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AHHHH OMGGGGG THIS IS AMAZING😭😭😭😭😭😭 THIS IS PROBABLY ONE OF THE MOST GREATEST MINHO FICS I'VE READ IN A WHILE😭💖💖💖

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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.

Thanksss!!!!💖💖💖💖💖

🎀CUTIE MOOTIES🎀 (PT.2)

🎀MY BELOVED CUTIE MOOTS🎀

@thenewblackcanvas

@jiminskies

Hi, love! Just wanted to see how you were doing?

HIII🥰 I'm doing great! What about you??💖

HAHAHAH This was so cute and funny🤣 Thanks for tagging mee💖💖💖💖

a/n: a bonus mini changbin for @katieraven :))) (warnings: anxiety mention)

“hey,” a voice strikes you out of your daze and you turn your head towards changbin, blinking slowly at him. he raises a brow at you, as if expecting something, but you don’t know what it is. 

“yes?” you sound out slowly, unsure and utterly confused. 

“i asked you what you wanted to eat three times, and you didn’t answer,” he says, gentle even though it felt a little like an accusation to your swirling mind. 

“oh,” you frown, trying to remember hearing him but coming up with nothing. all that you could hear was the static running through your ears. “sorry?”

“are you okay?” he asks, leaning closer to you so he could press a hand to your shoulder. it felt good, grounding, the heavy weight of it welcome on your tired body. you sag into him, feeling utterly spent. 

“yeah?” you ask more than tell, mouth twisting in displeasure at having to answer that question - you didn’t like lying to him, but being honest about things like this was worse than pulling teeth, sometimes.

“oh,” he says, nodding in understanding as he pulls you into himself, folding you up into his arms as if you were some small thing to protect. he always knew just what you were meaning to say, even if it was the opposite. “was it something that happened, or just in general?”

you pause for a moment, a confirmation of the latter resting on your tongue but is that true? because being anxious for no reason was making you more anxious, and that was something specific. but it wasn’t what caused this, nothing did, really. but that brings you back to - 

“okay,” he drawls out, booping your forehead with his fingers, drawing you out of your own head. again. “here’s what we’re going to do. i’m going to put on mario, and we’re going to play a few rounds. and you’re not allowed to disappear into your pretty head, because if you lose more than i do, you’re buying us dinner. and if i lose, i’m buying. got it?”

“yes, mom,” you roll your eyes but lean into him a little more, trying to get your body to relax into his. you knew what he was doing, he was never the type to try and hide his helpful gestures from you. he wanted you to know exactly what his intentions were, always. it made your heart swell up just a bit that he cared that much to think these things through for you. he knew exactly what things would get you out of your own head, and getting the opportunity to beat him at mario was definitely one of those things. “get ready to get your ass kicked, loser.”

a/n: a bonus mini changbin for @katieraven :))) (warnings: anxiety mention)

“hey,” a voice strikes you out of your daze and you turn your head towards changbin, blinking slowly at him. he raises a brow at you, as if expecting something, but you don’t know what it is. 

“yes?” you sound out slowly, unsure and utterly confused. 

“i asked you what you wanted to eat three times, and you didn’t answer,” he says, gentle even though it felt a little like an accusation to your swirling mind. 

“oh,” you frown, trying to remember hearing him but coming up with nothing. all that you could hear was the static running through your ears. “sorry?”

“are you okay?” he asks, leaning closer to you so he could press a hand to your shoulder. it felt good, grounding, the heavy weight of it welcome on your tired body. you sag into him, feeling utterly spent. 

“yeah?” you ask more than tell, mouth twisting in displeasure at having to answer that question - you didn’t like lying to him, but being honest about things like this was worse than pulling teeth, sometimes.

“oh,” he says, nodding in understanding as he pulls you into himself, folding you up into his arms as if you were some small thing to protect. he always knew just what you were meaning to say, even if it was the opposite. “was it something that happened, or just in general?”

you pause for a moment, a confirmation of the latter resting on your tongue but is that true? because being anxious for no reason was making you more anxious, and that was something specific. but it wasn’t what caused this, nothing did, really. but that brings you back to - 

“okay,” he drawls out, booping your forehead with his fingers, drawing you out of your own head. again. “here’s what we’re going to do. i’m going to put on mario, and we’re going to play a few rounds. and you’re not allowed to disappear into your pretty head, because if you lose more than i do, you’re buying us dinner. and if i lose, i’m buying. got it?”

“yes, mom,” you roll your eyes but lean into him a little more, trying to get your body to relax into his. you knew what he was doing, he was never the type to try and hide his helpful gestures from you. he wanted you to know exactly what his intentions were, always. it made your heart swell up just a bit that he cared that much to think these things through for you. he knew exactly what things would get you out of your own head, and getting the opportunity to beat him at mario was definitely one of those things. “get ready to get your ass kicked, loser.”

AHHAHAHAHAH i do not mind at all✨️ Also this was really nicee💖

minho x gn!reader. hurt/comfort. reader used to feel lonely but not anymore with minho. for u my @rachalixie <333

it is a regular sunday afternoon, filled with all the chores you procrastinated for the end of the week. you're halfway through a batch of fresh laundry, when your eyes find Minho- he's fiddling with a pair of your pink socks, completely engrossed in a trashy sitcom playing on your TV. a bowl of fruit sits between you two, one he meticulously peeled because he knows you don't like the fruits' skin.

your hands go limp as you observe minho, who places your socks down before blindly grabbing one of your t-shirts. he carefully folds it in half, smoothing away its creases because he knows you like perfectly folded clothes, neat and tidy.

a lump materializes in your throat as minho quietly chuckles at the TV, your mind not on the sitcom but on the man folding laundry beside you.

in that moment, a sudden light penetrates the shadowed parts of your mind, ones you've left uncharted for too long, fearing what you'll find hiding in their darkness. instead, you discover a flourishing garden, watered by minho's attentions everytime he's near.

the realization dawns on you suddenly, yet gently, like an unexpected kiss gracing your forehead, a hang grabbing your own when you least anticipate it— you haven't felt lonely in so long.

you couldn't feel lonely on a sunday morning when minho woke with you, willingly giving up on sleep so you could make breakfast together. you couldn't feel lonely when he propped his chin on your shoulder as you scrambled the eggs on the stove, his cold hands sneaking underneath your shirt, a gentle kiss on your neck to compensate his chilling touch.

loneliesss couldn't loom in the supermarket's aisles when minho pushed the cart near you, whining when you didn't give him attention for too long. you couldn't feel lonely as minho helped you pack up the groceries into your car, before caging you against the door, planting a short, but fervent kiss on your lips.

loneliness doesn't cast its shadows on your home when minho helped you clean it, washing the dishes as you diligently swept every counter. you couldn't feel lonely when he suddenly pulled your hand before waltzing around to the soft hums escaping his lips.

loneliness is a stranger when minho folds your laundry, some pieces of his clothing sneaking into your closet. you aren't lonely when minho lives with you, throughout your extraordinary days and your most mundane, boring ones.

a sniffle leaves your lips before you can stop it, and minho's head snaps instinctively to yours, worry drawn onto his face as he furiously racks over your figure. you don't even know where the tears are coming from, but they are streaming furiously down your cheeks, showing no sign of stopping soon.

"baby," he calls out tentatively, putting the fruit bowl on the table and moving closer to you. "what's wrong?" he asks and you straddle his lap, burying your face onto the crook of his neck instead of replying.

you aren't lonely when minho pats your back, rubbing soothing motions on it from the crown of your hair down the end of your spine. you aren't lonely because minho spoke to your loneliness, gently, patiently, until he finally convinced it to desert your bones.

"i love you," you whisper against his skin and he pulls you slightly away, his hands tenderly cradling your face. "i love you. what happened?"

"it's silly and stupid," you mumble, looking down at his lap. he gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, urging you to look at him.

"nothing that makes you cry is stupid. tell me, hm?"

"you help me fold my socks," you say, lower lip slightly quivering. "and clean the house and get my groceries."

"do you not want me to?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.

"no, no. i just can't believe you'd want to."

"why is that?" he inquires, gently wiping your still cascading tears.

"because those are things i used to do alone. i... i never thought I'd have someone with me, by my side, every day," you pause, tears doubling over at your impending confession. "i never thought that one day i would no longer be lonely."

minho's eyes soften incredibly, the way your heart turns into mush in his hands. he silently brings your head to his chest, your cheek pressed right above his heartbeat, and then he sways from left to right, body pressed tightly to yours.

"i'm here now. it's okay, angel, it's over," he whispers, planting a lingering kiss on the top of your head. you clutch his shirt tightly between your fists, allowing his words to permeate your being. to dust every misguided idea you held about your future.

you won't be lonely when minho loves you.

"you know i want to marry you, right? so i plan on folding your laundry for a long long time. under one rule, though."

"what?" you ask with a small voice.

"you won't cry next time i fold your clothes."

"shut up," you pinch his side playfully and he giggles before tickling you in retaliation. your laughter fills the air, quieting down the sound of your tv and simultaneously, all the ugly thoughts that once occupied your head.

Okay! I'll try to do that! Thank you kacii😭😭💖💖

I need help. Serious. Help.

[I have a crush😭]

I'll protect you bby, don't you worry!! Lemme call in the special reinforcements 😤

[This is a code red situation]

THIS IS SO CUTE😭😭 WHEN I SAW HIS ARM DURING THE PERFORMANCE I WAS SOO CURIOUSS turns out he injured his arm i think from boxing?? Poor Lino😭 hopefully he's fine now

Loved this, thanks for tagging me in🩷💖

thinking about pampering minho and kissing his ouchys and treating him like a princess until he feels better :((((((((

-gimmeurtmi

can i combine these two a lil because 😭 i wanna kiss him so badlyyyy

“I told you I’m fine.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sure, now say it like you actually want me to believe it,” you scoffed.

Minho’s face drew into a scowl he swallowed his retort, just watched you rub the cream into his aching wrist. When you accidentally ever so slightly bent it in the wrong direction in the process, he hissed, but immediately straightened, trying to play it off. Dammit.

But to his surprise you didn’t gloat, didn’t give him a look that said ‘I told you so’. No, you just lifted his hand to your lips and pressed a feather-light kiss to his fingers, whispering gentlest, “sorry, baby.”

He watched you intently, how your soft lips grazed his skin, how your lashes cast gentle shadows over your cheeks, how gently you held his wrist. When you straightened up, he immediately looked away.

“You don’t have to do this, the cream smells like shit,” he murmured petulantly, his stare burning holes into his stupid achy wrist.

“I don’t care,” you said simply as you put his hand back into his own leg. Minho’s heart seized painfully in his chest when you suddenly got up and walked towards the door. Were you gonna leave? Surely not just like this, right. You’d say goodbye. You’d kiss him. He didn’t want you to leave.

None of those thoughts were formulated into a coherent thought, his mouth opening and closing stupidly as he watched you walk out. Then he heard the bathroom sink running and he breathed out a sigh of relief. His heart was still hammering in his chest. He was so not fine.

You realised something was wrong as soon as you got back to his room and closed the door behind you.

“Did you think I was just going to leave you?” you asked gently as you walked back over to him, carding your hand through his still wet hair. He grimaced. Did you also somehow learn to read his goddamn mind. Absentmindedly, he raised his head but he immediately knew he was fucked when he met your eyes, all big and soft and comforting. All the frustration bubbled over and a fat tear rolled down his cheek.

Your eyes widened and you brought your other hand to cup his cheeks and then he started crying properly.

“It hurt so bad during the performance when the bandage came off,” he mumbled, wincing when you pulled away from him.

“Shh, it’s okay, keep talking, I’ll just get the bed ready, okay?” you said with a soft kiss to the crown of his head. So he did, he kept talking as he watched you move around the room, drawing the blinds and turning off the big light and getting water from the mini fridge.

“It felt like someone was stabbing a knife into it and it made me so paranoid, like what if I was making it irreparably worse, you know. But that’s not even the worst part. I didn’t want anyone to know I was injured because I know how they get and …”

He squeezed his eyes shut. A quiet whisper of his name ripped him from his thoughts and he turned around to where you had slid into bed, patting the spot next to you. He obeyed wordlessly, crawling into the soft sheets and scooting closer into your warmth. He looked into your eyes for a second, but then threw his arm around your waist dipped his head down until it was resting in the crook of your neck. It was easier to talk like this, when he didn’t have the chance to see and overthink every one of your reactions.

“I just feel like I’ve constantly been … broken. Good for nothing,” he mumbled and his eyes started burning again. A silent tear rolled from his eyes and into the material of your shirt. One of your hands started soothingly rubbing up and down his back.

“Like, first, it was the whole thing at the VMAs, then that car accident, and now … this. And this one was all my fault as well …”

He trailed off, the hand that had been resting on your shirt slowly balling into a fist.

“And then everyone keeps telling me I seem cold – I just … I can’t do anything right,” his chest tightened and he tried to hold back a sob, but when he said the next words, his voice broke pathetically. “And my wrist really fucking hurts.”

You didn’t say anything, just brought your arms around him to cradle him into your chest and he … let go. Let go of all of the shitty feelings he had been bottling up for the last days in order to get through the performances. He still tried to hold back his sobs, but there was no holding back the tears.

After what felt like forever, his eyes finally dried up. His face felt hot and simultaneously dry and sticky from where he had been burying in the material of your shirt for so long. He wanted to pull back, to wipe the his eyes but … he probably looked like shit. A lot worse than you had ever seen him look. But his neck was aching and his cheek was wet and …

When he lifted his head he met your eyes and you were smiling at him softly, but not pityingly.

“Do you want me to get you some painkillers?” you asked gently and it took him a few seconds to process your question, the natural follow up to the last thing he said before his tears had started overflowing. This was an easy question, he could do this. He nodded. You smiled at him again and threw back the covers to leave. A primal kind of panic ripped through Minho and before he could control himself he had wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you against him with a whine. He buried his burning face in your shoulder, too embarrassed to look at you but too needy to let go.

Your whole chest shook as you chuckled.

“I just need to go to your dresser and get them, baby,” you whispered with a sweet kiss to his hair, “I’ll be back in two seconds.”

Minho pulled back only enough to pout up at you. Your eyes softened even further, something he hadn’t thought was possible. You caressed his cheek softly and he felt like if he was a cat, he would’ve started purring.

“You can count. Count to three and I’ll be back, yeah?” you chuckled and slowly extricated yourself from his arms. He leaned back and watched as you sat up, the material of your sleep shirt riding up to expose the soft skin of your waist. He shivered at the absence of your warmth.

He briefly considered just counting very fast, but he the thought of the kind of bickering that would lead to was enough to make his bones ache with tiredness.

So he counted. One. You got up and walked to the dresser. Two. You opened the top drawer and rooted around until you found the painkillers. Three. You skipped back the bed in a hurry and dove under the covers with a giggle.

“See?” you said breathlessly, triumphantly, eyes sparkling in the dim light as you gave him a giddy smile, and he couldn’t help the matching one pulling at his own lips. You held the medicine out to him.

“Take one and we can cuddle.”

He didn’t even nod, just took one of the pills and washed it down with water. When he turned back, you opened your arms for him and he slid back into your warm embrace, his head coming to rest on your chest. Usually he was the one cuddling you and he wondered if this is how you always felt. So safe and sheltered and … happy.

Your hand returned to his his head, tangling into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. The other was rubbing up and down the arm he had slung over your waist.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about it,” you started and he stiffened slightly. Truth be told he didn’t know what he wanted, but the thought of the outside world made him bury himself deeper into the comforting warmth of your body.

“But I want to say: I think you’re being very hard on yourself, much harder than you would be on anyone else.”

You were probably right.

“Like, if Jisung or Jeongin were in your position, would you say they could never do anything right? Would you tell them it was their fault?”

Minho scoffed, his fingers slipping under the fabric of your shirt, finding the soft warmth of your skin. His eyes were growing heavy, exhaustion pulling at his bones.

“Of course not, these things just happen,” he mumbled and then sighed. Fuck, you were right.

You just hummed, but didn’t say anything else, dragging your fingertips through his hair and tangling your legs with his.

Minho listened to your heartbeat until it evened out and only then did he pull back enough to look into your eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered and you gave him another sweet smile, rubbing your nose against his gently. He tipped his chin forward and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you gently, reverently, gratefully.

“Always.”

Minho kissed your lips again before he tucked his head back into your neck.

His eyes fluttered shut and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

I'm crying rn- is it possible to fall in love with someones smile cause thats what happened😭😭 So I was chatting with my friend[lets call him orange] and orange decided to show me a picture of him and his new friend[lets call his friend peach😭], so he did....UGH PEACHES SMILE WAS SOOO CUTEEE😭 And when I met peach, he seemed really nicee!! I told orange that I had a crush on peach and he teased me so much i swear- BUT he promised not to tell anyone🥰🥰 Idk but i'm not ready for a relationship but I really like peach 😕

I need help. Serious. Help.

[I have a crush😭]

I'll protect you bby, don't you worry!! Lemme call in the special reinforcements 😤

[This is a code red situation]

okay first of all I love thisss🥺🥺 Felix would soo be like that~ I do need fluff hahaha- i've been like confused for the past few days idk why??

hi, me again! please don’t apologize about being slow or even not responding to asks at all, that’s your right! you’re so sweet 🥲

also i forgot to comment on your response but i’m so glad you mentioned the shower thing for hyunjin bc i’ve actually been thinking about this! idk if it’s the virgo placements but i do think that he has a thing for cleanliness and purity like nothing’s hotter to him than the concept of you both just being stripped bare. no clothes, no makeup, no jewelry, all squeaky clean and warm from the shower. and you’re right, he’s biiig on skin-to-skin. probably not a big fan of positions where he’s not completely pressed against you and breathing down your neck. backshots would feel so intense and mellow, his chest flushed to your back, brushing your hair away from your face so he can kiss your cheek and whisper in your ear. even in non-sexual situations, everytime you guys would go for a hug, he’d bury his face in your neck, chasing your warmth, mumbling "mmh skin…" and you’d oblige his whiny request, placing his arms around your waist underneath your sweater and sneaking your own hands below the back of his collar, slowly stroking his spine.

anonnie ...... this is ... this is everything ❤️‍🩹

you're so right, his heart'S always 100% in it, especially when it's you. the hand under the shirt, non-sexually, I am sobbing because it's so true. he'd just want to feel you, it would calm him down so much. also loves the smell of you, he probably regularly steals your clothing and falls asleep cuddling them ❤️‍🩹 and the backshots thought i am 😵‍💫 because yeahhhh he's the one whispering in your ear about how perfect you are and how much he loves with while he fucks you so deep and hard and fills you up. oh my GOD

I am not okay- AT ALL😭😭😭😭 I UGLY CRIED😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💔

@pearbunny @kaciidubs @anyhow-everything @moonjxsung @leeluvschannie @its-hannjisung

(Ignore if u do not like these kind of stories)

strawberry blond.

part of the “now playing: mitski!” series

Jisung had been avoiding the truth for the past six months, but now, it’s time to face the storm. even if it hurts.

angst. and I mean it. (still, hope you enjoy it!) TW: mentions of death and one's struggles to accept it. WC: 2.1k

[☆★🌌★☆]

Han Jisung loved many things, but one of his favourites was to lay down on the grass near Han River after a concert.

He could still hear the echo of the cheering and clapping on stage, his ears buzzing in a high-pitched sound that felt almost nostalgic despite it not having been too long since the show had ended.

A small smile lingered on his features as the night breeze grazed him tenderly, eyes focused on the sky full of stars above, hands playing with the strands of grass in between his fingers, pulling at it, playing with it on his hands, tugging the petals of the small dandelions near.

He had always cherished the night after a show or a concert. And it had always been with you, lying down near the river, either sighting softly at the breeze or laughing under the rain.

He turned his head, blinking slowly, staring at the empty space at his side, and his heart skipped a beat, leaving him breathless for an instant.

Your smile beamed, and so did his, but shyly, as if he was afraid of being happy. With a soft grunt, you got up, almost giddily as you pranced around on the grass, barefoot, tugging at his sleeve and softly kicking his legs so he’d get up too, giggling sheepishly.

“C’mon, Hannie!” You shined.

He sighed, ignoring the hand you offered at him, almost as if it wasn’t there, tangible, before him, and instead pushed himself up by his knees.

You snickered, quickly putting your shoes back on and childishly hopped around him, both heading back to the car.

He stared at you, at your strawberry blond hair that reached the small on your back, the silhouette of the tall buildings that surrounded the area getting blurry in his eyes while your figure took over his gaze.

You faltered, turning around.

“I love this river.”

And I love you.

But he didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he stared at you as you smiled, breathing in, arms outstretched, as if yearning that the breeze would take you with her.

He sighed, again, but it was even more melancholic. Broken. As grey as the clouds that started to cover the sky above, and as grey as the river flowed, not able to reflect the light the stars and moon shined, turning dark.

You frowned. “What’s wrong?” Your eyes softened at him, getting closer. “Why are you crying, Hannie?”

A tearful snicker left his lips. His knuckles threatened to graze your cheeks, your features soft to the eye, but he retracted his hand, shaking his head slightly and grinning at you.

“It’s ok.” He sniffed, heart-shaped smile softly fading away. “I got something in my eye.”

You both got in the car, and he stared at the empty place beside him, eyes in a shy shade of red, holding his tears back.

He heard you giggle when you opened the window, taking your hand out and playing with the wind in your hands, childishly fascinated at the resistance of your palm and the speed of the car, not too fast but enough that the breeze felt much stronger.

The tips of your long strawberry blond hair also were out, flowing rapidly to the air as he stared at the asphalt roadway, fighting the impulse to hold your free hand that rested on your thigh.

But he kept driving, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Driving somewhere he didn’t really want to go. With someone who wasn’t really there.

His heart skipped a beat. Emotional. The happy, nervous feeling that lingered when your body was close to him came back, the feeling that shivered in his body whenever the cute nickname you called him rolled off your tongue. But it ached.

He parked not too long after, and he got out of the car, grinning softly as you played with the dents in the pathway, hopping and skipping around in cutesy, childish giggles.

“Wait!” You whispered-yelled all of a sudden.

And his body stopped in his tracks, almost reluctantly, as if fighting a treacherous battle between his heart and his brain, his stare finally turning to face you fondly, yet his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Can you hear it?”

Your tone was soft, tender, so much that Jisung could almost feel it surround him lovingly, a deep, sweet voice resonated with warmth, like rich honey pouring slowly, a comforting and soothing melody that wrapped around him, a blanket in a cold winter.

The soft buzz of a small, hardworking little bee surprised him, his face displaying raw emotion, a stray tear slowly falling rolling down his cheek.

He was afraid of bugs. But he loved you. And because of it, he had learned to love those fuzzy little bees, who’s buzzing sound you cherished deeply.

The small bee lingered around the two of you, and gently pranced to the small plants and flowers on the side of the street.

“Oh, look! Forget-me-nots!” Your smile shined as you bent down to get a closer look at the small bluish flowers. “It means remembrance, but also true love and devotion,” you muttered happily. “It’s my favourite flower.”

His heart ached as he bent down next to you and picked a small branch, keeping it close to him, twirling it nervously in his hand as you both wandered, walking down the empty street.

“Hannie?” Your voice pondered. “You haven’t said anything in a while.” He smiled softly at your statement, nodding.

He froze in front of a large metal door, its paint thin and torn into small pieces that remained on the floor, the dents left from it falling, now rusty.

“Hannie?” Your voice faltered.

He tried to smile.

“I haven’t been too cheerful tonight, haven’t I?”

His eyes couldn’t hold yours for long, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

He held your hands in a sudden motion, and his touch crashed through your body like a storm.

Jisung gasped, his cries growing in intensity. “It’s… it’s been… what, six months?” He let out a gentle laugh, yet it was painful to hear. “Six months since… you’ve been gone.”

Your eyes widened, as if you remembered everything all of a sudden.

“I…” he nodded, his hands roaming through your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, your body feeling weak by his touch. “The… accident…”

He cried, hugging your now translucent body.

“I m-miss you s-so much.” He trembled, hugging you tightly despite how cold your body felt. “I… I wanted to do so much with you. I… I love-”

“No! D-don’t say it.”

You cradled his face in your hands.

“I… I’ll wait for you. Up there. Next to the stars. Don’t even dare rush to me. I have all my life. Or. Well, you. Y-you have all your life in front of you.” You cried, yet you still were smiling at him. Broken.

He bit his lip. Hard. God, this wasn’t fair. He wanted to scream it to you. To put into words how his heart was beating for you, for the memories of you he held so dearly, and to fail miserably, because no words could ever do justice to what he was feeling. To whisper to the whole world how he loved you.

But he couldn’t whisper anything, because his whole world wasn’t right before him, but six feet under, behind that metal door fence he hadn’t dared to cross.

In the fading twilight, beneath a blur of somber clouds that mirrored the heaviness in his heart, Jisung stayed put, staring at you, someone who wasn't actually there, in front of the cemetery, as if at the crossroads of farewell. The air, thick with unspoken words hung between you like a shroud.

Han traced the outline of your face with trembling fingertips, as if committing each pore in your skin to memory, etching the details of her existence onto his soul, heart, or mind. His eyes, once vibrant with shared laughter and secret glances, now reflected the inevitable sorrow of parting.

In the end, he had to accept it, right?

A silent understanding passed between you, an acknowledgment that this kiss held the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes.

As your lips met, the taste of salt lingered—a mix of tears, both shed and unshed. The kiss carried the bittersweet essence of nostalgia, a blend of the moments you had shared and the ones that would forever remain unfulfilled wishes of sorrowed hearts. It was a dance of desperation and tenderness, an attempt to catch a universe of emotions in a touch.

The world seemed to slow as you clung to each other, as if time itself was reluctant to let go, apologizing for separating those in love.

But an apology wouldn't bring you back, would it?

As he reluctantly pulled away, your eyes locked for an eternity, each gaze a silent plea to remember. He clenched the flowers in his hand. He would remember. He wouldn't—couldn't—forget. The space where his hands once found solace in the warmth of your own grasp now laid vacant, a stark reminder of the impending truth that hurt to accept.

The echo of that parting kiss lingered in the air, a taste of salt on their lips, a bitter reminder that sometimes, love is not enough to defy the cruel hands of fate.

And just as mysteriously as you had appeared in front of him, staying close to him since you had died, he hugged you for what felt like the first time in months, yet the hint of your warmth disappeared, just like your figure in his eyes.

Now, you weren’t there.

Now, your death was real.

And he froze, looking around in that tombstone filled garden.

Until he found it.

“Look at you, Miss Strawberry Blond.” He muttered. He felt his eyes itch as he cried.

He wanted to laugh, to smile for you, using that silly colour you chanted when he called your redhead, just to pick on you, but he started to hiccup, crying to his heart's content and even more as he stared up to the stars, just to find the moon beaming right above.

His heart skipped a beat again.

You were gone.

“N-no… wait…”

But your memory would—will—always stay.

“No… please…”

He clung to the recently-carved stone, sitting on his knees, a crying mess.

Jisung didn’t want any memories back. He didn’t care at all about anything he had lived with you if he couldn’t spend another day with you.

He wanted you back.

“Hannie.”

He stopped breathing.

“Hannie, you need to stop.”

Your voice sounded in his head, almost like a chant in his ears, as if you were talking to him from really far away.

He stared at your name in the tombstone, shaking his head.

How could he stop?

His sadness bubbled inside of him, turning mad.

“Why are you here?” He muttered, tone filled with something that didn’t feel like him.

He sounded destroyed, eyes heavy with grief, shoulders slumped as uncontrollable sobs racked his body, his attempts to speak choked by the overwhelming feelings consuming him.

But your voice couldn’t answer or help.

“You know what?” He sniffed, frowning. “I need to say it. I fucking love you.” The silence that followed almost froze his heart, because now he could say it, but there was no one to say it back.

Still, he continued with a hiccup. “I love you so fucking much I can’t grasp that you’re gone— hell, I’ve been hallucinating about you for months because it’s so fucking painful to face that you’re not here. And I could never even say it. I could never even say how much I’ve loved you and how I’ll keep loving you even now, and it’s n-not—.”

And suddenly, amidst the confession, he felt like instead of breathing heavily, Jisung ran out of air. As if he had been hit without warnings of any kind.

His throat blocked and his chest hurt, and it was as if something had grabbed his heart, until it felt heavy, and an overwhelming feeling ran through him from head to toe as he whimpered and cried. It was a similar feeling to fear, only that it seemed that Han’s heart had been filled with stones, now heavy, confused by emotion. Feeling like it was going to escape and burst out of his chest.

And for a moment, Jisung thought he was going to die. That whatever this was was going to kill him.

“W-why ca-an’t you le-eave?” He cried, ugly, deeply, choking in between sobs as his head started hurting.

“God, H-hannie..”

But he couldn’t hear you anymore.

“It… it hu-urts t-too mu-ch…”

You stared at him from above, tears falling down as he tightly gripped his chest.

“Ple-eas-se…” he whispered “…m-ma-ake it s-sto-op…”

He felt droplets of rain starting to fall down on him.

“J-just… g-get o-ut of my-y head…”

Unlike the one he felt under your touch, a real storm was approaching.

And no one was going to hold an umbrella over his head.

~kats, who is trying really hard not to cry because she has homework to do and she can't read past her tears.

P.S: TYSM TO MY ABSOLUTE STUNNING GORGEOUS BABIES AND LIKE GOD I COULD MAKE THEM A STATUE @binsito @hiddlestandom @evermourning and @ire67 TY FOR PROOF READING THIS AND HELPING ME OUT I REALLY APPRECIATE YOU GUYS TYSSSM<3333!!!!!

Haha, I enjoyed alot!! I'm glad I made you feel Honoured 🥹💞💞

[Followed you, ur so nice]

SCREAM — CHAPTER [13] of RED LIGHTS [18+!]

“You’re insane,” is all you can let out.

“Insanely attracted to you.”

You scoff, “Stop messing around.”

“Oh, I was just about to start, doll.”

← previous part | next part →

💻 Four months ago: When you end up running into your ex boyfriend at a house party, you decide to search for the vodka your best friend hides in his storage room. But instead you find your enemy there who is very destined to make you forget about your past lover.

❗️You, Y/N, are part of this year’s season of Red Lights, starring as the main character, surrounded by eight very different men that you have all met before. In order to decide how the story unfolds and what happens in following episodes, select an option for the poll after reading a chapter.

🛷 CONTENT INFO: skz ot8 x afab reader [not at the same time], pls refer to masterlist for more info, reality/dating show AU, minors do not interact since it includes topics only suitable for adults, content warning under the cut

📕 WORD COUNT: 3.4K

🎸 SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

🥀 CONTENT WARNING: explicit sexual content [includes oral (f receiving), semi-public encounters, degradation, squirting, reader gets called doll, baby and slut], alcohol consumption, mention of breakup

The characters do not portray any of the skz members in real life, the names are just used for fiction. Minors do not interact, this post contains mature topics. By reading you consent to nsfw content and agree that you have read all the warnings above carefully.

You’re convinced by now he must have done it on purpose. Jisung’s greatest birthday wish must have been to humiliate you and he achieved exactly that.

Big brown eyes stare at her. You think she’s one of the birthday boy’s colleagues and you couldn’t care less if she wasn’t currently all over your ex boyfriend.

Yes, someone—most definitely Jisung himself—must have invited Minho to the party. As far as you know they have talked maybe twice in their life which is why you don’t get what your ex is doing here. Therefore, Jisung must have brought him here with the intention of hurting you.

“Are you okay, Y/N? You’ve been sipping on this gin tonic for an hour now.”

It’s funny that your best friend worries about you when you’re not drinking—although it would be a good idea to drown your sorrows in alcohol. However, you don’t want to do anything that could end very embarrassing for you. The night is already too much of a disaster while you’re sober.

“Why… why is he here, Chan?”

Your best friend is sipping on some lemonade. Despite him living here together with Jisung in the shared apartment, he has offered the guests to drive them home—the gentlemen he is. Well, he’s also doing a new workout program which requires him to stay sober at all times.

“I believe it’s because Jisung is celebrating his birthday together with Jooyeon and apparently Minho and him are friends,” Chan explains. “ They have known each other for years since their families are close or something. Jisung told him that it isn’t a good idea but Jooyeon couldn’t be convinced.”

Oh. So—it wasn’t your enemies evil plan after all? Or is Chan just trying to calm you down? No. Your best friend would never lie to you and despite that, you can tell whenever he’s not telling the truth.

In addition to that, your worst nightmare—also known as Han Jisung—has also tried to convince his friend to not invite Minho? Maybe because of… you? When your ex and you were still a couple, Jisung had always been pretty neutral, almost distant around him so you would have expected him to not really care if Minho attends his party or not.

“Ji– Jisung tried to convince him not to come?”

And here you were thinking that he was the one to invite him on purpose. Well—can you blame yourself? Jisung and you have never gotten along since you first met even though Chan has been his roommate and other best friend. Your hatred towards him is mostly caused because of him dating your close friend Sooji in the first year of college and dumping her for no reason. He just ghosted her out of the blue and talked shit about her.

It’s part of your ‘girl’s support girls code’ to automatically hate him too, right? On top of that, he’s never made a move to come clear with you either. By now he must reciprocate those feelings—you can tell since he takes every chance to make fun of you when you’re together in your shared friend group.

“Yes. He told me,” Chan replies.

“Wow, you could almost think that he has a heart,” you chuckle.

Your best friend rolls his eyes, “Y/N… I know you don’t like him but he’s not evil.”

Raising one eyebrow, you look at Chan. “That’s what he makes you believe…”

You turn around, gaze hovering towards your ex boyfriend, who’s currently whispering something to the girl in front of him. Minho’s fingers are placed on her lower arm, pulling her closer.

“Hey, look at me,” Chan interrupts your zoned out state.

“Hm?”

“If you want to go home, I can drive you at any time,” he informs you. “I’m staying sober anyway. But how about you just make the best out of it?”

Wow. Chan makes it sound so fucking easy. You’ve come so far these past nine months. You’ve almost got over your stupid asshole of an ex boyfriend just for him to show up at a party which you didn’t want to attend in the first place.

“How am I supposed to make the best out of seeing my ex nine months after him breaking up with me without giving me a reason?”

Chan looks at you with apologetic eyes, a hand coming to your shoulder to softly stroke it, “Baby…”

“No, don’t ‘baby’ me, Christopher,” you tell him, taking a step back.

“Then let’s at least try to make the best of it. You can’t avoid your fears forever,” he suggests.

Well—what else are you supposed to do, anyway? Maybe getting a little bit of alcohol should be fine. Just enough for you to not care about Minho’s presence anymore. You could look around and search for Hyunjin. That introvert is probably hiding in some corner, maybe sketching the scene of the party. Annoying your roommate sounds like a good idea, if you’re honest.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right. But I think I need something stronger than this,” you say, looking at your cup filled with gin and tonic. Chan always mixes drinks that are not strong at all. Unfortunately, Seungmin couldn’t make it to the party tonight—with his bartender skills you would have already been wasted by now.

Just when you’re about to go to the kitchen, Chan gets greeted by someone. Of course. That guy has friends all over the globe.

“If you need anything, let me know, yeah?”

You nod and let him engage in the conversation with his acquaintance, before you head to the room of your destination. Jisung and Chan’s apartment is cramped which makes it even less spacious now with so many guests inside. You can hardly tell where you’re going but somehow you make it to the kitchen.

Passing some couples that are making out in the corners and on top of the counters you get reminded that you’re glad about the fact that Hyunjin and you are too introverted to ever have an obscene party like this. Rummaging around in the shelves where you know your best friend and his annoying roommate store their alcohol, you search for something specific, before you plan to look around for Hyunjin.

However, the vodka is nowhere to be found and since you’re a recurring guest and Chan has never had anything against you helping yourself when it comes to his stocks of alcohol, you decide to head towards where the beverages should be.

So, you exit the kitchen again—needing more time than you would have liked—and walk a straight line to the apartment’s storage room.

Fuck. The vodka has to be somewhere here—you know exactly that Chan hides it in one of those dusty boxes–

“Y/N.”

Oh, no.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Anyone but him.

“Jisung,” you say his name before getting up.

He walks inside the room now, turning on another lamp before closing the door behind him.

“Looking for something specific?”

“None of your business,” you hiss.

Shit. Where on earth is that stupid vodka?

“Oh, this is for sure my business because last time I checked you are in my apartment at my birthday party,” he tells you, clicking his tongue.

When you look at him for the first time you fear your heart might stop—his hair has gotten a lot longer, dark curls decorating his pretty face. He’s dressed in a black leather jacket and baggy jeans, navy nail polish highlighting his style.

Yes. That’s the biggest issue with Han Jisung. He isn’t only your so-called enemy but unfortunately also a very attractive one. You can’t deny it, after all you have eyes. It feels so toxic to admit it but on top of his beauty, the way he's always teasing you adds to it.

But you hate him. Absolutely. After all he’s done to Sooji, you will never like him. However, this doesn’t hold you back from sometimes having unholy thoughts about him that you shouldn’t have.

The worst of all this is—and you’re not even aware of it—if you gave Jisung a chance, you’d get along quite well. You’re pretty similar personality wise and share a lot of interests. There’s more than meets the eye to that dilemma with your friend some years ago but Jisung is too much of a coward to tell you the truth for two reasons.

First, he doesn’t want to be the deliverer of the message that your friend absolutely lied to you and that she was the one to talk shit about him. Because, second, Jisung didn’t dump her because he’s some fuckboy but she found out that he developed a crush on you which made her break things off with him and start a rumour out of jealousy. He had never been toxic to Sooji at any time given but his kindness was taken for granted.

“Hm, I am here,” you continue. “Just like Minho who you’ve decided to invite.”

Jisung looks at you dumbfounded. Minho is the last guy he wants to see here. After all, the potential of you and him even talking is enough to let jealousy bubble up in his body.

“What? I didn’t invite him. What makes you think I did?”

Why would Jisung want Minho here in the first place? He’s always hated that the guy even dated you for so long. Sure, he’s not relieved about the fact that he broke your heart but quite glad that you’re not a couple anymore.

You, on the other side, are just angry. Angry at Minho. Angry at Jisung. Angry at the world. Sometimes you’re just like that—fury gaining power over your body, annoyance spreading through your veins that makes you say provocative shit that you for sure will regret later.

“You… you just destroy everything… the same with Sooji back then–“

“What did she tell you?” Jisung immediately intervenes.

It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment for years now. You’ve never up until this day talked about the incident between him and your friend. Although, he could always tell that you’re distant because of it—on top of that, Chan couldn’t shut up for too long. So, this is why he immediately blurts out the question he’s been dying to ask.

“That you dumped her, duh,” you tell him. Why’s he even asking? Sooji let everyone on campus know what a fuckboy Jisung is. You totally understand her.

“Hm, I see,” Jisung won’t tell you the real reason the thing between them ended. He won’t give this triumph to you, not yet. “Of course she told you that. I’m not surprised.”

“Yes and I believe her,” you say. What a pity. But then again—as mentioned before—Jisung won’t reveal the secret Sooji has been hiding from you. That’s a thing between you and your friend and even if he was gonna share it you wouldn’t believe him anyway.

However, it doesn’t hold him back from shamelessly flirting with you—after all he’s noticed quite well how you’ve been ogling him for the past five minutes. You’re so obvious it’s almost adorable.

“I could make you feel good, you know… so when you walk out this little room, I promise you that Minho will know you’ve just gotten your brains fucked out,” Jisung suggests with a smirk.

Fuck. He speaks exactly like he’s done in all those fantasies you’ve had about him. Your enemy has to stop messing with your head.

Ignoring the sensation building up in your lower belly, you allow him to get closer to you, staying right where you are.

“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” you hiss back.

“I don’t just think so, I am speaking the truth,” he replies, clicking his tongue. “Let’s call Sooji right now and ask her how many times I’ve made her cum in a row just with my tongue and fingers.”

Jealousy erupts in your stomach by the idea of Jisung and Sooji together although it’s been a couple of years since they dated.

“You’re insane,” is all you can let out.

“Insanely attracted to you,” he answers, cocking his head before he takes a few steps further until he cages you between the shelf behind you and his body.

You’re afraid he might hear how fast and loud your heart is beating at that moment. God. You need to calm down. You can’t let him win. But then again—both your heart and unfortunately your pussy are trying to convince you of the exact opposite of what your brain is saying right now.

You scoff, “Stop messing around.”

Your gaze flies somewhere else, desperately trying to avoid him so he doesn’t see how flustered you are.

“Oh, I was just about to start, doll.”

One hand lands on the furniture behind you as your head snaps up at him.

“Are you for real?”

If he’s just saying this to make fun of you your dignity will basically be dead. You can’t risk getting humiliated by Han Jisung—unless it’s in a way you’ve thought about before, alone at night in your bed, two fingers inside your cunt, wishing they were his.

“Absolutely,” he says with a serious voice now.

Oh. He’s not joking. Fuck. This can’t be real. But it is. His eyes are burning with lust, while you feel your panties dripping from arousal. No one has ever had this effect on you. Maybe agreeing to this offer will both help you get rid of the confusion about Minho and Jisung?

What’s wrong about getting your brains fucked out by your enemy, right?

For a second you think about what Sooji would say and if you’re betraying her if you let Jisung touch you. But then you look back at him again and see how eager he is, basically drooling at the idea to pleasure you.

Speaking of, why is he even offering that? Hopefully not in some way to humiliate either you or Sooji more.

“What’s in it for you?”

He raises one eyebrow, “I don’t need anything. I just really enjoy eating pussy, you know?”

And with the seriousness in his voice you believe him. Jisung leaves out the crush that he still has on you that has a huge influence on this proposition as well.

“Okay. Only this. No sex,” you say with a stern voice.

“Sure,” he replies, nodding. He won’t say no to that. It feels like winning the lottery that you allow him to touch you, he won’t be the one complaining.

“Then… go on…”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, serious again.

“Uhm… yeah, why not?”

Jisung closes the gap between you, his mouth lying against yours and for a second you believe that earth stopped moving. You part your lips for him, inviting his tongue in, as the kiss grows in passion and heat. Your enemy lets out a grunt, already overwhelmed despite nothing much happening so far.

His hands wander to your waist, pulling you closer, before they travel further south. You spread your legs, allowing him space between your thighs while he starts playing with the hem of your dress. Fuck. When you first stepped into his apartment today, wearing that pathetic excuse of a skirt, he was afraid to get a boner right there in public.

These past years you’ve never bothered dressing up at his parties but something in the back of your mind convinced you to provoke him a little today.

Jisung brings two fingers to your drenched underwear. He chuckles, when he realises how absolutely soaked you are—you have to admit that you’ve never in your life been so wet before, it’s almost embarrassing.

He disconnects his lips from yours again, looking at you to search for any second guesses but all you do is hastily nod while heavy breaths and lustful whimpers spill from your lips. So, Jisung pushes the ruined fabric aside, not bothering to take it off.

He immediately finds your clit, as he starts drawing beautiful circles on it. You almost hit the back of your head on the shelf, unable to hold back the reaction he forces out of you—Jisung is fast to place his other hand between you and the furniture, saving you from actually hurting yourself. There’s something about this little gesture that makes your knees go weak—both in an arousing and emotional way.

But the thoughts don’t stay in your head any longer, when Jisung continues rubbing your sensitive bud, using his thumb now to keep two fingers busy at your entrance.

“Look at how wet this pussy is,” he says with a low voice and you let out an unapologetic moan.

It feels so fucking filthy to be here—inside a cramped storage room where anyone could walk in on you, seeing you begging your enemy to finally push his fingers into your cunt.

As if he’s able to read your mind, Jisung does exactly this, feeling you immediately clench around him. It’s so adorable how you don’t even seem to fight it—he would have expected you to be a tease, an absolute brat but maybe he prefers this version of you, so obediently allowing him to do whatever he wants.

“You look so fucking pretty with my fingers inside your cunt,” he tells you and you can’t help but giggle.

You feel your brain turn into mush, mouth slightly agape and legs parting further to give him more access to thrust his digits deeper into you. Jisung positions one of your heels on the shelf so that he can brush over that sweet spot inside you.

“Didn’t expect you to get so wet that fast… shit, you’re easy…”

Your enemy drops to his knees then, hovering your skirt upwards, as he’s on eye level with your pussy now. You swear you can see him salivating at the view—he’s dreamt about this for years after all.

“I-I’m not– e-easy,” you fight back between moans, not quite convincing.

Jisung spreads your pussy lips apart, taking in every moment of this astonishing sight in front of his eyes.

“So, you’re only like this with me, huh?”

You can’t reply this time. Your dignity is definitely dead by now but you can’t manage to let a single rational thought appear in your head, when Jisung is flicking his tongue over your clit for the first time, the thrusts of his fingers continuing.

“Cute little thing, can’t get enough of my tongue, hm?” he hums against your wetness.

Your hand finds his head, twirling the curls around while you cry out his name as if you’ve forgotten about every other word you’ve ever learnt.

“Shit– doll, yeah, just like that, scream my name, baby.”

Hastily nodding, you let out a giggle, nonsense leaving your mouth, as you grind yourself on his tongue.

“Pathetic little slut… didn’t expect you to go dumb just from my tongue…”

Fuck. The rough language just adds to it and you can’t do anything else than to agree with him. This is insane. Jisung is absolutely insane—ruining your pussy and you’d let him do it again and again.

He’s driving you close to the verge of cumming. Dangeroulsy close. Whenever he moans against your heat. Whenever he circles his tongue around your clit. Whenever he curls the by now three fingers inside your aching hole.

“Ji– fuck, right there, yeah, right there– oh–“ you manage to let out.

Stars are filling your vision, when you tip over the edge—for a second it feels as if you entered a new dimension, utmost pleasure taking over you. Your thighs are shaking, your throat burns from screaming Jisung’s name, when you squirt all over his face—a feeling you’ve never experienced before. The man between your legs doesn’t stop—he helps you ride out your high, by now absolutely pussy drunk because of you.

“You’re so fucking cute, I swear,” he says.

Once you’ve somewhat come down, he gets up from the floor and cleans some of your juices with his fingers, for the rest he uses some tissues he finds. He does the same with you, taking care of your fragile body.

Shit. This was it?

You can feel the tent inside his pants, when he leans closer—his crotch is pretty much covered by his long shirt, hiding the evidence of his arousal.

But you need more. You fucking need more of him.

“Jisung– please– I need– need your cock,” you beg him with awaiting eyes.

“Nah, we agreed on something else, doll,” he says before helping you adjust your dress.

A soft kiss gets placed on your cheek next, before he takes a step away and exits the room.

Results of poll 12 from WRAP ME IN PLASTIC [previous chapter]:

[Choosing autumn led to Jisung's backstory being revealed since it happened in September]

❤️‍🔥 AUTHOR’S NOTE: You made it! You chose my fave backstory of them all hahaha finally my man Jisung gets some screen time too even though it was just a flashback chapter :) Thank you so much for reading and all the love you keep on giving. I appreciate you guys a lot. Make sure to leave a comment, ask and/or reblog. Have a nice day and take care ❤️

© j-0ne25 2023 | copying, translating or stealing my work is prohibited

Omg you and me both😭 If I see a roach- Either I faint while standing up or I'm just screaming and yeah, never stepping foot in that room till I try to kill it which resolves to calling one of my friends to kill it🥹

HI LOVEYYY!! How are you today? 💚 also, is there a name you’d like me to call you? 🥰

HIIIIIIII!!!! I'm doing fine, super sleepy lmao. Hm, tbh you can call me anything, but even though its not my real name haha, you can call me rinoa💞💞

AHAHAHAHAHAHA

Texas isn't bad though lol. I heard theres many roaches there😰

HI LOVEYYY!! How are you today? 💚 also, is there a name you’d like me to call you? 🥰

HIIIIIIII!!!! I'm doing fine, super sleepy lmao. Hm, tbh you can call me anything, but even though its not my real name haha, you can call me rinoa💞💞

Hihi!🩷<3

I've never sent an ask before and I'm a little nervous but you seem super nice and sweet!

I was wondering if you could do mommy!Jisung fic or HCs or literally anything you want, ive been reading your Felix and Minho ones and ohemgeeeeee I love it so so so much! Please don't feel pressured to do this you can totes ignore it if you want, thank youuuu😘🫶 mwah

Do I sign off with something, idk- byeee

Mommy! Han Headcannon

Warning: Mommy Dom Han, ANGST, Description of Panic Attacks (Based on my personal experience with them, they manifest differently for everyone), Little note of punishment, mostly fluffy with a hint of smut.

The mommy thing came as a complete surprise to both of you

It wasn't planned, it was discussed, it wasn't even noticed at first

While most things like these are born out of excitement and fun

This one instead came out during a terrible situation

The kitchen floor you sunk down on was cold and bit at your exposed thighs, sleep shorts did nothing to protect you.

Your shirt felt too tight like a snake slowly constricting around your throat

Your heartbeat screamed in your ears and lurched in your chest

Breathing was nauseating

The room was expanding and shrinking all at once

The bubble around you was shrinking

shrinking

shrinking

but it wouldn't pop

You poked it, hit it, screamed at it, did everything you could

it wouldn't fucking pop

You closed in on yourself, seeing the ledge and knowing you were going off

your nails sunk into your flesh as you held on for dear life

"Baby? FUCK! baby, why are you on the floor"

Han came home a bit later from the studio, fully expecting to find you waking up from your afternoon nap

When he turned the corner to set down his things there you were. White as a ghost and shaking.

Immediately he pried your hand from your arms and held them in his.

He kneeled down and hissed from the freezing tile.

"Baby, shhhh. I need you to listen. Can you hear me? It's just panic sweetheart, nothing is coming for you."

"Bubble, closing, fast"

"No, it isn't. Look I'm in the bubble, see. If I was able to get inside the bubble then the bubble isn't closing, it's getting bigger. I'm here, baby I'm here." A gentle hand cupped your face, slowly bringing your eyes to his.

Glassy eyes looked back

"Mommy is here?"

He didn't even question it, if this is what you needed then this is what he would give you

"Yes baby, mommy is here. come to mommy"

You had no memory of what happened that night and Han was afraid to approach the subject

It was a secret he kept, eating him alive

Every time he looked at you he wanted to blurt it out

All Han ever wanted to do was to be your safety, clearly Mommy was that comfort you needed

He picked at his hand and rubbed his legs raw while watching a movie one night

You could tell from his fidgeting something was wrong, his anxiety was building.

"Hannie, What's wrong baby?"

"NOTHING!. sorry nothing is wrong"

"Han...What is it"

"I can't tell you!"

"You can tell me anything, you know that. Jesus you just watched me have a full-blown panic attack last week! Speak to me"

"I need it"

"Need what"

"Mommy."

"Y-You want to call me mommy? Han that's not a bad thing-"

"No...I need to be yours, please" His eyes are now made of the same glass as yours.

Slowly Mommy Han came in and out of your lives

It was clear Mommy was saved for those special nights

Those nights when you needed a bit more love

Where he needed a bit more reassurance

Where you both needed a bit more comfort

Sex with Mommy was soft and sweet

Slow and loving

Praising with no underlying degradation

He would kiss every inch of your skin light as a feather, not to overstimulate you

Cumming wasn't always something that happened either

No, Mommy Han just needed to be there with you and to love you

This didn't mean Mommy Han went without disciplining you

But whereas others would spank, overstim, or deny

He simply scolded you. A bit of humiliation mixed in.

"So worried Mommy wasn't thinking about you that you had to go and send me that little picture hmm? I bet it eased your mind, putting your sexy body in mommy's mind but an act like that can't go unpunished can it? Now Mommy is going to call Chan and Changbin back to finish the meeting you so rudely interrupted. You my dear are going to sit on my cock like the good little thing I know you are and be quiet. Got it?"

While the meeting was long and punishing to you, Han made sure to stay as still as possible.

Han would tease, but Mommy would never.

Soon you wake up to Han slowly thrusting into you, a blank screen indicating the meeting had ended.

"Shhh pretty baby, go back to sleep. Mommy has you. Uh Uh, Mommy knows you'll be good for him and go right back to sleep, right baby? Shhhh just like that. Goodnight baby, Mommy loves you"

That last part didn't need to be said

You never doubted Mommy's love for you

Every time Han made sure you knew

Just how much Mommy adored you

The Sweetest Batch: @goblinracha @kaciidubs @channieandhisgoonsquad @comet-falls @ddyskz @jiminskies @j-onedrabbles @lixiesweetbrownie @marrivmel @caitlyn98s

i read a fic earlier today it was absolutely heartbreaking but still beautiful can i tag you in it?

Thank you for thinking of me but please don't. I don't read sad/angsty fics :(

I relate- a Hometown Cha Cha Cha life is all I need🥲 I need a bf like Chief Hong and a good job like Ms. Dentist😵‍💫😵‍💫

“you should be at the club” Brother I should literally be sent to the seaside for my health

Okay wow😳🤭 Amazing

@sweetracha @its-hannjisung @moonjxsung

(Calling my fellow hanners😃)

[Ik ik I tag too much🥲)

SCREAM — CHAPTER [13] of RED LIGHTS [18+!]

“You’re insane,” is all you can let out.

“Insanely attracted to you.”

You scoff, “Stop messing around.”

“Oh, I was just about to start, doll.”

← previous part | next part →

💻 Four months ago: When you end up running into your ex boyfriend at a house party, you decide to search for the vodka your best friend hides in his storage room. But instead you find your enemy there who is very destined to make you forget about your past lover.

❗️You, Y/N, are part of this year’s season of Red Lights, starring as the main character, surrounded by eight very different men that you have all met before. In order to decide how the story unfolds and what happens in following episodes, select an option for the poll after reading a chapter.

🛷 CONTENT INFO: skz ot8 x afab reader [not at the same time], pls refer to masterlist for more info, reality/dating show AU, minors do not interact since it includes topics only suitable for adults, content warning under the cut

📕 WORD COUNT: 3.4K

🎸 SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

🥀 CONTENT WARNING: explicit sexual content [includes oral (f receiving), semi-public encounters, degradation, squirting, reader gets called doll, baby and slut], alcohol consumption, mention of breakup

The characters do not portray any of the skz members in real life, the names are just used for fiction. Minors do not interact, this post contains mature topics. By reading you consent to nsfw content and agree that you have read all the warnings above carefully.

You’re convinced by now he must have done it on purpose. Jisung’s greatest birthday wish must have been to humiliate you and he achieved exactly that.

Big brown eyes stare at her. You think she’s one of the birthday boy’s colleagues and you couldn’t care less if she wasn’t currently all over your ex boyfriend.

Yes, someone—most definitely Jisung himself—must have invited Minho to the party. As far as you know they have talked maybe twice in their life which is why you don’t get what your ex is doing here. Therefore, Jisung must have brought him here with the intention of hurting you.

“Are you okay, Y/N? You’ve been sipping on this gin tonic for an hour now.”

It’s funny that your best friend worries about you when you’re not drinking—although it would be a good idea to drown your sorrows in alcohol. However, you don’t want to do anything that could end very embarrassing for you. The night is already too much of a disaster while you’re sober.

“Why… why is he here, Chan?”

Your best friend is sipping on some lemonade. Despite him living here together with Jisung in the shared apartment, he has offered the guests to drive them home—the gentlemen he is. Well, he’s also doing a new workout program which requires him to stay sober at all times.

“I believe it’s because Jisung is celebrating his birthday together with Jooyeon and apparently Minho and him are friends,” Chan explains. “ They have known each other for years since their families are close or something. Jisung told him that it isn’t a good idea but Jooyeon couldn’t be convinced.”

Oh. So—it wasn’t your enemies evil plan after all? Or is Chan just trying to calm you down? No. Your best friend would never lie to you and despite that, you can tell whenever he’s not telling the truth.

In addition to that, your worst nightmare—also known as Han Jisung—has also tried to convince his friend to not invite Minho? Maybe because of… you? When your ex and you were still a couple, Jisung had always been pretty neutral, almost distant around him so you would have expected him to not really care if Minho attends his party or not.

“Ji– Jisung tried to convince him not to come?”

And here you were thinking that he was the one to invite him on purpose. Well—can you blame yourself? Jisung and you have never gotten along since you first met even though Chan has been his roommate and other best friend. Your hatred towards him is mostly caused because of him dating your close friend Sooji in the first year of college and dumping her for no reason. He just ghosted her out of the blue and talked shit about her.

It’s part of your ‘girl’s support girls code’ to automatically hate him too, right? On top of that, he’s never made a move to come clear with you either. By now he must reciprocate those feelings—you can tell since he takes every chance to make fun of you when you’re together in your shared friend group.

“Yes. He told me,” Chan replies.

“Wow, you could almost think that he has a heart,” you chuckle.

Your best friend rolls his eyes, “Y/N… I know you don’t like him but he’s not evil.”

Raising one eyebrow, you look at Chan. “That’s what he makes you believe…”

You turn around, gaze hovering towards your ex boyfriend, who’s currently whispering something to the girl in front of him. Minho’s fingers are placed on her lower arm, pulling her closer.

“Hey, look at me,” Chan interrupts your zoned out state.

“Hm?”

“If you want to go home, I can drive you at any time,” he informs you. “I’m staying sober anyway. But how about you just make the best out of it?”

Wow. Chan makes it sound so fucking easy. You’ve come so far these past nine months. You’ve almost got over your stupid asshole of an ex boyfriend just for him to show up at a party which you didn’t want to attend in the first place.

“How am I supposed to make the best out of seeing my ex nine months after him breaking up with me without giving me a reason?”

Chan looks at you with apologetic eyes, a hand coming to your shoulder to softly stroke it, “Baby…”

“No, don’t ‘baby’ me, Christopher,” you tell him, taking a step back.

“Then let’s at least try to make the best of it. You can’t avoid your fears forever,” he suggests.

Well—what else are you supposed to do, anyway? Maybe getting a little bit of alcohol should be fine. Just enough for you to not care about Minho’s presence anymore. You could look around and search for Hyunjin. That introvert is probably hiding in some corner, maybe sketching the scene of the party. Annoying your roommate sounds like a good idea, if you’re honest.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right. But I think I need something stronger than this,” you say, looking at your cup filled with gin and tonic. Chan always mixes drinks that are not strong at all. Unfortunately, Seungmin couldn’t make it to the party tonight—with his bartender skills you would have already been wasted by now.

Just when you’re about to go to the kitchen, Chan gets greeted by someone. Of course. That guy has friends all over the globe.

“If you need anything, let me know, yeah?”

You nod and let him engage in the conversation with his acquaintance, before you head to the room of your destination. Jisung and Chan’s apartment is cramped which makes it even less spacious now with so many guests inside. You can hardly tell where you’re going but somehow you make it to the kitchen.

Passing some couples that are making out in the corners and on top of the counters you get reminded that you’re glad about the fact that Hyunjin and you are too introverted to ever have an obscene party like this. Rummaging around in the shelves where you know your best friend and his annoying roommate store their alcohol, you search for something specific, before you plan to look around for Hyunjin.

However, the vodka is nowhere to be found and since you’re a recurring guest and Chan has never had anything against you helping yourself when it comes to his stocks of alcohol, you decide to head towards where the beverages should be.

So, you exit the kitchen again—needing more time than you would have liked—and walk a straight line to the apartment’s storage room.

Fuck. The vodka has to be somewhere here—you know exactly that Chan hides it in one of those dusty boxes–

“Y/N.”

Oh, no.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Anyone but him.

“Jisung,” you say his name before getting up.

He walks inside the room now, turning on another lamp before closing the door behind him.

“Looking for something specific?”

“None of your business,” you hiss.

Shit. Where on earth is that stupid vodka?

“Oh, this is for sure my business because last time I checked you are in my apartment at my birthday party,” he tells you, clicking his tongue.

When you look at him for the first time you fear your heart might stop—his hair has gotten a lot longer, dark curls decorating his pretty face. He’s dressed in a black leather jacket and baggy jeans, navy nail polish highlighting his style.

Yes. That’s the biggest issue with Han Jisung. He isn’t only your so-called enemy but unfortunately also a very attractive one. You can’t deny it, after all you have eyes. It feels so toxic to admit it but on top of his beauty, the way he's always teasing you adds to it.

But you hate him. Absolutely. After all he’s done to Sooji, you will never like him. However, this doesn’t hold you back from sometimes having unholy thoughts about him that you shouldn’t have.

The worst of all this is—and you’re not even aware of it—if you gave Jisung a chance, you’d get along quite well. You’re pretty similar personality wise and share a lot of interests. There’s more than meets the eye to that dilemma with your friend some years ago but Jisung is too much of a coward to tell you the truth for two reasons.

First, he doesn’t want to be the deliverer of the message that your friend absolutely lied to you and that she was the one to talk shit about him. Because, second, Jisung didn’t dump her because he’s some fuckboy but she found out that he developed a crush on you which made her break things off with him and start a rumour out of jealousy. He had never been toxic to Sooji at any time given but his kindness was taken for granted.

“Hm, I am here,” you continue. “Just like Minho who you’ve decided to invite.”

Jisung looks at you dumbfounded. Minho is the last guy he wants to see here. After all, the potential of you and him even talking is enough to let jealousy bubble up in his body.

“What? I didn’t invite him. What makes you think I did?”

Why would Jisung want Minho here in the first place? He’s always hated that the guy even dated you for so long. Sure, he’s not relieved about the fact that he broke your heart but quite glad that you’re not a couple anymore.

You, on the other side, are just angry. Angry at Minho. Angry at Jisung. Angry at the world. Sometimes you’re just like that—fury gaining power over your body, annoyance spreading through your veins that makes you say provocative shit that you for sure will regret later.

“You… you just destroy everything… the same with Sooji back then–“

“What did she tell you?” Jisung immediately intervenes.

It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment for years now. You’ve never up until this day talked about the incident between him and your friend. Although, he could always tell that you’re distant because of it—on top of that, Chan couldn’t shut up for too long. So, this is why he immediately blurts out the question he’s been dying to ask.

“That you dumped her, duh,” you tell him. Why’s he even asking? Sooji let everyone on campus know what a fuckboy Jisung is. You totally understand her.

“Hm, I see,” Jisung won’t tell you the real reason the thing between them ended. He won’t give this triumph to you, not yet. “Of course she told you that. I’m not surprised.”

“Yes and I believe her,” you say. What a pity. But then again—as mentioned before—Jisung won’t reveal the secret Sooji has been hiding from you. That’s a thing between you and your friend and even if he was gonna share it you wouldn’t believe him anyway.

However, it doesn’t hold him back from shamelessly flirting with you—after all he’s noticed quite well how you’ve been ogling him for the past five minutes. You’re so obvious it’s almost adorable.

“I could make you feel good, you know… so when you walk out this little room, I promise you that Minho will know you’ve just gotten your brains fucked out,” Jisung suggests with a smirk.

Fuck. He speaks exactly like he’s done in all those fantasies you’ve had about him. Your enemy has to stop messing with your head.

Ignoring the sensation building up in your lower belly, you allow him to get closer to you, staying right where you are.

“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” you hiss back.

“I don’t just think so, I am speaking the truth,” he replies, clicking his tongue. “Let’s call Sooji right now and ask her how many times I’ve made her cum in a row just with my tongue and fingers.”

Jealousy erupts in your stomach by the idea of Jisung and Sooji together although it’s been a couple of years since they dated.

“You’re insane,” is all you can let out.

“Insanely attracted to you,” he answers, cocking his head before he takes a few steps further until he cages you between the shelf behind you and his body.

You’re afraid he might hear how fast and loud your heart is beating at that moment. God. You need to calm down. You can’t let him win. But then again—both your heart and unfortunately your pussy are trying to convince you of the exact opposite of what your brain is saying right now.

You scoff, “Stop messing around.”

Your gaze flies somewhere else, desperately trying to avoid him so he doesn’t see how flustered you are.

“Oh, I was just about to start, doll.”

One hand lands on the furniture behind you as your head snaps up at him.

“Are you for real?”

If he’s just saying this to make fun of you your dignity will basically be dead. You can’t risk getting humiliated by Han Jisung—unless it’s in a way you’ve thought about before, alone at night in your bed, two fingers inside your cunt, wishing they were his.

“Absolutely,” he says with a serious voice now.

Oh. He’s not joking. Fuck. This can’t be real. But it is. His eyes are burning with lust, while you feel your panties dripping from arousal. No one has ever had this effect on you. Maybe agreeing to this offer will both help you get rid of the confusion about Minho and Jisung?

What’s wrong about getting your brains fucked out by your enemy, right?

For a second you think about what Sooji would say and if you’re betraying her if you let Jisung touch you. But then you look back at him again and see how eager he is, basically drooling at the idea to pleasure you.

Speaking of, why is he even offering that? Hopefully not in some way to humiliate either you or Sooji more.

“What’s in it for you?”

He raises one eyebrow, “I don’t need anything. I just really enjoy eating pussy, you know?”

And with the seriousness in his voice you believe him. Jisung leaves out the crush that he still has on you that has a huge influence on this proposition as well.

“Okay. Only this. No sex,” you say with a stern voice.

“Sure,” he replies, nodding. He won’t say no to that. It feels like winning the lottery that you allow him to touch you, he won’t be the one complaining.

“Then… go on…”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, serious again.

“Uhm… yeah, why not?”

Jisung closes the gap between you, his mouth lying against yours and for a second you believe that earth stopped moving. You part your lips for him, inviting his tongue in, as the kiss grows in passion and heat. Your enemy lets out a grunt, already overwhelmed despite nothing much happening so far.

His hands wander to your waist, pulling you closer, before they travel further south. You spread your legs, allowing him space between your thighs while he starts playing with the hem of your dress. Fuck. When you first stepped into his apartment today, wearing that pathetic excuse of a skirt, he was afraid to get a boner right there in public.

These past years you’ve never bothered dressing up at his parties but something in the back of your mind convinced you to provoke him a little today.

Jisung brings two fingers to your drenched underwear. He chuckles, when he realises how absolutely soaked you are—you have to admit that you’ve never in your life been so wet before, it’s almost embarrassing.

He disconnects his lips from yours again, looking at you to search for any second guesses but all you do is hastily nod while heavy breaths and lustful whimpers spill from your lips. So, Jisung pushes the ruined fabric aside, not bothering to take it off.

He immediately finds your clit, as he starts drawing beautiful circles on it. You almost hit the back of your head on the shelf, unable to hold back the reaction he forces out of you—Jisung is fast to place his other hand between you and the furniture, saving you from actually hurting yourself. There’s something about this little gesture that makes your knees go weak—both in an arousing and emotional way.

But the thoughts don’t stay in your head any longer, when Jisung continues rubbing your sensitive bud, using his thumb now to keep two fingers busy at your entrance.

“Look at how wet this pussy is,” he says with a low voice and you let out an unapologetic moan.

It feels so fucking filthy to be here—inside a cramped storage room where anyone could walk in on you, seeing you begging your enemy to finally push his fingers into your cunt.

As if he’s able to read your mind, Jisung does exactly this, feeling you immediately clench around him. It’s so adorable how you don’t even seem to fight it—he would have expected you to be a tease, an absolute brat but maybe he prefers this version of you, so obediently allowing him to do whatever he wants.

“You look so fucking pretty with my fingers inside your cunt,” he tells you and you can’t help but giggle.

You feel your brain turn into mush, mouth slightly agape and legs parting further to give him more access to thrust his digits deeper into you. Jisung positions one of your heels on the shelf so that he can brush over that sweet spot inside you.

“Didn’t expect you to get so wet that fast… shit, you’re easy…”

Your enemy drops to his knees then, hovering your skirt upwards, as he’s on eye level with your pussy now. You swear you can see him salivating at the view—he’s dreamt about this for years after all.

“I-I’m not– e-easy,” you fight back between moans, not quite convincing.

Jisung spreads your pussy lips apart, taking in every moment of this astonishing sight in front of his eyes.

“So, you’re only like this with me, huh?”

You can’t reply this time. Your dignity is definitely dead by now but you can’t manage to let a single rational thought appear in your head, when Jisung is flicking his tongue over your clit for the first time, the thrusts of his fingers continuing.

“Cute little thing, can’t get enough of my tongue, hm?” he hums against your wetness.

Your hand finds his head, twirling the curls around while you cry out his name as if you’ve forgotten about every other word you’ve ever learnt.

“Shit– doll, yeah, just like that, scream my name, baby.”

Hastily nodding, you let out a giggle, nonsense leaving your mouth, as you grind yourself on his tongue.

“Pathetic little slut… didn’t expect you to go dumb just from my tongue…”

Fuck. The rough language just adds to it and you can’t do anything else than to agree with him. This is insane. Jisung is absolutely insane—ruining your pussy and you’d let him do it again and again.

He’s driving you close to the verge of cumming. Dangeroulsy close. Whenever he moans against your heat. Whenever he circles his tongue around your clit. Whenever he curls the by now three fingers inside your aching hole.

“Ji– fuck, right there, yeah, right there– oh–“ you manage to let out.

Stars are filling your vision, when you tip over the edge—for a second it feels as if you entered a new dimension, utmost pleasure taking over you. Your thighs are shaking, your throat burns from screaming Jisung’s name, when you squirt all over his face—a feeling you’ve never experienced before. The man between your legs doesn’t stop—he helps you ride out your high, by now absolutely pussy drunk because of you.

“You’re so fucking cute, I swear,” he says.

Once you’ve somewhat come down, he gets up from the floor and cleans some of your juices with his fingers, for the rest he uses some tissues he finds. He does the same with you, taking care of your fragile body.

Shit. This was it?

You can feel the tent inside his pants, when he leans closer—his crotch is pretty much covered by his long shirt, hiding the evidence of his arousal.

But you need more. You fucking need more of him.

“Jisung– please– I need– need your cock,” you beg him with awaiting eyes.

“Nah, we agreed on something else, doll,” he says before helping you adjust your dress.

A soft kiss gets placed on your cheek next, before he takes a step away and exits the room.

Results of poll 12 from WRAP ME IN PLASTIC [previous chapter]:

[Choosing autumn led to Jisung's backstory being revealed since it happened in September]

❤️‍🔥 AUTHOR’S NOTE: You made it! You chose my fave backstory of them all hahaha finally my man Jisung gets some screen time too even though it was just a flashback chapter :) Thank you so much for reading and all the love you keep on giving. I appreciate you guys a lot. Make sure to leave a comment, ask and/or reblog. Have a nice day and take care ❤️

© j-0ne25 2023 | copying, translating or stealing my work is prohibited

omg you dont like those kind of fics- omg😭😭😭I DID NOT KNOW- I tagged you earlier in a sad fic, I'll go change it😭😭😭😭Sorry!💞

i read a fic earlier today it was absolutely heartbreaking but still beautiful can i tag you in it?

Thank you for thinking of me but please don't. I don't read sad/angsty fics :(

Hi hun!

A perm tag list is basically a list of people I tag for every post

Like tonight, I'll be uploading a mommy headcannon for Han

When it's posted I can tag you!

Xoxo

🍑

OH!! Okay! Thanks for adding me😊💞

I'm fine, I swear🥲👊 I totally did not have a breajdown and I totally did not cry my eyes out. I'M FINE-😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭This is super good, and super sad😭

Calling my loves to read(be prepared yall😭): @kaciidubs @anyhow-everything @pearbunny @hyunniesgirl @sweetracha @weareapackofstrays @its-hannjisung @moonjxsung

sing for you. astronaut!hyunjin x reader ft. kkami. angst.

“hello, 119, how may I assist you?”

“hi, this is apollo 4419,” astronaut!hyunjin replied, feeling relieved that the spaceship was finally able to get in contact with someone. “is this NASA?”

“unfortunately no, this is the seoul emergency department. We’re having satellite issues and all the calls are getting mixed up. Where are you calling from?” the lady asked in concern

“from space,” hyunjin chuckles. “yeah i’m not surprised,” hyunjin knew the exact reasons the chaos. “things aren’t looking good from up here either.”

“would you like me to put down the call so you can contact NASA?“

“no!” hyunjin half-shouted in fear. “i mean, no, please. just stay on the line,” hyunjin begged not wanting to risk anything.

hyunjin was the only one left on his spaceship as the rest of his crew have unfortunately been affected by spaceship’s defect. he was desperate and did not want to die alone.

“yes, sir,” the lady replied as calmly as possible despite the chaos going on at the department. “is there anything i can help you with?”

“not unless you can fix the spaceship from down there,” hyunjin chuckles as he hears the chaos in the background.

this immediately hinted the lady that there was something wrong with the spaceship and felt her heart broke. “i’m so sorry sir.”

hyunjin sighed softly before requesting a favour, “actually, could you help me with one last thing?”

“anything sir, the lady replied, feeling a little relieve that she was able to fulfil hyunjin’s wishes.

as y/n was ideally resting on the couch with kkami on her lap, the mobile phone of her shared apartment with hyunjin rang.

y/n groans at the sound, and gently sets kkami down on the floor and headed for the phone.

“hello?” y/n answered trying not to sound as awkward as possible.

“hello maam, i am calling from the seoul emergency department. i have someone on the line for you,” the lady inform y/n before connecting it to hyunjin’s line.

“hey darling,” hyunjin greeted the love of his life with a gentle smile on his face, feeling relieved even though he couldn’t see her face.

“h-hyunjin!? are you calling from space?” y/n asked in surprised. she was so happy to hear his voice after not hearing it for weeks. “oh my god! how is the view from up there? did you find any aliens!?”

hyunjin chuckled at her questions. he was glad that she was still her cheerful self. “no aliens yet, and the view isn’t very pretty,” hyunjin responded honestly, but did not want y/n to know how bad the situation was. “cause you’re not here.”

“eww, you’re chessy,” y/n fake cringed and laughed at his words. “i miss you.”

“i miss you too, darling.” hyunjin chuckled at y/n’s voice as he could picture her face. “listen, y/n, i don’t have much time-“

“what? what do you mean?” y/n asked in confusion, not entirely getting the hint.

“do you remember the time we went stargazing and i told you that your eyes had all the stars in it?”

“yeah, it was very sweet, but also really cringing,” y/n chuckled.

“well, they still do,” hyunjin teased a little. “you need to put them back in space.” this

made y/n playfully roll her eyes and giggle. “and remember the time we talked about everything and anything?”

“yeah, you still remember?”

“i never forgot about it,” hyunjin answered. “how about the the password to my laptop and our safe? still remember that?”

“of course,” y/n responded confidently yet confused. “why are you asking me that?”

“login into my laptop later and open the folder with your name on it, okay?” hyunjin avoided y/n’s question. “everything you need will be in the folder. the safe has the rest of the items you’ll need, and-”

“hyunjin,” y/n stopped him as she started sensing the unstable breathing coming from him and the sudden talk about his laptop and safe. “what’s going on?”

hyunjin sighs in defeat. “well, my time in space got extended to a much longer time. longer than everyone expected.”

y/n felt her heart sank at hyunjin’s words, finally catching on to what was going on. “are you alone?” y/n asked as she was worried for rest of his crew, who are also close friends of theirs.

“yeah,” hyunjin replied sadly.

“oh,” y/n’s voice crew soft. “so, all of you are going to be up there for a long time?”

hyunjin forced a smile before responding. “yeah.”

a tear fell from y/n’s eyes as very short silence was filled.

“go do “everything and anything” we talked about that night, okay? bring your best friends and kkami along. i know you don’t like going out alone. make sure you take care of yourself and kkami. don’t worry about the place and all that. just open the folder later, okay? um, don’t forget to always drink water! if you miss me, just look up at the sky and i’ll be waving right back at you from up here-“

“hyunjin...” y/n fell onto her knees, feeling extremely devastated. kkami immediately came towards her and rested his head on her knees. “please- i just- i just- hyunjin,” tears started falling down non-stop.

“y/n, my darling, i love you so much. your smile, hugs, kisses. everything. i love everything about you. more than words can explain. you make me the happiest man in the universe and i am so thankful to have met you. it was always you and will always be you.”

y/n reached the point where she was speechless and her silent cries did not go unnoticed by kkami, who started wailing. hyunjin’s heart broke as he heard kkami’s wailing and guessed that y/n was crying as kkami only did so when y/n was upset.

“my darling, my love, don’t cry, okay? your future is still so bright and you’ll walk on the most flowery path. stay strong for me, okay?”

“okay,” y/n whispered loud enough for hyunjin to hear.

“good girl,” hyunjin praised. “can you do one thing for me?” hyunjin asked, knowing that he his time will be up soon.

“anything,” y/n responded.

“can you sing for me?”

“sing?”

“y-yeah,” hyunjin chuckled. “i know i usually sing for you, but i really love your voice. especially when you sing. can you sing one song for me? please?”

“what song do you want?” y/n asked, not wanting to disappoint hyunjin.

“anything,” hyunjin replied, eager to listen.

without another thought, y/n immediately sang their favourite song.

fly me to the moon, and let me play, among the star

it wasn’t as nice as y/n usually sang because of how devastated she was. but for hyunjin, it was more than enough.

let me see what spring is like on, Jupiter and Mars. in other words, hold my hand...in other words, darling kiss me.

hyunjin smiled at y/n voice as he slowly let go of the handle that prevented him from floating aways

feel my heart with song, and let me sing forevermore. you are all i long for, all i worship and adore. in other words, please be true...in other words, i love you.

hyunjin’s eyes slowly closed to y/n’s humming as he pictured the time when y/n first sang this song for him and he felt like he fell in love with her all over again.

feel my heart with song, and let me sing forevermore. you are all i long for, all i worship and adore. in other words, please be true...in other words...in other words...in other words, hwang hyunjin, i love you.

although y/n could no longer hear him because he was not close to the speaker, hyunjin softly whispered “i love you too, y/f/n, always.” before taking his last breath.

the lady who listened to the entire conversation tried her best to comfort y/n, who began to have a full breakdown when she no longer heard hyunjin’s voice.

Thank you😭😭 Yes, I am feeling better now. Wow 14 hour difference- where do you live thats crazy😰

HI LOVEYYY!! How are you today? 💚 also, is there a name you’d like me to call you? 🥰

HIIIIIIII!!!! I'm doing fine, super sleepy lmao. Hm, tbh you can call me anything, but even though its not my real name haha, you can call me rinoa💞💞

Oh uh, what is that..??

No thoughts only building snowmen with felix and then him getting grumpy bc yours looks cuter

Do you Wanna Build a Snowman?

"Lixie come on! You're going to catch a cold" you said as you rounded the corner in your new home.

"It'll all melt away! Hurry" Felix sounded like a little child worried about his double chocolate cookie crunch extreme scoop of ice cream.

Who could blame him though? Felix couldn't remember the last time he had seen snow. You mentioned how badly the streets would thick over with ice and be packed with white as far as the eye could see. To Felix, this could never be a bad thing. How could it be?

You ran through a mental checklist, ensuring you were both ready for the cold about to hit you. Sure, you were used to it by now but somedays the winter bites back. Felix on the other hand was ready to run out blind to his death, the Aussie would never survive without you.

Thick socks? Check.

Warm boots? Check.

Pants with leggings underneath? Double-check

Long sleeves? Check

Coats? Check and a matching check as Felix insisted you two had to have a matching set.

Gloves? Check much to Felix's complaining 

And finally, a hat to keep your head warm? Check!

When you opened the front door, Felix dashed out with excitement. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the pure joy on his face. He found the thickest pile of snow in the middle of your yard, where your garden used to be, and fell to his knees. You should have guessed the gloves would have been long forgotten by now as he feels the snow melt on his bare skin. There was no way to sneak up beside him as the unmistaken crunch of packed snow sounded from under your feet. You crouched next to him and took in all his beauty. It was his first life, wasn’t it?

“Lixie baby?” You asked softly, not wanting to disturb his fun. All you got back was a simple hum to acknowledge he was listening. “Do you want to build a snowman?” You thought he was about to die from how quickly he lit up.

“Yes! We could make a cute snow couple!” His mind went running with ideas.

“Pixie, have you ever built a snowman?”

“No but how hard could it be? Animal crossing taught me everything I need to know.”

Oh how wrong he was. Felix quickly realized he had put too much confidence in his ability to build a snow person. It wasn’t meant to be a competition but he decided himself to make it one. Then he looked over at yours, almost finished while he was barely started. 

Yours was perfectly round and white.

His was lumpy and had random mud stains all over.

Yours was perfectly proportional.

His head always ended up being bigger than the middle.

Yours had arms specifically grown by Mother Nature herself.

His looked as if a dog dragged them in.

Even the face on your snowman looked perfect! Brown buttons you stole out of the craft drawer, a little carrot nose from the fridge, little pebbles curved up into the biggest smile. You even broke off tiny flakes of bark to make the freckles on your snowman! 

Wait…freckles…on a snowman? Brown buttons, a big smile, a blue scarf, a matching hat, Felix’s missing gloves, and freckles.

“Y/n!” He didn’t know what to say so he decided to scream your name to get your attention. However, that backfired miserably as you fell straight on your butt onto the cold ground.

“Felix!” You yelled back. He ran as fast as he could to save you.

“I’m sorry…I just..your snowman…he is…” 

“He is you!” Felix swore the smile you shared could have cleared the skies. “Do you like him?”

“I LOVE HIM!!!” He got up close and personal to inspect every little detail. “How?”

“I’ve had some practice” He fell for your giggle every time.

“Mine looks so…sad” Just then the oversized head rolled off and smashed into pieces.

“Maybe I can help you? I bet we could make him a real find!” Felix liked this idea much more than the competition he was participating in.

“Gotta make Snowlix the perfect man!” Felix stated as if it was an indisputable fact.

“So snowbin, got it”

The Sweetest Batch: @goblinracha @kaciidubs @channieandhisgoonsquad @comet-falls @ddyskz @jiminskies @j-onedrabbles @lixiesweetbrownie @marrivmel @caitlyn98s

This is Amazing, thanks for tagging me💞💞

No thoughts only building snowmen with felix and then him getting grumpy bc yours looks cuter

Do you Wanna Build a Snowman?

"Lixie come on! You're going to catch a cold" you said as you rounded the corner in your new home.

"It'll all melt away! Hurry" Felix sounded like a little child worried about his double chocolate cookie crunch extreme scoop of ice cream.

Who could blame him though? Felix couldn't remember the last time he had seen snow. You mentioned how badly the streets would thick over with ice and be packed with white as far as the eye could see. To Felix, this could never be a bad thing. How could it be?

You ran through a mental checklist, ensuring you were both ready for the cold about to hit you. Sure, you were used to it by now but somedays the winter bites back. Felix on the other hand was ready to run out blind to his death, the Aussie would never survive without you.

Thick socks? Check.

Warm boots? Check.

Pants with leggings underneath? Double-check

Long sleeves? Check

Coats? Check and a matching check as Felix insisted you two had to have a matching set.

Gloves? Check much to Felix's complaining 

And finally, a hat to keep your head warm? Check!

When you opened the front door, Felix dashed out with excitement. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the pure joy on his face. He found the thickest pile of snow in the middle of your yard, where your garden used to be, and fell to his knees. You should have guessed the gloves would have been long forgotten by now as he feels the snow melt on his bare skin. There was no way to sneak up beside him as the unmistaken crunch of packed snow sounded from under your feet. You crouched next to him and took in all his beauty. It was his first life, wasn’t it?

“Lixie baby?” You asked softly, not wanting to disturb his fun. All you got back was a simple hum to acknowledge he was listening. “Do you want to build a snowman?” You thought he was about to die from how quickly he lit up.

“Yes! We could make a cute snow couple!” His mind went running with ideas.

“Pixie, have you ever built a snowman?”

“No but how hard could it be? Animal crossing taught me everything I need to know.”

Oh how wrong he was. Felix quickly realized he had put too much confidence in his ability to build a snow person. It wasn’t meant to be a competition but he decided himself to make it one. Then he looked over at yours, almost finished while he was barely started. 

Yours was perfectly round and white.

His was lumpy and had random mud stains all over.

Yours was perfectly proportional.

His head always ended up being bigger than the middle.

Yours had arms specifically grown by Mother Nature herself.

His looked as if a dog dragged them in.

Even the face on your snowman looked perfect! Brown buttons you stole out of the craft drawer, a little carrot nose from the fridge, little pebbles curved up into the biggest smile. You even broke off tiny flakes of bark to make the freckles on your snowman! 

Wait…freckles…on a snowman? Brown buttons, a big smile, a blue scarf, a matching hat, Felix’s missing gloves, and freckles.

“Y/n!” He didn’t know what to say so he decided to scream your name to get your attention. However, that backfired miserably as you fell straight on your butt onto the cold ground.

“Felix!” You yelled back. He ran as fast as he could to save you.

“I’m sorry…I just..your snowman…he is…” 

“He is you!” Felix swore the smile you shared could have cleared the skies. “Do you like him?”

“I LOVE HIM!!!” He got up close and personal to inspect every little detail. “How?”

“I’ve had some practice” He fell for your giggle every time.

“Mine looks so…sad” Just then the oversized head rolled off and smashed into pieces.

“Maybe I can help you? I bet we could make him a real find!” Felix liked this idea much more than the competition he was participating in.

“Gotta make Snowlix the perfect man!” Felix stated as if it was an indisputable fact.

“So snowbin, got it”

The Sweetest Batch: @goblinracha @kaciidubs @channieandhisgoonsquad @comet-falls @ddyskz @jiminskies @j-onedrabbles @lixiesweetbrownie @marrivmel @caitlyn98s