very much in love with you. Your parents reluctantly let him visit, mostly due to your pleading.

You cry as soon as you see him, and he rushes to your side and takes you into his arms. He’s alarmed by how much weight you’ve lost, how pale and sickly you look. He comforts you, tells you he loves you. Reassures you he will always be there for you. You’re too tired to do much except for nodding and sniffling against his shoulder. Eventually you fall asleep and he carefully untangles the two of you to speak with your parents.

After a long and excruciating talk, he gets your parents to agree to let him court you— he cancels his current engagement despite the backlash, and the next time you wake he’s by your bedside with a bouquet of roses.

Your recover little by little after that, and on your wedding day you both cry during your vows. In the morning, you wake in his arms to him snoring at your back and you couldn’t be happier.

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sleepyomi · 1 year

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gift giving with the hq!! boys

a/n: y’all we’ve reached the last first part of the love language series (giving)!!! I’m so excited to be able to start on part two of acts of service, physical touch, and quality time after this. the boys we have today are what I loving refer to as the gentle giants featuring short king daichi because they scream chivalry which makes me scream haha.

ushijima —

it had started during the winter of his third year when ushijima realized just how much the cold affected you. his own schedule and conditioning was focused around him gaining strength and maintaining his health but yours wasn’t. upon realizing this, he had taken it upon himself to make sure you were well taken care of. obviously you could take care of yourself but what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t make you you’re favorite tea when you were congested? or pack you a bento the mornings you had important assignments since he knew there was a chance you’d forget, and carry your preferred lotion and chapstick in his bag since he knew the cold dried out your hands and lips? a shitty one that was what. and if he occasionally kept his favorite hoodie that he knew you loved in his bag along with treats he didn’t eat no one would be able to prove it.

daichi —

with daichi you occupy a good portion of his mind, which means he can’t help but grab your favorite snacks when he swings by the convenience store on his way to picking up his younger siblings. it always puts a smile on your face anyway so why not? if he just happens to do it more often then he previously did, that’s no ones business but his own. if it happens to coincide when you have a bad day too? no one could prove it. on top of that though, when the summer comes to an end, he begins packing an extra jacket in his bag for the even slightest chance your cold, happily giving it you even knowing there is slim to no chance of him getting it back.

aone —

with aone being at the height of his high school volleyball career, it had started when he just wanted to let you know he was thinking of you. a small keychain with your favorite animal on your desk when you’d both had a busy week and couldn’t meet up. a small drawing of a turtle giving you a thumbs up on a post it note the morning you had a speech due. your favorite hoodie of his in your locker the day after you walked home together and had needed to use his. he loved being able to do small things that would make you smile and know he loved you when he wasn’t able to say it himself. the way you always texted him a selfie with the item didn’t help to deter further attempts though it did cause him to quickly lose storage in his phone.

asahi —

hand made gifts all the time. he enjoys making things for you to enjoy that he made himself so it’s like you have a token of his love with you at all times and also because it makes it obvious who made it. he always tries super hard on his gifts whether it’s something material or not. making you a lunch with his is something that he enjoys so much it has become habit and he cherishes making you scarfs, hats, and other articles of clothing as the awed smile on your face when you ask, “did you make this?” with wonder in your voice gets to him everytime. you don’t need to know that he started it back when you were both keeping your relationship a secret and he wanted to see you in his clothes, it ended up working out in the end.

do not edit, claim, or repost my works as per @sleepyomi

#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#hq!!#ushijima wakatoshi #daichi sawamura #aone takanobu #asahi azumane #ushijima x reader #daichi x reader #aone x reader #asahi x reader

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queers-gambit · 2 years

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Up and Out [part two]

prompt: ( requested ) weeks after Billy defended you against Neil, he feels safe enough to leave you at his house to run an errand with Max. when Neil and Susan return unexpectedly, things go sideways and it's up to you to defuse the time bomb that is Billy Hargrove's anger.

pairing: Billy Hargrove x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Stranger Things

word count: 4.8k

warnings: barely edited, cursing, abuse, Neil Hargrove, physical aggression, threats, uh - very very loose outline of "handling" domestic abuse. i don't even know anymore.

part one

"Are you sure?"

I sighed again, turning from the stove to pin Billy with an unamused look as Max crossed her arms and rocked on her feet. "Billy," I spoke calmly, "nobody's home, and you said yourself, your parents aren't coming home for another three days."

"I know, but you could come with me," he sighed, leaning against the doorway. "Max can handle shit here. But turn the stove off, and whatever else."

"This is why Max is going with you and not me," I chuckled, reaching for the tea towel to wipe my hands as Billy shifted. "She knows what we need from the store, you're just the mule, baby."

"Oh, ha-ha," Billy mocked, rolling his eyes some as Max snickered. "All right, but how important is this?"

This time, I glared. "You're the one who wanted me to cook."

"Yeah, but I didn't plan on leaving you alone here," Billy perked a brow.

"Oh, afraid I'm gonna snoop?" I chuckled, leaning back on the counter. "The longer you fight this, the longer it's gonna take. Baby, I'm not leaving the kitchen, you're good to leave for, what?" I glanced at Max, who had the list in her pocket. "20 minutes?"

She shrugged, "Maybe 25 at most."

"Oh, scary numbers!" I grinned back at Billy with a look of fake horror. "C'mon," I laughed when he rolled his eyes, pushing off the counter to approach him and wrap my arms around his waist.

I heard Max mutter a quiet, "Nope," as she passed us to exit the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Send him out when you're done!"

I smiled at Billy as his arms moved to wrap around my shoulders almost begrudgingly, his taller frame allowing his arms to all but drape off of me. "Baby, it's fine."

"You know I just don't like leaving you here," he muttered as the front door closed upon Max' departure.

"I know," I nodded in understanding. "But that's why we said today was an okay day, right? You're off work," I smiled, "and your parents aren't home, and Max is willing to learn a couple of moves in the kitchen. It's nice," I squeezed his waist, seeing a smile tug begrudgingly onto his face.

"All right," he relented, making me squeal in victory. "But we're moving ass and will be here in 15."

"You're going to drive max twelve over the speed limit and get here when you get here," I argued, pointing a warning finger at him, recoiling slightly when his jaw snapped over air. "Hey now, save that for later."

He smirked, "Nah, you agreed that if I played nice tonight, I could tie your hands up after all this, right?"

I sighed comically, "Yeah, I suppose I said that. But I can alter the terms of our deal if you keep Max waiting any longer."

"You wouldn't."

I took hold of his wrist and swiveled myself against his chest while turning his watch so I could see. "I'm giving you... 30 seconds to get out that door before terms are being altered..."

"Wait, hang on," he whined lowly, nuzzling into my neck, "Max can wait a minute, right? We're alone, pretty girl, haven't been all day."

"You can survive," I giggled when his other arm wrapped around my waist tightly, his lips pressing repeated kisses to my neck. Having slight mercy, I amended, "All right, you get one full minute before you have to be gone!"

"Fair enough," he groaned, hearing the watch beep as the minute began and turning me to face him. I gasped when he pushed me back into the slim wall of the kitchen, hands almost pressing bruises into my waist as his mouth seared into mine - stealing my breath.

Kissing Billy was always exciting; tongue and teeth moving in a sinful dance that left lips swollen, puckered, (and sometimes bleeding). His tongue was a hound, searching for my own to wetly slide against one another as he pressed his body into mine.

He subtly checked his watch, my hands pulling up to the nape of his neck and threading my fingers through his hair before locking my fingers around his tresses to tug suddenly.

Billy groaned wantonly into my mouth, pulling down before away, "Got 30 seconds, baby."

"Better use it and get gone," I smirked, letting him press another kiss to my lips - a little slower, softer, and in his control.

He chuckled as his hand snaked under my sundress to palm my cheeks, earning a small squeal, "I'll be back soon."

"Drive safe," I nodded, breathing against his lips as I kissed him in parting, nodding as I patted his chest. "Go, goodbye, I love you."

"Take your panties off," he instructed when he pulled back and grabbed his keys off the counter. "Want you in my room when we get back for a quickie."

"No chance in hell, you horndog," I scoffed, pushing his chest away from me completely as he checked his watch again. "Go before I decided to switch the entire deal."

Billy groaned as he slipped out the door; it shutting just as I faintly heard his watch beep in ending. I paused for a few seconds, hearing Billy call in victory through the closed door, "It counts!"

I laughed, shaking my head and turned back for the counter space. It didn't take long to hear Billy pulling off and the silence of the Hargrove / Mayfield home to surround me. Staying true to my word, I didn't snoop and only left the kitchen to pee before washing my hands and returning to my station.

I might've even turned the radio on dimly to produce something in the background. It was around minute 14 (not that I was counting) when I heard two car doors in the driveway.

Not bothering to wonder why I didn't hear the roar of Billy's engine, I figured either something was forgotten or they were just really fucking fast.

However, when the front door opened and I wasn't greeted immediately by Billy calling, "Baby!", I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Not a moment later, the door slammed chillingly and I heard thuds of bags being set down. I lifted my chin in knowing when footsteps lumbered towards the kitchen; gulping when a sickening voice leered, "Well, well, well... Lookie here."

Glancing to my right, I clocked the distant knife and turned subtly against the counter to face Neil; trying to shift my weight and feet towards the knife. "Neil," I sighed, wiping my hands on the tea towel from my shoulder, "what're you doing here?"

"Funny, little lady, 'cause I was about to ask you the same," Neil smirked, wagging a finger at me as he stepped into the kitchen.

"Billy and Max - "

"Obviously aren't here," he sneered, "since those two stick to you like flies on shit, don't they?"

I sighed, "They'll be back soon. I thought you and Susan went on a vacation."

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Yeah, some fucking vacation."

I furrowed my brows, glancing out into the dining room to see Susan cradling a casted-arm; indicating a break to a bone. "Oh, shit," I breathed.

"Mhm, 'oh, shit,'" Neil mocked. He turned for the refrigerator and pulled a beer out.

"D-Do you need something, um, Mrs. Hargrove?" I asked her, trying to understand what the fuck was happening.

"She don't need shit," Neil snapped. "Just spent the better half of the day in the fucking Emergency Room where she got all she needed."

"And, uh... How did this injury occur?"

Neil whipped around, swallowing the mouthful of beer, "What did you say?"

"I only asked what happened?" I repeated.

"Called it, 'an injury'."

"That's what she is, Mr. Hargrove, your wife is injured and I was asking number one, if she needed anything, and two, what happened. Is that no longer allowed?"

Neil straightened his spine, "I don't like your tone, girl."

"Neil, it's fine," Susan tried.

"No, no," Neil growled, "'cause there's nothing acceptable with what's been happening. You," he pointed at me, "have got my boy's head on backwards."

"I promise you, Billy's seeing clearly for the first time," I snapped. "Not because of me, or whatever, but because he's realizing you're just a piece of shit he doesn't have to tolerate."

"Neil," Susan tried.

"You've got some nerve," the older man seethed.

"You put your hands on me and I won't be able to stop Billy's reaction," I warned, understanding there was nowhere for me to go.

"I don't need to put my hands on you," he sneered.

"No? Only your son, then?" I snapped. "And possibly your wife now that Billy's not your fucking punching bag, is that it?"

"NEIL DON'T!"

I grunted and whimpered when the man surged across the kitchen, beer splattering to the floor for him to casually (and almost routinely) step over to step right in front of me. My hands wrapped like vices around his wrists as he all too easily grabbed me by my upper arms and shook violently, "What did you say to me!?" Neil hollered, red in the face; spit spraying across my cheek as I turned my head. "You know what you are? Nothing but a whore," he sneered, "and you've done enough to my boy! Hear me?" He squeezed tighter, shaking me again. With my arms crossed against my chest to hold his wrists and head turned, he took this as a submissive pose to continue in rage. "You're gonna leave him alone. Hear me? Boy won't listen to me no more, that's fine. He sure as shit don't need no loud mouth, no good whore tellin' him what to do. You don't know him," Neil seethed, breath fanning across my skin, "and you don't understand him. You'll leave him alone, you hear me? Leave. My boy. Alone!"

I whimpered and wrangled in his hold, "Billy's his own man, but you wouldn't recognize that since you're not one yourself!"

"You little bitch," Neil seethed.

"Hittin' your kid," I listed, "doin' God knows to your wife! Some man you are, huh?!"

"Neil!"

The sounds of Billy's engine was heard down the street, my eyes glaring into his, "If you know what's good for you, and for him... You'll leave my boy alone. And Maxine. You'll leave them both alone."

"You'll find they might have an issue with that," I sneered, sighing hotly when he pushed me back into the counter and let go. My hands fell away from his wrists, watching him glare and point a finger at me.

"You're no good for him," he panted. "And if he hears about this, see what I can do. I won't be as restrained if you wanna keep playing this game, little girl."

"Unlike you, I don't see people's emotions as a game," I snipped, trying to regulate my breathing to not give way to my fear.

"Clean this shit up," he snapped, looking over at Susan as Billy's car was heard much louder. "Let's go, Susan."

She bowed her head in shame and followed him with her suitcase (in her good hand) towards the bedroom. I panted and squatted low to the floor, trying to think in my head what the fuck just happened. Fear prickled my skin and I looked to my arms to find them slightly swollen from Neil's suppressing-grip.

Billy would know something was up but I needed to cover my arms and given the warm weather, I didn't have a sweater. But Billy did, right?

Dashing to his bedroom after hearing Neil shut his and Susan's bedroom door, I ripped open his closet and scanned the contents. Baby boy didn't have a lot of options but he had a few and I was yanking a draw-string hoodie from a hanger and trying to wrangle myself into it and get back into the kitchen in time.

I was not successful.

"Uh, baby?" Billy's voice called from the doorway, my wide eyes meeting his curious ones. "The hell's going on?"

"I was cold," I blurted out, still trying to pull the fucking thing on that just seemed to refuse to cooperate.

"Mhm... And the beer in the kitchen's... Yours?" He stepped into the room, turning to shut his door.

"Don't!" I yelped, his furrowed expression meeting my wild one. "You can't leave Max alone out there," I rushed to explain.

"Baby, what the hell's going on?"

"I um... I think I have to go, okay? No big deal - "

"Where's Neil and Susan?" He asked, watching my eyes widen. "I saw their car, pretty girl, c'mon. What'd he say? He say anything to you?"

"Um, yeah, no, no, yeah, I just you know - I just, I should go," I nodded, straightening his hoodie over my sundress before trying to move around him for the door.

"Nah, hold up," Billy paused me, hands reaching for my upper arms. I didn't realize how sore they'd be so soon and whined with a flinch when his hands made contact; eyes filling with panicked tears as his own reflected confusing panic. "Hey, hey, I'm not gonna hurt you, sweetheart."

"I know," I rushed. "But I um... I just, I have to go, Billy."

"Sweetheart, nah, wait a second and hang on," Billy paused by reaching for my hips, curious when I didn't flinch this time and drew me into his embrace. "You wanna tell me what's got you all upset?"

"I'm okay - "

"You're not, pretty girl, just tell me why. Is it Neil?"

I whimpered and pressed into his chest, feeling a few tears leak out. "I'm okay," I repeated a few times, squeezing his waist as his hands raked up and down my back. "Just a little upset, but I'm okay."

"What upset you?" He wondered. "C'mon, ma, I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Right? Isn't that what you're always saying to me?"

I chuckled, nodding, "It is."

"So, c'mon, pretty girl, talk to me," he sighed.

"I just... Can we leave?" I pulled back to look up at him. "Please? W-We can go to my place or something, but I just want to get out of here."

This made Billy suspicious, "Something happen while we were gone?"

"Billy," I begged in a whisper.

"Baby, listen to me," he shook his head, hands rising to cradle my cheeks so his thumbs could wipe the flow of tears, "I need you to be honest. He put his hands on you? Did he touch you?'

"Billy," I sobbed, unable to look into those beautiful blues.

"I'll fucking kill him - "

"No," I gasped when he pulled back.

"NEIL!" Billy raged, my arms catching around his waist to bare slow him down as he approached his father's bedroom door. "YOU PUT YOUR HANDS ON HER, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!?"

"Billy, I swear to God," I panted, trying to pull him back. I caught a glimpse of red. "Max, stay back," I warned.

"COME HERE, YOU FUCKING COWARD! FACE ME!"

"Billy," I begged, moving around him to push at his stomach as he still raged forward. "C'mon, baby, let's just go. See? This is why I wanted to go."

"Why?" He snapped. "So I wouldn't break his fucking neck?"

"Exactly that," I panted still, whining lowly as I strained to push against solid muscle. "Christ, you know, usually I'm all for you working out but for fuck's sake! C'mon, don't!"

"NEIL! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU - I PROMISED IF YOU TOUCHED HER I WOULD!"

"This isn't worth it, Billy, c'mon!" I begged again. "You'll get locked up for beating him to death and then what?" I snapped. "Huh? I gotta visit you in jail, jackass! Go, c'mon," I whined, pushing still as he budged a step. "Walk away, walk away, baby, this isn't worth it. I promise you, it's not worth it, c'mon, walk away, baby, please."

"Nah, I gotta fix this - right fucking now - NEIL - "

"No, no, no, new rule," I panted, still shoving him back with my full weight. "I'm not coming over here anymore, okay? No more encounters, we won't risk it. This was a fluke, baby, a fluke, but we're not leaving room for other errors. C'mon, c'mon," I managed to back him down the hall. "Max is watching, don't make her watch, and Susan's hurt - "

"My mom's hurt?" Max demanded as I finally got Billy to stand still.

"Uh, yeah, she... She uh, came home with a broken arm." Max's enraged eyes turned to Billy. "We don't know what happened, please, just - everyone cool off, okay?"

"He hurt my mom," Max pointed out.

"I know, but we should go to the police, okay? Hopper's a pretty good chief, I know him from poker nights."

"What - "

"Where do you think I am every other Wednesday?" I waved Billy off. "We'll all go get in the car and go see Hopper, okay? We'll do this the legal way, and even if your mom," I looked at Max, "doesn't want to press charges, I will."

"Woah, hang on a second, pretty girl." Billy shook his head. "The hell does that mean?"

"You asked if he put his hands on me?" Billy nodded slowly, like he wasn't sure he wanted the answer. "He did... And if you take me now, I can go file a report and that jackass can be outta here by nightfall."

Max looked at Billy, "We can't leave my Mom!"

"We can't leave you, either," I pointed out. "And I sure as shit am not staying here, and Billy's not allowed to stay 'cause he'll kill Neil. Like, actually."

"Let him," Max sighed.

"No, 'cause then you and me, Little Miss, are subservient to prison visitations and no justice is served. We go this route with Hopper, Neil will go to jail. Even for a bit from what he did to me, he'll be outta here. Susan can decide what she wants to do from there."

"You got it like that with the chief of police?" Max scoffed, crossing her arms and offering a look of indigence.

"If he wants his watch back next poker night, yeah," I nodded, "he'll make sure this happens how we need it to."

Billy ran a hand down his face, "We can't leave Susan."

"He's in there with her," I pointed out. "No way of getting to her with alerting him to what we're doing."

"How far is the station?" Max asked.

"Not far," Billy nodded, "if we go, right now."

"Hey," I grabbed his wrist when he moved to tug his denim jacket back on, "I-I'm so sorry - "

"What?" he snapped. "Why're you apologizing?"

"I didn't help the situation," I sighed.

"You did nothing to deserve whatever the hell he did," Billy assured, moving to cradle my jaw in his hand. "I shouldn't've left you, and that's my fault. Can you tell us what happened in the car?"

"Can you drive like a normal person?"

He sighed, "I can try to. Baby, it'll only take me a minute to handle him - "

"I love you, Billy," I interrupted, feeling emotion swell in my eyes. "And I want a future with you, but that can't happen if I let you go fucking kill your father. Please, please, let's just go to Hopper. Please, Billy, we can handle this swiftly and quietly, nobody has to know."

"I don't care about that - I want him to pay for what he did to you!"

"He will," I breathed. "Baby, he will. Don't underestimate Hopper, please."

Billy looked ready to argued before nodding slowly, sighing hotly, "Fine, let's just - let's go."

It didn't take long to get to the police station. And when I walked in with Billy and Max at my flank, Callahan looked over nosily as I all but barged into Jim Hopper's office.

He dully looked up through a thick cloud of smoke from the cigarette that hung limply from his lips. Once I ushered the others in and slammed the door, he perked up, "This doesn't feel like a social visit..."

"It's not," I breathed, wrangling the sweatshirt from my frame. I paused when Billy's sharp inhale sent ice into the pit of my stomach; knowing his father's hands had left bruises already from their intense grasp. "We'd like to report a crime or something?"

"Or something?"

"It's domestic, Jim, we want to keep it quiet."

Hopper sat up in interest, "And they're involved... How?"

"It's," I paused to look at Max with pity before over at Billy, his eyes already glazed over, "it's their father. He, uh... He grabbed me, and they'd like to attest to other acts of physical violence. There's reason for us to believe he's abusing his wife - she now has a broken arm."

"This is... Very serious, kids."

"We know," I assured. "Which is why we came here, to you. We need to be taken seriously."

Jim Hopper nodded, waving us forward, "Come tell me what happened... In detail."

I gulped, nodding at Billy as Max shied away towards the back of the office. It left Billy and I to lead the conversation with Hopper, who, as I assumed, sent a squad car to collect Susan and Neil.

Once separated, Susan came clean about her own accounts of abuse and Neil was booked to the jail. It was a long process that took most of the night and Billy let Susan and Max in his car before putting me in the passenger to drive us home.

He was silent the whole time.

Pensive.

Unsure.

Nervous.

Susan took Max to bed that night, letting her curl up with her mama as I took Billy in his room. Once alone, he just lowered himself to the floor in front of his bed; knees bending slightly as his eyes cleared themselves of any emotion and looked more closer to detached.

"Baby?" I sighed, sitting beside him and wrapping my arms around his denim-covered one. "Baby, hey?" I whispered, waiting until he turned his head. "You've been sitting here for 15 minutes, I'm starting to worry a little, my love. D-Do you want to be alone?"

His head shook, looking like words died on his tongue.

"Do you want to get in bed?" I was careful in my words and tone.

"What the hell just happened?"

I sighed, "Your father put his hands on me, you came home, threatened to kill him, let me convince you to go to the cops instead, and we got Jim Hopper on the case. Susan confessed to her own account of abuse from Neil, and it was enough in combination with our stories to book him. Okay? He's in jail," I reminded. "He's in jail, and he can't hurt you anymore. He'll never hurt you again, Billy..."

He looked panicked, "N-No, no, no, n-now I-I'm - no, baby, now it's on me - it's on me."

"Hey," I nodded, reaching for his cheeks and meeting his eyes, "you're okay, and the only thing we have to do is what we're already doing. Nothing more, nothing less. We've got this."

"I-I'm it," he shook his head. "T-The man of the house - "

"You are still a boy," I argued, "and are not expected to just step right into his father's place. Please, Billy, just get in bed with me. It really happened, my love, but you need sleep."

He nodded, brows crinkled and eyes tinted red from suppressed emotion, "Sleep?"

"Sleep," I agreed softly; reaching out to gently let my fingernails scrap over his skin as I slowly pushed hair behind his ear.

"Will you stay with me? Please, baby, I'm so - "

"Hey, hey, I'm not leaving you," I promised. "But how about we get your shoes and jacket off at least?"

"I just," he paused, "baby, it really happened. He's really gone, right? He's gone? It's done?"

"He's gone, my sweet," I nodded in agreement. "You're safe now, all right? He's not gonna hurt you again, and you're never gonna be alone. I know they're not the family you wouldn't chose, but Susan and Max are the family that's gonna support you now."

"It feels too easy," he whispered.

"Sometimes it can," I admitted. "But not everyone is as lucky like us."

"I get that," he nodded. "Fuck - I just, it's happening."

"It is, sweet boy," I smiled. "And it's gonna change everything, but you're gonna be safe."

"Fuck," Billy breathed, looking purely shocked and confused. "I just - "

"Hey, no, no, you don't have to think right now," I assured. "Let's just get in bed, okay? We've still got a couple of hours before sunrise, okay? Just get in bed with me."

"Yeah," Billy whispered, "yeah, okay, yeah."

It didn't take long for either of us to strip; Billy crashing to bed with the window cracked and the ashtray balanced on the windowsill while in nothing but his boxers. I took a second or two longer to just look at him as he lit up his cigarette before joining him in bed.

"Are you okay?" I whispered after a few minutes of silent smoking, careful not to let the ash fall over his bare chest.

"I don't know yet."

"I'll ask in a few days," I tried to sound amused but he only looked pensive. "Hey," I whispered, waiting until his eyes found mine, "how's about you and me go camping this weekend?"

It made his brows crinkle deeper, "What?"

I shrugged, "Yeah, just you and me alone in the woods for two days."

"I've never been camping," he admitted.

"Oh, you're in luck," I beamed. "My brother was a Boy Scout, so, we went on a lot of family-friendly Scout Troop camping trips."

He chuckled, "So, you're a pro, aren't you?"

"Oh, totally," I grinned. "Might even get your ass to go fishing. Like a real country boy, hmm?"

He let out a long breath, "Yeah, uh... Sounds kinda nice."

"I'm just trying to help get your mind off all this, baby."

"I know, doll," he smiled slightly, flexing his arm to bring me closer so his lips could pucker a few wet kisses to my cheek. "You're God sent, you know that?"

"Billy," I whined.

"Nah, I'm serious," he chuckled, looking over to set the cigarette down to smolder in the ashtray before rolling over onto me. "You, my beautiful, smart girl, are sent by God himself. You've gotta be."

I sighed, "Maybe with Neil gone you'll start to see how much you're worth."

"Maybe. But I don't know, I think I shine pretty brightly with you."

"I couldn't agree more," I laughed, reaching up for his cheeks. "I'm sorry it came down to this, but I'm glad I was able to be here with you for all of this."

"I just... I knew something felt weird leavin' you. I didn't want to. And you got hurt 'cause I didn't trust my gut - so, from now on, we're listening."

I chuckled, "All right, next time your gut wants to speak up, we'll do our best to listen."

"Good, all right," he sighed, pausing to look over my face with skittish eyes. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I just - I promise I'll protect you when I can. But for fuck's sake, I'm sorry for leaving you."

Knowing his guilt was clouding better judgement, I assure, "I forgive you. It's okay, I don't blame you, I love you, and I know it's not gonna happen again. You're about to be really clingy, aren't you?" I couldn't help but giggle, reaching to gently boing one of his forehead curls.

"You know it, sweetheart," he chuckled. "There's no reason for you to go anywhere without me, you know?"

"I have an OB appointment this week, wanna go to that?"

"I don't know what that is, but I'm game."

I could only laugh, "Okay, can we nap please?"

Billy sighed, moving to drop onto the bed beside me. He reached for the cigarette again, taking a sharp inhale. "Hey," he whispered, looking down at me when I curled back under his chin.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

I smiled against his chest, "Yeah, love you, too, baby boy."

And as we both laid to settle in for the night, I couldn't help but think back to Neil's words and how wrong he was. I did know Billy, I did understand him, and I felt something click into place in my heart when I settled on the idea that I'd never stop trying to understand him. No matter the damage Neil tried to inflict, I knew that with time and compassion, Billy would break free of the binds his father tied him in and he'd require understanding as he settled into his new life.

Turns out, I've got plenty to give to this boy.

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove one shot #billy hargrove deserved better #billy hargrove angst #requests open

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Text

It's Better This Way | Part Two

It's Better This Way Masterlist

Carwood Lipton x Enlisted!Female Reader

They say time heals all wounds, but your love for Carwood Lipton simply lies dormant until fate brings you together again under very different circumstances.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Angst, Pining For A Married Man, Alcohol Consumption, Language, Discussion of Divorce, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [fingering, hand job, unprotected vaginal sex, pull out method] - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Self-indulgent canon divergence with little explanation ahead, read at your own risk. This applies not only to the existence of female paratroopers but Carwood Lipton's personal life. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the HBO series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5242

-------------------------

‘Go home to your wife, sir, it’s better this way.’ Your harsh words echoed through your mind as you blindly navigated your way through the dark streets of Buchloe, unshed tears obscuring your vision.

Thankfully, you knew the way back to your platoon’s billet, managing to make it inside and hand off tomorrow’s orders to Sergeant Martin before retreating to the room you shared with another female paratrooper, Norma, and having a good cry on her shoulder. She easily believed it was related to what the Battalion had witnessed that day and you submitted yourself to her mothering, too emotionally spent to protest as she found you some tea and tucked you into bed.

That day marked the last time Lipton tried to break through your defences, giving you a wide berth for the rest of the war. That is not to say you did not catch his gaze from time to time nor feel his eyes lingering on you when he thought you unaware. For your part, you put in a more concerted effort to behave as people expected, hoping to quash any concerns about your wellbeing. To keep the attention of the likes of Winters and Speirs on more important things like the occupation, the Japanese surrender, everyone’s return to the States.

The gaping wound in your chest faded to a dull ache, your friendship with Norma blossomed, and the pair of you ultimately decided to make a go of it in New York City after the war. The likelihood of two ex-service women, one with a facial scar, getting jobs in your respective hometowns was slim to none, and so you had found an affordable apartment to share in the big city before going on the hunt for work. Norma had found employment immediately at a department store while it had taken you quite some time to secure a position at a bank across from the docks, run by a man who seemed unfazed by both your gender and the mark on your face.

It was not long before Norma had found herself a beau, who quickly became her fiancé, and then her husband. Every man that you met had the misfortune of being compared to the spectre of Carwood Lipton and never had a chance of fully measuring up. You chose instead to focus your efforts on your career, securing several promotions and a nicer apartment of your own, leaving Norma and her husband to their newly wedded bliss. You stayed in touch with a lot of the guys from Easy, of course, exchanging letters with Luz and Randleman frequently. By the time 1947 rolled around, the location of the second reunion of the 101st Airborne was chosen as the very city in which you lived and so began Luz’s campaign to convince you to attend.

You finally relented in June, if only to stop the overwhelming volume of postcards he was sending your way, but as you stood outside the New Yorker Hotel that Friday in August, you still found yourself utterly unsure. Though you’d been back in the country for less than two years, Europe felt like another lifetime. You’d forced yourself to move on, to become another person, if only for the sake of surviving the rest of your days without Lipton. Shaking your head with a sigh, you turned to go, running smack into the chest of some innocent bystander on the sidewalk.

“I’m so sorry!” You gasped out at the same time as his hands gripped your elbows to steady you.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Lipton apologized and your eyes shot to his face to see him swallow in surprise.

In his defence he’d probably never once seen you wearing a dress as you were now, your hair styled, a touch of makeup on. An entirely different person to the one he would have recognized from the Airborne, while he stood there in his civilian suit looking every bit as handsome as he had in his Class A uniform.

“Liu–Lipton.” You corrected yourself quickly, watching a small smile pull at his mouth as he politely released your arms.

“It’s good to see you.” He glanced between you and the hotel before inclining his head curiously. “Not going in?”

“I, uh,” You looked over your shoulder before shaking your head as you turned back to him. “I don’t think so, no.”

His mouth pulled into a straight line, signalling his disappointment, but he made no verbal comment on it. “Need a cab?” He moved toward the curb, and you stepped forward quickly to stop him, shaking your head again.

“I live just a few blocks from here, I could use the walk. Thank you though.” You pressed your lips together as your fondness for him swelled to life beneath your sternum, reawakened by his presence.

“I’ll escort you then.” He insisted stubbornly and stood expectantly, waiting for your direction.

“You don’t have to, I’m sure you want to get inside…” You protested meekly, utterly out of character.

He raised an eyebrow. “I insist. Are we going left, or right?”

You pointed to your left and he nodded, turning to walk that way with you. You made your way together in silence for nearly a block, neither of your seeming to have any idea what to say after all this time. After the last time you had truly spoken to one another in Buchloe. Unable to stand the oppressive weight of the awkward silence between you a moment longer, you took a breath and turned to him as you waited for the walk light at the next corner.

“What’ve you been up to since you got back?”

“I’m working on that degree I put on hold.” He answered easily, arm hovering above your back protectively as a man darted behind you before dashing out across traffic, clearly in a hurry somewhere. “You?” He asked once you started walking again.

“Got a job, an apartment. The whole civilian life business.” You shrugged.

“All in New York City, very impressive.” He smiled softly and you looked to your feet quickly lest your eyes betray the way that melted your heart.

“Norma’s here too, working at Macy’s, got herself a husband.” You came to a stop after several blocks, standing in front of your building. “This is me.”

He looked up, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “You weren’t kidding when you said you live close by.”

“Yeah. Thanks again for walking me over, you ok to find your way back?”

The sound of a rowdy group of men spilling out from the bar across the street pulled his attention before looked back to you. “Could you bear to have one drink with me?”

“Bear it…” You repeated in disbelief, the gaping hole he’d left in your chest raw and aching once more. “Of course I can.” You swallowed roughly, willfully ignoring that pain beneath your ribs.

His smile grew a fraction, and he offered his arm, watching you carefully slide your forearm into the crook of his elbow before he led you across the street and into the busy establishment. The only open seats were at the very edge of the u-shaped counter, crammed into a corner, and he confidently weaved his way through the other patrons to help you onto one open stool before taking the other. You tucked your handbag against the wall with a huff of annoyance and he cocked his head.

“There are not many things I miss about being a paratrooper, but having a pocket for everything is certainly one of them.” You smirked a little as he laughed warmly, gesturing the bartender over.

“What would you like?” He turned to you to order first and then ordered a beer for himself. “So where do you work?” He leaned in to be sure you could hear him over the din of conversation.

“At a bank down by the docks, customers don’t seem to be put off by me, my boss is a stand-up guy.” You replied, nodding your thanks as your beverages arrived.

He nodded warmly, lifting his glass to take a sip. The movement caught your eye as you enjoyed the first taste of your own drink, gaze falling onto the bare ring finger on his left hand. Inhaling sharply, the burn of alcohol in your trachea set you coughing, and you quickly put down your glass lest you spill it all over yourself. Lipton looked to you quickly in concern before following your eyeline, holding up his left hand thoughtfully.

“Paperwork was finalized a few months ago.” He muttered once you calmed your spasming throat.

Guilt flooded you even though there had been no real transgression on your part aside from one half-accidental kiss in Germany. You looked at him with unmasked sorrow and shook your head, frowning as he set his hand over yours where it rested on the countertop.

“I’m a different person now and so is she, please don’t carry my burdens too.” He said gently, squeezing your hand in his.

“Lip I’m so sorry…” You uttered the well-worn phrase of sympathy, uncertain of what else you could possibly say.

“What about you? Anyone special in your life?” He asked as he lifted his hand from yours, reaching for his glass to take another sip.

You shook your head quickly “Hasn’t really been time, or worthwhile candidates.” You replied, taking a generous sip of your drink.

“Hmm.” He uttered noncommittally before glancing at his beer appreciatively. “It sure is nice to be back where they know how to serve one of these.”

You laughed softly. “Not a fan of tepid beer, Lipton?” You teased, leaning against the counter a little to turn and look at him better.

He wrinkled his nose a little and shook his head, making you laugh again. The pair of you began to reminisce then, reminding one another of funny moments you had shared, trading stories about the training you had endured separately. All the while the bar became more and more crowded, forcing you to lean closer together just to hear each other. You ordered another round as he seemed inclined to linger and you most certainly could not say no to more time basking in his presence. You had nearly finished your second drinks when he looked at you intently.

“You’ve never met a man you could spend the rest of your life with?” His knee brushed against yours as he turned closer to you on his stool.

“Not since I got home from Europe, no.” Your answer was careful, keeping it strictly truthful, hoping not to incriminate yourself.

“And before that?” He probed persistently and you pressed your lips together, looking at him meaningfully.

“I don’t know if you want the answer to that, Carwood.” You responded at last, fingers gripping your drink tighter as his eyes snapped to yours at the use of his preferred name.

“No, I really think I do.” He pinned you with a firm look and you took the final gulp of your drink, letting it sear its way down to your stomach.

“I did yeah, but the timing was all wrong.”

“And what about now?” He wet his lips with an almost-invisible flick of his tongue, but your eyes could not help but follow the movement.

“What about now, Carwood?” You challenged breathlessly.

“Keep using my name and it’s absolutely perfect.” He replied earnestly, leaning closer to you.

Your exhaled shakily. “You mean that?”

“I do.” He nodded firmly.

“It’s always been you, Carwood.” You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his forehead against yours, finger entwining to hold your hand tightly.

“I’m so sorry it took me so long to understand it.” He muttered, breath fanning across your face.

You shook your head quickly and looked at him, voice thick with emotion. “It wasn’t you, it was the timing of everything.”

Carwood nodded, cupping your cheek with his free hand and you leaned into his touch. “Still have a lot to make up for.” He countered.

“Call me stubborn.” You teased him fondly, ducking a quick kiss to his cheek. “Would you like to come up to my apartment?” You murmured against his ear, holding your breath until he nodded softly.

Once the tab was settled, by a very insistent Carwood, you made your way back across the street and up to your fifth-floor residence, never once letting go of his hand. Unlocking the door, you led him into your modest studio apartment, toeing off your shoes at the door, smiling as he did the same.

“We never actually ate dinner, are you hungry?” You asked as you locked the door behind him.

He shook his head and stepped forward to cup your cheeks gently, pressing his lips to your firmly. Your hands gripped his forearms tightly, shifting closer.

“I’m sorry I’ve just…” He murmured as he pulled back.

“Been dreaming of that for three years.” You cut him off gently, leaning in to kiss him once again, arms sliding around his neck.

Carwood’s arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as his mouth moved against yours, the intensity of your kisses escalating to the exchanging of breath through parted lips before you slid your tongue against his wantonly. His fingers curled into the fabric of your dress as his chest rumbled in delight, years worth of simmering tension boiling over as you pressed him back into the door, tasting him thoroughly.

One of his hands slowly slid down to your lower back, making you arch closer to him still, gasping against his lips as you could feel the outline of his rapidly hardening length pressing against you. Hands shifting to grip the lapels of his jacket, you walked backward through the apartment easily, eyes locked on his, until you pivoted to press on his shoulders and sit him down on the end of your bed.

“Are you sure?” He murmured up at you thickly as you slid to straddle his thighs.

“Only if you are.” You swallowed, wondering if you were overwhelming the poor man.

“I love you.” Carwood smiled warmly and slid his fingers to the back of your neck to pull you in for a tender kiss.

Heart feeling as though it had broken free of your ribcage to soar through the clouds, you buried your fingers into his hair, returning the kiss fiercely. “God, I love you too.” You breathed against his mouth, voice rough with emotion.

A small noise of surprise left your lips as his hands gripped your thighs and he skillfully rolled you onto your back. Grinning with a hint of pride, his hands skimmed higher beneath the hem of your dress and slip to unfasten your stockings with practiced ease, rolling them down and off your legs one at a time, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of each calf once the skin was bared to him. He took a moment to shrug out of his suit jacket before crawling up your body to paint teasingly soft kisses down the column of your throat, working at the fastenings of your dress.

Not one to be idle, your fingers began to work at the buttons of his dress shirt, tugging it free of the waistband of his pants before pushing it down his arms. Carwood pulled back to deposit it onto the floor before gently sliding your dress down your body to join it. His hands skimmed along your silk-clad sides as he drank you in, features painted with wonder.

“All of this hiding under that uniform.” He uttered.

Biting your lip, you pushed up to kiss him warmly. “Could say the same about you, you know.” You traced your hands along the muscles of his shoulders and down his arms before shifting your focus to undoing his belt, delighting in the pink tinge of his cheeks in response.

He trailed open mouthed kisses along the neckline of your slip, brushing against the tops of your breasts, making you exhale shakily as you worked his pants open and off his body. Stepping free of them before crawling back onto the bed, he slid the straps of your slip down, revealing your lingerie to his heated gaze. “As if you couldn’t get any more beautiful…” He shook his head, slip discarded behind him before his lips descended onto yours once more, sealing off any glib reply you might have been able to muster.

Fingers skimming up your ribs, you whimpered into his mouth as his broad palm cupped your breast through the silky material of your brassiere, gripping at the back of his undershirt, insistently pulling the fabric up his skin. His tongue laved along your cleavage, shivers wracking your body at the sensation of his hot breath on your damp skin as he continued to knead at your sensitive flesh. Feeling him begin to sit up, you grabbed the gathered material of his undershirt in your fist and pulled it over his head, throwing it to the side somewhere as he worked your bra and garter belt free.

Caressing the still-defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, you cried out softly as his mouth sealed around first one nipple and then the other, always keeping a balance of pleasure between the two that was filling your veins with scorching desire. Delving past the waistline of his boxers, your hand sought his cock impatiently, and as your fingers wrapped around him, Carwood pressed his face to your sternum with a grunt. You were honestly taken aback when he gently but firmly gripped your wrist and pulled your hand free of him.

“You first, beautiful.” He murmured, leaning up to peck your lips before his mouth returned to its teasing work, pressing your wrist into the mattress before he cupped between the apex of your thighs.

“Carwood!” You gasped softly, hips bucking to his hand slightly before you sunk your teeth into your lower lip, fingers grasping at the bedding in an effort to respect his wishes.

His hazel eyes looked up to yours across the planes of your torso, pupils dilating rapidly as he traced your folds through the silken material of your underwear, your body writhing eagerly beneath his touch. Unable to both keep your eyes open for him and your mouth shut, you whimpered loudly, hips bucking more insistently as you desperately needed more of him. His eyes closed briefly, his mouth pressing a damp kiss to your side before he pulled back to strip you of your underwear, shifting to lay next to you. His fingers resumed their torment, the skin-on-skin contact with your slick core making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Look so pretty like this, beautiful.” He breathed against your ear, making you shudder. “Content and enjoying yourself.” His thumb zeroed in on your bundle of nerves, wrenching a moan from you. “Making all the loveliest sounds.”

“Mm! Car… so good…” You panted in reply, turning your head to kiss him deeply, mewling into his mouth as he sank his index finger into your needy warmth.

Turning his hand to grind the heel of his palm against your clit, he worked his finger in and out of you smoothly before adding a second, your back bowing as you started to clench tighter around him, breathless with impending climax. “Please show me how you fall apart, beautiful.”

Your eyelids fluttered open as he propped himself up on his free arm to get a better view of your face, licking his lips hungrily as he added a third finger, sending you hurtling into climax with a ragged cry. His fingers continued their movements, prolonging your pleasure until you grinned up at him languidly. “Just when I thought you could never surprise me again, Carwood…what a gentleman you are.” Your grin widened at the scarlet tinge to his cheeks in response to your praise.

Your eyes widened slightly as he licked his fingers clean, your teeth sinking into your ravaged lower lip at the sight.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” He murmured, thumb gently easing the plump flesh from beneath your incisor before he kissed you warmly.

Rolling onto your hip, you tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fighting the friction of the fabric against the bedding before you finally worked them free. Your hand once again wrapped around the length of him, eagerly drinking in his soft moan against your lips as you stroked along the velvety flesh. Sliding your leg over his hip you shuffled closer, rocking your pelvis forward to guide him into your welcoming body.

“Oh!” He breathed harshly as he rolled his hips forward, nestling into you fully.

“Ah, Car.” You sighed, burying your fingers into his hair, pressing your forehead against his.

The intensity of his eyes boring into yours as he thrust into and pulled from your body was nearly too much to bear, the agony of ecstasy bringing the dewy cling of teardrops to your eyelashes.

“Ok?” He whispered, hips stilling.

“God yes, just so fucking happy.” You sniffled and buried your face against his throat shyly, moaning richly as he began to move again, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of your buttock.

“I love you so much, beautiful.” He groaned into your hair, pelvis grinding against yours as your muscles involuntarily clenched around him at those words.

“You too, Car.” You whispered, pressing salty kisses against his neck.

You could feel the muscles of his jaw clenching against your temple as he struggled to maintain his pace, your body responding eagerly as you felt yourself ascending towards release. Crying out against his skin as you orgasmed, he quickly pulled out, his own release spilling across your inner thigh. He’d barely made it, but Carwood still did his best to be a gentleman. You lifted your tearstained face to kiss him deeply, caressing his cheek and down his back warmly.

Carwood’s lips brushed against your cheeks, kissing away any trace of your tears tenderly. “That was incredible…” He murmured and you nodded warmly, pressing your lips to the scar on his right cheek.

“You’re incredible.” You replied softly, unable to stop your lazy smile as he ducked his head a little under your open admiration of him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” He pressed a kiss to your scar in turn, knocking the wind out of you, leaving you staring up at him in stunned silence as he slid to his feet to find the washroom. “Bath?”

You simply nodded, having somehow lost the ability to form words as he grabbed your hands and led you there. Never having considered yourself ashamed of the mark you wore so prominently, you were honestly bewildered at your reaction to his tender gesture. Were still pondering it as you slid into the temperate water with him, neither of you wanting a terribly warm bath on a hot summer evening.

“You’re awful quiet, beautiful.” He murmured from behind you, fingers trailing water along the skin of your arms.

“Sorry Car, I just…when you kissed my face, I got all…”

“When I kissed your scar, you mean.” He corrected softly, pressing his cheek against yours and you nodded. “Did it bother you?”

“Not at all.” You breathed quickly. “It felt so lovely I just, never realized I wanted that?” You turned to look back at him, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his lips to the mark once more, letting them linger there.

“You’ll always be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Carwood…” You sighed and turned in his arms to kiss him firmly.

It took a lot of determination on his part to get the pair of you clean, dry, and fed but he managed to prevail despite your wandering hands. Sliding into bed with you in a set of summer pyjamas and him in his boxers and undershirt, he pulled you to his chest, holding you warmly. “Tonight has turned out far better than I could have ever imagined.”

You laughed against him drowsily. “Much better than speeches from Generals Taylor and McAuliffe while eating hotel food…”

He laughed warmly and squeezed your shoulder. “Sleep well, beautiful.”

“You too, Car.” You murmured, nestling against him contentedly.

The firm knocking at your door the next morning had you snuffling awake against Carwood’s hair, brows furrowed, thoroughly disgruntled to have your peaceful slumber interrupted. He lifted his head from where it was tucked beneath your chin and blinked up at you blearily, confusion etched on his features. There was another string of rapping knuckles against wood and you sighed heavily, unwrapping your arms from around him to peel yourself from the bed and grab your housecoat.

“Just a moment!” You slung it on, doing it up quickly to preserve your modesty as you walked towards the door, Carwood following at your side.

You turned the deadbolt but left the chain in place, Carwood standing on the other side of the doorframe as you cracked it open just enough to speak to whomever was there without revealing him.

Your eyes widened as there stood George Luz, grinning broadly with a warm cry of your name.

“George?!”

“We missed you last night! Just wanted to stop by and make sure you were still coming to the lunch that Bill arranged for Easy.” He looked at you sternly and you nodded quickly, pushing the door shut to slide the chain free, opening it again more widely and smiling at him softly.

“Of course I am. Sorry about last night work got out of hand.” You swallowed, hating to lie, but you and Carwood hadn’t really discussed much. “By the time I got out of there the banquet was half over and I didn’t want to make a fuss showing up late.”

His eyes twinkled a little. “Well, you gotta do what you gotta do. Hey by any chance you seen Lip? He came in from West Virginia yesterday but didn’t show up at dinner and he’s not in his room at the hotel, either.”

You blinked in feigned innocence. “Why would I have seen him, George, I was working and then here.” You swallowed as you could see Carwood grimace out of the corner of your eye.

“Yeah right, of course. I’m real worried about him, might have to go to the cops…”

Carwood sighed deeply and grabbed the edge of the door, pulling it open wider to show his face as proof of life. “I’m here, Luz.”

Luz’s resulting grin was as blinding as the sun, making you bow your head. “Oh! Oh, I see this reunion is goin’ real well.”

“We’ll see you at lunch, Luz.” Carwood replied firmly, pushing the door shut in his face, turning to you slowly. “You ok?” He whispered, not wanting to be overheard.

You looked to him slowly before breaking out into a fit of laughter, nodding quickly. “Jesus, that man has been rooting for us since Haguenau…” You sighed fondly as Carwood’s eyes widened.

“Seriously?”

You cleared your throat and composed yourself, resting your hands on his shoulders. “I’m alright, are you?”

He nodded quickly before his brow furrowed. “George Luz knew before I did?”

“I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you mean, he just…figured it out somehow. Scared the hell out of me.”

Carwood frowned more and set his hands on your hips, stepping closer. “That’s why you left that day.” He breathed in realization, and you swallowed tightly.

“It was a contributing factor, yes.” You admitted, pulling your lower lip into your mouth with your teeth.

His thumb rose to gently free it, soothing the slight indentation. “Wish you would have talked to me, instead.”

Exhaling heavily, you pursed your lips in thought before replying. “I probably could have done things differently, I’ll admit, but at the time I felt like I had no choice. I am sorry for how much pain and confusion it must have caused you though, Car.” You pressed your lips to the pad of his thumb which had lingered at the corner of your mouth as you spoke.

“I’m sorry you felt that you had no choice – how lonely that must have been. I’m sorry I didn’t meet you sooner…” He swallowed harshly, blinking rapidly as his eyes grew damp.

“Hey, hey neither of us can change the past, Carwood.” You kissed between his brows warmly. “It’s behind us now, we have a whole future ahead.”

His eyes rosed to yours slowly, and he nodded. “What would you like that future to look like, beautiful?”

“I want you in it.” You replied easily, without hesitation, swallowing at his shy smile in return. “Don’t really care what it takes at this point.”

“Sounds perfect.” He nodded, sealing his statement with a deep kiss.

That afternoon as you sat surrounded by members of your old company, you nodded as Carwood excused himself to use to washroom, laughing brightly as Guarnere continued his story about their old commanding officer at Toccoa. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed each and every one of them until you’d arrived at the restaurant, greeted by a chorus of shouts of your name. Carwood was already there, having gone back to his hotel room to change beforehand, and no one but Luz seemed suspicious of how close the pair of you were sitting at the table. Couldn’t see the way your knee was pressed against his, unable to bear the separation.

“Can’t believe his wife ran off with some 4F milkman.” Guarnere shook his head and you looked to him sharply.

“Who…Carwood’s?!” You gasped out, eyes widening as he nodded in confirmation.

Carwood had had every opportunity to speak ill of his now ex-wife and yet remained a gentleman even after what she’d put him through. Impossible as it seemed, you somehow fell even further in love with the man right then.

Luz grinned at you knowingly from his seat to your right. “Sure seems like marriage just ain’t forever anymore these days, huh?” He winked and the other guys muttered their agreement.

You nodded silently, still processing the news, looking up as Powers started talking but sent a smile to Carwood as he slid back into his chair to your left. You were vaguely aware that Luz had risen from his seat but weren’t entirely certain what he was up to until his hand pressed against your right cheek, his other against Carwood’s left, pressing your neighboring cheeks together tightly to form one continuous line with your scars.

“See boys, what I’d tell ya? They were made for each other – their scars even match!” He crowed proudly as Guarnere and the others tilted their heads back to laugh richly.

You giggled softly while simultaneously swatting at Luz until he sat back down, jaw dropping as you felt Carwood’s lips find their way onto your scar, the boys roaring with glee. Turning quickly, you kissed the well faded mark on his cheek in turn, pressing your face against his shoulder as a few of them started clapping and at least one of them muttered ‘finally.’

“So, when’s the wedding?” Luz asked boldly and everyone leaned in with bated breath.

“I assure you your invites will be in the mail as soon as we know.” Carwood replied diplomatically and you gazed up at him in wonder as more cheers erupted around the table and someone started calling for champagne.

‘Ok?’ He mouthed silently and you nodded quickly.

“Everything is perfect.”

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It's Better This Way Masterlist

Tag list: @bcon24 , @ronsparky

#carwood lipton x reader #carwood lipton imagines #carwood lipton imagine #carwood lipton #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers fic #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers

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