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entitled-fangirl · 2 months

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The Warden's fears.

Cregan Stark x wife!reader

Summary: the reader is unable to give Cregan a child, and he reveals why.

Warning: talks of sex, childbirth, death, crying, guilt, etc

A/n: I've never seen anyone do this concept, so I gave it a shot!

Masterlist

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"My gods, what's the matter?"

Y/n sat on the foot on their bed, her eyes puffy and red with tears. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, "I didn't hear you enter, husband."

Cregan let out a light scoff, hating her answer. She only responded coldly when something greatly bothered her. He shrugged off his cloak, throwing it to the side, "That is not an answer."

She wiped her face again and her shaky voice broke, "What am I doing wrong?"

He tilted his head, "Doing wrong? My girl, what are you talking about?"

"Eleven months, Cregan. Eleven months and still no child."

Oh gods.

Cregan felt his stomach drop to his feet.

"I… I didn't know you wanted a child so desperately, my love."

She looked up at him with a horrified face, "Why would I not?"

He let out a breath, cursing himself silently. He kneeled in front of her and took her hands in his. "We already have Rickon. He may not have come from your womb, but he is all I need, my love."

Y/n was Cregan's second wife, his first, Arra Norrey, dying in childbirth. Cregan was devastated at her death, but a few years later, the cold Warden's heart was warmed by Y/n, and they married soon after.

Rickon was a sweet boy, and Y/n was quick to step into a mother role for him when she married the boys's father. Now almost five, he was growing into his father's shoes more and more each day.

Which brought them to now.

"But my duty is to give you children."

He immediately shook his head. "No. No, nothing of the sort. I… I don't need more children."

She tilted her head in confusion, "You're the Warden. You… you need more children. I… I am to give you children, Cregan. And I can't."

"That's not true!" He argued.

"Then why is my womb still bare despite our devotion to it?"

Cregan's cheek flushed completely. "Do… Do you think I only bed you to fill you with my seed?"

"Well… not entirely."

He forced himself to take a breath. "I lie with you because I wish to. Because I love you."

"Will you still love me if my womb remains dry?"

Pain erupted behind his eyes.

How could she think that? That he'd leave her?

Because of his own doing, this was entirely his fault.

His grip on her hands tightened. "I… I must confess something to you, my love."

Her eyes flitted up to his, still puffy and red, but at least the tears had paused.

"I… I have kept myself from filling you with child."

"W…what?" She managed to whisper out.

"I did not know that you wished this so desperately. I am very sorry, my love. I did not mean this as a secret."

She sniffled but no words came from her lips as she waited for the entirety of his secret to be exposed.

"I have been drinking a tea from the maester on the nights I believe we'll lay together."

Her jaw went slack.

"I did not know you wanted a child so badly. That you think yourself only worthy to me if we have children."

She pushed him back as she stood, moving to leave.

But he was quick, standing and grabbing her wrist.

She spun, beginning to hit his chest as sobs wracked from her body, "HOW COULD YOU?" Hit. "YOU'VE LIED TO ME!" Hit. "AND YOU LET ME BELIEVE I WAS THE PROBLEM!" Hit. "How long would you have let me?" Hit. "I hate you!"

He intercepted her hand this time, his grip strong but not one of pain, "Listen to me." His voice was low, "Will you do this?"

She hiccuped lightly as she stared up at him. Finally, she nodded.

"I took the tea because…" He let out a soft sigh. "Arra died in childbirth. I had nightmares of it every night. Her cold body in my hands, switched for the warm one of my son."

His eyes watered but he continued, "The nightmares stopped when I met you. And when we wed… they returned. Only... they were different. Changed. It was you dying in childbirth."

Her eyes softened.

He never spoke of his first wife to her. He hated the reminder of what had happened.

"And so… I take the tea. To keep your womb bare because I.." His voice broke, "…I cannot live knowing I could make the same mistake twice."

"Why did you hide it?" She asked softly.

"It was not purposeful. I figured… you did not wish to see your husband in such a state. Or truly believed that I did not wish to bed you. Or have a child with you."

"But you don't."

"I do," he argued. "I want a child. But… I will not put you through the trials of the creation of one. So, we won't."

His hand trailed down to her stomach, tracing lightly, "To think of your swelling with my child, growing by the day, only to die once on the bed. I can't bear it."

She thought for a while of what to say. She wished she was mad at him. But how could such a burly man proclaim his fears only to have his wife mock him? She couldn't bring herself to.

"That was noble."

His head snapped up to look at her, "Was it?"

She nodded, "You care for me. You put your manhood aside to keep me safe."

He bit the inside of cheek, "I have."

"Thank you."

His eyebrows raised at her proclamation. "You're truly thanking me? When I should be begging your forgiveness?"

Her gaze softened and a hand came up to his cheek, "I do wish you'd have told me. But I cannot fault you for your fears. I'm suppose to ease them."

"How do you plan to do so?"

Her head tilted, "Have you taken the tea lately?"

He nodded.

"Then let us test it."

A fire lit behind his eyes, "Oh, we've tested it quite often, haven't we?"

A mischievous smile moved across her face, "We have."

His lips moved her hers, a mere brush. "Forgive me for making you feel unable to perform your duty," he whispered.

"What is my duty then, my lord?"

He smiled against her lips, "Being mine."

A laugh came from her, "I'll do my best then."

"Aye. You're already quite good at it."

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@misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @callsignwidow, 8812-342, @nyxbranwenn, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest,

#fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones imagine #house of the dragon #cregan stark x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark #cregan stark x female reader #cregan fanfiction

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transgaysex · 1 year

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im abt to go to sleep but i am thinking

#wind howls #obviously i know that dogs can be trained to be alert dogs and guide dogs and a whole myriad of helpful little guys #but is that also something they just like. know naturally ? does it just come to them like anything else or is it only from training ?#the other day i was helping my dad bring his office upstairs and by the time we were done i could barely breathe #like. i was struggling to keep myself standing and conscious bc his desk is stupidly heavy and i was doing the pulling rather than pushing #cucho had already seen me that day so he had no reason to be especially playful towards me and yet he came running to me then #tackling me from all sides until i sat down and then demanded i pet him and such #i think it didnt help that i had barely eaten that day also. but i had a good salad and snacks after that effort #and after i started regaining my breath cucho just like. left like nothing happened #i wouldnt call him a miracle or anything but he is still rather smart and serious. hes a dog that wants to have something to do #i wonder if he was just in a playful mood or if he wad helping me out ?#mm. ill think abiut that later. i have class tomorrow... sob sob #goodnight !

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yovrnewromantic · 3 months

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WHAT ONCE WAS

Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader

At dinner with Jacaerys, your newly betrothed, the pair of you recount memories from your childhood. wc: 1.2k fluffy asf 💌

“We used to be friends once. Do you remember that?”

This wasn’t the conversation you were expecting to have nor wanted to have at the current moment. Sat with your newly betrothed and his family at the dinner table, you watched while your mother and father chugged down wine like it was their last night alive. From your seat, you could see your brothers’ dancing with women that were not their wives, lustful looks in each of their eyes.

You supposed your betroval could’ve been worse, a hundred times over. You could’ve been wed to someone like your brothers, promiscuous and irresponsible, or like your betrothed’s uncles, cold and cruel beyond belief.

No, Jacaerys was a proper gentleman which is why you almost felt bad sipping your wine and lying through your teeth. “Not particularly.”

Everything had changed since then, there was no point in admitting that your heart swelled at the memories of when you were young, harboring a crush on a boy you thought would never be yours. It was better to forget. To diminish the hope that he was still the lovely boy he once was.

“No?” Jacaerys repeated as if he didn’t believe you, leaning forward to rest his head in his palm. In the corner of your eye, you could see him looking at you underneath his eye lashes, his lips twitching as he fights a teasing smile. “Nothing at all?”

Sighing softly, you kept your eyes staring ahead, refusing to give him the even slightest affirmation to his question, yet he continued. His head fell off his hand as he spoke, tilting to meet his shoulder as he looked at you with endearment. “Do you remember when we played tag around the castle and you fell and scraped your knees?”

It’s like you can see it from an outsider’s perspective as he describes it, the edges of your mind blurred by nostalgia.

The sound of your laughter echoing the castle walls, the quick thumps of your feet padding the concrete floor, hands bracing against each corner to boost your momentum.

Sparing a glance behind you, you can visualize the bounces of his brown curls, baring his teeth with joy as his hands reach to grab you, but you push forward, the last of your energy— which you shouldn’t have done because it sent you tripping, missing the very last step and landing on your knees.

But you didn’t cry because of your scraped knees, even though you can remember the burn of your skin, the blood dripping down your shins as Jacaerys brought you to your mother. You sobbed into Jacaerys’ shoulder as the maidens rubbed ointments onto your cuts, your hands fumbling to grasp the mud covered edges of your dress so it wouldn’t interfere with their practice.

Your betrothed finishes your thought for you. “You started crying because you ruined your favorite dress. Although, I thought it still looked pretty.”

Jacaerys’ eyebrows jump, as if he was surprised when you turned to him. He must’ve been close to a heart attack when he saw a small smile on your lips. Nodding as you talked, you continued the memory, “It had grass stains from when we played outside. By the lake.”

He doesn’t chastise you for lying earlier, instead he just smirks at the memory. “You pushed me in.”

You suck in a small breath as you turn your body to him fully, your eyes wide— defenses ready on your tongue. He kept trying to get you to sit with him, to kick your legs in the water and reap the benefits of the cold water of the hot day. It was your brothers who waved you in, mischief dripping from the tongues as they pushed you back toward your friend. You braced your hands on his shoulders and just shoved.

Right after the deed had been done, you were overwhelmed with guilt, your brothers’ cackles ringing in your ears as your lips trembled watching Jace gasp for air.

“My brothers coerced me to! I would’ve never done that myself.”

Jacaerys shook his head, knees lightly knocking into yours as moved to match your position. He glared playfully. “You were a little devil.”

He forgave you immediately though. Pulling you into a hug, soaking your clothes, but you hadn’t mind. You were just happy he wasn’t mad at you.

Snorting at his accusation, eyes finding your dancing brothers in the crowd once more. They never did change. Still wild, crazy, and deceitful as the day they popped out your mother’s womb. The poor woman. You hope your children won’t turn out like your brothers. You hope Jacaerys hasn’t changed. In the midst of your reverie, you don’t notice how the man next to observes you. How his eyes memorize the colors in your eyes, the slope of your nose, the dip of your cupids bow. He hopes this all will become a memory one day— the quick shift between your awkwardness to your full encompassing love.

He knows he’ll love you, just as he had when you were children.

It’s Jacaerys’ voice that drawls you back from your thoughts, your eyes turned to his, but he’s focused on picking at the table cloth. “I remember, last time I saw you, I cried because I had to leave.”

Without meaning to, your smile deepens, something stirring in the pit of your stomach. Teasing, you whisper, “You cried?”

Jacaerys rolls his eyes, running a hand through his curls as he finally makes eye contact with you. “I fancied you. Of course, I got teary eyed when I was forced away.”

For a beat, it’s like your heart stopped, overwhelmed by the weight of the words he threw so nonchalantly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t make your stomach flutter and a heat to your cheeks. You’re in complete disbelief. “You fancied me?”

“Don’t rub it in,” he scoffed.

“No, it’s just…” I fancied you too.

The words are left unspoken, but it doesn’t stop you from spiraling. Throwing your head back in laughter, you sound close to ugly, but you’re happy. You haven’t been happy in a while.

“There’s the smile,” he says it like he missed it. In all fairness, he does. When he flew on his dragon and hadn’t been welcome by the familiar grin in your lips, a bit of his heart shattered in his chest. He was glad he got you smiling at him again because when he was seven years of age, that was all he wanted to do. It’s all he wants to do. For the rest of his life. “I can remember that.”

“Jacaerys—.”

“You used to call me Jace,” he says, growing the courage to connect your hands together, holding both of them just as he planned since he was child. “I liked it when you said it.”

“Would you like it if I called you Jace?”

He smiled sweetly. “Very much so.”

There’s no other way to describe it other than that it feels right; the two of you together again, smiling at each other like idiots while you reminisce, holding each other’s hands like you were already wed. Like this had been planned since the beginning.

Jace’s thumb caresses your ring finger— where his wedding ring would on the morrow.

Maybe, you two can make things the way they once were. Together. Happy. And in love.

i’ll edit and proof read later 💀 if this is shit i apologize

jacaerys velaryon, i will love you forever 💌

#yovrnewromantic #jacaerys velaryon x reader #hotd x reader #this may be shit #house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys x reader #hotd blurb #house of the dragon x reader

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thelostconsultant · 28 days

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Bad luck charm

pairing: Lando Norris x reader

“Please, baby, tell me these are happy tears,” Lando said worriedly as he wiped a few drops from your cheek with his thumb.

You sobbed quietly, clearly trying hard to keep yourself together, but he could see that you had issues with that. It was killing him to see you like this, especially on a day that had been so good so far. “I’m sorry, it’s just… Every time I’m not there, you have a great weekend, but when I’m there with you, it’s a nightmare. I’m your bad luck charm, and it’s so depressing to know it’s better if I’m not there to support you,” you finally told him.

He had never thought about this, he always considered you to be his lucky charm, but now that he thought back at the races this year, he had to realize you were kind of right. “Hey, look at me,” he told you with his finger under your chin, voice soft and gentle as he spoke. “I had bad weekends before we started dating too. You’re not some bad luck charm, don’t even think about yourself like that.”

Your eyes turned away from him as you gulped and thought about what to say. “But… I… I looked back at all the races I went to, and you were always struggling.”

“Maybe you’re distracting me a little, but that’s because I love you so much. And because I badly want to prove myself when you’re there to watch, and if I push myself too hard, it’s only natural to make mistakes,” he explained with a loving smile.

“Promise?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.

Lando let out a short laugh with a bright smile on his lips. “Promise,” he said before leaning down to kiss you.

#lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris #f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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felixknow · 3 months

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Bang Chan: Worshipper

sorry, I had to repost this. the last one wasn't showing up in search results.

Smut!!! MDNI, NSFW!!!!! Established relationship w/ plus size c!sfem reader; body image issues and breakdown; d@ddy k!nk, bbygirl said a lot, praise during intimacy, Chris being a soft dom basically <3

Chris opens the door and frowns.

“Babygirl, what’s wrong?”

“How do you know something’s wrong?” you ask quietly, dropping your bag from your shoulder.

“Don’t even get me started. You’re not looking at me for one, and you knocked on my door. Since when do you knock?”

You shrug halfheartedly, kicking your feet a little, nervously shuffling back and forth.

“Can I come in, or…?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, opening the door wider and taking your hand as you step inside. You take off your shoes and sit your purse down, then pass him, letting go of his hand. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

“Y/N.”

You shuffle into the living room and drop down onto the couch, curling into yourself against the arm, resting your cheek against the backrest.

“What happened, baby?” Chris asks, sitting behind you and gently trying to pull you toward him. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you mumble, letting him turn you at least a little so you’re sitting facing forward. “I’m just… pathetic,” you whine, turning your face away from him so he can’t see the heavy tears welling up in your eyes.

“Baby, no you’re not.” He tries to pull you in for a hug, but you panic and thrash, throwing his arms away from you. His mouth falls open in shock, his eyes looking betrayed and hurt, and finally the dam inside of you bursts.

“I’m upset because I saw this beautiful, skinny girl and I saw her beautiful, skinny friends and I just started to feel so disgusting and huge and it didn’t matter how much progress I’ve made loving myself lately because when I saw them I just wanted to cry. I feel so disgusting, Chris. I don’t understand why you’d want to be with someone so huge and blobby. You should be with someone hot and pretty and skinny and beautiful like those girls.”

You can’t meet his eyes.

“I’m disgusting,” you mumble.

You can barely move out of an irrational fear that he’ll suddenly see you as terribly as you suddenly began to see yourself.

“You shouldn’t be with me,” you whimper.

You just want so desperately to shrivel up and disappear.

“Why would you say that?” Chris asks, hurt and empathy dripping from his voice. “Babygirl, you are beautiful. Do you hear me?” He holds your arm and tries yet again to turn you toward him, but you shake your head and keep your head turned away.

“Y/N, I don’t care what other girls look like. ‘Thin’ doesn’t mean ‘beautiful,’ the same way ‘fat’ doesn’t mean ‘ugly.’ It’s okay to have bad days, but you can’t genuinely think that those girls were better or more attractive than you just because something bad happened in your head. This isn’t my baby. Where’s my baby?”

He tries again to turn you toward him, and finally you let him, but you snap.

“This is your baby. Your huge, fat girlfriend who’s twice your size and probably is so fucking ugly when you try to lay her down to make love--”

Your voice cracks.

“How could you even want me? I’m disgusting.”

Finally you break, sobbing and letting him pull you into his open and waiting arms. He holds you tightly, shushing you and rubbing his hands up and down your back.

“No, no, no, don’t ever say that. Don’t do that, Y/N. I love every single bit of you. I think you’re beautiful. I love your body. I love your mind. I love the way you look, in your clothes and out of them. I don’t want a different girl. I want you and all your lovely curves and rolls. Don’t cringe right now, don’t you do that,” he says, scolding you when you flinch at his words. “You say all the time that I looove your curves and your rolls, and you’re right. But for some reason you can’t say it today, so I’m saying it for you. It’s not a bad thing to be big, Y/N. I love you.”

Your cries subside slowly as Chris talks, and finally you settle down to lip wobbles and quiet sniffles.

“I love you,” he says again, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you,” you say quietly.

“Can I see that pretty smile?” He pokes your side, making you turn away from him slightly. You know the barrage of tickles is coming before he even starts.

“Noo,” you whine, trying to scoot away from him, but he locks one arm around you and starts his tickle attack with the other, targeting your sides and your belly. Your laughs come loud and hard. Your lungs are sore almost immediately, and he doesn’t stop despite your desperate gasps of his name amongst your giggles and squeals as you squirm and push against his strong arms.

“You need Daddy to show you how perfect you are, huh?” he asks through gritted teeth despite his smile. His voice is a mix of teasing and stern, ready to slip into his dom role with you at your signal. You can’t respond properly through your laughter despite the slowing of his prodding fingers into your sensitive side.

“I think you need me to worship this beautiful body of yours, yeah?” he asks, urging you to respond. He finally stops tickling you and instead grabs onto one of your thick thighs with one hand while his other hand finds its way around the bottom of your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Answer me, Princess, or Daddy’s gonna answer for ya.”

Words still won’t come out between your panting breaths and still-negative thoughts swirling in your head. So you moan in response, staring into Chris’s eyes with your mouth held shut by his grip.

He raises his eyebrows and smirks.

“That’s how it is, eh?” He lets go of your face and leg at the same time and climbs to his feet. “I know just what you need, then. Come with me.” He takes your hands and pulls you up and along behind him, down the hall and into his bedroom. He makes a point of dramatically locking the door behind the two of you before turning toward you with a serious look on his face.

“You’re gonna take what I give you, understand?” he asks before pulling his shirt over his head and discarding it on the floor, leaving his impeccably sculpted torso on display for you.

“Yes, Daddy,” you say softly, nodding.

“Good girl. Now I want you to take everything off.” Your face falls. “Ah, ah, don’t argue with me. I said everything.”

Tears involuntarily spring to the corner of your eyes.

“But, Chris--”

“--Who?”

“Daddy…”

“Do as I say. Now.”

“But I’d be more comfortable if we went slow…” Your fingers play with the hem of your shirt nervously.

“I said you’re going to take what I give you, Princess,” he says dangerously and slowly. “Did you misunderstand? I’m not asking. Take it all off. Now. I won’t tell you again.”

You have no choice but to comply. With shaking hands you take off your shirt and bra, then your pants, underwear, and socks until you’re standing in your boyfriend’s room wearing nothing but your own embarrassment.

Chris either doesn't notice or doesn’t care. He hisses as he palms himself and groans when your last shred of clothing hits the floor.

“Fuck. You’re so beautiful, you know that?” You shake your head slightly and cross your arms, holding yourself tightly, trying to cover yourself. “Mm, obviously you don’t or we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Chris crosses the empty space between you and grabs your arms, forcing them down to your sides. He shamelessly pets and squeezes your arms, your chest, your belly, your sides, your back, your hips-- everything he can get his hands on despite your wriggling and whining as you try to turn away from him.

“I love this body,” he mumbles against your neck as he holds your body against his with his hands grabbing two handfuls of your ass. “I love your soft arms and your big stomach and your cute little rolls. You’re so warm and sweet, I could just eat you up.” His lips brush up and down your neck, presses kisses between his praise of you, sucks love bites into the column of your throat.

“I’m gonna fuck the sense back into you,” he says, voice dipping lower, growing closer to a growl. His grip tightens almost painfully on your ass before he massages the force of his grip back out. That’s the kind of night it’s going to be. He’s going to make you take it no matter how hard he gives it, but he’ll always be sure to make it better once he’s satisfied.

“There’s no reason my girl should be doubting me, or herself.” He holds your face in place again, making you look him in the eye. His other hand sweetly pulls your hair to one side and brushes it out neatly before grabbing it in a tight grip. “You think I want a skinny girlfriend? You think I want someone who doesn’t look like you?”

You nod slightly, but his stern look and annoyed tilt of his head makes you quickly correct and shake your head.

“No, no,” you say, trying to correct yourself. “You want me.”

“That’s right,” he says, holding your hair tighter. “If I wanted a skinny girl I’d be with a skinny girl, wouldn’t I? As if I even care about someone’s size. You know, it’s not nice to try to put words into my mouth. Who I ‘should’ date, who I’d ‘look better’ with. It’s insulting, Princess. Are you gonna say sorry for insulting me?”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, trying your best to pout.

“How sorry?” he lets go of your face but not your hair.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I shouldn’t have said those stupid things. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You gonna be a good girl now and apologize properly?”

You nod frantically.

“Yes. Yes, Daddy. Whatever you want.”

“Lay down on the edge of the bed and let me fuck your throat then.” He finally lets go of your hair and almost shoves you toward the bed by the force of his hand leaving you. Reflexively his other hand catches you and makes sure you’re steady before you get into position.

Rough but sweet.

You climb onto his bed and lay on your back, scooting up until your head and hair hangs off the edge. Chris takes his time removing his pants and underwear, watching you spread yourself out for him despite your deep instinct to cover yourself and hide.

“Good girl,” he praises when you part your lips and hold your mouth open and waiting for him. He sighs and bites back a moan as he strokes himself, slowly shuffling closer and closer to you until he can prod his tip against your lip. You stick your tongue out and try to get a taste of him, but he steps back.

“Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t tell you to do that, did I?”

“No,” you say quietly.

“So behave.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Chris comes closer again and rubs his tip against your lips, tracing them and circling them until he finally decides to push into your mouth. He moans and greedily keeps pushing and pushing until his cock is buried to the hilt and your throat is full of him.

“That’s my good girl,” he says in a low groan. “Ahh, yeah. Such a good fucking girl, hmm?” He slowly pulls back and starts rocking forward again, and all you can do is hum around him to agree and try your best not to gag.

“Fuck. Yeahh,” he hisses, thrusting faster as he reaches out to grab and squeeze your tits. Tears start to roll down your cheeks just from the pressure and the half-gags you have to keep choking down.

“Mmm, my pretty girl. So good for me. Yeahh, just for me, baby. Such a good girl. I love the way you look like this. I love seeing your whole body while I fuck that pretty face.”

He babbles on, praising you while leaning forward to touch your body. He plays with your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. He runs his hands across your stomach, grabbing the rolls at your sides and sweetly rubbing his thumbs against them. His hands wander higher, petting your arms and your chest and finally he caresses your face and notices the tears streaming out of your eyes.

“Oh, babygirl,” he coos, backing up and taking his cock out of your mouth.

“No,” you whine as soon as your mouth is free. “Daddy, noo, come back. Don’t stop, please.”

“Why are you crying, Princess?” he asks, kneeling down and kissing one of the tear trails on the side of your face.

“Just because I was gagging. I’m not crying anymore.”

“You’re not? You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good girl.” He once again grips your chin and turns your head to him. He kisses you deeply, giving a long pause for this gentle intimacy before he gets back to his ultimate goal: fucking every single shred of self-doubt out of you.

“You know I hate when you cry, babygirl,” he says, kneeling on the bed and sitting in the middle. “Come here.”

You take his hands for support and he helps you sit up. He guides you closer and closer, and finally has you sit straddling his lap. He places your arms around his neck, then his hands wander, slowly caressing your arms, your shoulders, down your back and every inch of your sides and hips. He pets your thighs and brushes the back of his fingers against your stomach and across your breasts before he finally palms them and squeezes gently.

“You’re so beautiful to me. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,” he says softly. “I’ve never once looked at you and thought you were anything less than stunning. I’ve never thought you were any of the negative things you’ve thought about yourself.”

“Really?” you ask breathily, trying to focus on three things at once-- stopping yourself from crying again, hesitating to put your full weight on his lap, and the way his touching your body and now your chest is making you as flustered as the first time you had sex with him when every touch he gifted you felt feather-light and exciting.

“Really,” he insists, leaning in to brush his lips against your neck where he already left love bites. His hands move again, reaching down to your hips and your thighs once again. “I’ll sit here and tell you over and over and over again until you believe me.” One hand stills on your hip but the other caresses closer to your inner thigh. “I’ll tell you a million times how attractive you are and how addicted I am to your body.” You involuntarily jump, just slightly, when his gentle fingers brush against your cunt. “And if it doesn’t make you feel any better, I’ll tell you a million more.”

“I’d like that,” you say softly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He lifts his head again and meets your eyes.

“Look at me,” he whispers as his fingers spread your lips and slip against your skin thanks to the wetness he’s already caused.

“My sweet girl.” He traces your labia lazily for a few seconds, staring deep into your eyes. You squirm in his lap and your hips involuntarily buck down against his hand when his finger swipes across your clit.

“My pretty girl,” he says, circling your clit slowly. “Don’t you agree? You’re my pretty girl.”

“Yes,” you sigh out.

His hand stops.

“Say it.”

“I’m your pretty girl.”

His fingers start moving again, a little faster than before.

“Good girl. My beautiful girl.”

You moan and roll your head back, but Chris immediately stops his hand.

“Baby,” he warns. “Eyes on me.”

Oh.

You tilt your head back up slowly and make eye contact again, no doubt with lust-clouded eyes. Chris’s eyes are dark but shiny and playful as always, and he looks at you in a way that makes your head spin. His gaze is a mix of stern command and lovelorn fawning.

“Repeat what I said,” he says after a moment of silence, flicking a finger across your clit, making you hiss and suck in a breath.

“I-I,” you stutter, unable to remember what he even said ten seconds ago. “I'm sorry, I don't remember.”

“You don't remember? My fingers make you lose your head that much? I haven't even let you ride them yet.”

You whine and roll your hips as if you were riding them already.

“I want to,” you whine, but he tsks.

“You're so beautiful, babygirl. I want to make you feel good because you're the most beautiful when you're cumming because of me, but I need you to love yourself again before the end of this. My beautiful girl.”

He slides his middle finger into you, lazily curling the end of it so you can feel him press against your walls. Your instinct tells you to close your eyes or look away, but you know by now that if you take your eyes off him he'll stop.

“Your beautiful girl,” you force out, trying to keep your breathing steady despite the way your heart pounds in your chest. There's something so overwhelming about this intimacy-- not just the sex, not his finger inside you, but the combination of his eyes locked on yours while doing it and making you say his possessive affirmations…

“It's too much,” you whine. “I’m overwhelmed,” you mumble, looking away from him and putting on your best pout so maybe he won’t punish you too harshly.

His finger slides out of you and he tilts his head to try to look at you.

“Too much? You don’t know what too much is. I haven’t given you enough yet.” He puts two of his wet fingers against your clit and starts frantically rubbing, letting your sensitive bud bounce between the cleft of his two slippery fingers. You immediately jump and whine, squirming and moaning, hips rolling and twitching.

“Ahhhh, mmm, Chris, ahhh!”

His fingers stop abruptly.

“Who?”

“Daddyyyy.”

“Look at me while I make you cum,” he demands, moving his two fingers in their frantic rhythm again. Your head doesn’t move, so he grabs you by the throat, squeezing at the outer edges just slightly. You gasp and grab his wrist with both hands, finally looking at him again.

You can’t make out any words, only gradually louder whines and pathetic moans as he works you closer and closer to your climax. No one has ever been able to make you cum so quickly from their fingers alone, but Chris has always had a special way of winding you up so tightly that you feel like you’ll burst before he even gets his hands on you.

Now he’s got you on the brink, one hand on your throat while the other works your clit. He lavishes you with his words.

“Yeah, that’s my good girl. I love your body. I know every inch of this beautiful, big body. Wouldn’t change it for the world, you know that? Wouldn’t change a thing about your body, Princess. I love you.”

“I love you,” you gasp out. The way you’re sitting on his lap won’t let you close your legs, but your thighs tremble and try to work shut anyway. The cocky smile on Chris’s mouth while he waits for you to reach your climax is too good. He knows you too well. He knows.

“I love youuu,” he says again, sickeningly sweet, right as it finally hits you. You throw your head back as much as you’re able with his hand holding your throat in place. You grind down on his hand, groaning and moaning, incoherently trying to call out his name in a desperate attempt to connect to him further.

“My sexy girl,” he chuckles. “God, I love the way you look when you cum.” He releases your neck and tilts your head forward to press your lips against his. While he kisses you, his fingers gradually stop and finally still, then his damp hand rests against your waist.

He kisses you languidly, swallowing the rest of your whimpers as the overwhelming warmth and pleasure works its way through your system and you slowly calm down.

Finally when you’ve been quiet for a few moments, he pulls away.

“I should have done that in front of a mirror--” he says in a low voice. “--or recorded it. You need to see how pretty you are when you cum.”

“Maybe next time…?”

“That’s a wonderful idea, babygirl. Next time. But for now…” He reaches down and pulls on your calf, making you swing your leg to the side and then wrap it around him. He guides you to do the same on the other side until you’re no longer sitting on your knees straddling his lap. Instead you’re sitting in his lap properly with your legs locked behind him.

“Now I need to fuck that pretty pussy, and we’re gonna do it together, yeah?” Chris takes your hand and wraps it around his cock, guiding you to start stroking him. “You’re gonna-- ahh-- You’re gonna ride me and I’m gonna fuck you, and you have to keep looking at me, got it?”

You nod quickly but don’t verbally respond. You really wanna look down at his cock, especially as he helps you tilt it toward your cunt while pulling you forward until you’re close enough to feel the tip hitting heavily against your clit.

But you can’t look away from his soft eyes.

His persona is slipping. The bite has been falling out of his voice. The intimacy of having you in his lap, reacting so strongly to every little touch he gives you, has filled him with love more than pride; confidence in your relationship, more than smugness for his ego.

And you can see it all betrayed in his eyes.

“Closer,” he mumbles, wrapping one arm tightly around your waist. He holds you impossibly close to his body, your stomach squishing against his toned abs and your soft breasts flattening against his chest. The soft love-struck look in his eyes never falters, not even as you shift to the side a little so you can still help guide his dick into you despite your stomach being in the way.

He moans happily when you finally start sinking down on him, and you moan right back, whining needily as he fills you.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine, briefly tilting your head down as if you’re gonna lay it on his shoulder, but you remember his one rule and sit back up.

“This pussy always takes me so well,” Chris sighs happily. “I love this fucking body. I love it,” he groans, bucking up into you while his second arm joins his first locked around your waist.

“I love you,” you gasp, grinding down against him.

“I love you. I need you to love yourself like I love you.”

“I’ll try,” you stutter, nodding. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

You move your hips together continuously, Chris bucking upward and you grinding down. You have more freedom of movement being on top, so you take it upon yourself to circle or slide your hips back and forth depending on what feels best.

Chris’s hands grip your squishy hips and love handles tightly when you move in a way that feels really good for him, and when you get him really worked up he can’t help but to reel you in by a gentle hand on the back of your head. He moans into your mouth and kisses you with more tongue than lip, trying to lick every moan and whine out of our mouth before it can fall.

Your moans grow more frantic once one of his hands reaches down to rub his thumb against your clit lazily while you continue to fuck each other. Chris swallows all your sounds down, refusing to let you break the kiss to warn him that you’re so so so close.

He can tell, though. Of course he can. He knows your body and its reactions better than you know it yourself.

He keeps working you from both angles-- his hips bucking up and his thumb brushing your already-oversensitive clit, until you break.

Your body shakes, starting in your legs and working all the way up as a delicious orgasm rolls through your entire body. You chant his name against his mouth, and he smirks and almost chuckles at first, until the fluttering of your walls as you keep riding through your orgasm sends him hurtling past the point of no return as well.

He cums hot, silky shots into your pussy with no concern for the consequences.

“Oh, fuck,” he barks when the sudden orgasm takes him, having turned his head away from you just quick enough to not shout in your face.

“Daddy,” you sigh blissfully, running your hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Chris. That was… That was so much.”

He chuckles softly and pecks small kisses across your cheek and jaw.

“I’m at a loss for words as well,” he says quietly. Both of you are still now, no more bucking hips and rolling waves. You’re left with only the heaving of your chests as your breathing steadies in tandem.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“I don’t expect this to have made everything better,” he admits, once again meeting your eye. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and traces his finger down the edge of your face. “Sometimes I’m just so baffled that you can’t see how beautiful you are. To me you’re like a goddess-- literally, like those Greek statues. I’m so in love with you and how you look. I wanted you to feel that.”

“I did. I really did, I promise.”

“Good. Though I’m not opposed to showing you again if you need me to,” he says cheekily, and you giggle, shaking your head.

“I’ll keep your offer in mind for the future, but I understand you perfectly tonight.”

#bang chan smut #bang chan fanfic #bang chan x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #bang chan skz smut #skz x reader #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #bang chan drabble #bang chan scenarios #bang chan fluff

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riseatlantisss · 1 year

Text

The end we start from

Pairing : Astarion x female!reader/Tav Around 1,8 words Takes place after the events in Cazador's palace in act 3 (non-ascended Astarion, established relationship) Angst with a happy ending (and loooots of sex) <3

Astarion doesn’t feel good enough. you show him he’s everything.

TW : 18+ MDNI, unprotected sex, very angry/angsty/rough sex, fingering, mature language, mentions of death and depression, mentions of blood

A/N : when i don’t work, i do two things: i take care of my dog and i play BG3. i don’t eat. i don’t sleep. i don’t socialize. i just play BG3. and I write stuff about *him*.

Astarion is many things. Quiet is not one of them. But lately, that’s all he’s been, and you’ve been worrying about him night and day. Tonight is no exception. You wake up in the middle of the night and realize two things : not only is Astarion’s side of the bed empty but the sheets and pillows are untouched, uncrumpled. His side hasn’t been slept in. This isn’t right. Of course, he doesn’t really need to sleep but he always, always lays next to you at night, spooning you, playing with your hair and whispering sweet I love yous in your ear until you fall asleep. His absence means something’s off. Unable to shake off the anxiety, you get up in one swift motion, determined to find him. No chance you’re falling back asleep now anyway.

Your bare feet hit the cold marble floor and you shiver as you make your way accros the bedroom in a hurry. You think of searching outside in case he went for a hunt, but it turns out you don’t have to look too far. There he is, silently leaning against the wall by the window, gazing into the pitch-black night of the Underdark. The light in the room is so dim that you couldn’t even spot him from your bed. You approach him and your heart breaks a little when you notice the lingering sadness in his crimson eyes, enhanced by the faint light of the burning candles next to him.

You want to ask him if he’s ok but it’s obvious he’s not so instead, you remain silent and close the space between the two of you, wrapping your arms around him and gently resting your head on his shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask softly after a while, your voice barely above a whisper.

Astarion averts his gaze and gives you a faint smile, nothing but a twist of lips.

“Nothing,” he replies. “I’m just being selfish, as usual. Forgive me, y/n.”

You frown and stare at him incredulously. “You’re not selfish,” you say, surprised at how intensely he means it. “Why would you even say that?”

“I –” He pauses, rethinks his words. This does nothing to make you less worried. “I caused you great pain,” he finally says. “I put you in danger. Repeatedly, ever since we met. You could have died a hundred times and it would have been my own, entire fault.”

You look up to him and feel a lump form in your throat. You have never seen him look like this – grief in his eyes and etched into the lines of his face.

“I’m not dead, Astarion. I’m right here with you.” You say as you wrap your arms around his neck. He makes a sound somewhere near a sob and your arms tighten.

“But I did put you in danger and now you’re stuck with me for eternity, in the middle of nowhere, and you—" Again, he stops. He’s bad at this, at talking about emotions. But he fights through it because it’s you. And nothing can be left unsaid between the two of you. Not after everything that’s happened. “You deserve so much better. You deserve the world, and I can’t give it to you.” You’re not sure where this conversation is going but you don't want to find out. His lower lip quiver but he goes on, words spilling out of him like blood from a wound. “I can’t give it to you, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself for it. It’s killing me all over again.” You crumble under each one of his words. His lips are trembling now and you can’t stand it. You can’t but you can’t do him the dishonor of looking away either.

“Astarion, I chose this life.” Your hands flutter to his face, each one cupping a cold cheek, forcing him to look at you. Your heart is pounding, and you know he can feel it. “I had a choice; I could stay, or I could run, and I chose you. I’m not stuck here. I’m home.”

Astarion heaves a faltering breath in an attempt at composure. “Sometimes I think you would be happier without me. Better off.” He barely mouths the words, but you hear them all distinctively, nonetheless. “You should go and leave me here. Walk in the sun. Be happy and live your life.” You draw your hands away from his face and he steps back, speaking louder now.

“It won’t get any better in here,” he continues, gesturing urgently around the room. “It’ll always be cold and dark, I’ll always be a blood-thirsty monster. I belong to the shadows, and I’ll never be able to make you happy, so you might as well just leave.”

His words knock the air out of your lungs and, for a moment, you cannot breathe. You feel your pulse pounding in your veins and blood thrumming under your skin as your heartbreak turns into anger. That fucking idiot, you think, looking up at him through eyes blurred with tears.

“You don’t know what makes me happy. You don’t,” you shout, surprised by the vehemence in your voice. "And you certainly don't get to speak for me." Astarion looks at you in such confusion that you almost feel bad for a moment, but you continue.

“You – you make me happy, Astarion, gods you do. I would rather live an eternity in the Underdark with you than one more day in the fucking sun.” Your heart is clenching in your chest, and you can feel the heat pooling in your cheeks. “By no means would I be better off, let alone happier, without you. I can’t believe that you could even think –” You trail off and sigh in frustration. You can’t bring yourself to scream at him any longer because that’s all he’s ever known before you, screams and shouts and abuse, and you can’t do this to him. But that doesn’t leave you with many options to get through to him. Astarion opens his mouth to say something, but you don’t let him.

Without warning you grab his shirt to pull him close and your lips crash into his, knocking the breath out of both of you with the force that you collide with. It only fuels your rage because the moment his lips are on yours, you can’t help thinking that you almost lost this once and you can’t actually lose it. You won’t let that happen. So you kiss him harder. It’s rough and desperate and sloppy. It's harsh breath and biting teeth.

He turns you around and backs you against the wall. You take it rather hard, but you welcome the sting. Anything to shut him up about not being good enough for you. He crowds in closer, presses you even harder against the wall, shoving his knee between your thighs. His cold lips connect to your throat, making you eagerly tilt your head to give him access to your thrumming pulse dancing at your neck. You have absolutely no qualms about it. If he wants it, it’s his.

But he doesn’t take it. Instead, his mouth sucks and licks, making you squirm and rock your hips against him. You cling to him, grabbing his shoulders and sliding your hands down his shirt and to his back. He hoists you up like you weighed nothing and you wrap both legs around his waist. You tangle your hands in his curly silver hair and pull him forward to feel that mouth on yours again. His tongue running over your lip makes you grind faster, searching for more, more, more. You moan when his hand reaches beneath your gown and through your damp underwear.

Firm, icy fingers are stroking you into madness. You make a sound that’s close to a whimper, but more like a groan, because damn it, you are so impatient now. You are clenching – aching to have him inside.

He is gasping at the feeling of your fluttering around him, and you must be gasping too, but you’re not sure; your head falls back and it feels like you’re breathing, but you could just as well be drowning.

You dig your nails hard into his back - you need to channel the anger into something. Maybe you’ll be the one drawing blood this time. You lean forward to rest your dizzy head on his shoulder and groan in anticipation. Not wasting anymore time, he pushes his hard, large cock into you, going steadily until he’s all the way in.

“Harder. Fuck me harder.” You plead and he obeys.

He sets a pace that graces all the right spots, spurred on the increasingly desperate noises escaping your mouth. This is no effort at all for him, holding you up easily and fucking you hard with determination. But you can see it when you rest your forehead against his – the sheer weakness you feel is reflected right back at you and you know he needs this just as much as you do.

You are so close. You need to concentrate on breathing, just so you simply don’t die. Your lower back thuds against the wardrobe with your oh gods and fucks singing in tandem. The vampire trails open-mouthed kisses and little bites down your neck while maintaining the almost vicious pace in and out of you. Every stroke curls and loves and breaks you into submission. You forget to be angry because your release is in his hands and your body is desperately handing itself over to him.

Your thighs start to quiver around him, the sounds of wetness and the feeling of his own explosion of pleasure deep inside you taking you so high that eventually, you shatter into him. You’re so grateful for the strength holding you up, so you can fall apart.

Your repeatedly moan his name on your way back to consciousness, lips brushing softly against his pale skin.

Before you know what is happening, you break into a sob.

“Please…. Please don’t ever tell me to leave, ever again.” You try to articulate, your voice shaking uncontrollably.

He sinks down onto his knees, holding you in his lap and whispering, “Shh,” into your ear.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice is low and full of gravel. He never sounded so sweet. “I love you, always have and always will. And you’re not going anywhere.”

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moonlinos · 8 months

Text

Call my bluff, call you ‘babe’

♡ Pairing: Lee Minho × fem!reader

♡ Genre: Childhood friends to lovers, fluff

♡ CW: Implied smut, alcohol consumption. Twenty solid seconds of angst, but it doesn’t even really count. It’s just tooth-rotting fluff.

♡ Word count: 5.5k

♡ Synopsis: Minho has been your best friend since you two could barely form coherent sentences. He was there when your last baby tooth fell, he was there when you failed your high school exams, and he was there as you walked down the aisle.

♡ A/N: This was going to be just word-vomit fluff to make me cry, but I couldn’t control myself and before I knew it there were… so many words.

You were four years old when you met Minho. It was the first day of kindergarten, and you were assigned seats together. The entire day was spent with you chatting to every kid you could reach from your seat while Minho quietly sat painting and doodling by your side. You vaguely remember thinking he was odd and whining to your mom about how your seatmate was boring, and that was why he was the only kid in class you didn’t talk to. She smiled and told you maybe you should make an effort to talk to him. That same day, you racked your little brain for a reason why your seatmate might be so quiet and promptly decided that he was too shy to start a conversation himself. You then asked your mom if the fact that you didn’t talk to him might have made him sad, to which she hesitated, and that was enough to have your bottom lip wobbling.

You remember tears streaming down your cheeks as you frantically sobbed, inconsolable at the fact that your seatmate was sad and that it was partially because of you.

The next day, you asked if Minho would like to use your special glitter pens — you even told him you wouldn’t mind if he used your favorite colors. That was really all that was needed to plant the bud of friendship between you two.

Ever since that day, you two slowly became inseparable.

You attended the same elementary school after begging your parents, writing a very concise list of reasons why you two could not possibly be separated. Reasons such as the fact that Minho still didn’t know how to tie his shoelaces, so it would be dangerous for him to be alone in a new school. Or the fact that you were always losing your gloves, and Minho always carried an extra pair in his backpack just for you, so you would surely catch a cold if you didn’t have him beside you during winter.

All extremely valid reasons.

Minho began walking you home from school when you were both nine years old. He was often left alone due to his parents’ work schedules, which made him become the most street-smart kid in your class. You had to beg your mom for a week, but she ultimately caved in.

Your favorite thing to do on your way home was to stop randomly and doodle on the sidewalk with chalk, with Minho joining you in no time. You even had your favorite little sketching spot — right in front of a nice old lady’s flower shop, where you two would spend far too much time decorating her entrance pavement with flowers, rainbows, and smiley faces. She would later introduce herself to you, Ms. Kim, and would always thank you both with a flower of your choice. You always picked tulips, and Minho always picked daisies.

On one hazy winter day, you and Minho were eager to adorn the flower shop’s entrance with a new set of doodles since the ones you had done just yesterday got covered in snow. As you two did your best to dig through the piled-up snow with your gloved hands, you suddenly felt something hard slide down your throat. Your hands stilled, and you turned to look at Minho with wide eyes.

“What happened?” He asked. “Did you lose your glove in the snow this time?”

You shook your head frantically, careful not to swallow. “Teeth,” you simply said.

Minho looked at you like you were crazy, squinting his eyes as he studied your face. “What?”

You felt tears well up, and he immediately abandoned his mission of shuffling through the snow before pulling you into a big hug.

“Why are you crying? Don’t cry. I hate when you cry, I feel weird when you cry,” He said, but no tears left his worried eyes. Minho never cried, that was something you had learned a while back.

You, however, cried until Ms. Kim noticed you two from the window, cooing as she approached you two with a gentle smile. You tried your best to explain your predicament. Minho sat with you behind the wooden counter, holding your hand in his, the smell of flowers making everything feel less catastrophic than it did ten minutes earlier.

Ms. Kim explained that you had no reason to cry, as it was normal for kids to swallow their baby teeth. And you remember harshly shaking your head and explaining with a trembling voice that you hadn’t cried because of that. You had cried because that was your last baby tooth, which meant you were officially a grown-up. You didn’t want to be a grown-up. Minho wasn’t a grown-up yet, with his last baby tooth still holding on proudly in his gums. You didn’t want to be a grown-up all alone; it would be terrible and sad.

That afternoon, you two went home together in silence, your respective flowers clutched in your hands. Minho was never good with words. Sadness engulfed him because he couldn’t do enough to make his best friend smile again. What was the point of a best friend if they didn’t make you laugh when you were crying?

Minho walked into school the next day with a proud smile on his face before placing his last baby tooth on your desk. You eyed it curiously, brows furrowed.

“There, I took it off last night,” He simply said. “Now we’re gonna be grown-ups together.”

At eleven years old, your daily after-school video game appointments began.

You had just cut your hair short; a bob you thought looked cute on your favorite singer turned out to be cataclysmically unflattering on you. And, at eleven years old, it was earth-shattering and definitely the end of your life (despite what your mother told you).

You spent every second out in public with your hair hidden by a beanie, hoping it would distract people from your disastrous haircut.

Except it had the opposite effect.

One particular day at school, a boy came up to you simply to inform you that your head looked like a mushroom before running away, laughing with his friends. They were foolish words spoken by a foolish boy, but you were eleven. Once again, earth-shattering and the end of your life.

You avoided everyone the entire day — including Minho, whom you always talked to no matter your mood. You knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid him for much longer, seeing as he walked you home every day, so you simply prayed he wouldn’t notice your puffy eyes or that he at least hadn’t heard any of the other kids making unfunny jokes about your haircut.

After school, Minho sighed in feigned annoyance when you told him you had lost your gloves again before retrieving a pair from his backpack. Like a habit, you asked if he wanted to hang out at your house, although the answer was always unchanging.

“My mom’s baking a cake,” you told him. “We can play video games and then eat it together.”

Minho hummed in agreement, adjusting his backpack before grabbing your hand as you two began your daily walk to your house. It was something you always did, never walking anywhere without your hands clasped together. These past few months, however, this once ordinary gesture had begun making your heart beat faster. You didn’t understand why, and you would rather not think about it because every time you did, the words from your other friends would echo inside your head. Their stories about how they felt their hearts racing when their crush had hugged them or even looked their way, making you question if maybe…

But it couldn’t be. Minho was your best friend. How could he be your crush?

It was another one of those afternoons, your mom busily making you two sandwiches as you and Minho played New Super Mario Bros on your Wii under the blanket fort you always meticulously built. Minho had been acting weird all day — even weirder than you, who had to endure all the asinine jokes and hurtful words from your peers. As you completed the last level for the umpteenth time, saving Princess Peach, Minho all but threw his controller to the side. You turned to shoot him a questioning look, which went ignored as he rummaged through his backpack.

He retrieved a crumpled-up piece of paper, which he promptly gave to you.

You cocked your head, awaiting some sort of explanation, but Minho simply picked up his controller once more and hit play on the game.

Unfolding the paper, words greeted you in Minho’s messy handwriting.

YOUR HAIR LOOKS CUTE. STOP HIDING IT.

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could say anything to him, Minho reached out and snatched your beanie from your head. Your short hair and bangs cascaded onto your face, partially obscuring your view. But you could still make out his side profile, where a faint smile appeared on his lips.

After that, you two were silent for the rest of the day, eventually dozing off under the tent lulled by the sound of your mother’s hand mixer and Mario’s theme song. The sun eventually set outside the window, and you woke up to two plates of your mother’s cake waiting for you on the coffee table.

From that point on, your beanie was left forgotten inside your drawer.

You were fifteen when you realized that perhaps your feelings for Minho weren’t all that platonic after all.

It all started with a letter on Minho’s desk on a rainy Friday. October 25th, Minho’s birthday.

Minho’s quiet nature hadn’t changed one bit since you first sat beside him at four years old. He would rather die than start a conversation, rarely went out to the movies with your friend group and, most importantly, hated being the center of attention. That was why he told no one about his birthday since you two began high school this year. It was the subject of much debate among your little group of friends, with some bribing Minho with his favorite snacks or promising to do his assignments until college just for some sort of clue; a day, month, even the day of the week he was born.

But Minho never budged.

So, seeing a letter on his desk on the day of his birthday was odd, to say the least.

You arrived back to the classroom late after chatting to your friend from another class in the hallway, catching as Minho sat down with a puzzled look on his face and an open letter in his hands.

“What’s up?” You asked, sitting on the desk in front of him.

He looked up, thick glasses crooked from a dodgeball incident earlier that week. “Yumi found out it’s my birthday today,” He informed you, a bit too nonchalantly. “She organized a birthday party at her house tomorrow with our friends.”

You immediately took the letter, reading it and blanching at the words written in the girl’s pretty handwriting. She had found out Minho’s birthday by snooping around Facebook until she found his mother, who had a plethora of pictures of Minho on his previous birthdays. Not only that, the letter ended with a paragraph where she confessed her feelings to him — with all the clichés and dramatics only an adolescent crush could provide.

You still remember your first thoughts upon learning that information: Oh, Yumi. Of course a girl like her would do something like this.

You cringe at your words now, but at fifteen, you deemed no girl worthy of your best friend. Especially ‘girls like Yumi,’ who in your eyes all but threw herself at him. At the time, you thought you were looking out for the boy who was practically your brother. Now, you understand you were simply an insecure fifteen-year-old who allowed ugly, misogynistic thoughts to brew inside your mind out of fear of losing Minho. For your immature brain, every girl interested in Minho was an enemy because they could easily take him away from you.

And Minho had never reciprocated any girl’s feelings, always politely turning down the few confessions he had gotten during middle school. You were ready to berate Yumi, your brows immediately furrowing as your face contorted, but Minho beat you to it, speaking before you could utter a word.

“I know I should be mad, but isn’t it a little… cute?”

You couldn’t help but scoff, the sound escaping your lips like a burst of disbelief. You also couldn’t help how your hands began to tremble as your heart shot up to your throat.

“Cute?” You asked with the strongest voice you could muster. “You think her invading your privacy is cute?”

And Minho simply shrugged, tapping his fingers on his desk. “A little bit. I know you don’t really like her, but she’s part of our friend group,” He said, taking the letter from your shaky hands. “Plus, she’s always been nice to me, and she is cute.”

That was all you could physically bear to hear, excusing yourself from the conversation with the lie that your friend had called you from the classroom window before sprinting out into the hallway. As you continued walking, your palms grew clammy and your heart weighed heavily in your chest.

You felt tears well up in your eyes once you reached the stairs. Sitting on the steps, you cried into the cardigan of your ugly school uniform. You didn’t care that you would be scolded for skipping class; all you cared about was that your best friend was going to be taken from you.

After school, as you and Minho were about to exit the school gates — your hands tightly clasped together as they always were — Yumi appeared carrying a cake, the rest of your friends behind her as they all sang happy birthday.

Minho blew out the candles and made a wish. Everyone cheered as his best friend, Chan, shoved his face into the cake. Minho yelled at him, grumbling with glasses covered in white frosting, but ultimately laughing along. Yumi was quick to clean his face with a napkin, earning her a smile from Minho before he released your hand to gently squeeze her rosy cheeks.

You remained quiet, forcing out a smile and looking up at the sky every now and then so your tears wouldn’t fall.

All because Minho had let go of your hand.

Minho’s fifteenth birthday — that was the day you learned you could fool everyone else, but never yourself.

Your seventeenth summer was a drag.

Minho had just been broken up with a couple of months before, Yumi crying as she explained her parents wanted her to focus on her studies, and having a boyfriend was simply a distraction she couldn’t afford if she wanted to be a doctor someday. An unwilling participant in the entire situation, you sat awkwardly at the bus stop as she spoke.

You were ready to witness Minho cry for the first time in your life, maybe yell about how unfair her parents were being, but he simply pressed a kiss to her forehead just as your bus arrived.

Not much had changed when he began dating Yumi, with you learning that suppressing how you truly felt was worryingly easy. You still hung out with them, battling through their cuddles and kisses like a soldier on the front lines of a war. Never unscathed, but always strong. Nobody needed to know about how you cried into your mother’s arms almost every night before falling asleep.

The only change had been you and Minho’s daily gaming appointments. You two had since outgrown your video game phase, both now interested in diverging things that made it impossible for you to enjoy them together. You discovered your love for flowers went beyond doodling on the sidewalk in front of a flower shop, but Minho complained that growing flowers was too time-consuming, and he loved dancing, which you were far too uncoordinated and lazy to even try doing.

And so, you two settled for simply hanging out together at your house. Your room had easy access to the roof, which you two took full advantage of, setting up a permanent blanket fort where you would snuggle up with pillows and talk for hours after school.

That summer was no different, with Minho stretched out across the old mattress, watching the light pink sky slowly fade away as night set in while you two busied yourselves talking.

That was the day you finally gathered the courage to ask Minho about his breakup, desperate to understand why he had appeared so unfazed. After the one-year milestone of their relationship in February, you had begun to make peace with the fact that she would probably be around for a while.

Minho shrugged at your question, hands resting on his stomach while he gnawed on his bottom lip. He explained he was sure that he liked her, but it turned out he valued her as a friend much more than as a girlfriend.

You couldn’t help but scoff at the answer. You knew Minho better than you knew yourself at times, which was why you knew he was lying through his teeth.

“Why did you stay so long with her, then?” You questioned, the resentful lilt in your voice a bit too obvious. You cleared your throat before adding, “I mean, you surely didn’t act as just friends.”

“I guess I felt lonely before,” He explained. “I was selfish for staying with her, but I enjoyed having someone. Was especially nice after…” Minho trailed off, dismissively shaking his head, and you remember being close to throwing him off that roof as he kept being so damn enigmatic.

“After what?” You prodded, “Minho, I’m your best friend. What’s the point of us talking if you’re not gonna tell me the truth?”

He turned his head to look up at you, the darkening sky making his eyes gleam as if they held an entire galaxy of stars. You felt that familiar nervousness return.

“It was nice to not be so alone after so many years of pining after someone.”

You cocked your head to the side, and Minho had the gall to chuckle at your puzzled expression. You shook your head, mumbling to yourself that your conversation was pointless if he wouldn’t tell you the whole truth.

Lying next to him on the mattress with a sigh, you could feel the weight of Minho’s gaze on you. You couldn’t bring yourself to move.

You remember the moon was already high in the sky by the time one of you finally moved — Minho, who slowly inched his hand closer to yours before clasping it tightly in his. Despite your racing heart, you thought nothing of it. He was now single, so it wouldn’t be ludicrous to assume a habit you two had cultivated for many years would naturally return.

However, after some beats from your erratically racing heart, Minho’s fingers intertwined with yours. You had never done that before, always holding hands in a way that all but screamed platonic.

That night, with his thumb caressing your skin and his hand squeezing yours, Minho finally spoke the truth after so long.

“It’s you,” He said, tone nonchalant but voice audibly shaky. “Think I’ve been pining after you since I was nine and ripped my tooth out ‘cause I thought that’d make you stop being sad.”

You remember gasping quietly and his hand tightening around yours as the clock ticked and your silence remained. You remember finally mustering up the courage to turn to look at him and being met by an expression you had rarely seen on Minho’s face in the thirteen years you had known him — he was scared, wide eyes dancing around your face as if he looked for an answer in your features, his chapped lips parted slightly as if he was ready to backtrack the moment he saw any hint of doubt in your eyes.

You remember smiling at him and how his expression shifted into pure confusion. All it took was for him to finally have the nerve to hold your hand in the way he’d always wanted to, and for you to use his courage as a catalyst for your own. You remember how you closed the distance between you two and pressed your lips to his. You remember it feeling weird because you were kissing Minho, your best friend.

But you also remember it feeling right because you were kissing Minho, your best friend.

Your transition from being best friends to being in a relationship was easier than you had ever thought it would be — it was also slower than you could have ever imagined.

Minho never asked you out or confessed his feelings beyond what was said on the roof, and neither did you. It was a shared knowledge between you, a silent agreement that didn’t need words — at least for now. The little gestures and subtle changes left no doubt in your minds that you two were, in fact, no longer just friends — like how you began to always intertwine your fingers while holding hands, or how Minho would pull you onto his lap when you hung out with your friends, or how you would rest your head on his shoulder as he played with your hair during lunch break.

Your friends certainly had questions, the confusion written all over their faces easy to read like a book, but you both knew they also understood your relationship without you needing to make a big deal out of it.

You picked him up from dance class every weekend, sometimes arriving earlier just to catch a glimpse of him through the glass door, as Minho insisted he was too embarrassed to dance in front of you.

One day, thoroughly unprompted, he reached into his backpack as you two exited his dance academy and pulled out a yellow tulip. You had furrowed your brows at the sudden gesture, and Minho nonchalantly told you that planting your favorite flower was surprisingly easy. Since becoming teenagers, you had stopped going to Ms. Kim’s flower shop, and you had long forgotten about how you two used to have your own respective flowers back in the day.

It seemed Minho hadn’t forgotten.

That was one thing you had come to know about him only after you began dating. Although he seemed cold and distant on the outside — rarely communicating his feelings through words — Minho secretly kept a mental note of every little detail about the people he cared about, and he unfailingly found a way to communicate his feelings through actions. Such as promptly handing you a brand-new flower he had picked before you even had the chance to mourn your tulip as it began to wilt.

You, on the other hand, had always been the type of person to communicate through words; spoken, written, or read, which is how you began saving your best daisies from the small garden you created in your backyard and practicing your flower arrangement skills exclusively by making pretty bouquets you could gift to Minho (always with little notes hidden among the flowers).

Your once explicitly platonic roof dates also left no room for doubt, as making out under your usual tent became a hard-to-break habit. In fact, that was how your family found out about your relationship. You were eighteen, with graduation just around the corner, when your mother caught Minho kissing you as tears welled up in your eyes at the thought of having to be apart from him during college (although you both knew that would never be the case, as you always moved mountains simply to stay together).

Everything was slow-paced, and neither of you had any desire to rush anything. Once, Minho told you he had waited eight years to finally kiss you, and somehow, that anticipation was what had made it all the more special.

And so, your first proper date only happened six months after your first kiss, and your first fight only happened a year and a half into your relationship. Not to mention your first I love you, which had been a slip-up that happened only in your first year of college after a drunken night with Chan and Minho. Your head on his lap, your tulip nestled among his daisies in a pretty vase on the coffee table as Chan hummed along to some song that came from his phone. You felt as if your entire being was filled with pure gratitude at that moment, and the liquid courage that flowed through your veins only helped you mutter out how much you loved Minho.

He looked down at you, hands cupping your cheeks with a silly smile adorning his face, and simply answered, “Well, I love you more.”

Your carefree attitude toward your relationship was almost a contrast to the one you had with your friendship. You and Minho had met so young that you could never truly pinpoint when you had become such close friends. You always wondered if that was what led you two to be so easygoing with what most people rush into. Things happened when they were supposed to happen.

You remember one of Minho’s new friends, Changbin, asking something about your sex life at some party during freshman year, and you two nonchalantly answering that you didn’t really have one. Your friends’ shock was understandable, but you and Minho only laughed.

Things happened when they were supposed to happen.

It was Minho’s 21st birthday, when your flowers were no longer in bloom, but your love remained blossoming like it was mid-spring. He had, as always, vetoed any and every plan of a celebration suggested by your friends. He opted to stay in with you, cuddling under a blanket fort like you had been doing for so many years. Chan graciously offered to sleep at a friend’s dorm, leaving your small shared apartment just for you and Minho.

He hadn’t planned for anything to happen, and neither had you. You were simply lying together, watching the flickering of the candles you had set up around the coffee table, recounting the innumerable memories you shared when you suddenly felt the earnest, all-consuming need to have Minho as close as possible.

It was clumsy, both of you inexperienced and nervous. Your teeth crashed together and your hands gripped each other tightly, the realization of the intensity of your yearning becoming undeniable. At some point, the entire tent collapsed on top of you, and laughter filled the room for a brief moment before being replaced by your sighs and whispered moans.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was you and Minho.

Graduation day was a blur in your mind.

It had all started with Minho and Chan drunk at eleven a.m., offering you the awful-tasting omelet they had cooked in your cramped kitchen. They then went on to zone out for most of the ceremony after stumbling out of your apartment.

You approached Minho after he was done taking pictures and getting scolded by his family for being drunk on his graduation day, his mother giving you an apologetic look as you whisked him away.

“You’re stressed,” you pointed out.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” you replied with a sigh, resting against a large tree far enough away from the hustle and bustle of recently graduated students and crying families. “So is Chan. Don’t think I’ve seen him this drunk since Jisung’s birthday party last year.”

Minho chuckled, shifting on his feet and toying with the fabric of his gown. You furrowed your brows; he only ever got fidgety when hiding something. You learned that for the first time when you were thirteen and he had to wait until your birthday to tell you he’d gotten you two tickets to see your favorite band, and again when he had to keep Chan’s then-girlfriend’s plans of asking him to move in together a secret.

“You’re not nervous ‘cause of graduation, are you?”

You remember the way he stilled almost immediately.

“We always tell each other the truth, right?” He asked.

You remember the way your whole world spun as he pulled out a small box from his pocket and how everything seemed to fade into a white mist that surrounded Minho like a spotlight as he proposed to you.

Your wedding was small — both because that was how you had wanted it to be and because of your lack of money for a proper party.

After graduating, Minho became a dance teacher at the academy he attended as a teen, teaching little kids who he said always reminded him of you two. You used the money your parents had saved for you to travel after college to buy the old flower shop that held so many memories from your childhood. Neither of you used your degrees, and neither of you made a lot of money, but you were overflowing with an infatuation for life and a love for each other so great that it made up for any silly inconvenience that dared to come up.

The ceremony was held at a local church — although neither of you was particularly religious, that was the cheapest place available. You opted to walk down the aisle together; hands clasped the way you used to do for many years while walking home from school. Minho held onto a daisy bouquet you made, while you held the single tulip he had picked out for you that day.

“I’m not good with words,” was how Minho began his vows, the glow of the fairy lights and candles adorning the church rendering his attempt at hiding his tears futile. That was the first time you had ever seen him cry in the twenty-one years you’d known him. “But I think that never mattered with you. You know me better than I know myself. Most times, I don’t even have to say a word, and you’ll still understand me. It’s been this way since we were four, and you understood why I was so quiet, and you still chose to be my friend. Thank you for understanding me, and thank you for allowing me to love you. Loving you is what I do best and look how lucky I am; I’ve been able to do it for my whole life.” He then shot you a grin, the back of his hand wiping away your tears. He ended his speech with a line that was so very Minho, thought up with sincerity but spoken primarily to make you smile. “You’ve always felt like home, and I can’t wait to feel that way until we’re both food for the worms to eat.”

You had never cried so much as you did on the day of your wedding — which was remarkable, seeing as you’d been a crier your whole life. You remember the irony of it all; Minho, who had never been good with words, telling you about his love with words that came from his heart and spilled from his lips without any rehearsal, while you were rendered speechless and too emotional to even attempt to form a coherent sentence.

Your wedding vow was a simple, choked-up, “Thank you for being my best friend, Minho.”

Minho carried you home from the church, with your cheeks flushing pink and his smile beaming as your friends made rice cascade around the two of you like snow. It turned out the boy who hated attention didn’t mind the spotlight so long as it meant showing off his love for you.

Your honeymoon was spent in your small house above your flower shop — which you named Daisy’s Tulips — where you cuddled under a blanket fort the entire day, only leaving the comfort of the pillows and fluffy covers well after midnight to adorn the sidewalk in front of your house in a brand new chalk drawing.

“Can you imagine if we never said anything?” Minho suddenly wondered aloud, his chuckle echoing through the quiet street. “We were both pretty good at hiding our feelings for so long.”

And you simply shook your head, painting a daisy with white chalk on the sidewalk. “Minho, I know you. You wouldn’t have let me keep pretending after finding out I liked you too.”

“Who says I would have found out?”

“You said it yourself,” you explained, “I know you better than you know yourself, and that’s reciprocal. You would’ve found out ‘cause I can never hide anything from you.”

And Minho smiled, taking your hand in his just as you were done with your drawing. Your gaze shifted toward him, and you admired the man he had become. From the shy little boy who sat beside you to the quiet teenager with thick glasses to the man he had grown into; you loved every version of Minho you had the privilege to meet throughout your life, and you were certain you would love every new version of him you came to know in the future as well.

“Of course you can’t,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’m your best friend, aren’t I?” He asked with a grin, and you nodded. He then added, “Thank you for being my best friend.”

♡ taglist: @bloom-ings, @linocz, @farahia, @mirbokk, @jisunglyricist

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