You Cooked Hella With One

you cooked hella with one 🫦

hi! i love your works. can i put in a request? joon or jk x reader. arranged marriage. breeding kink and pregnancy scare. thank you for your service🫡🙏🏾

✩｡°𝄞🍼 TRY AGAIN✨𝄞°｡✩

╝ requested / one-shot ╔

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ pairing: namjoon x fem!reader

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ genre: arranged marriage au, smut, angst, a little fluff.

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ warn!ngs: breeding kink, pregnancy scare, mentions (suggestive) of infidelity, degradation (usage of slut), reader is a brat, reader has a high libido, oral (namjoon and reader), squirting, unprotected sex, mentions of birth control, spanking, hair pulling, rough sex, negative pregnancy test, mention of (trying for) children. (let me know if there’s more!)

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ summary: your arranged husband punishes you after causing a scene and acting like a brat.

╰ ₊ 𓂂➢ word count: 3,765 words

The sounds of slapping bounces off of the walls like gun shots. Your face is buried into the large fluffy pillows on your king sized bed with your ass raised in the air. Giving Namjoon, your husband, the perfect access to spank your behind.

When the sharp, burning, sting— a millisecond of pain and pleasure is inflicted upon your ass again you let out a whimper into the black silk pillow. As the indecent sounds exit your mouth, Namjoon couldn’t stop the depraved thoughts that battle their way through his mind. You just looked so fucking sexy. So vulnerable and submissive before him, he could just eat you whole right now.

But that wouldn’t be right, now would it? After all, you were a bad girl. You brought this on yourself.

You didn’t think Namjoon would just forget about the way you rubbed your ass against that man on the dance floor? No. He’s not that graceful. You’re his wife, for god sakes. Even if you didn’t take this arranged marriage serious, he must show you that he is. He is taking this very seriously.

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to have people asking if the woman causing a scene on the floor is my wife? Huh?” He begrudgingly asks, caressing your ass that is two slaps away from bruising.

You deserved it, the way you seductively eyed him while dancing on another man replays in his mind. He best not be fooled by your little innocent and submissive act right now, you whimpering and whining. He knows you’re a brat.

When his parents first introduced you to him, he knew he’d eventually fall for you. Despite the distasteful you held on your face that entire meeting. You didn’t approve of the arrangement, Namjoon knew that. So he gave you space. But of course, one thing leads to another. Especially when you’re flew out to Italy for a honeymoon, a villa all to yourselves. If you recall correctly, you believe the two of you fucked in all 8 rooms. Plus the kitchen… and the bathroom… the couch, the garden, the pool, the arcade room— damn there everywhere.

Needless to say, Namjoon has been pussy whipped ever since. Becoming helpful, loving and caring— all the amazing qualities one could find in a husband. Along with those qualities, he grew possessive over you, rightfully so, you’re his wife. But it seems like regardless of anything he did, you still seemed to show little to no care for the man. Except for what was between his legs. Because babes, the dick is bomb!

Recently Namjoon has been depriving you from the ‘bomb dick’. So you did what any brat would do. You acted out. Unfortunately for Namjoon, that led to complete and utter embarrassment, displayed in front of all of his friends at a work event. But who cares about that, right?!

Because fortunately for you, Namjoon is spewing all kinds of sexy little insults at you, dirty talking your panties right off.

“Do you enjoy being a fucking slut?” Another slap is planted on your ass. You let out a gasp before biting down on your bottom lip. Useless, as to when he grabs a handful of your hair, roughly yanking it back, your mouth falls agape.

“You like that shit, huh?” You eagerly nod your head, so high off of the thought of getting fucked up. This is exactly what you wanted. Namjoon always gives you exactly what you want.

You strain yourself forward to close in on his lips. His lips wraps around yours as you share a sloppy kiss. Your teeth graze his bottom lip as you pull back. What you do next makes Namjoon lose his shit.

You giggle.

Like actually fucking giggle in his face. Without thinking, he grabs your face, pulling you back in for a hot yet desperate kiss. Namjoon’s eyes furrow into it, trying to get some sort of understanding. He needs to understand how you do it. How you act so heinous one second and then so admirable the next. Even now, you’re submitting to him. But Namjoon knows more than anyone that you have him wrapped around your cute little finger.

The hold on your face doesn’t leave as Namjoon roughly pulls away to marvel in your beauty. Your gorgeously melanated skin, your two toned lips, and those big brown almond eyes he willingly falls victim to. There’s a smirk that plasters on your face that Namjoon doesn’t miss.

“Am I being a good little slut for you?” Namjoon couldn’t hide his widened eyes. He’s angry— completely enraged, you mustn’t forget. But as usual, he gives in. Because you’re in control. “Fuck yes.” He whispers out before flipping you over, absolutely manhandling you. Your figure bounces on the bed as Namjoon hovers over you.

“You don’t even know just how crazy you make me.” He mutters in your ear. Your hands wrap around his neck, fingers traveling through his short blonde locks. “Show me.” You lick at his jawline, slowly nibbling on the chiseled edge. “Show me how crazy I make you, baby.”

Without a second to waste, Namjoon lifts up, attacking the buttons of his black dress pants. He slips them down to his ankles along with his briefs, kicking them off to the floor. The thick, long, pink tipped length you desire is revealed. You lick your lips just to make sure you aren’t drooling. He gives his length a few pumps before his hands are replaced with yours. This is what you’ve been begging for, what you desired and needed inside of you for weeks.

Hell, you even danced on some random middle aged man just to get it. You love it! Namjoon would battle that you love it more than its owner. Especially the way you kiss the tip. Like you’re finally meeting the love of your life after years of being apart. Namjoon breath is shaky when he exhales. Your lips wrap around his tip, you close your eyes and let out a moan, sending vibrations through his dick. “Don’t tease.” He says sternly. And you look up at him, his tip still resting in your mouth.

You look absolutely angelic. The way your big doe eyes innocently look up at him with his dick in your mouth. He could just cum at this image alone. “I’m sorry, baby.” You say with a feigned apologetic tone and expression.

Even if you aren’t sorry, Namjoon is immediately relieved once you take his whole length in your mouth. Your nose touching his lower stomach as you slightly choke. The little gag reflex doesn’t stop you from showing your love to the pretty dick. Namjoon lets out low pitched moans as you continue to attack his length, your performance growing messy. Something you quite liked. What can you say? You’re a proud slut.

But still a brat. You back away from Namjoon’s dick, resting yourself on your elbows that are propped up behind you. Namjoon lets out a groan at the abandonment of your mouth. Instead, you spread your legs, quickly slipping off the soaked black thong you were sporting.

“Look,” you say as your hands reach for your wet cunt— fully exposed, you slip your fingers through before showing them to the man before you. “Look how wet you make me.” You say and you can see Namjoon’s dick twitch at that. You slip your coated digits in your mouth, sucking off your own arousal.

Namjoon is actually fucking shook by your pornographic performance. He knew you had a high libido but damn… he think you might even have him beat.

“You want to taste— or you gonna just keep kneeling in front of me.” You raised a brow, growing impatient. Namjoon is in utter disbelief that you’re his wife. He doesn’t know what he did in his past life to get so lucky. Yet, due to the circumstances, he can’t quite figure out whether he is or not. He shakes away his thoughts, though. He can’t ignore the highly appetizing meal that glistens in front of him right now. The meal he dives into.

His tongue ventures through your folds, mouth sucking on your swollen clit. You throw your head back as Namjoon’s mouth brings you the familiar pleasure that you have wholeheartedly missed. He enters two digits inside of you as his tongue flicked at your clit. You grasp onto his blonde hair as he eats your pussy out like no man ever has. “Fuck yes! Just like that.” Namjoon holds your thigh with his free hand, spreading them wider. His fingers move faster inside of you and you can feel yourself growing closer. You scream out an excessive amount of “yes”s and eventually squirt in his mouth.

Namjoon freezes as you release— not once but twice into his mouth. He looks at the way your chest heaves up and down. That wasn’t enough for him. He needed to be inside of you now. Without any warning, Namjoon slips his dick into your sex, slowly stretching your pussy out. Your legs shake as he makes his way through. “You feel so fucking good.” He mumbles as he thrusts into your pussy again.

The pace almost instantly quickens, the hunger and need from both of you takes over. “I missed your dick so much.” You say as you trail your hands up his chest, caressing over his thickly defined pecks. “Mhn— you’re such a fucking slut. Causing a scene just to get my dick inside of you.” He grabs your hands and places them above your head, restraining you from touching him.

“You feel so good inside of me— ah!” You moan out as Namjoon thrusts deeper inside of your wet pussy. “Fuh— faster, please!” You beg and Namjoon continues to thrust deeper inside of you.

“You’re begging now?” He mocks. It’s quite entertaining to see, actually. He bends down to grab your face, slowing the pace down to tease you even more. “Oh, you don’t like that, do you?” You desperately shake your head. “Beg me to go faster.” Stubbornly, you stay quiet as your pussy aches around his length that slowly strokes inside of you. His lips rest just above yours. “Come on,” he murmurs softly against your lips.” “I wanna hear my little slut beg for dick.” You moan at his words, growing even more aroused.

“Please Joon.” You bite your lip as the grip on your jaw grows tighter. “Please fuck me faster! I— I need your dick.” You beg.

And just like that— you should’ve braced yourself. Namjoon slams his dick inside of your tight hole. Your body jerks at each thrusts. You scream out as Namjoon abuses your tiny cunt. Your screams could be heard throughout the whole two story house.

You look up at Namjoon who is hovering over you while slamming his dick into you. He looks so sexy the way his blonde hair clings onto his dampened face. The sweat trickling down the sides of his face. The sounds of your skin clapping together and the arousal from your pussy lapping up around his dick is sending you over the edge. You feel yourself growing close again.

Namjoon pulls your legs over his shoulders as he fucks into you. You’re completely fucked out— your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel Namjoon hit your spot. You don’t even notice when he attaches his lips onto yours again. You feel yourself unraveling underneath him.

“I’m gonna— mm” You say against his lips. Namjoon nods, breathing heavily. “Cum for me.” He slurs and on command you release yourself around his dick. Namjoon lifts up, still thrusting himself into you. You can feel his dick twitch inside of your pussy, signaling his high.

“Cum inside of me.” You say, eagerly. He looks down at you with an uncertain expression but you nod your head. “Please, cum inside of my pussy.” You whine and Namjoon groans at the sound of your begging. “Fuck.”

Immediately, you feel the warm, sticky, drags of cum release inside of you. You moan at the feeling. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, his chest meet yours and the two of you share another erotic kiss.

It’s been two weeks since that night Namjoon had fucked your brains out. Ever since that night, he hasn’t touched you. Most likely still angry about the events that occurred before he fucked your brains out. Rightfully so— even you can admit that you crossed the line that night. Did you mention he fucked your brains out?

Nevertheless, you have bigger fish to fry. You’re late on your period. You should’ve gotten it a few days ago but the red flood never showed.

Yes, you’re on birth control. Still, inevitably you miss a few days because of your inconsistent schedule so it may not be that effective. Especially not when you beg your husband to cum inside of you.

You wince at the thought as you rest your head on the bathroom door. A few hours ago you went to go pick up a few pregnancy tests from the store. You can’t help but overthink while you wait for the stick you just peed on to tell you whether or not you’re pregnant. You try to imagine the possibility of becoming a mother, how you would act and how you’d speak. How Namjoon would react when you tell him you’re pregnant. Him as a father.

You’re immediately snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the front door slam.

Namjoon’s home.

Your heart rate immediately increases and you pray that he’ll continue ignoring your existence just like he has the past two weeks.

It seems that god is not on your side because you can clearly hear his footsteps approaching the bathroom. Of course he has to go to the bathroom. You just want to cry but that wouldn’t be much help either.

The door handle to the bathroom turns but doesn’t open. The lock on the door stopping him from entering. After a few seconds, he knocks. You flinch at the sound, looking around the bathroom for a way out. Obviously, at a loss when u realize that you’re trapped inside the four walls.

“_______, open the door I have to use the bathroom.” You hear him say behind the door. You look at the pregnancy test on the sink to see that nothing has changed. You silently curse to yourself. Why the fuck is this piss stick taking so long.

“_______.” You hear your name again, along with a few knocks. “I— I’m using the bathroom.” There’s a sigh on the other side of the door. “Well, can you hurry? I’m about to piss myself.” He adds, impatiently to which you roll your eyes.

“Use the guest bathroom!” You shout defensively. Due to you being on the other side of the door, you can’t see the way Namjoon’s brows furrow together. You two never use the guest bathroom even if someone is taking a shit. It’s like an unspoken rule.

“I swear to god _______, open the door. I’ve seen you shitting like a thousand times already.” It’s true, you really couldn’t care less what Namjoon had to say about your smelly poop. Unlike Namjoon who would beg you to leave. But you’re running out of excuses.

“Namjoon, fucking— ugh! Just go to the other bathroom!” You spaz and Namjoon is left with only one thought.

“Is there someone in there with you?” He asks and when you grow silent he makes up his mind. You honestly didn’t know what to say, you were taken aback. How could he think so lowly of you?

“You brought a man into our house _______?” The sound of his voice is a mixture of hurt and anger. And maybe you would feel bad for the man if you weren’t too busy trying to pick your jaw up off the floor. Because… how dare he?

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I bring someone into our house?!” You’re pissed that he would even think you would do some shady shit like that. I mean yes, shaking ass on another man in front of his coworkers is bad but bringing another man into your house while he’s gone… that’s fucking low. Even for you.

“Why?” He mockingly repeats before letting out an unhumorous laugh. “Because you don’t want to be in this marriage, that’s why! I wouldn’t be surprised if you brought someone here just to rub that shit in my face.” You angrily swing the door open, absolutely not giving a shit about the stupid pregnancy test on the bathroom sink. You are livid and now Namjoon is going to hear your mouth. Face to face.

“As much as I don’t want to be in the marriage I still have respect for you and I would never bring anyone into this house.” You shout at him. The man is way taller than you but somehow you’re still all up in his face.

“I don’t even know where you would get that idea from. Unless you had another woman in our house.” You fold your arms over your chest. Okay… you knew Namjoon would never bring another woman into this house. You just had to give him a taste of his own medicine. And the expression on his face is so worth it.

“I would never do that to you.” He says, more reassuring than defensive. “I’m the one who is always desperately trying to make this marriage work. I want this to work.” His voice turns soft and he steps closer to you to grab your hands. You couldn’t even be angry at him. Not when he’s right.

You see how hard he’s trying everyday to get through to you. However, you can’t help but be angry. You didn’t want this marriage and you know it’s not his fault but hell… someone had to be at fault. So you take your anger out on him. Looking up at the man you can’t help but feel bad.

“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry for accusing you of bringing someone here— that was fucked up and I shouldn’t have taken it there. I’m just… a little insecure right now and that’s something that I need to work on.” His explanation makes you want to shower him with kisses and hugs. There’s no way you’ve made this man think lowly of himself. The man is absolutely breathtaking and could have anyone he wanted.

If the circumstances were different you would’ve approached him anyway. He’s exactly the type of man you always wanted in your life.

“Don’t apologize.” You focus your eyes on the ground. “It’s my fault, I’ve been acting really bitchy and giving you a hard time.” Your eyes finally meet his again and there’s nothing but disbelief behind them. He doesn’t even think he’s hearing you correctly. There’s no way you’re apologizing.

“You don’t have to work on anything— you’re perfect, Namjoon. I… have to work on being a better wife.” Namjoon swears he hears fireworks going off somewhere. He doesn’t even think before pulling you into a tight hug. Completely forgetting about the urine that was previously begging to be released. And you forget all about the stupid pregnancy test that rests on the sink.

Until Namjoon see’s it. He hesitantly pulls back from the hug, looking as if he seen a ghost. “Joon, what’s wrong?” You ask, worried that there actually might be ghosts in your house. That’d be a real bummer— this house costed a fortune.

“You’re pregnant?” He mindlessly say, still eyeing the pregnancy test on the sink. Your heart drops at the words, eye widening. “I am?!” In an instant you turn around to check the stick. Picking you up you notice the red line going through it.

Only one red line.

You stare at that line for a moment, feeling disappointed for some reason. You waited for what felt like ages for the test to process. Thinking of the future and what type of mother you’d be, how Namjoon would be an amazing father. And it’s negative.

“It’s negative.” You say and Namjoon can’t make out your emotion. You throw the stick out in the waste bin before spinning around the face Namjoon. “I guess we don’t have to worry about the giving the whole abortion talk.” You lamely say before letting out a strained laugh. Namjoon eyebrows furrow at that.

“You wanted to have an abortion?” He sounds disappointed. He would never stop you from having an abortion— it’s not his place. But the thought of you not wanting to have a child with him did kind of hurt.

You shake your head at Namjoon’s question. “No it’s not that. I just assumed… you know.” You awkwardly fidget with your hands as you try to find your words. “I didn’t think you’d want to have a child so soon.” Shrugging your shoulders, you let out another strained laugh, much to Namjoon’s dismay.

“That’s not funny, _______” His expression is serious. “This is why we need to communicate. I’ve always wanted children— I’d want nothing more than to have a child with you _______” He speaks sincerely and you swear you could burst into tears right now.

You place your hands on his cheeks to pull him down for a kiss. It’s not rough, titillating, or sloppy. It’s a kiss filled with passion and for once there’s a speckle of joy in there. You felt safe and secure in Namjoon’s arms. Your husband. A man you don’t quite love yet but you definitely like him. And you’re willing to love him— to fall in love with him.

Namjoon pulls away to catch his breath. You couldn’t help but smile up at your gorgeous husband. “Thank you… for saying that Namjoon. For everything, honestly.” The blonde haired man is smiling from ear to ear. He couldn’t control the wholehearted happiness he felt— it’s floating along with his aura.

“Mmm, thank you for saying you’ll have my kids.” He says, his smile widens as you let out a little laugh. The dimples in his cheeks so prominent you wanna bite them. “The test is negative, Joon.” You remind him. Just in case he forgot from all of the cheesing and giggling he’s doing.

As if he couldn’t express his euphoric excitement any more than he already has, he picks your body up into his strong arms. His hands resting underneath your thighs as he walks you to the bedroom, his lips on yours.

You pull away, not without letting a goofy little giggle leave your mouth. “What are you doing?” You ask, in complete oblivion. Namjoon smiles at you before quickly pecking your lips.

“We’re gonna TRY AGAIN.”

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i should be reviewing for my exams later, but here am i, typing fictional men names and adding an x reader into it.

type shit

≡;-꒰ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑴𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒄𝒆

╰┈➤ ❝ kim seungmin x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni | kinktober '24 day 4

tags : pwp (without plot), guided masturbation (joi), masturbation (f), clit play, fingering, praise, dirty talk, use of pet names “baby”/”babe”

wc : 1.5k

taglist : @love-and-deepstrays (SIGN UP HERE)

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST / KO-FI JAR / COMMISSIONS

With an upcoming tour, Seungmin decides to teach you how to pleasure yourself in his absence.

“Come on, baby, I know you can do it…”

There was a soft laugh in his voice as he spoke, half-mocking you, half-encouraging. It brought out a whine from your throat—your fingers slacked, and you tilted your head back to look at him, offering him a pleading stare.

But he shook his head.

“Seungmin—!”

A finger to your lips.

“No, baby. You know I'll be leaving for the tour next week, so you’ve got to learn, you know? What'll I do if you end up suffering the whole time I'm gone again?”

The look in his eyes wasn't… mean. It was kind, in fact; and warm. Though the teasing lilt in his voice was ever present—still very much amused at how much you needed him—he gave the top of your head a little nudge of encouragement before tilting to peek at you again.

He smiled, and it was almost as if the only thing you could do was melt. 

“C'mon. Move your finger, ‘kay? In and out, that's it, slooowly…”

His voice was like honey in your ear as you did your best to follow through, gliding your finger to his instructions and nearly whining at the lack of stimulation.

Truly, you had been spoiled.

Seungmin had always been one to give you the kind of pleasure you felt was incomparable to anything else—he’d ruined you. Even now, as he left slow strokes upon the soft plush of your thigh, you felt as if the only thing you could focus on was him. The way he spread your legs open wider for him, the way he leaned over to rest on your shoulder, breath tickling your skin… All of these sensations, all of what he would do to you, felt good.

Better than what you could manage.

It wasn’t as if you couldn’t do this at all; the sensation of your fingers reaching as deep as you could push them felt as heavenly as it had always felt. But when you compared it—when you compared it—it always fell short.

Seungmin’s hands were bigger than yours. His fingers were longer than yours.

He was more precise, able to push you past that limit whereas you were more prone to freezing in the moment and that rush of pleasure was never simply the same.

And he was right there.

You could hear him chuckle as he watched, the soft rumble enough to make you shiver.

It was almost pathetic, even.

“Aw, c’mon, babe…” You felt him shake his head, and then his hand was over yours, stroking your soft skin in a delicate motion. “You’re barely moving your finger… You can do better than that, right? You can be a good girl for me?”

You wanted to.

So badly, you wanted to.

But you could only whine, tilting back again to look at him, almost as if waiting for instructions— spoiled.

He’d ruined you.

“Just, ah…” 

He let out a sigh, but it came out almost as a soft laugh. Despite his insistence on teaching you how to pleasure yourself—because, clearly, you’d already forgotten how to—he was quite enjoying your predicament.

“Here. Take it out again, drag it up to your clit… There we go. Hear that noise, baby? Focus on it, yeah? Feel how wet you are.” 

The more he spoke, the more you could hear the smile in his voice, even though your eyes drifted back down to what you were doing.

“ Mmm… look at that. Always such a pretty pussy for me… That’s it, circle your clit a little, I know you like it when I tease, baby. You can do that too, you know?”

Another whimper of his name, and you closed your eyes.

It did feel good.

With every word that came out of his mouth, his soft voice a soothing melody that only heightened your pleasure… You could focus on him, imagine him doing it. When you did that, the sparks of pleasure shooting through your body could leave goosebumps in its wake. All you had to do was think of him.

But you still felt stubborn.

“Nnngh… Hn… Minnie… Want your fingers…”

Again he shook his head, and his hand slid back down your thighs to caress your skin, further away from your heat as if to make a point.

“No, baby. Be a good girl and make yourself cum first. C’mon… see? You’re soaking wet for me, you just have to try a little harder…”

He leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. He was so close to you. You could hear each shaky breath, each rumble of his chest as you leaned against him. Though you had shifted in a way where you couldn’t feel his erection directly, you were sure it was there; you knew that he was just as turned on as you were, just from watching you pleasure yourself.

“You ready, baby? Wanna slip that finger back in, hm?”

A kiss over the shell of your ear.

The feeling made you shudder, your lips parting—

“Minnie…”

The way his name sounded out was so quiet, so breathy. You could feel his hold on your thigh tighten, clearly affected. He drew in a sharp breath, his hand edging back closer to your wetness.

“Fuuckkk… So, so wet for me…”

He groaned into your ear, and one glance at him was enough to tell you that he was absolutely glued to the way your finger would disappear into your deliciously wet cunt.

“Mmm… Just like that, baby… Does it feel good?” He turned his head a little to place soft kisses onto your cheek, lips gliding over the side of your face.

Another whimper, another whine—it was all that you could truly muster.

“Want me to set a pace for you?” he murmured.

You felt him nuzzle into your neck this time, smiling against your skin as you nodded.

“Okay, then follow my voice. In, and out… in, and out… Attagirl, look at that pretty pretty pussy …” This time, he sighed against you, and you felt his hand slide slowly over your knee before gliding back up, matching the slow pace he used his voice to guide you with. Gradually he picked it up, urging you to go faster, encouraging more moans to fall from your lips.

“Hnn—ah—! M-Minnie… Mi— nngh—”

“ Juuuust like that. What a good, good girl for me, there you go… You found your pace, baby? Wanna curl your fingers a bit? Brush against that spot of yours?”

Fully immersed in the pleasure, you felt your stubborn streak fade away. Perhaps, you realized a second later, he’d picked up on the same thing—his hand settled next to yours, circling the edge of your hole, gathering all the slick that had been leaking out. The sight of it made your breath hitch.

“Mm—M-minnie? Min— S-Seungmi—ngh?!”

You choked out a moan as he pushed inside, sliding in right next to your own finger.

Just a simple motion, but your eyes rolled back, a certain haziness filling the depths of your thoughts. It made you pause. Your finger stopped its movements, more than keen on letting him continue on his own.

“Babe…”

He chuckled into your ear again, a warning.

He didn’t necessarily stop, however—you felt him start to move, moving his finger up against your gummy walls with precision. Every move was calculated. This was the Seungmin that knew, far better than you did, what to do and how to do it.

Because Seungmin had memorized your body like his own.

He knew that.

Truly… he’d ruined you.

Ruined you even for your own self-pleasure, so much so that you were in firm belief that you could never, ever, ever cum as much with anyone or anything else other than him.

“Ngh— ah—! Th-there!” you cried.

He pressed harder, faster—the rhythm was hard for you to follow, already beyond saving in this ocean of pleasure you found yourself in, and you fell against his chest limply, spreading your legs wider as if to coax him for more.

Your hips bucked, mouth open in a string of moans that neither made sense to you nor to him.

“You’re a little helpless…” came his laugh again, but you no longer minded.

Not when he would bury in so deep, not when you could feel that coil build up inside you so readily… Every fuck of his finger deep into your pretty weeping cunt tore a cry from your lips, ready to cum—

Seungmin had always focused on your pleasure.

Sometimes, he was a tease; sometimes, he was insufferable with you… Other times, he was sweet, kind enough to give you exactly what you wanted.

Perhaps, he knew that there was really no getting you out of your predicament—perhaps, he knew that all of this had really amounted to not a single thing learned but the fact that you needed him. Inexplicably so.

He urged you to curl your finger up with him with a little kiss, as he whispered: “Cum.”

Rough pads pressed against the spongy nub on your walls, and your hips jerked upwards.

“Minnie!!!!”

With a loud cry, you felt wave upon wave of pleasure crash through your body, hips bucking wildly into his hand as you felt yourself pull away from your heat to grip helplessly at the sheets below you.

Your eyes were bleary and unfocused, breathing heavy.

“Min… Minnie…”

Moans fell to whimpers.

His finger slipped out in favor of gently massaging your thighs, and he let out a loud sigh—

“Guess I really have no choice… Maybe it’s my fault that you’re always so desperate for me…”

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

masterpiece

aloneness | by design chapter one

pairing: chan x reader ; hyunjin x reader | wc: 16.2k | genre: adult romance, angst | warnings: childhood best friends to lovers ; heavy angst ; death and grieving ; complicated feelings ; failed relationships ; explicit sexual content. the chapter contains heavy themes that could be upsetting to some. if you're concerned it might be an issue for you, please read the unabridged list of warnings, which also contains nsfw warnings. reader discretion is advised. this work is for adult audiences since it contains mature themes and explicit sexual content.

It had been such a long while, it seemed, since Chris had truly loved you. And you loved him in a desperate way, like trying to hold onto a knife not by its handle, but by its blade.

To be intimate with love, the true kind, also means being intimate with loss.

You grew up in a small enough town that most faces you saw, every day, were familiar ones. The employees at the grocery store saw you become a teenager and later, an adult. You were greeted by your first name if you stepped into the post office. You had become acquainted with specific trees, the twists of certain roads, or the lines of the mountains on the horizon. By no means did that make your life dull, not by your standards anyway. The town’s name is Stormhaven—named so by its founders because of the violent storm that raged the first night they established camp on this land. As grand and frightening as the storm was, it was equally beautiful. Something about the geolocation of the city or perhaps the fact that it’s located where the river melts into the sea makes it prone to storms, and they are, indeed, reputed to be gorgeous.

You did leave momentarily though,  to pursue some major you had no great interest in, but it felt right to try and do something. You were the first of your family to go to college. You thought, foolishly perhaps, that you could teach English—you had always been one to read books and enjoy the intricacies of the language in them. To you, words were no different than pigment, sentences were the oil that made the paint, and books were the finished product, the saturated canvas. Now, here’s the thing—you liked English and you liked art, too, thanks to a book you found at the age of 9 on your uncle’s bookshelf. It was your first introduction to the Italian masters and their masterpieces, and you were a little too young to fully comprehend it, but that did not stop you from appreciating it. 

You were the first of your family to go to college. Your parents owned a small general store on the north side of the city, where there’s more forest than city. It’s perfectly situated though—directly on the one road that leads to the good fishing spots. 

The river is at its narrowest there, narrow enough that if one spoke out loud, they could be heard on the other side when people stood on the shore. There was another camping ground there, and cabins, and if the river was gentle enough, it wasn’t uncommon for people to go across it to make new acquaintances. 

You grew up there, in this place loved by locals and tourists alike. Your family was friends with the family that owned the camping ground down the hill, and it helped make business good for everybody involved. 

It also made your summers a lot less boring—you were an only child, with aloneness often forced on you. And it could have been awful if the owners of the camping ground didn’t have a son who happened to be the same age as you.

Chris was always ‘the good guy’, which, at times, rendered being his friend difficult. Because you had to live up to the standard. You had to deserve it somehow. Chris himself never made you feel this way, of course not, it was only fueled by your own compulsion to compare yourself to him at all times. Chris was a good kid, smart, funny, and nice, and he looked good. It made him very popular with the girls on the camping ground. You weren’t particularly popular with the boys. Or with the girls.

Aloneness forced on you. Defining you, almost. 

Except Chris made sure you were never left out. He always introduced you as his best friend and brought you along even though his fangirls clearly didn’t appreciate you being around. Either Chris was oblivious to it or he just didn’t care—in any case, you spent all of your summers with him, from sunrise to sunset and sometimes after. Chris attended the private school in the next town over, so you didn’t see him a whole lot during the year. Still, your family visited his once in a while for dinner, and you and Chris would hang out in the basement to watch movies and eat potato chips. Life had been easy, once.

It would be a lie to say that everything went smoothly all the time with him. When both of you reached an age where hormones are raging, things got a little complicated. Chris got in a fight—a physical fight—with his best friend during a party. It was just before tourist season. Your parents had gone for a couple weeks for a long overdue vacation—they trusted you and Mrs. Bahng with the store, knowing you could handle it, especially since it wasn’t very busy yet. Of course, you threw a party—a low-key one, just a few people. Some guys from Chris’ school also came along. 

By then, Chris was a handsome young man, charming without trying to be, with a dorkish laugh and a good heart. If somebody had asked you if you had a crush on him then, you would have said no, but you would have been lying to them and to yourself. 

The party quickly took a turn when some of Chris’ friends pulled out the liquor they’d brought. It made you nervous. This was your house after all, and if something happened, your parents would never trust you again. You tasted vodka for the first time that night. First in a red plastic cup, mixed with some cheap lemonade, and after that, on the lips of Chris’ friend when he pulled you to a quiet corner to make out with you. His name was Liam. You saw him once in a while when he spent the night at Chris’ place or something. He wasn’t as popular with girls as Chris was and you suspected he was jealous of him, but then, who wouldn’t be? 

However, Liam turned out to be a little too insistent, touching you in places, and whispering things to your ear. You made up some excuse and fled to your backyard where most people had come to enjoy a small bonfire. You sat with them but your mind was elsewhere, wondering if you ought to let Liam do to you whatever it was he wanted. After all, you weren’t popular, and nobody wanted to date you. Liam was the first guy who kissed you for more than three seconds and who touched you. There might not be one after, so perhaps you shouldn’t pass on that opportunity. 

He did join you by the fire. Liam. He sat not next to you but behind you, his legs locking you in his embrace. It wasn’t even the worst PDA taking place in the group as one of your friends was heavily making out with one of the boys while the others talked. You participated in the conversation, not unaware of the glances Chris shot you a little too often. Maybe, after all, it wouldn’t be a good idea to have sex with his friend. Maybe that made him upset, and you could understand that—he had never pursued any of your friends and had always made it very clear he wasn’t interested in them. You figured he expected the same of you.

But Liam kissed the back of your neck. And then he touched you again and again—your waist, your back, your thighs. He held you in his arms and it birthed a distracting tingling sensation between your legs that you couldn’t blame on the vodka. “Come with me upstairs,” he said into your ear. And you did. You went. 

He kissed you even more in your bedroom, his hands underneath your shirt, his mouth sloppy and wet, too wet. It all happened very fast—you were on your bed and then he was on top of you and he was very hard. It happened so fast, too fast for you to fully process it. It only lasted a few seconds—two thrusts, no more. In between the first and the second, it occurred to you that you hadn't used a condom. And then Liam whimpered pathetically and it was over.

It made you want to throw up, or maybe it was the vodka. Or, maybe, it was just the smell of him—sweat and cheap cigarettes and his musk, which was rather unpleasant in your nose. 

You slid from underneath him, visibly dazed, and it made him upset. Years later, you realized he was mostly upset at himself and ashamed of his premature... conclusion. Still, it was at you he lashed out, maybe for not looking like you had just gotten the dick of the century.

“Don’t be like that,” he told you, shoving his small, softening cock back into his pants.

His sour tone, paired with the soreness between your legs, brought tears to your eyes. It made him more upset even. "What's EVEN the problem anyway?" He raised his voice at you, and whenever someone did that, it always made you cry.

Unfortunately for him, Chris had made his way upstairs, suspecting something wasn’t quite right. He tried to open the door but it was locked. “Let me in.” His voice was unrecognizable, to the point that it frightened you almost. You still felt weird between your legs, sore and empty and full all at once. And above all, unclean. Dirty. You wanted nothing more than showering and washing Liam off you.

“Fucking let me in.”

Liam was very drunk. Instead of post-nut clarity, he had been hit by a strong dose of dopamine that rendered him even less coherent than he had been before. “What is it, Bang? You upset I jumped your virgin friend before you could?”

It occurred to you at that moment that you had never seen Chris angry before, except for fun like when he was playing video games. But something in his voice let you know that the situation was very serious. 

And then he smashed the door open using his shoulder. What happened next would always remain a bit blurry in your memory, but it never left either. Chris grabbed Liam by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. And then they fought. It was nasty. Liam was taller and bigger than Chris, but he was also drunker—Chris, on the other hand, was quick and properly pissed off. Before you knew it, Liam was pinned to the ground under Chris’ weight, being punched repeatedly in the face. Years later, you would admit this to Christopher—that it felt good to see his fist sink into Liam’s face, to see his lip split open, to hear his whining. Still, you knew it was wrong. Something within you, that night, knew that Chris could seriously injure Liam if he didn’t stop, so you stopped him. 

You stopped Chris, too, when he threatened to reprise his attack as Liam was stirring up. You just wanted everyone gone so he made them leave. You heard more shouting from outside but paid it no mind and just went into the bathroom and turned the shower on.

You stood underneath the water, keeping it as hot as you could, scalding your skin, rubbing soap all over yourself as hard as you could using various tools—a washcloth didn’t really cut it, and neither did your loofah or even your nails. In the end, it was your exfoliating cloth that you used to cleanse your body, emptying your bottle of shower gel, steaming up the entire bathroom. But you washed and washed and washed and rinsed and rinsed and rinsed. You did so until you could no longer feel Liam between your legs, only your skin made sensitive from all the scrubbing. 

Chris was waiting for you, sitting on the floor in the hallway. You had wrapped a towel around your body but it was dark and you didn’t care. You could walk naked outside for all you cared. 

That night, Chris took your face in his bloody, shaking hands and asked you if you were okay. You felt strangely okay, like you should have been sobbing or afraid but you were neither of these things. He, on the other hand, didn’t look too good with bruises and cuts on his face and even more on his knuckles. “Your mom will kill you,” you pointed out. The Bahngs preached pacifism. They were some of the nicest people you had ever met.

That night, you put on some comfortable clothes and made Chris sit in the bathroom while you cleaned his wounds. He insisted he could do it and you knew he could but you wanted to. You needed to do something, something useful if at all possible, and he let you, apologizing the whole time for letting Liam come here, and for being his friend in the first place. “He wasn’t like that before,” he assured you.

People change. You didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say.

That night, Chris tucked you in bed but you asked him to stay, so he stayed, holding you in his arms. 

You spent that summer working both at the general store and at the campground. You worked a lot and when it raised suspicions in your parents, you simply said you were saving up for college so they didn’t question it. Chris knew, however, that you just needed to keep your mind, and body, busy. So, when there was no work for you to do, he took you on hikes. Hours-long hikes where neither of you really spoke. You just walked side by side. The more summer advanced, the farther you went. 

You started talking again at one point, for no reason at all. It just happened. Chris told you about his upcoming school year and how he still wasn’t exactly sure what he should be doing with his life. That he felt bad he wanted to leave Stormhaven, that he knew his father expected him to take over the business. You felt the same way. You were scared of the future because you didn’t know what you were supposed to do with your life. When you mentioned it, Chris assured you he thought you’d be a great teacher. You returned the compliment, telling him he would be at home in business school, and that it didn’t mean he had to take over the camping ground. He could do something else. 

It’d be great if we went to the same college, he said, and you agreed. It would, indeed, be great. By now, Chris had become something to you that couldn’t quite be defined by words—a best friend? Yes, perhaps. But it was more than that. He took care of you in a way that was so beautiful and so deep, you knew you could never repay him, that you would always be in his debt.

You loved him. And maybe you knew he loved you, too. 

You worked a lot that summer, even picking up shifts at a gardening center in town, owned by one of your friends’ dad. You didn’t think your absolute need to remain busy had anything to do with Liam. You were over it in the sense that few girls get to experience a wonderful and romantic ‘first time’ and that it hadn’t lasted very long anyway. You were over it, too, because Chris was there for you. 

You were over it because both you and Liam were drunk and stupid and young. 

It wasn’t what troubled you really. The problem was that it felt good to be desired for once. You had wanted Liam to touch you, and you had been flattered to feel him through his pants when you sat between his legs. It had even aroused you. The problem was that you didn’t really want to fuck Liam but you let him do it even though you knew deep down that it was a stupid thing to do. Because it was still better than being unwanted, than having aloneness forced on you.

And you felt disgusting for thinking that way. 

You worked so much it made you ill—one day, when you were helping Mr. Bahng and Chris clean up a few campsites, you had a dizzy spell so intense you momentarily passed out, waking up a few seconds later, laying on your back on the soft soil. It was particularly hot that day, especially considering the summer was ending and you were returning to school the week after. Mr. Bahng made you drink water while Chris cooled you down, pouring water into his hands and pressing them on your neck and face. When you regained some color, he was instructed by his dad to take you home—not on foot, of course, on the company’s ATV. It was almost like a walk of shame when Chris dropped you at your place. You kept telling him you were fine but it didn’t exactly feel like it. You just didn’t want him to go out of his way for you. 

Your mother was home and she already knew everything because Christopher’s dad called her. She made you go to bed, saying she would make you a good meal with broth. But you couldn’t stomach the sandwich she made. Or the broth. 

There was a storm that night, quite strong. Chris stayed with you even though you asked him not to. He said he liked you even though he saw you throw up, and tried to make jokes about it. He made you laugh that night, and it was your most heartfelt laugh in a while. You weren’t scared when the power went out because he was there. 

By then, you knew that you loved him in a special way. It made you feel a lot of things when he held you in his arms or when he kissed the top of your head. 

You kept a small battery-powered light in your bathroom, especially for nights like these. You reached for it in the drawer it had always been, and instead of the light, your fingers wrapped themselves around something else, something innocuous, an everyday item. An unopened box of tampons. 

Your whole world collapsed around you, except it was you who fell to your knees, suddenly completely unable to carry your own weight. Your heart ran marathons in your chest and you froze. It was how Chris found you. He looked at you, then at the tampons, and at you again. 

Then he was on his knees too, wrapping his arms around you. The storm outside matched the one in your heart. You had never been as scared as this in your whole life. You didn’t even cry—you just sat in bed, all night, watching the lightning over the river, staring at the stormy sky, thinking, thinking, thinking. You went through every possible scenario you could think of, and in none of them did it make sense to remain pregnant. 

Chris, once again, was there the whole time, not leaving your side that night and taking responsibility for you the next morning. With his brand new driver’s license—not his learner’s—he took his dad’s car and drove both of you two towns away so you could purchase a pregnancy test. He was the one to go into a store and buy three of three different brands. “To make sure,” he told you. You did the first test and it came out positive. 

The second also. You didn’t need to do the third, so you discarded it. You did cry then, in the not-so-clean bathroom stall of a mall you weren’t familiar with. Just a few tears. What went through your mind was this—that just because you had been greedy, just because you wanted to feel desired for one night, you were going to destroy something beautiful.  

Chris was there for you. He held your hands while you made appointments. He drove you two hours away from home just to make sure nobody would know where you went, telling his parents he was taking you to some event you had never heard of. A two-day event, so it would require the trip to be an overnight one. They bought it. They didn’t even care that you would share a hotel room. Your parents trusted Chris. On the first day, you had a lot of tests done. On the morning of the second day, they proceeded to the abortion. It took about five minutes, then it was over. You stared at the ceiling as the doctor was ridding your body of the consequence of your impure greed. During those five minutes, you reflected on how selfish you were. 

Chris stayed with you while you rested at the clinic. You shared some juice with him. Sometimes the cramps hurt you so bad you couldn’t talk, but it only lasted a few seconds. He held your hand. When you were free to go, he drove you two back to the hotel and you took a nap after having a small dose of the painkillers they gave you. It was over but it had never truly begun, and it felt strange. You felt empty. While you were sleeping, Chris went to the nearest drug store and bought just about every type of maxi pad he found. You bled a lot, and it hurt a lot, too.

Chris ordered pizza but you weren’t hungry. You made yourself eat a few bites and showered in very hot water. That night, he tucked you into bed but you asked him to stay, which meant you wanted him by your side and not on the other bed. He looked at you like he was hoping you would say that.

Christopher kissed you on the lips. Just a kiss, lips on lips, almost chaste, and you knew then that you would marry him someday. He kissed you again on your forehead and you buried your face into his neck. 

“I never thought I wanted children before,” you admitted to him. “What if it was wrong to get the abortion?”

“There’s still time,” he promised you. There was a long silence after that, but he added, “You made the right decision for your future. We’ll have a baby someday, okay? You and I.”

You believed him. And you were happy that year, when you realized, finally, that you had let Liam do this to you because you wanted Chris to do it, and you did not think he could ever feel the same way. 

You weren’t accepted into the very renowned university Chris was going to, but your college was just an hour-long drive away so it wasn’t too bad. You saw each other as often as you could during the first semester, but things got complicated as time went on. He was more and more busy and you were less and less enthusiastic about your studies. It turned out, English and teaching English were two very different worlds, and you did not belong in the latter. You couldn’t believe you were being tested on some supposed ‘ways’ to teach certain things to students. There was no such thing for you—every person is different, so how could one even explain another’s learning process? 

You dropped out on your second semester, leaving in the middle of a particularly boring and arduous English Grammar class, heading directly to the parking lot where you had left your car. You drove all the way to Chris’ apartment, which he shared with two other students. He wasn’t home, but one of his roommates, Changbin, informed you he should be back soon and let you in. 

Chris was there for you. It made you feel inadequate. You were always somehow in need of him or of something, but him most often. You were constantly in his debt.

He soothed your tears and promised you that your parents wouldn’t hate you if you dropped out, but he suggested thinking about another major. “There’s still time,” he said. He often said that.

You got a job at a coffee shop and worked there the rest of the year while weighing your options. You visited a lot of places—parks, various attractions, art museums. The museums were your favorites—there was no museum in Stormhaven, obviously, so to have several options to choose from now was quite the upgrade. You spent countless hours wandering in galleries, observing, learning, feeding your soul, after which you went to the library and gathered some books related to whatever you had just seen. Chris joined you sometimes, but it was really just to be with you and you knew it. He didn’t hate art, it just wasn’t for him. It didn't reach his soul like it did yours. You went to concerts with him too, which he liked a lot more. 

He suggested you try applying into art history for next year, and of course you would love that. Only, you were the first of your family to go to college, and you knew that your very practical parents, aunts and uncles would find an art history major rather pointless. An absolute waste of time. Chris insisted though—he went as far as mentioning it during winter break when both of your families sat to share a generous Christmas dinner. As expected, the response was underwhelming.

But what are you gonna do after? There can’t be enough jobs. 

Can’t you read and learn all that stuff in books or on the internet? What’s the point?

Are you sure? Or are you going to drop out again because it turned out it wasn’t for you?

You couldn’t hold it against them. Your family. They weren’t even wrong. 

You took more shifts at the coffee shop, and in the summer you returned home to work at your parents’ general shop. Chris came to spend some time home too, and it was good to be back there together. He was doing great in business school and you were going nowhere though, so as days passed, your mood darkened. He didn’t let you close yourself off, making you tell him the things that were on your mind just to prove you wrong.

“What do you mean, not enough? I loved you before you went to university, so I’ll love you regardless. So don’t say that. I forbid you.”

You stopped saying it, you just didn’t stop thinking it.

The year after, you moved in with Chris and his two roommates. The plan was to find a place for you two but to be together in the meantime. You didn’t mind, really—Jisung and Changbin were good guys, and Jisung told you about a job opening at the bookstore he worked at. You liked this job a lot. You visited all the museums in this new city, too. 

For your birthday, Ji and Changbin even got you an art book. It was a long essay on one painting in particular, an oil painting titled Loss. The painting depicts a lone woman sitting on a wooden chair in a neutral-colored room, almost reminiscent of a Vermeer, but with bolder colors. The room appears empty except for the corner of a bed on the right, and a window on the wall near which the woman sits. She is looking at the ground, but others say she is looking at her hands which are intertwined, holding nothing. The true direction of her gaze is disputed, but her expression is intricate, complex, unreadable. Depending on the viewer’s mood, she sometimes looks simply pensive. Most of the time she appears deeply sorrowful, almost desperate. To some, she shows no emotion. Thing is—art historians cannot agree. Everyone is right. Everyone is wrong.

The true magic of the painting resides in the sunset filtering through the window—it illuminates the room intricately, the shadows created by it adding to the mystery around the woman's expression. The light is accurate in a way that makes it look so real, yet more beautiful than reality. Its painter produced less than fifteen paintings and is yet considered a pioneer solely based on Loss. 

One of the most fascinating things about Loss is that it is… lost. It was stolen in the 90s while it was transported to a museum in New York, where it was meant to be temporarily exposed for a special exhibition. Nobody knows who did it or where it went, or if it still exists even. 

The book mentioned this and so much more, like how the descendants of the painter had been the primary suspects in the case, based on the fact that they had requested a few times that the painting be given back to them. There had been lawful contracts signed though, yielding it to an art society, binding Loss to museum collections for yet another hundred years at least. Since it was an ongoing case, however, details couldn’t be made public. 

You had never seen it in person—and you never would, obviously—but Loss had become your favorite painting. You didn’t need to describe with words the emotions inhabiting her, the woman on it, you just knew you shared them. What you didn’t know, however, was that you would share them even more someday.

Seeing how interested in it you were, Chris took you on a trip for your two-year anniversary—a museum in Seoul was in possession of three paintings by the same artist and one in Japan had two. You visited both locations and he stayed with you as you stood before the canvases, all of them saturated with light. One of them was a lake, as still as a mirror, on which the sunrise reflected so beautifully you shed a few tears. 

At the very end of the trip, Chris took you on an evening walk around a vast park. That’s when he got on one knee and asked you to marry him. He did it in a way that was so proper, so cliché, that it made you laugh and cry at once. You said yes, of course you said yes. It made sense, didn’t it? Growing up together, growing closer. Falling in love and not even feeling it, just waking up one morning and realizing it’s always been there.

You and Chris made love all night in your hotel room, your bodies close and warm and beautiful. He fucked you hard, desperately, confessing how he had been in love with you since childhood. You had long conversations between rounds as you recovered. “Do you ever regret hurting Liam like that?” you asked him, your head resting on his stomach. Many years had gone by since the event, yet neither of you had forgotten it. 

Chris pulled you up so he could look into your eyes. “No,” he said. “I only regret not going after you earlier. I guess I was hurt that you wanted to be with him and not with me. In retrospect, it was stupid. I should have confessed my feelings as soon as I became aware of them. I should have followed you upstairs.”

You kissed him then, deeply, slowly, your heart feeling like it might burst. You found something rather poetic about all of it, and also fair. It was your hidden love that had pushed you in Liam’s arms, and Chris’ repressed feelings also had played their part. You wanted to forget that night and yet you could not, as though something deeply important had happened, important enough that it was still on your mind tonight, merely a few hours after your boyfriend proposed to you, as you climbed onto him to straddle him, never breaking the kiss, his cock growing hard under you, for you. 

It was as though that night had sealed something, putting both Chris and you on a path, and neither of you knew what the destination was. You didn’t mind going in blindly, not if he was by your side. He had always been by your side anyway, and you couldn’t imagine your life without him.

It felt easy. 

Too easy. 

The wedding took place the summer after Chris graduated. Half of the campground had been reserved for it. Friends and family alike came together to celebrate this union that apparently more than half the town had seen coming anyway. It was a beautiful wedding, underneath a blue sky and then the stars. The air smelled like the freshly grown leafage and the soft breeze carried the scent of the ocean, too. You danced and laughed all night, catching up with former high school friends, people you hadn’t seen in so long, introducing them to your and Chris’ new friends. Jisung’s speech was particularly popular—both very funny and moving, it was clear he had spent a lot of time writing it.

Some time between very late and early morning, you made your way with Chris to the small but cozy cabin you had rented for the occasion. Both of you sat in silence at the kitchen table in your wedding attire to drink some water and eat a few snacks. Chris glanced at you with a knowing smile, reaching for your hand over the table. You smiled at him, too. 

You showered together after slowly undressing each other, and you knew that you would never forget your wedding night. You sucked his cock in the shower and he gently played with your clit, kissing and nibbling at your neck, calling you sweet things. You started fucking on the bathroom counter then moved onto the bed where Chris ate your pussy until you came, and then he fucked you. And when he came, you kept fucking him until he got hard again. You would never forget this and you knew it. That night, you felt loved and desired. You knew it was much like a drug—those were feelings one gets easily addicted to. But you didn’t care. You felt more beautiful, more important then than you ever had. 

When both of you collapsed, spent, satiated, panting, Chris held you in his arms as he so often did, and yet you never grew tired of it. He kissed the top of your head. “Let’s stay here,” he told you.

“Good news then, we rented it for a week, you pointed out with a chuckle.

“No, I mean Stormhaven.” He shook his head. “We don’t have to if you’d rather go back to the city, but it feels at home here, with you.”

You felt the same. So you stayed.

You bought a house in the northern part of town, in the same neighborhood you two had been raised in. As the procedures took place, Chris and you also pondered over the careers you may or may not want. The city’s hardware store was for sale—you could take up a bigger loan and make it yours, you and him. Then Chris’ parents mentioned they were thinking about retiring, and now that their son was back in town, they would be more at peace to do so. 

So, instead, they gave the campground to both of you. That year, your parents decided to sell you the general store too, and for a very low price. They even sold their house and bought an RV with the objective of being on the road and seeing as many things as they could. 

Those years were good ones. Even though you feared things would slow down with Chris, they didn’t. Business was good, life was even better. One night, as you two were getting into bed, Chris watched you as you opened a new box of birth control pills. He took it out of your hands, looked at you, and asked, “Do you still want to have a baby with me someday?”

You thought about it for a few seconds. You had discussed this prior to the wedding, of course. The conclusion had been that you weren’t sure you could be a good mother, so you couldn’t be sure you wanted to be one. Chris understood, but couldn’t see how you would be a bad parent. He wanted kids, and this was something you knew before even dating him. 

Here’s one of the ugliest truths in life—sometimes, you want something. Other times, you want to want something. The two are very different concepts except the human mind, when driven by the heart, is completely unable to distinguish them. It is an excessively shameful thing to admit to it.

You didn’t know at the time. What you wanted and what you didn’t want. It sounded nice, idyllic even, the idea of it—raising a child with Chris, your high school sweetheart, in this house that you made your home in, in the town that saw both of you grow up. It felt right, like life coming full circle, except grander than before.

You didn’t know at the time. You only knew that you loved Christopher more than anything, and that if you were going to have a baby with somebody, it would be him. 

You didn’t take your birth control that night. 

A poet might say that one can only see light if there is darkness. And he would be right, but you would also tell him to fuck right off.

Your mother died when you were six months pregnant. A hidden heart condition. She died in her sleep—your father found her in the morning when he woke up. It traumatized him. 

One day many months prior to that, you found out you couldn’t stomach onions anymore. In fact, the scent of them gave you nausea. It was then that you realized you hadn’t had a proper period in a while. When you mentioned it to Chris, he took your hand and guided you toward the car. “Do you want to buy the test here or in Blue Harbor, like the good old times?” His smile was playful, but a little nervous. Truth be told, if you were indeed pregnant, you didn’t want anyone to know yet, so you made your way to Blue Harbor’s mall, just like you had years ago.

The mall had changed a little but you found a drug store, and Chris insisted he would go get the tests. But you needed other items so you went in anyway. 

You saw Liam as you were shopping for shampoo. He was wearing the store’s uniform. It looked like he was a manager of some sort, by the way he was talking to the girl behind the cash register. You froze, your breath and heartbeat coming to a halt. For some reason, you remembered him with a bloody face. He looked very normal that day. A little thicker than he used to be, just like the rest of you. 

He saw you, too, and color drained from his face. He seemed stuck between wanting to go see you and running away. 

You waited for the pain to hit. You waited for tears, even—you had cried so much after the abortion that you assumed you were scarred for life. But you felt nothing, which almost frightened you. You ought to feel something, right?

You took one step toward the cash register, then another. It wasn’t to go speak to Liam. It was to be there when Chris would go and pay for his purchases. 

Liam saw Chris and actually recoiled. Chris stopped in his tracks, speechless, getting visibly pissed off. But you didn’t want him to be angry. You didn’t want a scene to take place. You wanted the memory of Liam to have as little weight as possible in your life.

You took a deep breath. “Let’s hurry,” you said to Chris. “I’m getting tired.” It wasn’t even true.

Chris blinked, staring at you for a few seconds before putting three pregnancy tests on the counter. You added some toothpaste and shampoo, pretending Liam wasn’t there while the other employee rang your items. 

You made sure to flash your wedding ring and took Chris’ hand in yours. It felt good to make sure Liam saw it. So he would know you carried no parts of him with you. So he would know he didn’t really matter, not in your life, and not in Chris’. 

You spoke very little on the way home. You kept your gaze on the horizon, processing everything. You knew the tests would come out positive. You could feel it within you, this life that was growing. It had a weight to it, light for now, but still very much there. You just knew it. 

You peed on a stick. Then another, and both were positive. You discarded the third test, and Chris cried with you. Before that day, you thought you knew what unconditional love was, but you had been wrong. This—this beautiful burden, this miracle inside you, that was as unconditional as anything could be. 

The shock of losing your mother was so great that it sent you to the hospital, and you were scared to lose your baby, too. Your little girl, who you loved so much already, who already meant the world to you. Chris and you hadn’t been able to find a good enough name yet but that wasn’t important. She was healthy, the doctors assured you of it—it was you who was in distress, and you needed to get a grip before it affected your unborn child. 

None of it was easy. The funeral, then the burial. Supporting your father through it was the worst, though.

But Chris was there for you. He always was. 

He was the perfect husband, the perfect friend, and he would be the perfect father. You could feel it in your bones. There was no way in hell you deserved him and yet he remained by your side. He moved his home office to the basement and painted the upstairs room in pretty shades of green, applying a leaf-patterned wallpaper on one of the walls, turning the room into the loveliest of nurseries. Jisung and Changbin came to help with it, and having them in the house helped you a lot. Your father was there too. The house was too full but sometimes it’s how things have to be. Or else, aloneness would be forced upon you. 

You woke up in the middle of one night with your whole lower body feeling like it was being split in two—it was then that you realized you were just about to give birth. You panicked and yet Chris remained calm. He grabbed the bag he had packed for you and he drove you to the hospital, talking you through the few contractions that overtook you, not blinking an eye at your nails digging into his skin as you held onto him. When it got a little worse, he realized that none of what he was saying helped, so he made you talk. 

He asked you about art. 

You hadn’t been in a museum in entirely too long, but you kept your books and the memories of all of it in your heart. Chris asked if you picked up an interest in a particular art movement these days. He asked you if you had discovered a piece of art that you especially liked recently. You told him that while you hadn’t discovered anything, you had read an interesting article about Artemisia Gentileschi’s most iconic work—Judith Slaying Holofernes. Explaining to Chris the analysis of the art historian you had read helped you get through the worst of the contractions so far.

It also led both of you to agree that your baby’s name would be Judith. 

As you got into Blue Harbor, it felt, a little, like a fire was catching inside you and like it was trying to exit between your legs. 

You begged Chris to drive faster, but it was winter and he didn’t want to risk anything on the slippery road. 

So he asked you to talk to him about your favorite painting. 

Loss. 

Few things were known about this painting. It had been painted in Italy by a man who came from Asia to study Venetian art, but also visited France, the Netherlands, England, and more. He brought with him his wife—the woman in the painting, or so the stories said. They had a son, and soon after, a daughter. 

The daughter became ill, and she died. 

Maybe it was fate, or something much darker, but it was as you remembered the woman’s sorrowful gaze that you realized something was wrong. Chris assured you it was just the contractions but you knew it wasn’t. You could feel it in your bones.

You could feel it creep in, approaching, lurking—aloneness. 

They proceeded to an emergency C-section but it wasn’t enough to save Judith. She had been dead inside you already, they said. They said it wasn’t your fault. 

Forced upon you. Aloneness. 

Loss.

You never really get over it. Loss.

Some voids cannot be filled, they are meant to remain wastelands, barren, contaminated. 

Judith was that to you. And to Christopher. 

You’d swear he fell out of love for you the moment he saw his daughter’s tiny lifeless body being pulled from inside you. For the first time in your whole entire life, he couldn’t be there for you. You couldn’t even be there for him either. It was the beginning of the end, only, you didn’t want to let go.

You had dreams, terrible ones. In some, Judith was alive and well, in which case it made waking up the most difficult thing. In other nightmares, though, you were giving birth to her and she wasn’t much more than blood and flesh pouring from between your legs, yet you loved her nonetheless. 

One night, you dreamt that Liam came into the general store while you worked and stabbed your pregnant belly.

You went to therapy—separately, then together. It did nothing. Some voids cannot be filled. You both made efforts to appear happy, maybe in the hopes of faking it until you made it. Chris took you on dates, and you took him on dates. You hired a handful of employees for the store and the campground so that you’d have more time, but in the end, that also did nothing. All it did was give you more time to be sad at home instead of being sad at work.

Chris had it worse than you, or maybe he just couldn’t hide it as well as you. He ate very little and slept even less. He went on long hikes and usually came back after dusk smelling like sweat and like the forest. You’d ask where he went, if he had a good hike. He’d give you responses but nothing else. 

One day he didn’t come home at all, and his phone went straight to voicemail. You tried to rationalize it, to remind yourself that most trails didn’t have great coverage anyway, and that he knew his way around the forest. You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn’t sleep. When you heard the front door at four in the morning, you flipped your pillow so that he wouldn’t be able to feel how damp it was. You wiped the tears off your cheeks and buried your face under the covers. Chris didn’t stop by the bedroom—just a minute later, he was in the shower.

You missed him. And it felt wrong to miss someone whose scent permeated the bedsheets you lay on. You were losing him, too, and you knew it because aloneness was drowning you even when he was standing right next to you.

That night, you joined Chris in the bathroom. You sat on the counter, observing him. Condensation was gradually covering the glass of the shower but you saw him in a different light—skinnier, with bruises here and there, acquired on his long hikes, no doubt. He saw you but he didn’t acknowledge you.

There were thoughts weighing you down, and you knew that speaking them out loud wouldn’t help, but you had to anyway.

“Chris, I think it would be easier for you if you admitted to yourself, and maybe even to me, that you hate me.”

He turned to you then, water rolling down his shoulders. “I don’t hate you. I’m just sad. My baby is dead. Can’t I be sad?”

“You can be sad, of course.”  You stood, making your way toward the shower, sliding the door open. You would never not be moved by him, his naked body. You felt a tumble in your belly. “But you also resent me.” 

He had the grace not to deny it this time. He averted his gaze. “I don’t want to. I know it’s not your fault. I’m sick in the head.” 

You thought it must feel somewhat the same to be stabbed in the chest. Not even in the heart, no—immediate death would be merciful compared to this. Instead, Chris had pushed a serrated blade just two inches away from the organ, sparing you, hurting you more. 

“Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe it is.” Some truths are meant to remain unspoken, but you loved Chris enough to believe he deserved to know it anyway. “I wasn’t sure at first. That I wanted a baby. Up until the moment I saw the little + sign on the first pregnancy test, I wasn't really sure I wanted to be a mother. I just wanted to be with you.” You gulped, swallowing your tears. “All these years, I felt like I should have kept that first baby. I don’t know why, it just felt like it. Mind you, I didn’t feel that before the abortion, only sometime after. Almost like I knew it would come back and haunt me somehow. Well, it did. Life punished me.”

Chris took a step toward you, cupping your face in his warm, damp hand. Water rolled down your neck and onto the t-shirt you slept in. “That’s not how it works. You didn’t manifest Judith into a stillborn.” He lowered his face close to yours, kissing you, kissing you like he meant it. 

He pulled you into the shower, kissing you deeper, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I love you,” Chris said, pulling your shirt off you. And you knew he did. But he also resented you. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. 

He pinned you to the wall and kissed you, guiding himself at your entrance. You felt him grow hard inside your cunt as he fucked his despair into you. “Fuck me like you hate me,” you begged him. “I deserve it.” 

He pulled away at that, only to wrap your legs around his waist, picking you up. He carried you to your bed, leaving a trail of soapy water behind. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, burying himself inside you again. 

He fucked you hard, harder than he ever had, holding you by your throat or sometimes by a fist in your hair. He fucked you from behind, then flipped you over to look into your eyes as he pounded into your soaked pussy. You hadn’t known a life without Christopher and without his love and his comfort. You wondered how you would keep existing without it. You wondered if you would be able to live without managing to pay off your debt to him. Even as he spilled himself into you, filling you with his sorrow, you wondered how you would cope. 

Even with Chris toppling over you, his weight on your body, his cock softening in your cunt, you felt alone.

Jisung turned to the rest of the room. “Does anyone want more cake?” 

A few hands shot upright, accompanied by enthusiastic statements. The ghost of a smile appeared on your lips as Jisung began his distribution of dessert. This was how you liked your house best—when it was crowded with people you loved. On other days, it felt empty, bleak, too quiet. 

Next to you, Chris shifted his weight on his seat, glancing at you. You stared back at your husband as he forced a smile on his lips. 

You leaned toward him, a frown on your brow. “Are you tired?”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, almost out of habit, and pulled you closer. “I’m just drunk,” he whispered into your ear, eliciting a faint chuckle from you. “Are you tired?”

You were tired, but then you had been tired for years, it felt like. You simply shook your head, knowing it was good for Chris to see people—you didn’t want him to put an end to the festivities on your behalf. Besides, they were celebrating your birthday, so you would feel bad to throw people out.

You watched as Jisung went around the room with the cheesecake leftovers. Chris kept his arm around your shoulders and you let it comfort you a little, even though he didn’t really mean it. It was muscle memory. 

Those who didn’t grab cheesecake were now pouring more wine into their glasses—you handed yours to Arina—Jisung’s fiancée—and she filled it again, and Chris’ too. 

“I heard on the radio that they forecast a particularly sunny summer,” Felix said, speaking to you and Chris specifically, although most guests were also paying attention. “I reckon business will be good for you guys this year.”

“I hope so,” Chris responded, squeezing your shoulder as a public testimony that he still gave somewhat of a shit about you. Maybe this was why you liked your house best when your friends were here—because your husband had to pretend he still loved you when people were around. “We’re thinking of hiring a couple more people, actually.”

“That’s awesome!” Felix flashed a bright smile at you. “I’ll have to try and make time to come visit. It’s been so long since I actually walked around the campground.” 

You knew he meant well, and you knew Felix wasn’t even lying—he had been friends with Chris in high school and he knew the area well despite having moved away a while ago. You knew that at this moment, Felix genuinely wanted to come again later, during the peak of summer season, to see the area at its most beautiful and lively, but you also knew he wouldn’t. Because that’s just how life was. Difficult. He would be busy somehow. And when he wouldn’t be busy, he would want to relax. Or go on a date. Or watch a movie. And you didn’t hold it against him. It had been at least a year since you went over to his place anyway.

“Man, you really should!” Chris nodded, raising his glass at Felix. We expanded a little, to accommodate for trout season. It was too crowded last year.” 

You were about to comment how it was a good problem to have, only you saw at the other end of the table Changbin and his girlfriend, Naomi, exchange a long, quiet stare, then turning to Arina and looking at her wine glass, which was still full. 

Something stirred within you. You knew what was about to happen, and you knew it was probably within your power to stop it. Only, you lacked the strength to do so, and words eluded you anyway. Or will, perhaps.

“Say, Ari,” Naomi told her friend with a mischievous smile on her face. She spoke at low volume, not trying to overpower the main conversation, in which Chris was telling Felix about the sudden and unexpected rise in trout population in the area. “I don’t think I saw you take a single sip of that wine.”

You knew for sure then, by the way color drained from Arina’s face before she turned crimson in half a second, and from the way Jisung almost dropped the cake as he went to put it back on the countertop. 

You couldn’t tell what hurt most—the way Arina’s gaze looked for you but how she dared not look you in the eyes in your own home, or the fact that she was pregnant at all.

Naomi reached over her boyfriend to give Arina the gentlest nudge. “Girl!” 

Changbin took Naomi’s hand in his, pulling it under the table quickly, pushing his own plate of cheesecake in front of her. “Want some? I don’t think I can eat all of it after all.” 

Not saying it was worse. Jisung stared at Arina, then at Changbin, avoiding your eyes at all costs. Meanwhile, the discussion between Chris and Felix was coming to an end as they realized that something was happening around the table. 

You couldn’t hold it against Naomi—she was the latest addition to your friend group, after all, and she didn’t know. Or didn’t know a lot about it all anyway. And even if she did know... You still couldn’t hold it against her. There was no reason for the rest of the world to remain stuck in the past the way you and Chris were. There was no reason for the rest of the world not to be happy at such a joyful prospect. 

Chris let his arm fall back, freeing your shoulders. You felt very alone then.

You knew it had to be you. It had to be you who said something or else the situation would get even more embarrassing and awkward. There had been many moments like this in the past few years, so you knew your way around them by now, no matter how unpleasant. It had to be you. It always had to be you.

“Ari, is it true then?” The thing with sorrow is it often turns people into excellent liars. You didn’t like this about you, but you could be very convincing when you had to be. You looked very happy when you needed to. “Is it really true?”

A timid smile reappeared on your friend’s lips. After a quick glance at Jisung, she nodded gently. “Yes, it’s true.”

As the table erupted in congratulations and a full-on interrogation—How long have you known? How far along are you? Oh my god can it really be true?—you plastered a smile on your face and remained in your seat. There was something else about lying—you had to learn not to overdo it. Proper dosage was essential to how believable you were. You couldn’t jump in place and clap and sing because your friend was pregnant, then people would look at you weird. They would know you’re faking it. They might even deduce that you have been faking it for a long time.

The ghost of Chris on the chair next to you disappeared when he pulled away, as expected. You recognized your own rehearsed smile on his face. 

“I really didn’t want…” Arina began, then stopped mid-sentence as she was searching for her words. Or rather, as she was thinking of the least hurtful way to remind you that your baby had died inside you. “We really didn’t want to crash the party with the news. We wanted to wait.” This, she said to you. 

“It’s alright,” you lied. It was not alright. You hadn’t had a happy birthday in a long time but this one had just turned into a genuine nightmare, as you felt yourself fall into a pit of darkness. Or rather like you were becoming one. “I’m very, very happy for you.”

“It’s such great news,” Chris chimed in. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do, yeah?”

But of course, they wouldn’t want you to come near their beloved child, and you understood that. Because you were cursed. 

The news indeed put an end to the party, which you knew was justified by people feeling awkward. Or maybe they just didn’t want to see the color of your grief. Arina was the last to leave—she stood with you in the doorway while Jisung and the other guys were chatting by their cars. She spared you from another apology but she held you in her arms. “It’ll be your turn soon,” she assured. People said those things sometimes, and it was to alleviate their guilt.

Chris joined you in the kitchen as you were putting empty cups in a trash bag. He grabbed some plates and began rinsing them in the sink.

You knew you had to say something. You knew it had to be you, no matter how unpleasant. 

“The cake was really good,” you commented. 

“Right?” Chris put a little too much enthusiasm into his response. “Mrs. Allen makes the best cakes.” Mrs. Allen owned the only bakery in this part of the city, and everybody feared the day she would decide to retire. Most of her income came from locals purchasing her goods for special occasions or simply because they craved something sweet.

“She does,” you agreed. “Thank you for the birthday party, and for my gift.” He had offered you a hydroponic garden system, something you had mentioned being interested in but weren’t quite sure it would fit in your kitchen. 

“No problem.” He spoke at low volume, now loading the dishwasher. It seemed, for a few instants, as though he was about to say something meaningful. But he finished clearing the countertops. “How about I run you a bath?” 

You accepted his offer, half hoping for something that couldn’t be true, which was that he would join you. Except he wouldn’t and you were well aware of that fact. Most nights, he pretended to fall asleep on the couch so he wouldn’t join you in the bed.

Last week, he saw the notification on your phone. According to your calendar, your peak fertility window begins now and will end in twenty-four hours. You still kept the fertility app. Maybe out of habit, but certainly not out of hope—Christopher had never truly said he wanted another child. Maybe it didn’t really matter either. You hadn’t gone back on birth control and there had been absolutely no pregnancy scares. Not that you had been particularly active… Except that now, you were certain Chris wouldn’t touch you for a long time. Because last week, after seeing the notification, Chris kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in a while. He lay you in bed and undressed you and touched you and you touched him, too. But he couldn’t make love to you. He tried.

He really tried. Until tears were staining his cheeks. You took him in your mouth. You got on top, hoping he would grow hard inside you. But he didn’t. He apologized profusely but he didn’t need to. You had learned to discern the hints life left behind. Some things were meant to be and some weren’t. 

How unfair though. How unfair was it that you and Chris weren’t actually meant to be if you loved him this much? If you had loved him all of your life?

He did run you a bath, with all of your favorite things in it—jasmine oil, candles all around, piano music playing from a small speaker. It didn’t stop you from hearing him locking himself in what had been the nursery. In what still was the nursery—absolutely nothing had changed. Not one thing had been moved. The door just remained closed. Always. 

Could you have been wrong all this time? What if it wasn’t Chris who was meant for you, but aloneness? What if the withering of your heart was your own fault? After all, Judith had been inside you when her heart stopped beating. It had nothing to do with Chris, or with anybody else. Still, it was all he saw in you—the place in which his daughter died.

He was right. It was all that you were. A coffin, a graveyard, a tomb. All at once. And it was all that you would ever be, for as long as you would live.

A crackling sound coming from the walkie-talkie on the counter made you jump. You inhaled sharply, looking away from the laptop screen to offer an apologetic smile to the two clients who were checking into the campground. 

You weren’t supposed to be here today—usually, on Fridays, you operated the general shop, and Chris the campground. Mostly because even though they were now under the same business, you were both more used to those specific establishments, having been raised into them. Only, it was the campground’s big summer opening and Chris was overseeing the event. There would be a concert tonight, by a local band who played covers, and games and other activities were offered during the day. 

Since food was involved, it was less likely for people to stop by the general shop tonight—so you left it in your most trusted employee’s hands, knowing Jeongin would be more than able to handle himself there. He was probably going to sell sunscreen and hats all day—it was stunningly sunny. 

You grabbed the walkie-talkie, walking a few footsteps away to listen carefully. It was Jeongin’s voice that came in.

“Boss,” he said, and you still didn’t know who he was talking to because he called both Chris and you like that. “There’s someone here asking if we sell paint, and I’ve just been looking everywhere and…” 

A faint click followed Jeongin’s question, indicating that Chris had joined the conversation. “Paint?” he repeated. He could barely be heard over the music playing over there. “Paint?” 

You returned to the clients who had finished filling out their security forms while the other two chatted over the radio. You handed them their keycards to unlock the gate and various other spots on the site. You didn’t need to go too in-depth with them—it was the third summer they came here. “Thank you for choosing us again,” you told them with a smile. “If you have issues or an emergency, do call the number at the bottom of the map and someone will come to you.” 

The couple—a man and a woman in their 70s—thanked you warmly and returned to their RV outside. They had rented a space for two weeks. They reminded you a little of your parents. Had they looked this happy when they were on their trips? 

The debate over the walkie-talkie distracted you before you could tear up, even though you missed your mother terribly. 

“Not spray paint, boss,” Jeongin insisted. “Like, just paint.” You heard a voice speaking inaudibly behind him, and then the young man added, “Not wall paint or spray paint. Paint for art. Watercolor?” He said the last word as though he was only repeating it while being wildly unsure about it. 

Everything clicked into place then as you finally understood what they wanted. You grabbed your radio and joined the discussion again. “I didn’t have enough time to stock up the kids’ section,” you explained. It was a mistake on your part, caused by your sleep troubles as of late. After all, it wasn’t uncommon at all for parents to grab a few toys for their children before entering the campground. “Most of the stuff is still in boxes in the back store. I know where it is, I can guide you.”

Jeongin’s line cut abruptly—he had let go of his Talk button. “Jeongin?” Chris asked.

He came back almost immediately. “He says no, boss. He’s asking if we sell real watercolor, not children's stuff.” 

You suppressed a laugh and heard your husband do the same. While nobody in the area understood the importance of art more than you, you couldn’t help but find it humorous that someone would stop at a very rustic-looking general store on the side of the road of a small city to ask for legitimate art supplies. 

You looked at the beautiful landscape out the window—the river, the shore, and behind it all, the mountains. As pretty as a painting. 

“Please apologize on our behalf,” you told Jeongin. “We don’t carry art supplies of the sort. Offer them a discount on their purchase.” 

“Thanks, boss.” And Jeongin tuned out for good, leaving you and Chris alone on the line.

You let a few seconds pass. “How are things over there?” you asked, either to make conversation or because you desperately wanted your husband to speak to you. About anything. Anything at all.

“Pretty good actually. They’re loving the lemonade.” You two had made many batches of it early this morning. Quietly. In your kitchen. Squeezing lemons and then weighing sugar and making raspberry syrup, for the pink lemonade. Alone. “How are you holding up in there?” 

“It’s fine. Every time I’m here, it reminds me of those mornings my mom would have your mom babysit me, and she’d drag me here and put me to work.” The Park Office had been renovated since then, but it smelled the same as it used to. Like cedar and pine, with faint salt undertones. “Should we start carrying art supplies?”

“Man, I don’t know.” Chris laughed and he sounded like he meant it. It made a burst of light appear in your chest, even if it was only temporarily. “Oh, I gotta go. We need ice.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.” But Chris was already gone. 

Your life had reached a point where you doubted that any ice was actually needed. You imagined Chris just wanted to find a good enough reason not to speak to you, just you. He fared well enough—and so did you—in the presence of others, as though they motivated him to pretend better. The first night he didn’t come back home, you thought he was cheating on you. In the end, the sound of his shower woke you up at six in the morning. When you asked him where he’d been, he said he worked on some repairs at the camping ground.

It happened more and more often. Then some of his clothes disappeared from inside his drawers. It happened over weeks, so it gave you time to prepare. To form some sort of shell to brace yourself from the impact of it. By then, he rarely slept in your bed anymore, preferring the guest room or the living room. But when he did, you barely recognized your husband. It did not feel like him, that person under the sheets. 

During your sleepless nights, you pondered over it a lot. You were well aware that Chris hadn’t brought up divorce because it would feel like a failure for him. Like he had failed this marriage and you. You knew there was also the whole issue of the Riverside Campground and Riverside General Store, now become one. The legal problems that would surface during the divorce would be awful, and you knew it. Neither of you had felt the need to get a prenup or anything of the sort. 

Honest to god, you had thought you would be with Chris for the rest of your life. And maybe he had felt the same, and it was why he was so reluctant to leave you. 

Sometimes, you wanted to tell him that it was okay. If he was seeing another woman. He wasn’t going to keep fucking you, was he? Not when you were a graveyard. You couldn’t force him to love you either. He had stopped loving you a long time ago—it just took him a while to come to the realization. You wanted to hate him. To resent him. But all that you could do about Chris was love him, no matter how broken, how misaligned that love had become.

There was this unspoken agreement that at work and around your friends, you made it look like everything was okay. You hadn’t told a soul about your marital problems and you assumed Chris probably hadn’t either. 

Every day you woke up with the clear intention to sit down with Chris and to talk. To make him say that this—all of this—made no fucking sense. That you had to get a divorce, no matter how cumbersome it would be. Nothing could be worse than this anyway. 

And as the coward that you were, every day, you found ways to avoid that conversation. 

A car coming down the road caught your attention, pulling you out of your deep thoughts. The darkness lingered within you, but you appreciated every occasion to be distracted from it. Even work.

The car—a black Jeep Patriot that looked like a rental—stopped at the designated parking space for check-ins. Noticing that, you made sure that none of the tears that had tickled your eyes had messed with your mascara. Unfortunately, it was a little smudged in one place, but you managed to mostly fix it just in time to welcome the customer.

A man that you supposed was in his mid-20s  entered the park office looking a little confused yet resolute. He had hiking attire—dark green cargo pants, a generic t-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. Holding his phone and often looking at it, he made his way to the counter slowly. 

“Hello,” you said before he had even reached you, prompting him to look up. He was, by all standards, pretty, with feline-like eyes and gentle traits. “Will you be checking in with us today, sir?” 

He responded to your smile with a polite one. “Yes. I made the reservation a while ago. Under Lee, Minho.” 

You typed his name into the laptop, quickly pulling up his reservation file. You raised your eyebrows as you looked at it—it was the first time you saw it really, Chris was the one who took care of this stuff usually.

“I have it here,” you told him, double-checking to make sure you had read everything right. “You made an extended stay reservation for two adults in one of our RVs?” 

The campground welcomed RVs on one side and tents on the other, also offering to rent either installation for those who needed them. Renting a fully equipped, luxury RV was by far the most expensive booking option you sold, and he had requested it until the end of the season. From the first day to the very last. 

“Yes, that’s me.” His smile became a little more comfortable, and a little warmer, too. “You seem surprised.”

“Oh, I’m just not used to it—usually, it’s the cabins on the other side of the rivers that get this sort of clientele.” 

You took the credit card—black—that he handed you without you having to ask. You actually had nothing against Pineview Cabins. People who wanted a cabin wanted a cabin, and those who wanted something else came to you. Besides, the owners were a mother and her son, and they were lovely.

“Cabins are for tourists,” Lee Minho said jokingly.

You finished entering his information in the system and gave the card back, finding it a bit easier to smile in his laid-back presence. No matter how long you had spent enduring it, you had never been very good at aloneness. 

“There is a form we require guests to fill—for security purposes,” you explained to him, sliding on the counter the form in question, secured on a clipboard. You shot a glance behind him, looking at his car through the front window, where you could see that there was someone in the passenger seat. “Both of you will have to fill one,” you added, pulling out a second clipboard. “I can go and hand this one to them while you fill yours if you’d like.”

The man shook his head, the corner of his lips curving up. “Nah. Let me call him. He can sulk about paint sometime later.” 

It clicked into place then—this man, and whoever was in his car, had been the ones who, just moments ago, were at the general shop asking for watercolors. 

“It was you!” You bit your lip. “I’m really sorry we couldn’t accommodate you better. I’ll—”

Minho, who had just finished typing a text on his phone, put the device back in his pocket and grabbed one of the pens to start filling out his form. “No need to apologize. I don’t know why he expected to find some legit watercolors here.” 

“Ah, artists.” You spoke in a tone that was clearly sarcastic but not offensive. 

“This one is something, for sure.”

As if on cue, the front door was opened by the man beckoned by Minho through a text and a little voice inside your head said, Yes, this one is something indeed. He was tall, holding himself straight with a perfect posture and yet in a totally nonchalant manner. Still, he was graceful. You saw it in the way he pulled the door open, in the way he took off his fancy designer sunglasses to put them on his head, in the way he adjusted his half ponytail right after. 

If Minho was dressed as though he was heading out for a three-day hike, this one, the artist, was the complete opposite. A loose white graphic tee hung on his broad shoulders. With it, he wore oversized jeans, and he even had another shirt tied around his waist, as though he had expected the weather to be cooler. A multitude of jewelry pieces adorned his body—a few silver necklaces around his dainty neck, many bracelets on his wrists, and rings, too. The ensemble screamed intentional chaos.

The more seconds passed, the closer he was to you and the counter, and you were utterly unable to take your eyes off him. Not just because he had just entered the room and it was a normal thing to look at someone who approached to check-in. But because you had never seen anybody like him before.

He was beautiful, and there was no other way to put it. His face was seemingly perfect—his big, dark eyes were scanning his surroundings as though to evaluate the potential dangers. The rounded tip of his nose complemented his cheekbones well. 

He had a pretty mouth—his lips were obscenely plush. Rosy red. Enticing. With a velvety quality to them. Skin like honey-coated satin. Hair like silk soaked in black ink. 

He was the kind of person who just oozed charisma. Effortlessly. The kind of person whose presence changes the whole vibe of the room. The kind of person everybody notices without them trying. Often, without them wishing for it at all. 

There was a point where you realized you should say something—he was just a few steps away now, close enough that Minho had turned to him. Close enough that you could smell him—he carried with him a strong yet not heavy scent reminiscent of amber and roses with woodsy and musky undertones. You took a deep breath but it wasn’t even to brace yourself to be in his presence. It was to inhale more and more of this alluring smell. It took everything in your power not to immediately ask him what his cologne was. 

“There you are. Here.” It was Minho who spoke first in the end, sliding the second clipboard and another pen toward his friend. Or brother. Or cousin.

Or boyfriend, maybe. 

You had to say something. “Hello.” Simple. Ordinary. A skeleton key of greetings. 

He briefly looked away from the clipboard to acknowledge your presence. “Hi.” 

He didn’t seem thrilled about having been called in here and you felt bad about it for some reason, even though you had been asking guests to fill out a security form for years now. 

“Sorry about this. It’s for security purposes,” you explained. 

“It’s no problem at all,” Minho assured. He was already halfway through his form. 

You gave him a quick nod. “And sorry about the watercolors, too,” you added.

At this, the handsome man reacted a bit more. He straightened up from the counter to face you. It felt, a little, like the air had been kicked out of your lungs. Being face to face, so close to him, felt like falling from a high place. 

He spoke to you softly, almost timidly, like he wasn’t sure he ought to speak at all. “The airline lost my art supplies bag and sent it to the wrong destination. I just wanted to have something while they manage to send it to me.” His voice was pleasant. Smokey and warm, it had a strangely comforting tone.

You barely understood the words he said, not because it was a difficult concept to comprehend, but because of the intonation in which he spoke as well as his pronunciation. It was so unique it demanded your whole attention. As if the placement of his lips at any given time, and the movements of his tongue as he spoke, came together as an orchestra that played an elegant symphony. 

“We actually put in the address of the campground,” Minho interrupted as if he had just remembered that detail. “I hope it’s okay? They should be sending the bag here sometime next week.”

“Or the week after,” the artist sighed, rolling his eyes before returning to his form. His handwriting was small and neat. 

“It’s not a problem at all.” It occurred to you then that you had things to get done to check them in, so you returned to your laptop to get to work. “We’ll let you know as soon as it gets here.” You bit your lip, torn over your curiosity and your pulse quickening so fast it frightened you. “Do you exclusively paint in aquarelle?” 

You reported your attention to your screen as soon as you asked the question, regretting it immediately. Like sending a risky text. Warmth spread at the back of your neck, reaching your cheeks and even your ears. Get a fucking grip.

He was handsome, yes. He was the kind of beautiful that nobody could ignore, yes. To blush a little when he looked into your eyes was one thing. But to be entranced by this stranger like this, to have your heart threatening to jump out of your chest, for your breathing to turn shallow in his presence… That was something else. 

At first, you blamed your many sleepless nights—you had a lot of accumulated fatigue, so it would be normal not to be in your right mind. Then you blamed your lingering heartache. The sorrow you carried with you anywhere you went. The wedding ring on your finger that felt like it weighed a ton while meaning so little anymore.

Then shame crept up from somewhere deep within you, tugging at your heart.

No matter how painful the state of your marriage was, you remained married. And there was nothing wrong with finding somebody else attractive, of course, but this felt different. It felt like you ought to take several steps back and internalize that no matter how hot and interesting this guy was, it wasn’t even for you to take notice of it. He painted. So what? He was insanely hot. So what? He wasn’t the first handsome dude you met during your marital life. He smelled good. Okay? He had pretty lips, but who cares?

GET A FUCKING GRIP!

You figured it was your brain trying to save you. You had known for a long time that your marriage was over and that nothing could save it. It had been such a long while, it seemed, since Chris had truly loved you. And you loved him in a desperate way, like trying to hold onto a knife not by its handle, but by its blade.

Your thought process only took about two seconds, but they felt like two very long seconds. In the end, none of this mattered—even if Chris divorced you, and even if this young god had any interest in you, which was impossible, you would still not do anything about it. If you hadn’t even been able to trust in your life-long conviction that you would grow old with Chris, then you were certainly not going to open your heart to anybody else. Ever. 

The man stared at you like he was thinking about his response before saying it. Minho was done with his form and handed it back to you. 

“He does a lot of things,” he said in the artist’s place. “I bought a painting from him. That’s how we met. It’s watercolor and oil, right?” He turned to the handsome man, who nodded.

“Yes, and encaustic paint,” he added, his voice suddenly a little smaller. “It’s made of—”

“Yes, wax. Hot wax.” You cut him off before he could finish his sentence, feeling a little bad that he felt compelled to explain everything, considering how he looked like he didn’t want to talk to you at all. He was most likely an introvert. It used to be difficult for you, too, to talk to strangers. But you became used to it through this place over the years. Or maybe in a desperate attempt not to be alone.

He stared at you with his eyebrows raised just slightly. “Do you paint, too?”

You couldn’t help a nervous laugh from escaping your lips. “God, no. I wish though. I just… appreciate.”

“Then I’ll have to show you his stuff. Brilliant.” Minho gave his companion a not-so-gentle slap on the back. 

“I’d love to,” you replied, taking the signed form from the artist. “We’ve actually been looking into buying a piece for the main lodge, where we hold some events, activities, shows, stuff like that. We did a few renovations last year, and there’s a wall that’s just so empty and bland. Maybe we—”

Two things happened at once then.

Out of habit—and because you had to as it was literally your job—you let your gaze trail down the form you were now holding. You also realized that you were overdoing it with the conversation, talking a little too quickly just to make up for the fact that you were a nervous wreck. The guy had checked in using a black card. There was about no chance for you to be able to afford anything this young god painted, right?

Then your brain processed the words it was reading.

Full name: Hwang, Hyunjin

Hwang, like Hwang Naro, the painter behind Loss, the artwork that had been fascinating you for years. And he just happened to be a painter, too. For some reason. Loss dated back to the 1850s after all, so there was no correlation to be made. Hwang Naro. Hwang Hyunjin.

Immediately, you reminded yourself that many people shared a last name in Korea after all, so it was only a minor coincidence. Painting was a common hobby, wasn’t it?

“Uh, is there a problem, Miss?” Hyunjin inquired, leaning in closer to also look at his form to double-check.

It wouldn’t have felt any different if you had been kicked in the solar plexus. His scent invaded your nostrils and then your lungs, and it was so violent that you had to hold onto the counter. When he looked up again, you noticed more details on his face. The mole under his eyes. The faint lines on his lips. The other mole on his jaw. The shape of his eyes, perfect, intricate, elegant. Their shade deep enough that you could drown in them. 

You remembered the book Jisung and Changbin had given you for your birthday once, the essay about the painting. One of the chapters contained various interviews and letters from people who had known Naro—he signed his paintings without his family name. One of the interviews had been conducted in the late 1880s, by an author who would later publish it in a journal in the early 1900s. He had spoken to Cornelia, a maid who had worked for the Hwangs during her youth while the family resided in Leiden, a small city in South Holland.

Everybody in town knew that Mr. Naro was handsome and kind. He liked to visit the botanical gardens to practice his colors and florals, and some visitors went there to watch him, too. He would sometimes carry with him small pieces of canvas and hand out sketches to children. Mr. Naro was fond of children, and he loved his only son very much, more than I have ever seen a father love anything before. The women envied his wife and the men envied him, for he was a proper gentleman and loved by all. He and his family lived modestly despite the money he made selling his paintings and giving art courses. 

He summoned me to the courtyard of the house one afternoon. He was painting the sky, which was blue and beautiful. Mr. Naro told me he freed me from my employment. When I panicked, he said, “Fret not, Cornelia, it has nothing to do with your abilities. I am most content having you under my roof.” Mr. Naro looked me in the eyes and said I should take some time to visit places and fall in love, either with the world or with a man, or a woman even. He assured me I would be welcome to return after my trip if I wished, and that if he happened to be gone by then, he would ensure the University hired me. 

He gave me money, more than I had ever seen in my life, and a bag for my travels. I refused yet he insisted, no matter how immense the gift, disproportionate to what I thought I deserved. He said my heart’s color was Alizarin Crimson, with a just drop of Naples Yellow and another of Ultramarine, all of those softened in Flemish White. As he spoke, he mixed the colors on his palette, right in front of my eyes. The final result was a gorgeous pink that reminded me of the carnations that used to grow in my grandmother’s garden. He used that pink to paint a stunning bird in the sky, shading it with black and blue, defining the feathers also with white. He gave me the painting and said, “This is your heart. Do you want to keep it caged up here?” 

I heard he had similar interactions with other maids and even students. I traveled to France where I met my husband and became a dancer. I never forgot Mr. Naro. I never forgot Mr. Naro’s eyes, so dark they were more black than brown, yet soft, gentle, and sad. I wanted to be a painter so I could accurately blend paints to recreate that color, just to see it one more time.

The painting, titled Cornelia’s Colors, was now at home at Musée d’Orsay, and you had been lucky enough to see it with your own two eyes a few years ago, during a short European trip with Christopher. It had been given to the museum by the maid-turned-dancer’s descendants. 

But it was not the intricacies of the painting that were on your mind at that moment, not even the expert blending of the colors on it. It was the shade of Hyunjin’s eyes. So dark they were more black than brown, yet soft, gentle, and sad. 

You shook your head faintly, as though chasing away the thoughts invading it.

“Did I miss something?” Hyunjin asked again, glancing at his sheet. 

“N—No, it’s all good.” And yet, by the way they were looking at you, you were very much aware that your reaction must have been noticed. For a split second, you wondered what would be weirder—if you mentioned something or if you just moved on. “It’s just, your name,” you said before you could even really think about it. “You have the same family name as the artist who painted my favorite painting. And you paint too. So I thought it was just a nice coincidence.” 

Something in Hyunjin’s already somber eyes shifted, worsening the darkness in them. His body language changed in a matter of seconds as he stood straight up again, keeping his shoulders straight. He removed the sunglasses from the top of his head, ready to put them on his nose again. 

Minho stared at him, and then at you again. “It’s not really a coincidence, is it?” he told Hyunjin.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes so faintly you almost didn’t catch it. He took a deep breath, the exhale ending with a sigh—in the dictionary, under Bored, a picture of him at that very moment could serve as a definition for the word. You felt so bad you wanted to hide under the counter like you used to when you were little. 

“Guess not,” Hyunjin said with a shrug. “He’s my great-great-grandfather.” 

Too many seconds passed before you reacted—before the information even made it to your brain. 

You were standing in the presence of Hwang Naro’s direct descendant. You were breathing the same air as him, you were looking upon his divinely sculpted face. You were hearing his voice, coated with amber and honey. 

“Oh my god,” was all you managed, whispering under your breath, a frown digging itself between your brows. “I’m so sorry, I—”

Hyunjin waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not important.” 

Not important. Except his great-great-grandfather had been the artist behind the painting that you had always favored. The painting that had turned out to be prophetic, for you at least. 

“What are the odds though?” Minho, contrary to Hyunjin or you, seemed very enthusiastic about all of this. “I knew it was a good idea to drag you here, Hwang.”

By the look on Hyunjin’s face, you could tell he felt very differently. It triggered your brain back into place though, as you became excessively self-conscious. Of yourself. Of your reaction. You could understand why your mind latched onto any good or interesting thing it saw, because your life had become bleak and empty. Yet it was stupid to care about any of that. To this man, the painting meant nothing, and it didn’t appear that his ancestry mattered much more either. He was clearly annoyed with you anyway. 

With trembling hands, you reached for the keycard printer, collecting the two cards you had just printed. You slid them into their protective sleeves, which were attached to lanyards with the campground’s name on them. 

“Here,” you managed, also trying your best to smile. “These will give you access to everything you need—the entry gate, your RV, the laundromat, and the showers. If you lose them, just call this number here.” With that, you handed them maps of the campground, as you did with any new guest. “We’re here. Your site is right there with the other RVs.” You showed them with your index finger, but you felt your insides disintegrating into nothingness. “Just get past the gate and follow Pinecone Lane, you can’t miss it. You have a parking space at your site.”

“This place is huge,” Hyunjin commented—not to you, but to Minho. 

“Bigger than I imagined,” Minho conceded, but he was speaking to you. 

You nodded. “Yes. This is the tent camping site,” you explained. “Here is the main lodge, with the pool. This is the RV site. There’s walkable beach land all around this part too, and you can rent a boat or kayaks here.” 

“Jesus Christ, that’ll be the best summer of my fucking life,” Minho said with a sigh. “I need this vacation. I’m here to fish, I got a permit for it.”

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Minho had picked up on your unease and was trying to distract you from it. It did manage to slow your heartbeat a little. 

“Ah, fishing!” This prompted the smile on your lips to become more genuine. “Of course. Lots of fishing to be done around the estuary. I love striped bass, I haven’t had any in too long.” 

Your father used to love fishing and he would often take you with him. He would cook the bass on a fire with ingredients he gathered in the forest. Those were some of your most precious memories. You’d usually fall asleep by the fire and wake up at the back of the car as he was driving you home. These days, your father’s arthritis was preventing him from enjoying his fishing trips, so he just stopped going. And every year, you told yourself you ought to go fish by yourself, catch a bass, and cook it for him. You never found the time. Or the courage. Or the courage to find the time.

“I’ll make sure to save some for you if I catch any,” Minho promised. 

“Please don’t. Really.” You pressed your lips together, wondering what to say next. Hyunjin’s sunglasses returned before his eyes and they grabbed their card and map. “I hope you have a wonderful stay. Don’t hesitate to call or visit here, the main lodge, or the general store if you need anything.”

“Except paint,” Minho remarked with a clearly sarcastic and humorous tone, sending both you and Hyunjin into a hysterical fit of laughter. 

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall behind you with a hand over your mouth while Hyunjin clapped and called Minho a fucking dumbass. You hadn’t laughed this much in a long time. In fact, you couldn’t remember at all when the last time was. You wiped the tears at the corner of your eyes, waving at the two men as they walked out. Minho exited first, and Hyunjin lingered in the door frame, hesitating.

He turned to you. You couldn’t read his expression, not with the sunglasses, but his posture was more relaxed than it had been. “Just curious,” he started. “What is it? Your favorite painting?” 

Your laugh came to a halt the same way a delicate crystal glass would shatter into pieces if someone closed their fist around it. 

“It’s Loss.” You wanted to say more, but your voice remained stuck in your throat. And what would you have said anyway?

He stared at you for a few seconds and nodded slowly before leaving. 

There were still tears on your cheeks, but they no longer tasted like laughter—instead, they had the bitter yet familiar taste of aloneness.

... to be continued.

Note: I feel like I say the same thing over and over—but thank you. I could say it a million times and it wouldn't be enough. Thank you to my readers who not only put up with me, but encourage me as well and motivate me to keep trying to improve and to find my voice.

This story was, once again, extracted from the depths of my heart. It is with the utmost humility that I present it to you—when I started writing it, I did so with the intention, specifically, of not releasing it to the public. It's too personal, I told myself. And then I realized that every story I released contain other parts of my soul, and that this one was no different.

So, here it is. The ramblings of a woman who feels like she graduated at the school of Alone and earned a PhD in Loneliness.

Thank you for your support, and for your love. You guys are the best readers. You know this, right? Love y'all.

Welcome to Stormhaven 🤍

** please note that I will soon be restarting my permanent taglist from scratch as I only wish to keep active readers on them in an effort to put my time in the right places, considering the effort and love i put into what i release. by active readers i mean readers who interact at least a little with my content. i do not expect you to read every single thing i put out or to comment all the time. it's really just that there are many fully inactive/silent readers on the list! if you wish to stay on the list or be added to it, please reach out to me. ask is ideal because I can then tag your ask & return to it, but you can DM me as well! thank you for your understanding. **

taglist:

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@binstitsweat ; @cb97percent ; @chans1aptop ; @chartrucewhore ; @hanjingin ;

@hwan-g ; @hyuneyeon ; @hyunfruits ; @hyunjinswifeee ; @hyunniethepooh

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Jealousy

Pairing : Namoon x reader fab

Genre : smut, real world au (?) angst, slight possessiveness and jealousy, MDNI, slight fluff.

Summary: Friends with benefits always gets complicated when one of you catches feelings.

Word Count : 4.5k

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The clinking of glasses and the buzz of conversation filled the air, a symphony of sound that perfectly matched the warm, inviting atmosphere of the cosy bar.

The scent of freshly grilled meats and the faint aroma of soju mingled in the air, creating a comforting and intoxicating blend.

Soft, warm light washed over the room, casting a gentle glow on the faces of the people gathered there.

You sat at a table with your large group of friends, a comfortable mix of laughter and camaraderie enveloping you.

Namjoon was finally back after three long months away, his business trip over, and everyone was here to catch up.

Your eyes scanned the table, landing on Namjoon. He was sitting across from you, his face lit up with a smile as he engaged in conversation with your friends.

Feeling your gaze, his eyes flicked towards yours, a small dimpled smile spreading across his face. You returned the smile, a flicker of something familiar passing between you.

Although your group was close, there was a secret between you and Namjoon, a secret that no one else knew.

A secret that had started with a drunken night and had turned into something more.

You had been friends for a long time, but that night, under the influence of alcohol, you had crossed a line simply because you both had been feeling needy.

Namjoon had made it clear from the beginning that he didn't want a relationship. It was purely fucking, a casual arrangement that suited both of you. Or so you thought.

As time went on, your feelings for him had grown. You had already fallen for his dimpled smile, his kindness, and the way you connected over deep conversations and shared interests.

He was everything you wanted in a man. Sleeping with him only further cemented those feelings, causing you a lot of heartache.

You had felt stupid and foolish for putting yourself in such a vulnerable position.

So, when Namjoon had told you he was going away for work, it had been a relief—a much-needed break to get your head straight and put some distance between the intense emotions you had been wrestling with.

While he was away, the two of you kept in touch through the occasional text message.

After all, you were still friends, and it felt natural to check in on each other. The conversations were friendly, casual—nothing too deep or revealing.

You made sure to keep it light, steering clear of any topics that might dredge up the more intimate aspects of your past arrangement.

You had taken this opportunity to fully embrace the idea of moving on.

And so you joined a dating site. It felt like a fresh start, a chance to explore new possibilities and meet someone who could offer the kind of connection you were truly looking for.

At first, it was a bit nerve-wracking, scrolling through profiles, wondering if anyone could match up to the image of Namjoon that still lingered in your mind, but you had made progress.

Just as you were about to take a sip of your drink, something in your peripheral vision caught your attention. You did a quick double take, seeing a familiar face in the crowd. It was the guy you'd been on a few dates with recently.

Surprise shot through you, quickly setting your drink down, you made your way over to him. Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed his arm. "I didn’t know you came here!" you exclaimed, a smile spreading across your face.

He flashed you a bright smile. "Hey! I’m here waiting for some colleagues. What about you? Who are you with?"

You nodded toward the table behind you. "I’m here with some friends. Come say hi!"

As you led him over, Namjoon's expression darkened. He glanced sharply from Jung to you, clearly puzzled and annoyed at how close you seemed. Who the hell is this guy? he thought, his mind racing.

After the introductions were made, Hoseok couldn’t resist asking, "So, how do you two know each other?"

Jung’s smile grew even warmer as he glanced at you. "We’ve been on a few dates," he said, his eyes lingering on yours.

You shifted slightly, feeling the heat rise in your face as you avoided making eye contact with Namjoon.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened visibly, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

A flicker of possessiveness stirred in Namjoon, surprising even him.

He knew he had no right to feel this way, but the thought of you with another man was like a needle pricking at his chest, making him uncomfortable.

He swallowed hard, trying to push away the tightness that constricted his breathing.

“Oh, nice. So, are you two going to go out again?” Jimin asked, his curiosity evident in the playful smile on his face.

“Yeah, sure. I mean I would like to.... if Y/N wants to” Jung said, his gaze shifting back to you, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Namjoon’s mouth went dry. His stomach felt like it was twisting into knots as he waited for your response. What if she says yes?

The thought made him feel uneasy. His fingers drummed nervously against his thigh as he tried to steady his breath.

You nodded slowly, your voice soft and hesitant. “Yes,” you managed to say, though the word felt like it got stuck in your throat.

The sense of guilt, though irrational given your arrangement, settled heavily on your shoulders. You were acutely aware of Namjoon’s presence, the intensity of it making you squirm.

You certainly didn’t want Jung to know about your history with Namjoon. The last thing you needed was to complicate things further.

When you glanced back at Namjoon, you found him stone-faced, his jaw clenched tight. The rigidity in his posture was unmistakable. You frowned, silently questioning him, but he only looked away, sipping on his drink quietly.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you forced yourself to focus back on Jung, attempting to ignore the unsettling tension that lingered like a thick fog in the air.

You laughed along with your friends, trying to blend back into the cheerful atmosphere, but the knot in your stomach wouldn’t loosen.

A few minutes later, Jung’s colleagues arrived, and with a quick, friendly goodbye, he wandered off to join them.

You watched him go, grateful for the brief respite from the awkwardness. As you turned back to your friends, you realized Namjoon was gone.

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion as you scanned the room, searching for him. Where did he go?

Just then, you caught sight of him slipping out through the main entrance. Without a second thought, you hurried after him, weaving through the crowd as you dashed toward the door.

The cold air bit at your cheeks as you stepped outside, your breath fogging in the night. The city lights, a blur of neon and yellow, reflected off the wet pavement.

You spotted Namjoon leaning against a wall, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his tall figure partially hidden in the shadows.

The streetlights cast eerie, elongated shadows that danced around him, adding to the sense of foreboding.

"Namjoon," you called softly, your voice almost a whisper against the backdrop of the bustling street.

He looked up at you, his eyes a bit glazed from the alcohol, the usual sparkle replaced by a dull haze. The cigarette smoke curled around his face, obscuring his features. "You okay?"

"I’m fine," he replied, but the clipped tone in his voice told a different story.

He lurched from the wall, his movements slightly unsteady, and stubbed the cigarette out before heading off down the street away from you.

You stood there, confusion knotting in your chest as you watched him start to walk away.

His sudden change in behaviour left you feeling adrift. Without a second thought, you hurried after him, your frustration simmering with every step.

"Joon! Wait. What’s going on?" you demanded when you finally caught up to him, grabbing his forearm. The tension radiated off him in waves.

"Just leave me alone and go back to Jung," he replied in a monotone. His voice was cold and distant, as if he were speaking to a stranger.

“What?!” Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to make sense of what he was saying, taking in his face.

“Are you jealous?” you asked, almost in disbelief. Your voice trembled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden outburst.

He whirled around to face you, his eyes blazing with a cocktail of emotions. “Jealous? Of him?!” he asked, incredulity dripping from his words. His voice was harsh, almost venomous.

“Well, why else would you say that? You’ve been in a mood ever since he sat with us,” you pointed out, your voice edged with frustration. You took a step closer.

“I just don’t like him. You’re too good for him,” he spat out through clenched teeth, the words dripping with a mix of anger and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

Namjoon continued walking, breathing harshly.

“You don’t even know him!” you shot back, fists clenching as you struggled to keep up with his long strides.

A few drunken bystanders turned and looked at you, their curious eyes following your heated exchange.

Their laughter, muffled and distant, added to the tension in the air. You ignored them, focusing solely on Namjoon and the growing intensity of his anger.

“I don’t need to. I don’t want you seeing him,” he snapped over his shoulder.

“Are you kidding me. Do you hear yourself?!” You let out a disbelieving snort, your eyes wide in shock at his audacity.

“Just because we fucked a few times doesn’t mean you can dictate who I can date! You’re just pissed because I’m not going to come running when you want some pussy” each word punctuated with the sting of betrayal.

“Isn’t that what friends with benefits means? We agreed on the arrangement, didn’t we?” he shot back, his voice tinged with frustration as if you were the one breaking the rules.

You laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and unforgiving in the cold night air. “Yeah, but that also means it ends when one of us starts dating!”

Namjoon’s pace slowed as he reached the entrance of his apartment, his voice dropping to a gritty, low growl. “Were you even going to tell me?” He stopped abruptly, turning to face you, his eyes searching yours for an answer.

You swallowed hard, “Yes, when the time was right. What about you? I could say the same for you, what about the women you were hooking up on your work trip.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed, his expression tightening. He looked almost insulted by your words, as if you’d just questioned his character. “That’s because there were none!” he snapped, his voice rougher than you expected.

You laughed again, this time with incredulity. "Are you serious? You, the most gorgeous man I know, who can command a room and have any woman he wants has nothing to tell? That you weren't getting pussy whenever you wanted?"

The irony of your so-called friends-with-benefits arrangement stung like salt in an open wound. It was almost absurd when you thought about it.

Here he was, this breathtakingly handsome man, someone who could have anyone he desired, and yet he had chosen you. Just you—average, unremarkable, nothing special. A friend.

It felt like some cruel joke, and you couldn’t help but wonder why he had even bothered with you in the first place.

Namjoon’s expression shifted, his eyebrows shooting up as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “You think I’m attractive?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

You let out a heavy sigh, the exasperation clear in every breath you took. It felt like a punchline to a joke that wasn’t funny.

“Are you seriously asking me that? It’s not the point. The point is you were gone for three months. Did you really think I was just going to sit around and wait for you like some pathetic puppy, waiting for your next call to hook up?"

The weight of everything unsaid between you was too much, and you were already stepping back, the chilly night air biting at your skin.

Namjoon’s gaze followed you as you moved, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

His eyes, those deep eyes that usually commanded a room, were now clouded with confusion and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

You took a few steps away from him, your breath coming out in sharp bursts, trying to create some distance between you and the emotional storm you were caught in.

But before you could get far, his voice cut through the night, low and possessive, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

"You’re mine."

The words stopped you in your tracks, your heart pounding in your chest.

You turned slowly, meeting his eyes. There was something desperate, almost primal, in the way he looked at you—like he was on the edge of losing something he couldn’t bear to let go of.

Your breath hitched, your mind racing to catch up with what he had just said.

The audacity of it, the sheer nerve, made your blood boil, but there was something else too—something in the way he said it that made your chest tighten, something you didn’t want to name.

"What did you just say?" a mixture of disbelief and curiosity in your tone.

He stared at you, his eyes searching yours, the intensity between you growing thicker with each passing second. Finally, he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

"You heard me" he said, his tone firm. "I know we had an arrangement, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you being with someone else."

"Do you hear yourself?" you managed to croak out, the emotion clawing at your throat, threatening to spill over. “I'm not someone's property”

You wanted so badly to be his, to be loved by him in the way you had always dreamed, but deep down, you knew he never wanted that with you. It had always felt like you weren’t good enough for him, like you were a mere afterthought in his world.

“I know you're not,” He sighed heavily. His brows furrowed deeply, a stark contrast to his usually eloquent demeanour.

It was as if every carefully chosen word he normally wielded so effortlessly had suddenly betrayed him, slipping into clumsy, hurtful phrases.

He knew he should have been able to articulate his feelings with precision, but the weight of the situation left him grappling for the right words.

He stepped even closer, his body nearly brushing against yours. The proximity was suffocating, yet electrifying, his presence overwhelming your senses.

His thick, pillowy lips, so soft and inviting, hovered dangerously close to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

The desire to close the gap between you was almost unbearable.

“Why did you follow me here? Your boyfriend is still at the bar,” he added, his voice rough and accusatory, his words slicing through the fragile connection between you.

“He’s not my boyfriend” you shot back, your tone defensive

Namjoon’s eyes flared. "No? Then I can do this."

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body pressed so close that you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Your soft breasts pressed against his hard chest, creating an overwhelming sense of intimacy.

"Namjoon!" you gasped, your eyes widening in shock at the sudden proximity. His grip tightened, holding you in place, his gaze never wavering from yours.

The world around you seemed to blur, the sounds of the night fading into the background.

Before you could react, his lips crashed against yours with a fierce urgency that took your breath away.

For a fleeting moment, you gave in to the kiss, feeling the familiar warmth of his lips flood your sense, tasting him. But as quickly as it began, reality snapped back into focus.

You placed your hands on his chest, the firmness of his muscles grounding you as you pushed him away.

“Why are you acting like this?” you whispered, your voice trembling as you searched his face for answers tears pricking at your eyes.

You couldn’t understand why he was being so possessive, so contradictory, and it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Namjoon’s expression shifted the moment he saw the tears threatening to spill over. The hard lines of his face softened, and his grip on you loosened just enough for you to feel the change in his demeanour.

He would never want to hurt you, that much was clear, and seeing you in pain seemed to break something inside him.

“I love you, Y/N” he croaked.

The words hung in the air between you.

“You don’t mean that,” you say calmly. “This is just a reaction to seeing me with someone else.”

The hurt that crossed his face was unmistakable, a sharp, raw edge that made your heart twist in your chest.

“Is that how low you think of me?” His brows furrowing as he stared at you, as if he couldn’t believe you would think that of him. "You know me more than anyone!"

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Your eyes dropping to the ground. “But we knew this would end eventually. That’s what friends with benefits means. You never wanted a relationship… and… I-I did.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, each one a painful reminder of the boundaries you had tried so hard to respect, the unspoken rules you had forced yourself to follow.

You dared to glance up, just for a moment, only to find Namjoon’s expression unreadable. His jaw was clenched, the muscle there twitching slightly as he processed your admission.

Suddenly, his hand was under your chin, his touch gentle but firm as he tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

The intensity in his eyes made your breath hitch, the raw emotion there sending a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushed softly across your skin, wiping away a tear that had slipped free.

"I love you, Y/N," he said, his voice low and unsteady, yet filled with an undeniable sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. "I’m in love with you. You’re the only person I want."

You couldn’t respond, your mind struggling to process the gravity of his words.

Tears welled up in your eyes again, spilling over as you spoke, your voice choked with sobs. “If that were true, you would have said something sooner," you cried, the pain in your voice cutting through the air.

"You wouldn’t have left me confused and hurt, wondering what I meant to you. It’s my fault—I should have never agreed to this when I knew how I felt. I was selfish because it was the only way I could have you.”

Your breath hitched as the tears came harder, your chest heaving with the effort to hold yourself together. "And now… now you’re just jealous because I can get another guy," you added, the words bitter and sharp on your tongue.

He took a step closer, his gaze locked on yours, a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he spoke. “I never wanted to hurt you. I was afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, afraid of losing you if I asked for more. But I can’t stand the thought of you with someone else, Y/N. I can’t pretend anymore.”

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that had erupted between you. His hand, still holding your chin, was warm and steady, grounding you in the moment.

The desperation in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it was all too much, too overwhelming. "But why...why would you love me? I'm just average." your voice wavers.

“Do you see yourself?” he asked, his tone almost incredulous. “You’re beautiful, Y/N. Perfect. Perfect for me.” His gaze softened further, and he took a deep breath.

“The way you find positivity in every situation… How supportive you are of my dreams. It’s like you see me in a way no one else does.”

He paused, reaching up to gently brush a tear from your cheek, his touch feather-light yet electrifying.

“I love how your face lights up when you talk about your hobbies and passions. I could listen to you for hours and never tire of it. And it’s not just that,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion, “it’s how you care for people so deeply. How you make me want to be a better person.”

The intensity of his gaze seemed to hold all the things he had never said before, all the things you had hoped he felt but never truly knew.

“You’re everything to me, Y/N. Please don’t doubt that. Please don’t think you’re just average. Because to me, you’re extraordinary.”

“I…” you started, but the words faltered as your throat tightened with emotion.

“Do you love me?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

You frowned, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to find your voice.

Every part of you was screaming for release, for the truth you had kept buried for so long.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you took a slow, shuddering breath and nodded.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading.

“I-I love you too” you whispered, the words escaping your lips like a confession, both freeing and terrifying all at once.

The moment the words left your mouth, Namjoon’s expression shifted—something fierce and determined flashing in his eyes.

Without another word, he grabbed your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and pulled you towards the door of his apartment.

The world blurred around you as he slammed the door shut behind you, the sound reverberating through the walls.

Before you could even register what was happening, he was on you, pushing you up against the wall, his body pressing hard against yours.

His lips crashed onto yours, the kiss searing and desperate, as if trying to make up for all the lost time, all the words that had gone unsaid.

Your breath caught in your throat as you kissed him back, the intensity of the moment consuming you.

His hands roamed over your body, holding you close, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and tenderness.

Every inch of you was hyperaware of him—his warmth, his strength, the way his heart pounded against yours as he deepened the kiss.

His hand tangled into your hair, and a low, frustrated groan rumbled in the back of his throat. He pressed himself closer to you, seeking the friction that had been building between you.

His hard erection pressed insistently against his zipper. “I can’t take it anymore. I need you” he groans.

Clothes are quickly strewn across the floor, not even making it to the bedroom. Each article of clothing falls in a haphazard trail, creating a disarray of fabric that maps out the urgency and desperation of the moment.

Namjoon’s hands are restless, fumbling with the buttons of your jeans as if he’s afraid that if he doesn’t act quickly, this moment will slip away. His touch is feverish and hungry.

Bending down he picks you up his strong biceps bulging, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, arms around his neck. Your back is pressed against the cold hard wall, a complete contrast to how hot your body feels.

He rests his forehead against yours and he watches himself rub the tip of his hard swollen cock through your wetness.

Too eager to be inside you, too impatient to take it slow, as if reading his mind, your breathy voice next to his ear begs him "Please, Joon...I've missed you, I need you inside me!"

He groans "Shit....if you say things like that, I'm gonna cum too soon" you giggle, kissing his neck and jaw, slowly nibbling on his ear.

"Please fuck me" you whine.

"What my girl wants, she gets" he grunts, slowly lubricates his cock in your juices, rubbing back and forth he rubs his tip, before letting it catch in your entrance, and pushing his hips forward, letting himself sink into you.

His eyebrows furrowed, watching for any signs of discomfort. You bite your lip, as you try to accommodate him.

“Good girl, you’re taking me so well” he whispers above your lips, his voice strained as he tries to control himself, pushing into inch by inch.

You both cry out as his big cock slowly stretches your pussy open, the delicious burn, quickly giving way to pleasure when you feel him deeply lodged inside you. “oh fuck!”

“You okay?” he asks, concern etched on his face.

You nod a little. “You can move”

Your head lolls back against the wall as he slowly fucks into you, getting you accustomed to his length again. It feels so fucking good.

“"You are taking me so well. Fuck!” He groans, spreading your thighs wider his lips travelled down to the sensitive spot on your neck, leaving a trail of hot, demanding kisses that made your toes curl.

Each touch ignited a fire within you, sending shivers down your spine as his warm breath mixed with the intensity of his kisses.

He angles his hips, rolling them up as the tip rubs against your spongy wall inside. He moves slowly, his rhythm steady and powerful.

“Ugh!” You cry out, nails digging into his back as you cling on to him tightly.

He kisses you roughly". Who´s making you feel this good?"

“Mmmm. You are!” Heat prickles across your chest as you begin to feel the first tingles of your orgasm approaching.

“Fuck! Joon! Please. I’m going to cum!” You squeeze your eyes shut, as you focus on the pleasure.

“Open your eyes Y/N. Let me watch that pretty face of yours when you cum on my cock” he slams into you again with a growl, your eyes flash open, staring in to his intense gaze. "

Your pussy contracts around him, he can feel how aroused you are. Slick coating his pelvis.

Your stomach muscles clench and suddenly you take in a harsh breath as the pleasure washes over you, thighs trembling, nails digging into his shoulders.

So perfect" he murmurs, kissing you deeply swallowing your moans.

He begins to pick up speed, thrusting over and over into your swollen pussy, chasing his own high. The pleasure builds, his own fingers digging into your ass cheeks as he holds you tightly.

A guttural moan leaves his lips, moaning your name against your ear, his thrusts becoming sloppier, and uneven.

He finally comes to a halt, his breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat glistening along his chest and face.

He leans down, pressing his lips gently to your forehead, to your cheek and then gently on your mouth.

"I love you so much" he whispers softly.

All rights reserved. © 2024 Mikrokosmos Love

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band au! Stan marsh x y/n

AGED UP! AGED UP! AGED UP!

summary: you were part of Stan’s band, crimson dawn as one of the lead singers, you and Stan had an established relationship but ended things badly due to lack of communication (on his part) everything he did or you did annoyed each other, but how can you guys continue playing together if you guys hate each other

warnings: swearing, arguing, marijuana usage, alcohol consumption, implied sex, angsty, jealous Stan!, maybe smut (probably)

2.6K words

not proof read (my bad)

(idk how many words this got so.. my bad pt 2)

you were currently on Wendy’s bed groaning and whining. you were so fed up and annoyed you could literally punch the next person that breathes next to you.

“Cmon y/n, it can’t be that bad anymore!” Wendy said. Wendy has been trying to cheer you up for over an hour making you forget about what happened at the crimson dawn meeting.

“no Wendy you don’t understand, Stan tries to always take control on everything the band does, we literally can’t fucking breathe anymore, all he does is nag and nag and nag, I can’t fucking stand him” you got up in anger clutching your hair in distress trying not to pull your hair apart, you might be getting grey hairs over this whole thing

“you’re only saying that because you guys broke up on bad terms and you still have to play alongside him y/n”

you and Stan dated for almost over a year before calling it quits. You truly did love that boy but he never tried to put any effort in the relationship anymore after the fourth month of dating. It’s like he lost complete feelings. That wasn’t the case though, he just had a hard time trying to distinguish if your feelings were as true as his but because of all the trying to decipher he lost complete focus on your relationship, resulting in never ending arguments and constant degradation

you loved him so much it hurt you physically after the break up, it took you a while to get yourself together.. for the band. Crimson dawn was getting recognition around South Park county and neighboring counties as well. You guys were getting paid for each gig. You had to continue even if it meant you had to play alongside your ex boyfriend, who you secretly still are in love with but won’t admit to anyone.

You didn’t notice but Wendy brought a box of tissues to you, you hadn’t realized but you were crying. You didn’t know how it happened. But you willing accepted the tissue, wiping your eyes and covering the pure white tissues with black eyeliner and black mascara

“I know it’s not easy, but the band is something you love, don’t let Stan ruin it for you this much.”

She was right, you loved the band, jimmy, butters and Kenny made being in the band fun and bearable

“yeah I guess you’re right-” as soon as you finished your sentence you got a phone call, you looked at the caller ID and it was Stan. You waited a few seconds before answering. “what’s up?” You spoke

“uh hey we just got a gig at some guys party, so come meet at my house in 20 minutes, don’t be late” he replied

“yeah sure whatever, I’ll be on my way” you hanged up in annoyance

“We just got a gig, Wendy by any chance did I leave any extra clothes here?”

You turned around in hopes she did have something you can wear. “Do you mean this?” She held your favorite outfit you forgot about months ago, when you slept over. it was your favorite dress, the flowy ,lacy black dress that made you feel and look so good on your body. God bless, you were already wearing your doc martens. All you had to do was add some finishing touches to your hair and face.

“how do I look?” You asked in worry

“fucking hot, honestly, like I literally could bang right now”

“oh my god! Wendy!!” You laughed at the explicit comment she made

you arrived at Stan’s house in a hurry hoping no one will noticed you were slightly late, you were dreading this but you just couldn’t wait to perform beside Stan

“You’re late y/n” Stan spat

“yeah by a fucking minute, what’s the big deal” you nonchalantly responded, finding your seat next to Kenny.

“the big deal is I told you to not be fucking late and that’s the first thing you do, gosh can’t you understand simply directions?”

“here we go again” Kenny said in humor while taking a sip of his beer

you angrily got up to his face, “You know what jack-ass fuck you, who gives a shit, it was just one fucking minute, why are you bitching about 60 seconds?”

“no fuck you-”

Butters went in between you and Stan who were standing so close to each another

“okay guys! we’re all here Stan cmon tell us what we’re doing” butters shakily said

he took one long second to stare down at you, clearly still pissed off

“okay fine.. I was going to say, that we got a call from one of Clyde’s cousins who’s having a party up in Jefferson county. Just 25 minutes from here. So let’s get ready to head up there”

you all agreed and started gathering your equipment and putting it in the van (that said tegridy farms). It was quiet but not an uncomfortable quiet. You were trying to put all the equipment in the van , fixing the boxes, and the instruments, when stan came up to you.

"y/n... look im sorry i yelled at you..... but seriously dont be late"

" stan i wasnt even that late... i dont know why you are making a big deal out of this... but i accept your apology" "lets just go.. okay?"

"yeah... okay"

As you went inside the van, you sat in between kenny and butters, while stan drove and jimmy sat in the passenger seat. As you were heading towards Jefferson, kenny lit up a joint, taking one huge puff. exhaling and coughing, kenny passing it to you. You received it by taking it in between you thumb and index finger. taking a big puff, you exhaled and then quickly inhaled it all back. Kenny laughed, "oh wow, didn't know you knew how to do that" you giggled and give him a small slap on his shoulder. "please kenny, you were the one who taught me"

The van started to fog up and the herby, skunk smell started to flow around the van, almost disgusting you in a way, creating a bit of a headache due to the "skunk" smell. As you were laughing it up with kenny and butters you had a feeling you were being stared down. You were, Stan was looking at you guys through the rear-view mirror, clenching his jaw and hands, created white marks on his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.

Once you guys arrived at clyde's cousins place, you could see all the people outside on the porch laughing, drinking, and smoking. Speaker music faintly coming out through the doors and windows. Colorful lights spinning all around, like a rave almost.

"alright guys, we're here.. we are going to do our best and make everyone know our name... couple ground rules before we go inside... Kenny dont try hooking up with anyone, please we seriously dont have time for that.. actually that goes for everyone. thats it lets go"

"please dude, i'm not gonna have sex... i didn't bring any condoms, plus cartman thought it would be funny how hard he can kick me in my fucking nuts. wasn't fucking funny"

You chuckled giving him a reassuring pat on his back and walked inside with him cursing out cartman and how hes a fat fuck who gets no bitches whatsoever.

You walked in and saw how everyone was dancing and singing and having a great time. you then saw a couple that kind of reminded you of you and stan, they looked so in love and so happy to be in each other's arms. you missed stan and you missed being with him, you didnt realize you were staring until jimmy kicked you with his crutch. "cmon on y-y-y/n" you snapped out of it and proceeded to help the rest of the guys set up. making final adjustments and being ready to perform.

"alright guys, you guys ready?"

"ready!"

"alright.. 1 .. 2 .. 3.."

the jimmy started to bang his drumsticks, and then kenny started with his bass.

you were their lead singer, as you were ready to begin singing you tried to get into the mindset, you know what song was first and it was a song you composed for stan. nobody really knows what the real reason was for the song, you just lied to them saying its based on a scene from a movie you saw.

you took one last deep breath, looking to your left you saw stan, smiling at you and nodding to you, signifying you'll do great. stan knew whenever you were scared or nervous... and knew what to do to calm you down.

you started singing, keeping in the rhythm by tapping your foot, you started to gain confidence as the chorus began to start. you took the microphone off the stand

send you my love on a wire

lift you up everytime

everyone, ooh

pulls away, ooh

from you

you were dancing and whipping your hair to the beat, staining the microphone with your red lipstick, moving your body to the beat and feeling the confidence rise up, when you saw everyone in a big pile, you did the unthinkable, you dived into them, crowd surfing the decent sized group of people, you were laughing and thanked the people who brought you back onto stage.

stan couldn't believe you just did that, he knew you were extroverted but didnt know it to this extent. he fell in love with you all over again. it almost pained him that you were no longer his, because of him, because of how stupid he was with words, how he lost the most important person in his life, the person that made life bearable. he wish he would fix it, could fix your guy's relationship.

the song was ending and you made sure to dance to the every end. as you guys were wrapping up, you had a 30 minute intermission before the last song. You got out to find yourself a drink, heading into the kitchen, it was a really big kitchen, marble countertops and porcelain walls. you found yourself the jungle juice they had, a bit strong for your liking so you only pour yourself a little bit. stan saw you and as he was about to go over and hopefully have a genuine conversation, some prep looking guy came up to you instead. he stood there observing, almost like a creep, but he means well

"hey! im clyde's cousin derek!' he semi shouted

"oh hey!, great party you have here"

"thank you, hey you were really great up there, you have such a great voice, and your performance skills is amazing, that crowd surf has everyone talking about it!"

you were a bit embarrassed that you actually did that. "yeahh sorry about that, i dont know what got into me. i dont usually do that, i just sing and dance really" you chuckled shamelessly

"nah nah you're good!" he looked at you with lustful eyes, he was getting close to you... like really close. you didnt really want to but he were craving the lips of somebody's. Stan was watching this all unravel and he started clenching his jaws. He immediately swooped in and grabbed you by your arm.

"hey whats your problem?!" he ignored your shouts, until he took you in a coat closet. he was intensely looking at you. unfortunatley he was a couple inches taller then you so you had to look up at him. there was this energy that made the temperature in the closet hotter.

"y/n"

"'y-yeah stan"

"im sorry..."

"for what?"

"im sorry for being a horrible boyfriend, i should've never shut you out, nor ignore you when you needed me the most. im so so sorry y/n.. and- and i cant stand you being with other guys, i cnat stand the fact they get to kiss you instead of me- i want to be the only guy holding you, kissing you, caressing you, everything, i want you to me mine... and only mine.. no one else's."

you were in a sort of shock, you didn't know what to say. the thing that you could say was, "stan i-"

you kissed him so passionately, he reacted a second late until he started to kiss you back.

"jump"

he said. you oblied to what he said and jumped. you wrapped you legs around his torso gripping him tight into your embrace, he started to kiss you down to your neck, making you lean your head back into the wall, moaning at the sensatiuon he gave once he found your sweet spot

"oh god, how i missed those noises that come out that pretty mouth of yours"

this made you even more wet then you were before. in a swift motion he took off your dress to reveal your through lace bra, your harden nipples poking out. He pinched them through the fabric, making you moan out in pleasure. You were loud since there was music playing, so no one could hear you scream in pleasure.

you were left in your underwear and bra, stan removed your underwear and started to rub circles in between your lips, using your wetness to lube up his fingers to slowly glide them in. making quenching noises as he pumped in and out of you at very slow pace. His thick fingers making it hurt to fully consume him. He moaned to the feeling of your warm spongy walls trying so hard to take him fully, and this was just his fingers.

"fuck stan, please go faster please.. please" you were begging for more, this drives stan crazy but he wanted to take his time with you, he wanted to make you feel good, make you only scream his name.

"yeah? you want me to go faster? cmon.. y/n enjoy this moment with me"

he started to pump even faster, catching you off guard. you gripped on his shoulders, trying to calm your breathing.

"yeah like that, yes!"

"i just remembered you were gonna kiss that douche out there"

he stopped his movements, and quickly pulled out his fingers

"fuck stan!" you exclaimed

he unbuckled his pants and pulled both his pants and boxers down, revealing his long, red, needy, tip. You smiled at his leaky tip, shakily rubbing all the precum all over his sensitive tip.

he moaned and bit his lip, "you like that?"

you kissed him one last time, "fuck stan, please- please just-just shove it in me"

he wasted no time, and roughly pounded in you. you held a tight grip around his waist and shoulders. he held onto your waist, watching himself disappear into you wet cunt. you had moved your head to the side moaning and winning at the pleasure you were enduring.

you were so close and so was he. he grunting became whinning and whimpers. you held onto his face looking at his beautiful eyes

he breifly looked down and back up you

"y/n im gonna-im gonna cum"

"me-me too"

"i love you"

he pounded one last time into you and let his seed fill you up to the brim. your cum and his began to drip down to the floor, he stood there a moment. both of you trying to regain energy and steading your breath.

you got off of him and leaned back onto the wall. Trying to process everything that went down.

“I love you too”

you both smiled, and cleaned yourselves up. Until both of you heard a loud knock.

“Cmon you fucking weirdos, we have to do our last song!” Kenny shouted from the other side.. "also stan your a hypocrite, you said no hoo-"

"yeah yeah i know what i said"

you both laughed and continued cleaning the closet of any unwanted substance

“y/n I do really love you”

“I know stan… I love you too”