#Out of a desire to have spent more time with him

[bunnys-kisses]

lovingly dominant

capt. john price

tags: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/30s), size difference/kink, dom/sub dynamic, bdsm au, virgin!reader, light bdsm, praise (kink)

a/n: in a surprising twist, bunny has written call of duty again!! expect more cod stuff into december when the f1 season is over and it stops eating my brain <3

john price considered himself a little old fashioned. he thought it was better to have his birdie of the week on her back and rut into her until they both finished. he had no need for whips, chains, collars, and whatever else the world of bdsm had to offer.

but after so many missions and so many years, the pollution of combat bled into his sexual desires. he craved for control, near domination of his birdie. yes, they looked cute on their backs and their soft noises. but it looked far more appealing to keep her blindfolded, second guessing what was being done to her while price's filthy words spilled across her brain like wine on a white carpet. tainting her. tainting you.

most dominants loved a trained submissive. loved that they knew the ins and outs of the dynamic, tinkering to their liking. price on the other hand had a thing for over eager virgins. ones who got all their bdsm know-how from horribly written fan fiction. he liked to teach and guide, he liked to shape his submissive into the perfect image of what could be.

and when he met you, oh, well something else came up. an unwavering possessive need. price tried to not get possessive, this was all just a little game for sexual pleasure. but when he found out his little trainee worked at a flower shop, it was all over for him. it was only doubled down when you had your first meeting at a coffee shop and you got the most delicious looking slice of strawberry shortcake.

the cream on the corner of your mouth almost made john price lose resolve. instead he covered up with a cough before you asked, "do you want some, mister price." and who was john price to deny such a lovely girl her offer. you even fed it to him, a glimmer in your eye and gentle smile.

"it's lovely, baby girl." he said before he wiped a bit of the cream off his beard which made you giggle. that giggle seared into his brain and he knew that you weren't getting with any other man.

you met at his flat a few weeks later, and you were eager. price liked that. sex was only half as fun when the person he was fucking was almost having a good time. you came over in a big sweatshirt and jeans that were a little baggy, something that covered up. it made price curious as to what was hiding underneath.

"look beautiful, birdie." he said as he guided you inside and you got your sneakers off. you looked over at him to help you through the flat. you held onto him a little nervous, the only familiar thing in the place. price held you by the middle and let you press your face up against his strong chest.

he was in a flannel with a white undershirt and jeans. you could see the gold chain around his throat and the heavy chest hair. you had seen him naked from photos shared and he had seen you naked, but to feel it up close left a shiver of excitement through you. he leaned down and kissed you on the top of your head as he led you to the bedroom.

he said, "afterwards, i'll make ya some dinner. not the best chef, but, i can cook ya somethin' to replenish the energy you spent fucking me." he then ruffled your hair, which made your heart leap and he got you onto the bed.

you nodded meekly, you looked so small. so innocent. a girl like you should be on dated with finance guys or even the artsy kind. not a weathered, older military man like him. but even things in smaller packages can be surprising, just like when you took off your clothes and revealed a matching set of bra and panties. a soft grey colour with pastel yellow accents. it made price have to adjust himself in his jeans.

"ah, pretty girl got a surprise for me. how sweet?"

you nodded, "i wanted to make tonight special. good luck for a long... dynamic between us. so, you don't get rid of me if i suck." and soon you were in price's embrace while you still sat on the bed. your cheek pressed hard against his soft but firm middle.

he petted your head a little and said, "ah, don't worry, petal. even if you do bad tonight, i got every intention of trainin' ya. make you the perfect girl." the words spoken hit right to your core and when he pulled away long enough to strip down, you felt your eyes go wide for a moment.

a photo couldn't capture every inch of john price's skin. the scars, the tattoos, the hair, the muscle, the fat. he was like a big brown bear and it made you soaked. you shifted a little in your spot on the bed and rubbed your thighs together in anticipation. it was surprising that you were still a virgin, but you always chickened out. now as an adult, you wanted to just get it over with. but, you wanted to have fun. and why not have fun with a well experienced dom who wouldn't half-ass your first time. it didn't hurt that he had the kind of looks that would make any man with half a brain jealous.

"i hope i meet expectations." he chuckled as he put his hands on his hips. his cock stood at full attention and you swallowed. there was something so masculine about him, but not in a toxic way. he played with your hair once more before he patted your cheek, "no need to gawk, petal. i'm not goin' anywhere." and you swallowed. he chuckled before he got into bed with you and slowly unwrapped you of your lingerie like delicate christmas paper.

he hadn't been this excited to upwrap something since he got the toy firetruck as a kid. but in total fairness, you were hotter than any fire red truck. his hands grazed across your body with total tenderness and his hungry blue eyes gazed the skin.

the stretch marks, the moles, your own scarring. you were beautiful in ways that price couldn't describe. to compare you to something would be unfair to the thing being compared to your beauty. he took you by the wrist and kissed the center of it.

"this is a promise, petal. for as long as you keep me as your dominant and you my submissive, i with cherish you, adore you, and most of all. make sure that you cum over and over again." before he kissed you on the lips and got you onto your back. he admired you, "usually i like to take pretty things on their hands and knees. but, tonight's gotta be special, right, doll?"

you nodded.

he tapped your nose and said, "ah, ah, ah. that won't cut it. the words are 'yes, sir', got it? would hate to bruise that little behind during our first time."

you found your voice and said, "yes, sir." and was met with a rough pat on the cheek before price pulled away to rest on his knees to fuck you with just right. you felt heat course through your body as you took in the sight of him. burly, large from top to bottom.

course dark hair on his body, a little heft in his middle (but who didn't love that), a sparkle in his blue eyes, and hands large enough to break things between the digits. he admired you in return and said softly, "pretty little petal, yeah? ah, who let ya be so beautiful?" he chuckled as he rubbed his cock up against your slick sex, "i got so much to teach ya. how to tie ya up, how to gag ya properly. mmm, we'll have so much fun." he then pulled away to grab a condom from the nightstand. he held up the silver foil to you and said, "rule one, play safe or don't play at all."

you nodded and remembered to reply, "yes, sir."

price gave you a smile that lit you up and said, "good girl." then quickly got the condom on. he admired your soaked sex for a moment longer, "she achin' for me, huh? cute." then slowly, almost agonizingly, he inched into you and felt the spread of warmth through his body.

heaven was created with your pussy in mind. price was never a quick finisher, but he almost finished inside of you when he managed to get all of himself inside of you. he kept eyes and ears open, the type of examining done in his line of work, to make sure that you weren't in too much pain.

"ya alright?"

you nodded and swallowed.

price added, "baby girl. words." and then nodded his head when you replied that everything was okay, he nodded and said, "roger that." which made you pussy clench. a smile spread across price's face as he leaned forward. he captured your hands in his and pressed them to the bed under you. he chuckled lowly, "ah, someone likes a military man? a man in uniform gets ya goin'?" he kissed your pulse point, "ah, too cute, petal. i guess seeing that on my description didn't scare ya off." he rocked against you, "know it's a crime to mess up a man's uniform."

you swallowed, "sir. fuck." and felt the strike of heat through your body. you had to admit, you had seen a few photos of him in uniform. the beret, boots and all. and it made something turn in your stomach. only added an appeal to him that made you hot.

price replied, "i guess it worked out. because i like cute little civilians who are more than eager to make me feel good. doin' your civic duty makin' me cum, baby girl." these was a tension in his voice that made you heart hammer and your throat feel tight. the bed squeaked a little under the both of you as he continued his movements. he knew he was going to have an amazing time with you.

you whined, "please, sir."

"tell me. tell me what ya like about it? what gets my baby girl goin'? i gotta know, because maybe i can get somethin' together that'll rock your world." his words were hot and your cunt fluttered around his achy, hard cock. for a moment he was uncertain if you were actually a virgin, you took him so well.

you moaned when you felt a spark of pleasure in your core, your entire life had just been your hands and an assortment of toys. but to have price work your body beautifully was something else. you replied sweetly, "i... i want to thigh ride you in uniform." you felt a flush of embarrassment.

he chuckled, "oh that would be quite the sight, huh?" he continued to move against you beautifully, "i bet that i could make ya cum just from my thighs. rub your cunt all over it, messin' up the fabric. higher-ups will be wonderin' about the pussy stains all over the fabric. maybe if i'm lucky i'll get some of your wetness in my beard. let 'em smell you on me." and well, that excited you deeply.

you arched your back a little bit, but price kept you pinned perfectly under him. you tightened your thighs around him and he continued to work your body. it wasn't rough sex, but it also wasn't boringly soft either. he worked you at a steady pace, like a man with immense stamina. he eyed the bounce of your breasts and he moved against you.

he licked his lips at the sight of you, "baby girl." he purred, "you're a dirty girl. but don't worry." he soon held onto your wrists instead of your hands, a further act of domination, "i like 'em dirty. i like girls i can sink my teeth into. soon enough you won't be able to cum unless it's my fingers, tongue or cock in you. ya got the kind of soft skin that would bruise perfectly. but be careful, petal, i can be quite mean with a paddle." and it was met with a heavy moan. music to his ears.

you had never been spoken to like this before, but it excited you. you wanted to be price's dirty girl any day of the week. you felt excitement cross over you as he picked up the pace. the two of you fucked heavily and it left a taste of want in your mouth. this was better than anything you hoped for. it wasn't just that price checked boxes on a superficial level, he knew exactly how to make you squirm and moan. heavy noises came from your mouth as he worked your achy cunt, you felt amazing.

"ya like knowin' that i'm your first. big, scary captain makin' a mess of the sweetest cunt in the world. knowin' in a way, i got ya for life." he licked his lips. he liked that you were pure in that way, call him old fashioned. but knowing that he got to have you first was sort of like getting the first slice of cake at a party. something he wished to sweetly devour. and with you it was with heavy thrusts and filthy words. taint you to his liking.

you whined as you clenched your fists, you tensed up and he loved the feeling. he could almost read your mind with how sweet you felt. he could nearly feel your heartbeat as he fucked you. he loved the sight of you, you looked damn near perfect under him. you said between heavy pants, "please, sir. fuck, please!"

"feel good, petal? like how i take you." he moved against you further and it left him feeling the anticipation for climax. he continued to fuck your sweet body, working every last centimeter of warm skin, "remember, ya gotta ask me to cum."

his movements were overwhelming, his pace left you feeling breathless. and in your first lesson of intimacy, you croaked out, "can i cum, sir? please, i need to cum."

and price could be a giving man. he looked down at you, haze in those blue eyes as he said, "of course, baby girl. cum for me, cum for your captain." and swore under his breath as you beautifully came apart for him. he held onto your wrists tighter and groaned. it paired nicely with your sweet little moans.

"sir! fuck!" you gasped as you clenched around him. you finished and it only prompted him to move faster while you laid in such a blissed out state. no one had made you finish like that, not even your own nimble digits.

but price was just that good.

the bed creaked further and the headboard hit against the beige wall of the bedroom. he fucked you faster and made sure to cram every inch inside of you. with a few more heavy strokes, he finished into of you with a heavy groan. he fucked you through his climax before he slowed to a stop.

he wiped the sweat from his forehead and exhaled deeply, "beauty, beauty. where has the world been hidin' ya from me." he chuckled as he kissed you on the lips. you melted against him and moaned.

when he pulled out, he got up with a creak in his hip to throw out the condom before he was back in bed with you. you were both naked under the covers as price traced your form with his calloused fingers. the roughness on your soft skin made you shiver.

"how about it, lovie." he said in that low, gruff tone of his. his hand grazed across your side and behind, "how about i invite the boys over and their little birdies and we can have a little playdate. introduce you to the group."

you swallowed, "play... date?"

price pulled you closer. he held onto you the way someone would hold a stuffed animal. he smiled at you, "don't worry, petal. no one's gettin' their hands on ya. not while i'm still breathin'." his voice was tinged with a possessiveness. you nodded in response and he added, "besides, i know i'll make the boys nice and jealous with you." he chuckled, "my beautiful baby girl." then kissed you on the lips.

you could only imagine what would happen at a playdate with price's friends and their submissives. it also didn't help that it made you a little excited as well. <3

[centoru]

The thing about SYLUS is that he sees everything.

NSFW. MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE!

Summary: You and Sylus traumatize an innocent bird.

It was unfortunate that Sylus was going to be for a week or two, possibly reaching to three when business doesn't work out exactly as he had expected it to be. And when his absence began to sink in, you started to ache for him. His text messages to you began to lessen in amounts, and inconsistent times of delivering, you began to miss him. His touch, his scent, his voice—no matter how many times you denied it to his face, you'll miss him, you'll constantly come to a point of yearning.

Staying in his room alone felt lonelier, you wonder if he really enjoyed his solitude or if he really just didn't have a choice. You began to roam around, his space was almost palatial; the well-carved marble sitting right below your fingertips, his shelves perfectly dusted, the notion of him cleaning somehow amused you. The image of him began to linger in your mind longer than you wanted, making your skin tingle in emptiness and need.

You sighed, after all, that's the only thing you could do.

The moment you saw Sylus' bed with nothing but his black polo, you climbed onto his bed, his velvet sheets rustling as you nestled into his cloth. Sylus left it there on purpose, knowing that his home was always open to welcome you whenever you'd like.

You missed him so dearly, you knew he wouldn't be gone for long, but your schedules often misaligned with him. All you guys get were quick kisses, and nothing inherently or deeply affectionate. This made his leave more outstretched, like you hadn't seen him for so long even though you had kissed him good bye before boarding his private jet yesterday.

You wanted to text him, but your hands immediately dropped your phone to groan in utter frustration.

Stupid. You thought. Sylus will be back soon anyway, why would you even mope around like he won't come back to you?

Feeling silly, you shook your head and let your head press gently onto the pillow. With the comfort of his clothing, you found yourself sinking in it, his polo was way larger on you, practically turning into a blanket. You giggled, remembering the lazy mornings when you spent the night with him by being intimate.

You missed that, too.

You missed his touches. The way his hand glided on your stomach, the times he'd kneel to devour you, his palms touching you, reaching places you've never explored yourself. Sylus really knew your spots and how to make you feel good.

Each time you remember his face, it ignites a familiar fire in you. All your butterflies burning in your stomach that it eventually sparks a flame in your chest and everywhere that has skin. Your hands instinctively began unbuttoning your own shirt, sliding it ever-so-gently inside to fondle your soft, supple breast. You flicked your own nipples, playing with yourself with no mind if anyone heard you.

For some reason, you thought it was stupid and dirty, but your body says otherwise. Remembering him filled you with so much need and desire that needed tending, so you did. His cologne passed by your nose like a swift breeze, making images of him more vivid.

In a matter of seconds, all your clothes were off, all over the floor, leaving nothing but you and his polo. You snaked your arms in it, showing nothing but your bare breasts and your pussy that was overly wet, your thighs leaking with warmth and slick.

Your fingers made their way down, gently rubbing yourself with your free hand groping your own breast. In a short breath, you moan, "Sylus."

Your voice was sweet, and almost hushed. It weakened you, but you wanted more. More and more of him.

You began to pick up your own pace, breath hitching as you continued. You arched your back, squirming slightly.

"Sylus, oh god, Sy.." You bit your lip, mouth ajar with nothing but tongue, teeth, and Sylus' name on repeat.

Unbeknownst to you and your time for pleasure, Sylus had left Mephisto to watch over you.

Sylus was shameless when it came to you. During one of the meetings, he pulled out his phone as the presenters continuously bored him with their deals. Spotting the live footage of you having the time of your life, his emotionless expression was replaced by a mischievous smirk.

"So, I think the market will work better with this product. I— should we continue, Mr. Sylus?" The presenter's voice came into clarity, Sylus' head poking up to view them.

"Oh, please. Do continue." Sylus said with much poise, but his hard-on was getting difficult to work with. "As a matter of fact, let's take a break. I'll give you more time to persuade me as your proposal clearly just bored me."

The presenters fell silent, but nodded profusely to his words. In a matter of seconds, the meeting room was clean, and Sylus was left all alone to have fun with his time with you.

You were getting too deep in your own pleasure, your pace began to pick up faster and faster until the silence was filled with unholy squelching and your soft, sweet moans.

Sylus scoffed, his pants began to feel tighter and more annoying to wear. Finally, he tapped the call button on his phone as your phone rang right next to you.

Under a haze, you pick up the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "Hello?" Breathy. Shaky. That's what he wanted to hear.

Sylus chuckles, "Did you really think I have no idea what you're up to right now?"

You stopped, immediately knowing he sent Mephisto, but not knowing where he was stationed. You begin to search the room, sitting upright and felt more conscious about what was happening.

"You're like a lost kitten," Sylus lets out a breathy laugh, his palm was placed onto his cock, gently rubbing himself through fabric. "Don't mind me, kitten. I'm just enjoying the show."

You couldn't help but furrow your brows, "You're spying on me?" You knew it was his natural instinct to do so, but you asked nonetheless.

"When did I ever stop?" You could hear him groan as he applied pressure onto his own hand, making you widen your eyes at the sound of him. "Now, why don't you be a good girl and spread your legs wide for me, yeah?"

As much as you wanted to curse at him, you wanted him, and you weren't finished. So, in response to his demand, you did what he told you to. Your finger began to pump inside you, a gasp coming out of your lips as Sylus smirked in your pleasure.

"Why don't you add another one for me, hm?" You could hear the metal of his belt unbuckling, making you imagine the things you'd usually do.

You obliged, adding another finger in. You arched your back, slightly squirming at the feeling.

"Did that feel good, sweetie?" Sylus asked, his background fell silent as his lengthy cock sprung right out, leaking in pre-cum. You nod, soft whimpers coming out of your mouth, and that made him stroke his shaft slowly.

"Go faster for me, love." Sylus whispered, making you pick up the pace. He could practically hear your wetness through the phone audio, making him throw his head back as he pleasured himself.

"Good girl." Sylus growled. "You're so beautiful, baby." He whispered a ton of other compliments that made you shudder in pleasure and appreciation, squirming, your tits bounced before him as his eyes grew darker in need.

"Were you thinking about me, kitten?" Sylus asked, his strokes were slow, remembering how you did it for him. You nod, and he chuckles. "What were you thinking about?"

You let out a muffled moan, a whimper even, "S-Sylus.. feels s'good.." You were increasing in incoherence, making Sylus chuckle darkly in amusement.

"Come on, baby. Use your words for me." You could hear him pump his cock at the sight of you, turning you on, and pushing you to the edge.

"I-I can't stop thinking about you f-fucking me.." You admit, feeling dirty this way, yet loving every bit of your filthiness you shared with him. "I want you, Sy. Wan' you and your dick.."

The nickname you gave him made him more needy, blazing in desire.

"Oh, yeah? Is that it, kitten? You want me to fuck you hard until you're a pathetic mess?" Sylus teased, making you nod again and again.

"You're so pretty playing with yourself like this, kitten. So needy for me." Sylus whispered, "Want me to cum in you, darling?"

Another nod.

"You have a mouth, don't you? I'm not telling you shut up now, did I?"

You could barely form anything coherent, but Sylus was testing you. "Sylus.. Fuck.. I need you in me. I want to feel you.."

Sylus smirked, enjoying the view as he began to pick up his own pace. The sound of hip fapping in the background was the only thing you could hear by now, making you immensely turned on and driven insane by the dirtiness that was currently happening.

"I want you to cum in me, Sy.. I missed being filled up with cum, Sylus.." You moan, almost begging with your fingers going faster and faster. Sylus groaned in return, the live video of you showered him with so much desire.

"You wanna be a slut for me, huh?" Sylus chuckled, you nod again, squirming in your position. "Fuck, yes. I'm your whore, Sy."

With a short breath, you pleaded, "Let me see you, Sy. Please, let me see—ah.." You arched your back, squirming at your own pleasure's build-up. "Please.."

Sylus chuckled at your begging, your desperation to see him. Without hesitation and fear of being walked on, he tapped the voice call into the video call option. His cock was on your screen, hard, and veiny.

"You want this, kitten?" Sylus asked, pumping his cock fast for you to see. "Yes, Sy. Fuck.. Can't wait f'you to get home.."

Sylus couldn't tease himself any longer, pumping his length to pleasure himself more and more. You moan, watching him in delight.

"So pretty, love.." He whispered, his breaths were shaky and deep. Sylus could see you reaching your high, then immediately he demanded. "Take your fingers out, baby."

Sylus could sense the confusion in your hum, "Let's cum together. Can you hold a little longer without touching yourself?" It was almost like a challenge. You whimper, almost crying.

Sylus' cock was hard, almost reaching his breaking point as he pumped as fast as he wanted to. "You wanna touch yourself so bad, huh?"

"Please, Sy. Let me cum." You begged, feeling the soft air surround you and nothing but throbbing.

Sylus chuckled deeply, his thumb circling onto his tip. Then, his hand dropped onto his shaft once more, pumping it up and down to reach his high.

"Go on, darling. Touch yourself for me."

You obliged almost immediately and with desperation for release. The way your hips met your fingers made Sylus insane with each moment passing by, yet he kept his cool, watching you as his strokes began to get faster and faster.

"Cum for me, baby." Sylus moaned. His low, deep moan accompanied with a grunt was enough to set you in complete wildfires. "Cum with me. Show me how dirty you are." With a sharp gasp and a string of profanities, your thighs bounced as they quivered, Sylus' hot-white strings of arousal splattered from his finger to his hand whole.

"Shit.. How beautiful.." He commented, admiring each and every bit of your curves as you tried catching your breath, unable to say or process anything as of the moment.

"If you do more of this, darling," There was a shuffling sound behind the camera as he switches it from back, to the front, "I might have to come home earlier than expected."

The only thing you did was giggle, nodding in excitement with a rosy blush spreading across your face.

"Miss me that bad, huh?"

"Yeah, I do." You admitted and Sylus seemed to take pride in that. "Might even go for another one."

"Naughty kitten." Sylus' laugh was melodic, his voice was low and thick like honey. He bit his lip as he could see your hand crawling down to your sensitive area once more, your legs squirming from the sudden sensation as you haven't really gotten your strength from the first release. You could practically see the darkness pooling in Sylus' eyes.

"Go on, put on another show for me."

[jenoslutie]

bad idea, right? l l.dh

❥ Synopsis: You swear you've moved on, you swear you're happy in your relationship. But why is Donghyuck still on your mind? and why are you in his bed again

❥ Genre: Ex FWB!Donghyuck, Bf!Jeno, angst, smut, ??? with benefits au, she is toxic.

❥ Warnings: disloyalty, blackmailing, suggestive but no actual smut, just a whole lot of shitty behaviour from mc, even more implications to recording during sex jeno x reader, haechan x reader. not a happy ending.

❥ Word count: 3.8K

❥ a/n: hellooo angels <3 so uh, this is part 2 of is it casual!!! i KNOW this is not what u guys wanted but i fear this is how the story went!!! as always, feedback is much appreciated :P !! also THANK U TO @be-my-sunrise and @hanniesbrat for letting me yap to you guys about this odd ass fic LMAO

You hated the fact your boyfriend was roommates with the man that ruined you. You hated walking into your boyfriend’s apartment and seeing his face there, staring back at you as if nothing ever happened. You hated having sex with your boyfriend knowing he could come home at any time and hear you. You hated the fact that he still thought that your boyfriend was your friend and treated him like one. 

Jeno, your boyfriend, has been nothing but the best to you. He comforted you through all the late nights you wanted to spend crying, he held you through every moment you spent crying over that fucker until you realized how much you really like him. No man has ever treated you the way Jeno has. No love has ever compared to the love Jeno has given you and you wouldn't trade it for the word. 

“Jeno, I really don’t want to see him, can you just come over instead?” 

That’s how alot of your nights went, 

baby <3: donghyuck told me i need to move out baby <3: he fucking sucks  baby <3: he said i need to break up with u or leave because he can't stand seeing u around 

you: what the actual fuck  you: i'm so sorry  you: he actually sucks so bad  you: you’re welcome to move in with me in the meantime  you: or however long u want you: i'm so sorry for dragging u into this mess jen you: seriously 

baby <3: it’s not your fault baby  baby <3: we’re in this together. 

“You packing up your shit or what, loverboy?” Donghyuck smirked, leaning against Jeno’s door frame. 

“Use your eyes, Donghyuck.” Jeno scoffed, not sparing him a glance. He continued to pack his stuff into his boxes. 

“Oh, don’t forget to pack your girlfriend’s clothes! In Fact, I might have some in my room too, you want me to bring them to you?” 

“Fuck off, Donghyuck.” 

One thing you know for sure is Donghyuck fucking sucks. If he didn’t make that clear the first time around. You’d say you wish the worst upon him. However, some nights, you get deep in your thoughts and thoughts about your relationship with Donghyuck and you miss it. But one thing never changed, you always had Jeno by your side, every time, without fail. 

“Jeno, what if I never met you?” 

“Where’s this coming from?” He chuckled, pulling you in closer and kissing your head for reassurance. “I’m sure i’d find you one way or another, you're my person” 

It was little things like this that made you fall for him. You truly believe Jeno was the one for you. No one treated you half as good as he did. 

“I never want to leave you, angel. You’re mine forever” You smiled, cuddling closer to Jeno, you smiled to yourself when his scent hit you. He smelled heavenly, like he always did, the same comfort and warmth that drew you into him in the first place making you desire him even more today. 

unknown: hey unknown: i'm sure you know who this is unknown: we need to talk unknown: don’t tell jeno. 

Your heart sank. Donghyuck? It can’t be. 

you: who is this? 

unknown: [attachment: 1 video]  unknown: remember me? 

Your jaw dropped, clicking on the video to see you bent over the sink in a bathroom you could never forget, ever. Your hair a mess, you're deliriously calling yourself ‘his forever’. You fucking hated that he had anything to black mail you with such as this. You hated yourself for giving him that type of power. 

you: donghyuck. you: we have nothing to say to each other  you: dont try to contact me again

unknown: you’d be fine with me sending this to your boyfriend though, right?

Immediately, you called him. He was sick in the head and only got more and more out of hand. 

“Donghyuck, you’re not fucking funny” you spat, venom laced in every word

“Funny? Babe, who said I was trying to be funny?” He chuckled “I’m serious, did you forget your little boyfriend lives right next door?” 

You heard him knock on the wall, screaming out your boyfriend’s name.  “Jeno!” 

“Shut the fuck up!” A faint voice in the back. 

“Fuck off, Donghyuck.” And with that you hung up, falling back onto your bed with a sigh. 

“Jeno stop! They’ll hear us” You giggled, lightly pushing Jeno’s head away from his spot in between your legs. He’d been trying to get you worked up through your clothes the whole time youve been over at his apartment. This was the last week of him living here before he officially moves in with you and you both were ecstatic. Last week you’d have to see his face, last week you’d have to be in constant fear that he’ll overhear you and Jeno having sex and last week you’d have to even think about him.  

“We’re alone, baby” he pinned your arms down with one hand. “Let me eat you out baby, promise you’ll be good?” You gave in, nodding at the promise of Jenos mouth on you. 

“I’ll be good.” 

Jeno was talented with his tongue. His technique was unlike any other. He knew how to have you arching into his touch, begging for more, cumming within seconds. You’d describe him as a walking sex god. His way of having you craving more was unmatched. And you don’t think you’ve ever had anyone quite like that before. Not even Donghyuck. 

“Stop thinking about that fucker” Your boyfriend frowned, he could read you like a book and you genuinely dont know how he does it “He doesnt matter right now, it’s just you and me baby” 

‘I love you, Jeno” 

“I love you more than you can imagine, baby” 

He kissed you hard, taking your mind off anything you’d been thinking of before. All you could think of Jeno’s mouth on yours, kissing you with everything he had. Within a moment, Jeno had you undressed, laying under him in all your naked glory. Smiling your love drunk smile at him. Jeno trailed kisses down your body, all the way down to your pussy. 

“Jeno?” you called out, looking down at him with big, innocent eyes. 

“Yes, baby?” he smiled at you sweetly, starting to trail his tongue along your slit, “Pretty, pretty pussy” he mumbled under his breath. 

“Please fuck me already, I cant wait anymore. I need you in me” You pleaded, knowing your boyfriend would do anything but deny you anything.  

“God, I love you. Anything for you baby” He took no time before hovering over you again, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. “My angel, all mine.” 

“She’s yours?” A voice suddenly interrupted you, a voice that was all too familiar. Jeno’s body hurriedly covered yours, protecting you from the eyes of the intruder. 

“Donghyuck, get the fuck out” Jeno spat. 

“No, If i remember correctly, she’s mine” 

“I was never yours,” You countered, pulling Jeno onto you closer. 

“Oh yeah? You want me to show you the video? As far as i know, your little boyfriend here still hasn’t seen it” 

You felt Jeno freeze, “What video?” Jeno asked you, looking at you with nothing but confusion in his eyes. 

Donghyuck kissed his teeth, “Oh, guess I shouldn't have brought that up right now. right, Y/N?” 

“Donghyuck, just get the fuck out.” 

Jeno pulled away from you as soon as Donghyuck left. 

“What video?” He repeated, looking into your eyes with the same hurt that you once looked into his with.  “Donghyuck recorded a video of us the last time we fucked, it was at his parents house on christmas, remember? Well, basically in the video he made me say I’m his forever. And he wont stop blackmailing me with it” 

Jeno sighed. “He's blackmailing you?”  

“Yeah, look.” you reached for your phone to find the messages Donghyuck had sent you the other day. You looked away from Jeno, feeling ashamed from the whole situation. Donghyuck apparently lived to humiliate you, never letting you catch a break from his antics. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He hugged you, pulling your naked body against his own. “You could’ve told me sooner, I could’ve dealt with him myself” Tears were threatening to slip from your eyes, feeling overwhelmed by Jeno’s loving words and Donghyuck’s bullshit. 

“But i couldn’t, Jeno” Full on sobbing now, you let the tears fall freely down your cheeks. “I was too scared, he’s insane Jeno” Jeno just hummed, rubbing your back reassuringly. 

“You’re not mad?” You asked 

“It’s not fair of me to be mad, this happened before we were dating, it’s not fair for me to hold that against you.” He smiled, pulling away to look at your red, puffy, tear stained face. “My baby. Not his, I promise I’ll get us out of here as soon as i can” 

donghyuck: i heard u and ur little bf were on a break  donghyuck: i think i have some ways to make your break worthwhile babe

you: i'm not your babe. donghyuck.  you: plus, you’re the reason we’re on break in the first place. you: dont contact me again, please. 

donghyuck: you know you miss me y/n.  donghyuck: don’t you miss the way i made you go crazy?  donghyuck: remember the time in my car? after i caught you kissing that fucking loser chenle? donghyuck: you were on me like you needed me to breathe. you can’t even deny it.  donghyuck: now open the door baby, i’m outside. 

You were quick to open the front door, seeing Donghyuck standing infront of you with that stupid fucking smirk on his face. He knew that was your weakness. He knew he was your weakness. 

“Miss me?” You hated his cocky tone. You hated that you actually opened the door for him. You hated that you actually did miss him. He let out a chuckle at your silence, he knew how to read you like none other. Not even Jeno. 

“C’mon, let me in. You know you want to” You hated yourself for actually stepping aside and allowing him into your house, into your safe space. Memories of the endless nights you spent crying over him in the safety of your own house all blurry. 

“H-Hyuck..”

 “Oh? We’re back to Hyuck now?” 

“Is it bad that I want you to kiss me right now?” Your words were hushed but loud enough for him. 

“Yeah?” You nodded, looking down at your feet, too scared to look at him. “Why don’t you beg for it? Since you like to do that a whole lot hmm?” He smiled when he heard you whimper, inching closer to you slowly until he was close enough to wrap his arms around you. 

“Are you gonna beg or are you gonna make me wait longer?” Immediately, a sob left your lips “Hyuck, please kiss me. I missed your lips on mine so much” 

And without another word, his lips were pressing onto yours with the same intensity you craved, the same intensity that once drew you into him. You swear you almost fell for him again when he cups your face, tilting your head up and deepening the kiss. He began walking, lips still on yours forcing you to walk backwards blindly until suddenly you were falling back onto your couch where he followed suit. 

You pulled away, admiring the honey skinned man above you with a small smile. “I missed this” A soft smile mirrored the one adorning your face. 

“I missed you like crazy, no other girl compared to you”

“Why’d it take you so long to realize?” He paused, staring at you blankly. 

“Just– took me a minute..” with a sigh, he leaned down and kissed you again, trailing his hands under your shirt. Grazing your warm skin with his cold hands, sending chills through your body. 

“You gonna let me fuck you? Remind you how I'm so much better than your little boyfriend?” 

“He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Oh? Last time I checked you were smitten over that guy” 

You hated where this conversation was going so you tried your best to change the topic, “You’re the one about to fuck me right now no?” 

“Shut u–” He was cut off by the sound of your phone ringing. 

Jeno. 

Jeno has given you space for almost a month now. Only sending you messages to check in on you occasionally. All to which you replied positively, ensuring him that you’ll be ready to get back with him soon. In reality though, you were nowhere near getting back with Jeno. You spent nearly every night of the past month in Donghyuck’s bed, either cuddled into him or you under him. Something about the way Donghyuck made you feel was unmatched and you’ll never get sick of saying that. 

You stepped into Donghyuck’s kitchen early in the morning, seeing him in just a pair of grey sweatpants with his back turned towards you. It didn’t take long for the waft of the pancakes he’d been cooking up to reach you. 

You gawked, “You’re making breakfast?” He turned to you, an unimpressed look on his face (though you could see him fighting a smile.) “Does that surprise you?” and you fought the urge to affirm that it does truly surprise you to see him doing something nice for you. 

Instead, you hummed, “No, not really.” With a small smile on your lips, you walked up to Donghyuck who had switched his attention back to the pancakes he had cooking on the stove, wrapping your arms around his bare torso. His skin was soft and warm under your touch. 

“Good morning, angel” He hummed, placing a hand over yours. The two of you swayed in a comfortable silence. This is how times with Donghyuck usually went, quiet and calm until he was suddenly kissing up on you, feeling up on you or begging to be inside you. 

“You wanna sit and wait at the table for me?” You chirped a “sure” and detached from him, making your way over to the dining table, sitting down on your favourite chair. 

baby <3: good morning angel baby <3: can i see you today?  baby <3: i miss you, wanna hear your voice so bad :( 

you: of course you can :)  you: actually, let me just call you right now. you can still come over later tho :P 

It didn't take long for an incoming call from Jeno to come through.  

“Good morning angel” You could hear his smile through the phone. A smile creeping up on your own face just from picturing the beautiful smile adorning his face. “Good morning, handsome” He chuckled, “You sleep well?” 

“You could say that..” You trailed off, thinking of the way you were cuddled into Hyuck last night, the warmth of his body keeping your own body warm. You slept better than you have in a while. 

“I miss sleeping with you” Jeno admits, the pout in his voice too obvious. You frowned, feeling the guilt take over you. 

“You can stay the night tonight if you want” You lowered your voice, hoping Hyuck wouldn’t hear all the way in the kitchen. 

“Oh, no, I still want to give you space! I think i’d be impeding a little if I were to stay the night” 

“I don't think so, you’re welcome to stay” 

You heard him sigh in relief, “Okay then, I’ll come by in a bit.” 

“See you soon, angel.” 

You bid your farewells and that's when you noticed Hyuck walking into the room. “Who was that?” He questioned, setting the two plates of pancakes down. You broke eye contact with him, focusing your  attention onto the pancakes in front of you. 

“I asked you something, you know?” 

“It was Jeno.” 

He hummed, wordlessly digging into his own plate of pancakes. You felt so guilty. This isn’t where you belonged. You belong next to Jeno, in his arms, under him, near him. You belong with Jeno. Someone who treats you like a proper human. But you found yourself running back to Donghyuck and you hated it. Worst part of it all? Donghyuck didn’t even know you and Jeno aren’t officially broken up. You’d been too scared to tell him, too scared of the possibility of losing Donghyuck in your life. So you’d decide it’s best if he doesn’t know your relationship with Jeno. It’s not even like it matters, right?

“What the actual fuck” Jeno gawked, looking down on his phone screen. He’d originally planned for today to be a rest day after the hell of a day he had at work yesterday but his peace was disrupted when suddenly he got a text from his ex roommate. 

donghyuck: hey jeno  donghyuck: its me donghyuck donghyuck: i know you might hate me right now but you might wanna see this.  donghyuck: [attachment: 1 video]  donghyuck: before you come for me, i had no clue you guys weren’t officially broken up at the time of this  donghyuck: im sorry jeno. 

Attached was a video of a girl, naked body on all fours as the person behind the camera (presumingly Donghyuck) pounded into her from behind. The problem? The problem was the girl had the same hair as you, the same body, the same everything as you. Even that little tattoo on your shoulder that read “delicate” in a beautiful cursive font that Jeno had helped pick out. Everything was you. 

jeno: donghyuck.  jeno: thanks for this… i genuinely can't believe it. 

Within a heartbeat, Jeno was pulling up your contact. 

baby <3: hi angel  baby <3: can i come over? i left my hoodie at ur house and i need it

you: sureeee thing!  you: let me know when ur abt to reach <3 

Jeno, furious, hurriedly grabbed his keys and got in his car. He thought after what you’d been through, you’d know how it feels to get your heartbroken like this. He’d expected you of all people to be better than this but no, you had to be the absolute worst of them all. He thought maybe you of all people would keep his heart safe but no, you clearly gave no fucks about him or his heart. 

He managed to calm down by the time he got to your apartment. Breathing in and out before ringing the doorbell. 

“Hi Jen!” You chirped, allowing him in. You were wearing an oversized shirt that exposed your newly tattooed shoulder. The same tattoo that was visible in the video. Jeno’s heart sank the more he looked at you. The girl he once gave his heart, his love, his everything to, is the one who he’s currently dreading speaking to. In other words, he hates you right now. Hate was one word he would’ve never imagined using with you. 

“You okay, love?” you frowned, wrapping your arms around him tightly, pulling him close into you. He hated the innocent look on your face as you peered up into his own. He had a soulless look in his eyes. “I’m fine,” He forced a tight lipped smile, peeling your arms off him. “I’m gonna– uh, grab my clothes.” 

You watched as he walked into your room and went straight for your closet, rummaging through to find his hoodie. 

“Jeno” You started, walking into the room behind him. “What’s wrong? Talk to me baby,” 

Jeno sneered, turning around to look at you with narrowed eyes. “What's wrong Y/N?” His voice raised, he wasn't yelling but it was clear that he was upset. “What’s wrong is while I gave you space to figure out your shit with Donghyuck, you went out and were fucking him. While continuing to lead me on. Isn’t that wrong, Y/N? Don’t you think I deserve any loyalty? Any love in return? While I sat here, impatiently waiting for you to come back to me, you were taking advantage of it and fucking the reason we were on break. Don’t you remember how we met in the first place? All those nights I spent being a shoulder for you to cry on, being there for you every step of the way. Don’t you think I deserve anything?” The hurt in his eyes was more than evident. You looked dumbfounded, eyes wide in shock as you stood frozen. 

“Jeno–” You cut yourself off, at a loss for words. Sighing in defeat, you gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I felt so incredibly guilty everytime, but something in me just couldn't stop. I hate myself for doing it and you deserve to hate me for it too but I’m so sorry.” 

“I loved you, Y/N. How do you think it feels when your girlfriend’s ex fling– or whatever he was, texts you randomly, telling you that your girlfriend had been fucking him the whole time you’d been on break? It’s not a great feeling, I’ll tell you that. Oh, and having to see a video of it? Even worse. I’m sorry Y/N but I don’t deserve this. I gave you my everything and you couldn’t even spare me an ounce of loyalty.” 

“Jeno, a-are you leaving me?” He felt like laughing in your face, do you seriously think he’ll stay after this? 

“Genuinely, do you think I’d wanna stay after the fact, Y/N? Honestly, I want nothing to do with you anymore. Consider us done.” He gave you that same, tight lipped smile, gathered his belongings and walked out your bedroom door. 

“Jeno!” You called out, he stopped in his steps, turning to look at you one last time “I’m so sorry, I love you.” Tears were threatening to spill from your eyes. 

“No, you really don't. Goodbye Y/N, don’t contact me again, please, for my sake.” And with that, he walked out your door, leaving you broken and in tears. You had no one to blame but yourself. If you hadn’t let Donghyuck in that day, you would have saved yourself from this mess, you would've still have Jeno in your life and you wouldn't be here, crying in your doorway. 

Filled with rage, you dialled Donghyuck’s number, he picked up on the second ring. 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me, Y/N?” He spat, you could tell he was angry. “You had me thinking this whole time, you’d broken up but in reality, you were leading on poor Jeno and still fucking me? How do you think that makes either of us feel? I know I did something wrong the first time around but this time? You fucked up, Y/N.” 

“Hyuck liste–” 

“Don’t call me, Y/N.” 

With that, he hung up. Your heart dropped, you felt as if you’d lost it all in the span of under an hour. All that you cared about in life had been ripped out of your hands with no one to blame but yourself. You hated what you’d done, hated what you’d done to these two poor men. Neither of them deserved it, especially Jeno and you had no way of going back in time and fixing it. 

[witchyvibes91]

Behind the Mask | Tom Riddle

Summary: Tom hates you. Well, he hates how attracted he is to you. And that attraction is deeply explored at a masquerade ball one lust-filled night.

TW: 18+, mdni, chars 18+, smut, rough sex, blindfolding, dom and sub, biting, PIV, f!masterbation, choking

Word count: 4.1k

Animosity.

Perhaps that was the only word to describe the relationship between you and Tom Riddle. The two of you had hated one another for as long as you could remember. He was too charming, too manipulative. And you? You were just another mudblood, or so he called you. 

The best thing that happened to you was graduating from Hogwarts. You no longer had to see Tom–or so you thought. It was exactly three years later when you wandered into Borgin and Burkes. 

Borgin and Burkes was not exactly your normal place to shop but this afternoon you were required to go for your boss. He had encountered a dark magic object, a book he didn’t want in his bookshop. You, desperately needing work, were not exactly in a position to say no.

You walked into the store expecting to get rid of the book quickly and leave but there he was. Tom Riddle. He was still handsome as ever but God, the hatred. It was strong. You thought, perhaps, you were over it but just the sight of him brought it all back. 

“I’m sorry, we don’t serve mudbloods here,” Tom said immediately at the sight of you. The hatred was still there for him as well. You slammed the book on the table and turned to walk out without a single word.

You’d take whatever money you had saved up and give it to your boss yourself. You couldn’t even stand being in the same room as Tom for more than a minute. 

Two weeks later, you were getting ready for a masquerade ball of a close friend of yours. You needed this. Desperately. Time away, drinks with friends. It was supposed to be fun. And it would be. Oh, it would be so incredibly fun. 

“Can you just drop it already?” Your friend asked as the two of you finished up your make-up. You had been going on about the meeting with Tom yet again. It was still bothering you. There was just something about seeing him again that brought up a stir of feelings inside of you.

“He called me a mudblood!” You shouted back as your hands messed with your hair. Your friend had enough. She stood up, smoothing down her dress before shrugging her shoulders.

“Like he hasn’t before? Come on. Let’s just forget about Tom and go have fun.” She held her hand out, waiting for you to take it. 

You thought about not going. You thought about giving up on it all and just heading home. But it was a masquerade ball celebrating the turn of the season. And you were never one to turn down fun. You took her hand and walked down to the party, letting go for a moment so you could tie on your mask.

There were plenty of people at this party, more than there should have been. Word got out and everyone started inviting this friend and that one. Strangers brushed past you dressed in various forms of masks. Some were more covered than others. Some were completely unrecognizable. Anyone could be here. And anyone was here.

Tom Riddle had spent the last two weeks thinking of you. The sight of you walking into that shop was one he never imagined he’d see but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Tom had always hated you, of course, but it wasn’t a deep-seated hatred. It was a hatred that stemmed from his unusual desires for you. He hated how much he wanted you. He hated how fucking attractive you were. 

There were rumors of a party, a big one. Tom had heard of a few professors that would be there from Hogwarts. He was desperately trying to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position and saw this as an opportunity to try and weasel some schmooze in. Maybe a few would put a good word in for him but he had to go about it carefully–as he did with everything in his life.

Tom was a meticulous person. Nothing he did was spontaneous. Everything was carefully, planned out. There were intentions behind every action, ill-willed or not. Spontaneity was not his specialty. 

He walked into the party wearing a mask. Nothing special for the occasion but, years from now, that mask would be so well known to the community. It would be a mask that sparked fear and traitours behaviors; however, tonight it was just a mask for Tom to hide behind while he stalked out his prey. 

You were a few drinks in by the time Tom arrived. You weren’t completely drunk but inhibitions were lowered. You were laughing with your friends when one of them pointed out a masked man standing in the corner. The mask seemed to be staring right at you. 

You brushed it off–surely he wasn’t staring at you. There were hundreds of people at this party. He could be staring at anyone. As the night went on, however, you noticed how the masked man kept popping up here and there. Across the dance floor as you danced. On the opposite side of the bar when you got drinks. He seemed to be everywhere.

Tom was searching for professors, looking for people he could convince to get him the job he desired when he suddenly saw you. Your hair, your tight little dress. It was driving Tom mad. All that talk of him being meticulous and planned out, all of it went out the window the second he saw you. 

He could do nothing but watch you. Were you here with someone? A man? If so, who? Who could fuck you better than Tom Riddle could? 

Fuck.

Tom hated himself for thinking that but he hated that he wanted to prove that thought to you even more. He stalked you most of the night before finally noticing you moving up some stairs. Again, Tom was never a spontaneous person. Everything he did was thought out. Everything. 

Tonight, though. Tonight was an exception. You were an exception. 

Tom followed up the stairs, half-expecting to lose you, when he finally saw you standing at the entrance of what looked to be a bedroom. While Tom was being spontaneous, you had planned this out. If this masked man was truly following you, you wanted to see the lengths he would go.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you?” You asked teasingly as you stood in the doorway. Your voice had a slight drunken giggle to it. Tom was annoyed by your cockiness, your forwardness. He simply nodded his head in the mask as he walked forward a bit.

“Cat got your tongue?” You asked again, realizing how silly you sounded. You wanted to curse yourself under your breath but the masked man's hands were suddenly on your waist, pushing you into the room.

There was hardly time to talk, to think. The door shut behind the two of you and you heard the lock clicking without hands being used. Whoever this man was, he was a skilled wizard, and for some reason, that turned you on even more.

“What are you going to do to me?” You squeaked out meekly. Tom said nothing as he continued walking forward until you were pressed up against the edge of the bed. Your knees were forced to bend at the bedframe and your bottom fell onto the mattress.

Tom stared down at you, tilting his head slightly as his piercing dark eyes peered at you from behind the mask. The eyes almost looked familiar to you, but you couldn’t place it. Your hands rested on the edge of the bed as you looked up at the mystery man.

“Nothing.” Tom finally spoke, changing his voice to a lower tone. He hoped the familiarity of it would slip your mind and it did. You had no idea who this man was but he was exciting you.

Tom leaned down just a touch as he grabbed your wrist. He moved your hand between your legs and forced them open. He pushed your hand until it was up against your warm and wet core.

“You’re going to do it to yourself.” He demanded as he took a few steps back. You kept your hand on the spot where he left it, frozen from the demand. Tom crossed his arms over his chest, still staring at you through that damned mask. 

“Open.” He spoke coldly, your legs immediately spreading open. You weren’t sure if it was your decision or his magic but either way, you opened. You leaned back just a touch, pulling up the skirt of your dress so he could get the full show. Your hand started to do circles over the material of your soaked panties.

Little moans escaped your lips before you pulled your panties to the side, pressing your fingers between your wet slit. You were soaked, feeling nothing but pleasure from the intensity of the situation. 

Tom watched as you locked eyes with him from across the room. He could see the pleasure growing on your face, your fingers moving faster. It felt good. Too fucking good.

You didn't know it but you were currently touching yourself to the man you hated most in this world. A type of degradation without words–the mystery of it driving Tom more insane than the act itself.

“Faster,” Tom demanded and you did exactly as he said. Your fingers circled faster, little circles enlarging that already swollen clit of yours. Tom’s cock was hard, pressing against his pants. Nothing ever turned him on but you? Fuck. You did insane things to him and his length. 

It was taking everything in him to not touch himself as well. Your fingers started to move faster as you fell back a bit on one elbow. Your moans were growing, your legs shaking. Tom could tell you were getting closer to that perfect release.

But you wouldn’t finish. No. He wasn’t about to let you feel that pleasure so soon. He looked at your hand and, without using his voice, the word stop echoed through your mind. Your hand immediately stopped and your eyes widened. What the fuck was that?

He took a few steps closer and your heart was beating hard against your chest. What was he going to do? The unknown of this entire situation only makes this moment hotter. You peered at him through your dainty little mask before he stood right between your legs.

His hand reached up and untied your mask and revealed your face. There it was. The face he hated to desire. The face he hated to think about. The face he hated to dream of. It was his most hated face and yet the one he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind. Tom absolutely loathed how much he thought of your face. Your lips. Your throat. 

No words were said. You were frozen, unable to speak. Tom was just trying to make sure you didn’t know who he was. He reached his hand up, his thumb dragging down your bottom lip as he watched your chest rise and fall from the heavy breathing.

“Perfect.” He whispered, not even meaning to. He meant to keep that thought in his mind but it slipped out in spoken word. And now you knew how he really felt. This complete stranger found you to be perfect. Maybe it was all the drinks you had but this felt exhilarating, intoxicating. 

As Tom’s thumb slid off of your lip, he moved to his pointer finger. It traced your jawline before moving down the side of your neck. He didn’t stop. He traced every inch of you as if he were making a map of your body and all the places he was going to devour. 

“Wh-what do you want?” You finally managed to ask, wondering why he stopped you from finishing. Was he going to fuck you? You wanted him to. This absolute stranger. You reached up for his mask and he quickly grabbed your wrist with a force that frightened you. 

“Don’t,” Tom demanded in that same low tone he had been using. His grip seemed to tighten around your wrist and your desires started to turn to fear for a second. What the fuck were you doing? This was someone unknown to you, or so you thought. He could do anything to you. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“I-I’m sorry.” You stumbled on your words and Tom was enjoying seeing you so scared, so timid. A smirk was growing under his mask as your eyes stared up at him with fear. There was something so insatiable about this, having total control over you and your body. 

“Do you want this?” Tom asked through a low tone, his muffled voice barely escaping his mask. Your mind was racing with thoughts. Did you want this? You nodded your head without truly thinking about what he was asking.

“Are you sure?” Tom asked once more as he started to lay you back on the bed. He grabbed your other hand, pinning it above your head, and hovered over you. “Because once I start, I’m not going to stop.” 

The words sent a shiver down your spine. This was your chance. If you didn’t want this, truly didn’t want it, you just had to say the word and he would let you go. 

“I want this.” 

Fuck. 

That was it. You were in for it. There was no turning back now. You were about to be destroyed in this random bed by this random person and, honestly? You were excited for it. 

Tom didn’t need to hear anymore. He flicked his finger at your dress and it instantly unbuttoned. How the hell was he so good at this? The more of your body that was exposed, the stronger the fire grew inside of him. 

You were quickly becoming the oxygen he needed to breathe. As much as he hated you, he really fucking needed you. He ripped off his shirt and that’s when you saw just how toned his body was. You reached up and traced his abs for a moment as you noticed how heavily he was breathing. 

You wanted to taste him, to feel his lips on yours but he wouldn’t take off that damned mask. He let your hands travel to his belt and you slowly started to undo it. Every movement felt like a pause in time. It was as if time ceased to exist in this other world you were living in. 

His pants slid down and his length bulged out of his underwear. Your eyes widened at the sight of it. He was big. No. Not big. Enormous. No wonder he could be so demanding. 

Tom kept his mask in place while his hands ran through your hair. It wasn’t in a loving sense, or even a longing sense. It seemed to be in a sense that said ‘I can’t believe I’m about to fucking destroy you’ and that, more than anything, turned you on.

“What are you going to do to me?” You managed to ask, in a timid and shaking voice. That confidence you had? Gone. You wanted this–gods you wanted this–but you felt so incredibly submissive to this undisclosed man. There was no challenging him and you both knew that.

“The question should be…” Tom started to say in that deep and low tone as he reached for his tie that was lying with his shirt. He pulled it up over your eyes, tying it around you so that you could see nothing before dropping his lips to your ear and whispering, “...what am I not going to do to you, darling?” 

This. Fucking. Man.

Now with your eyes covered, he could finally remove his mask. And he did. His eyes took in all of you, your naked body lying on the bed. The blindfold over your face. The position of you, so submissive and wanting. He hated it. No, he hated how much it turned him on.

He moved his lips to yours and hovered just for a moment before pressing them together. You tasted fucking heavenly, something that only pissed him off more. Why did you have to be so damn perfect? His tongue swirled with yours and you let out soft little moans which only caused his cock to twitch. 

Tom moved his lips to your neck, biting as he did. There would be marks but that was Tom’s plan. He wanted you to see them. He wanted you to wonder who was putting their teeth into your skin. He wanted you to inadvertently think of him every time you saw those little marks. And he was going to put them over your entire body.

His teeth traveled down to your hardened nipples, biting them with a roughness that made you gasp. You weren’t expecting such a thrilling sensation, pain, and pleasure to mix so well together. 

“W-wait!” You started to say as he bit your other nipple, surely leaving marks everywhere. Your hands went for your blindfold and Tom quickly grabbed your hands. He pinned them together, quickly whispering a spell to tie them with rope. Your heart was racing, your mind rushing with thoughts.

“You agreed to this and I told you, once I start I’m not stopping,” Tom growled in that low tone that was starting to sound a little more familiar. You still had no idea who this was but it had to be someone you knew. The way they were treating you? It was someone you knew.

With your hands now tied, you had no control. This man, this mysterious figure, he had complete and total power over your body. And you loved it. You absolutely fucking loved it.

Tom moved further down your body, licking here and biting there. He made it to your thighs and pushed them apart. His teeth dug into your skin, leaving more marks on your inner thigh. Would you touch yourself the next time you saw these marks? Fuck. Tom hoped you would. He really fucking did. 

“P-please…” You begged, whimpered. A smirk grew on Tom’s face as he heard your little voice. The fact he had your body squirming under his touch only made his cock ache more for you. 

“Please, what? Use your fucking words.” He demanded and god, that voice. It was so familiar. It sent a pit into your stomach, your heart beating against your chest with an aching feeling. There was something so known about it and yet you had no idea who this was. 

“Please...the biting…” Your voice escaped your lips with the softest sound. Tom was getting annoyed. Annoyed that this turned him on, annoyed that you weren’t being more clear. 

He bit down onto your thigh a bit rougher this time, his darkened eyes glaring into your face as he did. He saw the shocked look, the mix of pleasure and pain, the way your body squirmed and writhed with pleasure. You liked this. No, you fucking loved this. 

“Stop!” You finally shouted, loud and echoing off the walls. Tom sat up and was impressed by your sudden demanding tone. He looked down at your slit and slowly ran a finger through it. You were soaked. 

“You’re saying stop and yet…” he moved his fingers up to your lips, tracing them over your mouth until you opened up, “...you seem to enjoy it.” 

His fingers slipped into your mouth until you tasted the cold metal of a ring. It was large. There was some sort of emblem on it but his finger was out of your throat faster than you could make out what it was. 

“Tell me you enjoy this,” Tom whispered as he watched his finger drag out of your mouth. Your body was shivering underneath him. So exposed. So open, vulnerable. 

“I like it. Love it. I-I want more.” You spoke with a shuddered breath. Tom sat you up and slipped behind you. He opened his knees while holding you in front of him so that you both faced the same direction. Your legs slipped between his and it wasn’t long before you felt his length teasing your entrance.

His pre-cum soaked tip was aching for you, craving you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, holding your body tightly against his before slamming his cock deep into you. The second he did, his eyes rolled back into his head.

That had never happened before.

He started to thrust, opening his eyes only to see the two of you in the mirror across the wall. He watched as your face gave away the amount of pleasure you were in. The blindfold was tight across your eyes but–fuck–the sensations you were feeling were otherworldly.

“F-fuck! You–fuck–you feel amazing!” You moaned as Tom’s cock pressed deeper and deeper into you. He started thrusting harder, his teeth sinking into your shoulder for a moment. Another mark. Another giveaway that he had destroyed your perfect body. 

“Praise me.” He groaned into your ear as he continued thrusting. He reached his free hand up, wrapping it around your throat as he watched the way your tits bounced with each thrust in the mirror. You were a mess. And Tom fucking loved it. He loved how much he had ruined you at that moment. And he was only just starting.

“You're so big! S-so good! I–fuck–I c-can barely take it!” You praised as you were told. Your hands were still tied together, sitting in front of you as Tom watched the way your body moved with ecstasy in the mirror. 

He could feel his orgasm getting closer. Tom had fucked before, of course he did. But this? This was so different. It was like a whole new experience all together. He had never felt himself wanting to finish so quickly. It drove him insane.

His hand wrapped tighter around your throat, squeezing it until you could hardly breathe. He thrust a few more times before pulling out and pushing you down onto the bed so that you were on all fours.

Tom slapped both hands onto your ass, more marks. More territory was claimed. You held your hands out in front of you as your face pushed into the bed. Tom raised your hips before sliding back into you. 

“I’m going to count to three and you’re going to finish,” Tom demanded after thrusting a few times. Could you even do that? Cum on demand? You were about to find out. 

“One..” 

He pushed deeper into you, pulling your hips higher so that he was hitting every perfect little spot in your body.

“Two…” 

That voice. That fucking voice. God, you knew it. You knew you knew it. And for a second, a split second, you thought of him. Tom. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? 

“Three…” 

The second you thought of Tom, the second his face flashed across your mind, you finished with the heaviest orgasm you had ever experienced. You squirted, something you had never done before, letting juices coat his length and stroll down your legs. 

The sight of it, the sight of how fucking messy you were, it was enough to make Tom finish as well. He slipped out of you and stroked his length until he spread his seed all down your back and your ass. 

As you collapsed onto the bed, you went to pull off the makeshift blindfold but your hands wouldn’t move. Why weren’t they moving? 

“Can you take these off of me?” You asked but no response. You heard a door shut and suddenly, you could move. You ripped the blindfold off along with the ropes and looked around the room. You were alone. Was this some insane fever dream? 

You quickly looked down at your body, seeing how naked you were. You glanced up into the mirror and that’s when you saw them, the bites. They covered your body. The marks were everywhere. The softest little smile grew on your face as you watched yourself.

Tom, meanwhile, was already slipping out of the party. He hadn’t accomplished what he wanted while there but what he got was so much better. He got you. He destroyed you. He marked you. And fuck. That was all he needed.

You went home that night and fell into the bed, slowly pulling the tie out of your pocket that the man had left behind. You couldn’t get the thought of everything out of your mind. Who was he? And why was that the best sex you had ever had? Your mind went back to Tom but surely it wasn’t him. Was it? 

Your fingers were tracing over the tie, your mind racing with thoughts. And that’s when you saw it–the initials that made your stomach drop. TMR.

[beuxwhoyouare]

Ready to Go

I always thought I would die young. I just don’t forsee a long life ahead for me. It’s not like sad or anything I just think I’ve done all I wanted to. There’s never been like a dream job or goal I’ve ever foresaw in my future. It’s not depression or anything, if anything I think more people should be honest with themselves about being useless and just tapping out of a long life of nothingness.

See. You’ve read this long and didn’t even notice I haven’t mentioned my name. That’s because like my life, my name is equally inconsequential.

I was pondering about ways to easily tap out of life while I sat at the bus stop waiting. Eventually I got on the bus at my usual stop to take me to my usual destination when an older white man slowly waved his hand in front of my wandering gaze.

“What’s out there?” he feebly asked in a weak voice.

I’ve never been asked something on my route before. I kinda just zone out into my own mind like this and-

“Hey kid. You keep zoning out are you okay?” he interrupted my internal thought.

It’s like he knew I was talking to myself but how?

“I’m just in my own head. Sorry did you want the window seat?” I finally replied audibly.

“No. Just making sure you’re okay. Was worried you were one of those druggies or something. Whole life ahead of you and you youngins just throw it all away.”

What a presumptive thought. He really believes that young people can’t have a complex and existential inner dialogue. I think older people don’t give us enough credit. I’m complex, I think.

*hehe*

What’s he laughing at. Wait maybe he is listening to my inner dialogue? Let’s see. Lemme think of something and see how he responds. I don’t want to die, I just want to peacefully tap out of the game of existence.

Damn nothing? He isn’t going to say anything? I’m losing my mind.

“Where do you want to go in life kid?”

HE HEARD ME I KNEW IT!

“I mean let’s say you manifested it enough. Maybe I’m here to help you move on. The worst thing you can do is live a life unfulfilled. It seems like that’s how you’re living.”

“You can’t be serious…What can you do?”

“It’s not really me, more like a pact to the deities that rule existence. It’s the law of the land. Everything in this world is all about balance. Even our lives, if one aspect is out of balance it could throw the whole world out of whack.”

“So what’s out of balance? Just because I’m tired of being aimless in life? It’s not like I’m the only aimless one right?”

“Maybe you’re not the only one, but you’re the only aimless one put in my life. I have so much I wanted to do but spent too much time wasted. I wanted kids, I wanted love, I wanted it all but got sick and spent years withering away in a hospital bed.”

….why is he telling me all this? What can I do about the law of the land? If I could help him I would but he’s talking about myths and hocus pocus.

The bus made an abrupt stop next to a big park near a historical reserve in town. The old man grabbed my arm and dragged me with him off the bus, across the street to the park.

“Dude your boney arm is hurting me. I’ll follow you just let me go”

“We’re here anyway. I can feel one of the deity’s presence around us. All you have to do is say your true hearts desire out loud for it to become true. You can’t move on and I can get a chance to fix my life’s shortcomings.”

My true hearts desire? Doesn’t he get it my problem is I don’t have a desire. There’s nothing fueling me.

“That! Say that out loud.”

“I KNEW YOU COULD HEAR ME! But how?”

“Your inner dialogue was calling to me like a siren. I’m telling you I was meant to hear it. To run into you! This moment was meant to happen.”

Honestly resisting the occult is too much work anyway. I don’t know why I’m even poking and prodding into his story. What is it going to do for me in the end? He’s offering me a way out.

“I don’t have desire. I don’t have a goal. I’m not sad, I’ve lived an okay life but I’m done.”

“I want a real chance to live life. I payed my dues. Please all I ask for is a real chance.”

If felt like all the sounds of nature stopped. The sun suddenly disappeared and it felt like a spotlight appeared above us. All I could see was the old man when he disappeared in front of me. It all disappeared in front of me. Then silence. Well everything was silent from then on. My request to tap out was granted.

“Keven. I like that name, I definitely look like a Keven now. This is a good place to start I think?”

I feel bad that a young person could fall out of love with existing. There’s so much young people have to live for and he just wanted to die? I’ll live the best live for the both of us.

I’m quite the looker now too so that should probably help on the having kids and starting a family front. Although he’s a little short for my liking. You know what no I’m going to be grateful for this new life I’ve been given. There’s still some memories in my head that belong to him. I think he might be gay….well I never got to explore those things in my time but it doesn’t help the kids dream.

Whatever I think starting today I’m going to be Bi. I’m gonna search through these memories and continue working out. Seems like it has a positive impact on people’s outlook and morale. Maybe that’s where the kid went wrong. He didn’t seek ways to be happy. I’m choosing happiness and choosing to be fulfilled.

Let’s start by jerking this thick beer can growing under my shorts though…and maybe seeing if this hot couple in the gym might want a newly confident Latino twunk third.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Black Friday pop-up event.

Men Are All Lining Up, to Put Me on a Pedestal

Prompt: "I'm not standing in line for that." | Word Count: 8160 | Rating: E | CW: Explicit Sexual Content | POV: Eddie | Relationship(s): Established Steddie, Eddie/Corroded Coffin | Tags: Famous Corroded Coffin, Future Fic, The Struggle of Fame, Steve Takes Care of Eddie, Kink Exploration, Multiple Partners, Barebacking, Running a Train, Safe Sane and Consensual, Eddie Wants to Be Railed By Multiple Men, And He Gets Exactly That

Also available right here on ao3.

He's suddenly nervous, and Eddie's never nervous about anything. Not anymore. He's spent too long in front of the watchful eye of the public, the media, society, until he's felt like he's not even himself anymore. Like he had to turn over the keys to his whole personhood, a fiddle of gold against his soul, for this life they live. He's somehow become a character being watched from the outside in, until he couldn't feel anything at all anymore. Like nothing about himself was even his own, just for his own wants, needs, and desires.

Instead, he's public property.

A brand.

Everything is a business decision. A group discussion, involving far more people than he feels comfortable with.

He wants to be Eddie again. Just Eddie. Not Eddie Munson, the face of Corroded Coffin. And more than that, he wants to feel something. Something that brings him pleasure just for the sake of existing. Something real.

Something they can't take away from him like they've carved away nearly everything else, bit by bit, a sliver at a time.

Something that the outside world can't touch.

And to do that tonight, he wants to feel this.

All of this, with all of them.

So, he kneels, his knees sunk into the mattress of the hotel bed. He meets Steve's eyes, as Steve sits in the chair across the room, his leg crossed, dangling. Watching, waiting, loose and comfortable. Shirtless, jeans slid back on, but unbuttoned and hanging open.

He looks effortlessly comfortable in his own skin, but he always does. Eddie may be the one that performs in arenas, commanding attention under the hot stage lights, but it's Steve that's truly confident. That unwavering surety of knowing who he is drew Eddie in, and it's probably unfair to the rest of the world that Eddie is somehow the lucky one that charmed the pants off of him, locking him down, years ago.

Tough shit. 

He's Eddie's. And Eddie is his.

Seeing Steve sitting there, relaxed, strong and calm, is the last confirmation Eddie needed, the last permission or reassurance. Eddie bows his head, leaning all the way forward, cheek against the soft cotton sheets.

Steve had gone first, marking him, inside and out, but now the palm that runs over his bare ass is warm, calloused and very much not Steve's. It's funny that he can tell the difference, but he can. It's been so long since anyone else has touched him in this way other than Steve.

Steve's hands are assured, firm, never a hint of hesitation. These hands now are full of wavering nervousness.

"Eddie?" Jeff asks, a fucking full sentence of a question being asked in his name alone, and Eddie nods, silently telling him: Yes. Nothing's changed. Do it.

And he does. 

The blunt head of his cock presses into Eddie's already loosened hole and Eddie fists the sheets under his hand. Oh shit, they're really doing this. It feels different, maybe more so than he'd expected. He hasn't been fucked by all that many people, he was usually the one doing the fucking, back when casual sex was still on the menu. Before Steve. But now it's just Steve, and sure, Steve's fucked him, because they've fucked each other in every way anyone could ever imagine. But more often than not, Steve wants to be fucked, and Eddie has always been more than happy to fulfill any desire Steve may have.

Tonight, Steve's fulfilling one of Eddie's.

Eddie feels incredibly lucky that he's met his match, met someone with maybe an even filthier mind than his own.

But this isn't Steve, not this time. Eddie knows what Steve feels like. He's memorized him. His dick, his body, his hands.

And this is different.

The hands holding his hips are firm, but it's an unfamiliar dick starting to slowly fuck into him. It's nice. It's not Steve, but it's good. Grounding. Different. He asked for this, so he closes his eyes and just enjoys the new sensations. The stretch. The fullness. The slightly different curve that touches different spots inside him, in different ways. He focuses on how good it feels, on how it was the right decision to trust enough to let someone else inside him, even if it's just Jeff. Someone else he loves and trusts, wholly. Fully. 

Not in love, but love. And he wants to be loved, wants to be filled with it. Wants to feel. Wants to be taken care of, and treated as who he is, down deep. Just Eddie. Not some famous guy in a band. 

So, he enjoys the slide, the drag, breathing through it, zoning out, taking pleasure from the white noise until he feels the stuttering unevenness, the fingers digging into his hips harder, as Jeff presses deep.

Two men, back-to-back. He's never. Didn't even think about it, until recently. 

And then that's all he could think about. He'd get himself off on the fantasy of it, and when he finally told Steve, he'd expected him to laugh. To not take it seriously, and even if he did, to say no way, not ever, no chance in hell. 

But he'd agreed to talk it out. Was willing to help give Eddie anything he needed, anything he desired. And they talked over the options. But nothing seemed right, or safe. Eddie didn't want his perversions spread to the gossip rags, didn't want strangers knowing anything more about him, especially not this. 

So, strangers were a non-starter. 

And Eddie didn't want to hire it out anyway, he's never paid for sex, and wasn't ready to start now, for this. 

Which made it seem impossible. Steve faked it. Fucked him, then fucked him with different toys until he could go again, and it just…wasn't. 

It wasn't.

This was an itch, and Eddie needed it scratched deep in his brain.

And that's when Steve came up with this idea, this plan, that at first Eddie thought seemed crazier than anything else they'd workshopped to make this happen.

But-

It's just sex. 

That's what Steve had said. It's just sex, like it's that easy. And Eddie had thought no, it's not, can't be, especially when they were talking about involving these guys that he loves, knows, and has tied his whole life to, permanently. 

His bandmates. 

His best friends.

He worried this would ruin it. That even the mention of it would make them look at him differently, and in a worst case scenario, with disgust. That even one night of scratching an itch would be too big of an ask, too messy. Eddie was scared. So, Steve did the negotiations. Started the conversations, took care of it behind the scenes, took care of Eddie, managed them all, their wants and needs, just like he always does. 

And Eddie wasn't wrong. There was hesitation, lots of questions, and discussions. 

But nobody laughed at the idea once explained, Steve promised him that nobody said no right off the bat. They all listened, and asked questions, and talked it through with Steve. Eddie's sure that helped. Them all knowing that Steve was not only aware, but on board. Facilitating it, negotiating, just like it was any other part of his job.

Because when Steve talks, they listen. All of them.

He's kept them stable, on solid ground. Corroded Coffin, the brand, if not the band itself, would have died screaming decades ago without Steve Harrington there to guide the whole operation.

Steve is right here, within arm's reach, where he's been for all the years that have mattered.

Secure in his experience, his body, and in their love. He's had to be, with the world trying to claw parts of Eddie away, at any given opportunity. If he was jealous, he would have flown the coop years and years ago.

He's not. They love each other. They trust each other.

Even today.

It's just sex.

And the guys must have agreed it was just sex too, because an agreement was reached. A decision. A date set, and a plan laid out. Testing, and results, and then required abstinence after, so yeah, it's not spontaneous, not a bit of it, but that's okay. Eddie'd rather they cover all the bases, to protect Steve, protect himself, protect all of them, as best they can if they were actually gonna do this.

And now, Jeff is fucking him. It's really happening, he's fucking Eddie right after Steve has finished inside. 

It feels wrong.

It feels good.

Jeff's hands are cupping his hips, holding on lightly, as he's scrunching his fingers, balling his fists, right against Eddie's skin, a nervous habit he's always had. Showing he's anxious right now, but fuck, so is Eddie. But Eddie's trying to relax into it. To enjoy this thing he's fantasized about so goddamn much it was rotting his fucking brain.

It's different, the feeling of him. 

Jeff's breathing heavy, hard, and Eddie wishes he could feel him beyond his hands, and the snap of his hips against his ass.

Then his tempo is stuttering, and he bottoms out, coming with a groan. Eddie's dick jumps at the idea, more than any actual feeling. But he pictures it in his mind, and it sends a shiver through him.

Jeff pulls away, cock sliding out wetly, and he picks up the marker to make his black tally mark on Eddie's ass cheek. Tugging off the cap, and then pulling it across his skin, Eddie feels good, like he's been taken. Claimed. Marked.

Then the bed shifts. Jeff climbs off, and Goodie climbs on, taking his place. 

Goodie was the most reluctant to agree, but now he works himself inside Eddie, with no fanfare. No hesitation. No additional questions. Eddie's pretty sure that today, he's just a hole to Goodie, and that's okay. He wasn't asking for anything else, anything more, not from any of them. He has more, he has everything, right across the room. A perfectly arched foot, bouncing ever-so-slightly as Steve watches.

It's thrilling, having Steve's eyes on him. It always has been, but this way is novel, and Eddie's learned something new during all this, especially today: 

Steve likes to watch. 

And Eddie likes to be seen. 

Goodie braces one hand against Eddie's back for leverage as he guides his cock inside, and Eddie breathes out through his nose. He's been fucked twice already, but this is a new stretch and burn, even after all that.

"Oh," Eddie breathes out.

Goodie laughs, "Told you so."

He brushes his fingers against Eddie's spine, just one reassuring graze.

But that's it. He's in, and then he's just driving into Eddie, chasing his own orgasm, using him, and that's exactly what Eddie wanted. 

It's quick, fast and dirty. 

Goodie's weight slamming against his ass, Eddie really feeling the stretch around his stupid girth as Goodie hammers away, unrelenting.

Steve's got a big dick, so Eddie thought he was prepared for anything, but he wasn't prepared for this. Not really.

Eddie barely has time to adjust, barely has time to slide into the rhythm of it, before Goodie shoves in once more, coming with grunt, before pulling out and scratching his tally to the growing total. He slaps Eddie on the ass afterwards, and he's gone. The bed shaking with his exit, Eddie digging in, just to keep upright on his knees.

Eddie sees Jeff grab a clean hand towel from a stack on the dresser, handing it to Goodie. They work together silently, Goodie wiping himself down, then Jeff handing him his boxers, Goodie pulling them up and on. They're in sync in that way only best friends can be, and even the first steps they both take to leave the bedroom are synchronized.

He breathes through the throbbing at his center, a reminder of what has happened so far. Three men, three totally different experiences. 

And he's ready for the fourth. 

But the bed is still now, and nothing's happening.

"Gare?" Eddie questions, unsure, and then Eddie finally feels the bed move. 

"Right here," Gareth says crawling up behind Eddie on the bed, and there are suddenly hands, smaller, but still firm, rubbing all over his skin. 

Rough calluses from a lifetime of gripping drumsticks. 

He doesn't know what the pause was, hopes it wasn't hesitation, and focuses on his touch to not allow himself to spiral. He meets Steve's eyes, and Steve smiles and gives him a reassuring nod that settles him, instantly. 

It's okay, because Steve says it's okay.

Then two fingers are pressed into him, and Eddie bows his head again, smiling into the bedding. He's already loose. Looser than he's been in his whole life, most definitely, but Gareth is still fingering him open with a politeness Eddie never would have imagined him possessing. 

He knows this kid, inside and out, and polite wouldn't be on a top twenty-list of descriptors. 

But tonight, he's being considerate. Soft. 

"Look," Gareth says, and Eddie looks up, finding the mirror on the wall across from the bed. He knows Steve chose this penthouse suite, this hotel, very carefully. It's private, squirreled away, and it has this large, ornate mirror across from the bed so Eddie can see what he asked for. 

In the reflection, Eddie sees when Gareth pulls his fingers out, both shiny and slick, showing them to Steve, to Eddie.

Steve shifts in the chair and palms his own crotch. He's hard. He's been hard, and that is a bolt of lightning along Eddie's spine.

Gareth's playing to the audience, doing what he does best, and Eddie loves him for it, desperately, and he feels put at ease. 

Then, Gareth lays over Eddie's back, and it's different from Jeff and Goodie's approach. Gareth uses his hand, and carefully guides his dick to Eddie's used hole, rubbing the head against him, teasing him, gathering up the remnants of lube and come from everyone else, before pressing forward, sliding smoothly inside. Eddie can hear, can feel, the come being displaced inside him, making room, being forced out, leaking down as he groans, hanging his head.

He knows it's mostly wet and thin now. That's just how it works, even if he wishes he was being filled with large loads that could somehow stay thick and in place.

Gareth's touching him all over as they're pressed together in every place they can be, and it feels normal, even if they've never done this before, because they are always joined at the hip, have been for years. Gareth's his best friend. Steve and Gareth, he trusts and loves them both differently, but equally.

Eddie knows he and Gareth have their own unexplainable rhythm together, always have. It's natural, and innate. Like Eddie's musical creativity curled outward one day, got tangled up with Gareth's, and just never let go.

Today, they're exploiting that connection in a different way.

"God, Gare," Eddie whines, and Gareth chuckles, softly.

This is new, a change, and Eddie hopes it doesn't break them. He's suddenly worried that this idea of his, this perversion he begged for, will be their undoing. Especially with Gareth. He's not as worried about Jeff and Goodie for some reason, but Gareth? He can't have Gareth looking at him differently because of this. 

But Gareth brushes Eddie's sweaty, wet hair off Eddie's neck, and leans his face close to Eddie's.

"I love you," Gareth says, "you're my best friend. Thanks for letting me take care of you for a change."

And Eddie hangs his head, tears prickling behind his eyes, as Gareth finally starts to fuck him using slow, but powerful, thrusts. It's hard, but still feels soft, at the same time. 

Gareth's shifts, and on the next thrust, he drags the head of his cock right over Eddie's prostate and Eddie groans. That hadn't. It wasn't part of the plan. The other two hadn't tried. That hadn't really been the point. He'd wanted to be taken, used, over and over. Filled.

So, maybe it's an accident, a fluke.

Three more perfect strokes before he realizes, no, it's just steady accuracy. Controlled. Precise.

Gareth is all of those things and more behind a kit, and now he's those things behind Eddie.

Eddie claws at the bed with the realization that Gareth is keeping time, even here, doing this for him. Gareth's been trusted to keep the tempo, to stay in control, to get the job done right, night after night on stage, and Eddie feels immense comfort in that familiarity. If Eddie could concentrate, he thinks he could even work out the BPM.

The relief that Gareth knows the rhythm, that he can keep them in sync with each other, even if it's a brand new song, is palpable in Eddie.

That the beat of this is safe in his hands. 

Eddie clutches at the sheets, and feels the tears running down his cheeks. He sucks in a shuddering breath, and Gareth falters, a hiccup of hesitation behind him.

"He's still good, I promise," Steve says from across the room, a step ahead as always, and Eddie nods, agreeing.

He's more than good.

He feels whole.

And Gareth hardly misses a beat, falling right back into the rhythm he's been setting.

Eddie's orgasm builds, the tightening, the pull of it, but he's pretty sure he won't come untouched, not at his age, and he jumps when Gareth's fist closes around his dick. Gareth stutters, stills, and starts to pull his hand away, like he's realized maybe that wasn't, isn't, okay. Eddie catches his wrist, holding his hand to him, helping with the next couple strokes, giving his permission, and melts back into the overwhelming sensations. It somehow still catches him by surprise as he comes all over the sheets beneath him. That hadn't been the goal here tonight. Not really. Eddie wanted to be filled, wanted to get off on this, but hadn't particularly thought about actually coming himself.

He's clenching down on Gareth's cock, and being sucked out to sea with the waves of it. He's drifting, floating away, an immense relaxation overtaking his body. He's not sure he can even stay upright.

Gareth's hand has slowed, but hasn't let go, and Eddie still feels it as he pulses on Gareth's cock, spasming with the last waves of pleasure that are rolling through him.

"That's it," Gareth says, and his fingertips press into his skin, squeezing as he stills, groaning near Eddie's ear. Eddie's slick, and open, but he can still feel Gareth harden further, tensing, and Eddie moans at how much he likes it as Gareth finally comes. Gareth keeps thrusting, just gentler now, even as he begins to soften, the joint mess slicking the way. There's no fucking way he could stay in if Eddie wasn't this open, and that's a good thing, Eddie supposes, as Gareth feels reluctant to leave, and Eddie feels reluctant to let him. So he clamps down, as much as he can, and Gareth keeps moving inside him. Not pulling out, because if he does, he'll never get back in. So, he stays deep, little rocking motions that are steady, just softer. Which is hard to do, Eddie fucking knows. You need a rock hard fucking cock for this. 

They just keep moving with each other in small, controlled motions. Give and take, give and take, while Steve watches.

Eddie expects Gareth's dick to soften fully, to slip free, but he feels the rigidity returning as Gareth keeps grinding into him, the slide becoming easier again.

"Oh fuck," Eddie says, clawing at the sheets. He doesn't know if can take more of this.

Gareth pulls him upright, until he's sitting back on Gareth's thighs, fully-seated. He feels so goddamn full like this, and Eddie sags back against him. Wrapping his arm backwards, hooking it behind Gareth's neck. He's so fucking deep. It's too much. Way, way too much.

"I got you," Gareth says, "look at Steve."

And Eddie does. Opening his eyes, finding Steve's.

Eddie is full. Of cock, of come, of love, so much love. The love of his goddamn life is looking back at him with wonder, and his best friend is playing a measured, steady beat against his over-sensitive prostate, like it's a goddamn drum.

It's slow, not very active, so it lasts forever, just near tantric movement as Eddie hangs his head back, closing his eyes again. Just feeling it. 

This wasn't in the script in his head. Eddie imagined five. The five of them. Five marks, branding him.

But if Gareth wants to keep going, wants to keep filling him in this way, Eddie's not about to stop him. Not when he feels this good.

"Fucking hell, Jonesy," Eddie says, and Gareth laughs. He hasn't called him that in a while. He's just Gare. Or the kid. 

Even now, their teen years in the distant rearview.

"I got you, always," Gareth breathes back into his ear. "Me and Steve."

Eddie nods against Gareth's neck, and stretches out his hand. Beckoning Steve, he supposes, even he hadn't planned on it. 

He hears Steve stand. 

Then he puts a knee down on the mattress in front of Eddie, "I'm here."

Eddie isn't sure what he was asking for, because he doesn't really want to turn this into a threesome or an orgy. None of that was negotiated, not that he thinks either of them will do anything they don't want to do.

Gareth's breathing in his ear, hot and heavy, and then he suddenly says, "Your turn."

And he pushes Eddie forward, into Steve's chest. Steve catches him as Gareth pulls out. Eddie whines, nails digging into Steve's skin.

Then he hears Gareth's hand, moving slick and fast against his dick, and Gareth shouts as Eddie feels the first shot of come hits the small of his back, and Eddie fucking keens. Desperate. He actually got to feel that one, and it feels so fucking good.

He's been marked inside, and out.

"Look at that," Gareth says, "goddamn."

Steve helps Eddie back down onto his hands and knees, and stands back up at the edge of the bed as Gareth slides his fingers back inside Eddie, and when he brings them out, they are an offer to Steve, but Eddie isn't sure if Steve's gonna take it. Steve doesn't move, so Eddie catches Gareth's wrist, sucking them into his own mouth. 

It's heady, and doesn't taste like Steve at all. It's different, but he sucks on Gareth's fingers until he's gotten it all. 

Then he thinks Gareth is gonna go, but instead he feels him slide down the bed, and then his tongue pointed against Eddie's hole, pressing in. 

Fuck. Goddamn. 

And Eddie moans, "Oh, Jesus Christ."

Then, Gareth's face is next to his, and his tongue is curled, come shiny, waiting. 

Eddie opens his mouth, accepting it. Sliding his tongue against Gareth's, kissing him. He's never. They've never. But Eddie tangles his hand in Gareth's hair, tugging him closer, needy and wanting. He rolls onto his back, and Gareth crawls on top of him. 

Gareth's laid on top of him hundreds, thousands, of times. But never like this. He's never tried to eat him alive before.

Eddie hears it, the click and ejection of the instant picture, and Eddie had forgotten about the Polaroid camera. He's not sure if Steve's been taking them all night, or if this is the first.

And when they separate, Eddie's breathing hard, fast, and Gareth winks at him, pats him on the hip to get him to roll over, and then carefully makes his mark, the fourth one on Eddie's skin, and leans down and kisses Eddie's sweaty back, and then switches places with Steve. The other two left once their part was done, and Eddie is okay with that. If watching him get railed by Gareth wasn't something they'd enjoy, he wasn't about to ask more of them, but Gareth? Gareth, he's clearly staying. Seeing it through. 

That feels dirtier than anything else has, all night. 

Eddie's worn out, used up. But he crawls back onto his sore knees one more time, as it's Steve's hands that find his body now. They're gentle, loving and a familiar comfort. Fingertips running along his spine. 

His thumb brushing against his hole, pressing the leaking mess back inside. He's wet, wetter than he's ever felt in his life.

And when Steve eases back in, Eddie feels how sore he is, now. Not sore enough to say stop, not even close, but he's finally feeling it in the way he'd hoped, imagined, when he'd screwed up the courage to ask for this. Not only from Steve, but from all the others. 

"You're so wet for me," Steve says.

"I am. For you," Eddie says.

"They got you ready for me, didn't they?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods.

"So ready. Just for you."

They're talking dirty, but it's the softest fucking of the night. The first time Steve had claimed him, had marked his territory. Now, he's just loving him. Soothing him, bringing him back to reality, back to where he belongs.

A soft roll of his hips, firm lips pressing to his neck, then teeth biting down until Eddie's sure he'll be marked there, too.

This is his life, his love, loving him back, unconditionally.

Talking to him, telling him how he feels, how he's the last, always his last, always here.

Eddie wants to cry about it. 

Steve loves him. As he is, as he'll be, always.

When Steve finally comes, he pulls out and picks up the discarded marker on the bed and crosses the previous four tally marks on Eddie's ass, making five. A perfect set. 

Steve the first, and the last.

Then Eddie can hear him, feel him, moving around the bed and then feels his hand framing his ass, and the click, whirr of the Polaroid picture being spit out of the camera. And another. Another.

Until one is slid under Eddie's nose, and he can see it, the tally marks, framed by Steve's familiar hand. Five loads, four different men that he loves in wildly different ways. He wanted this, and wanted it from them, or not at all. Getting fucked by randoms wasn't appealing, wasn't the draw, wasn't what he needed.

But this feeling? It's what he needed. 

He wanted to be used, but not discarded. 

Another intrusion, and Eddie whines at the feeling of Steve's finger in him, but he hears the camera, and knows whatever it is will be worth it.

It is.

Steve's upturned hand, his ring finger slid into Eddie to the second knuckle, showing off the gold band and the come leaking down into his palm.

"Fuck," Eddie says, crumpled into the sheets.

And Steve laughs, a beautiful, familiar sound. Eddie's eyes find him in the mirror, just so he can look at him.

In the reflection, he sees Steve crook a finger at Gareth, beckoning him. 

He watches, feels as Steve positions Gareth's hand with his own, both of them touching his ass cheek as Steve takes more pictures.

Eventually, Steve sets the camera aside, and helps turn Eddie around on the bed, arranging him on his side. And he slides in front of Eddie, and snags Gareth, pulling him down behind Eddie. This wasn't the plan, Eddie doesn't think. But he closes his eyes and goes with it. Enjoys the two sets of hands on his body, petting him, touching him, soothing him. Bringing him back to reality. Lulling him towards sleep.

And he hears the camera whirr to life, one last time.

In the shower, Steve washes him, but doesn't scrub at his ass cheek, the one that's been marked. No, that'll have to wear off with time.

"You still love me?" Eddie asks, hands braced against the tiles of the expensive hotel shower.

"Always," Steve answers, "did you get what you needed?"

And Eddie nods. He did. Maybe more. 

"You sore?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods. He is. In a good way, but he's definitely feeling it.

His hand is framing his ass cheek, near the tallies. Eddie can feel it, can picture the marks visible in the V of Steve's large hand.

"Admiring your handiwork?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah," Steve answers, and then he's quiet for a moment, "maybe you should get this tattooed."

Eddie stills. Steve can't want that. There's no fucking way.

"You don't wanna look at that for the rest of our lives and be reminded of tonight," Eddie says.

"Maybe I do," Steve says softly.

"Really?" Eddie asks.

"Really," Steve confirms.

Eddie turns and leans down, cheek pressed to Steve's chest, the hair there tickling his face.

"You're mine," Steve says, confident, sure. "Nothing can change that. You think it's a coincidence we did this in this town?"

Eddie stills. Petey's shop is here. Steve planned this. 

"You planned this," Eddie accuses, and Steve laughs, holding him tighter.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Steve answers. "Petey definitely isn't holding an after hours spot tomorrow."

"Thank you," Eddie says softly, "for that, for tonight, for our whole lives, really."

"I'd do anything for you," Steve says, chin on the top of Eddie's head.

"Did you get off on this?" Eddie asks. He needs to know for sure.

"Hell yeah," Steve says, running his hand up and down Eddie's back, "Showing you off, sharing you, giving them a little taste. Watching you enjoy it."

Eddie smiles into Steve's skin.

"Who was the best?" Steve asks, fingers pressed into the small of his back.

"You," Eddie says, and Steve laughs.

"Besides me," Steve says, rolling his eyes. Eddie can't see it, but he knows it has happened. Because he knows Steve.

Eddie has an answer, knows, but feels hesitant to say so, and that feels a little uncomfortable.

Steve does it for him, "It made a real pretty picture, him all over you."

And Eddie nods.

He's sure it did. He wants to see the pictures, the evidence. The irrefutable proof that tonight actually happened.

"He loves you," Steve says, and Eddie starts to argue, but Steve keeps talking, "Not like I love you. But he loves you, would do anything for you, and seeing that in this new way was hot, not gonna lie."

It was. It fucking was.

Eddie wraps his arms around Steve, squeezing him harder than ever before.

A beat passes.

"Goodie's dick is even thicker than yours, which, fucking ow," Eddie says and Steve laughs, his voice rumbling against Eddie's cheek. "Don't tell him that. We'll never hear the end of it."

Steve giggles, "Honey. I hate to tell you this, but he knows. We always do."

"Goddamnit. This was a mistake, then," Eddie teases and they both laugh. It wasn't, somehow.

Jeff and Goodie haven't come back in the bedroom, but Gareth is sitting on the bed, hair wet and curling around his ears. He's changed the bedding, and the dirty sheets are gone, the evidence probably in the washer down the hall.

Nothing for the maid to see.

"Hey, kid," Eddie says, dropping his towel and pulling on a pair of boxers. He doesn't want anything to have changed between them, so he's gonna act like it hasn't.

They haven't slept in a bed three-deep like this in years, not since the money started flowing, but Eddie crawls in the middle. Then curls against Steve, making himself comfortable.

Gareth seems hesitant, then he just anchors his leg over Eddie's hip, laying against his back, and Eddie feels twenty-two, and on the road for the very first time. Crammed into a double bed, instead of this roomy king.

"You okay?" Gareth asks, and Eddie picks up Gareth's hand, bringing it around to his own chest. Pressing it close. Squeezing. He's great. Really, really great.

"Yes. You?" Eddie asks, a little scared of the answer.

He shouldn't have been. Gareth is still Gareth.

Gareth laughs, "I'm never gonna live down getting sloppy seconds to Goodie."

And they all three laugh, Eddie saying, "Sorry. Them's the breaks, kid." 

Gareth's face presses into his back, and it feels normal being wedged between them. He's safe, happy, and home.

"Well, Goodie was third himself," Steve says around a yawn, "so don't let him give you any unnecessary grief."

Goodie will always give Gareth grief, it's just the way their world works.

"I'm not standing in line for that," Eddie says mockingly, mimicking Goodie's dry reaction when this idea had been broached. They've all repeated it a hundred times over the past few months. A waitlist at a restaurant? A line for a bathroom? It has just become part of their lexicon.

Something that will remain, Eddie's sure of it. An inside joke.

"He did though, now didn't he?" Steve says.

He did. They all did. And only for Eddie, which fills him with an ache of love that he can hardly contain.

Gareth laughs, his chest shaking against Eddie's back, and it feels so comfortable, so normal, that Eddie closes his eyes and plans to fall asleep. Sated, and satisfied.

"Wanna see the pictures?" Steve asks, and suddenly Eddie's awake again.

Steve hands over a stack of pictures, and the three of them look together.

Jesus Christ.

They're good. Really good.

"Who took this one?" Eddie asks, because it's definitely not from the angle of Steve's chair. 

"I did," Gareth answers, and there's a good handful from a second camera, a second angle, one that captures Eddie, head hung low, Jeff fucking him with Steve watching in the background. 

Another of Goodie getting ready to enter Eddie.

One of Gareth's grinning face as he tries to get himself in the frame with Eddie being fucked by Steve in the beginning. It's just shadowy figures beyond his brightly lit face, but Eddie loves it. 

Another of all three of them as they tried to crowd in, but nobody's arm was quite long enough, but laughing like they were having fun.

Fucking hell.

They had fun. 

"You had fun," Eddie says, "all of you."

"Well, yeah, of course," Gareth says, and hands the pictures back to Eddie. "Why would you think we didn't?"

And honestly, Eddie doesn't know. But it feels good to know that they hadn't had their arms twisted into doing this for him. The proof, right in his hand.

He hopes he gets to keep them, and he squeezes them a little tighter in his grip.

"Don't worry. I have a plan, they'll be kept totally safe, out of prying eyes," Steve says as he stretches out, and kills the light on the end table, leaving them all in darkness, only a sliver of a street light peeking through the split in the heavy curtains. 

Steve always has a plan, and Eddie closes his eyes, at peace.

The next day, Eddie's pretty sure he's spent actual hours actively keeping off of his ass cheek, scared he's gonna smudge it off. He doesn't want to fuck it up before he can get into see Petey tonight. Even if it's Sharpie and he knows that's unlikely. Still. No chances.

He's sitting on the other side of his ass, tilted to the side, writing as fast as his hand can go. It's like he's been set free, like his creative block has been cleared, and the inspiration that has been tamped down by the outside world, is back, in full force.

Gareth leans over his shoulder, one arm across Eddie's chest, hugging him from behind as he tries to read what Eddie's composing. He has a magazine hanging loosely in his hand, and it's brushing against Eddie's shirt.

He reads Eddie's chicken scratch, but says nothing, and Eddie appreciates it. This phase of writing is solo work. The group aspect, just as important, comes later.

Gareth lets him go.

And Eddie keeps writing.

When it's finally dark and time to go, Eddie stands up. Jeff and Goodie are bickering while playing cards at the table in the living room, Gareth is still reading a drum magazine, and Eddie swears the kid hoards them for a year, and then reads them all in a single day.

Steve is lacing up his shoes.

It's completely normal, almost like last night never even happened. Nobody has avoided him, nobody fled for their own space, nobody has been weird at all, and Eddie feels more settled than he's ever felt in his entire life. 

They did it for him, and now they're still here. Their world is still turning on the same axis it always has.

"I got us a VIP table at Lux tomorrow," Jeff says, looking up at Eddie. 

"I thought that place was booked out for months?" Steve questions, and Eddie knows that means Steve wasn't involved in this. Which is unusual. 

"I talked to our concierge. They said they're turning over VIP rooms halfway through the night, so if we show up at about ten we'll get in," Jeff explains. "But we might have to chill while they clear out the first group."

"That's one way to try and increase profits," Steve says dryly, then adds, "but it's gonna be a shitshow, mark my words. Expect a wait, nobody is gonna wanna clear out early in the night once they've paid for a room, and settled in."

"I'm not waiting in line just to pay a grand for a fucking bottle I could buy down the street at the ABC for fifty bucks," Goodie complains.

Gareth meets Eddie's eyes, and Eddie smirks back. A broken record, he is. But Goodie's always been bristly about bottle service, and Eddie gets it. He does. And there's never been anybody with less patience about waiting than Goodie.

They've dealt with this at every nice restaurant they've ever had a reservation at over the years. If they have to wait longer than five minutes, he'd rather just go to McDonald's. 

It's maddening.

Eddie puts on his own jacket, and then gets Steve his, holding it out, helping him slide into it.

"Where're you two goin'?" Gareth asks, looking up as Eddie's adjusting Steve's collar.  

"Gonna go grab some food," Eddie answers. Which is also true, they will need to eat.

"Can I come?" Gareth asks, and well, okay. Sure. He has nothing to hide from Gareth. Never has, never will. Gareth knows the best of him, and the worst.

Eddie looks at Steve, but Steve already has an arm out, wheeling it around in an order for Gareth to come on, but to hurry it up. They are all more than accustomed to this familiar maneuver.

They step out of the private penthouse elevator, and their security meets them. Eddie balks. They are not coming along for this. But shaking security is always a hassle. They're hired to do a thing, and sometimes Eddie wants them to not do the thing, and that becomes a big problem.

But, while they might not listen to Eddie, Steve is in charge, and they will listen to him. So, when Steve has them stand down, they do. Even if they look fucking mad about it.

And then the three of them walk out of the hotel, all by themselves, like they are real people again.

Dressed down, comfortable, and nobody gives them a second glance. No paps, which obviously, since they didn't call them. But no crowd of fans either. Nobody knows they're here, somehow.

Eddie tilts his head back and breathes in the night air.

Maybe they can be real people again someday, and that idea fills Eddie with a hope he hasn't had in years. Maybe one day he'll be able to walk the streets of a city, alone, just Eddie, not Eddie Munson.

Once they're in the black SUV, Steve's fiddling around, because he doesn't usually drive these days. None of them do. He has to move the seat and the mirrors, and while he's doing all that, Eddie turns and looks at Gareth, "We're gonna go see Petey. I'm getting the tally marks on my ass tattooed. Can you be normal?" Eddie asks.

"I'll be so normal," Gareth reassures, and Steve laughs from the driver's seat, which makes Eddie smile.

Normal is definitely a big ask for any of them.

When they pull up in the alley behind the tattoo shop and tap on the heavy door, Petey unlocks it, and it's not unusual. He always works on Eddie after hours, when they come through town and Eddie's decided a new tattoo is the only thing that will make him feel anything at all.

It still feels funny, slinking in back doors like they're doing something illicit.

But Petey is the only person Eddie would ever trust to do this, to see it, to remotely know anything about anything. Petey won't ask, but if he makes assumptions, Eddie's okay with that. Petey won't comment on them. Eddie's trusted him for years, decades, and Petey hasn't sold him down the river yet. Eddie can't imagine he'll start today.

He's part of the inner circle, and that's priceless, Eddie has learned. The paring down of friends, year-by-year, until only the real deals remain.

Petey's the real deal.

"What are we doing today?" Petey asks, and Eddie's already pretty covered these days. Real estate is getting scarce. So, Eddie pulls down his jeans, his boxers, and shows him. Climbs on the table, to let him really see what they're working with tonight.

No reason to try to hide.

Petey's poker face is better than anyone else's on earth, and he just asks, "You want it this big?" A gloved finger pressing into his skin, "Or you want me to make a stencil and shrink it? Clean it up?"

None of them knew he was gonna keep it, hell, Eddie didn't know he was gonna keep it, so it's a little sloppy and a little bit big. But that's what he wants more than anything these days. The real thing. He doesn't want the fake shine and polish. 

"Exactly as it is," Eddie says.

"Relax then. Get comfortable," Petey says, and then doesn't ask any other questions beyond what's necessary. Eddie's sure he's used to him being weird by now.

Needing an appointment to tattoo his ass after hours? Must be Tuesday in Eddieland.

Petey will make it look good, and look real at the same time. Eddie trusts that, fully.

So, Eddie lays on the table, and feels Petey gently shaving him and dabbing the alcohol wipe across the marks so as to not disturb the marker ink too much, and then the needle is buzzing along his ass cheek as they make small talk. About the tour. About the next album. About Petey's work, family, and life.

And Eddie smiles into his folded arms. He can't believe they actually did this filthy thing, and now he's getting it permanently branded onto his skin.

Steve sits on the other side of the table, staring. Still watching, eyes glued to Eddie's bare skin, one of his hands gripping Eddie's bare thigh. It's loving, and maybe a little possessive, which makes Eddie feel more exposed than he does about having his bare ass on display. If the tally marks aren't giving them away, Steve definitely is by being this goddamn interested in what's going on.

He usually doesn't even come with Eddie when Eddie makes tattoo appointments with Petey. Gareth does. Or one of the other guys. So, this is out of the ordinary, for sure. Probably suspicious. He's pretty sure Petey doesn't usually allow spectators to breathe down his neck, touching his clients as he works.

But he says nothing, just works while Steve watches every drop of black ink being deposited.

At least Gareth is sitting off to the side, acting normal, as promised. Steve? Not so much.

It doesn't take long. All black, just a few lines. Some shading of the careless strokes they all took. And then it's over before Eddie has really settled into the process. Usually his tattoos take much, much longer, and are much more elaborate.

But Petey has a gift for being good, but quick. He's not keeping you in his chair for a minute longer than he needs for it to be perfect.

Eddie stands in front of the floor length mirror, trying not to flash his junk at everyone while he looks at the finished artwork. It's really there. Looking just like it did last night, Eddie's pretty fucking sure.

He lets Petey put the protective bandage over it, and then buckles his jeans, thinking they're done, but Steve is talking to Petey. Gesturing with his hands, and Eddie listens, figuring out pretty fucking quickly that Steve is planning to get a Sharpie tattooed along his hip bone. Hidden, out of sight. A secret they can share. 

And Petey knew about it. He has the design drawn up and everything. Steve's looking at it, making a few tweaks that Petey does immediately, then produces the revamped stencil. Steve nods, pleased.

Steve's not really a tattoo guy, so the fact that he planned to do this, really means something to Eddie. This is also for him. Another gift, another way for Steve to take care of him. To promise he's not going anywhere, not ever.

Eddie lays on an empty table, keeping off his ass while Steve's having his turn under the needle. 

When Petey's done, Steve stands in front of the full-length mirror himself, inspecting the new ink branding his skin just as Eddie had done.

Eddie watches as Steve's eyes shift towards Gareth as he sits in a chair, flipping through a binder of flash art, just for something to do, Eddie's sure. If he's uncomfortable, he's not showing it.

"Are you next?" Steve asks, looking at Gareth through the mirror, and at first there's no response. He tries again. "Gare?"

Then, Gareth looks up, meeting Steve's eyes in the mirror, "What? Me?"

Steve nods, and Eddie loves him maybe more in this moment than he's loved him in his whole fucking life. Steve doesn't have to include Gareth in this. He could have balked when Gareth asked to come along, not knowing where they were going. 

Steve could have re-staked his claim, but instead he's secure enough to know that what Gareth means to Eddie is different than what Steve means to Eddie. Gareth fucked Eddie last night, sure, but Steve's so confident in their love that he's willing to let Gareth have a reminder of that inked onto his skin, just like he got.

"Only if you want," Steve offers, and Eddie stays out of it. This is between them.

And Gareth nods, and gets it along his ribs, Petey acting like he doesn't know anything about anything the whole time. Like he can't put one plus one plus one together to get three. Probably five, even if the other two are absent tonight.

Eddie's gotta admit, Steve and Gareth leaving with matching tattoos wasn't on his bingo card for the day, but they pay Petey, tipping big time for him doing this for him. For all of them.

Eddie wonders if Jeff and Goodie will be mad that they weren't asked to come along. But he's pretty sure it wasn't the same to them. And that's okay. They made his fantasy come to life, all of them. He doesn't need more.

He just needs them to stay, exactly as they are.

It's late when they leave the shop, the glow of the streetlights hitting the pavement. 

"I was promised food, what's still open?" Gareth asks, and Steve motions for them both to get in the car. Steve will take care of it. Of both of them.

He always does.

Eddie has to lean crazily in the seat of the car to keep pressure off of his fresh ink, and he listens as Steve and Gareth banter over where they can get a bite to eat. Neither one sounds overly confident that they know what's open now on a Tuesday night, but they're sure debating it like they do.

Eddie closes his eyes and just listens. It's normal. His husband and his best friend, going back and forth, fussing over something as normal as what restaurants are open at this hour in this town they don't even live in. 

Like they both weren't balls deep in his ass twenty-four hours ago. 

Like they both didn't just get proof of that, permanently inked onto their skin.

Like neither one is concerned that they might regret it later. 

Like Eddie can't still feel the echo of all of them, with every move he makes.

Thing is, Eddie's pretty sure they won't regret it. Because Eddie doesn't regret it, will never regret being close in a new way to them all, at least for one night.

And unlike Goodie, he'd wait in a line for that any day.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the Black Friday prompt! 🖤

Notes:

Title is from "Right Hand Man" from Hamilton.

This started as an entry for one of the prompts during Corroded Coffin Fest in July, but got way too long for the 1000 word limit. I held it back, and then fleshed it out for this pop-up event instead.

Am I thinking about the conversation Jeff and Goodie surely had as best friends once they left that room? Absolutely.

Also? Happy to see you again, Road Manager Steve Harrington, my beloved. I adore getting to write him. And Petey is also a holdover from Tuesday's Gone With the Wind. Eddie needs a tattoo guy? It's gonna be Petey. Because I said so, lol.

Thanks so much for reading! 🖤

[jacki567]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗢𝗻𝗲 𝗠𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗣𝗮𝘆 (𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧)

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙍𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙣𝙮𝙧𝙖 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 “𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣-𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙚𝙙” 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙔/𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣, “𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣’𝙨 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩”

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙘!𝙍𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙣𝙮𝙧𝙖 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 𝙭 𝙙𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

Ever since she was a but a young girl, Rhaenyra had wanted nothing more than to have a little sister.

Growing up, the sight of her mother confined to her bed, her stomach swelling with each passing moon was a common sight. Since she was old enough to realise what was happening, Rhaenyra swore that every babe her mother carried was going to be the sister she so desperately desired. She never understood why people would laugh, why they would give her father a shake of their heads, and yet when they spoke of her having a brother nothing but pride was seen on their faces, a nod instead of a shake. She wouldn't understand until she was older, and the reasoning angered her to no end.

However, Queen Aemma Arryn would never be able to give Rhaenyra the sister she so desperately wanted, and she would never be able to watch her only surviving child grow and have children of her own.

Since the day of her mother's funeral, Rhaenyra swore that she wanted no children of her own. But she was her father's heir now, and she realised that one day she would need an heir of her own. Her thoughts went to Daemon, thinking by the time she was crowned Queen that he would have a child that she could name as her heir. If her own cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, could do so, then so could she.

However, Rhaenyra wasn't granted that wish. In order to keep Otto Hightower away from the Keep, to put an end to his schemes and to send him back to Oldtown, Rhaenyra had to marry... and who better than her cousin, Ser Laenor, who held no attraction to her or to any other woman. This had been a good thing at the beginning of their marriage, but Rhaenyra soon heard the whispers spreading throughout the Keep.

'Perhaps she is barren.'

'If she can't even produce an heir, how can we expect her to ascend the throne one day?'

'It won't be long before the King names Prince Aegon as his successor.'

Rhaenyra knew that she needed an heir of her own to keep her inheritance. Laenor was a kind man who treated Rhaenyra with nothing but respect, but he never desired her. His true desires lay with men, and no matter how many times they had tried to conceive their heir, none had been successful.

And soon, Rhaenyra had to take drastic matters.

The Princess was an incredibly observant woman and she was well aware that Ser Harwin Strong had been quite enamoured with her since her... stunt at Prince Aegon's second name-day. Rhaenyra sought Harwin out and after some time spent together, both gave into their desires. It had been a relationship of convenience in the beginning, but Rhaenyra soon found herself developing feelings for Harwin. He was kind to her, caring and incredibly loving. He was everything she wished for in a husband.

It didn't take long for Rhaenyra to notice that her monthly blood hadn't arrived.

She was with child, and the fear hit her.

-

Nothing could’ve prepared her for the sudden changes in her body, the flurry of emotions ( both good and bad ), and the nausea that came during the first few moons. Seeing her mother going through these changes was one thing, but experiencing them yourself was completely different. Laenor had been by her side during every step of the way, proving himself to be a devoted husband, someone who truly cared for her wellbeing. The days had been long and difficult, but with men as kind and caring as Laenor and Harwin surrounding her, her first pregnancy went by quicker than she ever could've imagined.

And soon enough, Rhaenyra was able to hold her firstborn child in her arms; a daughter.

Since the moment her daughter had been placed into her arms, Rhaenyra went silent. The room was full of noise, but all of her attention was on her beautiful babe. Y/n was a quiet babe, with a head of brown curls, soft chubby cheeks, and her eyes were as lilac as the flowers in the garden. She was a beautiful babe, and Rhaenyra’s father, Viserys, couldn't help but to agree. No matter her appearance not being that of a typical Valyrian, King Viserys adored his granddaughter since the moment he saw her. Laenor had been full of shock when Y/n had been placed into his arms for the very first time, but his heart swole with love when her tiny fingers wrapped themselves around his pointer finger; he was a goner. And Ser Harwin... Harwin couldn't believe that he was the father to a beautiful baby girl. He was overjoyed, never passing up the chance to hold Y/n in his arms in the privacy of Rhaenyra's chambers. She was finally here, the very thing he had wished for so long.

Many believed that once Rhaenyra's second child was born, Jacaerys, that he would be named as heir, but Rhaenyra never faltered in her choice; Y/n would be her heir. Rhaenyra would teach her everything that she would ever need to know; from politics, to strategic thinking, even when doing her hair... she would teach Y/n everything. Y/n was hers. Hers to love, hers to keep and hers to treasure for all time.

It wasn't long until Princess Y/n Velaryon was given a name by the Small Folk; The Heir's Heart.

-

Years passed within the blink of an eye. King Viserys was now dead, Rhaenyra was now Queen, and Princess Y/n Velaryon, now Princess Y/N Targaryen, was Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. Y/n stood closely by her mother at seven-and-ten name-days, her hand resting on the hilt of the dagger that was strapped to her side, a mannerism that reminded Rhaenyra very much of Daemon, who was now Y/n's step-father. Lucerys stood on Y/n's left hand side, nervously playing with a stray piece of thread that hung from Y/n's sleeve. None could see the action because Y/n had taken a protective stance in front of her younger brother.

Y/n bore an emotionless mask on her face as her mother agreed to send Jace and Luke as envoys, never considering to send her own heir to speak on her behalf. Yet, Y/n would never cause an outburst during the first Small Council meeting of her mother, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. However, Rhaenyra knew her daughter better than anyone and she was able to see the twitch of her lilac eyes, her pursed lips and tight expression; she wasn't happy.

Once the Small Council had been dismissed, Rhaenyra gestured for Y/n to follow her. Without a word, Y/n followed behind her mother, her hands clasped behind her back as her red and black dress flowed behind her. They came to a stop inside the library, a place of peace for Y/n.

Queen Rhaenyra looked at Y/n. "What troubles you, sweet girl?"" Rhaenyra's hand cupped Y/n's cheek just like she did when she was a child. "Tell your mother."

Y/n hated when she was upset with her mother, but she couldn't help but to feel this way.

"I am your heir, yet you send Jace and Luke to be your envoys, whilst I am to sit back and do nothing? In what world does that make sense, Mother? I am your heir, let me be your voice."

Rhaenyra's breath was caught in her throat. She knew that Y/n wasn't one to sit back whilst everyone else did work. Yet, Rhaenyra couldn't bring herself to include Y/n as being her envoy. Sending her sweet boys was bad enough, but to send her only surviving daughter into danger was a thought that Rhaenyra didn't wish to think.

"You are my heir, my successor," Rhaenyra's thumb stroked Y/n's cheekbone. "And that is why I need you here. If anything were to happen, the throne would pass to you."

Y/n stepped away, her features screwed up with frustration. "If I were a son, I would be sent out to be your envoy... just like Jace and Luke."

And she was correct, Rhaenyra couldn't deny that.

"Please, Y/n, I need you here with me," her eyes were full of a desperation for Y/n to listen to her. "You are my daughter, my heart. If something were to happen to you..."

Y/n looked to her mother, eyes wide. "Mother, I know you are scared. After losing V-Visenya," Rhaenyra's heart ached at the thought of her lost babe, "you couldn't bear to lose another, but you won't lose me."

Y/n took her mother's hands in her own, lilac eyes clashing with lilac eyes. "Let me be your voice. Let me defend your birthright."

Rhaenyra lowered her head, gripping onto Y/n's hands with all of her might. She would give her daughter the world if she asked, but Y/n was asking her to knowingly send her into danger, to put herself in harms way.

And, as if she could tell what her mother would say, Y/n interrupted her.

"You once said you'd give me anything I wished, and what I wish for is to advocate for my Queen. To fight for my mother's birthright," Y/n and Rhaenyra looked at once another. "Allow me to do so."

Rhaenyra was conflicted. From the doorway of the library stood Daemon. He gave her a brief nod, Y/n’s dedication to fight for Rhaenyra’s birthright was an admiration. Y/n would be a worthy asset to have. She was a dragon rider, her mount being the wild dragon Grey Ghost. She had been the very first to claim the elusive wild dragon, who was much like herself in many ways; both were quiet, yet fiercely loyal. The sight of the Queen’s heir, a woman that held the blood of the dragon, atop of the mysterious wild dragon, Grey Ghost, who none had managed to claim before should send the Queen’s enemies a message of the power that the Queen and her heir held.

The Green’s had Vhagar, but the Black’s had more dragons.

Ignoring the clenching of her heart, Rhaenyra but her lip and gave Y/n a curt nod. “If that is what you wish, then you shall fly to the Eyrie. You shall meet my cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and pass along my words. After, you shall fly to Highgarden to meet with Lady Tyrell. Her son is a mere child and she is the Regent. Connect with her, ally her to our side. Then you return to me.”

Y/n nodded. “As you wish, my Queen.”

-

Compared to the looming figure of Grey Ghost, Y/n seemed tiny compared to the giant beast. She had always been tall for her age, but when stood beside her bonded mount, it could make anyone realise just how young the Princess actually was. Whilst she held the eyes of her mother, the smile of her father, and many facial features from her Grandmother Aemma, Y/n was but a girl of seven-and-ten name-days.

She hadn’t been able to see the wonders the world had to offer, and Rhaenyra swore to herself that when her throne was won, Y/n would know every corner of the Kingdom that she would one day rule.

“You’re worried,” Y/n stated as she threw a fish into the open jaws of Grey Ghost, who swallowed the large fish in one bite. “The Eyrie isn’t far, Mother. Lady Jeyne is family, your cousin.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward. “And Aegon is my brother, your uncle. Would he welcome you with open arms?”

Y/n chewed her bottom lip, knowing that her mother was correct. If she were to ever step foot into the Keep at this moment, she would be imprisoned, possibly killed in order to eliminate the threat to Aegon’s “rule”.

Y/n looked to her mother who held herself like a ruler would, but the worry of being a mother were beginning to shine through. Jacaerys had been adamant that he would be fine and, whilst still cautious, Rhaenyra had accepted that. However, with Luke and Y/n… they were her sweethearts. So much like their Grandmother, yet so much like herself at the same time. Seeing them leave… it was something she hadn’t been able to prepare herself for.

“You must understand, I am your mother, first and foremost, Y/n. I always will be. A mother is granted the ability to worry endlessly for her children.”

Y/n smiled softly. “And a mother’s children are granted the ability to defend their mother’s birthright.”

The laugh that escaped Rhaenyra’s lips couldn’t be stopped. In this very moment it was as if Rhaenyra was staring at her teenage self, only this reflection held brown hair.

“I suppose you are correct,” Rhaenyra stepped closer, knowing that Grey Ghost would not harm her. “Even as a child, you always stood for what you believe in. Jace and Luke were more quiet, but if anyone dared speak ill of myself, your brothers, even your Grandsire…” she chuckled. “The blood of the dragon really shone through.”

Y/n reached forward and squeezed Rhaenyra’s hands, feeling two pieces of parchment in her left hand as she did. She looked down at the letters and saw the official seal of House Targaryen stamped upon it.

“For you to deliver to Lady Jeyne and Lady Tyrell,” Rhaenyra spoke, falling into the role of Queen. “I hope Jeyne sees my mother in you and it reminds her of an oath she once swore,” and the other letter. “And for Lady Tyrell. She is a mysterious woman, but I do hope you could find common ground.”

Behind Y/n, Jace and Luke emerged with their dragons in tow, Vermax and Arrax. Her brothers were awaiting Y/n to join them, wanting to fly together for as far as they could with their Grandmother Rhaenys before parting ways; Jace to the North, Rhaenys to patrol the Gullet, Luke to Storms End and Y/n to the Vale and the Reach.

“I will return with the support of House Arryn and House Tyrell,” Y/n held her head high. “I swear it.”

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen looked between her three eldest children with nothing but love and pride filling her heart. She gave them a nod, addressing them all.

“You shall go as envoys, not as warriors. I want you to swear this to me… not as your mother but as your Queen.”

Without an ounce of hesitation, Y/n, Jace and Luke swore to their mother. They would not wield a sword, only the words of the true and rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenyra mustered up a small smile. “Now, off to it.”

Jace climbed atop of Vermax, strapping his legs into the saddle. Both Luke and Y/n stood by their dragons, but they couldn’t help but to turn back and look at their mother with nervousness in their eyes. No matter how much she wished to go, to prove herself as a worthy heir, Y/n was nervous that she wouldn’t return home or even worse, that her brothers wouldn’t return home.

“Come back to me,” Rhaenyra told her children. “No matter of support, return to me safely.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Queen Rhaenyra watched as Luke and Y/n climbed atop of Arrax and Grey Ghost, strapping themselves into their saddles like Jace had done moments before. Wearing three matching cloaks of blood red, the three eldest children of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen rose to the skies on their dragons, unsure of what was to come, but knowing they would do anything to gain support for their mother’s claim.

-

The flight to the Eyrie wasn’t a long one, and Grey Ghost circled the mountain the castle was located on. From below, Y/n heard the yells of the guards, the panic in their voices as they saw a dragon circling the Vale. Grey Ghost swooped down towards the courtyard of the Eyrie, and Y/n saw many guards with hands on the swords and archers with arrows ready to be released. Grey Ghost landed in the courtyard with a thud, his roar echoing throughout the mountains of the Vale.

Lady Jeyne had recognised Y/n immediately. She had last seen the Princess when she was nine name-days old, but when she saw the face of Aemma Arryn staring back at her, it wasn’t hard to realise that this girl was the granddaughter of the Vale’s Queen.

Negotiations started as soon as Y/n entered the castle and many were agreeable terms. Jeyne would support Rhaenyra no matter what, but Jeyne needed protection for herself, for her home and for her people; dragons would suffice. And knowing that Joffrey’s dragon was already growing to quite the size, Y/n agreed. She would send word to her mother in due time that Joffrey was needed in the Vale where he would be kept safe.

Lady Jeyne insisted that Y/n stay and rest, and she agreed. The cousins feasted, told stories of their family, and none could remember a time when Lady Jeyne laughed so freely. Safe to say, it was a saddening sight to see Princess Y/n Targaryen leave the Vale upon her dragon, Grey Ghost.

-

The flight to Highgarden had been a longer flight, because Y/n had to be careful not to be seen by any Hightower soldiers or guards. This is when Grey Ghost’s certain attitude became useful as he was able to fly into the clouds, his grey scales blending into the clouds to keep himself and Y/n hidden to all below. They had stayed in the clouds until they reached the outer skirts of Highgarden, where Grey Ghost swooped down into the courtyard of House Tyrell.

“Dragon!”

Guards unsheathed their swords and pointed them at Y/n. Grey Ghost released a loud roar, baring his sharp teeth at the guards in defence of his rider.

“We are not here to harm you,” Y/n assured. “My name is Princess Y/n Targaryen, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. I have come to speak with Lady Tyrell.”

A woman walked into the courtyard, head held high. “And so you shall, Princess. Please, follow me.”

Y/n had been most nervous to meet with Lady Tyrell as they had nothing in common. One was a widow, one has never been married. One has a child, one has never even bedded a man. Yet, to everyone’s shock, Lady Tyrell took quite a liking to the young Princess.

“You remind me of my dear sister,” Lady Tyrell reminisced softly. “She passed many years ago, and you are how I imagine her.”

“I thank you for the comparison, my Lady. It’s an honour.”

Although Lady Tyrell had grown fond of Y/n, negotiations were tough. Lady Tyrell didn’t wish for her son to be put in any danger and Y/n couldn’t promise his everlasting safety. Negotiations went back and forth until a letter arrived at Highgarden.

Y/n recognised the seal, as Lady Tyrell opened the letter and read its contents. The woman’s eyes widened as she looked up at Y/n, her eyes holding sympathy and heartache. She held the letter out for Y/n to take and the Princess began to read the contents. She recognised the writing of her cousin, Baela, but her neat handwriting was now a scrawl, the page littered with damp spots throughout.

‘Lucerys… didn’t come home… Vhagar… Aemond… storm… Dead.’

Y/n didn’t realise that she was crying until Lady Tyrell crouched beside her and wiped away her tears with her thumb. Y/n held herself high but it was now that Lady Tyrell saw how young Y/n was; she was still just a child. Their negotiations may have been tough, but a man who chases a boy on a war dragon through a rough storm was no man she, nor her house, would ever follow.

“Return home, little dragon,” Lady Tyrell instructed. “You have my support. I await a raven from your Mother instructing the war for her reign.”

-

Y/n had just lost Luke, she didn’t expect to lose Jace so soon afterwards. It was supposed to have been her to fly above the Gullet to ensure the safety of their younger brothers, Aegon and Viserys, but Jace insisted that he was more than capable. Y/n trusted Jace… Why did she have to trust him?

Her mother wasn’t the same anymore. She never smiled, her eyes were dull, she rarely ever ate and her words were full of a rage that Y/n had never heard before.

“It should’ve been me up there, Baela,” Y/n whispered to Baela. “Why was he so stubborn? Why did I let him go?”

Baela turned to Y/n, eyes full of heartbreak. “Jace would’ve went anyways. He couldn’t protect Luke, so he wanted to protect you, Aegon, and Viserys.”

Y/n scoffed bitterly. “And I failed in protecting them both. I am the elder sibling! I should’ve protected them both, and I failed in that! And now Viserys is missing, most likely dead! Because of my idiocy!”

And just like her mother, Y/n turned into a person than none recognised. And this only brought her further into madness when the death of her younger brother, Joffrey reached her ears.

Fell from Syrax.

Broken from the fall.

Still breathing whilst the Small Folk tore him apart!

Y/n couldn’t find anymore sadness within her, only rage. What was stopping her from burning Kings Landing to the ground?

One person.

“We shall get our revenge,” Rhaenyra assured her daughter, eyes full of nothingness. “With Fire and Blood.”

-

Y/n had heard rumours that Aegon the Usurper now resided on Dragonstone… the very place that Y/n told Rhaenyra to run to. After the storming of the Dragonpit, many dragons were lost including the Queen’s own dragon, Syrax. With no money for safe passage, Rhaenyra was forced to sell her crown in order to protect herself and Aegon, her last remaining son.

Y/n had stayed behind in order to take revenge on those who had killed Joffrey, to those who had killed innocent dragons. She wasn’t known as, ‘The 𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣’𝙨 Heart’ anymore.

She was known as, ‘The Queens Executioner’.

Yet, as she was about to feed a man to Grey Ghost, he yelled as loudly as he could.

“Aegon is on Dragonstone! He plans to murder your Mother! To murder your brother!”

Y/n grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, bringing his head closer to hers, her lips pressed against his ear.

“Your lies won’t prevent your death.”

With that, Grey Ghost’s jaws clamped down around the man, swallowing him whole. Yet, Y/n couldn’t help but feel as if his words rang true. She felt as if her mother was in trouble. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she ignored this feeling and it resulted in the death of her mother and last remaining brother.

Y/n jumped atop Grey Ghost and commanded him to fly to Dragonstone. Grey Ghost had never flown faster, feeling the urgency of his rider made him go even faster towards their home. It didn’t take long until they arrived and Y/n was able to see a broken and twisted Sunfyre in the courtyard, an equally as broken Aegon beside him.

“MY DAUGHTER SHALL BRING THE HELLS TO YOU, HALF-BROTHER! SHE WILL AVENGE US!”

Aegon laughed cruelly. “I need not fear that bastard. She’s a woman, what can she do?”

With a rage like no other, Y/n’s voice made everyone look up. Grey Ghost opened his jaws and orange flames shot out, burning Aegon’s supporters alive. Y/n was about to command Grey Ghost to kill more, but she saw Sunfyre inch towards her mother, an orange hue building at the back of his throat.

“I won’t lose you, too.”

With that, Y/n released the straps from the saddle and she jumped off of Grey Ghost. She fell from the sky, landing on the ground before her mother.

“Y/N!” Rhaenyra yelled in horror.

Y/n looked to her, smiling for the first time in many moons. “I love you.”

With that, Y/n shoved Rhaenyra out of the way and Sunfyre clamped his jaws around her. Y/n had never felt pain like this before, as Sunfyre bit down on her over and over again. She thought her pain would never end, until she saw an orange hue build at the back of his throat. With one last look at her mother, Y/n smiled tearfully as she looked towards the sky, watching as Grey Ghost roared in agony, unable to reach his rider before the fire engulfed her body.

-

After the death of Princess Y/n Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra was the undisputed ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, she was never the same as she once was. She may have found Viserys, but she had lost her babies. Her sweet, sweet, boys and her darling daughter, all whom sacrificed themselves for her.

What kind of mother outlives her children?

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen didn’t rule for long. Broken by the heartache of losing her four eldest children, the Queen died in her sleep. Many say she died of a broken heart, mourning her children that she never got to see grow old, to see them have children of their own.

She was known throughout history as, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen “The Broken-Hearted”.

[xokohaneazusawa]

If somebody had told him a few years ago that this is where his life would have ended up, he would have called them fucking insane. The genius midfielder: Sae Itoshi, with tears in his eyes, promising to his partner that they would be forever.

It wasn't often you had ever seen Sae so on edge about something. All starting with an early morning for him, Usually it would go the same for him. Morning yoga and meditation before waking you up, if you weren't up already, to head downstairs and getting some salted kombucha for himself. Today however was a little different. Getting up at the same time as normal just to bypass the yoga and meditation to go get the ring he had hidden in his football bag. The one he had spent months picking just to make sure it was right, and even time making sure not to give it to you at the wrong point.

When you had woken up around the same time Sae normally would have finished his meditation and didn't see him there, saying you were confused would have been an understatement. Sae, the guy who lived on schedules and planners, wasn't doing much something in his routine? Strange. He was already downstairs when you finally made your way downstairs? Okay, whatever, maybe he came down early to get his- nope. He didn't even have his salted kombucha. What was going on with him?? You couldn't help but think that maybe he was sick or something, this was so unlike him... especially since every time you would ask him about something or even sightly look at him he would start turning red a little bit, even if he thought he was hiding it well. It was strange. the way he took you out on the town, something he normally wouldn't have time for especially since it was the football season.

The sunset was always pretty in Spain, how the orange, yellow, and the slightest bit of red colored the horizon. No matter how many times you saw it, the sunset still managed to impress you and look beautiful from the balcony of Sae's penthouse. The two of you were sitting out on his balcony, looking out of the horizon and soaking up the last bits of light for the day.

5:30PM on December 1st.

As you slightly leaned over the railing to enjoy the way the slightly cool air hit your face and the last sliver of the sunset that was still visible over the ocean front you didn't even notice that behind you Sae was almost in tears already. Thinking about how this could affect the rest of your lives. You two had talked about marriage only a few times as it had never really been an option with his busy schedule and his games throughout the seasons. As you turned around you would be faced with the same Sae that you had thought only had one facial expression, was now standing there, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes.

"It's not that I'm upset or anything. It's just that..."

He sighed, thinking about everything leading up to this moment and how he couldn't back out now. He didn't wanna back out now. This wasn't like a football match where he just had to create a good pass for somebody else, this was all him.

"It's just that there is so much I want to say, and I don't think I'll be able to say any of it..."

"Every day since we met I thought that there would be nothing holding me back from winning the Champions League, but I was clearly wrong. You. You are what keeps me from winning it."

Before you could say anything else he stopped you.

"Not because you're a bother or you need to apologize, it's because more than anything else I wanna stay with you. I wanna wake up with you every morning, go to bed with you every night, and make sure that you know that I love you more than anything else even if I don't always show it. So here. I know that due to my own selfish desires, I wanna make sure that even if we can't get married now, that everybody knows we're together. That you decided that even through all the fights, the good, the bad, and the lukewarm, you chose me."

And that's when it hit him, the second he pulled out that promise ring that had been tucked into the bottom of his football bag for months on end, and the way you nodded your head he couldn't help but let his emotions finally get the best of him. And in all the years that you had known him, it might have been the first time he had ever cried in front of you.

Not for tears of sadness, that he finally admitted that maybe something was more important than football for him. But for happiness, even if he couldn't bind himself for entirety to the person he loved most now, he at least knew in his heart that when he got to that point, you would say yes.

[iztwt]

caught.

paring: afab!reader x ryomen sukuna

tws! fingering. teasing. slightllyyy ooc sukuna?? idrk

it wasn’t uncommon for you to be left alone while your husband is busy. you had grown used to it after the years you had both spent together, accepting it as one of the few things that you’d have to put up with in your marriage.

you normally didn’t mind either. it was nice having some time to yourself now and then, and today would be no different.. if you weren’t feeling the way you were.

.horny..hot..needy.

when you’d feel like this on an average day you would obviously just go to your husband, but that wasn’t an option at the current time with sukuna being all busy and stuff. your options were limited, there wasn’t a whole lot you could do without his assistance; and the more time you spent lounging around on your shared bed longing he was here to satisfy your needs the more prominent those feelings were becoming.

you waited around for what seemed like hours, when in reality it was only around ten minutes until you retorted to stimulating yourself with your fingers instead of seeing if sukuna would return any time soon.

so there you were; sprawled out atop of your shared bed, legs spread apart as if he were there in between them and your fingers sloppily pumped into your glistening pussy.

you lolled your head back against the mound of pillows behind it as you managed to slip in a third digit to your aching cunt.

your hand trembling lightly as it continued thrusting your fingers in and out of you; a few stray moans and mewls bubbling up in your throat as you pictured them to be him, pictured him rutting into you ruthlessly instead of your fingers. your eyes squeezed shut as you arched your back from the mattress beneath you, your fingers barely grazing the spot you knew he’d hit with ease every thrust.

it wasn’t until a sluttish moan of his name fell from your lips that you heard a faint chuckle from the doorway.

you immediately reopened your eyes and looked over only to see your husband, stood there in amusement a wicked smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you attempt to get yourself off without his aid.

“ you really think that’ll satisfy you?” he chuckled lowly, a mocking undertone lacing his words as he slowly approached the foot of the bed.

all you could do was gaze up at him with glazed over eyes, breathlessly whining and begging for him to ravish you.

“ k-kuna’ please-“ you started, pulling your fingers from your pussy only for sukuna to grab your wrist and send you a taunting glare before he shoved your fingers back inside of you. you moaned in protest sending him another pleading look along with a small buck of your hips, doing everything in your helpless state to convince him to fuck you.

he stood there for a minute, his hands still wrapped securely around your wrist as he held your fingers inside your pussy before his smirk twisted to a more sinister grin.

“ dumb girl, I was enjoying the show.” he cooed, his cruel crimson eyes never leaving yours for a second.

“ i’ll give you the stimulation you desire if you entertain me for a while longer, we both know that you’ll hold out.” he spoke, his mere tone sending a shiver through your spine not to mention his words. “ you’ll never cum like that.”

he commented, easing your fingers further into your pussy with each new word that fell from his mouth.

you were quick to comply after he released your wrist from his grasp, immediately thrusting your fingers back into your cunt and continuing as if you had never stopped in the first place.

hopefully you’d be able to convince him sooner rather than later..

[space-mermaid-writing]

Finders Keepers

The second part of that dragon prompt. First part here.

I'm not gonna lie, simply existing felt hard these past few days. This cloudy autumn weather in the Northern Hemisphere does nothing good for the mood. I'm looking out of the window and it's raining again. But I'm getting by with good music and the will to get all my writing projects done. So, that's something, I guess.

Beta by @harpywritesfic. Thanks again for that, dear!

Ko-fi | Read it on AO3 | IronStrange Masterlist | Word count: 2.1k

“Pete?” Tony called out, his voice echoing slightly in the wide hallway.

The dragons’ massive lair, carved into the rocky cliffs of the mountainside, had lots of places for a little human to hide. Yet, Tony felt like he had looked everywhere.

“Peter?”

The spark of a familiar, gnawing unease rose within him. Yet, he tried not to let panic take over. The rational part of his brain told him he hadn’t lost the pup. The boy had to be somewhere.

He reminded himself that Peter, being an adventurous and curious little spirit, had a knack for finding hiding spots and exploring unfamiliar surroundings. After all, this place, although intimidating with its dramatic peaks and shadows, was every bit the playground for a child's imagination.

“Peter?” he called again, a little louder this time, and – finally – he heard a reply.

“Over here.”

Relief washed over the omega, and he turned toward the sound. It took him to the entrance hall. It was big enough to hold a dragon, even though both Stephen and Tony spent most of their time as humans these days.

When Peter had found out that dragons had taken him, it had been… difficult for everyone involved. It was hardly a surprise, since such a beast had destroyed his village.

Fortunately, he had quickly realized that Tony and Stephen had no connection to the green dragon he had seen on that day.

Tony looked around the entrance hall, which appeared to be empty. “Pete?”

“Look up.”

And Tony did.

The heart of the hall was dominated by a grand pillar that rose majestically towards the ceiling, bridging the space between the four walls through an intricate network of beams. Peter was sitting on one of those beams, his posture relaxed in an almost nonchalant way. He had one long leg drawn up to his chest, while his other leg swung freely, dangling over the edge as if he were perched high above the world, casual and carefree.

He waved at the omega.

If dragons could have heart attacks, Tony would have one right now – he was sure of that since his heartbeat raced furiously as he processed the sight before him. If Peter was to fall, there was nothing to stop him. Since he was a human, he didn’t have wings.

Which was a shame, really. 

The boy had an insatiable thirst for exploration, climbing to new heights with ease. Peter’s desire to venture upwards was boundless, and Tony couldn’t help but admire that about him, even as a pang of melancholy nipped at him. The omega knew the exhilaration that came from soaring through the skies. But Peter would remain anchored to the ground.

“How’s the weather up there, Spiderling?” Tony asked, his hands on his hips.

There was an easy smile on Peter’s lip. “It’s great. You should join me.”

There was no way the beam would hold the weight of a dragon. And he surely wouldn’t climb up there as a human.

“Actually, I came by to ask you if you can help set out the table for dinner. It won’t be long until-…”

As if summoned by his words, he heard the flapping of wings when a dragon landed outside, and he turned around.

Peter had heard it as well.

“Stephen!” he exclaimed excitedly and slid down the pillar – a bit too fast. Tony was most certainly having that heart attack right now.

He stepped in to soften the boy's landing by catching him, before he hit the ground.

“Easy, Peter. You have to be more careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

Somehow Tony doubted that, but the arriving alpha distracted both of them. The steps walking in were human; Stephen must have shifted outside. He was wearing robes as blue as his scales. And a red cloak on his shoulders, which had been a gift from Tony from back when they were still courting.

Peter ran to meet him and he threw his arms around Stephen's waist. “You’re finally back.”

“I am.” With a gentle chuckle, Stephen instinctively ruffled Peter's hair, though it felt somewhat awkward for him; he had never been one to express his feelings through grand gestures. His comfort zone was nestled in the subtleties of everyday interactions, the quiet moments layered with understanding. Still, there was a smile on his lips.

He looked up at his mate who was watching their interaction fondly.

This was what Tony had always dreamed of: a family pack.

“I got something for you,” Stephen told Peter, whose eyes widened with that information. Even more so when with a swirl of his fingers, a book appeared in Stephen’s hand.

The blue dragon had a whole library just down the hallway – books and scrolls were a big part of Stephen’s hoard – but while Peter was allowed to read most of them, they still belonged to Stephen and the dragon guarded them fiercely.

So, it was only natural when the boy asked for clarification. “It’s for me?”

Stephen nodded and handed it to him. It was a story about a prince and a dragon, who struck an unlikely friendship. When Stephen had found the book, he knew it would be perfect for the pup.

Peter ran his finger over the cover, bouncing on his feet excitedly. “Thank you so much!” He beamed at the dragon. “Can I read it right now?”

Since the boy raised that question and didn’t run off with the book straight away, he figured there was some kind of task waiting for him, and he looked at Tony, his head tilted in a silent question.

“If you set out the table for everyone, you can read it until we start dinner,” the omega told Peter, who nodded and rushed away to get over with the task as fast as possible.

Tony chuckled as he watched him leave, before his eyes went back to his mate, who was finally closing the gap between them.

“You’re back earlier than expected, alpha,” he purred, a teasing smirk on his lips. “Did you miss me?”

“You know I did .”

Stephen cupped his mate’s face – the familiar touch of trembling hands made Tony’s eyes flutter shut for the moment – and kissed his forehead.

The alpha didn’t like to stay away from his mate for too long. Not since that one day once when he returned and found Tony injured and both of them robbed. It had been a devastating tragedy from which he never really recovered. And Tony even less.

But that was in the past.

Stephen inhaled the soothing scent of his sweet omega.

Both of them were doing better nowadays. Especially, since the human pup had been around.

The dragon almost dreaded the news he had to lay to his mate. Yet, he knew he had to tell Tony. With a gentle motion, he lowered his hand from the softness of Tony's face to rest on his strong, reassuring shoulders. Their bond was built on trust, and in that moment, he needed to brace Tony for what he was about to say.

"I went to town," the dragon began, his voice steady despite the internal turmoil. "The one on the other side of the mountains, near the river," he elaborated while watching Tony's eyes closely. Tony’s nod was subtle yet affirming, a signal that he recognized that particular place. They had ventured there together many times in their human forms to make purchases or to trade things. 

Tony’s forge back here at home was a testament to his skill, his crafted goods sought after by villagers who appreciated the artistry and strength that embodied each piece. The alpha dragon knew how popular his mate’s work was among humans.

Stephen continued. “I heard talk about some refugees, who arrived a few months ago after their village was burned down.”

Tony inhaled sharply. “You mean…?”

“It seems like some of the villagers survived the attack,” the alpha confirmed.

It should be good news. Yet, Tony couldn’t help but stubbornly step back, his eyes darkening.

His heart clenched at the thought. If Peter's parents were still alive, they would undoubtedly want their son back, claiming him and enveloping him in the familial love that Tony had tried to provide. Of course they would! Any parent would long for the chance to reunite with their child.

The weight of this realization hit Tony like a sledgehammer: there was a possibility they would lose Peter.

The omega dragon instinctively let out a low growl of frustration and sadness without even realizing it. His traitorous heart had become attached to the boy on that day he had carried him out of the ruins of the destroyed village.

Just thinking about giving Peter away felt like losing his own eggs all over again.

It must have been shown in his face, because Stephen's eyes softened. “We have to tell him,” he still tried to reason with his mate who was caught between the rawness of his emotions and the reality of the situation they found themselves in.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Tony snarled with the fierceness of a possessive dragon. He bared his teeth as his protective instincts surged, sending a clear message that Peter was his- a member of their chosen family, someone he felt an undeniable urge to safeguard.

Stephen’s voice was gentle but firm. “Tony.”

He knew that the omega’s anger was not directed at him. However, he could bear it. It was based on a grief they both shared.

“He deserves to know. His family deserves to know. We would want to know as well if anyone found our eggs.”

As fast as anger had flared up in Tony, it died away, and he sagged his shoulders.

Their eggs were most likely killed. Hunters were cruel like that.

Nevertheless, Stephen was right. Of course he was.

Tony sighed. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

Stephen hugged him and Tony buried his face into the crook of his shoulder and neck instinctively. The alpha’s strong arms helped to calm the ache in his heart. So did his words.

“You are not alone, my love.”

“I know,” Tony mumbled into the blue of his robe. “We’ll take him to the town.” Even if he hated the idea.

“I know the town near the mountain.” Peter suddenly spoke up and drew the attention of both dragons, who turned their gaze toward him. The boy stood in the doorway, his book clutched close to his chest as if it were a shield against the unknown. “My aunt lives there.”

It was apparent he had heard most of their conversation. Tony’s heart sank.

He took a step towards him, but then stopped, not sure if Peter would run away if he came too close.

Yet, the boy didn’t move an inch, looking equally unsure back at the two of them.

Peter, for his part, remained rooted in place, mirroring Tony’s unsureness. His wide eyes flitted back and forth between the two dragons, as if he were trying to gauge their intentions. 

The silence stretched uncomfortably around them, until Stephen finally asked. “Why didn’t you tell us you knew where your aunt was?”

The pup had never told them a word about it. Deliberately so. Which was why Peter averted his eyes. “At first, I kept it a secret because I didn’t want to put her in danger,” he confessed, his voice faltering slightly. “I’m sorry… I know now you wouldn’t harm her.” Feeling guilty that he had even entertained the idea, he shuffled his feet. Until he heard steps coming closer and felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When he glanced up, he saw Stephen looking at him with understanding eyes.

“There is nothing to be sorry about.”

Peter wasn’t so sure about that. Especially, since Tony was still standing in the same spot a couple of feet away.

“You said ‘at first’,” the omega asked. “What was your later reason?”

Peter shrugged, his answer no more than a whisper. “I didn’t want to leave you guys.”

That made Tony finally react and move. Peter yelped, when the omega pulled him into a tight hug. “Silly pup,” the dragon scolded him, tearing up. “Did you really think you could get rid of us that easily?”

Tony knew he should feel guilty for the relief that filled him. Yet, he didn’t care. He was just glad he would not lose Peter. The pup wanted to stay with them.

He was so relieved he could cry.

“Your aunt should still be informed that you are alright,” Stephen said. “We can visit her together, if you want.”

“And then I’ll return home with you?” Peter asked even though they had already confirmed that.

Tony smiled at him.

Home.

“Of course, my little spiderling.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded, with a shy but happy smile. “I would like that.”

[nightlark100]

Consequences (Pt 8)

Thank you for everyone who voted on what the next part should be :)

-----------------------

After they got Grace situated at the Lauter house, which Steph fortunately still had access to after a lot of hours spent with her father's lawyer Gary, Peter headed back to his apartment. Ted and Charlotte's on again off again relationship was currently going through an on again phase so he knew his brother likely wouldn't be there. In fact, he probably wouldn't be around much until Charlotte decided once again to try and focus on working things out with her husband and the whole cycle started again. Still, it meant that, as long as Peter sent texts to check in, he would be left to his own devices. In the past he would have stayed with Richie, and more recently with Steph (she wasn't handling the empty house too well. Even if her father and her hadn't been close, she was still used to his presence), but he needed some time to try and sort his head out. He felt bad for leaving Steph alone with an emotionally distraught Grace but with everything that had happened, he was at his limit.

So he went home.

He ate a chocolate bar and then took a shower, mentally sorting through his DVDs to pick one he could happily doze off to. He knew that the Lords in Black would want an answer from him at some point but he was pretty sure they couldn't just appear without being summoned. Well... hoped.

Unfortunately, the same rules didn't apply to Wiley, as he found out when he left the bathroom. The man was perched on the foot of his bed, the picture of ease.

"Gah!" Peter tried to cover his chest while also holding onto the towel around his waist. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd pop in and say hello."

"Hello. Goodbye."

"Now there's no need to be rude Petey."

"Don't call me that." Wiley only chuckled in response, his green eyes fixed on Peter as the boy gathered his clothes and headed back towards the bathroom. Peter paused in the doorway. “You'll stay in here until I'm done?”

“Don't you trust me to behave myself?”

“Would you trust you?” Wiley laughed and inclined his head in agreement. Peter slipped back into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Even though he was fairly certain it wouldn't inhibit his uninvited guest in anyway, it made him feel a little bit safer at least.

Once he was dressed in sweatpants and one of Ted's old tees, he reluctantly returned to his bedroom. Wiley was in the exact spot he'd been left in and as Peter tentatively approached, the man stretched, eyes slitted. There was something strangely feline about his movements, and Peter was reminded of a trip to the zoo he'd once gone on. The jungle cats, the graceful strength that they exuded in every languid movement. And just like a jungle cat, Peter was positive Wiley could tear him apart if he wanted to.

“Feeling a little less… vulnerable?” He asked, raking his gaze over Peter and patting the spot beside him on the bed.

“Can't say I do…” Peter muttered, taking the offered seat. “Is this about that… offer?”

“Smart boy”

“I'm still not entirely sure about… well, everything. I'm not making a decision if I don't know the details of what I'm agreeing to.”

“Ask your questions. Let's see if I can assuage some of your doubts.”

"Why us? Why drag Steph and me into this?”

“Partly punishment. They don't take kindly to people trying to cheat them. And while that was mainly Grace's fault, you two are still a bit of a sore spot.”

“But why can't Grace be the prophet?”

“Well for one thing, I think people are more likely to listen to Miss Lauter than they are Miss Chasity. Just better marketing. And for another…” he smirked to himself. “I'm not sure how long little Gracie will be around for once the baby is born.”

“What…why?”

“That child has a little bit of all of them in it. Including the great devourer. Nibblenephim. Do the math.” He snapped his teeth in a mock bite. Peter felt bile rise in his throat and had to take a few minutes to push back the desire to vomit. “Now that little tidbit? That stays between us. No point in scaring the little lady.”

Peter wanted to protest but he could tell by the look in Wiley's eyes it wouldn't do any good.

“What's the difference between what they want Steph to do and what they want me to do?”

“They want Stephanie to be their prophet. They want you to be their disciple. A prophet is the mouth. A disciple is more like the hands. Or at least that's the way it is on the surface. The true difference is want. Deep down all the prophets want one thing, a thing that they crave but can never quite grasp. For some it's love. For others it's adoration. For your little Steph-A-nie it's belonging. Family. Prophets are all about temptation and desire, it draws them in and sinks hooks deep into their soul. A disciple, well that's something very special. A disciple can want, yes, but it's all secondary. They get to witness the raw power of the lords… they bask in their majesty… and crave its presence.” His voice had grown hushed as he spoke and a hand snaked up Peter's arm, brushing over his shoulder and coming to rest on the curve of his neck. “Every beat of their heart is granted to them by the lords. Every second they are not reduced to atoms is a delight and a mercy. A disciple is beyond life and death, beyond earthly desires. They are merely an extension of something greater. Stripped down to the raw clay and remade by the hands of Gods.” His hand grasped the back of Peter's neck, drawing the boy closer so their foreheads rested against one another. “You will see. You'll have everything you could desire and you'll want none of it.”

“You're insane.” Peter whispered.

The effect was immediate. The hand, once firm but gentle on the back of his neck, grasped at his flesh painfully and he was tugged backwards. With a shove, Peter found himself lying on his back on the floor with Wiley standing over him. Before he had a chance to scramble back to his feet Wiley had knelt down, resting one knee on Peter's chest.

“You really don't wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna fuck with me Petey.” He pressed down, his knee digging in and cutting off the boy's oxygen. “I was a colonel in another life”

Peter pushed weakly at the man's leg but the movement only prompted him to catch both wrists in one hand and hold them still.

“You should be grateful for this opportunity. Without it, you'd spend the rest of eternity in the bastard box enduring your worst nightmares, fears and memories over and over again. You'd go mad before the first cycle was over. Instead you could be part of something so much bigger than yourself…” Wiley moved so he was straddling Peter instead of kneeling on him. Peter sucked in a grateful desperate breath as Wiley fisted his free hand in the boy's hair, pulling up so that Peter was forced to awkwardly arch his back. “All you gotta do is open yourself up to their love…”

“Get off me!”

To his surprise, Wiley did as he asked but instead of fully releasing him, Peter found himself trapped with his back against the man's denim clad chest. One hand still grasped his hair, positioning his head on Wiley's shoulder, while the other arm was wrapped tight around his waist to keep him still.

“Do you see him?” Wiley's voice was soft and husky, his breath warm against Peter's ear.

“Do you see him?”

The room seemed to throb around him, fading into a pulsating blackness that grew with each beat of his heart.

“Do you see him?”

Peter felt like he was drifting in a cold empty seat and despite his fear of the other man, he found himself clinging to the arm at his waist. It was the only thing that felt real, that existed in the strange emptiness that was seeping in.

“Do you see him?”

In the darkness two brilliant spotlights appeared and Peter found himself under the gaze of something monstrous and ancient.

He saw.

---------------

Me: Wiley, behave yourself

Wiley: proceeds to punt Pete across the room and climb all over him

Consequences (pt1)

In which the Lords in Black aren't fully satisfied with Grace's sacrifice (or, the pitfalls of an abstinence only sex education)

---------------------------------

She hadn't wanted to kill them, Grace thought numbly as she stared down at her dirt streaked hands, unable to shake the image of her latest victims from her mind. Yes, she believed that the behaviour she'd witnessed from the young couple, drunk and making out in the park, was dirty and perverse but she didn't want to kill them. And yet when she had gotten near, it was as though she was seized by a terrible hunger and she just couldn't stop herself.

She slipped to the ground, resting her head against the side of her bed and felt tears burning her eyes. It had been a few months since everything with Max... since she had given in to the primal temptations and sacrificed her chastity to send him to hell. She should feel... something. Relief? But her insides felt like they were rotting. She'd done so many terrible things and she didn't even have her unwavering faith to fall back on anymore, not after what she'd seen in the school gym. She didn't know if the colourful figures had been demons or if they truly were gods but it felt like jagged claws had slashed apart the fabric of her soul, leaving jagged doubts behind. Doubts and hunger.

At first she'd been able to ignore it but it had gotten stronger. It would rise in waves, crescendoing down onto her when they peaked and leaving her scrabbling for purchase as her mind crumbled.

Even the brief moments of peace she usually got between the waves had been lost to her now as she found herself battling daily with nausea, sometimes barely making it from her bed to the bathroom in time. She had tried to hide it as best she could but she knew her parents were concerned, had heard them whispering while she lingered in doorways. If it continued much longer they'd want to take her to the doctor, but she knew medicine couldn't help her. Her soul was sick, that was the cause. She would just have to pray harder. Maybe she could ask Stephie and Petey for help? Surely her friends would agree to pray with her when they saw how bad things had gotten.

Struggling to her feet, feeling her stomach twist painfully as she did so, she retrieved her phone from her bedside and sent Steph a text asking to meet up.

Her friends would help. They had to.

[wesavegotham]

I would have more sympathy for people complaining about "Damian being treated as Bruce's only real child because they are related by blood" if Damian didn't literally spent probably over 75% of his existence doing something far away from his father while Bruce doesn't even comment on the fact that he hasn't seen his son in months and has no idea what he's doing.

[mcalhenwrites]

I'm not going to pretend it doesn't make me angry that I spend months and years trying to peddle my work to make ends meet, that I spend so much time mentioning my books and comms and everything, and people ignore that consisently... But the moment I finally break under the hopelessness - when it's obvious that it's fucking futile, that almost no one deems my work good enough to share with anyone else - suddenly they're concerned and scolding me. I'm working several jobs, bathing, generally keeping things clean, and I do this with several health problems including chronic pain. I found out that one of my cysts is growing and I may need to have it surgically removed. Which means potentially missing work to recover. Which means more money I lose. I spend so much time crawling out of the hole and it goes ignored, but the moment I just give up bc I don't have any strength left, suddenly that's my fault and I'm mentally sick. And that kind of makes me wish my entire situation upon people, and when they whine that it's hard, well fuck you, you thought I could ace it so surely you can, babe! I hate being angry about this, but it's just so exhausting to tell people who accuse me of not trying that I HAVE I HAVE SO FUCKING HARD AND YOU DID NOT PAY ATTENTION THEN Or you know you're attempting to gaslight me by claiming I didn't try despite that I obviously have worked my ass off trying, and that's so much fucking worse

[pttucker]

Shin Yoosung raised her head and watched me. This was the person who should be comforted but she was the one asking if I was okay. "Ahjussi… are you okay?" I wasn't able to answer so I avoided Shin Yoosung's gaze. I looked up and all my companions were staring at me. Lee Jihye looked pained while Jung Heewon was anxious. I smiled while moving my lips. "Why are you looking like that? I'm fine. My mother has also recovered." "Are you really okay?" "I'm really fine. And…" I carefully examined every party member. I felt the time that passed from the wounds all over their body. The moment the giant story Gigantomachia was over, they ran to this place first. It was without feeling the aftermath of victory. "Gigantomachia… you all suffered." Perhaps my expression looked ridiculous. For some reason, Jung Heewon burst out laughing. "Are those words the bonus? Dokja-ssi really… we are working here because it is good." Lee Jihye nodded by her side. Jung Heewon kept speaking. "In addition… why did you run away alone again? Do you really want to die? Or do you want to be confined again?"

Dokja's party being there for him in his time of need. 😭

He's trying to apologize "for everything" and they're just like "what is there to apologize for?" and they're all just so worried for him and being so gentle when it's clear Dokja is trying so hard not to completely breakdown. Trying so hard not to allow himself to vulnerable. 😭

The guy has literally been hiding the fact he was speared by Poseidon in order to solely focus on his mother and Sangah and now he's focusing on his party when he almost lost his mother and may still yet lose one of his first companions.

And, oh man, it was so painful seeing Dokja just run into wall after wall while frantically trying to save them both and getting more and more panicked and scared over the fact that this time there's no final secret scheme to save them, especially when he knows that every single time Joonghyuk tried to do something similar he failed.

And Joonghyuk! Trying to act so callous when he was just as internally panicked as Dokja, secretly running around also trying to save them both, also unwilling to show any emotion related to the fact that there's a good chance they've failed.

And this should be a victorious moment! They defeated Poseidon! They changed the course of a scenario that's had the same outcome for thousands of years!

[auraleeknow]

ok so i didnt realize the tags have a limit nor did i realize i wrote thirty fucking tags and i still wasnt done. so. tags cont 🥰🥰🥰

and like, idk it sounds like the wedding was all out, so like YEA. THAT'S A BIG THING TO JUST CANCEL. so ofc she had reservations about calling it off the closer they got, but im so glad she left him. cause like in the missing ring scene, it felt like she was more scared of *jung* and how he'd retaliate for the ring being lost more than the ring itself. like baby, forever isn't supposed to feel like a scary life sentence, and im so glad she realized it while spending time with min again. and idk! part of me does still think that maybe min should have taken time to go to his parents. that maybe just a little bit of time, just a little, for both of them to clear their heads and sort out their feelings. mc just kept digging and digging and digging this hole deeper and deeper and while yes, she did eventually dig herself out, she's still exhausted and covered in the debris of it all. and I know minho would hold her, clean the dirt off her himself while she rests in his arms, safe and loved and protected, it's so unfair to minho that he continuously has to be the one to bear the weight and the pain her emotional immaturity causes. like his frustration at the end where he was like *so u waited until the day before ur wedding to say something 🤨* I WAS LIKE RIGHT?????? like idk i just feel like he has every right to be wary of how mc actually feels about him, about them, about everything they'd been doing for the last two months, when she couldn't even be honest with herself for years.

i really do think this story feels *the most* human out of all your fics ive read so far. there is just so much realistic flaw within the mc and the people around her, and its not just magically changed or fixed or disregarded by the end. its there until the last moment, but minho looks at her and still wants her, mess and all. god.

also jung get fucked u stinky little man. he sounds like hes got the emotional maturity of a 10 year old with holographic pokemon cards or something like wtf. LIKE IDK IF I READ THAT PART WRONG BUT WHEN HIS BUDDY WAS MAKING THOSE COMMENTS DURING GOLF???? AND TOUCHED MC WITH THE CLUB????? mc is better than me bc i would have SWUNG. and jung didnt say shit!!!!! he was laughing!!! hes so fucking gross mc baby what did u ever see in this stinky little clown man

anyways this was a banger and once again im asking for ur hand in marriage bc wtf star ur so good at this AND IM SO SORRY ABT THE LONG TAGS AND THE RANT DOWN HERE I JUST HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS ABT THIS FIC

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.

And 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.

[almadelsur]

💋 The Secrets One Keeps

summary: You're in love with jj but he's with kie, so in moments of pure desperation you often find yourself turning to the person he hates the most...rafe

warnings: some good old angsty pining, very very slight smut if you squint, fem!reader, one or two uses of y/n, plz let me know if I missed anything

a/n: SHE'S BACKKKK, so I've decided to completely reformat and re-post this fic with a few tweaks and editing considering i first wrote this like 3 years ago, and yes for those of you who have been asking, I fully intend to finallly continue this fic....more info on that later ;)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

JJ’s eyes change the moment Kiara steps into any room. Immediately his presence is ripped away from your immediate atmosphere, popping the little bubble you'd spent all afternoon crafting as he sprung up to greet the olive-skinned enigma that captured his affections.

“Kie!” The joy in his tone was incomparable to anything he’d directed at anybody else. Nothing could draw out such happiness from the blonde. You hated that about her.

In an attempt at self-defense, your brain shut itself off. Shielding you from processing the scene in front of you, your emotions ran cold like cement pouring down and across your neurons. It was the only way you could survive such a beating to your heart.

You figured that by distancing yourself mentally, you wouldn’t have to raise suspicion and distance yourself physically. In reality, you knew the real reasoning was your inability to stay away from JJ but the facade helped you cope.

“Hey J” she embraced him and his body relaxed around her as if she was the only source of his happiness. The only way he’d find alleviation from what he perceived as a shitty life being through her. “Sorry I’m late my parents had me running like crazy at the wreck today.”

Scattered greetings filled the air from the rest of the pogues, yet you could only focus on the way his eyes fixated on her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Here come sit baby” he offered her the seat he had just previously been place holding. What you thought had been quality time with your best friend, presented itself to you now as momentary attention to pass the time until his actual desire arrived.

Settling herself down and offering you a wide smile, her shoulder bumped against yours gently as a sign of acknowledgment.

“Hey dude” she directed at you, but you didn’t reply. You just couldn’t bring yourself to pretend. Not today anyway. Instead, you offered her a small smile, it was minimal but it was the best you could do under the circumstances.

“Yo" A crumpled tissue paper flew at your head, jj attempting to refocus your attention on him, "didn’t you say you were gonna get some water or something?” He spoke up, the scheme evident in his tone.

“um yeah I guess” You lifted yourself up and took a few steps before jj used the opportunity to slump himself down where you had been sat and sprawled his arms across his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“snooze ya loose sucker” he joked as he turned to Kiara to start up some mindless conversation. Leaving you behind in the dust.

Your teeth gritted as you focused on making your way to the kitchen hoping the distance from the scene unfolding would lift the iron grip on your heart.

You made the fatal mistake of glancing back and you were met with the image of jj nuzzling up to kiara in a picturesque display of love. The lump building at the base of your throat indicated that it was your time to get the hell out of there before you broke down in front of everyone. 

“Shit guys, y’know what I just realized I gotta go” You spoke quickly, your tone matching your pace as you rushed to the exit of the chateau. 

“You’re still coming to the party later though right?” John B asked, not tearing his eyes away from the screen in front of him. 

“Mhm yeah sure” you opened the door ready to depart. 

“Shit I forgot about that! Me and jj are gonna be late, we got dinner at the wreck tonight.” kiara added as you stepped out, unable to control the escape of a rogue tear.

“Date night babyyyy” You heard JJ cheer before you slammed the door behind you. 

“Is Y/N okay? She seemed a bit off.” Kie nudged JJ as she questioned. 

JJ furrowed his eyebrows momentarily. Glancing out the window, he saw you jog away from the house, and a brief flash of worry flashed through his mind. As quick as it came, it dissipated. He shook his head figuring that if there had been something wrong, he’d have been the first to know. 

“Nah she’s okay don't worry.” he offered to kie.

Boy was he mistaken. 

——————————————————————

“Fuuuck me” you moaned out, sinking into him one last time. You were hot, sweaty, and heaving as you pulled him out of you.

“I thought I just did” Rafe taunted leaning back to lie down, arms crossed behind his head causing his taut abdomen to flex.

You scrambled off the bed, picking up your garments and shoving them back on your body forcefully.

“What, no pillow talk?” He tried again.

“Rafe..” you trailed off. Whenever you’d finish fucking, you’d struggle to even look at him. The self-hatred flooded your body as soon as the orgasm poured out.

“Hey you called me” he eyed you intently but you knew he didn’t actually care. To rafe cameron everything was just a game. At this point it was pretty much common knowledge. “In fact” he moved closer to you so that he could speak directly into your ear “It’s always you that calls me.”

“Don’t be a dick” you stood up and eyed your heels contemplating whether you could face the walk back in them. “You know it makes me feel like shit.” It might have sounded brutal but that’s how things were with rafe.

“Yeah, it’s like you punctuate your orgasms with self-hate.”

“I'm a pogue, rafe.” You argued back as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“So? Kooks and pogues can fuck you know.” You couldn’t comprehend why you were even having this conversation. Why now, why tonight.

“Yeah maybe, not you though.” You didn’t want to tell him the reason explicitly.

“I fuck pogues.”

“You fuck anyone.” The words came out almost instantly and without thinking, yet rafe took no offense.

“Exactly so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is, rafe.” You paused trying to find the words without actually having to say the words. “The issue is that if my friends found out they’d hate me, probably more than I already hate myself.”

He just chuckled, the look in his eyes changing as he figured you out.

“What's funny?” You challenged.

“You don’t have to bullshit me princess.” He looked up at you with a devilish glint in his eye. “You just don’t want jj knowing about your little escapades huh?” Bingo.

“He’s with Kiara.” You shrugged him off.

“Uh huh, you like him but you can’t have him.” Every word he spoke striking a nerve deep within you. “So you’re fucking me to fuck him over.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You grabbed your heels and shoved them on, wincing as you buckled them up.

“Don’t I?” He threw his joggers on lazily as he stood, the level dynamics changing significantly. The older boy towered over you. “Where are they tonight?”

“Back at John B’s, we had a little get-together.” You crossed your arms. More often than not you usually called rafe after a few drinks left you feeling lonely. “Sorry, your invite must have gotten lost in the mail.” You attempted to jab at him with sarcasm yet he clearly held the upper hand with his line of questioning. 

“So all of them are there now?” He stepped towards you.

“Mhm,” You lied.

“Even jj?” Moving closer until your neck was craned upwards to meet his eyes.

Taking your silence as an answer, he reached up and ran his palms across your upper arms, prompting you to uncross them.

“He was uh- him and kie should be getting there soon” You mumbled.

“So would i be wrong in guessing, that might have prompted your call then?” You let yourself be guided by his movements leaning your neck further back as his hand trailed up to your jawbone.

“rafe…” you called out insignificantly.

He leaned in and pressed his lips against your neck, right over where he could feel your pulse, and pressed down.

You couldn’t help the gasp that left your mouth. Because as much as your heart belonged to jj, rafe was just so fucking good at raising your temperature.

“Round two?” He mumbled against your neck.

“Yeah..” you attempted yet it came out as a whisper. He grabbed you swiftly and lifted you, moving you across the room and throwing you down onto his bed, crawling on top of you in a predatory manner as he did so. As your back hit the bed, the ringing of your phone brought you back from the haze he had you under. 

“Wait rafe stop stop” you pushed him off and grabbed the screeching mobile, pressing it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“Dude, where are you?” The sound of jj’s voice came through over the pumping sound of music and party chatter. “Me and Kie just got back and John B says no one’s seen you for like over an hour.”

“Oh I’m uh, I had to go do something for my mom” The lie pouring out of your mouth caused rafe to chuckle which was of course met by a slap from you signaling for him to be quiet.

“Oh well, when are you getting back? I have to tell you about this date. You’re gonna be so proud of me I actually think I’m ready to tell Kie I love her” you screwed your eyes shut as he spoke.

“Yeah I- you know what I can’t make it back my mom needs me to stay and help out but uh I’ll see you tomorrow or something.” You hung up before he could even reply, throwing your phone down uncaring of its state.

“What’s wrong? They getting hitched?” Rafe spoke up from behind you.

You turned to Rafe, the fire in your veins pushing your arms to grab him, roughly pulling him back onto you.

“Just shut up and fuck me rafe.”

And fuck you he did.

——————————————————————

The next morning you woke up to the sight of rafe’s bare back. Not much of a cuddler, you figured.

Quietly you pushed the covers off and began to dress yourself back up. As you got to your shoes you sighed and shook your head, as if there was any way in hell you were going to walk home in heels. You scooped up your shoes and your now-cracked phone shaking your head, slightly ashamed at your outburst.

Without even a second glance at the sleeping body you were leaving behind, you made your way over to the door. As you turned the knob and stepped out to leave, a husky voice spoke up.

“I’ll keep my ringer on for you babe.”

You rolled your eyes looking back at him, “Fuck you rafe.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on.” He didn’t even open his eyes as he answered, instead just rustling around in the bed and turning to the other side, once again facing his back to you.

You scoffed as you exited. Your internal rant clouded your vision, body on autopilot with an excellent self-navigation of the Cameron house from the countless times you’d made this exit.

“Y/N?” The gentle voice wiped your thoughts clean as the shock stilled you dead in your tracks, slowly turning to come face to face with none other than Sarah.

“Sarah” you drawled out. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house?” Her head was cocked to the side, equally shocked to see you.

“No I just mean- I thought you were spending the night at John B’s.” You forced the small talk, avoiding the topic of why you were here, sneaking out at 8 in the morning.

“He had to work today, did you spend the night here?” She glanced up at the door of rafe’s bedroom.

“Umm-“ There had only been two other instances where you had been at a complete loss for words. The day jj told you he and Kiara were dating, the morning after your first sexual encounter with rafe, and now this.

“Are you sleeping with my brother?!” She whisper-shouted, eyes wide as the realization hit her. Busted.

“No?”

“Oh my god!” She grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you to her room, slamming the door as soon as you were both inside. “How long has this been going on?!” Her tone was loud and her hands wild as she interrogated you.

“Just a little under a year.” You sat on her bed and looked at your lap as you spoke. Reminiscent of a child being scolded.

“A year?! Oh my god!” She repeated. “Who knows about this?!”

With that, you looked up at her desperately. “No one. No one knows so please don’t tell them.” You didn’t have to name names for her to know who you were referring to.

“Are you two like” she paused “together?” She scrunched her nose up, disgusted at the thought of her bully of an older brother dating anyone.

“No god no. It’s just sex” you were just as uncomfortable as Sarah was, having to tell her about boning her older brother.

“Disgusting.” She turned away from you with her arms crossed, looking out the window.

“Look I’m not proud of it okay? Just-“ You sighed “Just please don’t tell anyone” pleading again.

Sarah let out a long sigh and uncrossed her arms. She walked over to you and joined you on the bed, her eyes showing concern mixed with something you couldn’t quite place your finger on.

“I thought you were into jj” she spoke softly, there it was. Pity.

“Yeah well, jj is with kie and instead of sitting around wallowing in self-pity, I decided to do something about it.” As the words left your mouth, you realized how weak the explanation was.

“So you just use rafe to bang the jj out of you.”

“It’s not like Rafe cares, if anything he’s also using me.” You tried to reason.

“I don’t doubt that. But I mean, that’s- It’s not healthy, you’ll never move on if you don’t actually process your emotio-“

“Look Sarah, I don’t need to do any of that shit okay? What I have here works, when I fu- when I’m with rafe, I don’t think about jj.” Tears began to swell in your eyes “Sleeping with rafe helps me forget about everything, even if it’s only for a little while he uh- he makes me feel good.” To an extent, there was truth behind your words, while you and rafe fucked the rest of the world went away. It was only after, that the crippling self-hatred hit you along with the return of your immense feelings for jj. 

Sarah shuffled over and threw her arm around you. “That’s not good for you, it’s just momentary. It’s easy and it's a cycle, you’re never going to get better going down this path. Especially not with rafe.”

“Rafe he’s- he’s not that bad.”

“Yes he is. But i bet it gives you satisfaction fucking him knowing jj hates him. Feels like revenge right?” She’d always been so perceptive your Sarah, you hated how she could see right through you.

Tears ran down your cheek silently. “You’re not gonna tell anyone right?” You sniffled.

She gave you one of those classic salt-of-the-earth Sarah Cameron smiles, the kinda smile that would light up any room she walked into. “Takin' it to the grave babe.”

A loud beeping caused both your heads to whip towards the window. “Shit, I completely forgot I was supposed to go on the HMS with pope and jj, we were gonna chill there until John B and Kie finished work.” She rose to her feet and extended an arm towards you. “Wanna come? Or we could drop you home if you’re not up for it.”

With a sigh you took her hand and pulled yourself up, walking beside her as you mentally prepped yourself to face the blonde you desperately pined for.

“Well rise and shine campers.” jj yelled out of the window of the drivers seat.

“Y/N! Where you been dude? you totally bailed last night.” Pope was next to speak as you and Sarah filed into the Twinkie. As JJ began to drive you avoided any form of eye contact in his general direction.

“I had to go help my mom out, blackout at mine again.” You didn’t even look at pope either, instead focusing your attention on the blur of trees and houses pacing by the window as JJ sped down the winding roads.

“Isn’t that what you were wearing last night?” pope, observant as always, pointed out.

“Uh yeah, I didn’t really get any time to change cause…”

“I called her last night when I got home, I was so drunk I don’t think I was ready to stop the party.” Sarah covered for you.

“Yeah I wrapped up helping my mom out and then this one calls me talkin bout a sleepover or something so I didn’t exactly have much time to change.” 

Thankfully pope had lost interest as soon as he had asked the question, otherwise, your overcompensating ass would have been caught out straight away. You always had to add to the lie until you felt like you had sold it completely.

Keeping your eyes trained on the outside meant that jj’s frown directed at you through the windscreen mirror went completely undetected. He always knew whenever there was something up with you and right there and then he knew something definitely was.

“Hey, you okay?” He didn’t need to address you explicitly for you to know he was talking to you.

“Yeah just tired.” You shrugged him off in an attempt to distance yourself from him yet again.

He knew you were lying but he didn’t understand why, you never lied to each other. Apart from John B, the pair of you were closer to each other than with anybody else in the group. You’d been best friends since kindergarten, and since then you’d sworn 3 things to each other.

1- You’d always share your snacks.

2-You’d always be best friends even if you argued.

 3- You would never ever lie or keep secrets from each other.

Of course, as the both of you grew older the rules became more and more lax. The snack sharing was limited only to when you felt nice enough and sometimes you’d go for days without making up if you had argued particularly badly. Having kept two friendship-breaking secrets from him, the childhood rules seemed pretty insignificant by now.

“Mhm,” he responded, flickering his eyes between you and the road. “Are we taking you home to change first?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll join you guys afterward though.” You chewed down on your nail anxiously as the tension from being in the same space as jj paired with the guilt from having fucked rafe prior, suffocated you.

JJ made a face as he focused on the road, something was wrong with you and he’d be dammed if he wasn’t going to put his everything into finding out what that was.