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endless-ineffabilities · 3 months ago

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my man of the year

Ewan Mitchell x girlfriend!reader

a/n: just a little something for the Ewan girlies, because in this GQ party, we are all fam 💙

main masterlist

You attend the GQ Men of the Year 2024 party with your boyfriend.

You watch in admiration as Davey makes the final tweaks to Ewan's outfit for the event—a suit tailored to perfection, its velvet material snug against his lean form. A classic piece, but sporting some eccentricities that have become essential in the Mitchell-Sutton style partnership.

The velvet suit, not in the usual black or blue, also has a textured high notch and lapels, making him look like some kind of an 80s-flick vampire.

Your gaze sweeps from his polished shoes up to his face, finding that he's watching you in the reflection as he stands in front of the mirror.

He tries turning around to see you better, causing Davey's hand to fall from his shoulder as he was pinning something in place. "Ewan, mate. Save the ogling for later, yeah? Let me finish this first."

Ewan sighs dramatically, like a kid who's been asked to stand in the corner. "Okay."

You giggle softly, shaking your head at the scene. "Ewan, listen to Davey now."

You share a look with Davey, knowing smiles on your lips. Ewan, am I right?

"I just want to look at my girlfriend," Ewan complains.

"Look at me?" you question. "Look at you, handsome! You're my man of the year, every damn year."

"C'mere, babe."

"Ewan, don't move until Davey—."

"I won't move. But come here and give me a kiss."

"Fine." You get up from your comfortable position on the seat. Might as well oblige your boyfriend, the GQ honouree. Just the thought of it makes you so giddy with pride.

Rising onto your tiptoes, you rest your chin gently on his shoulder, batting your eyelashes as he leans his head against yours.

"There's my girl," he purrs, wrapping his free arm around your waist and Davey works on the sleeve on the other.

Then he kisses you, mindful to stay perfectly still. Only his lips move, pillowy as they caress yours. You would have to reapply your lipstick after this.

When he cheekily snakes his tongue out, you pull back, giving him an incredulous shake of your head. "Stand down, handsome."

"Oh, don't worry about me, sweetheart," Davey reassures you. "Maybe we should let Ewan have his way. Poor guy looks like he's about to explode."

You all share a laugh.

A minute later, he's all ready. Davey snaps photos of him alone, then shifts to capture the two of you together. He even manages a few that feel like classic prom poses, with Ewan's arms around you from behind.

The rest of the night is a blur of lights and glamour, and the warmth of Ewan's hand on your back quells your nerves as you step onto the red carpet.

The cameras are everywhere, a sea of flashes and shouting for you to, look here, look here!

Ewan keeps you close the entire time, steering you through it all. You can feel that he's anxious too but he's a steady presence by your side. He used to need a crutch like cigarettes or gum to deal with the chaos of such public events, but when you're with him, the noise is silenced.

It's just you and him against the world.

When his arm tightens around you, you jokingly remark, "Didn't peg you for the clingy type, babe."

He glances down, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Just making sure you don't run off with some other dashing celebrity."

An idea pops up in your head. He makes it all too easy. You let out a shaky gasp, "Wait, is that Pedro Pascal over there?"

"Where?" he asks sharply, distracted.

"By the big GQ sign. Don't make it obvious, though!" you whisper, as if you're entirely serious.

He squints, scanning the sea of people coming through the red carpet, until he realizes… there's no Pedro. Not yet, at least.

He turns to you with a playful glare, his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. "You think you're funny, don't you, baby?"

You give your best wide-eyed, innocent look. "Who, me?"

"You're asking for it," he whispers close to your ear so the cameras don't catch it.

You only laugh as he pulls you closer, giving your waist another possessive squeeze.

"And what exactly are you gonna do about it?" you ask.

"Guess you'll have to find out after we're done here."

When he kisses you, you both know that the resulting pictures are going to flood the gossip sites, fan pages, and everything in between as soon as the next day. But neither of you care.

He makes sure that there's no mistaking who he came with that night.

And you would never tire of showing everyone just who your boyfriend is. You could scream it from the rooftops.

He doesn't need GQ to tell him he's one of the honourees of the year.

All he needs is you by his side to feel like he's truly won.

#ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell imagine #gq moty #aemond targaryen #my man of the year #house of the dragon #hotd

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wandasaura · 4 months ago

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DRESS

summary — when the dress you wear to wanda’s halloween party catches the eye of a few too many people, natasha’s left with no other choice than to punish you

warning(s) — light elements of dom/sub dynamics, nipple torture/stimulation, thigh grinding, clothed sex, tit slapping, dirty talk, begging, pussy slap, orgasm denial, men/minors dni

kinktober

In retrospect, you definitely shouldn’t have worn your tightest, shortest, skimpiest black dress to Wanda’s dinner party when you know she loves to check you out without regard for whose around, but the soft satin had called your name the second your eyes had fallen on it hanging so tantalizingly in your shared closet with Natasha. It had been an impulsive, very expensive purchase for your three year anniversary, and truthfully, it hadn’t seen many nights out since. Probably because Natasha couldn’t keep her hands off of you when it hugged your body just right, and her friends couldn’t keep their eyes off of your chest, especially not when you dressed the swell of your breasts in the finest gold body glitter, your neck decorated with a dainty gold chain that practically begged for attention.

It was her annual halloween dinner party, one filled with festive cocktails made by Agatha, some of them involving rubber spiders that gave you the chills just thinking about, and dry ice flowing out of bowls of questionably green liquor. Wanda threw an amazing party, especially when she had a theme to stick with, but this year, your fourth year going as Natasha’s date, you had more or less signed up to be the main attraction without realizing. Natasha had realized. She’d known what kind of attention you were in for the second you met her at the bottom of the stairs, your hair curled and brushed out over your shoulders, your dark eyeliner sleek and captivating almost as much as your bold red lip, but you had been ignorantly unaware of how when you bent over, your ass hung out of the bottom of your dress, or how your nipples pebbled against the satin material and allowed an easily made visual of your perky breasts for anyone to fantasize. There wasn’t any time for you to change, not that she would ever ask that of you, but as the night drew on longer, her jealousy rivaled the color of the punch; green and passionately dominant.

A soft mewl fell off of your lips as her fingers pinched and prodded at your nipples through the thin material of your dress, her front flush against yours, her hands pinned between your warm bodies that had slipped into your apartment ever so drunkenly. You’d both had your fair share of cocktails, never able to resist Agatha’s creations, they were truly something magical, but as your sobriety diminished, replaced by intoxicated careless energy, the hem of your dress wrinkled higher and higher up your thighs until Wanda had been the one to pull it down, right in sight of Natasha who bristled with anger.

Her delicate black suit was a wrinkled masterpiece beneath your desperate fingers, lapels gripped between your painted black nails as your hips ground down on the slack covered thigh she so meticulously placed between your trembling legs, flush against your core that was covered by only a thin strip of sodden lace. Breathless moans fell into the air as you chased your pleasure, head thrown back against the bedroom door she’d pinned you to impatiently. Your bed lay unmade a few feet away, but Natasha had no interest in laying you down and spreading you out. So much of your body had been seen already, so much teasing had already been done, she’d had enough of it, it was her turn to return the favor.

Her skin was littered with the shade of your lipstick, a collage of your affection and arousal painted across her skin in sloppy kiss marks, her neck bearing the majority of the evidence. A sharp whine shattered your composure when she flexed her thigh just right, angled so perfectly against your core that your clit had been the thing that felt her muscle tense just right. Her fingers worked at your nipples, never slipping beneath the satin material that was slowly falling down your shoulders and revealing more of your breasts that glimmered beneath the eerie moonlight of October.

“Do you know what you do to me?” She growled against the shell of your ear, your sensitive lobe pinched between her teeth as she husked against you possessively. Rarely did you give her a reason to be so possessive, wrapped around her finger near embarrassingly so, yet whenever Wanda was around, somehow it was unavoidable. “Wearing this dress, those heels. God, I wanted to take you over the island so bad. They were all looking at you anyways; at these tits, that ass– I should've given them a show, made it worth all the stares. Should’ve let them hear the way you whine when I play with your pretty nipples, when that desperate cunt gets some attention. Would you like that, baby? Showing them just how much I own this perfect body?” The pinching and twisting had turned to full on groping, her palms creating friction against your pebbled buds as she squeezed your breasts with both hands, uncaring for how cruel her touch was, nor how desperate you were for more.

“Y-Yes!” Your desperate moans and pleading whimpers had only grown louder, reverberating off the walls dressed in pictures of both you and Natasha during various stages of your relationship, driving her own desperation higher, pulling her beneath your alluring hex. “God please, please don’t stop! Nat!” You moaned softly, your eyes pinched shut as you allowed your head to fall forward, uncaring for how your lips marked her suit with dark patches of red, just needing her close as you felt the tension of pleasure building so steadily in your belly it was bound to break soon.

“I won’t baby. Not yet. Not until I’m done with you. Not until I’ve reminded this pretty body of who it belongs to.” There had been no warning for the distance that came between your chests in the seconds that followed her admission of possession, but it made sense when her palm collided with the satin covering your sensitive breasts, the padded slap ringing through the room almost as blindingly as the sensation of pleasurable pain that sparked through your belly. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as you rocked harder against her thigh, desperate for her to take you to bed, to undress you hungrily and uncover the lingerie that that dug into your hip bones and marked their claim; her claim. You’d bought for her, thought of her when you slipped it on. They were an extension of her ownership and nothing less, and desperately you wanted to feel her beneath it.

“Off. Please. Take my dress off. Touch me. Please.” You begged so sweetly she almost wanted to give in, but she had to punish you, there was a lesson to be learned, and she had you so pliant beneath her hands there was no greater time than now.

“Oh no, baby. You wanted to wear this dress. You let everybody see how good you look in it. I’m gonna make you feel so good, so so good, but we’re not taking it off. It stays on until I’m done.” She husked against the shell of your ear, her teeth tugging at your earlobe as she rocked her thigh against you, adding friction that had stars being painted across your vision. A delicate whimper fell into the air, soft and impatient as you ground down against her, desperate for more, but already so impossibly close. Another slap came to your other breast, the same stinging pleasurable sensation, and that was it. That was what you needed. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she hadn’t even really touched you at all, that your panties stuck grossly to your folds that were sodden with sticky ropes of tantalizing arousal. She’d pushed you to your end, tightened that blissful coil impossibly so.

“Oh! Oh! I’m cumming! I’m gonna cum! I–” It was gone. Her warmth, her delicious touch on your nipples, her thigh between your leg pressed flush against your core. It was gone, but that coil wasn’t, and desperately your hips moved to an uneven rhythm against the cold air, searching for friction that wasn’t there. “No! No, I– I was so close! Nat, I was so close!” The words fell off of your tongue in pathetic sobs of dismay and defeat, your body threatening to grumble as that addictive sensation ebbed away, leaving only a dull pulsing in your clit and emptiness in your pulsating hole. You could feel the effects of the denial, the disappointment and dissatisfaction, but everything white hot and pleasurable was gone, leaving only the distaste of nothingless left for you to grasp. “Please.” You hated this sensation each time she brought it forward, and she knew that.

“Oh no baby, you don’t get to cum tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But tonight, you’re just going to have to try and ignore how that feels. I bet its so achey, sweet girl. I bet its just dull enough that if you think about something else, you won’t feel it at all, but you’re such a desperate girl, so eager for me, you can’t think about anything else. Can you? Can you think about anything else baby, or is that needy cunt doing all the thinking for you?” As if to accentuate her point, her hand slipped beneath your dress for the first time that night, cupping your cunt, grinding her fingers against your clit, probing at your entrance until you were nearly weeping for her again. It wasn’t gone so easily this time, because when she went to pull away, when you thought you were losing everything for the second time, her palm slapped against your core, the sound wet and harsh against the silence of your bedroom. A weak moan fell off your lips, your hips, with a mind of their own, attempting to grind down on her fingers, addicted to the sharp sparks of pain she caused, but she was gone again, and again you were left with only a beating in your sensitive clit that wouldn’t be taken care of. “Maybe tomorrow.” Is all that she left you with before she disappeared into the closet, the sound of her pants hitting the floor indicative of what she was doing; going to bed. You were needy, and desperate for pleasure, and she was just going to bed.

Not wanting to argue, not wanting to draw this out for longer than necessary, you followed her motions, slipping off the dress, and then the lingerie that you had hoped she’d be the one to take off, and crawling into bed with only the thought of ‘maybe tomorrow’ on your mind.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #dom!natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff fic #[ kinktober ] — ⟡#minors dni ৎ୭

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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take me home, country road

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 2) part 1

The solid hand at your back guides you through the dusty streets towards the courthouse in the middle of town. It’s not an easy walk. Your shoes catch on the skirt of your dress a handful of times in Price’s haste, each time almost causing you to tumble forward before you manage to catch yourself.

It’s patently unfair. The strides of his long legs would easily have you losing him in a crowd were it not for the way he refuses to leave you behind; every time you so much as slow down a tad to catch your breath, the firm hand on your low back presses you forward again. You’d be snippier if you weren’t still addled from the events of just five minutes previous.

“I beg you, please—” you plead, heart skittering in your chest when you chance a glance up to find Price’s face set. Everything about him feels purposeful now, driven. “If you just—if you would just let me explain!”

“Nothing more to know, darling,” he says, not bothering to meet your desperate eyes. Clearly not in any mood to continue arguing with you on the status of your identity.

He tugs you along when he takes a right turn down a road leading into the center of town. The belt of bullets around his waist rattles with every step. It’s a constant reminder of who you’re with and why you should not be with him. Every step feels like a step towards your own sentencing, like accompanying your jailer to your cell. It’s perhaps fool’s luck that the sheriff hasn’t inquired further into your identity or your reason for coming into town. Makes you think that perhaps there isn’t yet a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe that’s only to come.

“Sure there’s more!” you insist. “There’s—there’s—” It’s like the words fly right out of your head, bucked off like a bronc rider. Too much has happened in too short a time. “There’s the matter of—oh, would you quit that, I am walking!” The last bit comes out snappish, peeved as Price pulls you towards the stone steps of a red-bricked building.

The words County Court House are inscribed above the second-story door girdled by a wrought iron balcony. It’s a simple building, far from the colonnaded buildings from back home with their cupolas and hand-carved lintels. Even in size it hardly compares, a meager three stories with perhaps a basement. Still, it catches the eye in a town as small as this, by far the most imposing building for miles around.

It’s also the one he pulls you towards, hand moving from the small of your back to take firm hold of your waist. You flinch at the touch and the way his fingers dig in, almost proprietarily. It’s a physical shock to your system. While you’re not unaccustomed to the rougher ways of men, you’ve also been largely shielded from it yourself. By chance or fortune or luck. Men may take an attitude with you, as they’re wont to do, but none have yet manhandled you the way Price feels free to do.

“Take a big step there now, darling,” he says, lifting the front of your dress for you a tad, to your shock. “No accidents before the wedding.”

“The wedding?” you shriek, face heating at the heads that turn to look over at the two of you.

The courthouse is bustling with townsfolk, still not as busy as in the bigger cities back east, but still clearly at the center of all business activities. The few people that pass you by on the way out of or into the courthouse are bold in their perusal, eyebrows lifting when they take notice of Price at your side—and how could they not, with the size of him and the badge pinned to the lapel of his vest that glimmers when it catches the light.

“If you were expecting something grander, you should’ve turned up last month when I sent for you,” Price says, stern again. In the foyer of the courthouse, you can see the way the long hallway cuts through the building, leading into the adjacent rooms until finally culminating with the courtroom at the very back. You watch as a man slowly closes the door to the last door, shutting the occupants in. “Might’ve been more amenable to it then.”

“I’m not asking for a nicer ceremony—”

“Good, then you won’t be disappointed.”

“—but that’s because I’m not the woman that you intended to marry in the first place,” you finish, quieting to a hissed whisper, conscious of those still lingering close enough to eavesdrop. In all likelihood, the other people milling around probably already know that the sheriff has been waiting for his mail order bride to arrive. They wouldn’t be the first people to mistake you for her.

He pulls you into an alcove off the side of the foyer. When Price turns to face you, no longer just the heavy presence at your side, it takes a moment for you to gather your bearings. He seems larger somehow, with his arms crossed over his chest and feet rooted into the floor, drawn up to his full height. The hair on his forearms draws your eyes momentarily before he steps into your space, forcing you to meet his eyes again.

He stares down at you with an intensity that makes you flinch. “Now, far be it for me to say that I know my wife-to-be by her demeanor alone, given that we’ve hardly corresponded beyond our initial agreement. But I find it mighty strange that a single, unaccompanied woman would show up in town with all of her earthly belongings as I’m expecting my own woman to show up any day. Hardly seems coincidental.”

“Don’t you think I would have sought you out if we were intended to wed?” you ask beseechingly. “Or that I would put up such a fuss now? What sort of bride would do that?”

“You want to know what I think, darling?” The timber of his voice deepens as he lowers his head slightly, wrapping the conversation in a layer of intimacy despite its public nature. There’s a darker note to his voice now, a thinly-veiled anger. “I think you’ve been keeping yourself housed and fed off the back of men like me and the money you’ve been sent to compensate for the rough journey. I think your guilty conscience brought you here because you know that the Lord doesn’t look too kindly on swindlers and thieves.”

“I’m not a thief,” you hiss in protest, affronted. Ironic that you’d be insulted by his words when the truth is far worse.

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Price permits, a reluctant softness in his voice. “But your conscience did you right. Marriage will suit you far better than a life of crime ever could.”

If only he knew. “You’ve still got it all wrong—I’ve never once even glanced at the matrimonial pages or the personals. And I certainly didn’t come to town expecting to be wed.”

You did, however, arrive in town with a guilty conscience. Even you’re wise enough not to mention that, though.

“Then if you're not her, who are you?” he asks.

It’s clear from his tone that Price doesn’t believe you, but the question itself makes you antsier than even the thought of marrying this man. He still stares down at you in challenge, an eyebrow cocked. If you wanted to, you could easily answer his question and even furnish proof—a letter from an aunt or uncle or a telegram from a previous employer.

That last thought makes your throat squeeze tight. You could furnish proof, but at what cost? You’re still unclear on how much information has been disseminated or whether you're a wanted woman. Though only weeks have passed since the event that caused you to flee in a haste, there’s no telling whether a warrant has been put out for your arrest, no telling whether word has reached a town this far west.

“Not that it matters, but I’m from New York,” you say, scrunching up your nose.

The look he gives you is unimpressed. “I’m sure you lost the accent on the train ride.”

Embarrassment makes you dig your heels in deeper. “I didn’t grow up there, it’s just where I’ve lived for the past few years.”

“And what’s your name?”

“…Elizabeth Smith.”

It’s the first name that occurs to you, but the moment the words come out of your mouth, you can’t help feeling like you’ve made a huge mistake. Price must sense it too because he draws back up to his full height, lips twitching into a small smirk.

“You have family or a post back in New York, Miss Smith?” he asks in a patronizing tone.

“Family.”

“Alright, then it shouldn’t be too hard to get confirmation and settle this whole issue.” He points behind you to one of the unoccupied rooms. “Telegraph’s office just behind you. We’ll get in touch with the Census Bureau and ask them to confirm your identity. And, if you are who you say you are, Miss Smith, then we can put this issue to rights.”

Your blood goes cold. “That’ll—that’ll take time though. I can’t marry you today if they only get back to you in a week’s time.”

Price nods, his expression dissatisfied but resolved. “Wouldn’t be proper for you to stay at the house either, but I’ll make sure the inn lets you stay free of charge until this is settled. You’ll be in good hands under the Pattersons’ watch.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear the implication in his words. You’d be essentially under house arrest, perhaps free to move about town, but certainly not free to take the next train out.

Your pulse thumps nervously at the base of your throat. Even swallowing takes effort now. The weight of his stare takes root in you, a living coil in your belly. No getting out of it. There’s no getting out of this. You don’t know why you thought you could, how you tricked yourself into thinking for even a moment that a man as formidable as the one set in front of you would simply give in. Let you go. You’ve hardly even moved the needle.

It’s there still in his eyes. Not even doubt—something quite far past that. Certainty.

“‘Elizabeth Smith of New York’, was it? Come, we’ll have them start the message and you can give me your birthday as well so it’ll be an easy find—” Price says, attempting to slip around you to head to the telegraph’s office.

“No.”

It slips out of you inadvertently, high and panicked. He pauses at the word. More than just your words. When you look down, you notice your fingers clenched in the fabric of his sleeve, bringing him to a halt. It pulls taut against the muscle of his forearm.

Softness bleeds back into him at your touch. You can see it smooth out the lines of his forehead and the jut of his brow. He ignores the onlookers still hovering by the double doors to twist back to you, now obscuring their view of you. The breadth of his shoulders nearly blocks the rest of the foyer from sight when he looms over you like this. Down the hall, you can hear a gavel pound down on wood and a litany of raised voices in unison from behind a shut door.

“You don’t have to make up stories,” Price murmurs, drawing a hand up to cup your cheek, holding it like a precious thing. “I told you before—all’s forgiven.”

His words remind you of being trapped in his office, drawers stripped down your ankles and skirt pulled up to your waist. Your bottom still smarts from the palm of his hand, still hot and sore to the touch. It’s hardly been long since then and yet it feels like an age ago, like trying to find your way in a dust storm.

You open and shut your mouth, lost for a way out. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Marriage or a jail cell. You swallow. Both sound like a sentencing.

But there are the cold, metal bars of a cell, and then there’s John Price. The first man in an age to elicit more than a passing glance from you. Deep blue eyes crinkled with the folds of old laughter, wide shoulders, and barrel chest. In another time, you think you would’ve jumped at the chance to be courted by a man like him. Keeled over at the very thought of being chased the way he hunts you down now.

“Alright,” you say instead, giving in. The hand fisting his sleeve shakes. “Alright.”

It’s not a pleasant giving in. Your permission is handed over with shot nerves. The coil bunched up in your core burns white hot, hissing and spitting like a rattlesnake.

Still, when he drags a thumb over the slope of your cheek, you fight not to let your eyelids flutter shut. “Good girl. We’ll make it work, love. Won’t be easy, but it never is.”

You don’t anticipate that it will be, but your mouth stays shut. Price must think you mollified, soothed rather than resigned to your fate, because he passes his thumb once more over your cheekbone, this time so tenderly that you wait for his lips to descend upon yours again, sure from the heat in his eyes that he won’t be able to keep from stealing another kiss. You lick your lips out of habit—not just to see the way his eyes follow the motion.

Then the door at the back of the building bursts open to a cacophony of shouts and hollering voices. The moment broken, Price drops his hand away from your cheek, only to take your hand in his this time, pulling you down the hall towards the register’s to await the circuit preacher. He makes you walk on the side closest to the wall, shielding you from the men that burst out of the courtroom, surging towards the doors. You think that someone must have been found guilty because the lot of them look joyous, clamoring over each other for attention.

You think that you might be spared another minute or two, enough time for them to clean up and reset the courtroom, but you’re shocked to find the circuit preacher ready to conduct the ceremony in the cramped register’s office. He and Price shake hands enthusiastically, the preacher turning to you to grasp your hands in welcome before turning back to the sheriff. They have a camaraderie that speaks of old friendship.

The cramped room where you’re married smells of patchouli and moth wings, like holes burrowed into sweaters at the back of a closet. The bookshelves along the walls are stacked with books old enough that you know they’d crinkle deliciously if opened. You try to listen as the preacher begins the introductory prayer. Behind you, another man slips into the room, a witness. He hardly bothers to introduce himself for such a brief affair.

You haven’t been to many weddings, but you always imagined that yours—if you were privileged enough to have one—might have more fanfare. The wedding you actually get is a brusque affair, a brief recital of vows that ends only when the preacher enjoins Price to kiss his wife.

His wife.

Your eyes go wide when a hand flattens along your spine and pulls you into a hard chest, John dipping his head down to kiss your mouth again. His kiss is less chaste this time, not restricted by convention as earlier. This time, his tongue licks hot into your mouth, like no kiss you’ve ever had before, beard scratching your face. His mouth tastes like something you’ve never had before, like heatburst. Hot and wet. Soft and suckling. Any kiss you’ve had before pales in comparison—juvenile fumbling, all dry and half-humiliated, unsure of yourself. Nothing like being kissed by your husband.

Your husband.

He only pulls away when the preacher finally clears his throat, a tad embarrassed. You’re too dazed to feel the same, fingers still sunk into the lapels of Price’s vest, clutched there. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up and your hands to unclench. You feel Price tug your hands away and slip something onto your finger.

The few documents needing to be signed hardly takes any longer. You finally notice the man that had slipped in behind the two of you, a masked man even larger than Price, who nods at him before glancing at you only long enough for you to notice that his eyes seem curiously blank.

“Thanks, Simon,” Price says as the man—Simon—signs under your names, but he only grunts. The ink is still wet when he leaves.

“How was it so fast?” you ask absently, staring at the papers as the ink sits drying and the preacher takes his own copy before handing John his.

“Everything’s practical out here, darling.” His hand holds you by the waist again, relaxed this time. Not worried about whether you might run. “Even the weddings.”

“You don’t…you don’t even serve dinner? Invite guests over? No gifts?” The questions are irrelevant, but you ask them anyway because it’s a way to focus on anything other than the preacher handing you the final copy of the papers and Price leading you back down the hall and out the doors.

There’s a ring on my finger, you think, looking down. It sparkles when you twist your hand from side to side. Topaz, instead of diamond.

“Maybe if you’d showed up on time,” Price reminds you. He no longer sounds upset about it, but it still seems to come out as an admonishment.

You don’t respond to that. Perhaps you’re still shell-shocked, looking at the world through new eyes. It feels unreal that in the span of less than a day, you’ve been plucked up and married off, to the sheriff no less. The one man you would’ve tried your hardest to avoid crossing paths with.

No chance of that now.

“Where are we going?” you ask, still in a daze. The sun makes you squint when you leave the courthouse, making you miss the hat back in your room at the inn. Maybe you can convince Price to let you go back to collect your things.

“I think we’re due for a honeymoon, don’t you, darling?”

You go doe-eyed at that. When you look up, your husband is already smiling down at you, crow’s feet wrinkling at the sides of his eyes.

“Let’s go home.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price x reader #john price x reader #captain price #cod price #price/reader #price x you

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cosa-nostraa12 · 8 days ago

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The Do’s and Don’ts of Wearing a Blazer Lapel Pin

A blazer lapel pin is a small yet powerful accessory that enhances your outfit and adds a refined touch to your formal or semi-formal attire. Whether you're dressing for a wedding, corporate event, or casual outing, the right blazer pin makes a statement about your personality and style.

However, styling a blazer lapel pin requires attention to detail. Wearing the wrong pin or placing it incorrectly can take away from your polished look. In this guide, we’ll explore the do’s and don’ts of wearing a blazer lapel pin, ensuring you make the best impression every time.

The Do’s of Wearing a Blazer Lapel Pin

1. Do Choose the Right Type of Lapel Pin

There are several types of lapel pins for men, and selecting the right one for your outfit is crucial.

Stick Pins – Sleek and sophisticated, perfect for business and formal events.

Floral Lapel Pins – Great for weddings and semi-formal gatherings.

Enamel Pins – Adds a stylish, casual flair to your outfit.

Chain Lapel Pins – Ideal for high-profile events and vintage-style outfits.

Monogram & Custom Pins – A unique touch that adds personality to formal wear.

Understanding different types of lapel pins for suits ensures you wear them appropriately for the occasion.

2. Do Wear the Lapel Pin on the Left Side

A blazer lapel pin should always be worn on the left lapel, near the buttonhole. This tradition originates from military and political uniforms, where insignias were placed on the left side. Wearing it correctly maintains a refined and balanced look.

3. Do Match Your Lapel Pin with Other Accessories

To create a cohesive look, coordinate your blazer pin with other accessories:

Metallic Pins: Match gold or silver lapel pins for men with cufflinks or a tie bar.

Floral Pins: Pair with a pocket square in a complementary color.

Chain Pins: Ensure it works well with a traditional or vintage ensemble.

Proper coordination helps you maintain an elegant and well-put-together appearance.

4. Do Consider the Occasion

Wearing a blazer lapel pin appropriate for the occasion is key:

Business Meetings: Opt for simple metallic or monogram pins.

Weddings & Receptions: Floral or decorative pins enhance formal suits.

Casual Events: Enamel or themed pins add a fun element to your blazer.

Choosing the right lapel pins for suits ensures that your style aligns with the event.

5. Do Experiment with Unique Styles

While classic blazer lapel pins are always stylish, experimenting with modern designs can make your outfit stand out. Custom lapel pins featuring initials, logos, or creative symbols add a personal touch to your blazer.

Look for statement pins that reflect your personality without overpowering the rest of your attire.

The Don’ts of Wearing a Blazer Lapel Pin

1. Don’t Wear an Oversized Lapel Pin for Business Events

For professional settings, subtlety is key. A blazer lapel pin that’s too large or overly decorative can appear distracting. Stick to small, elegant designs that complement your business attire.

If you’re attending a wedding or a themed event, larger statement lapel pins for men can work, but always ensure they blend with the rest of your outfit.

2. Don’t Overload Accessories

While blazer lapel pins add charm to your outfit, wearing too many accessories can make you look cluttered. Avoid:

Wearing multiple lapel pins at once.

Overloading with flashy cufflinks, tie bars, and lapel chains.

Balance is key. If you’re wearing an eye-catching blazer pin, keep the rest of your accessories simple.

3. Don’t Ignore Color Coordination

Your blazer lapel pin should match or complement the colors in your outfit.

Dark Suits: Gold, silver, or gemstone lapel pins create contrast.

Light Suits: Dark or brightly colored pins make a stylish statement.

Patterned Blazers: Stick to minimalist metallic lapel pins to maintain balance.

Failing to coordinate your lapel pins for suits can make your look feel unpolished.

4. Don’t Pin Through Expensive Fabric

Many people make the mistake of pinning directly through delicate fabrics, leading to damage. To prevent this:

Use magnetic lapel pins if available.

Attach pins through pre-existing buttonholes when possible.

Choose lightweight pins for delicate suit fabrics.

Taking care of your blazer ensures it remains in excellent condition while still looking stylish.

5. Don’t Forget to Remove Your Lapel Pin When Necessary

Certain settings may not be suitable for wearing a blazer lapel pin, such as ultra-formal business meetings or events with strict dress codes. Always be mindful of the event’s expectations before deciding to wear a lapel pin.

Additionally, removing your blazer pin after the event helps prevent unnecessary fabric stress or wear.

Latest Trends in Blazer Lapel Pins for 2025

Fashion is constantly evolving, and lapel pins for men are no exception. Here are the latest trends:

1. Minimalist Lapel Pins

Sleek, simple metallic designs are trending in professional fashion.

2. Vintage & Heritage-Inspired Pins

Old-school engravings and antique finishes add a touch of tradition to suits.

3. Personalized Custom Lapel Pins

Custom pins featuring initials, logos, or personal symbols are becoming popular.

4. Large Statement Pins

Oversized, artistic pins are gaining traction for bold, fashion-forward looks.

Caring for Your Blazer Lapel Pin

To keep your blazer lapel pin in top condition, follow these care tips:

Store separately in a jewelry box to prevent scratches.

Use a soft cloth to clean metal pins and maintain their shine.

Avoid moisture to prevent rusting or tarnishing.

Proper maintenance ensures your blazer pins remain stylish and durable for years to come.

Final Thoughts

Wearing a blazer lapel pin is an excellent way to elevate your formal look and express your personality. However, knowing how to style it correctly is essential. By following these do’s and don’ts, you can ensure that your blazer pin complements your outfit while maintaining a polished and sophisticated appearance.

Whether you prefer classic lapel pins for suits or bold lapel pins for men, mastering the art of accessorizing will set you apart in any setting. Choose wisely, match with confidence, and enjoy the elegance that a well-placed blazer lapel pin brings to your attire.

Read More Related Blogs How to Match Your Blazer Lapel Pin with Your Outfit Top 10 Stylish Lapel Pins to Elevate Your Formal Look

#lapel pin #blazer lapel pin #Lapel pins for men #Lapel pins for suits #fashion #business

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electronicdelusionstarlight · 2 years ago

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You know, I was thinking about Monstrous Regiment as I always do, and I just say, damn, Terry Pratchett sure as shit did the "Female attack drone operator killing children" joke ages before we even got there culturally.

Like, OK, during the climax of the book we find out that half of the Military high command are also women right? Disguised as men and wanting to keep their secret hidden as they live as men yes, but still women.

And here's the thing.

That's not, unlike Jackrum's ending, to be read as a trans allegory.

These are women, who joined the military, a sexist and awful military force who would have killed them had it found out for both being women and for crossdressing, got in a position of power by following the rules and not rocking the Boat (unlike Polly and her squad, who were offered the perfect way out yet still decided to come out as women), and then once they become the high command of the military they do NOTHING.

They do not change those same structures who oppressed them, because now they are in power so who care if other women get hurt.

And they do not stop the war, continuing it instead.

"Women can do the same things man can" is one of the Book's arc words, and it does sound like a pretty neat message, until Terry points out how this very same message can be used to sponsor horrible actions too and passing them for progress.

Women can be war criminals just like man can.

Much like back in the days, cigarette companies sold women cancer on a stick presenting it as freedom and liberation for their gender.

Much like The pilot of the drone that's going to burn your house to the ground has a pride flag pin on their lapel.

You are not immune to fucking military propaganda.

#terry pratchett #Discworld #monstrous regiment

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cera-writes · 9 months ago

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Remy and reader on their wedding day and night. Fluff and smut please? 😗😗😗😗😗😗

A/N: I like the way you think 🥰🥰🥰 Pairing: F!Reader x Remy "Gambit" LeBeau Tags: fluff, nfsw, sweet sweet smut

"I Do."

The air crackled with nervous anticipation, a fizzing current that danced along your spine. Sunlight streamed through the ornate French doors, casting a warm glow across the sprawling gardens of the St Louis Cathedral. It was the day. You were marrying Remy LeBeau.

A shiver, not entirely from the air-conditioned coolness of the room, rippled through you. You glanced at yourself in the antique mirror, the handcrafted lace of your wedding dress whispering against your skin. It was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the life you once knew. But then, so was everything about Remy.

A soft rap at the door startled you. "Come in," you called, your voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaked open, revealing Remy. He looked impossibly handsome in his tailored black suit, a crimson rosebud pinned to his lapel. His eyes, red as garnet and black as night, held a familiar warmth that sent a familiar flutter to your heart.

For a moment, you could only stare at him, speechless. He took a hesitant step forward, a sheepish grin breaking across his face. "Well, mon cheri," he drawled, his voice a barely above a caress, "you look like you swallowed a canary."

You swatted him playfully on the arm, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. "That's the most eloquent compliment I've ever gotten from a thief."

Remy chuckled, the sound rich and deep. "Only for you, cherie. Only for you." He reached out, his hand hovering over yours. "Are you ready?"

You squeezed his hand, the nervous energy dissipating into a calm certainty. "As I'll ever be."

Remy's smile softened. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Then let's go steal the show, shall we?"

The walk down the aisle was a blur. Arms linked with Remy's, you felt a thousand eyes on you, yet all that mattered was the man beside you. You glanced over at the X-Men, your friends over the years as they smiled at the two of you. Morph was bawling, tears streaming down their eyes. Even some of Remy's old Guild acquaintances had shown up and made an appearance. Remy squeezed your hand reassuringly as you reached the altar, a silent promise exchanged in a single touch.

The ceremony was beautiful, a tasteful blend of your traditions and Remy's heritage. When it came time for the vows, Remy's voice, usually smooth as butter, trembled slightly. His words, though, were heartfelt, a testament to the love that had bloomed from the most unexpected of places.

Yours were no less heartfelt, spoken with a conviction that surprised even yourself. You pledged your love, your loyalty, your entire chaotic, beautiful life to this charming thief who had stolen your heart.

You both said without a single doubt in your words, "I do," at last.

As your longtime friend Kurt Wagner declared you husband and wife, Remy took your face in his hands, his gaze intense. The kiss that followed was filled with a lifetime of unspoken emotions, a promise whispered on stolen breaths.

The reception was a whirlwind of laughter, music, and dancing. Remy, ever the charmer, regaled your friends and family with tales of your adventures, your first time ever have met each other, each embellished for maximum effect. You watched him, a smile permanently plastered on your face, your heart overflowing with a happiness you never thought possible.

Later that night, as you stood on the balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens, Remy wrapped his arms around you from behind. "So," he murmured, his voice husky, "Mrs. LeBeau. How does it feel?"

You leaned back against him, a contented sigh escaping your lips. "Like coming home, Remy. Like I finally belong."

He nuzzled your neck, his lips sending shivers down your spine. "Then welcome home, cherie. Welcome home."

As you gazed out at the star-dusted sky, hand in hand with the man you loved, you knew this was just the beginning of your grand adventure. A life together, filled with laughter, love, and perhaps the occasional heist, was a future you wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

But the night didn't stop there. Your Honeymoon awaited as Remy carried you bridal style back through the threshold.

Remy had managed to secure a beautiful hotel nestled in the heart of the French Quarter.

A slow smile spread across his face as he sat you down inside the French Chateau. He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "Let's get you out of this dress, shall we?"

His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine. You nodded, a silent agreement hanging heavy in the air. He helped you remove the dress, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours.

When you stood before him in nothing but your lingerie, the air crackled with unspoken desire and undeniable lust. He took a step back, his eyes roaming over your body, a mixture of possessiveness and reverence in his gaze.

"Ma Belle, you are absolutely stunning," he breathed, his voice thick with desire, his accent thickening.

You stepped closer, bridging the gap between you. You reached out, your fingers tracing the planes of his chest. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it was replaced by a hungry glint in his eyes.

He captured your lips in a kiss, deep and demanding. It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken promises, of a lifetime of passion waiting to be explored. You surrendered to him completely, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around you.

You then pushed Remy down onto the plush bed adorned with red rose petals. He smirked devilishly, eyes never leaving yours as he beckoned you closer.

The night stretched before you, filled with stolen moments and whispered endearments. Remy was everything you'd ever dreamt of and more - tender and passionate, playful and protective. He explored your body with a reverence that left you breathless, his touch igniting a fire within you.

"Oh gods, Remy! Don't stop, please..." you begged breathlessly as he took you inch by inch, rough and hard, needy and desperate. "F-fuck chere! T-tu te sens si b-bien," he stammered, breaths coming out in short pants. You were both reaching new heights of ecstasy with each other.

You'd made it a point early on in your relationship that if he wanted you, he'd have to bed you properly on your wedding night as traditional and outdated as that sounded. You were tired of having your heart played with in the past. But here he was now, worshipping your body like a long forgotten art. Funny how life turned out for the both of you.

As the night wore on, the initial urgency gave way to a slow, sensual exploration. Remy was thrusting into you in slow deliberate thrusts. Your body fit him like a glove. "Just like that baby, god I love you, Remy...my cajun man," you kissed his lips as he made love to you.

He smiled, half proud and half completely enamored with how you were making him feel.

You learned each other's bodies in a new way, the pleasure building with each touch, each kiss.

Finally, sated and breathless, you lay curled up in his arms, the moonlight painting silver streaks across your entwined forms.

"I love you, Remy," you whispered once more, as if never getting tired of those three words, your voice thick with sleep.

He nuzzled your hair, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Je t'aime, mon cœur," he murmured. "Plus que les mots ne peuvent le dire."

You drifted off to sleep, the feeling of his love a warm blanket wrapped around you, the promise of a lifetime together a sweet dream on your lips.

You were his and he was yours.

Pour Toujours.

#x men 97 #xmen #gambit x reader #remy lebeau #gambit #remy lebeau x reader

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wooataes · 1 year ago

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a wilted rose - ljh

pairing: mafia boss!lee jihoon x fem!reader

word count: 3k

warnings: mafia!au, arranged marriage!au, angst, hurt and comfort, mentions of violence and guns, injuries, bruises, crying, swearing, implied murder, slight fluff, jihoon being protective (yes, that’s a warning)

summary: an unfortunate encounter has jihoon realize his true feelings for his wife.

a/n: toyed around with the idea of mafia!boss jihoon and this is what popped out 🙊 happy new year, friends!

- tae 💜🌸✨

Masterlist

Part Two? | Ask to be added to my taglist

Lee Jihoon’s family is known as one of the most feared Mafia families in South Korea, his great grandparents having made a reputation for themselves that has been held up for generations.

Jihoon was born an only child and singular heir to the Lee fortune and the Lee legacy; having known from a young age that he would eventually end up being the leader of the Lee clan. He knew the family business was dangerous, and since being taught the ropes at 13, he knew that his relationships could be used against him from rival clans. This reason alone caused him to be cautious and callous with who he associated with. He only has two important people he would consider his friends.

His closest friend, Kwon Soonyoung also doubles as his right hand man. Both men grew up together due to Soonyoung’s father being close with Jihoon’s. Their frequent meetings caused the young men to be around eachother for long bouts of time, eventually being homeschooled together while their father’s talked business. For Jihoon, Soonyoung is the one and only person he could trust on this earth- time and time again, he has always proved his unchallenged loyalty to Jihoon and his father’s family. If Jihoon was irrational and unfiltered, Soonyoung was his voice of reason and his level-headed decision maker. To him, it was a match made in heaven.

The second person he considered his friend, or used to, was you. You came into both Jihoon and Soonyoung’s life at 8 years old, your family having been hired by Master Lee to work as live-in staff in their mansion. You were the only other child Jihoon and Soonyoung’s age, and despite Master Lee’s cold heart, he grew to treat you like his daughter and let Jihoon frequently spend his younger years playing with his two closest friends when they weren’t being homeschooled together until he was of age to get into the family business.

12 months ago, when Jihoon had just turned 25, Master Lee announced his soon to be retirement to his son. The only condition for Jihoon to step up to be head of the family business was simple but to Jihoon, was absolutely atrocious.

“I don’t understand why you think me marrying would be advantageous to the family, father.” He hisses, adjusting his chain around his neck, glaring at the stupid red rose, the Lee family staple, perfectly pinned to his lapel.

“It is not to a random woman, Jihoon.” Master Lee frowned.

“That makes it worse!” He barked, leaning his head back in frustration.

“Jihoon. You have to know that no one can be trusted in this business. I am not allowing you to marry outside of who we trust. They can slither their way into your heart and when you are at your most vulnerable, they take everything out from under you. If the enemy knows you’re committed to someone already, it keeps them from hurting us from the inside.”

“Yeah, it also makes Y/N the number one target to the enemy and they will try and swipe her away from under our noses!” He’s yelling now.

He would never admit it to anyone, but he cares too much for you. You’re too good to be associated with the dastardly business that is associated with being in the mafia; you’re a good hearted person who happily serves the Lee family alongside your just as good parents. You’re the one good thing that Jihoon has left, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t protect you.

“It’s not like you’re going to be parading her out for missions and stake outs.” Master Lee frowns. “She is only for the parties. So others know that you’re a committed man that will not waver. I guarantee you she will be protected. She will be treated like a queen in here, and she won’t ever have to see the dark side of the business. Son, I promise you.”

For 12 months, Jihoon, in the public eye was the perfect model husband with you. He stayed by your side faithfully at galas and parties, parading you around with a look of what was perceived as adoration by others. Behind closed doors however, Jihoon treated you like a ghost. Long gone was your once closest friend who you stayed up late with to binge watch stupid movies, playing video games and pranks on Soonyoung. The only thing that remained was a quiet man that only greeted you for one meal a day, to his insistence for the sake of ‘normalcy.’ In your opinion, it felt anything but. Your attempts at conversion were shut down with one worded answers or sometimes none at all, and over time, you grew to enjoy your meal with your husband in silence before going about your day around the Lee mansion alone.

Jihoon thought his father’s plan was working. For 12 months, his wife was safe and protected and never got caught up with any of the mafia business. He was in alliance with most rival clans and worked out plans and deals to work for the foreseeable future.

Sadly for Jihoon, Master Lee was full of shit.

Jihoon is frantic. The staff had alerted him while out for a meeting with an ally clan that you had been injured. They were intentionally vague with details, knowing their boss would fly off the handle at the extent to what your injuries were.

“She’s at home.” Jihoon hears Soonyoung’s voice over the phone.

“What the fuck happened, Soonyoung.” He is sure he is making his driver break at least 10 different road laws right now to get back to the mansion. He makes a mental note to contact the local police and send some generous gift baskets.

“The guards don’t know. I’m trying to get it out of them, but no luck yet.”

“She shouldn’t have been out unsupervised.” Jihoon winces, rubbing at his temples. “Tell them if they don’t give you an honest answer by the time I’m back, I will have their tongues.”

“Just go to her right now, Hoon-ah.”

Marching into the living room, Jihoon makes his presence known by the heavy thuds of his boots on the tiled floor. His eyes scan the room until they finally land on you, his childhood friend and arranged wife, sitting anxiously on the couch. He feels his eye twitch at the sight of no guards in sight, you having been left alone since you have returned.

You lift your head up shakily, your eyes widening at the sight of your husband. His long hair, usually sported in a bun atop his head is now strewn about and falling out of the elastic holding it together, suit jacket scrunched and twisted, red rose nowhere to be found. You’re astonished, having grown so used to seeing your husband with his perfect red rose on his lapel at all times. What you didn’t know that after having found out about your capture, he thrown it to the ground in frustration of his worst fears coming true.

“Jihoon?” You blink nervously.

This is the first time you’ve seen him properly (minus your daily lunches) for maybe a month. He stares intently across the room at you, scanning your body. You’re cradling your left wrist in your hand, a bruise in the perfect shape of a hand print forming around your wrist. His eyes lift to your face, his blood boiling at the sight of a small cut across your cheek, your right eye swelling up and starting to turn purple.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stutter, biting down on your lip. “I know I shouldn’t have-“

You flinch at the sight of Jihoon striding forward, only to pause when he walks straight past you and into the kitchen, causing your shoulders to deflate. You were stupid to think your best friend had come back for only a moment. You sink sadly into the couch, curling up slowly.

Your head stays facing down at the floor as you run your fingertip over the hand print on your wrist, wincing and hissing as you press a little too hard. You sigh after a moment, moving to stand up before you pause at the sight of Jihoon’s expensive dress shoes directly in front of you.

You look up nervously at him as he reaches out, delicately taking your wrist, face neutral as he runs his fingers gently over the bruise just like you had done, eyebrows furrowing. You shiver slightly, this being the first physical contact you have felt from your husband in months. Next, he reaches forward and tucks a stray hair behind your cheek before examining the darkening bruise over your eye. At this, you see his eyes darken, heaving a heavy sigh through his nose.

“Who the fuck did this to you.” His voice is soft as he eyes you.

“I-I…”

“I need to know who did this.” He pleads.

“It was Hwang.” You whimper.

His jaw clenches. Hwang has sworn vengeance against the Lee family ever since Master Lee cut ties and alliances with the Hwang’s over his unethical practices. In Hwang’s words, he wanted to poison the perfect garden of roses that Master Lee built.

“H-he said it was a warning..” you can’t look Jihoon in the face. “T-to keep your wife on a leash or else something could happen. Jihoon, I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t have gone out, I didn’t want to cause any more trouble.” You’re crying softly now, wincing at the pain that your swelling is causing.

You tense up as you feel something cool delicately rest on your cheek, opening your eyes to see your husband holding an ice pack gently to your face. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as he moves you so you’re sitting down on the couch once more.

“You stay here until Soonyoung gets back to look after you, okay?” He instructs you as you just stare at him, bewildered. “Do you hear me, Y/N?” You nod your head slowly as you cradle the ice pack to your cheek. “Good.”

You watch Jihoon turn around and march back towards the front door of the mansion, pointing to Mr Kim, one of the guards who has been in Jihoon’s family for years. “Make sure no one comes inside this mansion except for me and Soonyoung. You guard her with your life until he gets here.” The man nods his head sternly as he moves to stand in the doorway between the living room and the entryway.

“J-Jihoon? Where are you going?” You ask nervously as your husband adjusts the gun holster around his waist, his voice cold and deadly, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I’m going to kill the fucker who thought he could touch my wife and get away with it.”

And with that, the door slams behind him, leaving you alone with Mr Kim eyeing the door sternly.

You stay anxiously in the living room for what feels like an eternity, waiting to hear anything from Jihoon or his guards. You jolt at the sound of the door after only 15 minutes of sitting in silence, breathing a sigh of relief as you see Soonyoung rush inside and run straight towards you.

“Soon…” you whimper as he meets you halfway, immediately pulling you close and hugging you to his chest.

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He breathes out, shaky. “The one fucking day I had to go run some errands…”

You hate the fact that Hwang probably waited for Soonyoung to be away from you to strike.

“Soon, it’s fine…” you whisper, wincing as he pulls away to look down at your face, closely examining your swelling eye.

“It’s not fine, look at you!”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” You whisper, and he just sighs with frustration, leading you to the couch and sitting you up against the cushions, laying a fluffy blanket over you.

“You’re going to sit here and we are going to watch some tv until Jihoon-ah gets back, okay?” He settles down beside you.

“Soonyoung, you can go have a shower or eat or something...” Your voice is low as he scrolls through random movies to play on Netflix.

“Nope.” He made a promise to stay with you until Jihoon gets back, and he will stay true to his word. Eating and washing up can wait.

“Y/N-ah.” Soonyoung glances at his phone after a few hours. The ice pack against your cheek is now lukewarm, your legs having shaken non-stop since you’d been forced to sit down.

“Hm..” you hum in response.

“Jihoon-ah will be home in 5 minutes. He asked for me to give you both some privacy and take care of some clean-up. Will you be okay with Mr Kim watching you?”

“Okay.” You respond nervously, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as Soonyoung gently touches your good cheek with his finger.

“I’ll be in the other room making calls if you get scared between now and then. Okay?”

“Thank you, Soonie.” You whisper, looking up at him with a grateful smile.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles back before turning around and walking down the hall, leaving you alone once more as the panic begins to rise in your body.

You’re lucky you don’t have to wait long, as true to Soonyoung’s word, Jihoon steps inside his mansion and into the living room not even 5 minutes later, heaving a sigh. When you spot him, you rush quickly to him, immediately noticing the blood on his shirt and causing you to panic even more.

“Oh god.. you’re bleeding, what have I done? Your father will have me for this.” You quickly try to wipe the blood off his shirt (which you’re relieved to realize isn’t his). Jihoon surprises you both as he reaches forward to take your injured wrist again, pulling you to him and wrapping his arms tight around your waist.

He pulls your head into the crook of his neck, squeezing you to him as his chin rests on top of your head, grip tight on your shirt. You’re shaking before you just melt into his embrace, holding onto his jacket tight as he hums.

“Are you okay.” When you just nod, he pulls back to look into your face. “I need to hear it from you, Y/N. Please… just humor me.”

“Yeah, I’m okay, Hoonie.” You breathe out with wide eyes.

Why does he look so scared?

He sighs with finality before he pulls you back to him, hugging you tight for the first time since he was forced to hold you at your wedding over 12 months ago.

“We will need more security.” He mumbles to you as he holds you tight. “Guards at every post. When we go out, when you’re out in the garden, everywhere. It’s clear they know your schedule so we need to throw them off your scent.” He is talking a mile a minute as he keeps you close to his chest, afraid you’d slip away. “As a precaution, I will have guards sweep the house for any bugs they could have planted. Tonight, we will sleep in the safe house. Is that okay with you, Y/N?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” You whisper, your face buried in his shirt. You don’t want to leave his side as much as he doesn’t too - this being the most affection you’ve gotten from someone in 12 months.

“Fuck.” Jihoon didn’t account for the fact his safe house only had one king size bed. “You can take the bed, okay… I can take the couch.”

“Don’t be silly.” You hum, already dragging him to the bed. “We’re both adults here. I think we can handle sharing a bed. We used to in school, right Hoonie?”

“I mean yeah, but we weren’t married then.”

“We’re only married on paper. Why are you being so iffy?” You laugh, wincing as your smile hurts your bruising cheek. Without thinking, he reaches out to cup your face worriedly, examining the bruise before rushing out to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a small ice pack to press to your cheek.

“I’d feel more comfortable if you were close, Hoon. Please.” You ask quieter now as he rocks awkwardly on his heels.

“Only until you’re asleep.” He bargains, and you nod quickly.

“Deal.”

After an awkward intermission of you both getting ready to share the bed for the first time since your wedding, you’re finally drifting off, curled up beside your husband as he sits up against the bed head, stiff as a board in sweatpants and a large jumper. Jihoon lays on top of the blankets so he can make an easy get away when you fall into a deep sleep.

He’s about to up and leave as your breathing evens out, thinking you’re asleep when he feels you shift. You scoot closer, hand finding his as your head nestles comfortably against his shoulder. You visibly relax at his warmth, your shaky hands slowing to a stop as you essentially glue yourself to his side. He tenses up, looking down at you with wide eyes as you finally fall asleep. He frowns deeply at the sight of your bruise showing before aggressively sighing to himself and wrapping his free arm around you to hold you against his chest. He is unable to resist your cuteness. That, and he wants to protect you, of course.

Jihoon refuses to sleep a wink in case someone tries to break in, but after hour four of him stroking your arm delicately with his cheek resting on top of your forehead, he feels himself drifting off.

When he wakes up, he sees you’re still cuddled up to him, but almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Soonyoung standing at the foot of the bed with a knowing smirk on his face.

“It took you long enough to treat your wife like she is your wife.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jihoon hisses out as quietly as possible to not wake you, his cheeks bright red. “If she wakes up, I’ll have your head.”

“I’m sure you will.” He winks.

“Kwon Soonyoung I swear to god if my wife wasn’t sleeping against me right now, you’d be six feet under.”

“Mhm~” he sing songs, stepping out the bedroom door.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead.”

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