#especially if its like one of the first times youre advocating for yourself in 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.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Not A Day Too Soon [a Frankie x reader fic]

Read on Ao3

My Frankie Morales masterlist

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x you (cishet f!reader)

Warnings: friends to lovers, listening to neighbors having sex, fumbling and awkward cuteness, safe sex, cunnilingus, dick riding, no instant orgasms but frankie blows in secret

Summary: You and Frankie have been friends since you were kids. One night when you're watching a movie, your neighbor has loud, obnoxious sex, and one thing leads to another.

Words: 5,043

Halfway through the movie, the first moan reaches through the wall. You can hear it despite the explosions on the TV screen. At first, you try to ignore it, a little embarrassed before Frankie, who’s next to you on the couch. His warm proximity makes you feel flushed, especially when the moans become shriller.

Eventually, Frankie turns his face from the screen to you.

"Every weekend?"

"Sometimes twice in one night," you sigh. "And I think that's only because he blows super fast."

"Must be good pussy," Frankie jokes, but you catch a tinge of red on his cheekbones. A rhythmical knocking begins, a theatrical "Oh my God!" making you roll your eyes.

"She's faking it."

"How do you know?" Frankie elbows you, and you just shoot him a grimace before turning your attention back to the action movie that you've lost the plot of. Usually, you and Frankie like to watch these disasters, comment and laugh at them, but something's different tonight. It's been different for a while, ever since that time you were out with the guys, and you two were the only ones left at your table in that bar, and then an old rock ballad started to play, and Frankie asked you to dance. It had been fun at first, kind of ironically romantic dancing, but then something happened, and Frankie's hands on you felt different. You choked on your laughter and your heart started to hack its way through your ribcage. Frankie's body smelled so good, looked so good, felt so good against yours, he was familiar and safe because he was Frankie Morales whom you had known all your life, yet he was Frankie Morales, someone completely new, exciting, terrifying. He hummed low as he rocked you slowly around in a circle on the small dancefloor, his hands splayed out on your lower back.

You had loved him since you were kids, but that was when you realized that you were in love with him.

Things had been a little awkward since then, and you hadn't met, just the two of you, in the two or three weeks that had passed. Finally, you wrote in the group chat you had with the guys, asking them to come over for a movie night. Everyone except Frankie had plans, and you were screwed.

And now you're sitting here, referencing to him without words about that one ex of yours who couldn't satisfy you but whose feelings you were so scared of hurting that you faked your orgasm every time. Frankie (and the guys) only knew about it after a drunken night when you had just broken up and was lamenting the fact that you had wasted a year on a guy who couldn't make you cum. Benny, Will, and Santi immediately started to advocate for a rebound fuck, but Frankie had been unusually quiet. You didn't end up in bed with anyone but yourself, and only after hurling your guts out in the bathroom, with Frankie holding your hair.

He has always been there for you.

Another wail from the other side of the wall drowns out the action that you're desperately trying to focus on, and Frankie shakes his head. He turns around on the couch and starts to bang at the wall.

"It's no use," you tell him, ”They only get off on it."

"Pervs."

"I know. Just try to ignore it, they'll be done soon."

Frankie looks at you, a boyish smirk on his face.

"You know what we should do?"

"Yes, daddy, fuck me harder!" your neighbor is spurring her partner, and you groan.

"I shudder to think."

"Get back at them."

"How?" you ask suspiciously. Frankie's face scrunches up in the perfect mockery of an orgasm grimace.

"Oh, baby, oh yeah baby, that's it, take it, take it, good girl...!" His voice is exceptionally deep, and it sounds so ridiculous that you start to laugh.

"Frankie, stop it, that's so off-putting!"

"That's the point," he winks before continuing: "Such a good girl, taking my cock like that, oh, yes, yes...!"

He gestures at you to join in, but you're shaking your head vigorously, holding back your laughter.

"No!"

"Come on, you already know how to fake it!"

"Oh yeeees, fuck, YES!!!"

"Asshole!" You shove him roughly, yet with laughter bubbling out of you. Frankie is laughing too, just as the couple on the other side of the wall knock their symphony of creaking and screaming up a notch.

"You're right," Frankie tuts disapprovingly, "she's totally faking it."

"Told you."

You turn back towards the TV with no idea what's going on in the movie. Something about 12 hours to stop a nuclear apocalypse. Or racing cars for money? You don't know anymore. Jason Statham is in it, at least, you recognize him. And that woman... that's... um...

Frankie's hand is on your thigh, and it's making it very hard for you to concentrate.

"Abejita?" That's his nickname for you since you were teenagers. Little bee. Because you were always shorter than him, loved a pair of yellow-and-black-striped pants for years, and wasn't afraid to throw fists when provoked.

You hum to show him you're listening, but keep your eyes fixed on the TV.

"You think we can do better?"

You swallow as you blush, your skin tingling. The woman next door wails.

"What do you mean?" you murmur throatily, your tongue suddenly too thick for your mouth. Frankie clears his throat, suddenly just as bashful as you are.

"I mean... um... fuck, that was a bad way to put it..."

"What?"

"That I love you."

For some reason, you can't look at him, so you keep staring at Jason Statham shooting people left and right. The sex on the other side of the wall goes on, and hearing that in this situation is, frankly, absurd.

Frankie's hand is still burning on your thigh.

"Did I ruin it now?" he asks in a whisper that you can barely hear. You finally tear yourself away from the screen, and meet his hesitating, warm brown eyes. God, his eyes are so amazing. How have you never seen them before?

You wet your lips.

"I... I don't know, I... Frankie..."

"Should I go?" His hand finally comes away from your thigh, and you feel bereft of something vital to your existence.

"No..."

"We've been friends forever, but I..." he stumbles over his words, pauses, tries to make a point. "I've always loved you, you know that, but I... think of you all the time, I miss you when I'm shipped out, I keep comparing other women to you but none of them are you... and when we danced that time..."

Your brain starts to scream at you to kiss him, to tell him that you love him too, but suddenly you're thinking of all the things that could go wrong, so you stay in a terrible limbo where you can only listen to him rambling.

"And I know this isn't how I should've told you, I should've asked you out, or at least asked if I could finally kiss you, I've wanted to kiss you for so long, but instead I made it sound like all I wanted was sex, and..."

"You want to kiss me?" you blurt out, and Frankie finally shuts up. He stares at you, mouth open, still for a moment before nodding slowly. Your stomach twists, and a warmth spreads in you while you also shiver.

"I want to kiss you," he confirms hoarsely but surely. You swallow.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"What... what does that mean? Can I... or do you want to... Okay?"

You bark a nervous laugh. "Kiss me."

He immediately scoots closer, his warmth and scent overpowering you as he gently places his hand on your cheek. He may take that step, but you're the one to press you lips to his for the kiss that you yourself have thought about for longer than you care to admit.

You've kissed him countless times, always on the cheek, sometimes your lips barely touching, sometimes it's been a loud smack. He's done the same to you, but you've never kissed him like this: slow, tentative, sweet, and arousing in its gentle exploration. Your hand lands softly on his broad shoulder as you lean in, your chest brushes against his and Frankie slides his hand to the back of your neck where he cups you carefully, not forcing you into him but keeping you where you are, like if he's afraid that you'll run away. He tastes good, a little buttery from the popcorn both of you ate, a hint of beer from the glass he hasn't touched much. His lips are surprisingly soft, the lower one plump and lovely as it puckers against your lips, the little patch of facial hair just underneath it scratchy in a titillating way.

The couple next door come to an impressive finish, after which it turns eerily quiet despite Jason Statham running away from another explosion on screen. And you think that this is ridiculous. What the hell are you doing here kissing Frankie?

You sit back, biting into your lower lip, eyes cast down as you try to slow down your wildly beating heart, and make sense of your thoughts.

"You okay?" Frankie asks. You hear the worry in his voice, and you clear your throat.

"I think... it would be best if you left, Frankie."

You force yourself to sound practical and unperturbed, but you're really not so sure about this as you seem. Frankie looks confused but gentleman as he is, he rises from the couch.

"Okay?"

"I'm sorry," you say, putting on a brave smile. "I just don't think it's a good idea."

He nods but doesn't hide his devastation.

"I'm sorry, too," he offers before quickly setting off for the front door and leaving without another word.

You are left sitting alone on your couch, the stupid movie still playing before you. Annoyed, you grab the remote and turn the TV off. The silence is almost deafening, but then you hear Frankie's truck start outside, and drive away.

Even when upset, Frankie drives evenly, economically. He always impresses you with his level-headedness.

You get up, take the popcorn bowl and your half empty beers to the kitchen, and dispose of them. You then start to wash the dishes, but that feels like a stupid thing to do after having broken someone's heart.

Why would you let someone like Frankie go? What the hell are you afraid of?

You walk up to the living-room window and look out, as if expecting to see Frankie's truck still outside on the parking lot, which it of course isn't. Before you know it, you're holding your phone, having tapped open Frankie's number.

He picks up after one signal.

"Frankie," you immediately say, "please come back."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I'm a dumb bitch, you have to come back."

"Making a U-turn as we speak."

"And Frankie..."

"Yeah?"

You blush a little, thinking of the contents - or lack - of your bedside table drawer.

"Could you... pick up condoms?"

You're pretty sure you can hear him gulp.

"7-11 coming up. I'll be back in ten."

You hang up, and nine minutes later, you hear Frankie's truck again. This time he's in a hurry: moments later, when you open the door and find him waiting outside, he's panting. You step back and let him in, and he cups your face, searching your eyes.

"Are you sure this time?" he asks breathlessly. Your smile is slightly trembling, not from uncertainty, but from hurry and nerves.

"I am."

He kisses you with dry, tender lips, tasting and testing, like you never kissed less than half an hour ago. As you start to melt into him, you can't help but smile. Eventually, Frankie pulls back and looks at you, a smile playing on his own lips.

"What?"

"I'm just... happy," you tell him, your smile growing wide as your stomach fills with butterflies. "It's silly, I know, but..."

"It's not silly," he shakes his head. "I'm really happy too. I've wanted this for a long time, sweetheart."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You kiss him again before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom. His smile dies down a little when he looks from you to the bed, but you see that he's only revering the situation.

"You sure?" he asks in a low voice. You blush a little.

"Did you bring rubbers?"

"I did." He pats his pocket. You kiss him again and start to unbutton his denim shirt.

"I'm sure."

You help each other get undressed, stumbling over pants legs and giggling breathlessly between kisses as you catch each other from falling. Frankie was always a safe space for you but now his warm, broad embrace feels even more like home, but in a new, exciting way. For each kiss and garment that gets discarded on the floor, you grow more secure and less nervous, and by the time you're in your underwear, you're straddling him on the bed, more confident than ever. Frankie wets his lips, his eyes fixed on your chest as you reach behind your back to unhook your bra. He's already hard underneath you but when he sees your tits released from the bra cups, it's like he swells up another size.

"Abejita..."

"Isn't it a little weird for you to use that name in bed?" you tease him. "You've called me that since we were fourteen."

"And what makes you think I haven't hoped for this since then?" he replies, reaching up to cup your tits. You let out a little moan when his thumbs brush over your hardening nipples.

"Have you?"

Frankie searches your face, hesitating a little. You close your fingers loosely around his wrists, suddenly wary.

"You haven't waited for this for years, have you?" you whisper. "While we both were dating other people? You didn't wait for me while you were planning to spend the rest of your life with Gloria? Because that's just sad."

He shakes his head. "No, not then... but for a couple of years, maybe. I don't know, sweetheart, but you've always been there for me when those relationships crashed, especially after Gloria, and maybe I just hoped, for a second..."

"Yeah," you nod, "I know."

You move your hands over his, guiding his fingers to sink into the flesh of your breasts, and Frankie exhales in a sigh at your softness. The next sound to come out of him is a hissed moan when you rub yourself against his hard length.

"Baby," you pleads, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "Christ, you're beautiful. I want you so much."

"I can tell," you grin, leaning into his hands as yours come down to his chest to support you in slowly dragging your still clad but drenched apex along the hard outline of his cock in his boxers. You've caught glimpses of that bulge through the years, but never really thought about it in that way before. It was Frankie, your best friend, and he was a man, so he had a dick, there was nothing weird about that. Now you wonder how you managed to stay so cool about it: the mere size of it is enough to make you clench in anticipation.

"I want you too," you tell him before getting up on your knees, and pulling down his boxers. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, the head glistening with precum as it strains upwards towards his stomach.

"Oh," you hear yourself say, in a weird tone. Frankie laughs nervously.

"Not big enough?"

"Oh shut up..." You slap him gently on the thigh, enjoying how his whole body trembles at the impact, and then help him kick off the boxers before you settle over his thighs again. Frankie bites into his lower lip as you regard his cock like you're unsure how to attack it.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to take this," you eventually confess with a wry smile that makes Frankie relax.

"I'll help you, I promise. And if you can't... well, that's fine too."

"I want to."

"Me too, but let's take on thing at a ti- mmmohmygod..."

The sounds you conjure out of the man underneath just by taking a hold of his cock and pumping it a couple of times are intoxicating. He stares at you, mesmerized, as you use both hands to stroke him.

"Sweetheart... abejita... Christ, don't embarrass me by making me blow too soon..."

"I have faith that you'll last longer than the guy next door," you tease him, and Frankie groans, covering his face with his hands.

"Thanks for reminding me, that's so off-putting."

You chuckle huskily but you're really quite nervous about how to fit this monster inside you. You don't know how, but Frankie seems to pick up on it. Sitting up, he brings you against his chest, making you let go of him.

"We'll do fine," he tells you in a low voice. "I'll make sure you're wet enough."

Your cunt bottoms out at how low his voice drops, and you lick your lips.

"I'm pretty wet already."

"I'll get you wetter."

There's a quiet confidence in his voice that you recognize as something so quintessentially, faithfully, wonderfully Frankie. Gently, he lays you down and kisses you, moaning low into your mouth when you comb your fingers through his hair. Jesus, how have you never heard him moan before? What took you so goddamn long?

"Can I go down on you?" he whispers, and you clench again. "I really wanna go down on you, baby, I wanna make you feel good."

"Yes, please, Frankie!" You pull him to you for a desperate kiss before you push him down your body, catching his grin as he trails little kisses over your tits and stomach.

"Let me know how I'm doing, okay, sweetheart?"

"So far, so good..."

You had gathered from the banter between the guys, and from some of Frankie's more outspoken exes, that he knew his way around giving oral, but you're still nervous. Or maybe you're nervous because you know he's supposed to be good, or maybe you're just nervous.

Frankie must sense the tension in your thigh, because he looks up at you.

"Is this okay?"

You nod quickly, but he props himself up on his elbows.

"If you're not into this..."

"I am," you blurt out, "it's just... a little weird, okay? An hour ago you were my best friend, and now you're about to lick my pussy?"

He laughs at that, and you catch a twinge of nerves from him as well. That makes you feel more at ease.

"The two are not mutually exclusive," he points out, and you smile sheepishly.

"I really want it, Frankie."

"And you'll have it."

You knew, you had your suspicions, but holy fucking shit, you were not prepared for the onslaught of his tongue and lips. It doesn't take you long to reach the same volumes your neighbor was performing at earlier, but you're definitely not faking it, Frankie's making sure of that.

And maybe that's the problem: that you sound just like your neighbor's date, and that Frankie is trying so hard to conjure the most depraved sounds from you. No matter how good it feels, how devoted he is between your legs, how long he keeps at it, you don't feel any closer to orgasm than you did when he first started. After an embarrassingly long time, you draw a deep breath.

"Frankie...?" Your voice is trembling from pleasure, and Frankie replies with only a hum against your wet folds. You stroke your hand over his hair and give him a little nudge.

"Frankie... please, you need to stop."

His head pops up immediately, chin glistening obscenely.

"You okay?" he wants to know, crawling up to gently cup your cheek. You immediately put your hand over his to take it away before he has a chance to notice how hot your cheek is.

"Yeah, I just... I don't think I can climax," you mumble. His brows knit in concern.

"Was I doing something wrong? Was I too rough?"

"Jesus Christ, Frankie, no!" you hurry to reassure him, terrified to make him feel bad. He so easily puts all the world's worries on his own shoulders.

"You did perfectly, I just, it's a weird situation, I mean, I want this, but it's just..." You try desperately to find the right word. "It's sudden. It happened so quickly."

"Too quickly?" he asks quietly. Now it's your turn to cup his cheek.

"No," you tell him with conviction, your thumb caressing his scratchy cheek. "It wasn't quick enough, we waited for way too long."

The dimple in his cheek appears when he smiles. "I'd want for you to cum."

"It's okay, you can make it up to me later."

"I like that..." He dips down to kiss you, and you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer. His hard cock is wedged between the two of you and there is nothing you want more than for him to fuck you, orgasm or not.

"I want you, you tell him breathlessly between the kisses. "Stop asking if it's okay, it's more than okay."

He chuckles, and props himself up to look around for his pants, finding them on the floor. He smacks a kiss onto your lips before crawling to the edge of the bed for them.

"Don't move."

You giggle and slap his ass, grinning cheekily when he turns to glare at you.

"I always thought you have a cute ass," you defend yourself, and Frankie shakes his head as he looks for the condoms in his pants pocket.

"My pancake ass."

He returns to you with the pack of rubbers, a slight tinge on his cheekbones.

"I'll put in implants if you want me to," he jokes, but you shake your head vigorously.

"Are you crazy? I love your pancake butt. Don't you dare do anything to that perfection."

"Much obliged."

You sit up and help him roll on the condom, using that as an excuse to get to touch his thick dick again. Frankie sits back and exhales in a low moan.

"God, baby... your hands feel so good on me... can't wait to be inside you."

"If I can take it." You're only half joking. He kisses you sweetly.

"I know you can."

It's a tight fit, that's for sure. He inches into you so very slowly, but it's still almost too much.

"It's too big," you whimper, delirious from the stretch. Frankie groans.

"Sweetheart, that's just the head."

"Fuck."

"Just relax, you can take it, I know you can."

Frankie's right, of course. When he's finally sheathed in you, both of you are breathing in shallow gulps, and Frankie's forehead is covered by a thin sheet of sweat.

"You okay?" he asks hoarsely. You run your hands up his sides.

"Yeah, I'm good, but Jesus that's big."

He preens a little, but you can tell he's concerned for you.

"It's okay, Frankie," you assure him, wrapping your legs around his thighs. "It's okay, I'm good, you're good."

He swears in another moan and it's the sexiest sound you've ever heard. Your hands come to his buttocks and push down.

"Fuck me," you ask him, and he starts to move almost immediately. You moan loudly as his veiny cock drags through your slick walls. Frankie kisses your breath away while he himself struggles for air, staying up on his elbows as he ruts into you, meticulously and steadily, like he does everything else. God, you could just melt underneath him, but instead you hold onto him, surrender your kisses to him, and listen to him rambling on about how good you feel and how crazy you make him. It takes you a little while to realize that he's speaking Spanish. You kiss his sweaty forehead and whimper when he slips out.

"Frankie...!"

"I know, abejita, I know, but I'm just trying to make it last," he pants, scattering little kisses all over your face. "I want it to last forever."

Your heart swells, and you swallow hard. "We got time, Frankie."

"I know, I just want it to be special."

"It is special."

He covers your mouth with his but the kiss is brief: he's too out of breath. You reach down between the two of you to find him and nock him at your entrance again before rubbing your clit with two fingers. As Frankie resumes his sweet pace, you clench hard and throw your head back.

"Goddddd, Frankie...!"

"Fuck, you're tight like this..."

"I need you to go harder!"

He complies immediately with a growl, and it sets off a pull in you as you rub your clit furiously. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath is hot on your skin as he does his best to keep thrusting, but when you whimper More, harder, faster he grabs hold of you and rolls around, settling you on top. You sink down on him, gasping as his impressive inches invade you, but then Frankie pulls you down over him, making you hover just an inch or two above him, and starts to thrust up into you desperately. You shout in pleasure and surprise at the desperate bucking, the way his cock assaults you, so demanding in its hardness and size, yet not enough, you need more, you need him inside you for the rest of the night.

He’s huffing out your name with every breath, blending it with curses and blessings alike in moaned cries as he holds onto you like he’s never going to let go. His chest is slippery with sweat but you still press your tits against it, desperate to keep all of you connected to all of him, and when you cover his mouth with yours for a sloppy kiss, he doesn’t stop rambling but lets you swallow every word of praise along with the kiss.

For a moment it’s so fantastic that you feel like you’re in a movie, like this isn’t happening for real, it can’t, this can’t be you friend Frankie underneath you fucking you like it’s his only mission in life, this isn’t you riding his big dick until you’re howling. Your pussy tightens and heats up in the first sweet signs of an orgasm, and you sit up, slamming Frankie’s pelvis to the mattress as you ride him frantically, hands slipping on his chest until you sit up straight and try to manage without support. Frankie immediately grabs your hands, fingers interlocking with yours, and provides the brace you need to ride yourself home.

When the orgasm finally comes to steal you away, Frankie’s there to keep you anchored to him. It’s not the best one you’ve had in your life; it’s rather short and explosive, but it feels complete in a very satisfying way. Your chest meets Frankie’s, two frenzied hearts beating in unison, as you try to catch your breath, sweat plastering your hair over your face. When you’ve come down enough to move, your hips are sore and your pussy even sorer, and you inelegantly slide down from Frankie  onto your side and try to comb the hair away from your face. Frankie helps you, a dreamy smile curving his lips up.

“That was wild,” he mumbles, and you giggle a little awkwardly.

“I don’t know what came over me.”

“Whatever it was, it certainly came.”

“Oh, haw-haw…”

He presses his dry lips to yours, effectively silencing any further protests, before sitting up with a groan and taking off the condom. You don’t know why it is so embarrassing, but you blush a little when you look at the now sad-looking rubber with white goo at the tip.

“When did you cum?” you blurt out, and Frankie chuckles as he ties the condom and gets up to dispose of it.

“Almost the minute you got on top, sweetheart.”

You give up a small laugh, the tension eases a little, and you ogle his ass when he walks out of the bedroom. When he returns, you’ve kicked the covers to side and have made room for him next to you.

“No regrets?” he asks you as he pulls you to his sweaty body. You kiss the tip of his sharp nose.

“None at all. I love you, Frankie. I’m in love with you.”

The lamp light reflects in his eyes as his swallows. “I love you, too, abejita. I can’t believe this really happened.”

“We can make it happen again,” you tease, pinching his nipple to make him groan. “Just need to recover a little.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through your hair and finding your lips for a long, sweet kiss.

A creak travels from the other side of the wall to your bedroom, and after that, a rhythmic thumping. Then, a loud moan. Frankie lifts his head from the pillow and stares at the wall, a frown knitting his brows together. He then looks quizzically at you.

"I told you," you giggle, "Sometimes twice in one night."

"Can't have that,” he shakes his head. “We need to top that. Get ready for two more times, gorgeous.”

“I don’t think I can take that cock three times in one night,” you grin, but you’re already feeling a surge between your legs.

“We’ll train hard,” Frankie promises with a leer that makes you want to start already.

“Other neighbors are gonna start to complain. We’re all gonna get evicted.”

“You can move to my place,” he volunteers readily. “You can move in tomorrow if you want to, baby, I love you and I want to be with you all the time.”

The woman next door wails, and you blush a little because you know you must have sounded like her only a while ago.

"If my neighbor doesn't dump her soon, I just might come and live with you.”

“The sooner the better,” Frankie tells you, and pulls the covers over both of you to make a cocoon for only the two of you.

[icbtforocd]

Why We Need to Spread Awareness About ICBT for OCD 🌍✨

The world needs to hear about ICBT (Inference-Based Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) because far too many people battling OCD don’t know there’s another way—a way that doesn’t demand constant confrontation with their fears or endless reassurance.

1. ICBT Respects Your Mind

ICBT doesn’t ask you to fight your thoughts or force yourself to face your worst fears head-on. Instead, it focuses on understanding why those thoughts seem believable in the first place. It’s about shifting the perspective from "Prove your fear wrong" to "Why does this fear even matter?"

Sharing this approach could open doors for those who feel stuck in traditional methods, like ERP (Exposure and Response Prevention), which might not work for everyone.

2. It Shifts the Narrative Around OCD

The stigma surrounding OCD is still huge. Too many people think it’s about being neat or liking things “just so.” By sharing ICBT, we can start conversations that show OCD for what it really is—a disorder rooted in doubt and faulty reasoning patterns, not personality quirks.

The more we talk about approaches like ICBT, the closer we get to breaking down these harmful misconceptions.

3. Empowering the Unheard

So many people with OCD feel unheard and misunderstood, especially if traditional therapies haven’t worked for them. ICBT gives them an alternative—a framework that helps them question the root of their distress without constantly engaging in their compulsions. Awareness means empowerment.

4. It’s a Gentle Yet Powerful Option

For some, the intensity of exposure therapy can feel overwhelming. ICBT offers a different path, one that’s less about confrontation and more about curiosity. It allows people to untangle their fears with compassion and logic.

If more therapists knew about this method, imagine the lives that could change.

5. Spreading Awareness Saves Time and Pain

Think about how many people spend years trapped in the OCD cycle, never knowing there’s a treatment like ICBT that could help them break free. By spreading the word, you could shorten someone’s journey toward healing.

What Can You Do?

Talk About It: Share posts, articles, or books about ICBT with friends, family, or on social media.

Advocate for Mental Health Options: Encourage therapists and organizations to include ICBT in their training and services.

Break the Stigma: Speak openly about OCD and its impact to help others understand the importance of tailored treatments like ICBT. _________ The ICBT Workbook for Overcoming All OCD Types !

[godtier]

so i feel like i should probs mention this for anyone who might come across it as a bit of a PSA.

last week, i ran into an issue with a nurse practitioner because my former PCP moved away. i'm not gonna go into major details here because i tend to keep my personal life offline, but the bottom line was that this nurse practitioner:

changed my meds without my consent (basically guilting me about it, since they are controlled substances in the USA)

claimed my former doctor was just "prescribing whatever her patients wanted," implying i asked to be prescribed the meds i was on (i did not)

implied other doctors "toe the line of safety" in the practice

lied about inter-medication reactions (i.e.: claimed that a certain combo i was on was "dangerous" when it was not)

prescribed me a medication that actually does interact with another medication i already take (whereas the previous one did not)

tried to obfuscate information and change the narrative from "i don't want to prescribe controlled substances" to "i care about your safety"

reason i bring this up is because i feel like a lot of young people don't really know what to do in a situation like this, especially if they're taking a controlled substance (at least in the USA).

so what do you do if a doctor, nurse practitioner, or other medical professional tries to take your necessary medication away due to it being a controlled substance? if you're in a wider hospital network (i.e.: clinics that are not actually in a hospital, but might operate under a hospital "banner," like "cleveland clinic," for example), you do have an option to take.

it's called a medical ombudsman, or patient advocate. these people are employed by the health care company, but their sole purpose is to keep the medical professionals in check to ensure that those practitioners are actually operating with the patient's best interests in mind.

they also cover things like inappropriate behavior (sexual harassment, non-medically needed touching etc), disrespectful behavior (sarcasm or unwanted teasing, etc), and so on, but they will absolutely assist you with things like being denied a medication you've taken for years because the doctor "just doesn't feel like it," basically.

you can first start by searching for "patient advocate [clinic name]" to see what results populate for you. they typically operate over the phone, but some departments will also have an email address you can message, too.

i know that's a lot of info but

tl;dr: if you have been denied medication by a doctor or other prescribing staff that you have been taking for a long time and there is no medically sound reason for you to be taken off of it, you should absolutely contact an ombudsman or patient advocate to fight on your behalf.

don't be intimidated by medical professionals. they are supposed to be there to help you, not scold you or guilt you about your disorders or illnesses. it's especially bad for my ADHD folks out there, since most of us are prescribed stimulants/controlled substances that are medically necessary for us to function.

doctors tend to get blinders on, only thinking of the larger picture and what that means for their job security. it is 100% true that doctors have to be careful when prescribing these medications due to their addictive properties. they should do their own due diligence to determine medical need and not simply "give" their patients what they want. but an alarming amount of them are also straight-up denying people medication that they've been on because it's easier to prescribe them a non-controlled substance that might work, but also might not work as well or even have its own set of undesirable side-effects.

that's all. don't allow yourself to be bullied.

[hayingsang]

Read in 2024

Michael Oakeshott, On Human Conduct

Edmund Neill, Michael Oakeshott

I read On Human Conduct a few years ago – exactly when, I’m not sure, as it doesn’t seem to turn up on any of my books-read list – but it made an impression, partly for being difficult, and partly for (as I recalled it) being an argument against using social concepts to explain things.

Rereading it, along with two books about Oakeshott – the one above by Edmund Neill and one late last year by Paul Franco – I would stick with both my conclusions, but adjust them a little, and add another one.

The argument against using social concepts wasn’t quite so clearcut on this second reading, but I think it’s still true. Essentially, Oakeshott says people don’t do things because of abstract things like “social forces”, but because of their interactions with other people. His target here seems to be the whole of sociology and much of the rest of the social sciences. The suggestion, for example, that people are shaped by culture, I would imagine he would have seen as derisory: your culture plays out in your encounters with others, either directly or (presumably) mediated through things such as books which you read, etc. He doesn’t say as much, but I think there’s the idea here that you are the author of your actions (which is not to say that your circumstances aren’t important – they clearly are – but you’re the one making sense of them with whatever mental tools you have available to you).

And he is a difficult writer. He writes negatively a lot (“things are not A, and nor are they B, nor C either …”), and certainly on a first reading he doesn’t give the reader much in the way of signposts to follow. Also he tends not to make arguments – having dealt with what things aren’t, he then asserts what they are – and he uses/invents a lot of latinate phrases, most of which are quite clear but with meanings modified to meet his needs. But reading him a second time with a goal (mainly to see if my view of his views on social forces was actually right nor not) was a lot easier than just reading him the first time round to see what he was about.

As to the third, what I found by far most interesting on my second reading was the book’s third and last part, “On the Character of a Modern European State”, and its suggestion that European states existed in tension between being civic associations – bodies based on laws that applied to all but which have no goals in themselves – and enterprise associations – bodies established to realise a goal. The traditional liberal state is a civic association, existing to let its citizens do whatever they want provided they don’t break the laws which govern them all; a socialist state would be an enterprise association in which individual freedoms come far behind the overall goal of advancing productive forces and welfare, with education aimed at socializing people to those goals. There is of course a lot more subtlety in Oakeshott’s argument than this, though perhaps less than you might imagine – though he obviously leans towards the civic association side, he also would have accepted that states also have goals they should strive to meet.

I think this is very much an argument worth making. For Oakeshott, it stems from Europe’s ways of ruling dating back to the middle ages, and how as states emerged they posed the problem of exactly what these entities which changed the way people were governed actually were.

Being a conservative, he saw tradition – habits passed on from person to person – as important and wasn’t interested in notions such as market forces or rights. Yet he was also an advocate of modernity – that in the 20th century versions of states, especially the more liberal ones, people could lead meaningful lives of their own making.

Neill and Franco’s books on Oakeshott I found useful – not so much for the politics side of his thinking, which I think you can unravel yourself without too much trouble, but for the other parts of his life and thinking, which I don’t think I would want to spend much time on.

[afracturedfacade]

AI Seems Scary, but it Will Likely do More Good Than Bad

Just venting my personal opinions all over this post, which few if any people will see anyway. Call it organizing my thoughts I guess? AI is here to stay, and that's not a bad thing, or at least it doesn't have to be. Back in the day there were doomsayers, many of them well known and respected personalities, all over the place touting the dangers of the Internet and you know what? They weren't entirely wrong. They were also more wrong than right. So-called experts have an unfortunate tendency to make wrong predictions about the future, especially in regards to emerging and novel technologies. A couple of centuries ago, there were publications on expert opinions about how it wouldn't be possible to travel at high speed (like 50kph+) because it would lead to asphyxia.

The internet is a modern mainstay, nearly as important as electricity. Without it, much of what we count on day to day will grind to a halt. Putting aside personal devices like desktops, tablets, etc. that are usually internet-connected, there are a lot of other things that rely on it. Credit card machines are internet connected and without it our increasingly cash-less society will grind to a near halt. Many companies, especially larger ones, need to 'check in' with some central sever somewhere to function effectively. That'd be gone too. A lot of information will be lost outright, or at least isolated where it isn't terribly useful. The impact of internet on both personal and business productivity is in the trillions per year. It saves time, sometimes a lot of it, and 'time is money', as they say. This is to say nothing of how much power it puts in the hands of the average person with internet access. It can empower people to find better opportunities, and advocate for themselves. It is a jumping point for learning new skills, often for free.

I see AI as much the same. If you consider its growth and accessibility, it is a lot like the internet. At first it was used mainly by governments, corporations, and in research. Institutions, in other words. The internet back in the day was mostly used by the same groups. So at first it was mainly the people that work at these places that experienced it. Then enthusiast tech-heads started getting their hands on it for personal use, experimenting with what it can do. Then there was limited public access in the form of AI assistants like Siri, Google Assistant, Alexa, Bixby, etc. Those could be sort of useful, sometimes. Now we're at the point where it's getting better, and at an increasing pace. It has 'blown up' with the introduction of Chat-GPT and the like. Sure, it's still awkward, and it can be abused, but the same is true of the internet. There will always be those that abuse useful tools to exploit others and cause harm and mayhem for either personal gain, to further their extreme goals, or just to watch the world burn. Protections will evolve to try and keep pace, though they won't be perfect, and the average person will have to learn to take some pains to protect themselves as well.

And yes, AI is going to take jobs away and that will cause a lot of people problems, and while that is unfortunate it is also perfectly normal for new technologies. With that change comes new opportunities. The tools will be there for you to use to your advantage, just like the internet.

Or maybe you'll just amuse yourself by trying to get your AI to do something lewd. Probably that.

The main problem I see in future isn't the singularity. No, I'm worried that countries will fail to make appropriate policy changes to reflect the increasing automation that AI and robotics technology together, eliminating most menial labour whether it's manual or data-processing related. We could end up with a large percentage of the population that can't find work, let alone work that pays all their bills. With the increasing productive capacity of countries it should make it very much possible to sustain the population as a whole even if a large percentage aren't producing any work. It would simply not be sane to let society proceed down a path of dystopia, as the burden of a large and dissatisfied homeless and overworked population would result in civil unrest and possible violence, and more to the point such a society would be costly. It is literally cheaper to provide a basic level of housing and resources to someone who would otherwise be homeless, than it would be to deal with a homeless population.

Similarly, I can't see a world where a large fraction of the population having no purchasing power would be good for international trade. If much of the population of every country, including the wealthy ones, have no purchasing power, trade of finished consumer goods like electronics, processed foods, media, clothing, etc. would stagnate. It seems it would be more healthy to have some surplus wealth circulating through the population to keep both the country, and international trade of goods, healthy.

I don't know, it just seems like the future will become a policy choice between 'dystopia' and 'increased free time', all because of the near elimination of unskilled and low-skilled work. Low wage and low skilled workers are already prone to being treated like garbage that doesn't deserve to make enough to live on, and unless policy changes to match the times, this will only get worse.

tl;dr - There will definitely be some growing pains with AI, but it doesn't have to end in an 'AI Destroys Humanity' scenario, and likely won't. Policy changes not being made to reflect a rapidly diminishing need for menial labour is a far more pressing concern, in my mind.

[indiatravelpackage]

Unveiling the Jewel of India: Taj Mahal Tour from Delhi

The Taj Mahal, one of the Seven Wonders of the World, stands as a timeless image of love and architectural brilliance. Located in Agra, this UNESCO World Heritage Site attracts millions of travelers each year. If you’re in Delhi, a Taj Mahal tour gives a superb possibility to discover this iconic monument and enjoy the cultural richness of Agra in a single day.

This hassle-free Taj Mahal tour from Delhi combines convenience and luxury, allowing you to recognise on soak in the magic of the Taj Mahal and Agra’s other treasures.

Why Choose a Taj Mahal Tour from Delhi?

A Taj Mahal tour from Delhi is best for those trying to experience the essence of Mughal grandeur in a short time. Offering comfortable journey options and professional-guided reviews, the tour is perfect for solo travelers, couples, families, and history lovers alike.

Highlights of the Taj Mahal Tour from Delhi

Smooth and Scenic Travel: The adventure begins with a comfortable drive or train journey from Delhi to Agra. Most tours consist of transportation through AC cars or the Gatimaan Express, India’s fastest train, ensuring an easy and scenic enjoy.

Marvel at the Taj Mahal: The spotlight of the tour is, of path, the Taj Mahal. This iconic monument, constructed by Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his beloved spouse Mumtaz Mahal, is a masterpiece of Mughal architecture.

Explore Agra Fort: Located a quick distance from the Taj Mahal, Agra Fort is another architectural surprise that displays the grandeur of the Mughal Empire. Wander via its palaces, courtyards, and mosques, and revel in views of the Taj Mahal from afar.

Mehtab Bagh: If time allows, go to Mehtab Bagh, a serene lawn situated throughout the Yamuna River. This spot offers lovely perspectives of the Taj Mahal and is best for shooting memorable images.

Taste Local Cuisine: Agra is well-known for its delectable Mughlai delicacies. Most tours include lunch damage at a renowned local eating place, wherein you could delight in dishes like biryani, kebabs, and creamy curries.

Discover Agra’s Handicrafts: Agra is well-known for its conventional crafts, including marble inlay paintings, leather-based goods, and jewellery. The tour may additionally encompass a visit to local artisan workshops, in which you can save for unique souvenirs.

Why Book a Taj Mahal Tour from Delhi?

Convenience: Hassle-unfastened transportation and guided excursions make the experience strain-loose.

Time-Efficient: Ideal for vacationers with restrained time who need to make the most of their visit.

Rich Experience: Explore two UNESCO World Heritage Sites and immerse yourself in Agra’s culture.

Tips for an Enjoyable Tour

Start Early: Beat the site visitors and experience the peaceful beauty of the Taj Mahal.

Wear Comfortable Clothing: Light, breathable apparel and robust on-foot shoes are advocated.

Stay Hydrated: Carry a water bottle, especially for summer months.

Respect Local Customs: Follow pointers and keep away from touching delicate structures.

Plan Ahead: Book your excursion in advance to ensure availability and an unbroken experience.

Conclusion: A Timeless Experience

A Taj Mahal tour from Delhi is more than just a journey; it’s an immersion into India’s rich historical past, architectural brilliance, and cultural vibrancy. From the majestic beauty of the Taj Mahal to the historical grandeur of Agra Fort and the vibrant local markets, every moment is designed to leave you spellbound.

Whether you’re visiting India for the first time or looking to rediscover its treasures, this tour guarantees memories to final an entire life. Embark on this unforgettable tour and allow the magic of the Taj Mahal to captivate your heart.

[benefits1986]

say.yes.

When flashbacks turn to glimmers.

I hate parties like bridal showers. But there are exemptions, of course. It's my first time looking into the historicity of this thing called a bridal shower. And also, hello there, AI overview!!! Hahahaha. Badly put, the bride squad ensures that the bride will make it to her wedding by hook or crook. It may involved funds or even their own lives during a dark era in humanity.

For this upcoming wedding, I requested that I be taken out of the "entourage" in exchange for taking grainy snaps. And this super good friend of mine said yes. LOL. We've had a few travels together and one of the reasons why I'm one of her travel buddies is because she wants decent photos and videos taken.

Her love story flashbacked to me during her bridal shower. I was pretty much silent because I was trying to make sense of why the flashbacks came. "She did it well!" --That's the bottom line.

A few years back, she messaged me that she's gonna go all out on swiping right. Me: Push. Online dating is kinda frowned upon and I myself don't want to go there for my own reasons. She'd update me and syempre, she'd get spicy statements like: -While there are good men online, the truth is that there'd be a lot more women.

-Being ghosted is part of the game, sadly yet truly.

-If you'd like to go the Christian dating route, your chances of success will dramatically decrease. BUT, it can happen.

-Your game is your game. Your timeline is your timeline. So whatever others say, fuck them all.

-Kahit bobo ka minsan, kakampi mo ko. Period. So, slayyyyyy.

-If it doesn't work. It's always a two-way shit zone. Don't be too hard on yourself. Putting yourself out there is already a win on its own.

The wait was not pretty. Pota. But, since I'm this enabler of kabaliwan, sige lang. Goooooo. And whenever olats siya, I'd tell her, get back on track. Akala mo naman believer of love ako noh? Hahahaha. That's just me trying my best to take part in my good friend's journey even when it means na minsan kuhang-kuha niya talaga gigil ko. Looking back, that may be the part of me which lives through her kabaliwan vicariously.

I felt badly everytime she came empty-handed and rejected. Tangina. While she has her quirks, she knows she's dating to marry. Yun talaga. She has a decent background and has a really good career track pa. So, in a way, decent package. Sabi ko nga sa kanya, puwedeng bang date to have fun and explore na lang muna para mas feasible. Ayaw niya. Me: Okay pero sinasabi ko sa'yo, madugo 'yang trip mo a. There'd be times na naluluha na rin ako kasi naman, pota talaga. Ang hassle din talaga ng mga ganaps at times. Malimit, the malandi brings home the bacon talaga e. Ganun ang laban. Wala namang mali doon, honestly. Pero kasi nga, dating to marry is quite rare these days especially sa age group namin. 'Yung mga igop, alam mo na rin. Nasa kabilang ibayo a lot of them.

Funny as this may seem, isa siya sa talagang pinagdadasal ko na sana magkaroon na ng asawa among my other single XX friends na talaga naman pong masidhi ang longing forda one. Me: Lorddee, unahin mo na 'tong mga 'to. No pressure naman sa side ko e. Hahahahahahahahaha. Me to myself: Lorddeee, tamad na tamad na akong magka-pake ang maging a bit gentle and failing at it. Paki tawid na 'to. 'Yung gusto niya at gusto mo, paki align. Paki usap lang. Baka mauntog ko na talaga 'to e.

And then, the right swipe happened.

Eto na 'to. Syempre, I'm the devil's advocate. Since she's an expat, I can't dissect the XY she found. I don't ask details din that much. Kung ano lang kwento sa akin, okay. Let's build it from there. During our first meet and greet ni XY, engaged na sila. They spent years together na rin naman and alam mo na, aging millennials so habol sa pag-build ng family.

Una kong tanong: What made you say that she is the one? Follow-up q: What reservations did you have to come through when you proposed to her? The table went silent. Hahahahaha. Philo guy naman 'to, so, g.

Nasagot niya ng mainam and natawa ako kasi 'di pa raw natanong ni friend ko sa kanya 'yun ever. Syempre kinilig 'yung kaibigan ko. Ako naman to myself: Pasado. Plus points para sa pupils niya na can't lie, too. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

What I liked better sa sagot niya is that he thought about it and looked me and our small group in the eye while he's at it. I asked a few more questions and again, hindi BS sagot niya. Walang halo na "brainy ako a" vibe. Sabi nung isang kaibigan namin, mga tanong ko raw, wagas. E first meet up. Sabi ko, e ano naman? LOL.

We had a good conversation and what I like best about this guy is that he balances my friend. They're opposites but their goals align. And I saw talaga that my maarte friend has been making reasonable and admirable compromises which is integral in building relationships and nurturing them. EMMMEMMMEEEEE.

If there's one thing I like a looootttt, 'di ko na need bumili ng flowers para sa friend ko na 'to, finally. Ayoko ng flowers pero since 'yun ang gusto niya, jusko. May suki na ako na sakto sa budget at mukhang 'di tinipid na naggagawa mga Pinterest-inspired arrangements 'pag may paganaps. Thank uuuuu, Lorrrdddeeee.

Kidding aside, cheers to another sapak sa fez na love is true. SHEMAY. LUL. Kadire. Pero sige, sige. Pakshet malala. And that love is a work in progress and a process of choosing to go beyond yourself. While I still have so many doubts, NASA podcast era na rin tayo na sige, tignan natin ang kabilang banda ng mga bagay-bagay for a change. Hayyyyy. 'Yung Lordeee, no pressure ko nasa Lorddeee, 'di naman ako nape-pressure pero ang weird lang talaga kasi I'm so used to shutting love-related things down.

Baka naman kasi marami lang weddings and ganaps lately kaya baka naman mood swing lang 'to. Hahahahahahaha. Hayaan muna nating mag-marinate 'tong paganaps na 'to because I don't want to rush this chapter. Whoa. Chapter? Hahahahahahaha. Siguro, in the name of being a recovering avoidant, let this be a reminder that 'di naman masamang sumubok ulit. SHETTTTTT. Totoo ba 'yan? Ako ba talaga 'yan? Sakit ng tiyan ko bigla pero ayun na nga.

Medyo nage-evolve na rin 'yung prayer ko ngayon. LUH. Natatawa pa nga ako madalas kasi kadire talaga. As in. Abangan. :p Tapos, ending mood swing lang pala noh? Abangan din.

Kabado lang ako sa ilaw sa araw ng wedding neto friend ko. May peg kasi siya na gusto sa photos. And since 'yun ang gift ko sa kanila, sana talaga maging oks ang ilaw. More importantly, sana ma-capture ng mainam 'yung mga moments na syempre, wala ng take two. Shemayyyyyuyyy. Ang mahal lalo ng films ngayon. Potaaaa. May camera akong gusto kaso iniisip ko baka panget exposure kasi nga 'di natin alam ang lagay ng panahon, pero gagawaan natin ng paraan 'yan by hook or by crook. Lels. Dapat pala 'yung drip ko ay I can freely move around so ekis na 'yung isang option kahit super cutie niya. EMEEEMMMEEE. Baka pantsuit na lang or parang daster vibe pero 'di halata. :p

Speaking of snaps, the other day, I had to shoot a room full of people. Siguro mga hundred madlang people 'yun easily. Namiss ko rin mag-shoot, honestly. And as introvert na wala namang choice, natuwa akong may command pa rin pala ako kahit super big group. Happy naman sila sa photos. LOL. Dami ko rin nakilalang bago. Small talk galore kahit ayoko talagang lumabas at makipag-interact.

PS: Flashbacks din sa mga lahat ng mga kabobohan ko na sana naman, matuto na ako this time. Para naman 'di naman maging epic fail na naman ang mga okay talaga. Shemayyyy.

[emergentcounseling]

Should I Get Therapy ?

Mental health has increasingly become a recognized aspect of overall wellness, especially in the light of the coronavirus pandemic and subsequent mass quarantine, wherein the entire population (excluding essential workers) was ordered to stay inside. The pandemic highlighted and, in some cases, exacerbated several issues, including healthcare disparities, layoffs & unemployment, essential worker burnout, racial tensions, xenophobia, mental health awareness, and more.

During this time, many of us were forced to navigate a whirlpool of new life challenges while isolated from those we love and faced with disappointment as social gatherings and events became unsafe.

Key Points:

The Covid-19 Pandemic and Quarantine have had unforeseen effects on mental health.

Mental Health Awareness has rapidly increased following Quarantine and continues to gain traction, especially on social media..

Mental Health is not just about awareness; mental wellness must be cultivated and maintained, just like physical wellness

Naturally, the pandemic has had an unprecedented impact on mental health worldwide, allowing mental health awareness to shift up in the hierarchy of public health initiatives. Public figures and celebrities, most notably former First Lady Michelle Obama, began to advocate for mental health, emphasize self-care and share their personal experiences with mental wellness. As more people become familiar with mental health issues due to the pandemic and its impact, the surrounding stigma continues to lessen.

Despite the ongoing rise of mental health awareness, many people are still hesitant to start therapy. A national survey conducted by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reveals that only 10.1% of adults received therapy or counseling services in 2020.

So, if mental health awareness is on the rise, why do people resist therapy?

Though there are several reasons someone may resist mental health treatment, I find the most prevalent to be the depreciation and misunderstanding of mental health. Mental wellness consists of the well-being and healthy functioning of a person’s thoughts, emotions, and behaviors. A limited understanding of mental health can cause issues to go undetected. Unfortunately, it is commonplace for people to disregard the emotional and cognitive aspects of their mental health if they can function regularly. Your mental health is more than your ability to be productive, and you deserve more than performative wellness.

When most people think of their mental health, they refer to taking a self-care day or having a daily journal. While these things certainly benefit your mental health, they do not capture the whole picture.

Mental health is not static; it must be cultivated and maintained You likely wouldn’t expect a six-pack after doing one push-up, so why do you expect one good spa day to maintain your mental health?

Therapy is like exercise for your mind; you can use it to build skills like communication, problem-solving, and coping strategies to help alleviate the additional stress that life’s challenges bring. You don’t need a broken leg to benefit from a yearly physical; likewise, you don’t need a mental illness to benefit from therapy.

To conclude, developing mental health awareness is important, but the work continues beyond there. Do not delude yourself into expecting results without effort. Your mental health is real, and it deserves your attention. As this year ends, take some time to reflect on your mental health. Are there any things you’d like to improve? Do you have any feelings you want to explore? Whether you would like to seek treatment for a mental illness or just want some advice on navigating a challenging situation, you should consider giving therapy a try!

Do you need help managing your anxiety? Contact us.

[laurenele]

last year

ok it has been forever since i posted in this space. almost a year i think? last time i was determined to post consistently and it just did not happen. social media is usually the first thing to go when things get busy, and boy have things been busy since last fall. last year was one of the toughest (if not the toughest) year of my life. my mental health was at its lowest point it has ever been. i am grateful to say that i am doing so much better now being (mostly) out of the toxic environment i was trapped in. ya know, it's funny becuase i always thought of myself as a highly resilient person (which i still think i am) and that i wouldn't be too bothered by any high pressure situation i was placed in since i've been under so many high pressure/stress situations in the past and handled them well. but last year, for whatever reason, nearly broke me. and i never want to find myself in that space ever again. it was a year of significant growth - i think i learned a lot about myself and i think the year forced me to become more confident in who i am/what i stand for. it's funny how your own beliefs and values become amplified when they are juxtaposed to people with the opposite. but i also discovered that you can learn a lot from others who you disagree with, and even others who you don't necessarily respect. a few life lessons off the top of my head:

values that were amplified this year: integrity, humility, compassion

to get what you want, you need to ask for it. and sometimes you need to push for it. self-advocating is important.

never assume you know everything. always lead with curiosity and not judgment.

whenever interacting with someone else (especially someone earlier in training), ALWAYS put yourself in their shoes. how would they feel? how can you support them? how can you make them feel included and valued?

you cannot do everything well all at once. when you are juggling 100000 balls, some will drop and that is okay.

listening to constructive criticism is important for growth. you don't need to take criticism from someone you don't respect on a topic you fundamentally disagree about. let it roll off your shoulders.

the people who most look like they have it together from the outside are usually crumbling behind closed doors.

belly laughing about how ridiculous your life is with someone who is going through the same thing is one of the most therapeutic feelings in the world.

ego is a powerful, dangerous driving force that can lead to significant harm. avoid people who are driven by ego at all costs (+ ego can be disguised and difficult to discern from the outside)

running is 100% my safe space, my respite, my release. i truly believe it is the main thing that got me through this year in one piece

i am so so so relieved and grateful that the year is over. i never have to repeat that ever again and i learned a lot about what i want in my future career. i got what i needed out of the year and i'm moving forward onto the next chapter, wherever that will take me. as i look forward at what remains of my last year of med school, i will savor every moment of joy, every pocket of free time, every opportunity to spend with family and friends unshackled from the burdens of the last year. dramatic, i know. but at least it gives me perspective. i have lots more to update on other than the last year - a month in CA, and now a month in CO. grateful doesn't begin to cut it. but we'll save that for another day.

[oxygenbefore1775]

cw: torture

Aight, incoherent musings incoming

but first - some historical info-dumping for context

The first thing to know about the Inquisition in Venice is that it wasn't strictly for religious persecution. It was first founded after Venice suffered an embarrassing defeat against the Ottoman Empire due to some intel leaks and was meant to prevent further leaks from occurring. This meant total surveillance and terrorizing the nation, of course. At the head of the Inquisition there were three inquisitors - the red inquisitor who was the top among them, and two black inquisitor. These three inquisitors are the most powerful people in the Republic apart from the Doge and their identities are hidden from the public. To gather intel and persecute sus people, they had a large network of spies across the Europe planted in each economical class to relay all the information to them. Now, the Inquisition dealt with a variety of cases starting from breach of sanitary rules (yes, they had those) to loan-sharking. For all those cases, there had to be at least two verified delations for the accusation to proceed forward. But there was one offence that didn't require an extensive process of verification - and it was treason. Once you get suspected of treason, you're pretty much done. They take you away in the night to the cells where one of the Inquisitors interrogates you alone ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). You can't have an advocate nor defend yourself so most of the time your conviction is pretty much guaranteed. Their preferred method of execution was drowning in the Orfano channel btw.

aight, now to the babblings

in this, Reiner is the black inquisitor (aka neri) and Jean is one of the agents (aka spirri or ghost). Considering that the Republic was spending 200k ducats on the Inquisition in a year (1 ducat is worth about 100-200 dollars if counted in golds weight), Jean is in it for money and doesn't really care about the political propaganda behind it. And Reiner - he is on his usual being-hero delulu behaviour that's why he's doing it. Reiner and Jean are in the same social circle of nobility but because the inquisitor's identity are kept secret Jean doesn't know who Reiner is but Reiner does. (and also they're gay for each other) (like maybe Reiner has thrown some perfume-filled eggshells at Jean during the Carnival - this sort of gay)

Now, in the 16th century Venice was in a political and economical crisis considering all of the famines followed by plague outbreaks so most of the population was quite unhappy with the Republic. This, paired with the fact that Spain was on the rise due to export from the colonies and that Venice's only advantage over this was its glass production, the Inquisition was quite tense around the safe-keeping of the government secrets. Thus, the number of persecutions, especially on the charge of crimes against the Republic, sky-rocketed.

Due to this, Jean is more and more often tasked with surveilling less and less suspicious-looking people. Then something akin to Marco-gate happens where Jean witnesses (or mayhaps even helps in) an execution of an innocent person and realizes that the system is quite cruel. Previously indifferent towards his position apart form the monetary benefits, Jean has started to understand his role in the Inquisition and maybe lament it in his social circles.

That's when Reiner catches the wind of this. Now, talks such as this would certainly land Jean in the trouble in the current crisis situation so he does. On Reiner's orders Reiner gets arrested. I'd like to make the reason for this decision ambiguous - either Reiner is completely delulu and arrests Jean cuz he now sees him as a potential traitor holding sensitive intel or that he arrests him first so that the two other inquisitors wouldn't be handling his case (and chances are that they wouldn't be merciful since Jean worked for the Inquisition).

An ex-spy is a dead spy so Jean's fate is pretty much sealed - he is going to die. But the inquisitors, as powerful as they are, can't sentence one to death - they can either imprison or banish someone (the former thing Reiner has already done) - only the Council of Ten (don't ask me about the administration stuff but it's yet another part of the Inquisition) can do that but it will take a couple of days for them to review the case. In those couple of days that Jean is left to live, the only thing left is to pull out the names of the other people that he may have relayed sensitive intel to - so he has to be tortured for this.

Now, the thing with the torture in the Inquisition. Technically, it's not allowed. All the statements given under torture are not valid and cannot be accepted as evidence. So what the inquisitors would do is to torture the accused first and take the statements on the next day. During the torture, usually only the inquisitor and the accused are present in the cell.

Thus, Reiner and Jean are to spend all of their day alone. I don't think Reiner has it in him to actually torture Jean so I suppose we all know what the major part of torture would entail ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Oh and all the while they discuss freedom vs security dilemma where Jean manages to kind of shift Reiner's mindset of being ok with butchering ambigiously guilty people for the arguable sake of keeping the government intact

Mayhaps, in the end Jean is still sentenced to death but his execution is not public since it would be a bad look for the Republic so it is decided to descretely kill him by drowning him in the channel. The execution is quickly cut short when the executioner turns out to be Reiner who decides to desert his position as an inquisitor and flee the Republich. They sail into the sunset on a gondola or something.

That's all - that's all my noggin has to offer

having severe reijean against the backdrop of 16th century venetian inquisition thoughts

[trek-tracks]

Every World Diabetes Day, November 14, I can't help but reflect on both my relative good fortune in living with this chronic illness, and the tremendous toll it takes on me and people like me on a daily basis. It's a curious mixture of humbling gratitude, especially for my terrific support network, and blinding frustration. It's simultaneously wanting to set the perfect table for everyone, and wanting to flip that table. Life with diabetes is a constant string of "it's better than it was, but it's still not good enough." And for some people, it's worse than it was - I remind you again that insulin prices in the US have risen more than 1200% since the 1990s, and many people have died trying to ration a life-saving drug with an original patent that was sold for $1 because the scientist refused to profit off it. Many people in many countries do not have insulin access at all. Insulin isn't free in Canada, where I live, either. I am fortunate enough to have insurance. It’s still not good enough. This year, for the first time, I have a continuous glucose monitor that gives a ton of information on a minute-by-minute basis, and sometimes helps me make decisions. It's a marvel. But it's not a cure, and information overload is a thing; I had to turn some notifications off entirely because I once received over 100 notifications in a single day, shattering my concentration every three minutes over something that only time and patience were going to fix. It's better than it was. Diabetes is all about numbers. The price of insulin, other medication, and technology. Calculations, made constantly, every day. Lows. Highs. The moral value of compliance endocrinologists attach to the number on a 3-month A1C test, as if it tells the whole story. The over 40 different factors that go into what affects blood glucose levels. Weight (hard to lose, unless you aren't taking enough insulin, and then people will compliment your appearance even if it's caused by your body ceasing to function). 

The redundant boxes of supplies you drag on a trip out of fear something will go wrong. The number of times something does go wrong, and you have no redundant supplies, and you have to MacGuyver your way out of danger with a syringe and a paper clip. The pounds of plastic garbage you generate every month due to all the one-use technology (another number) and its packaging, and the weight of the guilt you feel. The several deep breaths you take before responding to a nurse who asks you if you've ever had a blood sugar out of range in the past six months, or asks what your blood sugar is right now, like that’s some sort of unique revelation. (My blood sugar is tested 288 times a day.) 

The hours of self-advocacy you have to do just to combat the incredible amount of misinformation out there, or even just to stop people without diabetes from making "diabeetus" jokes to your face. The number of times someone tries, in a really well-meaning way, to use diabetes as a contrast to advocate for another illness ("nobody would deny someone with diabetes insulin, or tell them it's their fault"), and you agree with their advocacy, but you want to yell because people with diabetes are denied medication ALL THE TIME and told the condition is their fault. The number of productive hours you lose to highs and lows. The number of times you dust yourself off and start again. 

It's still not good enough.

It's better than it was. It's better than it was. 

It's better than it was 101 years ago, when the only cure was starving to death before diabetes got you first. It's better than when people had to boil their own urine. It's better than when an insulin pump was a machine the size of a backpack, before we had synthetic, rapid-acting insulin, back when it took a whole minute to get a glucose reading, when my carb count book had two whole pages on some very basic packaged "ethnic food," and for everything else of any interest, you were on your own. 

It's better than it was before an alarm would wake you up and not let you sleep through a dangerous low that might be your last. It's better than it was, now that there are systems and checks and technologies and insulin resistance-lowering medications, and now that it's an illness almost invisible to everyone around you, and now that a Jonas brother is on television constantly telling you that you can Live! Your! Dream! with the Dexcom G6.  

I am, I guess. Living my dream with the Dexcom G6.

And I feel absolutely churlish and unsporting when I say: It's still not good enough.

Even for me, who has insurance, a great job, a devoted spouse, amazing friends and family, and access to most things. It's still not good enough. It's World Diabetes Day. I have Type One diabetes. And I am in a better position than most people with diabetes, and it's still not good enough. 

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, if you did. It means a lot to me. Consider supporting organizations like T1 International, if you're able, to help advocate for those with less access to technology, medication, and support. 

It's not good enough, but we can make it better. 

And even if diabetes isn't good enough, well...I can be. Good enough. 

Both today, World Diabetes Day, and every other day.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Omg can I please get a hannibal x a shy girl reader ? Like he’s really possessive of her and she doesn’t know how to handle it but she likes him so they date??

Sorry this took so long, anon. I’ve been bouncing ideas around and this one in particular, I believe, fits your request. Y/n feels out of place among Hannibal’s fancy friends and it becomes even more obvious when he abandons her at a party. 

Trigger warnings: social anxiety, sexual harassment, overstimulation

You and Hannibal had an agreement about large gatherings. He could only bring you to a party if you had a week's notice and at least three uninterrupted hours of gaming time prior to the event.

For this event, you needed a solid six.

One of the major Maryland universities was awarding a lucrative research grant to a student of clinical psychology, and every influential name in the industry was expected to be there. As a recent college grad with a bachelor's in business you didn't know what to do with, you couldn't imagine a less welcoming environment if you tried. You couldn't fit into their world and more importantly, you didn't want to. But the thought of being noticeably different in any situation was twice as terrifying. So you spent the whole week repeating your mantra; blend in, be quiet and make it through the night.

But Hannibal had different plans for you.

Halfway through the week, just when you'd pushed the party out of your mind, Hannibal presented you with a gift.

"What's the occasion?" You asked. You hoped that if you pretended not to know, it would just magically go away.

"I brought you something to wear on Friday." Hannibal answered, hanging the garment bag up on the bureau. "You know I'll take any excuse to dress you up."

He unzipped the bag and placed a black silk dress into your arms. "Try it on so I have time to get it altered if it needs it."

The material was cool to the touch and outlined your figure so perfectly, you felt even a little naked. Hannibal, of course, loved this. You were his own personal Venus de Milo. His goddess and his muse. 

“Yes, that will do nicely.” He observed, looking at you hungrily. 

“Seems a little short for a such a sophisticated event, doesn’t it?” You raised an eyebrow. The answer was yes and he knew it. He was very deliberate in everything he did. “I don’t want to come off the wrong way.” 

“And what way would that be, darling?” He asked, not taking his eyes off your figure. 

“I mean--” You searched for the right words. “It’s a gathering of the Mid-Atlantic’s most esteemed academics, I feel like, in a dress like this, I might be seen as, well, a...” 

“A prostitute?” Hannibal finished, choosing a much nicer word than you would have.

You looked down. “Yeah. It just doesn’t seem all that appropriate.” 

Hannibal approached you and lifted your chin slightly to look into his eyes. “Many Christian denominations believe that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, yet she was Christ’s right-hand woman. She was first to see him crucified and first to witness his resurrection.” 

“Dr. Lecter,” You smirked. “I never would have taken you for a religious man.” 

“Goodness, no.” He shook his head. “But any reputable academic is expected to be familiar with biblical literature and its many contradictions and impossibilities.” 

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You are my divine feminine, Miss [L/N].” Hannibal said in a low whisper. “And I want everyone to see it. If they see a common whore, it would only be a reflection of their own jealousy.” 

Hannibal's rationalization almost made you forget about your fear of being noticed. Almost. It all came rushing back when you arrived at the event. Not one person your age was in attendance. The women wore long, flowing evening gowns that reached the floor. The length of your skirt alone guaranteed that all eyes were on you. In a simple black silk dress, you looked the very model of high society. Silk was a sign of luxury, and Hannibal wanted everyone to know that you were a woman of means. His woman, to be precise. That was why he brought you to these functions in the first place. To put you in a dress short enough for any wandering eyes so see the smattering of love bites running up your inner thighs. He wanted everyone in his field to know that you were completely and entirely his.

You realized too late that this was all his little exercise in showing you off.

Everyone seemed to know him. He only knew a handful of people by name, and you didn't know anyone.

"And who is this delightful young woman?" A woman with a light southern twang in her voice asked, looking at you as if you were a caged animal on display.

"I wasn't aware you had a daughter, Dr. Lecter." The young man beside her laughed. "Or is she your side piece?"

Your eyes scanned the room for the nearest exit. It would be unbecoming to make a scene, so you plotted a way to slip out quietly.

“Darling, meet Dr. Charlotte Ramset and her TA, David.” Hannibal introduced, notably ignoring the young man. “Dr. Ramset, this is my intended, [F/N] [L/N].”

"I didn't realize she was also a ventriloquist!" The lady, presumably Dr. Ramset, joked. You'd heard that one a million times. She looked at you. "Tell me about yourself, sweetie. What are you studying?"

The lady was old enough to be your grandmother and reeked of too much perfume.

"I graduated last year." You said, quietly. "With a BA in business."

"See, there's a good woman." David added. "Only speaks when spoken to. They don't make ’em like you anymore, baby."

Hannibal tightened his grip on your hand. "On the contrary, David. See, Miss [L/N] is quite a bit like myself. She only dignifies those she deems worthy with a response. There's nothing wrong with being selective."

The lady laughed at David's expense and smiled at you. "Good for you."

You smiled back just a little, not ready to bring your guard down yet. "I've had to deal with more than enough. It's best not to engage."

"Oh, I know, I know." The lady said, shaking her head. "That's how it is for us educated gals. Always having to put up with pigs. See, I went to college in the sixties, so I can tell you some real stories."

This was a new experience. Talking to Hannibal's friends and having them listen to you was something you never considered possible. Now, you were one of the educated gals. You were just about to strike up a conversation with this woman, when the man next to her decided someone desperately needed to play devil’s advocate.

“I find that sexist, actually.” He cut in. “Not all men are pigs.” 

The silence following his comment was deafening and you wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Whatever progress Hannibal and Dr. Ramset made breaking down your defenses was completely reversed and you were ready to retreat.

Dr. Ramset took a long sip of wine and adjusted her shawl. “David, none of us said anything about men, you drew that conclusion yourself.”

“I mean, look at you.” David gestured to your dress. You knew exactly where this was going and you wished you could just disappear. “You’re basically asking for it.” 

Dr. Ramset glared at him. “David, that’s enough.” 

“I’m just stating facts.” David crossed his arms. “If you dress like a slut, what do you expect?”

Dr. Ramset and Hannibal seemed to have an entire conversation through prolonged eye contact before one of them broke the silence. 

"Charlotte, I hate to have to excuse myself so soon, but the president of the university is expecting me." Hannibal said, dropping your hand. Your heart hit the floor when you realized that he would be throwing you to the wolves.

"Of course, Dr. Lecter." She nodded. "Duty calls."

"I trust you'll keep an eye on my beloved [F/N] in my absence?" His voice hardened. The severity in his tone frightened you.

Dr. Ramset didn't seem disturbed or even surprised in the slightest by his gently threatening demand. "Of course."

"Thank you. And [F/N]?" He said, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. "I won't be going far. Please, try to have fun."

You tried not to look affronted, but you were going to have a long talk with Hannibal when you got home. 

"I'm just saying what everyone is thinking." David continued, his inability to take a hint positively astounding. "Why don't you respect yourself enough to cover up, [F/N]? You have a boyfriend!"

Your eyes scrolled across the room looking for any sign of Hannibal, but he was gone. Dr. Ramset finished her wine and stared at her TA with the resigned disgust of a death row jailer.

"Any other thoughts?" She said, snatching a fresh glass of wine. You looked at her with a clear expression of discomfort.

"Come on, do you see any other woman in the room dressed so provocatively?" David's voice broke mid-sentence. "No. Because they're educated enough to know that real men don't care about their bodies."

The hotel clerk approached the group. "Mr. Hosmer, there's a call for you."

David narrowed his eyes. "Uh, what?"

"Someone is on the phone asking for you." The clerk repeated. "Says it's an emergency."

David shrugged. "Fine."

Just when you thought you would be rid of him, at least for a moment, he planted his hands on your hips in attempt to "get by" you. His touch was like that of an insect crawling across your skin; unexpected, filthy and leaving you squeamish.

"I'm so sorry about that." Dr. Ramset's words echoed in your ears, but you didn't really hear them. You were too focused on grounding yourself to process what she was saying. 

“Dr. Ramset?” You said, quietly. “Which one is the president of the university?” 

She glanced at a tall woman in a dark blue suit, surrounded by equally important looking businesspeople. You followed her eyes. “That’s Dr. Mary Hosmer.”

Your ounce of righteous fury was squelched in two seconds when the reality of having to talk to someone, especially someone of stature, set in. You looked sheepishly back at Dr. Ramset. 

“Could you please ask her where Hannibal went?” You whispered. “I’d really like him to take me home now.” 

Her face turned sympathetic. “Of course, [F/N]. Stay right there.” 

You nodded. “Thank you.” 

Dr. Ramset crossed the floor and politely greeted the president. You took a few slow, calculated steps closer, just to get in earshot.

“Pardon me, but, have you seen Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” Dr. Ramset said, casually. 

“I wasn’t aware Hannibal had even arrived yet.” The president answered. “I haven’t seen him.” 

Your eyes widened. You fought the urge to freeze, but you had to move back before Dr. Ramset knew you’d been eavesdropping. You heard everything you needed and rushed back to where she’d left you.

“Dr. Hosmer said he stepped out.” She told you upon her return. “He should be back soon.” 

You tried not to show that you knew she was lying. “...oh.” 

“Would you like me to stay with you until he comes back?” 

You knew you were completely on your own. You didn’t know what was going on, but you had an inkling that it had to do with the president and David sharing a last name. All you knew for certain was that you couldn’t trust anybody. 

“Don’t bother.” You shook your head. You took off for the door, but Dr. Ramset grabbed your wrist. 

“I’m sorry, [F/N].” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. She didn’t look mad, but afraid. “But Dr. Lecter told me to stay with you. Please. Don’t make this harder for me.”

You recalled how seriously threatening Hannibal’s request was. She wasn’t answering to the president of the university. She was answering to Hannibal. You didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved. 

“Right.” You conceded, stepping back in. “I’m sorry.” 

The actual award ceremony was much longer than it needed to be, and it dragged on even longer knowing there was no reason for you to be there. Other than that, you awkwardly followed Dr. Ramset around the party like a lost puppy the whole time. You were back to your original plan: blend in, be quiet and make it through the night. 

Just when you thought the party would never end, someone tapped you on the arm. You turned around, hoping with every fiber of your being that it was Hannibal, but it wasn’t. A tall woman in a dark blue suit stared back at you. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss.” She said, apologetically. “But have you seen my son? I saw him talking to you and Dr. Charlotte earlier, perhaps he told you where he was going?” 

You’d pushed that man completely out of your mind. You shook your head. “He left to take a phone call and I haven’t seen him since.” 

A hand found your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Hosmer, but I believe I saw the boy on his phone out in the lobby.” 

“Dr. Lecter!” The president’s eyes widened. “How nice of you to finally join us.” 

“...Yes, I believe he left right after making unwarranted comments towards my intended here.” Hannibal ran his hand down your arm lovingly. 

“Well, boys will be boys.” The president chuckled. “Maybe you should teach your girlfriend not to wear such revealing clothes.” 

Hannibal smiled and pulled you in protectively. “Whatever the case, I hope you find him very soon.” 

Her phone chimed in her back pocket. “Oh, that’s him right now.” 

“Wonderful.” Hannibal said. “[F/N] and I will be taking our leave.” 

He hurried you towards the door, his hand tight around yours. A blood-curdling scream came from behind you. You looked back for just a moment and found the president hollering in pain and falling to her knees. 

“Let’s go, darling.” Hannibal tugged at your arm. “They don’t deserve your presence.” 

“Hannibal, I swear.” You said, once you were in the safety of the car. “If you killed every man who looked at me like a piece of meat, sooner or later, there won’t be any men left.” 

Hannibal smirked and reached for his seatbelt. “Wonderful.” 

[genderkoolaid]

hi it's physical issues/disability question anon again

so i was wondering if u knew any sorta... pain-reducing tactics? cause some days, if i stand in place for longer than like 2 or 3 minutes my legs and back start to hurt really bad. (i was at the store today with my mom even and i wanted to cry bc my ankles, legs, and back all hurt really bad and i couldn't sit down anywhere) its not all the time but when it does happen it sucks

im not physically disabled, my mom says the pain is bc i never run around/do sports so im lazy, and im only 14 so i guess there's not really a reason for me to be feeling it other than that. but regardless of the reason it still hurts and i was kinda hoping that bc you ARE disabled you might know a thing or two about making life suck less in that department? google's not helpful it's just bringing up, like, "here's what it might mean if you feel X" articles with a bunch of long words i don't know.

thanks in advance and sorry if this is a weird question, have a nice day

Okay first of all, this ask totally triggered my "protective older sibling" response, so anon uhh consider yourself adopted now.

So, before I get to my advice for managing pain, I just want to cover what your mom said. I was actually a similar age when my chronic pain started (a bit younger, I think), and I actually was told something very similar from my then-therapist. I was told that I probably wasn’t getting enough exercise, and that was the reason my legs hurt. Which, uh. Wasn’t the reason. At all. In fact, while I’m not a doctor, I don’t even think that’s how chronic pain works. Older people can get pain from not getting enough exercise, but unless you’ve completely stopped walking altogether? You should not be dealing with chronic pain as a 14 year old. It took me a long time to learn this, but you shouldn’t be feeling any chronic pain. The reason why people complain so much about aches and pains as they age is because when you are young, you are supposed to not feel any pain! Just, like, none! I spent a long ass time thinking “maybe I’m not even disabled, I’m not in that much pain,” when the amount of pain I should have been in was 0. Again, I am not a doctor, but I sincerely doubt that “not running around enough” is the cause of your pain (especially if, like me, you are doing phys ed and/or walking to or from school, in which… that is exercise.)

Additionally, while I can’t tell you how to identify, chronic pain is one of the biggest reasons behind physical disability. You can totally refer to yourself as physically disabled, because there is something physically happening to you which is causing you to suffer and be unable to do things (stand in place, for example). Even if it doesn’t happen all the time, it’s still a disability which impacts your life. Abled children do not have chronic pain, even only on some days. I’d recommend looking into things like fibromyalgia (one of the things I have), juvenile arthritis (what my friend has), and specifically people’s experiences just to see how you relate. It doesn’t mean you for sure have any one disorder, but it could be helpful – you can try checking out tags like #cripplepunk, #spoonie, #actuallydisabled, and #chronically ill. If you can convince your mother to let you see a doctor for the pain, I would. It took me a few years to get my parents to do it and a few more to get diagnosed, and it was largely because of my insistence that something was wrong that I got diagnosed at all. Self-advocacy is a huge skill that disabled people need to develop to be heard and get the help we need, and unfortunately when you are young that can involve having to advocate for yourself to doctors and parents (which, btw, you are totally allowed to be mad about. It took me years to realize I deserved to be pissed off that nobody listened to me).

Now, onto your actual question lmao. Here are some ways I manage my own chronic pain, but if anyone else has ideas please feel free to add them!

Pain medication. Honestly, OTC (over the counter, i.e ibuprofen, tylenol/paracetamol) pain meds are kind of hit or miss for me, but it’s still worth taking them to see how you react to them. If they work, good! You have something that helps! And if they don’t, you can bring that up to your doctors to help them get a better understanding of what’s going on.

Heating pads. I practically carry a heating pad around the house with me, I find them heat to be very helpful with my pain. You can buy them most drug stores or online, but you can also make one at home (my friend taught me to make one by filling a sock with pinto beans and heating it in the microwave. Although I have 0 idea how safe that technically is, but it worked p well for me).

Stretching. I don’t mean this in a “yoga will fix all your issues” way, but doing some stretches could help with your pain. Specifically try looking up stretches for the elderly, because those are generally designed for people with chronic pain and mobility issues. Stiff joints really do not help with chronic pain, so stretching + heating pads can be really helpful for a lot of people.

Weed. Now, you are 14 so I’m not just gonna tell you to go smoke some weed, but a LOT of chronically ill people use weed to treat their pain, including myself, so I feel like it’d be kind of stupid not to mention it as a possibility. Honestly one of the only things that actually takes away my pain temporarily is this CBD cream called Relef, although I’m not sure how easily you could get that or something like it (especially if you don’t live in a place where it’s legal). But I felt I should still put it out there as something which can help with chronic pain, if for no other reason than you may still have pain when you are older and can more easily access THC/CBD products.

Sitting down. For real, just stop standing. There’s a post I’ve seen talking about how if you have issues with standing for periods of time, you can literally just… sit! You may get weird looks in public, but if you need to, sit down, even just straight up on the floor of the store. Ask for a chair if you can, or find somewhere to rest for a little, especially if you’ve been in pain for a while. Or at least lean against something to take the weight off at least one of your legs, if you can’t sit. I’ve been in situations in which I was forced to stand in one place for a while, because my abled family didn’t want to leave an event, and it was absolutely fucking hellish, so I really feel your pain with that – even resting for a little bit can be helpful to make it through until you can sit down for real.

Mobility aids. Again, I’m not sure how easy you could access or use one being a minor with a possibly unaccepting parent, but getting a cane (and later a wheelchair) has been a massive help for me. You can buy canes online and at drug/convenience stores, including ones that fold up. There are also walkers which can also serve as a portable chair. A lot of people worry that they aren’t “disabled enough” to use a mobility aid, and that’s bullshit. If you think it might help, and you have the chance to use one, use it. Plus, you can put sick designs on your mobility aids, which can be really fun to play with. If you live in a place that gets icy there are also things you can put on the bottoms of canes which prevent them from slipping on ice.

Ultimately, I just hope that you put yourself first and don’t let any adults make you feel like your issues aren’t serious or real. Being young and realizing you might have a disability can be scary enough, and when you have people older than you insisting it’s “just X,” or that you are overreacting, it can feel really embarrassing to think of yourself as disabled or keep trying to get help. But you deserve to be listened to, you deserve help, even if it was “just not getting enough exercise”. I spent far too much of my childhood feeling ashamed of being in pain, desperate for someone to listen to me, and I don’t want anyone else to have to go through that if I can help it. If you have any other questions or even just want to vent, please feel free to shoot me another ask.

[blacksunscorpio]

Lunae Plenae Rosea Scorpius

First super moon of the astrological new year is here, stargazers. On April 27th, the Pink Moon will reach peak lunation at 1:31 PM. Supermoons gravitationally orbit closer to Earth: meaning? Their effects are felt more potently. This will be the situation for most, if not all of us this coming Tuesday. The sign this lunation will be in is the enigmatic and deeply emotional sign of Scorpio. Ruled by Pluto, lord of the 8th house of death, sex, transformation, and rebirth. In addition, the moon will be forming a strong opposition to a stellium in Scorpio’s opposite sign, Taurus. The Sun, Mercury, Venus, Uranus, and Black Moon Lilith to be exact. I know, it’s a heavy-hitter. But the only way out is through, lol. Just expect to feel things on an intense level.

Perhaps you’re feeling them already?

All 12 to 13 Full Moons of the yearly wheel bring an energy of release, culmination, and blossoming: they symbolize the zenith of the lunar cycle. Full moons shine a light on things that were previously unconscious: our emotions rear their heads and revelations consume us. Now, because this moon is swimming in the house of the unconscious and the hidden- the “existential” if you will, prepare to deal with a few complex emotions. For us astrophiles who have Scorpio/8th house placements or Taurean placements I.E Sun/Moon/Rising/Venus/Mars [and Jupiter], expect to be directly affected by this phase. Scorpio is a rather notorious sign, and for understandable reasons. It’s the pit of our gut that houses all the things we bury in our subconscious. Because its engine is transformation, it’s the sign that you can’t hide from. Have you been feeling at a proverbial “crossroads? Don’t trip, that’ natural. But be prepared to face long-hidden issues and questions you weren’t planning on facing. There may be a decision to cut ties with a lover- family member- or friend. Change a contract. Change cities. Change jobs. Pluto will make you question and process this on a psychological level. Pluto/Scorpio mirrors back what you’d rather ignore and forces you to grow from it. With the earthy and sensuous sign Taurus, ruled by Venus in the mix, expect abundance and sex- things very much about the senses to be involved as well.

What One Might Experience During this Lunar Cycle

Tension

Old resentments resurfacing

Resistance

Release

Increase in libido- your relationship with sex might deepen [Black moon Lilith opposing the moon]

Sexual organs being more sensitive [this includes health}

Hot blooded-and passionate reactions from a crush or a lover

 Sacral chakra issues being triggered

Reprogramming of beliefs

Life-altering information [Uranus is about shake-ups so expect a few to hit out of the blue]

Slytherin-like behavior from those around you [Is someone around you being deceitful/opportunistic? Coworker? Boss? Contractor?]

Existential crises- you may have some of these deep conversations with those close to you

Heightened perceptivity [Uranus opposing the moon]

Spiritual sensitivity

Brutal honesty [coming from you or towards you- remember Mercury is in opposition to this moon]

Nostalgia

Vivid and Clairvoyant dreams

Tips on How to Handle This Energy

This moon [and Sun] is also forming a T-square to Saturn in Aquarius, so though it may seem like we’re getting hit full-tilt, you have the power to change your own reality and take full control. Playing chess, not checkers. First step is to:

Release unhealthy attachments

Release guilt- Sacral chakra is about pleasure and joy. It is blocked by feelings of guilt.

Do sacral chakra work  [Especially Leos, Sags, Scorpios, Taureans, and Arians (whose 8th house is being affected)]

Release seeking approval

Release low vibrational thoughts of yourself

Confront those you’ve been too afraid to approach for the sake of peace. Now more than ever is the time to address any wounds so you can reach a place of balance interpersonally. If not, these feelings may resurface in uglier ways.

Get things in order [bills (Taurus rules 2nd house of money, material possessions, resources, values), paperwork, assignments, etc. Be sure to hit deadlines]

Document the occurrences, thoughts, symbols & dreams that occur during those 24 hours before and after the full moon occurs in a journal.

Eat or drink Something with Basil infused. Basil has a sacred association with Mars [Scorpios ruler]. On my mother’s island, we soak it in water for 3 days then sprinkle the water over the threshold of our homes/business to bring in abundance and keep away thieves [This works for any thief, be it of the material or emotional nature]

.Meditation- some of these will feel more transcendental due to the moon’s energy Sage- Sage is also an herb associated with the sign of Scorpio. It strips and cleanses. It will help purge whatever unwanted energies might linger.

Anything triggered on the Taurus Supermoon on Tuesday will be things to take note of and reexamine during Scorpio season’s Lunar Eclipse, November 19th with the Full Moon in Taurus.

It’s inevitable we’ll be feeling raw, emotionally supercharged, and a bit vulnerable with this upcoming lunar event. Some of you may want to get down right buck and start a fight. Vengeful at the thought of those who hurt you in the past. Hey, Scorpio is a quite revengeful sign- try and be mutable to the energy. And be smart about whatever you do. If you’re gonna tap into plutonic energy, at least be a tactician about it. With that being said, just because there’s all this intensity in store doesn’t mean that some of it won’t be for the better. Again, Scorpio ruled the 8th house and Taurus rules the 2nd. Give and take on a resource level are guaranteed. Many can expect a windfall, promotion, or job offer. A confession of love or remorse may come your way as well. Pluto is about transformation. With Uranus, planet of the unexpected in the mix it may come as a surprise [even though I’m tipping you off]. Regardless, because of the subconscious issues that will be unearthed, it’s imperative to mind your self-worth. Monitor what you’re telling yourself when no one’s around. Prioritize self-care. Re-evaluate if you’ve been stuck in a routine that’s made you a pawn instead of the Kings and Queens you are.

Wake up, brush your teeth, coffee work, traffic, home, sleep- repeat?

Take your power back in relationships [Moon = emotion] and dissect and analyze where you may not have advocated for yourself or honored your value [Taurus]. Balance [the opposition] is required. Rest, recuperate, and put yourself first.

[vkelleyart]

Thoughts on fandom: inclusion and engagement.

(Art credit to the kindhearted @penpanoply​!)

There’s been some stuff floating around on Tumblr about strife in the CO/WS fandom, and though I haven’t been explicitly named-dropped on anything public, my DMs have been... active. lol Rather than rehash what’s been said already, I just want to impart a little wisdom and perspective in the hopes it may soothe frayed feelings and offer a way ahead for cultivating a respectful community. As someone who has been an active participant in online fandoms since the mid-’90s, which was the advent of online fandom content creation (shout out to my fellow X-Philes!), and who has also spent a chunk of her professional life managing social media for the federal government and for activist groups, I can promise you it’s all gonna be okay.

Here’s some context for why strife happens and what we can do to create a more inclusive and communicative fandom environment. 

1) It sounds cliché, but fandoms go through growing pains. 

In the case of the Simon Snow fandom, what was once a small and cozy space untouched by cataclysmic events (such as the release of *gasp* a sequel) has grown exponentially in a relatively short amount of time following the release of Wayward Son. Newcomers are eager to find a home in this space at the same time as folks who’ve been here a while may be consciously or unconsciously wary about widening their circle, and It’s important to remember that this is not necessarily an expression of bad behavior on either side but just human psychology doing its thing. 

The byproduct, however, is that tension and stress builds over time from the lack of meaningful communication across the divide, which subsequently fuels misunderstandings. Ironically, the interfaces we use to communicate don’t help with this because any existing communication about the tension happens in tiny vacuums until a trigger goes off and bad feelings go public. 

Way Ahead: These moments of destabilization are opportunities to see where we can be more self aware about how we engage with fandom and the kind of community we want to be. Can you promote, support, or befriend someone trying to gain a foothold? If yes, please do! Each person must reach their own decision about what they can do within the confines of their available energy, health, and time, but a little self awareness goes a long way as long as you’re honest with yourself and others if applicable about what you can contribute. Anyone who judges you for it isn’t worth the strife.

2) In a fandom comprised of vulnerable/marginalized people, it’s more accurate to say that cliques are “bubbles of trust.”

This one's important. Just by nature of the source material, the CO/WS fandom includes fans with a wide array of backgrounds and experiences, especially when it comes to those who identify with the characters’ queerness, mental illness, and/or trauma. I really believe––based on individual conversations/group chats––that the difficult lived experiences that so many of our fandom peers have endured has produced one of the most open, aware, and accepting fandoms I’ve had the pleasure of participating in. Our vulnerability is, in a real way, our strength.

That said, a community of survivors also has the side effect of cultivating small circles of engagement that I call “bubbles of trust.” When you’re a survivor of abuse, marginalization, mental illness, fill-in-the-blank, it’s often quite hard to risk casting a wide net and expanding your circle to include new faces––which can subsequently be internalized by equally sensitive and vulnerable newcomers as rejection, judgement, or inadequacy.

Way Ahead: First of all, there may indeed be gatekeeping and exclusion going on. But before internalizing someone’s cagey behavior as gatekeeping or purposely exclusionary, ask yourself if you have all the information. Many people are private (I include myself in this assessment) because life has regrettably taught them to be this way, and so they may insulate themselves to a small group of people who have earned their trust. Some people might also triggered by certain content (case in point: smut triggers my anxiety) so they don’t engage with it. Others might have something in their pasts that define how they handle certain subjects (for example, a person of color should not be tone policed for getting angry when confronted with a racialized microagression, however accidental it was). You just don’t know what you don’t know. 

The solution here is to regularly check your privilege and ask questions in a private space if you sense you’re being treated unfairly by someone. If you go public with your grievances in hopes of mobilizing the mob, you may accidentally find yourself stepping into the role of the aggressor instead of the victim.

3) Social Media is not built to help you get engagement. It’s built to help itself make money off of you.

Repeat after me: Hits/likes are not a measurable indicator of talent or worth. There are ridiculously talented folks on Tumblr and elsewhere who, for whatever reason, haven’t had their viral moment, and it’s not their fault. Loads of factors come into play where things like likes, reblogs, and comments are concerned, among them being posting frequency, subject matter, the time of day, the day of the week, the week of the month, the month of the year, the current administration, the stock exchange, the concentration of middle class users, who just won the Superbowl, a madman trying to steal an election and undermine the democratic process, a PANDEMIC, do you get where I’m going with this?? lol

At the end of the day, my humble successes have been helped along by good luck, good timing, high profile signal boosters, and an absurd amount of work. (This is why I try to signal boost new work whenever I get a chance over at @vkelleyshares.) 

So while you cannot control Tumblr’s interface, trends at large, or your fellow users, here’s what you can do to ensure you give your work the best possible chance of exposure.

Have an image ready to go with your post. Tumblr is a visual platform (no matter what it says about being good for text). Not good with images? Set up a Canva.com account and get access to free graphic software with a gazillion templates to create whatever attractive image you want to attach to your post.

Keep the outward facing text brief and easy on the eyes. Too long and eyes will glaze over. Put excess text behind a “read more.”

You may think you’re being cute when you do this, but don’t put yourself down in your posts. (Don’t put yourself down in general, of course.) Doing so acts as engagement repellant. If you don’t believe in your work, no one else will.

Related: Be your best cheerleader. Confidence is a magnet, and if you don’t have it, go ahead and fake it until you start to convince yourself you are worth the buzz. So promote yourself! You have gifts that only you can impart. Use that knowledge to fuel everything you do from your art/fiction writing to your outreach with other content creators, and by golly, if someone’s done it already, acknowledge that contribution and then tell the world that this is YOUR unique take on it.

Treat your fellow fandom creators as human beings, not art/fiction/content boosting machines. I cannot count how many times I’ve had folks slide into my DMs with offers of friendship only to disappear once they realize I’m not available to draw a picture for their fic. It hurts because it’s manipulative and it makes me want to hole up and not signal boost anyone. Creators who truly support each other will not give off a transactional vibe. I want to help you reach more people, but not if that’s all I’m good for in your eyes. 

The long and short of it: Lead with compassion, do your best with the opportunities at  your disposal, and remember that fandom belongs to everyone in it. ❤️

What saves a fandom made of sensitive and vulnerable souls from imploding when it goes through growing pains is radical compassion from those who can offer it. Begin with the assumption that your fellow fandomers are not trying to harm you, and wade into the water knowing that your insight into the lives of your peers is limited by default and you may need to temper your words or actions accordingly. If you’re a content creator, save compassion for yourself as well, as there are indeed challenges to gaining an audience, and lack of engagement does not mean you lack talent or skill. Be your best advocate, and if you have the bandwidth to lift up a fellow creator and make a new friend, please, go ahead do it! 

And finally, fandom belongs to everyone, and no one has a monopoly on characters, tropes, or themes. Create and consume what you love (with respect for your more vulnerable peers), and bask in the variety, my friends!

That’s all I’ve got in my head at the moment, although I’m sure there’s more I’m forgetting. Thanks so much to @penpanoply for letting me use her art for this and to everyone else, hang in there and try not to judge each other too harshly. These are unprecedented times, and most of us are doing our best in circumstances that are pushing us to our limits. 

As always, if you have questions or want to sound off on anything, shoot me a message or an ask, or ping me on Discord. It might take me a second to respond (thanks, Covid) but I’ll get to it! Love, love, and more love to all.