First, I want to sincerely apologize for the unintentional hiatus I went through these last months, but as you know guys, sadly life has been busy for me lately, so updating this blog has been a little more complicated. Now I am back, but I want you guys to know that my updates will be slower and a bit apart in time, but it doesn't mean I have abandoned all my work. I will update still, just not as frequently as I wish. Writing is one of my favorite hobbies, so be sure that I will do it as long as is possible. Also expect more stories to blog, more now than ever because I have been watching a lot of shows and movies that I am dying to use as inspiration. If you want to know what I am up to, just check my upcoming works here. (I am dying to share it with you guys).
Second, I want you guys to know that I decided to open a tag list, if I am being honest the number of readers of my story “dishonesty” has severely increased (thank you so much guys) and the tag list has become a mess (like my life) so if you are not in the tag list but want to be part of it, please do the register here. It would help me a lot to have a more organized blog and will be easier for me when I add the tag list.
Lastly, I want to thank you for all the love and support you have been giving my stories, it really means a lot. Really, thank you so much.
As always, your reblogs, commentaries, and likes are always appreciated. Stay safe and healthy! I’ll read you later.
Favorite Otps/Pairings: Ian Miller & Toula Portokalos
(My Big Fat Greek Wedding (1-3))
“Hey, I love you. Why? Why do you love me? Because I came alive when I met you."
a/n: chapter three is out! this bad boy was a ride and probably i will be back later for some corrections. however, i hope you enjoy it. as always likes, reblogs and your commentaries are always appreciated. happy reading!
"if it's what you truly want ... i can wear her skin over mine. her hair over mine. her hands as gloves. her teeth as confetti. her scalp, a cap. her sternum, my bedazzled cane. we can pose for a photograph, all three of us. immortalized ... you and your perfect girl.
why can't you see me? why can't you see me? why can't you see me? everyone else can."
His side of the bed is cold and empty at dawn.
What a fucking surprise! Your dear husband leaves in the morning without a goodbye. Honestly, you would have called him to tell him he can go and fuck himself if it weren’t for the pounding on your head because of all the crying you did the night before, as a matter of fact, it was his fucking fault.
As if he were to feel guilty.
You wonder if the blonde with nice tits is giving him a nice blowjob right now; hopefully and if you are lucky enough, she will rip his dick off with her teeth. What a sight would be.
Mindlessly stirring your cup of steaming coffee, you enjoy the quiet morning by yourself. The warmth of the sun entering from the kitchen window and the beautiful sound of birds chirping - a rare sound in a busy city like Seoul - brings peace to your wounded soul. The calm before the storm, still, you are going to enjoy it no matter how long it will last. You let out a sigh before raising the cup to your lips, enjoying the delicious aroma of your beverage, but sadly when you are about to take a sip of the bitter yet relaxing taste, your phone rings. Kim fucking Seokjin’s face is shown on the screen.
He couldn’t just leave you alone, couldn't he? As if he hadn't fucked up your marriage enough, and now he wants to shit in your morning too. Great. Just fucking great.
You really make a giant effort to bite back the curse at the tip of your tongue when you hear his breathing at the other side of the line. “What?”
“Love-” Seokjin’s voice sounds croaky through the speaker, “I am sorry for not saying goodbye this morning. There—” he pauses, gulping down saliva, “was an emergency at work.”
“Right," the sound of his voice unpleasantly irks you while his pathetic excuses make you sick. Now the truth is out there, you can't stand his act of caring husband. “If you have nothing else to say, I will hang up,” you take your phone away from your ear, ready to end the call and return to the rest of your already ruined morning.
Seokjin cries out from the phone, "Wait!”
You put him on speaker after a roll of your eyes, deciding to start with your breakfast. You are not going to starve just because he wants to cry a little on the phone. “Are you mad at me? I am sorry, my love. I know I have been acting like a dick for the last months,” you suppress a mocking laugh while stabbing with a fork a cut piece of fruit and taking it to your mouth. The sweet taste of the strawberries calms your nerves as, against your own will, your heart warms a bit at his half-assed apology.
Fucking traitor.
“Now you realize?”
“I know I have been acting like a bad husband. Work has been rough and instead of running to you, I have been pushing you away. I am so sorry.”
You don’t understand the sudden change of heart. He was smug and defensive about his hidden side chicks last night, but now he wants to mend broken bridges? Fucking psychopath.
He continues with a slight tremble in his voice, “But I have been true with my heart. You don’t need to worry because you are the only woman I love.”
Your grip on your fork tightens, turning your knuckles white. He is lying like he always does because you definitely don’t do something like this to someone you love. If he loves you so fucking much, why he was sticking his dick and burying his tongue in fresh pussy? You breathe through your nose, already feeling tired of his bullshit.
“There is not another man above you, Seokjin. Do you know that?” You heard him take a shaky breath through the speaker. Good. At least he has the decency of feeling guilty. “Don’t pull that type of shit again. If you do, you are going to lose your wife.”
You hope he catches the double meaning of your words.
“I know,” he lets out a painful sigh before he changes the subject. “This emergency at work has obliged us to advance the concerts in Tokyo. I will leave today and not next week,” you frown, how strange, yet you let the worry go away. Maybe he has promised a fuck-vacation to one of his mistresses. Son of a bitch, he probably gets off with deceiving your sacred vows. “In an hour, I will be at our home for my luggage. I was wondering-” he trails off nervously. “If you can come with me to the airport. I want to see you before I have to go.”
The audacity of wanting your affections. Fuck him.
“I am busy today.”
“Oh,” he sounds disappointed, but you don't have the desire to please him, to bend your wants and needs just so he can feel better. He lost that right. “It is okay. Don’t worry. Just work hard like always. I will call you when I arrive, okay?” You hum, taking a sip of your warm coffee.
“I love you.”
You hang up, not even bothering to say it back.
Surprisingly, Seokjin is true to his promise about calling you when he arrives at his hotel in Tokyo.
If only he had been true to the promises of love and loyalty, he made you in the fucking altar.
Your phone rings around four times, but you don’t bother reaching for the device even when it lights up in the darkness of your room. Talking to him is the last thing you need or want. Instead, you decide to close your eyes and turn to your left side, your back towards the night table, where your phone keeps vibrating with the useless efforts of a man who is too late.
The next day he calls you again. Midway working in some correction of an open Word document, you heard the first keys of a piano, followed by the voice you had come to adore in all these years, but now instead of the butterflies in your stomach and the strong sense of pride, you feel a heavy knot form on your stomach.
After taking a deep breath, your fingers hover over the “accept video call”, debating if you had the guts of talking with him. If you are able to have a civil conversation without cursing him out and blurting that you know his dirty little secret.
“A lion is still a lion even in a cage.” Grandma was a fucking badass, and you have her blood running in your veins, so in a bravery streak, you accept the call.
The first thing to greet you is plump heart-shaped lips curved in a bright smile and beautiful almond eyes sparkling with undying adoration. His black hair falls on his forehead which gives him a youthful look. The man greeting you through the screen reminds you of the man he used to be before he frayed the string tying you together.
The man who blushed prettily and stuttered when he spilled coffee all over himself on your first date. The same man who gazed down at you with stars in his eyes when he lifted your white veil.
How dare he? How dare he look at you as if he was the same man?
“Good morning, my love. How are you?” He brightly cheers, the camera moving a little as he sits at the bottom of his bed. You give a look around, since the limited view, you have of his hotel room. He looked relaxed, even when he spent a lot of time blowing your phone last night. You wonder if one of his side chicks followed him to Japan. God spare you from catching a glimpse of a naked woman walking around.
“What do you want?” The smile on his face falters a little, but the look in his eyes does not change. You know he can see in your face all the anger slowly building up, meant to explode in an ugly way.
If he is taken back by your harsh tone, he doesn't show it.
“Are you still mad at me?” He asks patiently, a soft expression taking in his beautiful features.
You feel heat rise on your spine. Does he expect you to be happy and proud about the fact that your husband is going around your back and fucking a different girl every night?
“I am not mad, Seokjin. I am just busy. I don't have a lot of time to spare.”
He ignores your dismissive tone, and how your eyes stay on your laptop screen.
“Are you working on your new manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fix the problem you had about that scene of the lake? I know you were so stressed about it.”
“Yes, I did.”
He tries again.
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Yes.”
You know you are being petty, but you are not in the mood of entertaining him in pleasantries. You want to cool down a little because if you are going to chew his head off it is not going to be through a video call and when he is in another country.
After a few more seconds, you hear him sigh painfully as if you were hurting him. As if he wasn't the same to you just a mere few days ago.
“Love. Look at me, please.”
You turn your face towards the phone screen whilst feeling hatred towards yourself. Why do you keep being weak for him?
“Seokjin, I-”
“I am sorry, I know I have been horrible to you, and you don't deserve the way I have been treating you. But I don't want to lose you over something like this.” He breathes out, head facing down for a second. And you wonder why he suddenly looks so conflicted, however, the expression of agony on his face is gone before you can ask about it. He continues with a fervent tone, “Tell me what can I do to make it up to you? What do you want? I would do anything you want.”
Anything you want? You wanted his loyalty. You wanted his respect. You wanted his love. But it is too late for that, isn't it?
You open your mouth to speak, yet a sudden knock on his door, followed by a man's voice calling his name, interrupts you. Your time is up, and low-key you are grateful for it because if it wasn't for it, you probably would reveal that you know about his indiscretions.
The inevitable confrontation is yet to come, but you want to hold in this anger a little longer.
“I have to go.” Your husband announces apologetic while rubbing his forehead with the hand not holding his phone. “I will call you later, okay?”
You give him a simple nod, not having anything anymore to say.
His gaze softens, chocolate irises melting in love and adoration. Why does he keep hurting you like this?
“I love you.”
You smile politely at him, before disconnecting the call.
That is how your routine is established for the next few days. Every day or night, he calls to ask about your day, and you give quick answers, working on your manuscripts as he talks. Then you ask about his day, and he tells you about it. Your conversations are cordial and civil, but both of you know that things are not right between you. He sees it in the way you ignore the tenderness of his voice when he says he loves you with all his heart, and in the way, you cannot bring yourself to reply to the words.
He doesn’t hold it against you. It is like an unspoken agreement between you two about forgetting these last months. He is too much of a coward to confess his sins against you, and you are too much of a lovesick fool to bring it to the table.
Five days after he has left, he finally has the courage to take the next step toward a reconciliation that doesn't feel right. That day you wake up to a beautiful bouquet of violets delivered to your home. Violets. Loyalty and Love. You almost laugh about the irony. The bouquet is gorgeous, and you put the flowers in a vase with water, so they could live a bit more, although, you can help but see it as an “apology” for the woman he probably is fucking in Tokyo.
Later in the day, you meet with Jia and Sooyoung, your two closest friends, for lunch.
“Is everything okay with Jin?” Jia, all pretty in her pink blouse and white mini skirt, asks midway, inhaling her piece of chocolate cake. Her manicured fingers drum against the table when she lets the dessert invade her taste buds. Sooyoung next to her shifts her sharped gaze from one of the cute servers to you. You get distracted a little by how alluring her eyes look with her eyeliner.
Apart from his cheating ways, everything is wonderful.
You shrug, enjoying your lemon pie. “He is in Tokyo, like Yoongi.”
Jia smiles dreamily after hearing the name of her boyfriend, a love-struck expression forming on her face at which you lower your gaze as you scratch the fork you have been using against your dessert plate. You hate the sound, but it distracts you from the invasive thought of the way your relationship with your husband used to be. However, her happy expression doesn't last because soon Jia´s face turns serious, eying you in worry after she hears your flat tone. Maybe because she is used to you talking about Seokjin as if he hung up the stars in the sky.
“Yes, I know, “she shares a look with Sooyoung, one you pretend not to notice. ” Yoongi has been secretive these days. I know something is bothering him, but he doesn’t want to spill,” she pouts, fork catching another bite of chocolate. “My baby works so hard.”
You roll your eyes at seeing how sure she is about her boyfriend’s loyalty.
“Maybe they are stressed,” Sooyoung chirps, gaze going back to the blonde girl taking the order of an old couple. “Probably is hard to do concerts much earlier than expected.”
“It was strange.” Jia agrees, chin resting on her right palm, with her pinky flexed against her cheek. “Hope everything is good. Let me know if you figure it out. "Your friend gives you a comforting smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, as if she suspects something was not right.
You don't question it, instead, you give a simple nod of your head in acknowledgment and feel relieved about the conversation wavering to Sooyoung, who is getting ready to hunt the server she has been eyeing. Yet, a few hours later, when you give Sooyoung a lift to her house, she asks again if everything is alright. You provide the exact answer you have given your parents, and everyone else.
“Everything is going well.”
You won’t find the strength to confess to either of them the truth. How could you do it? How could you tell them you weren’t able to keep your husband from straying? Your parents would feel disappointed if they discover that your marriage has been a complete failure, especially since only happy couples exist in your family.
Happy, long marriages without unfaithful husbands.
Sooyoung does not ask more questions, even when you see in her face the itch of doing it. But she doesn't miss the opportunity of hugging your goodbye, much tighter than other times.
“Whatever has happened with Jin, it is his own fault. You always have been too much for that fucker.”
You laugh at her remark even when deep down, you wonder if that is true.
As if you were a part of a bad fucking movie, the dirty secrets of your fucking husband spill out of the bag in the worst possible way.
On the exact same day, he returns from Tokyo, the news caught you inside your car parked in front of the coffee shop where you usually meet with your editor. Your phone rings midway sending her some details of your recent manuscript; a notification of an incoming call from “Jia '' appears suddenly at the top of the screen.
She is calling even when she knows you had a work meeting. Something she never does, not even at that time when she fell down on her work stairs, broke her ankle, and needed someone to pick her up from the hospital because Yoongi was out of town. You remember a receptionist of the hospital had to call you because her stubborn ass was worried she would interrupt you.
You immediately pick up.
“Where are you?”
You frown at the urgency of her voice, putting the phone on speaker, and turning the car around, starting to drive towards her place, “Are you okay?
“I am okay, but where are you? Are you home?”
“No, I just met with my editor.”
At that exact moment, a call from her enters. You quickly declined it while making a mental note to return it later.
“Go home. You are not safe in the streets!” She screams through the speaker, a quiver in her voice that makes you realize she is making an effort to hold back tears.
You open your mouth to ask her again if she is okay when you hear a deep voice talking in the background.
Yoongi.
He calls for Jia, a fade “Baby, please, calm down” reaches your ears followed by more hushed words. A heavy knot forms in your stomach when you hear your name being spoken between aggressive whispers.
Something is wrong.
As you stop at the intersection waiting for the traffic light to turn green, fingers nervously drumming against the steering wheel before you heard Jia´s usually sweet voice answer with a “Get out of my house and go fuck yourself, you selfish bastard.”
You feel drops of sweat slide down from your neck to your back. Your Jia is not aggressive, much less to Yoongi, the man she is hopelessly in love with.
“Jia, what is going on?”
Silence is your only answer before you hear her tapping on her phone. One second later, a notification of a message from her appears on your screen. “I am sorry, baby. I am so sorry. If I had known I would have told you.”
At the painful tone of her voice, you don't waste a second yanking your phone from its holder as you rush to park on one side of the street. Jia´s irregular breathing falls to your ears as you open the text message and click on the link she sent you. Your heart contracts, lungs being crushed by the sudden press on your chest as a sob gets stuck in your throat.
“Scandal! Kim Seokjin´s and Park Minyoung’s infamous sex tape goes viral!”
“The actress of the new drama “Love is in the air” just like you have never seen her before. Click for more spicy details of this new scandal!”
“I will call you later.”
Jia cries out your name, but it falls on deaf ears as you hang up the phone without waiting to hear what she has to say. Eyes fixed on the gossip article, you let one trembling finger hover on the link to the video that you know will hurt you deeply.
Is it really worth it to put you through that torture? What is better . . . Know or not to know? Being kept in the dark?
You shut your eyes close for a second, reuniting the courage needed, and after letting out a jagged breath, you finally press play.
It is worse than your nightmares.
She lies on her back, ebony long hair thrown on the pillow, plump breasts with taut nipples moving with every impact her slim body receives between her open long legs placed neatly over broad shoulders.
“Shit, you are sucking me in, slut.”
Hearing his voice felt like a slap to the face, but you refused to move your eyes from her.
“Do you like it when I treat you like the whore you are? Am I right, dumb slut?” Her hands go to her jiggling tits.
“Yes, I love it. I love being your dumb slut.”
“Fucking whore. Take my cock deeper.”
“Fuck, I am coming, daddy!”
The look on her face is hypnotizing; the way her mouth falls open in a silent scream, the bits of drool leak to her chin, and the way her eyes roll to the back of her head as she loses herself in ecstasy. Bile rises to your throat because as she is sent to cloud nine, another naked figure comes closer to the camera, making it impossible not to see him.
You watch helplessly the way his strong and firm hands grip one of her tights while the other sneaks around her waist as he keeps thrusting, fucking her through her high. His head lowers to her chest, black hair falling on her collarbones as he takes a nipple on her mouth. She cries out, high-pitched screams getting louder when he decides to move one of his hands lower, the rough pad of his fingers rubbing her clit.
God, he used to pull the same move with you.
Nausea hits you followed by a pang of killing pain on your chest, but you don’t stop the video, completely fixed in the way your husband fucks one of his side chicks.
He is close, judging by his grunts and the stuttering of his hips. You know that dance by heart. Finally, he pulls out of her, red cock glistening with her juices.
“Please, give it to me.” He keeps his dark eyes on her swollen pussy as he strokes himself. Once, twice and then he lets out a husky groan followed by spurts of warm and thick cum falling into her toned stomach. She moans at the feeling, looking completely delighted with being bathed by your husband's come. The screen fades to black with the view of her red lips curving in a stupid smile, the epitome of a woman satisfied after being fucked dumb.
Silence engulfs you for a second, your brain trying to process the cruel mockery he has made of you.
Then hell breaks inside you.
Your phone falls carelessly on the floor of the car as you throw yourself out, unfocused gaze and a high pitch on your ears shifting the world around you. Acid vomit returns to your throat leaving a burn behind when you finally double over in a trash can placed some steps ahead of your car.
Son of a bitch. Who the fuck does he think you are?
He has made an idiotic fool of you.
For God’s sake, you let him do this to you.
You kick the trash can with all your force causing the metal to quiver at the force before wiping roughly your mouth with the back of your hand. Blood boils in your veins as you return to your car, fully pressing the gas pedal, not caring about the fact you are driving at over speed.
The world suddenly looks red, a burning fire engulfing everything you see.
The ringtone of your phone obligates you to take a look at your phone. Jia calls, followed by Sooyoung. Yoongi calls next as well as Hoseok and Jungkook. The audacity. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens when you see the names of his bandmates appear on the screen. Now they want to speak. Where were they when your husband was cheating on you?
They knew.
You are sure of it, especially when they spend all day together. All the excuses, nervous words, and pity eyes now make sense. You have done everything for them, have loved them like actual brothers, and they have betrayed you in return.
Seokjin is the last to call.
You block his number immediately.
You arrive at the HYBE building with a scratch of your wheels on the pavement. The guard at the main door doesn’t try to stop you when you burst through the glass doors, instead, he just gives you a glance full of pity. They know. All these people know about your husband’s dirty laundry.
You hold the tears wanting to escape. Suicide before they see them falling down, before allowing him to keep humiliating you.
Your footsteps are loud on the big hallways as you rush towards the biggest dance practice room of the building.
“What are you doing here?” A flustered Soobin greets you at the door of the practice room. The door wide open allows you to catch a glimpse of some TXT and ENHYPEN members inside along with some staff members.
“Where is he?” The boy gulps, eyes going through some people of the staff who avoid your burning stare.
You know these people; you were there when the company was struggling to stay afloat. You used to share laughs, help around, and bring food for all of them too because you recognized their big role in BTS's success. Maybe that is the reason why they don't stop Soobin from blurting out a nervous “Conference Room.”
A yelp of your name escapes Jimin’s lips when he sees you walk past him on your way toward the conference room. His rushed steps mixed with Taehyung’s voice pleading you to wait to make you quicken your pace. Somehow Jungkook’s voice is added to the chase.
It hurts. He was like a little brother to you. How nice of him for not giving a flying fuck about you.
The door of the conference room slams against the wall at your rough push, and as you expected, the fucking couple of the year is inside.
Park Min Young standing there, between Seokjin’s arms. Her slim arms tangled around his neck, her lips against his while his hands grip her waist.
Strike three, you are fucking out.
Everything happens fast. Seokjin’s eyes widened as he pushed Minyoung away, causing her to stumble and hit herself with the large table behind her. Your husband opens his mouth with a dumb expression on his face, but his pathetic explanations are not necessary.
Without a single word, you take off your wedding and engagement rings from your fingers, taking a moment to look at them. They are beautiful, pure gold and a big diamond, but now after seven years and a betrayal, they mean nothing. You hurl them with all your force towards him before turning around on your feet and shoving past Jimin and Taehyung stuck at the door.
“Wait!” Seokjin calls out, “Please, love, wait a minute.” Rushed footsteps and desperate voices dangerously came closer.
You almost break into a sprint when a warm hand catches your wrist, pulling you back towards a hard body that smells like the sweet fabric softener you bought for him in your favorite grocery shop. You laugh bitterly at the realization. He is always going to mean more, always be more important to them than you.
Nice of them to show their true colors now.
You turn around slowly, encountering a pair of doe pleading eyes staring at you. “Where were you when I needed you to speak out?” Jungkook’s face crumbles, lower lip trembling and eyes watering. “If you had a little love left for me, you would stop him. “
He hesitates for a moment. You see the battle inside his head, and you don't know if it is guilt or leftover affection that moves him to let go of your hand before taking a few steps back. He sniffs, cleaning his nose with the back of his hand. “I am sorry.”
You believe he is.
“I know.”
Your heart rate increases with every step you give, and your keys almost slip off your trembling hands when you try to open the driver’s door, yet, in the corner of your eye, you notice his black Honda parked in his usual spot on the parking agency lot, next to the spot where you parked your own car. You let out a maniac laugh, and maybe it is pettiness, but you don't resist the urge to let your car keys run against one side of the vehicle. The satisfying sound of metal against metal leaves behind an ugly white line on the car’s paint.
His favorite one.
You return home driving at over speed. Time is running out. Paparazzi will be over you soon. Bargaining on your mansion, you don’t waste a second on packing your stuff. Clothes are ripped from the hangers, beauty products sweep off from your vanity, and electronics are picked up from your desk before shoving them in the suitcases that you sloppily throw on the backseat of your car. But before you can take off and leave behind the house full of memories, you remember one of your favorite parent’s portraits inside the house, obligating you to go back.
The portrait is neatly placed in the living room next to the television and photographs immortalizing happier times. Carefully taking the photograph out of its frame, you put it inside of one of your jean’s pockets, and for a mere second, you allow yourself to glimpse at the happier times.
In one, you are next to Seokjin, who has his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Both of you making silly faces to the camera, a glimpse of new and pure love shining on your faces. This is the memory of the time when you just started dating. In another, the both of you are on the floor. One of his arms around your waist and one hand holding yours against his lips, kissing your ring finger, with a sparkling diamond ring on. Hoseok took that photo after you threw yourself at Seokjin, screaming yes, without waiting for him to finish his speech.
The cherry on top was your wedding picture. Foreheads together, arms holding you tenderly, and beautiful eyes admiring you with so much adoration. You removed it from your bedroom when looking at it became unbearable.
The muscles of your back tense as your mouth turns dry and by impulse you let your feet guide you towards the storeroom on the first floor, where you know Seokjin saves his sports equipment.
His baseball bat feels heavy between your steady hands. You are aware of the damage you can cause, the imminent chaos you have to bring to avenge a little part of your broken heart. So, with a scream, you swing the bat, taking down all the photographs and the television. Broken glass smashes to the floor, leaving behind a soothing buzz on your veins.
Who the fuck does he think he is? Bad motherfucker. A selfish bastard who has destroyed your life.
You take a pair of scissors from the kitchen on your way to your shared bedroom, eyes fixed on the closet where only his clothes are still hanging. Your fingers caress the expensive cloth of one of his suits, before merciless cutting one sleeve off. The rest of his suits, favorite shirts, and a Louis knit with that disgusting smell of vanilla have the same faith. In the bathroom, you swig at his expensive beauty products and perfumes, leaving behind a mess of broken glasses and liquid on the marble tiles. Not forgetting to give a good hit to the mirror.
A fucking clown. He has exposed you to the media like that.
His home office has the same fate. The baseball bat leaves cracks on the wood of his desk with every blow you deliver with all your strength. Your range tantrum soon is diverted to the items showing his success through the years.
Music awards, platinum disks, pictures, and music equipment.
It is because of you.
You have helped him to become that man with the world at his feet. Still, he dared to throw you away like a rag doll because he found fresh and young pussy to fuck. He believes he is so almighty, so above you that he can do whoever he wants.
Such a fool with a god complex.
His home office door opens abruptly, letting Kim mother-fucking Seokjin rush inside with disheveled clothes and red eyes. He doesn’t flinch when you slam the bat on his desk.
“Baby,” He breathes out, “Just listen to me. I can explain,” his tormented gaze bores on you, tainted hands trying to reach for yours. “I am sorry, okay? I was so wrong. “He takes a few timid steps in your direction.
“One step closer, and I will break your fucking kneecaps!” His eyes widen at your colorful choice of words. His patient little wife is dead now. He better get used to it. “Leave me alone. There is nothing to explain.” You shove him out of the door, bat dropping to the floor with a loud thud on your way out.
“Listen to me, please. I was going to tell you,” He insists, following you down the stairs and to the kitchen. “I was scared. I love you with all my heart. Please understand. I was afraid of losing you—”
“Who the fuck do you think I am, Seokjin? You didn’t marry an average bitch. Don’t you dare to sell me your cheap excuses!”
His lips tremble at your harsh tone, slightly grimacing at the sight of you violently opening one of the cabinet’s kitchens to take out a bottle of wine. Under his worried gaze, you open it and drink straight from the bottle.
“Listen—”
“What are you going to say now that you have humiliated me?” he shuts his mouth close, lowering his head while his hands turn into fists at his sides. “Not only you have been fucking around with your harem of side chicks, but you also recorded yourself with one of them.”
He snaps his head to you. “I-“
You let out a sardonic laugh. “I have been aware of this mockery for months.” Bitterness drips from your tone, “And I did nothing because I loved you. I forced myself to believe your lies, so I could keep you. I gave you everything about me and still wasn’t enough for you!”
“You were enough! You have always been more than enough!” Seokjin rushes towards you, trying to take you between his arms. He won't touch with the same dirty hands that pleasured another woman. Afraid of feeling his touch, you reach for one of the dirty dishes inside the sink, tossing it at him. The plate crashes on the floor when he ducks it in time. “You have always been my love. I have always loved you. I am sorry!”
“Kiss my ass, Seokjin! I don’t believe a fucking word that comes out of your dirty mouth.” You step back when he tries to come closer to you, but he is faster because this time he manages to place his hands in your arms. “Let me go! Fucking let me go!”
“Listen to me, please!”
“I don't want to! How can I even smell her on you? Did you fuck her today?” Seokjin stumbles back at your desperate rough push. His face pales after hearing your words but doesn't try to defend himself. “Coward. You can’t even admit it to my face.”
So many emotions pass through his face, and then you see a dangerous glint take over his eyes. Anger he doesn't deserve to feel, not when it is because of him that you both are in the eye of the hurricane.
“I did it! Is what you want to hear? I fucked her in the studio. I ate her out, then I fucked her until she was begging me to stop, and I fucking enjoy it—”
Who the fuck does he think he is?
The loud sound of your hand against his cheek breaks his trail of words, face jerking to the side.
You stay there, hand still in the air accompanied by a burning sensation all over the skin of your palm. A deep feeling of regret starts to lie heavily on your chest, regret that you obligate yourself to stubbornly swallow.
After an excruciating second, he looks back at you with watery eyes and his large palm against his burning cheek, and soon the regret turns into disgust when you catch a glimpse of the shine of his wedding ring. The ring he wore on his finger every time he fucked around with his mistress, the ring he saw every time he betrayed your trust, but it wasn't enough to stop him, to make him think about the pain and humiliation he would bring you.
He looks pathetic.
As if some tears would be enough to fix this mess, enough to fix your broken heart, enough to turn back in time and erase all the disrespect and humiliation he has brought you.
He can cry you a fucking river if he wants, but it would not make a difference.
You take a menacing step towards him, voice low and dripping venom.
“When you hurt me, you only hurt yourself. Don’t you realize?” He bites his lower lip, pathetic tears clinging to his long eyelashes. “You are free to go back to keep fucking your harem and keep recording sex tapes with them. I don’t care, but I will tell you this: you could never recreate me, Kim Seokjin. You would never find in another woman what you had with me. And you would never find a woman who loves you the way I did.”
Both of you know the absolute truth in your words.
The noise of a commotion outside adverts your attention to the large window in the living room. As you had expected, a flock of paparazzi, as well as reporters, are fighting to enter your property. You turn to your husband with a smirk.
“Look at that,” you point at the scene happening outside. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “This is what you wanted. You can call Minyoung, so we can pose for the photographs together. Immortalized, my love. You, me, and one of your perfect girls.”
A whimper coming from him is your only answer.
You can destroy them if you want.
Tear them apart like a lion. Use their skin over yours. Their hands as gloves. Their fucking teeth as confetti. And that bitch’s sternum, proudly shown with hickeys once, could be your bedazzled cane.
Yet, it would be useless to vent your anger at them when the only one who owes you something is him.
You take another swing at your bottle of wine before opening the door with a sickly-sweet smile painted on your lips.
Showtime.
Behind you, Seokjin stumbles and hits himself with the kitchen counter as he desperately tries to catch you before you open the front door. His fingers graze your arm causing you to snatch it out of his reach.
“Where are you going? Come back, we have to talk about this!”
You don't look back at him, not even when you hear the loud thud of his knees falling down to the marble floor.
It is one of his tricks, another manipulation to make you come back to him.
He has to realize he was no longer the deity he used to be in your eyes. He has fallen down from the worship altar you had put him on once upon a time.
Ignoring the way your heart hurts at his heartbreaking cries, you focus your gaze on the chaos taking place outside. His security staff is all over your front yard, protecting you from the frenetic reporters, who scream questions and direct their camera lenses at you.
As if you were a circus freak.
In a twisted way, he has turned you into one.
You have been the biggest clown of the circus, and Seokjin has been playing the role of the headmaster all this time.
"Please, don’t give up on me. I love you.” He sounds so small, so defeated, and you fight with the part of you that still loves him. The part of you that wants to fall down on your knees in front of him, take him in your arms, and erase the pain he is feeling now. “Please. I love you. I love you so much.”
It feels like a blasphemy the way he throws those sacred words in an attempt to save himself. You don't believe him, not when he is the one who tainted the meaning behind every “I love you”.
You won't feel sorry for him.
You won't.
Not when he is the one who has obligated you to turn your heart on ice. Not when he is the one who has obligated you to carefully choose every word and inject all the malice you can in every syllable. Not when he is the one who has obligated you to face the people outside and offered them the show that they have come to look for.
Not when the look on his face when he hears your next defying words is so satisfying.
summary: lost lovers reunited. you love him, he loves you but your hand has been promised to another.
“Oh, goddamn! my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine but it's been promised to another. Oh, I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland. My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you.”
pairing: benedict bridgerton x reader
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You were ill of pretenses.
“You should smile more.”
And you were sick of James Brooke's sanctimonious behavior.
“Perhaps, you should keep your unwanted judgment to yourself.”
You saw the glint of amusement in his forest eyes at the malice in your tone. The grip of his fingers on your waist tightens as he spins you around, the luxurious collar diamond around your neck sparkling under the warm undertones of the candlelight - an embodiment of Lord Brook's filial loyalty. The warmth of his broad chest against your back feels suffocating, like a hand gripping your throat, impeding you from freely breathing.
“Smile,” his hot breath tickles your neck, and with every ticking beat the urge to get out of his grip and run away becomes more wanton, regardless, the urgency in his tone keeps you in place. The corner of your lips raises in a practiced charming smile, eyes glinting with false happiness. Somehow there is a sort of trust and loyalty between you.
Two halves of the same farce.
A perfect scheme orchestrated for the woman with the penetrating stare standing in one corner of the grand ballroom.
Lady Laurence has always been a woman of strong character, a widower who gained her reputation and wealth with blood, tears, and sweat.
A childless woman who put all her hopes on you.
Her gaze doesn't waver for you, even when she takes her time to bow to Lady Cowper and other irritating ladies of the Ton - a complete sense of ridiculousness in her behavior. A genuine chuckle escapes your lips. Of course, would Lady Laurence relish in the begrudged stares in a proud stance of chin raised, frail shoulders leaned back, and a pleasing yet mocking smile curving in her thin lips.
A clear portrait of victory.
“Isn't Lady Laurence a force to be reckoned with?” James' deep voice takes you out of your observations, and at the compass of the waltz, you turn around, faces close to each other.
You have to admit that your betrothed is a sight to behold. Underneath the golden shower of the candelabrum, he resembles all the Greek sculptures you are always fascinated to admire in the art galleries around Europe. Your gaze follows with artistic fascination the cupid bow of his slightly chapped lips, the freckles on his tall nose because of all the hunting trips in the countryside, and the strand of rich blond hair falling carelessly on his forehead.
He looks so much like the child who used to chase you around your countryside house backyard. A dear friend. A brother chose beyond blood. A victim of your Machiavellian plans.
“A woman to be afraid of.”
He laughs, yet, an unspoken sadness resides heavenly in his eyes. As if the mere sight of your aunt's watchful stance reminds him of the truth and the unpaid debts of the past - about the tormented heart of the beautiful and elegant woman watching in some place of the ballroom.
Hands fidgeting. Longing gazes.
Two hearts broken. Two hands bloody.
You wish to tell him all your regrets and apologies. You hope that he can see it in the trembling of your hands, the shame you hide in the bow of your head at the end of the dance, and the avoidance of her gaze. The woman he calls out in dreams, the one that has been banished in the eyes of his family. The daughter of a merchant, who is not enough for a man of his position. His true love.
Selfish girl. The voice of your wickedness whispers, but are you that selfish when love is the root of your decisions?
Immediately, you search for the figure of the object of all your affections. Your mother's-tired smile sends a pang of hurt to your heart as she dismisses the help of Penelope's Featherington to serve her a glass of fresh lemonade sitting on the refreshment table. You let go of James' arm, rushing to her side while sending a grateful smile to Penelope. The girl returns it without a single word, and you are more than thankful for her lack of mention of the faltering strength of your mother to do a simple task.
“Mama, let me help you with this.” You say while taking the glass off her hands. Her only response is a gentle touch on your back. Motherly and soothing.
“Mr. Bridgerton has been watching you all night.”
You halt your movements abruptly, a bit of the lemonade spilling on the table, leaving a faint stain on the elegant tablecloth. Still, you chose to remain silent, convincing yourself that the knot in your throat at the mention of him is not the reason.
You extend the glass, and she takes it with fragile and trembling fingers.
For a brief moment, you tell yourself that you don't care if Mr. Bridgerton has been gazing at you all night, that it doesn't matter how the image of his cerulean eyes burns in your mind, how much you long for his touch, and how a single glimpse of him again could set your miserable heart in flames.
There is no more room for foolish dreams and aspirations, or dirtied dresses and paint-stained hands. There is no acceptance for sneaking around in places a lady like yourself never must dare to go, and Aunt Carol pleading your case for you to be in a place where a woman is not meant to be.
No more being an impostor. No more being a failure. No more him.
The fire inside you extinguished at the realization of your mediocrity—the reason for all your endurance in this pretense of shy smiles and lovesick gazes.
As you take a deep breath, you realize that you have been fidgeting all this time with the ring placed on your hand, your fingertips tracing the shape of the jewelry while a bittersweet smile curves on your lips. You remember seeing it in much stronger and larger hands. Rough palms covered in charcoal. Long fingers holding a brush in between them.
You do this for him.
“You know, my dear, Mr. Bridgerton always reminds me of him,” your mother's face melts with love at the thought of your father like it always does when she thinks of him. The memories feel like weapons because, after all these years, the tomb would not close, and the pain is still the same.
His ghost still haunts you to this day. You wonder which is more painful.
“Mama-”
“He is watching you now, dear.”
It takes all the bravery in your bones to raise your gaze. Blue eyes meet yours and for a brief stolen moment, time halts. The chattering and the string quartet playing are replaced by the sound of your own frantic beating heart.
You are foolish. All these months of lying to yourself about that magical summer night, just for the mere sight of him to take all your breath away. In his eyes, you still see the ghost of his desire, the same dark spark full of passion that you saw that warm night in June. It brings all back to motion. The lingers of his touch on your skin, the burning pleasure that consumed you from the insides, and the intoxicating taste of his mouth that keeps you awake on the loneliest nights. So sinful, so vibrant, so sweet.
He has ruined you, is the bitter realization you come to. He has ruined you from other men.
Eloise at his side, dressed in a signature blue sparkly gown, touches his arm, yet, his magnetizing eyes don't waver from you. Does he see it? How his ivy has covered all your stoned heart, covering you.
“Miss Laurence,” you feel the familiar touch of rough fingers on the naked skin of your elbow. You raised your head encountering James's pitiful eyes. His touch is meant to be comforting and tender as if he was trying to pick up a wounded animal, but it only crescents the pressure in your chest. Has breathing always been a difficult task?
He is here with you, but his eyes are not the ones you want to gaze at on your loneliest nights.
“Benedict!”
You heard it before you saw it. The collective gasp of the mama and her daughters. The high pitching of Eloise's voice, the crack of glass, and the soft call of your name coming from your mother's tinted lips. You see the desperation and fury in his gaze. The shredded glass on his feet and the gold ricochet of the champagne mixing with the maroon liquid staining his hands.
How poetical.
Four hearts were broken. Four hands bloody.
He takes a menacing step toward you. A forbidden question in his eyes.
“Excuse me for a second, Lord Brooke,” you know it's time to go, “Mama.”
You don't wait for the answer. Doe eyes and a sweet smile are enough armor for you to flee from the scene in a desperate attempt to bury the past - silhouette disappears behind the open doors leading to Lady Danbury's Garden.
The night sky's dull black, accompanied by the coldness of the air on your flushed skin brings a false sense of peace that you haven't felt in months. You relished in the feeling, even when the murmurs and vivid music coming from inside the ballroom, sounds like a mocking requiem of your misery.
You close your eyes for a moment.
But you should have known better.
Whatever you stray, he follows.
“I knew I will find you here.”
You stay rotten to your spot, helplessly hearing the sound of his footsteps coming closer, the warmth of his body near you followed by the touch of callous fingers, bringing forth a tarnished incandescent glow. “Do you despise me so much that you refuse to see me?”
With words pathetically stuck in your throat, and weak sudden courage running in your veins, you turn towards him. “Mr. Bridgerton,” you acknowledge with a curtsy bow, hands shaking at your sides. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Slowly, you raise your fearful eyes to look him in the eye, feeling a sudden shyness engulfing you.
He is a sight for sore eyes. You decide at that moment as you watch how the strands of chestnut hair fall over his forehead as the wind blows and how his opal eyes seem so vibrant under the moonlight, that Benedict Bridgerton has the air of a true muse. A man incapable of being forgotten. A lover whose memory will always haunt the women who have spent the night in his arms.
“You did not answer my question. Do you despise me so much that you refuse to see me?”
It is almost natural the course of your actions. The soft cloth of your handkerchief goes directly to the open wound in his large palm, crimson red staining the initials of your family's name embroidered in golden thread. The silence is excruciating, but what answer can you give him? So you decide to remain silent, enjoying the glimpse of the unrequited love you gave away.
Benedict's hands are cold against yours. Elegant fingers gripping the ones with the silver gentleman's ring.
“Is this his ring?” The darkness in his tone sends a cold shiver down your spine. “I thought you were going to refuse his hand,” He breathes out, hands abruptly letting go of yours. “That night you told me you were going to refuse his hand, and tonight I found you giving him the privilege of your company. What is the meaning of this?”
You let out a shaky breath, “I changed my mind, my lord.'' The words leave behind a bitter taste. You want to scream how he took the vanity of you and your foolish dreams about his love. “I decided to reconsider, and decided to do the best for my family and me.”
“The best for your family? Marrying him is the best for you?”
The disdain in his voice makes your blood boil.
“I think that is not of your concern.”
He recoils at the aggression in your voice.
“Not of my concern? Do you think it is not of my concern after that night?”
The air around you change for a second. The crescendo when souls intertwine and hearts connect in a way meant to never be separated again lingers in your memories. If he remembers it all too well, why didn't he act when there was time?
You cannot hide the resentment in your answer. “My lips have been shut, Mr. Bridgerton. You don't have to worry about your family's honor and reputation being ruined.”
“And what about you? Your honor? Your value?”
“Soon, I will be a married woman, and I assure you, my lord, my husband will not care about the meaningless whispers.”
You wait for the morbid satisfaction that the fallen expression on his beautiful face would bring.
It never comes.
“So, you would go through this?” the bend of your head and cryptic silence is enough to answer. An expression of incredulity passes through his face before he lets out a deep sardonic laugh. “And what about your art? You cannot simply abandon all your aspirations for this nonsense.”
You raise your head, taking a turn to look perplexed. Something you later will identify as disappointment touches your heart.
“I told you already, My Lord. The big masterpiece will never come.”
“So, this is what you are going to do? Marry that man for his wealth.” there is venom in his tone that feels foreign on his tongue. The burn-in of his opal eyes and the twist of his beautiful factions in a scowl leaves you speechless for a second. “I never thought you would be so frivolous, and cold-hearted.”
You see red.
“You have no right to judge my choices!”
You tell yourself that not a single tear should fall in front of him.
“I am speaking for what I see, Miss Laurence.”
“You speak from your selfishness.”
“My selfishness?” True confusion shines in his eyes.
Of course, a man like him could never understand.
“Yes. You cannot possibly understand what is for me and what is expected.” Your lips tremble as you speak, and you can hear it again.
An invisible clock ticking in your ear. The sound of the sand quickly hitting on the other side of the glass.
“You are making yourself a martyr. You know damn well, as I do, that you are one of the more talented artists I have the pleasure of meeting, so I don't -”
“Talent is not genius, Benedict.” the boom of your voice silences him. The call of his first name appeased the unjust fury burning in his gaze. “I have talent but it is not enough. I want-” you swallow down the knot in your throat, “I need to be great or nothing. I am not going to be an impostor and a mediocre if I could not be the great artist I always wanted to be. I won't do it.”
The resignation and despair in your voice are unable to hide. And you don't want to, because of all the people, you always thought that the kind man with a soul of an artist would be the one to be able to just comprehend.
Benedict doesn't say anything. His eyes are fixed on every inch of your face.
“I am a woman. I don't have the same liberties as you. I don't have the free will to go around and try to take chances if I am not good enough.” The laughter and mocking stares still follow you every time you dare to stand in front of a canvas. “And I just realized that I simply wasn't.” You think back to a trashed art room full of childish dreams. “As a woman, I do not have a way to make my way in the art world, not when I am not the genius, I need to be for me to succeed, and even if I do, the money I could make would never be enough to support myself and my mother.”
Your mother's face flashes in your head. Her pale face, and fragile hands help you to style your hair for tonight's ball. Her false reassurance that she is okay, that you must have seen wrong about the way she barely tries to catch her breath when she walked the short length of the stairs. The weakness of her limbs, and how the simple task of raising a spoon to feed herself seems to exhaust her more and more each day that passes.
“As a woman, I am not allowed the luxury to choose. I need security. I need to look out for the people I love. So don't stand there judging my decision, and calling me cold-hearted when I am only trying to look for myself. Marriage might not be an economical proposition or a place of security for you but certainly is for me.”
You are not able to hold back anymore the sorrow of your soul, sapphire tears finally fall down your cheeks. Benedict's face softens, regrets soaping for his pores at your stance. He takes cautious steps, one hand reaching for your face as tender fingers brush away the salty river. Pathetically, you lean down your cheek against his palm.
“I deeply apologize. I have been cruel in my accusation. I know you are angry and have every reason to be.” You let out a shaky breath the gentleness of his tone. “But I would not retract about the supposed selfishness you accused me to possess. Where does it leave me in your plans? What about what I feel?
Your voice breaks and you whisper. “And what exactly do you feel, Benedict?”
His lips remain shut, even when his eyes reflect the hidden galaxy, he is so desperate to guard. Instead, his attention returns to the silver ring on your left hand.
The words fall from your lips carelessly, offering explanations he doesn't deserve. “This is my father's ring. He didn't have any son to inherit it. He gave it to me the night he passed away.”
A smile of sadness and comprehension draws on his face.
“Do you love him?”
“No, but I could do it if I try.”
Both of you know that is a lie.
“Don't marry him.” The grief is visible in his plea. “Don't submit the both of us to this torture, please.”
“Why?” You take a step back from him, backing away from his alluring scent.
“You know the reason why.”
With the condescending in his tone, you let out a bitter laugh. After all this time and all these feelings, he still cannot admit it.
“I have loved you for a very long time, Benedict Bridgerton. I assure you; you are an unforgettable man. But I would not throw away a secure future for me and my mother for a man who is unable to admit what he feels.”
You see the exact moment your words ignite a dangerous fire inside him, and soon the cold and lonely air of the night is replaced by the fervent heat of his lips. The ardent touch of his hands around your waist, gripping it as if you were his lifeline. You feel again the passion and desire buzzing in every part of your body. The urgency and all the unspoken promises claimed in a starry night where you gifted him your innocence with a heart full of tender love. Unarmed, you surrender to his touch, and just for a wicked moment, you melt between his arms. Hands grasping at his strong shoulders, inhaling his masculine scent, and enjoying the sweet taste of the champagne in his mouth.
For a short moment of loss of judgment, you found yourself praying to the sky for a chance to stay forever in this beautiful lavender haze.
Foolish dreams of a woman in love.
The gold rush is not enough.
You let go of him slowly and painfully, catching a glimpse of disheveled hair and swollen red lips.
He is beautiful under the moonlight.
Benedict notices your intentions, quickly gripping your hand before you slip away from him and towards a place he couldn't reach anymore.
“At least let me have a final dance with you.”
Your heart doesn't allow you to say no.
You will have one last dance with the man you love, even when both of your hands are tied.
