#I can’t stay up without caffeine like I used to.. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

onlyswan · 4 months ago

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dreamboat | jjk (2)

summary: aboard the dreamboat, jungkook finds himself drawn to a beautiful stranger who appears to be drowning in melancholy. weeks later, he sees her face on the other side of the aquarium at his apartment building’s lobby. he soon learns that it’s not fate’s grand romantic plans that brought you back to his life. / (alt.) / a shipwreck and a dreamboat form an unusual bond in an aquarium.

non!idoljk x f!reader (jk is a business major who works at the amusement park ; oc works at the call center) / strangers to lovers / fluff, angst, suggestive / chapter wc: 15.9k / total fic wc: 30.8k

warnings/content (for full fic): is it an onlyswan fic if nobody cries? ; smoking ; making out ; mention of nude art ; mention of flashing ; panic attack ; a ghost cameo lol ; s*x scandal ; abuse of authority ; harrassment ; jk throws a punch once ; oc drives a motorbike without a helmet once ; vminjin + yeontan cameos :3 ; tae and jk are the same age tho

<- part one (wc: 14.9k) | spotify playlist (open to song recs <3)

note: yaaay full fic is out 🥹💕 i’ve been so attached to these two for the past month i’m gonna miss them sm :( reblogs and feedback are appreciated i’d love to hear your thoughts 🥺 p.s. it does get pretty heavy so pls take care of urself while reading 🫂 hugs and kisses

—

jungkook lets out a big yawn, removing his glasses so he can wipe off the sleepy tears from his eyes. his phone pings with new text messages and he peers down at the table to read them.

01:18am

stop texting.

why are you still awake? you have that big presentation tomorrow.

you need your brain functioning at full capacity so you can answer the prof’s questions.

he types out his response.

01:20am

i want to sleep too but i’m not yet done practicing 🥲

if you’re on a mission to make him fall hopelessly in love, it would be safe to say that you’re succeeding. instead of being a distraction, here you are showing concern for his health and motivating him about his studies. he’s not used to having this kind of dynamic with the people he likes. usually he’d be stubborn and stay on his phone, but he puts it down so he can refocus on his slides. he’s excited to do his presentation well and gush about it with you at the end of the day.

twenty minutes later, a rapping at the door disrupts his concentration.

“he better not be drunk.” he grumbles on his way to the door.

no one else would disturb him at this time but taehyung.

but it’s not taehyung.

it’s you.

“i didn’t wake you, did i?”

“no, no- i was still-” he takes a glimpse at his messy desk. “practicing for the presentation… uhm, i thought you were at work?”

“we don’t have work today.”

you nonchalantly bring out a glass full of green goop from your back, encouraging him to take it.

“here, drink this.”

he stares at it in bewilderment as he slowly accepts it. “what’s this?”

“bedtime smoothie.”

you sense his disgust and foreboding.

“there’s bananas and cherry juice in there.”

that knowledge emboldens him to take a sip. he licks off the mustache it leaves on top of his lips. “hmm, not bad!”

“i told you so.” you send him a tight-lipped smile which disappears in two seconds. “do you want some help practicing?”

“oh, that’s right.” his eyes widen. “you’re good at speaking!”

he steps aside so you can pass through the narrow entrance.

“please come in.”

jungkook is compelled to make himself clear. he hasn’t invested on a shelf. never found the time. his room may look like a mess to an outsider’s eyes but he has an organized system and he’s incredibly resourceful.

“jungkook… you can’t live like this.”

is it that bad?

his jaw slacks when you pick up a plastic bag on the floor and begin throwing in the scattered empty cans and bottles of caffeine on and around his desk, including the one he hasn’t finished drinking yet. that— he won’t win defending.

“you’ll die at this rate.” you rebuke him calmly. “do you even drink water?”

“of course i do!” he proceeds to drink the smoothie you made for him. “but you drink a lot of coffee too.”

“not anymore,” you head to his fridge after dumping the plastic bag in the trash. “i’m already adjusted to my job… i’m taking these.”

you bring out the two remaining cans of energy drinks and stuff them into the pocket of your hoodie.

“you can’t just take them!”

you ignore his protest. “is the smoothie good? you like it, right?”

his shoulders deflate in defeat. he takes another gulp and swallows, nodding happily. “i like it.”

“then i’ll make you an energy-boosting one when you need it. i received fruit baskets at work. they’d only go bad if i try to eat everything alone.”

“sounds like a sweet deal,” he grins.

he’s definitely not complaining. the artificial flavoring of the energy drinks pale in comparison to the real thing.

“okay, let’s get started then.” you pad over to his desk.

you hand him his laptop which is displaying his powerpoint before making yourself comfortable on his chair.

he stands infront of you awkwardly. “we’re really doing this?”

“we are,” you reply curtly, sinking further into the chair. it’s a pretty big chair, even for him. it’s endearing to see you play around with it. “are you nervous? you can’t be nervous.”

“i’m not,” he lies. “i’m a professional!”

you have no idea that you make him more nervous than having forty other people in the same room.

he sighs. “hold this for me then.”

you take the glass into your hands, sipping a little. he clears his throat and pretends that didn’t affect him at all.

“okay, let’s start… good mor-”

“wait-” you shake your head, demandingly waving your hand to the right. “wrong slide.”

—

“where are you? i thought you were going to help me with my project?”

jimin, a friend he met through a school organization two years ago, begins coughing dramatically over the phone. “jungkook, i’m sorry. i’m feeling under the weather.”

jungkook grimaces, stopping on his tracks to berate him. “hyung, i can hear the dj music!”

“ah, yes…” he can practically hear the wheels in jimin’s brain turn. “actually, i’m about to leave the club! since i’m not feeling so well.”

“wow,” he huffs out a laugh. “you’re really terrible.”

“i’m serious! let’s reschedule tomorrow. i’ll buy you dinner so we can catch up too.”

“fine,” he blows a loud breath.

“i love you, jungkook-ah.” jimin proclaims with exaggerated affection.

he makes a noise of disgust. “you’re really drunk.”

“oh, why aren’t you saying it back?” jimin angrily questions him.

“maybe i will, after you buy me food.”

“okay,” jimin cackles. “i’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“okay, goodbye.”

he drops the call, still uncertain whether jimin was lying or not. either way, he gets a free meal and he no longer feels the need to complain.

he shrugs and continues his journey home.

that is until he inhales the unmistakable scent of smoke from the alleyway.

again, it could be anybody, but there’s a peculiar feeling that won’t let him move forward. deja vú is what they call it. it is often described as bittersweet, but jungkook is nervous. scared even.

he doesn’t want his gut feeling to be right.

he knows what your sobs sound like, their effect on him and his heart that is awfully weak when it comes to you, but he wants to be wrong so badly.

right then and there, jungkook faces a dilemma.

those who hide do not want to be found.

he has the choice to keep walking, pretend that he was never here. that it doesn’t hurt him to walk away. he can do what he failed to do the first time and not jump in to interpret your crying as a cry for help.

he stands there like a fool waiting for the stars to spell out the correct answer for him to read.

unfortunately for him, life doesn’t work that way and there isn’t even one to wish upon.

you flicked his forehead and erased his memories. if he makes the same mistake twice, then maybe he can use that as an excuse to lessen the burden of regret.

—

you flinch and lift your head in fear when something bumps against your knee, but that fear soon morphs into an entirely new fear when you perceive the person sitting infront of you.

your bloodshot eyes make out jungkook’s features in the dim light.

you’re no stranger to that look. you know what you look like. the cigarette tastes terrible, it doesn’t smell better with liquor either. there are teardrops on the ground and your sobs are caught in your throat and they come out as hiccups. you wouldn’t even dare to call yourself a mess, because scattered pieces of a broken whole float on the surface and sometimes miraculously wash ashore. you’re at the rock bottom being eaten alive and you’re not going anywhere else.

“just walk away,” you croak out, pushing him away with the hand not holding the cigarette.

he doesn’t budge. you don’t know if it’s because you’re too weak or he’s too strong.

“i can’t leave you like this.”

“you can,” you argue.

“you don’t have to be alone. i’m here.”

he holds your arms, coaxing you to recognize the sincerity in his eyes. those wide doe eyes, always shining when you reflect on their irises. you wish they could stay that way forever. you wish you could be at peace with that.

“you can confide in me. you can use me. whatever you need to feel better. ____, please.”

“you can’t help me.” you bluntly assert. before he begins begging. before he says more swoon-worthy words that would break down the walls you’ve built. “i appreciate the thought, but nothing you can do will make this better.”

god knows that you’re yearning to hear them, but you still don’t know how much of it you can trust.

“maybe i can!” he interjects. desperately. his grip on you tightens a little. it steadies your body as your mind and heart fall apart, but you feel suffocated.

“jungkook, i don’t want to fight right now.”

“if you just let me try, ____. i’m here for you. i swear i won’t pass judgement or-”

“you can’t! okay? you can’t!” you break down, uncontrollable sobs making your words less coherent. “you’re just wasting your time!”

with every morsel of strength you have left, you force yourself to stand up. an unnamed object clatters on the ground and you shove jungkook to the ground without meaning to.

a combination of hurt and shock flashes across his face. you become racked with guilt.

however, this is what you wanted. this is for the best. you’re supposed to live a quiet life and not get too close with anyone, but you don’t cause a person this type of pain, and you don’t feel this guilty about it, if your hearts were never intertwined.

you should be the one to walk away.

every step you take to escape from him is heavy. you’re confused by the contradictions between your mind and heart and the last thing you need right now is confusing. what else can you do but run?

jungkook wraps his arms around you from behind, stopping you on your tracks.

“what are you doing?”

the world stops for a little while.

“let g- let me go!”

you struggle out of his embrace, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed he let you go so easily.

“you think a hug’s going to make me feel better and fix my life? are you that naive…? wow, i envy you. if it was that easy, i wouldn’t be at this fucking dumpster with you!”

maybe you’re even angry that he did, pounding away at his chest with rigid fists to break his heart too. your throat is painful and rough from screaming but the thought of losing your voice doesn’t occur to you. apparently, you don’t care that you’re burning your lungs either. the world may very well end at this moment because that’s what it feels like. you have nothing left to lose but this vessel— and this vessel is heavy, worn-out, and incurable.

you’re an overflowing sink of adrenaline rush, shaking and tearing apart at the seams.

“i never would’ve ruined my hair with this- this stupid color. i wouldn’t be getting cursed at by bigoted strangers because they hate my accent…”

your forehead collapses on jungkook’s chest. a string of sobs follow the words that were forcefully uttered against your better judgment. you would’ve been fine after a smoke and a good cry, not processing anything so you can settle with being numb instead of jaded.

“i’d still be studying. i’d become a doctor. i wouldn’t give a fuck about fishes and what they can and can’t eat.”

—

for the first time, your laugh stabs him in the chest instead of making his heart flutter.

“i’d be living a good life not being bombarded by someone who-” you hit his chest with every word spoken with gritted teeth. “wants to be the fucking hero. i don’t need you!”

there’s no way. you don’t mean that. you’re just angry. jungkook convinces himself in his head as he openly takes the hits. he did say you could confide in him—use him—and you’re doing it right now. he just didn’t know he’d have to grow thicker skin on the spot to be what you need.

your icy glare pierces through him and renders him motionless.

“you can’t do anything, so please, don’t feel bad for me.” you sneer. “it’s making me feel bad for you.”

—

you’ve stormed off and jungkook stays right where you left him, wiping away his tears. the last time he cried was when his ex-girlfriend broke up with him. that was over a year ago, it only dawns on him now.

you’ve been the only person in his mind since that one sunny june day.

where he stands, the autumn winds are getting colder and the winter is fast approaching.

just as fast your lives were weaved into a blooming wildflower did it also begin to wither.

jungkook does want to save you, but he doesn’t want to be a hero. after all the time you’ve spent together, do you sincerely see him as someone who values self-interest most of all? the truth did come out, the snide truth, a bitter pill he can’t swallow. you don’t want to be here. he can’t save you. it can’t be possible when he’s part of the picture you can’t stomach to look at.

“hyung,” he tries to be strong but his voice wavers, echoing the wretched state of him. “are you still at the club?”

“i’ll turn on my location.” jimin responds without question, which jungkook is thankful for. “call me when you’re near. be safe, got it?”

“yes, hyung,” he ends the call.

he inhales sharply, hoping that would alleviate the weight on his chest and allow him to move his feet. the heavy smell of burnt chemicals still hangs in the air. even after everything, he’s envious of the discarded stick of drug on the ground for having touched your lips.

jungkook turns to leave, but is interrupted by a small object caught underneath his shoe. he picks it up for inspection— a blue lighter hand painted with a goldfish.

he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

—

you woke up with a pounding headache, burdened with immense regret you assume. you deserve it. you don’t remember the exact words you said but you only scream when you don’t know what you’re talking about. you pushed away the only person who cared enough to sit with you in the dark. the line between right and wrong is blurring. you don’t know what you’re doing with your life anymore, if you’re doing anything so that it could be heading somewhere.

you thought life couldn’t possibly get worse, but here you are anxiously nibbling at your nails as you wait for a man to reply to your texts because you’re scared of losing him.

08:25am

jungkook i'm sorry about what happened last night i never meant to act that way and hurt you. i was out of my mind

i know you really care about me and i'm grateful for that

please forgive me

09:13am

[attached image]

you gaze wistfully into the aquarium. the fishes swim around with considerably more energy after their breakfast, and it drives you to wonder if jungkook fed them dinner. last night was the first night you received no messages from jungkook, not even an image alone.

“i think i fucked it up with your dad.”

you spot dahlia, and clementine, and coral, and tangerine… blissfully unaware of you drowning in misery.

accordingly, the wildcard emerges from the shipwreck. it swims to you, the glass acting as the barrier that prevents it from kissing your nose.

it doesn’t do this to jungkook, so you like to think that you’re special. you feel guilty that you failed to treat it the same.

“poor thing,” you hang your head in shame, sniffling. “we haven’t even named you yet.”

—

you learned from the new security guard on the night shift that jungkook requested for her to take over feeding for the meantime. three more days pass without any sign or trace of him, and yet you still send him your good morning pictures and you hang out at the lobby waiting for him to come home.

he has to come home soon.

he still lives here… right?

11:47pm

how long will you ignore me?

where are you? i'll come to you

please, let’s talk

you jolt on your seat when your phone vibrates with a ping!

12:01am

jungkook:

meet me at the rooftop

you are charged with joy and relief as much as confusion.

there’s… a rooftop?

—

you stand at the door staring at jungkook’s back, gathering all courage to face him despite your shame eating away at you.

“i didn’t know tenants were allowed here.”

“we’re not,”

he looks back at you, and surprisingly enough, his charming smile melts away your anxiety. you can’t tell if that’s a good thing or bad thing. it’s not right for you to fall in love.

“why are you still standing there?” he chuckles. he sits on a low table with his legs crossed, feet tucked beneath his thighs. he pats the space next to him. “here, sit.”

with a nod, you close the door behind you. you sit beside him, but with considerable distance, like the first time you sat next to each other.

“the view is quite nice.”

in consideration of the time, you didn’t expect so many lights. they look like shining stars from where you are, only that you can actually reach for them if you try. you even spot a ferris wheel. although, you’re not certain if it’s from the amusement park jungkook works at.

“it is, isn’t it?”

“do you go up here often?”

“not since the aquarium became our spot.”

our spot.

you smile to yourself, eyes falling on your lap as you mindlessly fiddle with your fingers.

“i’m sorry… for what happened.” you pause to swallow the lump in your throat, breathing shakily.

as ever, it’s difficult to apologize to someone and agree that there are dispensable parts of you. you’re scared that you might cry again infront of him. it never ends well.

“i-i was having a bad day, and i didn’t want to drag you down with me. but i got overwhelmed by my emotions and i said words i didn’t mean. you didn’t deserve that. i’m sorry.”

“hey, i understand.” he replies kindly. “it’s also my fault.”

“no, it’s not.” you jump in, not being able to stand him taking blame. “you’re a really good person, jungkook.”

he shakes his head. “i should’ve backed off when you told me to leave.”

“but i do like being with you.”

“and you mean that?”

he gazes at you with those endearing doe eyes. you look somewhere else to quell the funny feeling in your heart.

“of course i do.”

jungkook crosses the distance between you, teasingly bumping his shoulder against yours. “i like being with you too.”

just an hour ago you thought you’d lost him, now he’s here effortlessly making you laugh. perhaps you do take life too seriously, submissive to fear. you weren’t always like this. you wish you could unlearn the new way that you function.

“so do you forgive me or should i grovel more?”

“i forgive you.” he rolls his eyes. “i’m not that mean.”

“apparently i’m the mean one between us.”

“you are,” he chuckles, leaning back and balancing himself with his hands anchored behind on the table.

for some sick reason, this new position of his leaves you hot and bothered. thankfully, you’ve mastered the art of maintaining a calm demeanor. albeit, it’s not always that you use it for this reason.

“you seriously hurt my feelings back there, you know that?”

“i’m so sorry. i’m really, really sorry.” you apologize more expressively within the more comfortable space the both of you created. “…when is your birthday?”

his forehead wrinkles in confusion at the random question. “why?”

“you’re my friend.” you point out. “we should know these things at least.”

“it’s on september one.”

“what?!”

he blinks innocently. “what?”

“it’s already november!” you point out, taken aback by the fact that you totally missed it. “why didn’t you tell me?”

“you were busy with work. besides, it wasn’t a big deal. i just had beer and meat with my friends.” he shrugs, brushing it off. “when’s yours?”

you rise on your feet, dust off your bottom, and begin marching towards the door.

“where are you going…? yah, ____!”

“i need to do something.” you vaguely inform him, waving your hand. “stay there! wait for me!”

—

“what’s taking so long?” jungkook thinks out loud, scratching his head.

it’s been fifteen minutes since you left. you couldn’t have forgotten about him already, could you? that might hurt him worse than when you were screaming and punching his chest. he slept over at taehyung’s dorm for a few nights, hoping to find some peace and clarity within a different space, but he was pretty much ready to forgive you when you texted him to apologize, then followed it up with a photo of coral eating. however, taehyung went on and on about his wounded pride, and maybe he did want to see you grovel and feel that he is at some level of importance to you.

he perks up when the door opens and your head pops out of nowhere, peeking. when did you put on a cap and face mask? did you go out? anyway, you’re so cute, he gushes to himself.

“close your eyes!”

“why would i do that?”

“just do it!” you demand with an angry pout.

“okay, okay- fine!” he surrenders. “i’m closing them now.”

“no peeking. i see your eyelashes moving.”

“how do you even see from there?!”

he hears your scoff and the clicking of your shoes as you walk. “you’re not sleek, you know?”

a series of rustling. a mystery object placed on the table. he gets a whiff of your perfume, powdery and fruity sweet, the next second, you’re tying a silk scarf over his eyes.

“what’s happening?” he laughs nervously.

he knows that is not what’s happening, but the impure thoughts enter his mind anyway.

“i need a minute.”

you sit beside him, your knee bumping against his. he hears more movements take place.

“can i remove it now?”

“i said a minute.”

he frowns impatiently. “a minute has passed though.”

“no, it hasn’t.” you counter. “now hush and cover your ears.”

“cover my ears?” he repeats to make sure he heard you correctly.

“yes!”

“why?” he whines. “what is this about?”

“just do it, please?” you plead with him sweetly, covering his ears with your hands as if to demonstrate.

and since he’s already too deep into this, he obeys your third instruction. he puts his hands over yours, and then you slip away, leaving him covering his ears the way that you wanted.

“okay, you can look now!”

jungkook removes the scarf over his eyes, and discovers a sight so beautiful, he wants to cry that he can’t permanently capture it in a polaroid.

this is the first time he’s seeing you in this light, the warm orange glow of birthday candles that paints you spellbinding golden. you’re beaming at him, with a rare smile that reaches your eyes, as you hold up a round chocolate cake topped by fresh strawberries.

just when he thought it was impossible to fall in love with you harder, you begin singing the happy birthday song. instead of clapping, you sway your body ever so slowly and gracefully. what is arguably considered the jolliest song on earth, you transform into a soft lullaby— the kind that flies you to the night sky and tucks you into bed on the moon, gathers the fluffy clouds and handcrafts them into pillows and a blanket. your voice is light and delicate, sweet as candy. it is an instrument on its own and you do not need anything else. he never knew you were a good singer.

“happy birthday, dear jungkook~ happy birthday to you…”

this is his best birthday yet, and it’s not even his actual birthday.

jungkook is stupidly and hopelessly in love with you.

he welcomes doom, hangs its coat, and pours it a hot cup of tea.

“i hope you like chocolate. i fought someone for this.” you shyly confess with a laugh. “turns out there’s not many bakeries open at midnight.”

he is speechless.

his gaze falls on your lap for a moment, where lies an opened plastic clamshell container, two strawberries too small compared to the ones decorating the cake. on the table, a fruit knife sits on top of the cake box.

you even decorated the bare sides of the cake with half strawberries. he doesn’t think he has seen someone do that yet.

“i- i like it so much.” he stutters. “you made the cake so pretty.”

“thank you!” you beam at the compliment. “okay, time to make a wish.”

he panics a little. he doesn’t know if it’s only a personal or perhaps a universal thing, but he tends to feel pressured when he has to make a birthday wish. he always wants a lot of things.

“five candles means ‘i’m sorry and happy birthday’ by the way.”

but there is five candles, so maybe he is free to be greedy this time.

he slowly flutters his eyes shut, and he takes his time to think. after whispering his wish to the universe, he blows out all of the candles.

“what did you wish for?”

there is five candles, but he only wished for one thing.

“if i tell you…” he begins, transfixed eyes tracing down to your lips. “will you make it come true?”

they part slightly as your chest begins to heave, cranberry stained and inviting.

he yearns, he craves. he doesn’t want to live with regrets, haunted by the what if’s. all or nothing. you deserve his all. he surrenders everything to your court for the touch of your lips.

are you thinking what he’s thinking? do you feel the way he does?

tell him he’s not the only one losing his mind. please.

and when your eyes lock, there is a palpable electricity none of you can deny.

“it’s for your birthday. you don’t have to ask.”

again, the best birthday ever.

without another word, he crosses the short distance, pressing his lips against yours.

there is no fireworks like in the movies and fairytales. instead, he gets flashes of memories in his mind. all those awkward and comfortable moments, stolen glances, blushing and stuttering, captured images, sleepless nights, tears shed. even the bitter memories inserted make this kiss much sweeter. it’s infinitely better than he could’ve ever imagined.

he removes his hand tenderly cupping your cheek, also the other that is anchored on the table, blindly searching until he successfully engulfs your delicate hands in his. he holds them, and the board carrying the cake, tightly.

when you smile against his lips, so does he. you give him a firm peck, so hot that he almost falters on his seat, before breaking away.

“let’s put this aside first.” you giggle, guiding your restless hands to set it down on the table. “you have chocolate all over your hand.”

jungkook can hear you, but he’s not listening. he immediately goes for your lips again, and ends up sorely disappointed when you dodge him.

“whoa, wait. you’ll smear chocolate on my face-”

“you said i don’t have to ask.” he argues.

you narrow your eyes at him.

he hurries with a solution. “i’ll keep my hands behind my back.” and true to his words, he acts as if his hands have been cuffed.

“that works,” you shrug.

he is to blame for his nasty torture when you drag yourself closer to him, draping your legs over his thighs and wrapping your arms around his neck.

you’re practically sitting on his lap and he can’t touch you with his dirty hands. ridiculous.

there is the urge to complain, then lost and forgotten after you seal his lips with yours. he is the luckiest man on earth tonight.

—

“will you stay the night?”

jungkook’s cheeks are beginning to ache, but he can’t stop smiling for the life of him. how could he not? you’re lying on his bed, and this time you’re both under the covers. it can’t be more perfect than this, the way you’re mirroring each other. he’s admiring your face and you haven’t averted your eyes from his either.

at this moment, it feels like nothing else in the world matters.

“if i’m being honest, i’m still scared of the ghost.”

“is he bothering you again?” he quirks an eyebrow, prepared to brawl with a bothersome spirit. he is suddenly aware that the lamp is the only source of light in the apartment. “do we turn on another light?”

“no,“ you chuckle at his reaction. “but he appeared in my dream once after that.”

“what about me?”

“you?” you send him a puzzled look.

he grins toothily. “do i appear in your dreams?”

that earns him a sarcastic roll of the eyes.

“why is it suddenly about you?”

“i’m helping you get your mind off the ghost!”

“can we just… i don’t know…” you avoid his intense gaze, chewing on your bottom lip. “cuddle?”

this is real, right? he isn’t hallucinating?

he already made out with you until the two of you couldn’t breathe. surely, cuddling is nothing compared to that… but he has pined for you for months. going from zero to a hundred is giving him emotional motion sickness. like a rollercoaster, but arguably more dangerous. and he shamelessly lives for that.

“oh, so you got mad at me last week for hugging you but now you want to cuddle?” he mocks humorously.

“change is the only constant in life.” you say as a matter of fact.

and jungkook isn’t very fond of that knowledge, but if it led you to his arms tonight, then he can try to make peace with it.

he spreads his arms, and you push yourself close with an arm over his waist, until you’re properly hugging him and he has your body cocooned with his.

he breathes out a sigh. this is heaven.

“so? have you dreamt of me?”

you make a noise of protest, cheek squished against his chest.

“come on, humor me.” he coaxes you into revelation. “it’s my birthday.”

“…we went on a ferris wheel once.“

“really? were we on a date?”

“i don’t remember.”

“what were we doing?” he continues poking.

“i don’t remember.”

“that’s it?” he grumbles. “you must remember something else.”

you giggle. “it was a long time ago, jungkook.”

“and you didn’t dream of me again after that?”

“stop,” you draw back just enough to see his face. “we have more important things to discuss.”

jungkook gulps nervously.

more important things like what? the meaning of that kiss…? um, kisses? the label of your relationship? are you really bringing it up right away like this? he imagined he would be the one to do it.

“there’s one fish left without a name.”

oh… his face falls.

“have you thought of one?”

“i have, but…” you jut out your bottom lip. “don’t we decide together?”

beneath the stoic demeanor you parade around wearing, he realizes that you’re just like everybody else, craving to be held and to spend quality time with someone who makes you feel special.

he doesn’t hold back on kissing you.

“we will!” he pinches your cheek, which brings out your smile. “i’ll tell you what i think.”

“that goldfish actually reminds me of you.”

“really?”

you nod eagerly.

“how so?”

“the both of you,” you giggle. “always follow me around.”

his jaw falls slack, not expecting to be called out like that. you’re having fun with the fact that he’s wrapped around your finger, huh?

“so you want to name it after me?”

“something like that, but let’s make your name sound cute.”

you hum as the gears in your brain turn. on the other hand, jungkook is not thinking at all, he’s memorizing your face. maybe it’s an artist’s sickness aggravated when faced with the apple of their eye.

“jung… kook…” you take a long pause, lips left in the shape ‘O’ due to the pronunciation of his name. “kook…?”

“you know, i do get called jungkookie sometimes.”

“jungkookie…?” you slowly repeat the nickname.

seconds later, your face lights up.

“then how about kookie? cookie but with-” you draw the letter into the thin air using your index finger. “a ‘k’?”

jungkook is relieved that you instantly put two and two together. he didn’t want to be the one to suggest it. honestly, rather than a cute vibe, he’s going for the manly vibe.

“it sounds so cute. what do you think?”

“i think so too!”

as long as it makes you look this happy, he’d accept any name that you come up with.

“okay, it’s official.” you return to cuddling up to him. “i can sleep peacefully from now on.”

was that bothering you? you truly do care for them. he thinks you might care more than he does.

“let’s sleep…”

before closing his eyes, he plants an affectionate kiss on top of your head. the truth is he doesn’t want to sleep. if it was up to him, this moment would stretch into forever. as you slip into unconsciousness, he tries his damn hardest to resist it. he yawns, wipes his sleepy tears dry on the pillowcase, caresses your hair and forces his hand to move again when it falls on the bed.

“jungkook?”

he hears your voice in its tiniest form yet.

you’re still awake?

he barely is anymore.

“mhmm?”

“i really am,” he feels a light tug at the back of his shirt, your weak hand forming a closed fist. “sorry.”

—

jungkook wakes up at 5am with his stomach grumbling for food. your positions shifted throughout the night and he lies there cuddling you from behind, spending five minutes or so dwelling on regrets. he pictures the cake in the fridge, still in pristine condition, and how different it could’ve been if he didn’t stop himself after three stolen strawberries.

after that, he thinks about breakfast. rolled omelette would be amazing right now. he just stocked up on side dishes too. only problem is he forgot to buy eggs.

who goes to the supermarket and somehow manages to miss the whole egg section?

jeon jungkook, apparently.

a challenge arises: getting out of bed without waking you up. he isn’t a novice, but he isn’t exactly an expert either. he figures it’s just based on luck, and he’s… very unlucky.

he manages to slip out the arm you’re using as a pillow, replacing it with a real one hoping that you wouldn’t notice the difference in your sleep. a second later and you’re already stretching out your limbs.

“where are you going?” you utter raspily, swollen eyes from sleep peering at him.

“out- to buy eggs for breakfast.” he replies in a low voice.

you start to harshly rub off the sleep from your eyes.

“i’ll go with you.”

“there’s no need.” he strokes your hair gently. “sleep more.”

you shake your head stubbornly. “i need to buy something too.”

you drag yourself off of the bed before he can stop you. from your toes down to the heel, you slightly stumble when your feet touch the ground.

“i’ll brush my teeth.”

—

once you and jungkook step out of the building, you both find that it’s still before sunrise, but the street lamps are already turned off. everything under the sky is washed with a shade of blue. it feels almost illegal to be here with no other souls walking the streets, but you can breathe a little easier, and you’re warm because jungkook is holding your hand inside the pocket of his jacket.

what was supposed to be a stolen glance turns into an enamored gaze.

“you look pretty.”

“so do you,” the two corners of your mouth lift into a quick, shy smile.

“yah, jungkook!”

that’s taehyung’s voice.

his best friend approaches from the opposite direction, a pomeranian on a leash waddling and wagging its tail beside him. despite the distance, jungkook can already see his smirk poking fun at him.

count on him to disrupt a perfectly romantic and peaceful moment.

as soon as they meet halfway, jungkook shows him a grimace.

“what are you doing here?”

“to return your camera,” he waves the silver film camera, its strap wrapped around his wrist. “i’m taking tannie on a walk so i decided i’d bring it over.”

“okay, give it and go on your way.”

jungkook snatches it from him, wearing the camera around his wrist as the rightful owner.

when taehyung finally sets his sight on you, jungkook’s fear of embarrassment instantly kicks in. if he says something stupid, he swears to god— he lets go of your hand in favor of putting his arm around your shoulder, gently tugging you closer to him.

“you must be ____!” taehyung snaps his fingers when he, at last, recalls your name, which jungkook knows he’s grown tired of hearing. “nice to meet you! i’m taehyung.”

“ah, yes…”

jungkook senses your awkwardness. he presses his lips into a thin line, sending his best friend a threatening glare that screams ‘i know i’m a hypocrite, but don’t embarrass me.’

“it’s nice to meet you too.” you offer him a polite bow.

“yeontan seems to like you a lot.” taehyung laughs, gesturing at his dog who is nuzzling its face against your shin.

jungkook also smiles in endearment. that’s another animal drawn to you for some unknown reason. he can’t say he’s surprised.

“does he bite?” you cautiously ask.

“no, he’s nice. you can pet him.”

you nod, bending down to gingerly scratch yeontan’s fluffy ears. “hello, yeontan.” you quietly greet him with a voice so sweet.

“honestly, ____ looks familiar to me. have we met before?”

“must be when she rode the dreamboat before.”

“i don’t think that’s it though?” taehyung tilts his head, still racking his memories for your face. “i think i saw her more recently, but maybe not with pink hair.”

you stiffen beside jungkook, knees going weak out of the blue. you straighten up, but you keep your head slightly bowed down, hair falling over your face.

“that’s impossible. maybe it was someone who looks like her.”

“ah, maybe,”

taehyung rubs the back of his neck, giving in to the theory.

“alright then, tannie is getting hyper.” he snorts at his pet trying to run away but is held back by its leash. “see you around, ____! i’ll see you at work, bro!”

“sorry about that.” jungkook intertwines your fingers again. “let’s go.”

he moves forward, and you get left behind.

“____?”

his concern grows when he observes your despondent body language.

“are you okay?”

“huh? oh- i’m okay.”

you snap out of it, but as you walk to the convenience store together, jungkook gets the impression that something is weighing on your mind.

—

jungkook watches you move around the store through the viewfinder of his camera, zooming in on your face when you whip your head around. it fails to capture the countless packs of lozenges you’re hugging to your chest.

“miss ____, who are you buying so many candies for?”

you blink down at them before innocently staring back at the camera. “they’re for my co-workers. it’s flu season so many of them are getting sick.”

—

with the sun returning to reign over the vast sky, the shade of blue has been replaced by an orange hue. the two of you walk back to your apartment building in silence. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, if it’s his fault or not, but your mood changed after your encounter with taehyung.

you’ve decided you want some space and jungkook respects that. the entire time, he thinks about how his hand feels empty without yours. is he being paranoid? he feels like he’s already woken up from a dream too good to be true, crafted out of his greatest fantasies, and he’s going to be thrust into a nightmare— learning that none of it was real. this endless push and pull with you, he’s grown to be somewhat ill at ease in your presence.

he wants it to go away.

he moves closer, content with the mere brush of the back of your fingers against his, but that small pleasure is robbed from him when you pull your hand away.

“let’s stop here.”

the decisive tone of your voice instantly fills him with dread.

you turn to face him, and he searches your eyes for any trace of emotion. sadness, or fear, or even humor… but he gets nothing.

“let’s stop seeing and texting each other.”

and he’s scared most of all when you’re impossible to read. just when he thought he had managed to slither past your walls, he is met by larger and stronger ones with welded spikes.

“what are you talking about?”

“i don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

you said it like it’s nothing. like you haven’t consumed his every thought since he saw you crying and you broke his heart without him knowing your name. like you haven’t been breaking his heart over and over again and he still can’t bring himself to detach from you.

“what is this joke? it’s not really funny.”

but he laughs anyway, or else he’d start crying, and you’d want him less.

“just forget all about me.”

his muscles tense. even now, he doesn’t know if he’s angry, but he is lost and it hurts so much, and he doesn’t know how else to express it without appearing weak.

“you think that’s something i can just do overnight?”

“what makes it so hard?” you raise your voice. the venom stings without the bite. “you don’t even know me that well!”

“then what was last night even about?” he hisses, hands balling into fists. “did you do that just to fuck with my feelings? am i just a game to you? what the fuck is your problem, ____?”

“you told me to use you to make myself feel better!”

it completely catches him off guard when you stomp your feet and produce guttural screams— it borders on a childish tantrum— you damage your throat in doing so, voice coming out high-pitched and scratched up.

his jaw clenches, straining to hold back his tears. the sun has risen and you’ve come to your senses. he regrets opening his eyes and acknowledging the morning.

“it didn’t work— is that what you’re saying? is that why you’re throwing me away?”

he doesn’t get a verbal answer, but your glassy-eyed stare and labored breathing have answered enough.

“wow, that hurts…” he chuckles sarcastically. “yah, seriously- i have to give it to you. i’m shocked… you’re good. you’re a good actor.”

he uses his middle finger to wipe the corners of his eyes, acting as though they are tears of amusement.

“you know, out of everyone i liked… you have to be the most cruel.”

jungkook’s pride has never been this crushed. he feels utterly infuriated and humiliated. yet another exchange of ‘i should have listened’ and ‘i told you so’ between him and his best friend. he’s also sick and tired of his heart leading him to the opposite direction of the love he deserves.

“i hope you find some other lunatic who would let you use them too. have a good life.”

this time around, he walks away, and he would like to think that he did it on his own terms.

—

jungkook loses his appetite after that. he informs his manager that he won’t be able to go to work because he’s feeling under the weather, then he drags himself back to bed.

your scent has clung to the pillowcase, the sheets…

it’s unbearable.

despite his lack of energy, he forces himself to set up the extra bed on the floor. he expected himself to have difficulty falling asleep, but the amalgamation of physical and emotional exhaustion pulls him down under.

he wakes up again in the afternoon. he ignores the cake in the fridge, instead snacking on yogurt and crackers while watching a movie on his computer. he takes a long shower after and buries himself in assignments until dinner time rolls in.

by this time, he assumes taehyung has blabbed about what he saw this morning. his friends must think he’s out here relishing in the honeymoon phase. how he wishes it was true.

he has that whole carton of eggs but he doesn’t have it in him to cook anymore. maybe it’s best that he surrounds himself with people, disrupt his depressing thoughts with loud chatter, and so he makes plans to go to the street market.

“wait!”

he sprints to the elevator, managing to slip his arm between the doors before they close entirely.

under different circumstances, this would’ve been fate instead of bad luck.

—

you stand your ground as jungkook enters the elevator, not sparing him a glance. just like you wanted, he also treats you with indifference. it’s hard to breathe in an enclosed space with him now that he hates you.

two girls from the eleventh floor enter; they stand infront of you and jungkook.

“did you find the video?” the girl infront of you, with the blonde hair, asks impatiently.

“wait- i’m looking for it.” her friend, you assume, replies as she is focused on aggressively scrolling and tapping on her phone screen.

“having a sex scandal with your professor? wow, that’s really something. how does that even happen?”

your blood runs cold.

from that statement alone, you can make an educated guess on what exactly they are talking about, but your brain tries to reject the thought. there are many scandals going around these days. maybe they’re talking about somebody else. you hope they are. does that make you a bad person?

“that’s not confirmed, though. the guy’s face doesn’t show in the video… oh, i found it!”

she presents her phone screen to the blonde-haired girl, and you feel as though gallons of ice have been dumped over your head. through the gap between their arms, you get a good view of your face. of the video you were forced to watch so you could acknowledge your sin… the video that not only damaged your reputation but stripped you away of everything. your dignity, your dreams, your people, the essence of your being.

you don’t need to look to know that beside you, jungkook is also secretly watching.

you’re trapped.

“this was really popular at snu but it suddenly got spread outside. my cousin who studies there said the girl’s parents are like- super rich- and they tried to bribe the university, but she still got kicked out. i think her name is ____?”

you bow your head to hide your face, vision gradually going blurry. strangers drop your name so casually to tell the shortest life story known to man. they discard the majority of the parts, retain and distort what entertains them, and in the end, they decide who you are.

you knew it was going to happen eventually, but this isn’t how you wanted jungkook to learn.

you didn’t want to be here for it.

“wow, she’s going at it.”

a scandalized gasp.

“no wonder men are going crazy over this. even the quality is-”

“insane, right?!” the storyteller whisper-shouts.

“but… what if she doesn’t know she’s being recorded? getting kicked out sounds a bit unfair, no?”

“no, no- she even holds the camera when they switch positions. watch!”

you can’t. you can’t take it anymore. you turn away, squeezing your eyes shut in extreme anguish.

you don’t realize that you’re shaking until jungkook holds your hand tightly, it’s almost crushing.

“ah, what are you doing?! turn it off! turn it off! it’s too disgusting from this angle!”

you look at him in shock, for a split moment you forgot he was there. his features have softened; so does your heart.

although you can’t exactly figure out how he’s feeling, you’d take anything that isn’t disgust.

the elevator reaches the ground floor.

as the girls take their leave, you also attempt to step out— but jungkook doesn’t let you. he grips your hand tighter and he presses the button of your apartment floor.

“why did you- i need to go to work…” you meant to chastise him, but your voice comes out small.

“stay a little bit. it’s still early.” he speaks to you softly, wiping off the beads of cold sweat on your forehead.

when did that happen?

“no, i need to-”

you feel dizzy; the walls are closing in on you. the turning of your stomach is bordering on intolerable. you lurch, pushing him away as you clamp a hand over your mouth and gag uncontrollably. you’ve had to experience this humiliation in school hallways, public spaces… in front of your friends, your parents; in the dean’s office. this is the first time your body is having this type of reaction; you feel physically sick, like your body is shutting down.

he rubs your back as an effort to alleviate your ails. “are you okay?”

you could answer, but what’s the point? you’re breaking down in front of him again. you’re no longer the mystifying neighbor he obviously yet secretly cherishes. he has discovered the missing puzzle piece you could never bury even if you died trying.

“did you enjoy it?”

“what?”

you wish he would stop looking at you with those big, sparkly eyes. at this moment, they’re making you feel small.

“the video. was it fun watching it too?”

the silence is suffocating.

he utters your name. he doesn’t know what to say; you don’t know what you want to hear either.

“it doesn’t change the way i see you.”

“bullshit,” you spit out— a knee-jerk reaction.

“look, i-i don’t know what happened but this isn’t right. you don’t deserve this. you can sue ever- wait! ____!”

the elevator opens and he chases after you, effectively blocking your path.

he has officially wore you down.

“it’s not me,” you declare near to tears instead of pushing him away. “it’s not me, jungkook. i d-don’t know how they- they did it. i know it looks so real but it’s not me. i swear-”

and as an act of desperation, after months of having given up on proving it’s all some sort of well-orchestrated deception, your hands come up to the buttons of your blouse.

“it’s not my body.”

��no no no- you don’t have to do this! this isn’t right!” jungkook freaks out and binds your wrists with his hands, unwillingly using his strength on you when you fight back. he anxiously glances at the camera monitoring the hallway. “stop, stop-”

“i just need one person to believe me.”

“i believe you, okay?” he captures your wrists in one hand, the other tenderly caresses your cheek. “i believe you. i promise.”

he cradles your head on his shoulder, hugging you so tightly it almost feels like you’re one person.

“when the girl said you might not even know you were being recorded… the terrible thoughts i had- like what if he…”

it’s too much alone in his head. he can’t bring himself to say it into the universe.

“but you didn’t get hurt, right? nothing like that happened? it’s not even real.” he sniffles, holding you tighter as if that is still possible. “that’s a relief… i mean- this, this is bad, what happened to you is. but i was scared.”

you remain there, dumbstruck and motionless. the line between standing and letting jungkook carry your weight has blurred.

you wish he would never let you go.

—

jungkook brings you to his apartment, sits you down in the kitchen, and takes out his birthday cake from fridge. he conveniently finds two pairs of chopsticks in a plastic bag on the table and offers you one, which you accept without thinking. you think he understands that you don’t want to talk about it but you can’t be alone right now either.

chocolate is supposed to help raise one’s spirit, doesn’t it?

well, it tastes delicious, and jungkook is with you. you feel a little less shitty.

he can’t sit still, though.

he cracks open the eggs he bought this morning into a bowl and starts chopping up vegetables to be mixed into it. all the while you sit and watch in silence. no, in peace. the rhythmic tapping of the knife against the chopping board is like music to your ears. even the sound of the oil crackling as he pours the beaten eggs into the frying pan.

you abandon the endorphin-inducing treat on the table. you saunter over to jungkook in search of something else more associated with love, sneaking your arms around his torso. a tidal wave of relief washes over you. this feels more like resting, and you can’t believe you’re saying this, better than drugs. as it turns out, you’ve been homesick for a body you haven’t touched. a hug can’t fix your life, but it may convince you that it’s possible to survive an unfixable life.

however, the key difference between jungkook and nicotine is that you can’t simply have jungkook because you want to.

what he has unleashed upon you is greed.

“i’m sorry,” the more you apologize, the easier it becomes, but you’re also growing sick of it. “i didn’t mean what i said. i was scared of your reaction when you find out so i pushed you away… i keep taking you for granted. i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay, i understand.” he rubs your forearm comfortingly. “just don’t do it again… it really hurt.”

“i like you too.” you confess like you’re running out of time.

you no longer have room for apprehension. you can’t gamble with your chances once more when there’s not much left.

“i wasn’t playing with your feelings. up until earlier, i thought i’d never be able to let you know, so i’m doing it now. i like you.”

a chill runs along your spine. it feels immensely intimate— how jungkook slowly takes a hold of your hand and guides it to his soft lips, pressing a long kiss to your skin.

“i like you too, a lot.” his laughter makes his body vibrate, waking up the slumbering butterflies in your stomach. “incase i haven’t made it obvious enough.”

—

“will you stay?”

you nod your head as you joyfully munch on your fresh homemade meal. “they’re already forcing me to use my vacation days anyway.”

he makes a noise of surprise. “you’ve never missed work?”

you shake your head no.

“rude clients aside, i like what i do. it helps me keep my mind off…” you wave the radish-bearing chopsticks. “things.”

he only nods, ruffling your hair affectionately. “you should eat well, okay?”

“you too!”

you feed him a big bite of your omelette, and then rice, and then kimchi.

it results in stuffed cheeks and aggressive chewing, but you look especially happy watching him eat. jungkook assumes that it’s just how you express your affection, and it’s euphoria to be at the receiving end.

—

you found your way back to where you were last night— jungkook’s warm bed. comfy pajamas and tangled limbs. everything went to shit after you left, so if you were to get stuck here forever, he wouldn’t disapprove.

he listens to you talk as half of his mind is preoccupied by innocently kissing every inch of the exposed skin of your face and neck.

“i’m going to the salon tomorrow.”

he inwardly groans against your neck when your fingers card through his silky yet messy hair, twisting and tugging.

“what color should i color my hair? red? orange? brown?”

“red sounds really great?” he draws back in excitement. “but i’m going to miss your pink hair. how did you maintain it for so long?”

“i only chose it because it doesn’t look good on me.”

“that’s ridiculous!” he exclaims.

you snort. “i thought if it doesn’t fit me then it would seriously change the way i look.”

“then you were very wrong. it fits you so well.” he passionately insists that you see yourself from his point-of-view.

“you’re ridiculous.”

you don’t believe him, but he still earns himself a kiss on the lips.

“have you ever thought of getting a lip piercing?”

“why?” he fails to hide his smug grin. “would it look good on me?”

“mhmm, i imagine so.”

you lazily trace his lips with your thumb. it’s suddenly making him dizzy.

“should i get it then?”

“nope,” you reply with finality. “too many girls would fantasize about kissing you.”

he bursts out laughing. “isn’t that too much of a stretch?”

“i’m a girl! i’d know!”

“so you’re the jealous type, huh?” he cockily quirks an eyebrow.

“i’m not,” you scoff.

“possessive?”

“maybe,” you shrug.

“cool,” he chuckles. “you want to keep kissing?”

you don’t answer and instead you meet his lips halfway with a tug at the collar of his shirt. you’re an amazing kisser; his brain goes haywire once you tilt your head and you kiss him deeper, tongue sneaking in for a taste. he doesn’t want to kiss anyone else again.

as the tension escalates into something hotter, your wandering hand manages to slip under his shirt, teasing and caressing his skin. fuck, he feels like he’s running a fever. however, when your fingers begin tracing and teasing the waistband of his calvin klein boxers, much as it feels heavenly and stirs something feral deep within him, he has to pull away.

not too fast.

he doesn’t want to overwhelm you. he’s afraid you’re not thinking straight.

“are you free this weekend?” he asks as he catches his breath, tongue swiping over his swollen lips.

“saturday night,” you reply with a drunk smile.

“since you granted my birthday wish, shall we make your ferris wheel dream come true?”

your smile fades away a little. “where you work?”

he nods, but he senses your hesitation. “but we can go to a different one, if you’d like.”

as your silence stretches, he also begins to regret having asked you in the first place. after what happened only hours ago, you must not want to go out in public and risk reliving that experience.

“…doesn’t it bother you that your friends may have seen the video already?”

at that moment, taehyung’s voice rings in his ears.

‘honestly, ____ looks familiar to me. have we met before?’

his heart breaks upon the sight of genuine fear swimming in your eyes. he dips his head to press a kiss on your forehead, and he hugs you tight. and tighter. he doesn’t pray much, or ask big questions, but he despises it when bad things happen to good people. he wants to protect you, but how?

“i’d tell them the truth. i’d fight for your case.”

“but what if they don’t believe you…?”

—

a deafening crash resonates in the break room as taehyung’s body slams against the lockers before collapsing on the floor.

“ah, seriously! i said it’s not her!”

“what the fuck, dude?!” taehyung yelps as he sits up, putting a hand over his assaulted cheek. he’s more offended than hurt if he��s being honest.

as it turns out, it does bother jungkook.

taehyung’s phone landed a few feet away from him. the video is still going, and unlike the people in the elevator, he didn’t have the courtesy to keep it muted. obscene moans and sounds of skin slapping repeatedly play from the speakers at a low volume.

“it’s so clear, look! how can it not be her?!”

“it’s edited! it’s ai, you fucking idiot!” jungkook scowls at him.

he picks up the phone, teeth gritted in anger as he exits the video and discovers that it’s posted at an adult website. the view count has reached five digits and the comment section is flooded. he knows this isn’t the only place it’s posted. hell, other people could have it downloaded. although it’s not your body, it’s still you being violated and lusted after. he feels sick to his stomach.

“you should’ve said that from the start!”

he looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, hard, hoping that would erase the explicit images and thumbnails from his memory. after gathering himself together, his eyes zero in on the report button.

he clicks ‘submit’ before he crumbles, weakly sitting down on the chair.

taehyung rushes to his phone that was tossed carelessly on the table. “ah shit- the screen is cracked!”

if this is how he feels, then he can’t even begin to imagine how you feel.

he stares at the floor, eyes unfocused. the world goes on and his back remains hunched over as he struggles to make sense of what he should do.

—

when you were called over to the human resource department, you didn’t exactly prepare yourself to watch your alleged sex scandal on a 21.5-inch computer monitor. the light from the screen reflects on your skin. you have to harshly claw at the skin of your knee to stop it from anxiously bouncing; you force yourself not to also gag when the you on the screen chokes and gags.

“was this reported to you,” you swallow the lump in your throat, shifting your stare to the man in suit and tie. “or did you find it on your own?”

“miss ____,” he leans in on the table, clasping his hands together. the golden band around his finger shines under the dim lighting of his office. “do you even understand the kind of trouble you’re in?”

“am i being fired?”

“but you don’t have to be.” he bares his teeth as if he’s delivering good news. you long to destroy his face and his condescension with your bare hands. “i believe we can agree on an arrangement.”

“what do you mean…?” you ask carefully, grasping the tiny bit of hope that what you have in mind isn’t what he meant.

“i think you know what i mean. you’re smart.”

your heart drops to your stomach when he side-eyes the screen.

“do you expect me to beg for my job and do the same things i did in the video?”

“why?” his tone then becomes threatening. you begin to hear your heartbeat thumping loud in your chest. “you won’t do it?”

but if you allow yourself to be intimidated and treated less than a human being worthy of dignity and respect, then you may never be able to forgive yourself.

your sharp eyes and your cutting words make up for its trembles.

“you’re right, i’m smart. i know you don’t have enough grounds to fire me. you seriously think you can manipulate me this easy?” you contemptuously push over his name plate, the bronze metal tumbling and clashing with the wooden desk. “you’re not qualified for this job.”

your dismissal of his authority bruises his ego. he holds you in a hostile glare.

“if i were you, i would stop talking. right now.”

“or what?” you challenge him. “you’ll hit me…? what would your wife think when she hears about this conversation?”

his face is contorted with anger and frustration, but he is visibly holding himself back from doing something else that would damage his career.

“i plan on suing the people who are responsible for this. i’d appreciate it if-” you gesture at the monitor. “you can delete your copy too. i’ll clean my table and leave.”

“you have a real attitude problem, you know that? you need your eyes opened to the reality of life.” the alarms in your head starts blaring when he slowly gets up from his seat. “i think i know what i need to do to fix it.”

“don’t you dare touch me.” you grit your teeth, tears welling in your eyes as he circles his desk. “i will kill you.”

he squats on the floor beside you, wearing a mocking grin. you want to move away, but the chair is too small, and you’re determined to show him that you have no fear.

“you’ll kill me?”

he grabs a fistful of your hair, tilting your head back, and a scream is ripped out from your throat. the pain is mind-numbing; if he does it long enough, your guess is that you’d surely faint. he forces your head to the direction of the monitor.

“who you should be killing is the man who put you in this situation.”

you close your eyes. you try not to let him get under your skin, but the tears rolling down your cheeks are your self-made traitors.

you have. in your head. a million times. is it truly a man? is he even alone?

as you tiredly re-open your eyes, you unleash the pepper spray you’ve been holding under your thigh and begin spraying it all over his face. when he collapses on the floor, screaming and clawing at his own skin, your hand also falls limp over the armrest. you take a deep breath, blinking at the mess you made with heavy eyelids.

does it hurt that much or is he simply dramatic?

you’d stay and enjoy his demise, but you decide he’s not worth your time.

“____, come back here!”

“oh-” you freeze on your tracks.

you pull the lace of your company id over your head, hurling it at his face. he rolls over with an agonized groan.

“i quit!”

you unlock the door, dry your tears, and walk out of his office with your chin held high.

—

you stand at jungkook’s door, staring down at your shoes. you’ve been contemplating on whether you should knock or not. you want nothing more but to crawl into his arms, but a part of you is holding back. is it right to drag him into your world? you’d hate it if he becomes infected by your sadness. it broke you to pieces when he cried because he thought you were hurt. what would his reaction be if finds out what happened tonight?

“____!”

jungkook approaches with a plastic bag from a 24/7 restaurant nearby. judging by his tousled hair, he must’ve just woken up from a long nap. and you think to yourself—he’s so handsome—as he walks over to you and you scramble to collect yourself.

“have you been waiting long? sorry, i had to buy dinner.”

“i just got here.” you deny.

“is that so?” he stops infront of you, eyeing your outfit. “is everything alright? you’re home from work so early.”

“i went home.” you force a smile. “i’m not feeling so well.”

it takes everything in you not to cry when he starts stroking your hair with the gentlest hand.

“what’s wrong…?” he frowns. he worriedly presses the back of his hand on your forehead, then your neck. “you are a bit hot.”

“i think i just need some more sleep.” you dismiss the topic quickly, throwing your arms around his neck for the hug you’ve been yearning for since you walked out of that office.

his free arm wraps around waist, pulling you taut against him. he doesn’t ask you anything. like you, he closes his eyes, and he nuzzles his cheek against you, not taking any second for granted.

—

you spend the remaining days before saturday locked up in your apartment, withholding the fact that you quit your job from jungkook. with work gone and social media apps wiped out from your phone, there’s not much to do. just like always, you feed the fishes and converse throughout the day over the phone. they eat less and less as the weather gets colder. you bring up the growing size of the fishes and he agrees that they should be moved into a bigger tank soon. he sends you photos of him bored in class and you send him photos of you in bed. every second that passes by, you feel guilty for holding on to him until the very end.

you greet him with a radiant smile, opening the door just enough for him to see your face. you can tell that he styled his hair, sprayed on more perfume than usual. he looks absolutely dashing. it almost makes you mad.

“are you ready?”

you can feel the crushing weight of everything that hides behind the door. your clothes, your shoes, your self-care, your stacks of medical textbooks… your entire life packed in boxes and bags.

jungkook was right. out of everyone he liked, you must be the most cruel.

—

he doesn’t take you to his workplace, and instead brings you to their largest competitor. the amusement park is swarmed by locals and tourists alike, waiting for the firework show to commence. you hide your face with a thick scarf wrapped around your neck. you’ve been waiting, freezing, in line for over an hour, but you don’t mind it at all. it only means more time spent with jungkook.

you take turns in biting on the pretzel he bought to get rid of your boredom, happy and content in your shared bubble among the hundreds of voices within the vicinity conversing all at once. you become the other half of those lovey-dovey couples people cringe at in public. every now and then you and jungkook mimic a stranger’s voice, or the instrumental music from the nearby rides, and you laugh until your tummies ache. he hugs you to warm you up and you reward him with a kiss on the cheek.

“your hair looks even prettier in person.” jungkook compliments you with stars in his eyes.

“thank you! it turned out better than i expected. i’m really happy about it.” you gush, confidence renewed. you eat the last piece of the pretzel happily. “red or pink?”

“okay, red does suit you better,” he admits. “but i still think you were also beautiful in pink.”

“since you’re always saying that, i’m starting to believe it.”

“you should, because it’s true.”

“have i ever told you that you’re handsome?”

he shakes his head with a half-amused, half-sheepish smile.

“well, you’re very handsome,” you declare playfully, but you believe it a hundred percent.

“thank you,” he bursts into a fit of giggles, and it delivers you a special kind of joy— making him happy.

“lemonade?” he offers you the drink he’s holding.

you slot the straw between your lips, taking a few sips. your eyes widen in surprise, also delight. “it’s hot?”

“it’s good, right? i feel so warm.”

he sips on the drink himself. at the same moment, the line begins to move.

“oh! it’s our turn!”

he grabs a secure hold of your hand, not allowing a slither of chance of you slipping away from him. you give out your tickets, and the remains of them returned, one of them jungkook takes and the other, you slide into the pocket of your shoulder bag.

“oh, it’s too high-”

your nervous pondering is interrupted by a yelp, thanks to jungkook effortlessly lifting you into the moving cabin with his hands on your hips. with a boyish grin, he jumps in after you.

—

he curiously watches you set up your phone on the parallel side of your shared seat, you and him filmed by the front camera and displayed on the screen. he chooses not to say anything, but he is pleasantly surprised that you are the first one who initiated on recording this memory.

once you fix it into the perfect angle, you return and sit beside him with a hint of satisfaction painted on your expression. but as soon as the the cabin quakes mildly, it morphs into nervousness.

“it’s okay, it’s normal.” he strokes the back of your head, reassuring you. “are you afraid of heights?”

you scoot closer to him, and he forgets how to breathe for a moment when you innocently lay your hand just above his knee. “i try not to be.”

“i was going to suggest the rollercoaster next, but maybe not.”

once again, the cabin moves, causing a whimper to emit from your throat. your nails begin to dig into his thigh, their sharpness dulled by his denim pants.

“anything but that- i have bad memories with the rollercoaster.”

“maybe i should sit on the other side to balance ourselves bett-”

“stay!” you quickly pull him back down, resulting to another shake. “in my dream, we sit next to each other.”

“oh,” his lips shape into a smirk. “anything else i should know about?”

“you had your arm around me.” you bat your eyelashes.

he does as you request, hugging you to his side.

“like this?”

you shake your head with a sound of disagreement, moving his hand from your arm down to the curve of your waist.

“you suddenly remember everything.” he remarks with a teasing squeeze of your flesh.

you sheepishly smile, shrugging. “eh, i remember this much.”

he loves moments like this— when your innocence rises to the surface and allows him a glimpse of your purest parts. they completely contradict everything your brain leads you to think is for your protection. you don’t want to be alone, and you do want to be held.

amidst his bittersweet musing, the night sky begins to be lit up by a sequence of launched explosives, shooting off glowing embers that descend slowly through the air.

he jolts on his seat and clings to you as a result.

“ah, that scared me!” he whines in annoyance.

you spare his scaredy-cat moment a short giggle. you barely pay him any mind; you didn’t even look at him. jungkook decides to watch the fireworks from your wonder-filled eyes. the colors soar across your irises— he can’t really differentiate the silver and the gold; there’s also blue and green; a lot of red.

his view from here is one-of-a-kind. he temporarily mistakes you for a painting. brings out his phone. snaps photos of you like one instinctively does in an art gallery.

the mortification only sets in when your eyes meet the camera and upon realizing, you give him your dazzling smile.

“you should watch the fireworks too.” you scold him lightheartedly, redirecting his hands outside. “they’re amazing.”

and he obeys you.

for a short while.

you catch him longingly gazing at you sooner the second time around. he likes that he doesn’t need to look away anymore because his feelings are already out in the open, and most importantly, reciprocated. he catches your eyes flicker to his lips. he swears this is the most romantic scene of his life. will anything ever come close? you cup his cheek in your delicate hand, bringing your plush lips to his. he wonders how many times you also hesitated to kiss him before. how long would it take before he has kissed you more times than he didn’t?

—

jungkook is glued to his phone, walking at a slower pace behind while you search the spacious parking lot for your motorbike.

the wicked reality he stole you from momentarily waves at him as a reminder that ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. a notification from a fan that says they found a clip of your video on another social media platform and reported it there too. a notification containing the link. he clicks on the app and finds that his latest video has reached almost half a million views.

technology has gone too far. how is there no law for this yet??? someone's life is ruined

what is this. you've totally ruined the video for me

jungkook!! when are you going live again?

everyone stop spreading the video around!!!!!!!!!! report it if you see it!!!!

but how come you suddenly made a ten min vid talking against ai so passionately? do you know this girl personally?? haha

lol? he already talked about ai in a live before. his follower would know that he knows a lot about editing and technology too. hes using his knowledge for good. stop assuming

it was obvious from the start ㅠㅠ the expressions look a bit unnatural. this is unsettling.... i feel so bad for her

um .. am i the only one who doesn't know about this

you're better off not knowing 😭

it's gone viral recently

how? it's all over my feed

his temples throb with a threat of an incoming headache. he can only hope and pray that he didn’t do more harm than good… and by some miracle you don’t find out about this, at least not before he is prepared to see you mad at him again. sharply inhaling, he swipes out of the comment section and tucks his phone back into his small crossbody bag.

“wait for me!”

he jogs to catch up to you, hurling himself to your back. you are both nearly knocked over if not for him throwing his strong arms around you.

“you’re so hyper. are you a puppy?” you groan. “go put your helmet on.”

“this hurts my pride. i said i’m not wearing it again!”

he is, once again, left with no choice when you forcefully shove your only helmet over his head.

“calm down, nothing bad will happen anyway.”

“this feels so wrong.” he continues complaining. “everyone i know owns an extra, just so you know.”

“well, i never planned on riding with a passenger.” you pull down the visor, sealing the deal. “hold on tight, okay?”

—

how often do you see a man on the road sitting at the back of an expensive motorbike that his cool girlfriend drives? jungkook wishes someone could take a photo and send it to him as a memento because being that man is pretty darn fun. except for the part that you’re not wearing a helmet and he’s also freaking out in the back of his mind, especially when the vehicle tilts even at the slightest.

but yeah, fun.

until the rain starts to come down and he ends up numb from the freezing cold.

your driving speed decreases. you move farther into the center of the lane to avoid the slippery paint on asphalt.

“jungkook, remove my glasses.” you instruct him urgently.

“okay!” his arm freezes in the air. “wait, where do i put it?”

“fuck, anywhere. over my head!”

—

owing it to your driving experience and extreme carefulness of your passenger, you park at your designated parking space safely. by the time you do so, the rain has become a downpour.

“run!” you shout as you both begin to brave it.

for the record, jungkook tried.

his shoe slides against the wet and slippery ground and a startled scream leaves his mouth as it all happens too fast. he lands on his butt, but loses balance again and ends up completely lying down in the middle of the parking lot.

“jungkook!”

alongside the fierce raindrops, your frantic footsteps bringing you to jungkook contest in creating loud splashes. you get down on your knees, forcibly shaking his frame with yet another call of his name.

“are you okay? where are you hurt?!”

garnering no response, you resort to giving his face weak slaps.

“stand up. this isn’t funny.”

his ears catch you blowing out a sigh, layered underneath is the most adorable growl he has ever heard— reminds him of a tiger cub. there is the lightest trace of smile on his lips as you carry his head over to your lap with utmost gentleness.

“jungkook!”

you wipe his rain-soaked face with your rain-soaked hands as if it would do something. he dies of laughter inside.

“are you being serious right now?!”

he slowly cracks one eye open, and then the other, greeting you with the most gleeful giggle. he’s so stupidly happy it’s almost painful. chest-restricting. doesn’t help much when you hit his chest, rightfully so, and he laughs harder.

“ugh, you’re so annoying!”

his upper body tumbles over again to the wet ground when you return to your feet. the view from here is not that bad. he is losing half his mind from the cold and his eyes are blurry from the rain. it presents itself as the perfect opportunity to say something cheesy about going to heaven, but would an angel nudge him with their foot and say “stand up. we’re totally going to get sick now, you jerk!” before running away?

in jungkook’s defense, he checked the weather forecast this morning. it’s painfully clear to him now that they lied. the two of you are dripping all over the floor mat in front of the building’s entrance doors. there is no other choice but to wring your clothes here to minimize the trail of mess you will leave behind when you go up to your units.

you’re squeezing out the water from your hair. he is left with a white t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin as he does the same with his sweater.

the earthy and distinct smell of the rain clings to the air, and therefore, everything.

“jungkook,”

“yes?” he cranes his head to your direction and your eyes connect.

“don’t get sick.”

“i won’t! i’m healthy. i only get sick once a year.” he boasts with a grin.

given the length difference, jungkook’s method is messier than yours— he shakes the water out of his hair like a puppy.

“okay, rude-” you chide at him, flinching away from the shower.

“oh i’m sorry!”

didn’t think about that, he winces.

“aquarium after showering?”

—

“worms make me queasy.” you make a noise of disgust as you dispose of your plastic gloves.

“but clem loves them.”

“true,” you return beside jungkook, who is watching your five beloved swimmers with pure fascination. “but not as much as coral does.”

“sometimes i wonder if they’re getting tired of seeing our faces everyday.”

“i hope not,” you frown.

after all, they’ve taken over a considerable chunk of your daily life for the past half year. you worried more about their meals than your own. you hated it when clementine and dahlia would get scared and hide from you at the beginning. you worked hard to gain their trust. how long will it take for them to forget you? contrary to the three-second memory span myth, you read that they can keep memories for weeks, some claim months, at least five, or even years.

“yeah, probably not because they associate us with food.” he chuckles.

“that’s true.”

he straightens up and drops himself on the couch. while you’re alone, you take your time to prepare your heart.

you try your hardest to look at every little detail of each fish, anything you haven’t seen before. you always loved the way their tail and fins glide and flow as they swim, reminiscent of long hair blowing with the wind. when they play about the shipwreck, it feels you’re being healed. something broken can still be a source of joy.

“i had a wonderful time, by the way.” you turn to jungkook, making your way to where he is. “thank you for tonight.”

“me too. i was so happy.”

he squeezes you to his side, dipping to press a kiss to your temple. you never understood people who preferred forehead kisses until you met jungkook. a kiss on the lips meant being wanted, and maybe that was everything to you.

“but i’m buying the extra helmet myself tomorrow.”

“you don’t have to do that!”

while he laughs, you force a smile.

there’s no point. there will be no next time.

“no but thank you for everything, really… my life has been a living nightmare but- but i felt like a person again when i was with you.”

you take a pause, willing yourself not to cry. you need to tell him everything you haven’t said so you can live with less regrets.

“you’re such a kind person. i’m sorry that i always lashed out on you too. just because i was hurting doesn’t make it right to hurt you.”

“why are you talking like that?” he questions you suspiciously. he masks his nervousness with a tone of humor. “it sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

because you are…

you’ve never been good at goodbyes. the original plan was to leave in the middle of the night without letting him know, leaving a note was an option. either way you know that you will hurt him, and as an admitted coward, you didn’t want to witness that.

but in the future, when you reminisce about him, you don’t want to be overcome with guilt. and when he reminisces about you, you don’t want memories of you to be tainted with bitter resentment. you hope that when either one of you sheds tears, the pain of loss eventually becomes gratitude for what you had momentarily.

and so, you take a deep breath.

“i need to tell you something.”

he stares back into your eyes without saying anything. in the duration of that silence, jungkook is able to interpret and predict where your shared story is heading.

“you’re leaving…”

the end.

you never considered that hearing him say it would hurt much more than telling him yourself.

“when?”

“my flight is in six hours. i’m so sorry.”

you nearly break down into the tears, but you harshly chew on your bottom lip. you can’t cry, not in front of him. you don’t have the right.

“my parents, they finally forgave me… i can continue studying with their help. but no one wants to accept me here anymore, i tried, everywhere… so i’m going back with them to milan.”

“where they work…” he says meekly. he remembers you mentioning it in passing.

“can’t you postpone?” he tries to spark up even a smallest crumb of hope. he places his hand over yours, squeezing lightly. “even just for a day?”

you shake your head, unable to look him in the eyes, but you flip your hand over so you can hold his. and you do. tightly. and when it doesn’t feel enough, you use both hands and you clasp him in between.

the silence in between is suffocating.

“when will you come back?”

“i don’t know.”

“i can wait-”

“no, you can’t.” you interrupt, looking at him decisively. “you shouldn’t.”

with hardened features, he challenges your stare. you’re not scared or intimidated. he’s not angry. he’s just…

“that’s not for you to decide.”

fighting for you.

you’d be a hypocrite if you said that you wished he wouldn’t.

“jungkook, please, don’t.”

you throw your arms around his neck, hugging him so he won’t be able to see your face and decipher your thoughts. deep inside, with logic thrown outside the window, where all you can see and feel and touch is him, you wish that he would beg and convince you to stay.

“you’d only waste your time doing that. you’ll meet someone else…”

those words leave a bitter taste in your mouth. possessive, he jokingly described you once.

“don’t say that.” he interjects.

“you deserve to be happy, jungkook. there is so much more to life.”

“i knew- i-i had a feeling you would leave soon. i just didn’t know when.”

a tear drips from your eyelash; you hug him tighter and wipe it off on his shoulder.

“i wish i could’ve done more.” he utters regretfully. “to help you. and comfort you. you endured everything on your own…”

“you believed me and you stayed with me. you did more than everybody else.”

taking away the science of it, it’s common knowledge that a hug has wondrous healing effects. it’s one of those things that we naturally learn through experience, feeling. the hormone and neurotransmitter oxytocin can affect how we feel and respond to pain. studies say that it kicks in for hugs that last at least six to twenty seconds.

“will you be okay there?” he whispers. he’s gently stroking the expanse of your back and it feels like getting tucked into bed.

by now, you’ve been hugging jungkook for over twenty seconds, and you realize that the time is irrelevant. perhaps what they are referring to are the hugs you wouldn’t mind staying in forever.

“i’m scared,” you confess. “but i’ll be okay.”

a glimpse at the aquarium and enters a silly, gutwrenching thought.

“you know… maybe in another life,” you peek fondly into a future that may very well never exist. “we’re old and married, and we have a big pond instead of an aquarium.”

jungkook draws back and stares you down with his tearful eyes.

you clear your throat, face going warm with regret. “sorry-”

“you’re impossible-” he mutters before leaning in to kiss you.

you’re frozen at first, mind going blank, until he’s kissing you deeper, gripping your waist tighter, with intense emotions you’ve never felt him express before, and you are forced to remember that this kiss is a goodbye.

your hands around his neck fall over his shoulders, and you grant him the power to let you fall into the abyss where nothing else exists but the two of you.

you stop worrying about the time ticking.

you do not think about pulling away.

he is the one who breaks the kiss and your heart is broken.

his gaze is heaving with longing as does his aching chest. “why can’t it be in this life?”

you think this is when the gravity of the situation comes crashing down on you. jungkook is once in a lifetime. he is the person you will dedicate a memoir to when you reach the point in life where the only thing left to do is to look back. revealing the closet full of skeletons of who you were and who you will never become. he will be the subject of your what if’s, the other main character of the alternate version of your life story. the cynics will clamor, your time together was too short for it to have meant something, ignorant of the most lamentable grief— and you will envy them for it.

the corners of your mouth are lifted into a wistful smile. “fate made us meet at the wrong time, when i’m the wrong person for us.”

—

when you arrive at your apartment, you are deprived of the privacy to break down. your brother and your family driver, mister lee, have only begun hauling your bags and boxes. you try to ignore their presence, head straight to the bathroom, but as always, your brother doesn’t allow you peace.

“are you seriously bringing your motorbike too?”

you take a deep breath to compose yourself, but you still end up gritting your teeth. “it’s mine.”

“it’s too expensive to have it shipped-”

“shut up, you’re not the one paying for it.”

you turn on your heel, but you become rooted into place when you hear jungkook’s name.

“that boy you were with- jungkook, is it?”

you face with him a look of suspicion, eyebrows furrowing. “why do you care?”

he casually leans against the kitchen cabinet, hands tucked into his jeans’ pockets. “he must genuinely like you a lot to make that video. the tide has turned because of him.”

“wh-what are you saying?” you sputter. “what video?”

he narrows his eyes at you. “you don’t know what i’m talking about?”

“are you fucking with me again?”

“yeah- okay, nevermind.” he dismisses the topic, straightening up to pick up one of the boxes that will be carried to his car.

“moon!” you irritatedly shout his name, throwing the first thing that your hand touches. the comb hits his back before falling on the floor with a smack. “what is it?!”

“god, ___! it’s nothing! forget about it!” he barks, going straight for the front door with two boxes stacked in his arms. “go and make sure you didn’t forget to pack anything. i don’t need you nagging me when a package gets lost on its way to milan.”

you’re obviously having a hard time. can’t he go a little gentler on you?

“and cover your face.”

“does it matter? i’m already leav-”

“dad asked for it— not me. just do it, ____.”

you weakly slump back against the wall. you have no fight left in you today. you’d like to commend yourself for making it this far, surviving the worst of the worst and having the courage to come out of the tunnel, but you fail to make the distinction between being strong and becoming jaded.

“ma’am-” mister lee offers you a handkerchief. “i found it in one of the drawers. did you mean to leave it behind?”

you shake your head, and with a cold, shaky hand, you take it from his open palm.

once the tears begin to slide down your cheeks, there is no more stopping them.

as a sign of respect to you, he also leaves the room.

you choke back a sob, clutching to your chest— the handkerchief you were never sure if you were given or you stole.

—

jungkook’s tears glimmer from the lighter’s dancing flame. after several clicks, he manages to light up the cigarette. he isn’t innocent–after all he’s already an adult—but it’s a habit he makes an effort to avoid. surely, he can give himself a pass today, though. he’s heartbroken, and he feels pathetic enough hanging out in the alleyway you frequented.

he blankly stares at the lighter you believe you lost due to your carelessness. thinking back to your words from earlier, he’s furious at how calm you appeared. it was an easy decision— leaving him behind.

the rain has stopped, but raindrops collected by the roof still trickle to the ground and clang against metal pipes.

with trembling lips, he exhales the smoke— a sob threatens to be ripped from his throat and he roughly covers his mouth to stop it.

what could possibly be the lesson he’s supposed to learn from this pain?

he didn’t know where else to go. at his apartment, he’d feel you leave. at the lobby, he’d see you leave. he’d go far, but he doesn’t want to be too far. until the very end, he is at your disposal.

you could’ve been the one. no, he desperately wanted you to be the one. if you had stayed, he would’ve loved you as often as he breathed— but your paths intertwined only to be unraveled.

some sadistic tool, fate is. what was the point of finding you again?

a passerby’s fleeting shadow blocks all sources of light casted over jungkook’s secret place.

you wear your only carry-on, a duffle bag, around your body.

you cross the street with unhurried steps.

as you climb into your getaway car, jungkook flicks off the ash from the cigarette held between his fore and middle fingers.

the tires roll over the wet asphalt, leaving behind a hissing echo. your brother’s car follows suit.

thirty-five, thirty-six… jungkook anxiously counts the vehicles he hears driving away.

was one of them you?

…are you gone?

#jungkook au #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook one shot #jungkook drabble #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts fluff #bts reaction

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starseungs · 3 months ago

Text

of fishes and chocolate muffins. ksm.

kim seungmin x gn!reader — working the morning shift at a cafe on weekdays isn't really the best, entertainment wise. still, eavesdropping on your customers wasn't something you did on a daily basis. it just so happened that two of your regulars had something in store for you today.

GENRE/S — fluff, humor, a pinch of angst, cafe/coffee shop au, writer!seungmin (barely mentioned) • 1.2k words

WARNING/S — profanity for humor, seungmin is pretty down in the dumps for most of this, part 2 of this fic but a different y/n, mentions of unrequited love

( ✒️ ) happy birthday to @seungiepaws !! here's your request for a part 2 of universe lovie, i know i said i'll do a drabble as a gift but it ended up a little longer so you're getting a whole fic mwah <3 i hope you like it

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

The small bell perched on top of the cafe’s entrance door chimed softly at the arrival of a new customer. Your well-rehearsed greetings immediately followed, words racing out of your lips before you could even think twice. It really didn’t matter whether you meant them or not. As long as the guest felt welcomed, then that meant you were already doing your job well.

You doubt any of them ever even acknowledged your efforts, anyway. That was just how the world worked on a normal Monday morning—everyone running on autopilot until the seemingly brainless hoard of zombies got their lethal dose of caffeine or sugar and started acting like proper functioning members of society for the rest of the day. Then, the cycle repeats.

As an “all-rounder” cafe employee (as you liked to call yourself), this was just another day in the bigger scale of the year. Not too important, nor was it a particularly boring day. That simply wasn’t possible if you were working at a cafe, or really, just working in general.

“You’re always here, dude.” An exasperated voice groans from the window booth next to the serving counter. You recognized his face right away as one of your regulars who looked like a hamster. “At this point, you need to pay this place rent.”

The man he was talking to rolled his eyes with a scoff, even though his fingers never stopped typing on his laptop’s keyboard. “I’m a paying customer. Objectively, I’m already giving them money to stay here.”

You couldn’t help but silently snort at the guy’s comeback. He wasn’t entirely wrong, after all. This cafe’s prices already took into account the amenities they could use here. So technically speaking, as long as customers bought something from the cafe’s menu, they could stay for as long as they want until the establishment closes. That’s not usually the case, though. Most people still had places to be and other things to do other than have a staycation on some random cafe seat.

Note that you said “most” instead of “all”. Of course, there were always bound to be those who, for the lack of a better description—overstayed their welcome.

And one of them is that chestnut-haired male who was currently getting berated by his friend.

“Seungmin, seriously!” The other guy, who you finally remembered being named Jisung from his previous orders, exclaimed in concern. “You can’t just stay here all day, every day. I know you’re trying to get over your roommate, but at least make use of your rent?” Jisung almost pleads.

You really didn’t mean to eavesdrop on their conversation, as the topic seemed awfully private, but what exactly could you do from the close proximity of the counter and their booth? It’s not like you were judging the two of them. There was no harm intended, and you were sure you’d still go about your day as usual with or without this newly obtained knowledge from strangers.

Seungmin sighed. “I don’t think you want me to be cooped up in my room writing either, so what do you really want to achieve?” His hands finally parted ways from his keyboard for the first time in about an hour. “Jisung, you know being alone in the apartment is only going to remind me of how my roommate is out there with their boyfriend being all happy and enjoying life while I’m over here writing sappy fictional love stories because I don’t have one of my own.”

“Oh, but you do.” Jisung huffs. “It’s just the unrequited kind.”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Just saying,” he comments. “I’m gonna let you sulk all you want as part of your healing process, but you really shouldn’t be sacrificing yourself just for the thought of them. You deserve better, Min.”

If you could only agree out loud, then you already would’ve. Unfortunately, that meant revealing the fact that you’ve been secretly listening in to the personal conversations of your customers, and you weren’t completely sure if that was even legal for you to do so. Still, what are they going to do? Charge you for having ears?

“I don’t know,” Seungmin mutters. “I’ll manage it eventually.” And to this, Jisung only frowns.

Now, you were just as frustrated as Jisung was. Seungmin is an attractive guy—you were one hundred percent certain that he could get anyone head-over-heels for him if he wanted. And yet, here he was, a monotone mess over unrequited love? Whoever that roommate is, they had severely failed to see the vision since if that was you, best believe you weren’t letting him go just like that.

Seungmin had honestly caught your eye ever since the moment he started going to this cafe. To put things into perspective, you were practically all smiles for the rest of the day every time he came to order something in the mornings before his daily schedule. When he started staying for whole days, it was only a matter of time before you ended up shooting your shot, even if you barely knew anything about him. Heck, the most you even knew about him was that he liked the chocolate muffins the most here!

A plate of chocolate muffin was heavily plopped down on the two men’s table, startling them due to the sudden act. They exchanged confused glances before Jisung cleared his throat to speak. “Uh—we didn’t order that.”

“It’s on the house.” You pursed your lips.

“What?” Seungmin asks, dumbfounded. You knew he was going to ask for a reason until he saw the look on your face while staring at him. His expression quickly shifted to one of mortification. “Were—were you eavesdropping on us?”

You clicked your tongue. How were you finding his reaction to that so cute? “Look, I didn’t mean to,” you explain. “See that counter? Just how far do you think my station is to your booth for me not to hear a single thing?” Seungmin only grumbles—probably to hide his embarrassment.

“Alright, sure. Whatever,” he says. “I still don’t need that muffin.”

Your eye twitched involuntarily. All of a sudden, you were already leaning on their table with narrowed eyes pointed at the laptop-facing man. “Okay, listen here, you soggy rained-on puppy.” You could have sworn you heard Jisung choke. “This is gonna sound really shitty of me, but there are plenty more fish in the sea. The same goes for your experiences in life. Trust me, you’re not even close to losing those opportunities yet. Unless you’re trying to live like a saint, that is. So grow some balls after your little pity party.”

“That was,” Seungmin exhales shakily. “Vaguely threatening. But somehow I’m not as offended as I thought I would be, so—uh, thanks?” He taps lightly on the plastic cup of his drink, looking away awkwardly.

You lifted yourself off the table and crossed your arms. “My name is Y/N. I work here every morning on the weekdays.”

“Right,” he hums, still not glancing your way and instead facing the baked good you dropped by their tabletop. “So, is this muffin really free?”

All you let yourself give him was a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah. Just call me whenever or something. Congratulations on hooking a new fish,” you said without shame before walking away back to your station.

If you only looked back for a moment, you would’ve seen Jisung gasping for air from laughter with an incredibly red faced Seungmin blanking out as he held a serious staring contest with his muffin.

You could only hope that cheered him up a bit.

MASTERTAG ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka @starlostastronaut @minsueng @l3visbby @myjisung

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libingan · 1 month ago

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i havent had a proper sleep since monday!!!! do you know how much caffeine ive consumed to be able to pull these damn all-nighters?!?!?!? jesus fucking christ man

hopefully ill be able to sleep tonight 🙏

könig’s always been a little shy, a little hesitant. you’ve known that since the first time you met him, towering over you but never quite looking you in the eye. it’s almost amusing, how a man his size can be so... submissive, so easy to unravel with just a few soft words and gentle touches.

he’s practically trembling under your touch now, hands clenched into the sheets, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. he’s trying so hard to hold himself together, but you can see the cracks forming, the way his body is betraying him. it won’t take much to push him over the edge.

you lean in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “good boy.”

that’s all it takes. the moment those words leave your lips, könig lets out a strangled moan, his whole body shuddering as he finally loses control. thick ropes of cum spill from him, coating your hand and splattering across your face. he’s gasping, whimpering, his eyes squeezed shut in shame and overwhelming pleasure.

you can’t help but smile, watching him come undone so easily. pathetic, you think, though there’s a strange sort of affection in the way you look at him. he’s always been so desperate for your approval, so eager to please.

his cock is still twitching, hard and needy despite the mess he’s made. könig looks up at you, eyes wide and pleading, as if he can’t believe what just happened. his chest heaves with each breath, and you can see the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“look at you,” you coo, wiping his cum from your face with the back of your hand. “can’t even handle a few touches without falling apart.”

he whimpers again, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze, but he doesn’t move to stop you. if anything, he seems even more desperate now, his hips lifting just slightly as if begging for more.

“still hard?” you tease, glancing down at his swollen shaft, twitching in the air. “such a needy thing, aren’t you?”

könig doesn’t respond with words, just another low, pitiful moan as his hands grip the sheets even tighter. he’s completely at your mercy, and he knows it. the shame on his face only makes him look more pathetic, more desperate for the attention you’ve been giving him.

you hum softly, wrapping your fingers around his length again, watching the way he shudders beneath you. “don’t worry,” you murmur, stroking him slowly, deliberately, “i’ll take good care of you, könig. you just have to be a good boy for me.”

your lips curl into a sly smile as you see the desperation in his eyes, the way he’s barely holding himself together, trembling under your touch. it’s almost endearing, how a man like him—so massive, so intimidating—can be reduced to this. needy, helpless, and all for you.

“such a good boy,” you murmur, letting your thumb brush over the sensitive tip of his cock, smearing the remnants of his release across his skin. he gasps, his body jerking at the touch, but his hips instinctively lift towards you, chasing your hand, craving more.

you slowly pull your hand away and watch his reaction, savoring the way his brow furrows, the soft whimper that escapes his lips. he looks so lost, so desperate for you. and you’re more than happy to give him what he needs.

“you want more, könig?” your voice is low, teasing as you straddle his waist, letting your wetness brush against the head of his cock. his eyes widen, breath hitching at the sudden contact, but he stays still beneath you, waiting—like the obedient thing he is—for your permission.

“please…” his voice is barely a whisper, almost broken.

“please what?” you ask, leaning down to brush your lips against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. “use your words, könig.”

his hands flex against the sheets, knuckles white as he tries to keep control. “please... ride me,” he finally manages, his voice thick with need, and you can feel the way his cock twitches beneath you, aching for you.

you grin, positioning yourself just above him, letting the slick head of his cock press against your entrance. the anticipation is killing him, you can see it in his eyes—the way they’re locked onto you, wide and pleading, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each shallow breath.

“good boy,” you whisper again, and before he can say another word, you sink down onto him, taking him in inch by inch. könig moans—loud and unrestrained—his hands shooting up to grip your hips, his eyes rolling back as you stretch around him.

he’s so big, filling you completely, and the feeling of him inside you makes your breath hitch, pleasure sparking through your veins. you take a moment, letting yourself adjust to his size, feeling every inch of him pulsing inside you.

“fuck…” könig groans, his voice low and broken. his hands are shaking against your hips, fingers digging into your skin, but he doesn’t dare move. he’s waiting for you to take the lead, to set the pace.

and when you start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips against his, könig’s head falls back against the pillow, his mouth falling open as a choked moan escapes his lips.

“so tight,” he mutters, almost to himself, his eyes squeezing shut as you ride him, your pace slow and deliberate, teasing him with every roll of your hips. “fuck… you feel so good…”

you can feel him twitching inside you, so close to losing control already, and it only spurs you on. you pick up the pace, riding him faster, harder, watching the way he falls apart beneath you, completely at your mercy.

“look at you,” you purr, leaning forward to press your palms against his chest, keeping him pinned beneath you. “so desperate to be fucked… so needy for me.”

könig’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving beneath your hands as he looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes. he’s a mess—moaning, trembling, completely undone by the way you’re riding him.

“please…” he gasps, his grip on your hips tightening, his voice trembling with need. “please don’t stop…”

you smirk, leaning down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss, your hips never slowing. “i won’t,” you murmur against his mouth, feeling the way his cock twitches inside you, knowing he’s close. “but you have to be a good boy for me, könig.”

he moans again, louder this time, and you can feel his body starting to tense beneath you, his release just within reach. and you know, with just a few more thrusts, he’ll be yours—completely and utterly undone.

your hips roll harder against him, setting a brutal pace, and you can feel könig’s entire body start to tremble beneath you. his hands grip your waist like a lifeline, and his moans grow louder, more desperate with every movement.

“f-fuck—” he chokes out, his voice breaking as he tries to hold back, tries to keep it together. but you can feel it—how close he is, how badly he wants to let go.

“you’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” you tease, your voice low and breathy, leaning down so your lips are just inches from his ear. “you’ve been such a good boy, könig… i know you want to.”

he nods frantically, his face flushed, sweat beading at his temples as he struggles to keep his composure. “i—i can’t hold it,” he gasps, his hips bucking up into you uncontrollably. “please… i’m so close…”

“then cum,” you whisper, grinding your hips against him harder, feeling him throb inside you. “cum for me, könig.”

that’s all it takes. with a broken, guttural moan, könig’s body tenses beneath you, and you feel the sudden, hot pulse of his release inside you. his grip on your hips is almost bruising as he rides out his orgasm, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

you don’t stop, your pace relentless as you push him through it, milking every last bit of pleasure from him. his moans turn into whimpers, his cock twitching inside you as you keep moving, pushing him further and further into overstimulation.

“don’t think we're finished,” you whisper, leaning down close to his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “i haven’t cum yet.”

könig's eyes widen, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he looks up at you, completely overwhelmed. “i—I can’t—” he stammers, his body twitching underneath you, sensitive beyond belief.

“you can, and you will,” you murmur, gripping his shoulders as you start moving again, this time faster, chasing your own release. “be a good boy and take it.”

könig groans, his hands weakly grasping at your waist, but he doesn’t stop you. he can’t—he’s too far gone, completely at your mercy. every movement sends shudders through him, his overstimulated cock still twitching inside you as you push him to his limits.

you’re close, the tight knot in your stomach coiling tighter with every roll of your hips, every moan that slips from könig’s lips. “just a little more,” you breathe, your pace quickening as you ride him harder, chasing that edge. “i’m so close…”

könig’s eyes squeeze shut, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he struggles to hold on, his entire body trembling with the effort. but he takes it, just like you told him to, his moans turning into desperate whimpers as you grind against him.

and then you feel it—the sharp wave of pleasure crashing through you as you finally reach your climax, your body tensing as you ride out the high. you cry out, your nails digging into könig’s shoulders as your hips buck against his, drawing out every last bit of your release.

only then do you finally slow, your body going slack with satisfaction as you collapse onto könig’s chest, both of you panting, completely spent. he’s still trembling beneath you, his breath ragged, but his arms wrap weakly around you, holding you close.

“good boy,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his neck as his body finally relaxes under your touch.

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod #cod x reader #call of duty smut #konig call of duty #konig x reader smut #konig smut #konig x reader #konig x female reader #konig #konig x female reader smut #könig x reader smut #könig smut #könig x reader #könig x fem reader

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leclsrc · 1 year ago

Text

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun?

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?”

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you.

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.”

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!”

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming.

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him.

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips.

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move.

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking.

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed.

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?”

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise.

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling.

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go.

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—”

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition.

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again.

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview.

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week.

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?”

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.”

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people.

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace.

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say, “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch.

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different.

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?”

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response.

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.”

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change.

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

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joelscurls · 1 year ago

Text

to the ends of the earth

pt ii of feel it in your bones | epilogue

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 12k

summary: You spend the week of Spring Break in Austin with your long-distance-boyfriend Joel. As you settle into a comfortable routine together, questions regarding your future arise.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), fluff, angst (ik ik i’m sorry), smut, phone sex, masturbation (f, m), semi-public touching, unprotected p in v, squirting, creampie, soft dom!Joel, hair pulling, tiniest bit of nipple play, implied oral (f receiving), brief mention of shower sex, use of pet names (darlin’, baby, etc.)

a/n: i’m honestly so overwhelmed with all the positive feedback I got on part 1 - thank you all so much! there will be a part 3 in the form of a lil epilogue, so stay tuned for more of these two! as always, ty to @caffeinated-validation for giving this your eyes <3

Long distance sucks.

It’s been six months to the day since Homecoming Weekend, five since you and Joel put a label on things: “exclusive”. Not like you’d been talking to anyone else. Since Joel left Vermont that first time, he’d occupied your mind, made a home there, nestled deep between grooves of soft brain matter.

He’s been back a couple of times since. Quick weekend trips — much like the first one — just without the bad art and couch surfing. And each time he’s come and gone has been more painful than the last. More memories to reminisce on when you lay in bed alone. More words exchanged to drown in. You feel as if your heart has been ripped apart and stitched haphazardly back together every time he slips from your embrace.

The last time you’d seen him in person was New Year’s, when you’d rented a cabin in the Green Mountains, watched Joel react to his first snow, exchanged I love yous for the first time under falling flurries.

It feels now as if it were a lifetime ago.

It’s never enough — time, kisses, touches. It’s all so fleeting. You want, more than anything, to burrow into Joel’s chest and make a permanent residence there. To go with him where he goes, be with him where he is, always.

But you know you can’t — it’s not realistic. You have your life here, and Joel has his there. You remind yourself of this fact more times a day than you’d like to admit.

You will be with him again soon enough, though, and for the longest stint of time yet. An entire week in Texas, you and Joel.

The thought of it keeps you going in the leadup to spring break.

It’s the night before your flight, an early-morning departure from Burlington International Airport. You’ve waited until the last minute to pack, so here you are, hovering above your suitcase — which lays sprawled out on your bed — aimlessly throwing pairs of underwear and t-shirts into the main compartment.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A much welcomed distraction.

And then you notice that it’s Joel calling.

Your heart skips a beat. You answer. Put it on speaker-phone.

“Hello?,” you purr, flopping down on the small empty space on the bed.

“Hi baby,” he drawls, his voice so sweet and saccharine it makes you melt. “All packed?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m ready.”

“Me too,” he says. “So ready. I miss you.”

“I miss you,” you parrot. “How was your day?”

He sighs. “Fine, I guess. Had a bunch’a loose ends to tie up at this site before Tommy takes over for the week. A lot’a back and forth on the phone, orderin’ shit.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I hope you won’t be stressed all week thinking about it.”

He hums, so deep it vibrates through the phone. It goes straight to your core. “Impossible, babygirl. Once I have you here, ‘m not gonna be thinkin’ ‘bout anything else.”

Your face heats. An unignorable pang of desire swells in your chest.

“Joel,” you say, desperation already coloring your voice.

“Yeah?”

“I need you.”

Phone sex has become somewhat of a norm for you and Joel, that overwhelming need to be close to one another manifesting as desperate touches of your own fingers and half-coherent pleas through the speaker. It’s rare that a bedtime conversation between the two of you doesn’t end in panting down the line, telling each other goodnight through labored, satiated breaths.

Tonight, your need for him is bordering on carnal, carving into your skin like a sharp blade. You know you’ll have him tomorrow, and a number of days after that, but still, it feels so intangible, unreal. Like you can’t let yourself fully believe it until he’s in your arms.

And so you need him — right now — in any way you can have him.

“You wanna touch yourself?”

“Yes Joel — please.”

“Fuck babygirl,” he breathes. “Okay. Lemme take care’a you.”

You slip your fingers under the waistband of your sweatpants impatiently. You feel yourself through the thin fabric of your panties and, unsurprisingly, you’re soaked. It’s like you’ve been pavloved — like all you need is the sound of Joel’s voice, soft and deep like crushed velvet, and you’re gone — every single time.

“I’m so wet,” you mewl.

Joel groans on the other end. He sounds almost pained, like not being there to feel you, to taste you, is physically hurting him. If it is though, he covers it up well, snapping his attention back to you like a reflex.

“You still got your pants on?,” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Take ‘em off for me. And your panties.”

You do as he says, pulling your sweatpants and underwear down in one tug, letting them bunch at your ankles.

“They’re off,” you say.

“Good. Now touch yourself baby, go ahead.”

You shallowly dip two fingers into the pool of arousal that’s formed between your thighs. Then you glide slick digits over your aching clit, back and forth, a quiet whimper slipping from your mouth.

“‘ts it, darlin’,” he coos, “rub that pretty pussy for me.”

You pretend your fingers are his — bigger, rougher — as you increase the pressure you’re applying and begin to rub tight circles against your clit. The thought of your touches being his, instead, leaves you failing to swallow back a moan.

“Joel – ngh – it feels good.”

“‘Good, baby,” he says. “Doin’ so good for me.”

You keep going, your breaths becoming increasingly uneven, your hips inadvertently canting off the bed in an attempt to create more friction. You can sense that you’re dripping onto the duvet below you, staining it with your arousal. You’re way past caring at this point — you just need to cum.

You bring your other hand between your thighs, teasing your entrance. You sigh when you find how much wetter you’ve gotten in just a few minutes. You’re sure Joel must be able to hear the lewd slickslickslick of your fingers swirling against your sopping cunt — which he confirms when he curses under his breath.

“Fuck; that all for me, darlin’?”

“Mhm,” you moan.

“Gonna fuck yourself with your fingers for me? Cum all over ‘em, imaginin’ it’s my cock, instead?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Please, Joel, need your cock so bad.”

“I know babygirl, I know.”

You push two fingers inside as deep as you can get them, crooking them against your walls until you find that spongy spot. You fuck yourself in time with the fingers rubbing your clit, your pace reflexively increasing when you start to feel that familiar warmth growing in your abdomen.

You feel it build, up up up — and then it falls, fading completely.

“Fuck,” you murmur.

You don’t relent. But again and again, even with the perfect amount of pressure applied to your clit and the fingers in your pussy curved just right, you find your orgasm just out of reach. You let out a frustrated whine, your movements stalling completely. You can’t get there, not like this, not alone.

“Joel,” you punch out, “need you to touch yourself. Need you to cum with me.”

He inhales a sharp breath through his teeth. “Fuck, sweetheart — okay.”

You hear a faint clink of his belt on the other side of the phone, followed by the telltale whir of a zipper. There’s rustling over the line. When you hear him sigh, you know his cock is in his hand. And then there’s a shift in his breathing, subtle, but enough that you pick up on it. Evidence that he’s started stroking himself.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Miss that perfect little cunt so bad, baby. Can’t wait to fuck you again. Gonna ruin you.”

You love when he talks to you like this — when he loses himself in it and his tongue works faster than his brain. You’d never imagined when you first met him, reserved, quiet Joel, that he could be so filthy.

“Tell me —“ you plead — “tell me how you’re gonna fuck me, Joel.”

“Fuck, gonna get you in my bed, burry my face between your legs until you’re beggin’ me to stop…”

“Shit,” you gasp, your fingers stuttering at his words.

“‘N then ’m gonna fill you up with this cock, make you go dumb on it, fuck you so good your eyes roll back in your head.”

You whimper. You know he’s not just all talk from experience, and the thought of him fulfilling all these promises so soon has you plummeting toward the brink. As long as he keeps going, keeps talking, you’re not going to last another minute.

“Gonna make you soak it, make you cum all over my fuckin’ cock. Fuck — swear ’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

You feel your orgasm approaching again. But it’s not waning, not this time. You chase it, letting Joel’s words run on a loop in your head: gonna fill you up with this cock, gonna make you feel so good, bury my face between your legs until you’re beggin’, gonna make you go dumb on it, gonna make you feel so good, so good, so good…

“So close Joel,” you breathe. “So fucking close.”

“‘ts it, darlin’”, he says, his voice strained. “‘m right behind you — shit — let me hear you cum. Wanna — ahh — wanna hear you.”

That’s all it takes, just his encouragement, and you’re cumming so hard the room spins.

You can faintly register Joel talking you through it, able to make out a string of good girls through ringing ears. When you finally start to come down, you can tell he’s nearing his own climax, panting down the line as your own breaths begin to even.

“Please Joel,” you beg. “Please cum for me.”

He lets out a low growl, and then your name is spilling from the tip of his tongue, over and over again, in between strangled moans.

The line is quiet for a moment, apart from you and Joel’s shallow breathing.

“Fuck,” he says when he’s recovered from his orgasm, “how many hours til you get here?

You laugh. “I don’t know — too many.”

“Yeah, too many,” he agrees.

There’s another lull. You yawn exasperatedly, only now realizing how exhausted you are. An earth shattering orgasm will do that to you, you guess.

Joel chuckles on the other end.

“Go to bed, baby. It’ll make the time go faster.”

You sigh. You don’t want to hang up. Don’t want to be without him again. But he’s right. He usually is — though you’d never admit it out loud.

“Yeah, okay,” you acquiesce after a moment.

“I love you,” he hums.

“I love you too, Joel.”

“Can’t wait to see you,” he adds.

You smile. You’re glad he can’t see you right now, can’t see how ridiculously giddy he makes you.

“Me either,” you say. “Goodnight.”

“Night, darlin’.”

You’re still grinning like an idiot when you hang up the phone. You lay there for a few minutes, just staring at the ceiling, willing time to move faster.

Eventually you peel yourself off the bed and finish packing. You throw in some lacy bras you know Joel will love — if you end up wearing any real clothes this week, that is. Then you zip your suitcase shut, toss it onto the floor somewhere, and slip under the covers.

You flick your bedside lamp off with a sigh, and begin your attempt to coax sleep. You are tired, but you’re more excited.

When you finally do drift off — at some ungodly hour of the morning — you dream of Joel, of his large arms wrapped around you, his honeyed voice in your ear. Tomorrow, he whispers, again and again. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

You wake up the next morning with butterflies the size of baseballs in your stomach. You get to the airport unnecessarily early, make it through security in record time, and plant yourself down at your gate with a coffee in hand two hours before your scheduled departure.

Your body is practically vibrating in your seat, only partially due to the caffeine. Joel will no doubt still be asleep at this hour, so you shoot him a text to wake up to:

at the airport, all checked in. can’t wait to see you, cowboy <3

And then you send one to Sarah, who you know will be awake, her study-abroad trip to Cambodia meaning she’s probably studying or eating dinner right now.

On my way to see your dad; miss you! Can’t wait to hear all about your studies sometime soon :)

She almost immediately responds:

Yay! Miss you both so much! Yes, talk soon pls - lots to catch you up on. The professors here want me to stay forever (I won’t, dw, need to be able to bother you and my dad on a more regular basis).

You laugh to yourself.

Sarah had been thrilled when she’d found out about your relationship. Had been way too proud of herself for setting you up. When you’d learned she’d faked sick the night you met Joel at the art exhibition, you’d found yourself unable to feign disapproval. How could you care, really, when you’d ended the night straddling him, kissing him?

Not that you’d told her that, of course. She didn’t need to know every detail of that weekend.

It had been…interesting, to say the least, navigating a long-distance-something with the father of one of your students. But Sarah hadn’t pried, even when you’d suspected she wanted to. She’d let it bloom into something more, something real, before beginning to pester you with the questions: isn’t he the worst cook? do you think you guys will get married? can I be your maid of honor if you do?

To which you’d responded: yes (affectionately), I don’t know, and of course you can.

You’ll miss her this week, but another part of you — a more selfish part — is thrilled to have a week alone with Joel, without any distractions.

So thrilled, you can barely steady your shaking hands enough to plug your phone into the outlet under your seat.

You scroll mindlessly on social media as it charges until it’s time to board. Then you’re shuffling single-file down the aisle of the plane to your row, hauling your suitcase into the overhead, and taking your seat next to the window.

It’s your first flight of two, separated by a three-hour layover. You make it to Philadelphia in just over an hour, halfway through the cheesy 2000s rom-com you’d selected on the inflight entertainment screen. You make a mental note to finish it on the next leg.

You get lunch once you’ve tracked down your new gate — pay seventeen bucks for a soggy airport sandwich and a bag of chips that, upon opening, is mostly air. When you sit down to eat, you notice that Joel texted you back.

Got one foot out the front door already. Can’t wait to see you babygirl.

You can’t help the embarrassing smile that pulls across your face.

You re-read the text no less than ten times before you board your next flight — then once more for good measure just before you put your phone on airplane-mode and shove it in your sweatshirt pocket.

This is it, you think as the wheels lift off the ground and the clouds come closer into view. No more countdown. It’s here.

You have to refrain from sprinting off of the plane as soon as it’s landed in Austin.

You grab your suitcase from the overhead with reckless abandon, nearly knocking another piece of luggage out of the compartment and onto a passing flight attendant.

“Shit, sorry,” you curse.

She glares at you, unamused.

“I’m just…I’m meeting someone here,” you ramble. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Too excited.”

She nods. Pops her gum. “Mhm. Have a good day, ma’am. Thanks for flying with us.”

You keep your head down as you disembark.

It’d been a packed flight, and so you find yourself weaving through the crowd that’s gathered at the gate as you exit, around parents who have stopped to tie their kids’ shoes and solo travelers pausing to book their ride shares.

You check your phone as you walk, unwilling to waste even a fraction of a second. Find the directions buried in the text thread between you and Joel detailing how to get from your terminal to the passenger pickup area.

You follow them, suitcase rolling behind you as you trudge along, down a couple escalators and through a corridor.

You round one last corner — and then you see him, standing with his back to a pillar, hands anxiously fiddling at his sides.

Now you are sprinting.

Your suitcase is abandoned somewhere behind you as you run toward Joel. He doesn’t see you at first. You make it a few feet, shoes squeaking on tile, before his head snaps up and his eyes catch yours. And then he’s bounding forward, meeting you in the middle, your bodies colliding, hard.

He throws both arms around you, squeezes you so tightly you think your blood vessels may burst. You accept your fate willingly, breathing him in, letting your hands rove along his broad back.

He smells like pine and worn leather and Joel.

He feels like home.

He bruises a kiss in your hair, whispering against your scalp in disbelief: baby, you’re here.

You stand wrapped up together for a long moment, Joel rocking you back and forth as you catch your breath. Then you pull apart to look at each other.

Only then does it begin to sink in — Joel is right in front of you, touching you — and you’re about to spend a whole week together.

“C’mere,” he drawls, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing his lips into yours. It’s a slow kiss, punctuated by gentle strokes of his fingertips along your jaw. Your tongue rolls against his and your fingers anchor into his shirt collar. It simultaneously feels like it lasts forever and not nearly long enough.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your lips when you part. “Let’s go home, darlin.”

You grab your forgotten suitcase and pull it behind you with one hand, the other in Joel’s as you walk to his truck. It’s parked just outside, at the curb, hazard lights blinking.

“Was supposed to wait here for you,” he explains as he opens the passenger door, helping you in. He takes your suitcase, throws it onto the backseat like it weighs nothing.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you smile as he gets into the driver’s seat. “Felt like a rom-com — I liked it.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning his key in the ignition. His cheeks flush. “I liked it too.”

You stop for fast food on the way to Joel’s — Whataburger, naturally. They don’t have these in Vermont, so you try to savor your burger, but your long day of travel has you ravenous, so you wolf it down, ketchup smearing on the corners of your mouth between bites. Joel just laughs at you from the driver’s seat, piece of lettuce lodged between his front teeth.

You get it for him — fingernails prodding at his gums, but he lets you. Even sighs at the contact. When you flick the leaf off your fingertip, he pulls you in for a kiss, much softer than the one you shared in the airport, but dizzying, nonetheless. “Better?,” he whispers, and you’re not sure if he’s asking about his teeth or you, but both are true, so you hum affirmingly.

You sink back into your seat, adjusting your seatbelt where it’s tightened around your neck.

You feel full and drowsy as you throw your trash into the paper bag the food came in, tucking it by your feet.

You let your head rest against the window. The glass rattles against your skull as the truck begins to move, but you ignore it, too tired to care. And then you let your eyes shut — just to rest them — that’s all.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You come to when you feel Joel at your side, trying to move you from the passenger seat.

“Baby,” you hear him say. Your eyes flutter open. He brings a hand up to your face, peeling stray strands of hair from where they’re stuck to your forehead and pushing them behind your ear.

“We’re home,” he drawls. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

You nod groggily, still letting your eyes adjust to the daylight. You take in your surroundings: you’re parked in his driveway, his house right in front of you. Somehow, it’s just as you’d imagined it to be — big, sprawling porch at the front, meticulously kempt yard ornamented with a beautiful red oak tree. It’s so Texan, you think, so Joel.

He grabs your luggage from the truck. Then he helps you out, walks you with a large hand wrapped around your middle to the front door and into the house. Once inside, he sets your suitcase down.

And then he hugs you again, like he’s afraid to let you out of his embrace, lest you vaporize into thin air.

“Still tired? Wanna take a nap?,” he asks.

You yawn, right in his ear. He laughs; that’s enough of an answer.

“Alright,” he says. You follow him to his bedroom, too sleepy to argue. You pass through the kitchen and living room on the way. Through drooping eyes, you notice scattered pieces of Joel — the guitar leaning against its stand next to the couch, the pictures of him and Sarah lining the staircase. It makes your chest tighten, being here in his house, seeing the parts of him that he can’t bring with him when he visits you.

His room is the most him though — masculine and minimalist. A canvas with a ram painted on it hangs above his bed — a gift from someone, you assume. You can’t exactly imagine Joel strolling the aisles of Target, picking out artwork to hang in his house. There’s another photo of him and Sarah on his bedside table that must’ve been taken at her highschool graduation, cap adorning her head full of curls.

It makes you smile — all of it.

You lope over to the bed, climbing in when Joel pulls back the covers for you. He tucks you in with a kiss to your forehead. His duvet wafts his scent, when you pull it up to your face. You inhale it deeply. Commit it to memory.

“Wait,” you say as he turns to leave the room. “Aren’t you going to stay with me?”

He leans against the doorframe, wood creaking under his weight. “Well I don’t really nap, darlin’,” he admits. “You get some rest, I’ll just be doin’ some stuff around the house.”

“Please,” you say, sticking out your bottom lip at him. You watch as he thinks on it for a minute, then sighs in defeat.

“Okay, I’ll nap with you baby.”

He climbs in next to you. “Only for a little bit, though,” he mumbles, like he’s trying to convince himself.

His broad chest presses into your back. He drapes an arm over your side as you nuzzle into his embrace, so warm, so safe. He noses at your neck, leaving gentle kisses along your exposed shoulder. This, you think, is what heaven must feel like.

The sound of Joel’s breathing lulls you to sleep.

When you wake up, the room is cast in shadows. It’s dusk, you realize, wiping the sleep out of your eyes. You roll over. Find that Joel is no longer next to you.

His side of the bed is still warm, you notice, so he must not have gotten up too long ago.

You clamber to your feet, ignoring the blood rushing to your head as you stumble out of his room. You make your way down the stairs, hand braced against the wall as you descend. The lights are on in the living room — a sign of life. But Joel isn’t there.

You wander into the kitchen. He’s not here either. Did he leave the house? You look around for a note, fish your phone out of your pocket to see if he texted you. But you have zero notifications and the dining table is empty, apart from a pair of salt & pepper shakers and a napkin holder.

You call out for him, to no avail. Stumped, you make your way to the door that leads to the garage, the only room you haven’t checked yet, and wedge it open.

To your surprise, you find Joel standing at the back of his truck, loading something into the bed. Upon further inspection, you see that it’s blankets.

Huh?

“Hey,” you announce, making your way down the small set of stairs. He whips around at the sound of your voice. The color in his face drains, like he’s just been caught in the act of something.

“Darlin’,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re up.”

You join him by the truck. Let him rest a heavy arm on your shoulder. You peer up at him with a quirked brow. “What are you doing out here?”

“Well, I uh, I had planned somethin’ for you. Not sure if you’re up for it?”

You look back at the blankets in the truck bed. It’s not just blankets, you discover. There are pillows too, big ones, like the kinds you put on patio furniture, plus a small radio situated in the corner. And there’s a bag of chips leaned up against one of the pillows, next to a box of your favorite candy.

“A picnic… in your truck?”

He laughs. “Not quite. There’s a drive-in movie theater down the road. Thought we could go.”

Those butterflies from this morning suddenly return, swarming your insides at the realization — Joel planned a date for you.

It’s not that he isn’t normally romantic, because he is.

You recall one particular weekend he’d visited — he’d insisted on cooking dinner for you at your apartment, determined to make it perfect for you. He’d ended up burning the chicken and oversalting his sauce, but you hadn’t cared one bit — not when he’d gazed at you so adoringly across the candlelit table, one of your hands in his as he’d peppered each of your knuckles with kisses.

On another visit, he’d scouted one of the only nearby mountains you hadn’t hiked yet and climbed to the top with you — because the internet said this was the best spot to catch the sunset. You’d stood at the lookout, hand in hand, and shared your greatest dreams — yours to have your research published in a major publication, his to leave contracting behind and buy a sheep ranch. And when the sun had dipped behind the horizon, the sky bleeding vibrant pinks and oranges, he’d just looked at you.

So you know he’s romantic. Still though, you’re practically swooning at the scene in front of you.

“So, you wanna go?,” he asks. He scuffs his boot along the concrete floor, awkwardly. “It’s okay if you d-“

“Joel,” you say. “I wanna go.”

He smiles. Rolls the cover over the truck bed. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The sky is dark by the time you get to the drive-in. There are already quite a few cars in the dirt lot, parked in neat rows facing the giant movie screen that sits at the edge of a treeline. There’s a person directing traffic, a teenage boy, you guess, based on his stature, and he twirls his light-up batons in the rearview as Joel rounds the corner to the back row.

He backs into a spot at the far-left, car to your right parked a good ten feet away. And then he cuts the ignition with a quiet grunt, steps out, and makes his way over to your door to open it for you and help you down.

The pillows in the truck bed had jostled around a bit on the drive over, Joel finds when he unfurls the cover. So he adjusts them, making sure everything is just right. Then he unlatches the tailgate and helps you hoist yourself up, following closely behind you as you crawl toward the back.

Once he’s set the radio to the right channel, Joel sits with his back flush to the truck cab and spreads his legs, patting one of his thighs in invitation. He doesn’t need to ask twice — you immediately crawl between them, letting your head fall back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you, enveloping you in him.

A satisfied hum escapes your lips. The realization hits you then that you hadn’t even asked what movie you were seeing. Not that you care much — it could be a documentary about grass, and you’d still have a good time, thanks to the company.

It’s some dystopian sci-fi thriller, you find, as the opening credits begin to roll, with a title you vaguely remember hearing in passing at some point.

And it’s good. You’re invested in the story by the end of the first act, curious to find out how the main character is going to save her love interest.

But then you lose interest, quickly, when you feel the white-hot touch of Joel’s fingers against your skin as he slips them under your shirt, inching down your stomach.

He halts when he gets to the waistband of your jeans, and your breath hitches, lodged somewhere in your throat when he dips one finger under the denim. Your hips lift reflexively and he laughs lowly in your ear, prompting a shaky exhale to sputter out of you.

“Stay still, darlin,” he whispers, slipping another finger into your pants.

You try, you really try not to move, but he’s teasing you, his fingers moving the pace of molasses toward your core, where he hasn’t touched you in months. You feel like your entire body is going to combust if he doesn’t make contact with your clit in the next five seconds.

You whine, quiet enough that it’s muffled by the sounds of the movie echoing from the radio, but still too loud for Joel, apparently. He reaches his free hand out to turn the volume up, pushing the nob a few decibels higher.

He returns his attention to you. “You want this, babygirl?,” he asks, fingers reaching the hem of your underwear.

“Yes,” you whisper pleadingly. “Please touch me, Joel.” You feel his cock stiffen behind you, prodding your back.

“Okay,” he says. He pulls his hand out completely to unbutton your pants and unzip them halfway. Then he’s cupping your sex through your panties, letting his fingers brush over the wet spot that has already formed.

“Gotta be quiet then,” he purrs. “Can ya do that for me?”

You’re not sure you can, to be honest. He’s barely touching you and you already feel like you’ve lost all control over your body. Whatever it does, however you react — you have no say in the matter. Still, you’re not about to tell him that, risk him stopping, so you nod, furiously, your desperate face illuminated by the flashing light of an action sequence playing out on screen.

He dips two fingers into your underwear, immediately pressing them to your seam. He curses under his breath behind you, clearly pleased with how wet you are for him, with how easily he breaks you down. He brings them up to your clit, then, swiping back and forth, back and forth, his calloused touch forcing you to suppress a yelp. His fingers feel so rough compared to yours, so good. Breaths are pouring out of you in quick succession, your chest heaving with pleasure.

You’re briefly paranoid as Joel continues his ministrations that someone might see — but as you glance around the parking lot, you realize that you can’t see anyone else, just shadows in cars and on folding chairs, all focused on the movie in front of them. Slouched within the walls of Joel’s truck bed, it’s impossible for anyone to clock what’s happening.

So you let your body relax, melting into Joel behind you, your hands clinging onto his thighs to hold yourself steady. “‘ts it baby,” he says, your pliancy encouraging him to press his fingers down harder. “Always so good for me, huh?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, your voice still hushed.

“Yeah, you are” he agrees, rubbing your clit faster, more deliberately. He knows by now just how to touch you — exactly how to bring you straight to the edge and send you toppling over. And it’s clear that time apart hasn’t affected this in the slightest, your abdomen already tensing, familiar coil tightening threateningly in your core.

You warn Joel with a squeal. His free hand flies up to your face, covering your mouth in an instant. Your eyes roll back instinctively at the lewdness of it, of him muffling you with his palm. You moan freely against it, teeth scraping the skin there as your orgasm grows nearer and nearer and nearer.

It hits you hard. You have to bite down on Joel’s hand to keep from screaming out as it scorches through you, heating every inch of your skin as it does. Your fingernails are digging into Joel’s legs so hard you think you may be drawing blood even through thick denim. He talks you through it, quietly, his utters of atta girl, look at you, ya cum so pretty for me baby keeping you tethered to reality.

When your breathing begins to even and the trembling in your thighs subsides, he removes his hand from your mouth and the other from your pants.

You gaze up at him through bleary eyes just as he brings the fingers that were pressed against your pussy straight to his mouth, sucking on them through a satisfied hum. He pulls them out slowly, and your body nearly buckles at the sight.

“Taste so sweet,” he whispers in your ear. “Always taste so goddamn sweet.”

Your head swims.

“Joel,” you say, pointedly.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“We need to leave. Right now.”

He cocks his head at you, confused. “Are you alr-”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off. “But I need you to fuck me right now, and I don’t think we can do that here.”

You see his eyes darken, his jaw twitch.

“Yeah,” he says after a few seconds. “Let’s get out of here.”

Joel speeds the entire way home.

The hand he doesn’t have on the wheel grips your thigh, making you dizzy with desire by the time he pulls into the driveway. He lodges the passenger side door open so hard you’d think there was an emergency (maybe needing to fuck your significant other after months of not seeing them in person does constitute as an emergency, though — who’s to say?).

He unbuckles your seatbelt for you, barely letting your feet hit the pavement before his lips are on you and he’s slamming the truck door shut, caging you against it. It feels like he’s everywhere all at once, his tongue sliding along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. You’re panting by the time he pulls back, begging him in not so many words to bring you inside and pound you into the mattress.

It must take you five whole minutes to get from the front door to his room. Joel’s hand is splayed across the globe of your ass as you walk. He stops you every ten feet to spin your around and kiss you again, sucking on your tongue, needy moans slipping from his parted lips. His shirt has been discarded by the time you get to the stairs, and your hands greedily take in every inch of skin they can reach as you make your way up step by agonizing step.

When you finally make it upstairs, he backs you through the threshold, straight to his bed. You tumble down onto the mattress in a heap, mouths melding together in desperation as he reaches a hand behind you, under your shirt, and unclasps your bra. You help him out, reaching up your sleeve to tug down one strap, then shifting your weight to pull down the other. When you move, he follows you, not letting his mouth part from yours a second sooner than it needs to.

He tugs the bra the rest of the way off your body and pulls your shirt up over your chest, revealing your bare breasts. Only then does he unlatch his lips from yours so that he can admire you.

“More gorgeous every time I see you,” he mutters, rolling one of your nipples between two fingers until it hardens under his touch. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. He leans down, lathing his flat tongue over the sensitive peak, eliciting a heady moan from you.

“Joel,” you cry beneath him, a hand coming up to his shoulder. You push against him lightly.

And he gets it — as much as he loves teasing, now is not the time. You’ve been teased enough by the miles between you and him. So he pulls back. Lets you roll him over. You straddle him, bracing your hands on his chest and experimentally roll your hips. You immediately feel his hard cock straining against his jeans underneath you.

You reach between your bodies then, prying open his button and yanking the zipper down. Then your hand is in his pants, tracing the outline of his heavy cock where it bulges under cotton.

You lean down and press a kiss to his clothed length. He hisses through his teeth.

“Baby,” he groans, hand coming down to tilt your chin up towards his face. “Another time. I need to be inside you. Right now.”

You don’t argue. He sits up. Shuffles back to the headboard, bringing you with him. He pulls your shirt the rest of the way off, over your head. And then he’s helping you slip out of your jeans and panties so that you’re completely naked atop him.

He pulls you in for another bruising kiss as he tugs his pants and boxers down, just enough to free his leaking cock. He strokes it languidly, smearing pre-cum from the tip down his length. You’re already impatient by the time he’s lining himself up with your entrance, so much so that you have to refrain from taking him all the way down in one go. You use your better judgment, sinking onto him slowly, until you’re flush with his pelvis, the hair at his base tickling your inner thighs.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing labored as you adjust to the size of him. You’ve missed the sweet, burning stretch of him, the fullness you feel when he’s inside you, like you’re complete, whole. You’re pretty sure you could stay like this forever, make a home here on his throbbing cock.

When the sting dissipates, you begin to move, rocking on top of him. He grabs onto your hips, steadying you, his eyes blinking half-open to take you in.

“Fuck,” he rasps as you set a steady pace, his cock disappearing from you, then filling you to the brim again and again. “‘ts it baby, take my fuckin’ cock; ridin’ it so good.”

His hips snap up, nearly knocking the air out of your lungs. You wrap your hands around his neck reflexively, digging your nails into his shoulders, indenting crescent moons in the muscle there as he ruts against your g-spot. Your face falls against his chest, your muffled pleas for Joel to fuck you harder, harder, right there barely coherent.

He gets the message regardless.

He pulls you down onto his cock, essentially spearing you on it. You think he must be bruising your cervix, the way his thick head is repeatedly bumping it, but you don’t care. You need every inch of him, need to take everything he has to give you; it feels as essential as the air being punched out of your chest right now.

He’s fucking up into you so brutally that you find yourself delirious, eyes rolling back in your head for the second time tonight. You can’t even find the strength to warn him of your rapidly approaching orgasm, your body going limp in his grasp. He doesn’t need you to, though — he can tell just by the way you squeeze him that you’re close.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?,” he growls, hitting that spongy spot over and over and over.

“Uh — ahhh — uh-huh,” you moan weakly into his skin. Your fingers loosen at his neck, too weak to hold onto him any longer.

Suddenly, he grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head off of his chest and holding it up so that you’re looking him in the eye.

His gaze is lascivious, almost carnal, like going without you for so long has him ready to swallow you whole.

“Look at me,” he spits, “look at me when you cum.”

You nod wearily. You want to give him that, want to give him anything he asks of you. But you’re not sure if you can, not when your eyelids feel like boulders on your face.

“C-can’t Joel,” you manage through moans as they fall shut again.

“Nuh-uh,” he snaps, yanking at your roots. Your eyes fly open at the intrusion.

“You can do it baby, c’mon. Missed these pretty eyes so much — wanna see ‘em.”

You can only imagine how absolutely fucked-out you must look, using every last ounce of energy in your body to keep from slipping again. Your eyes glaze over slightly as he gives a particularly rough thrust, and you feel yourself skyrocket to the edge.

You feel like putty in his hands — and maybe you are. You’d let him mold you to whatever shape he pleased right about now, when he’s making you feel this good.

“There ya go,” Joel coos, bringing his thumb to your clit. He lazily swipes it once — twice — and you begin to fall apart in his arms.

It’s almost violent, your second orgasm of the night. It rips through you, your body thrashing on top of Joel’s, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he continues pounding into you. It feels different too, something more intense lingering, the threat of it just behind your walls.

And then he hits that spot again, the one that makes you see stars, and you’re gushing around him. Your release splatters out onto the duvet below you, soaking it. If Joel notices, he doesn’t care.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he groans.

Your eyes adjust as you come to. You take in Joel’s, charcoal black and blown-out with lust. You feel shy, almost, which you know is ridiculous given he’s still inside you. But even so, the way he looks at you, like you’re the most desirable thing he’s ever seen — it makes your cheeks heat.

He flips you over onto your back in one swift movement, slipping from you momentarily as he helps you to wrap your shaky legs around him. Presses a gentle kiss to your trembling ankle as he does. And then he’s burying himself in you again, right to the hilt, his pace slowing as he nears the edge.

“Please baby,” you cry. “Please cum inside. Need to feel you.”

Your body feels boneless under Joel’s weight, like he’s fucked near everything out of you. And now you need him to feel good, to take whatever he needs from you, whatever you have left to give.

“Fuck,” he grunts. His hips stall abruptly. He spills into you, deep moans pulling from the back of his throat. You dig your heels into the meat of his ass, dragging him closer, forcing him so deep he paints your cervix.

He pulls out with a hiss, his length softening against your mound as he lifts himself up on his elbows to kiss you. It’s a meager kiss, both of you still too out of breath to deepen it, but it soothes you, along with the soft graze of his thumb over your ribs.

You hold each other for a while, in no rush to move from this moment. You’re pretty sure you drift off more than once, awoken each time by the vibration of his gentle hums against your neck. When you finally do move, it’s not far, just up the bed and under the covers. And then his arms are right back where they were, around you, pulling you tightly to him.

He falls asleep before you, snoring quietly at the crown of your head. You try to wiggle from his grasp, move to the other side of the bed, but even in his sleep, he’s acutely aware of your presence. He just grips you harder, nuzzles his head deeper into your hair. You’ve never felt more content being stuck somewhere.

You slip under again eventually. You’re pretty sure you dream of nothing — no need for your brain to conjure up anything more than what you already have.

The following morning, you wake up with Joel’s tongue between your legs. He nibbles at your inner thigh, waiting for you to give him the go ahead to continue. And then he makes you cum twice on his mouth before you even eat breakfast.

He doesn’t let you get up for that, either. He brings you hot coffee in a Texas Longhorns mug and a plate of toast, slathered with butter and grape jelly, and doesn’t complain when you get crumbs on the sheets.

You’re satiated and caffeinated before you even start your day — which Joel has planned out to a t.

He brings you to his favorite spot for lunch, a BBQ place by the river, and acts smug when you tell him these are the best ribs I’ve ever had in my life. Then you go home, take a shower — together, of course — and you rinse shampoo out of your hair with his cock nestled comfortably inside you.

He fucks you with your hands braced against the shower wall until you’re screaming, the echoes bouncing off of tile, and then you get back in bed, laze around in your towels until dinnertime.

Joel orders takeout — sushi for you, lo mein and teriyaki beef for him. You sprawl out on the couch as you eat, your feet in his lap and the calming buzz of the tv on in the background.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a long time.

You easily fall into a routine over the course of the week: wake up, fuck, eat breakfast in bed, fuck, get up around noon, shower, eat lunch, grade papers while Joel cleans up or does yardwork, eat dinner, fuck, go to sleep.

You almost forget that this isn’t permanent, that you’re going to have to get on a plane and go home soon, that this isn’t your home, here with Joel. That is, until Friday night, over dinner — when Joel abruptly pulls you back down to earth.

You’re finishing your pasta, spooning the last remnants of sauce into your mouth. Some western flashes across the tv — Joel’s choice, and as you put your bowl down on the coffee table and snuggle up to him, he sighs.

“This has gotta be the best vacation of my life — or, staycation, I guess.” He says it innocently enough. Still, you feel jolted. Vacation, you repeat in your head until your brain catches up with reality. You feel smothered, suddenly, warm, like your whole body is an ore about to be smelted. You extricate yourself from Joel’s arms and settle on the other side of the couch.

“Just hot,” you lie. “Sorry.”

“‘ts alright,” he murmurs, unphased, eyes glued to the tv.

He doesn’t notice the way you tense, the way your breathing picks up when you excuse yourself to the bathroom. But why should he? There’s no reason for you to be freaking out.

Except there is.

Because the thought of leaving in a couple days, leaving behind Joel and this routine, not seeing him again for several more months, and even then, only having a weekend, or if you’re lucky, a week with him – it’s making you spiral.

You lock yourself in the bathroom. Close the lid to the toilet. When you sit down, your head falls into your hands, heaving breaths warming the skin of your palms uncomfortably. I can’t do this, you think. I can’t keep doing this.

You love Joel — you do, more than anything. And you can’t begin to imagine living without him. But you also can’t help but wonder, elbows digging into your knees, how this has become your life — all the leaving.

Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach. You feel nauseous.

You get up. Splash cold water on your face. Curse your reflection, all sunken eyes and tear-stained cheeks. So stupid. This is why you didn’t want to get into another relationship. The pain, the pain, the unbearable pain.

Why did you have to fall in love with him?

There’s a clanging on the other side of the door — Joel clearing your dishes from dinner — an act of domesticity that plunges the dagger deeper into your bleeding heart.

You wipe your cheeks with your shirt sleeve. Huff at how pathetic you feel.

It’s so stupid, so silly, crying in Joel’s bathroom when he’s right outside, right there waiting for you. Even still, you can’t seem to shake the dread that hangs over you like a storm cloud when you make your way back into the living room with dried eyes, back into his arms.

You hope, silently, that it’ll go away with a good night’s sleep. That this is just a minor breakdown, a hormonal thing, maybe, and you’ll feel better in the morning.

It doesn’t, it’s not — and you don’t.

Joel can tell something is wrong the moment he hands you your morning coffee. You’d slept in today, legs tangled under the sheets, trepidation still clawing its way up your throat. You’d been quiet, had only hummed in response when he’d told you good morning.

That, he hadn’t noticed. But when he passes you the mug, steam billowing from the mouth, he detects the way you won’t look at him, your mumbled thank you.

You catch the way he steps back with a dejected hmph, and rounds the bed to climb in next to you.

You feel awful.

The mattress springs creak as he settles, balancing his full mug in one hand, laying the other over yours where it sits on top of the duvet, resting on your covered leg.

“Y’alright?,” he asks, even though you know he knows the answer. It’s why you don’t lie, shake your head. Your eyes flick up to his as a frown sets under his nose.

You downplay it. “I’m fine, really. It’s just — I — I’m sad that today’s our last full day. I don’t wanna go home yet.”

“Don’t have to go,” he drawls, drawing light circles over your skin with his index finger.

And you know he means it — know he’d let you move in with him in a heartbeat. But you also know you can’t. Can’t leave behind the life you worked so hard to make in Vermont.

“I wish,” you sigh, taking a cautious sip of your coffee.

“Well…d’you wanna do somethin’ today? Go into the city? I know we haven’t done much’a anything this week.” He smirks. And just for a moment, the look on his face — that dopey smile and those sweet cinnamon eyes — makes you forget about the darkness fogging your mind.

“We can do touristy stuff,” he continues. “Do anythin’ you want. To take your mind off things. Make the most of the day, ya know?”

His brows are raised as he anticipates your response. He’s so eager to do whatever it takes for you to be happy, and that makes your chest clench. More than you want to protect your own heart, you want to appease him. He deserves that, at the very least.

So you say yes, let’s do it; show me around Austin.

The cracks in your heart deepen when he nearly jumps out of bed in excitement.

Joel is a great tour guide, for what it’s worth.

He brings you to his favorite hiking trail in the city. It runs along a lake, the water busy with kayakers and paddle boarders.

The sky above is overcast. A sliver of sun cuts through the clouds, casting your forehead in a light sheen of sweat as you walk.

Every single passerby waves at you or says hello, all in the same singsong twang. Joel waves back, grunts a greeting. It throws you off, how nice everyone is here. You’ve grown used to New England, with its temperamental weather and even more temperamental people.

“Busy,” you note when another group passes you.

“Mhm,” Joel hums. Wraps a sweaty arm around you, pulling you into his side. It’s awkward to walk like this, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Sarah used to love this place. We’d come all the time when she was little.”

You lean into his embrace. Nuzzle your face into the fabric of his T-shirt.

“I know you must’ve missed her this week. Is this the first spring break she hasn’t been home?”

“Yeah,” Joel’s other hand rests at the back of his neck, fingers absently working at a knot in the muscle there. “Gotta get used to it though, I guess, with her stayin’ north after school is over and all.”

“She didn’t tell me that,” you admit. “When did she decide?”

He sighs so deep you can almost feel it in your own chest.

“Couple weeks ago,” he says. “Guess she got some unofficial job offer for after she graduates, from this research institute in Boston. She’s all excited about it.”

You know Joel is proud. He’s always proud of Sarah. How could he not be? But you also know his heart is breaking right now, the long-established plans for Sarah to come home to Texas, to come home to him after finishing undergrad, suddenly squashed.

And then there’s you — leaving too — again.

The thought of hurting Joel is overbearing, more so than the thought of hurting yourself. He doesn’t deserve to be so far away from the woman he’s in a relationship with when his own daughter is already out of reach.

You feel selfish, suddenly.

It plagues your mind for the rest of the day — when you go to a diner after the hike and split a strawberry milkshake the size of your head with Joel — and still, later, when you wander hand-in-hand into a tacky gift shop.

You try your best to ignore the ache in your chest as you scan the store.

The back wall is stacked top to bottom with cowboy boots of varying colors and styles. There are cowboy hats too, displayed on a long table.

Joel picks up an oversized straw hat, resting it on the top of his head with a laugh. “Looks ridiculous, right?”

“Somehow, no,” you say. And it’s the truth. You think he’s the only person who could put that thing on and look hot in it.

He grabs another hat off of the table, a more traditional one — brown leather with a braided band wrapped around the base of the crown. You let him affix it on your head. He steps back to get a good look at you and nods.

“Looks good. Looks sexy,” he amends.

“Yeah?” You dip your head in faux greeting, fingers pressed into the front corner of the brim.

He scans over you then, his eyes darkening. It looks like he’s pondering something, the corner of his mouth curving.

“What?”

He steps closer. Leans down to whisper in your ear. “Think we should get ‘em. Wear ‘em later.”

Your breath pulls. The thought of Joel wearing that and nothing but that underneath you is enough to make you forget your quandaries, temporarily.

“Yeah,” you respond way too quickly. “Let’s get them, Cowboy.”

You watch his entire body tense at the nickname. And then he’s yanking the hat off of you, bringing both to the register in a hurry.

The house is dark when you get home, bag of Greek takeout in hand.

Joel flicks a light on in the entrance. You squint reflexively, your eyes adjusting as you set the food down on the coffee table in the living room. Joel brings your new hats upstairs, then joins you on the couch. You pull out two styrofoam containers, passing the one with Joel’s name scribbled on it to him and leaning back with yours in your lap.

“‘m starvin,” he mumbles as he cracks his open, squeezes a wedge of lemon over his rice.

You eat quickly, something else clearly on both of your minds as you shovel falafel into your mouths. You even forget to turn the tv on.

When you’re done, you insist you’ll clean up, bringing the trash into the kitchen as Joel disappears upstairs. Once everything is tidied, you re-situate yourself on the couch.

He returns a few minutes later — shirtless, that ridiculous cowboy hat fastened on his head, dark jeans sitting low on his hips. He’s holding your hat in his left hand.

There’s a dull throbbing between your legs. He starts across the room, toward you.

“Joel-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, bracketing you against the cushions, his hat bumping into your head. He pulls it off immediately, like if it’s going to interfere in any way, it’s not worth it. It falls onto the floor somewhere behind him.

Joel pulls at the fabric of your shirt. Your back arches, allowing him to pull it up and off before tossing it aside. His mouth moves from yours, trailing lower, lower, and settling at the column of your throat. He sucks a bruise there, the contact sending your hips bucking off the couch, the need for him to touch you already borderline painful.

And then that voice returns, the one that’s been screaming in your head since last night.

This’ll be the last time for a while. Maybe forever. Last time he touches you like this, kisses you like this. Don’t think about it — don’t. Just enjoy it. Just-

“Joel,” you pant. He stops immediately. Pulls back.

“What? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Tears well in your eyes, blur your vision. You can barely make out the look of concern plastered across Joel’s face as he kneels down in front of you and grips both of your shoulders.

When you speak, your voice comes out shaky. “No, it’s not — I just.” Your breath catches in your throat.

“What? What is it darlin’?,” he tries, massaging tense muscle under his palms.

You hadn’t wanted him to see you like this. You feel embarrassed that he has to comfort you like you’re a child who’s just had a nightmare, and not a grown woman with a PhD. You groan. Catch your breath.

“Fuck. I’m fine,” you try. Joel clearly isn’t buying it. He quirks a brow at you.

“C’mon baby, talk to me. I wanna help, whatever it is. Let me in — please”

And you want to, you do, it’s just — you don’t know how to even explain how you’re feeling.

“This is all so hard,” you start. Joel nods. He wants you to continue. “This whole — situation,” you try. “Being long-distance. It’s just — being here for a whole week and waking up together every morning, having coffee, watching tv at night, like a — fuck — like a real couple — and now I have to go back to normal?”

His face falls.

“Real couple? Is this not real to you?”

“It is real,” you sob. “It’s too real. That’s why it hurts so fucking much. I just, I can’t —”

“Can’t what?” His voice is quiet. Low.

“Can’t do this. Can’t handle the pain. And it must be hurting you too, Joel. Between me and Sarah—”

“I’m fine,” he barks, suddenly jumping to his feet. He takes a deep breath. “This isn’t about Sarah. This is about us. Do you not want this? Me?”

Your hands tremble in your lap. “Of course I want you, Joel,” you sniff. “I want you more than anything. But-”

“But not like this. This is too hard.”

You nod weakly.

He sighs.

“You know you can move here — stay with me.”

You do know. He’s said it so many times before. But you’ve worked way too hard to pack up and start over, to give up your professorship after only three years with the blind hope that you’ll land a new position in Austin. And now you’re mad — infuriated, almost, that he keeps suggesting it.

You scoff. “You know I can’t just give up my life, Joel.”

“So what, you’re just gonna give up on us, instead?” His voice is strained.

“I’m not giving up,” you clip, defensively.

“Certainly doesn’t sound like you’re tryin’.”

He stares at the ceiling. You watch as his eyes mist, his concentration palpable as he wills the tears not to fall. Your anger dissipates into guilt.

This is exactly what you’d feared — breaking his heart. It’s like you can see it fracturing, chipping at the edges.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper. “I don’t — I don’t know. I just can’t.”

His face contorts. A single tear slips down his cheek, which he wipes away quickly with the back of his hand. “Fuck,” he curses.

You stand from the couch, begin to move cautiously toward him. “Joel, I-”

“Don’t,” he snaps. Throws his hands up defensively. And then he’s turning, heading up the stairs, leaving you standing there in the middle of the living room with a ringing in your ears.

When you climb into bed twenty minutes later, he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You fly home the next day. Joel doesn’t say anything on the drive to the airport.

Once there, he pulls over to the curb at the drop-off and puts the car in park. You’re not sure what to do — should you kiss him? Tell him you love him? Because you do, so fucking much. You’re just — not sure if he wants to hear that right now.

He makes the decision for you, cradling your face as he presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. He lets his forehead fall to yours with a sigh, and then he pulls back.

He doesn’t open your door for you, though. Doesn’t grab your bags from the back when you clamber down from the passenger seat.

It’s as if he’s saying: I love you, but I’m going to give you space.

You pry open the back door. Pull out your suitcase and rest your new cowboy hat over the handle. You almost wish now that he hadn’t gotten it for you. It’ll just serve as another reminder of everything you’ve left behind once your home.

“Text me,” he offers once your things are all gathered on the curb. “Let me know when you board, when you’re home safe.”

“Yeah,” you nod. Search his eyes for something. Some indicator that he’s okay. But he’s stoic, his lips set in a straight line. “I will. Promise.”

His mouth opens, like he wants to add something else. But whatever he’s thinking, he decides against saying out loud. Instead he just tells you safe travels, and then he’s pulling the passenger side door closed from the inside.

You stand unmoving. As his truck disappears down the roadway and out of view, a list of all the things you should’ve said rolls through your brain like the end credits of a film.

You send Joel a message when you get home. Let him know you got in safe. You don’t call, like you normally would, because that’s not what he’d asked of you.

Then you climb straight into bed, still in your clothes, and let the tears consume you. You wallow in them for what feels like hours, the natural light in your bedroom gradually sinking into the floorboards. You welcome the nightfall, the way the darkness soothes the pounding in your head, the way it feels like nothing.

Morning comes before Joel responds. You’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, the time on your phone reading 11:09, and the notification from him just below it nearly jolts you:

Okay. Thanks.

No love you, no miss you.

You curse under your breath.

Why did you have to say anything? Why did you have to ruin this?

The pain of possibly losing Joel for good makes the pain of long distance feel like a papercut. All you want is to go back in time, take back everything you said, tell Joel you love him a million-and-one times. Anything to undo this.

You fleetingly consider quitting your job, handing in your resignation letter the second you get to campus tomorrow. You’ll take your unpacked suitcase and head right back to the airport.

You don’t let the temptation win. But it lingers, sits at the top of your chest like a threat. Like if he asks one more time — you’ll do it.

He doesn’t, though. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything — which you should’ve expected — but it still stings. You hadn’t broken up, not technically, so you’re stuck in this weird limbo, one in which neither of you wants to talk about what happened in Austin.

Instead, you text each other once a day or so — weird, surface-level messages, ones you’d send to an acquaintance, not someone who literally knows you inside and out.

Finally above 60°, you say, on Monday morning, attached to a screenshot of your weather app.

Your walk to campus must’ve been nice today, he replies.

And the next day:

Guy at the job site today was talking about that show you like.

Parks & Rec?!

Yeah, that one.

It’s barely enough to keep you going, to keep you sane. You feel pitiful, looking forward to Joel’s text-of-the-day like it’s a re-up of your drug of choice. Better than heroin, you tell yourself.

Two weeks pass with no phone calls and minimal messages. It’s 5:45 pm on a rainy Tuesday when you sit at your dining room table with a pile of papers to grade in front of you, some low-fi playlist on in the background, unable to focus.

Because Joel hasn’t texted you all day.

Usually he’d send something by now. And it’s not like you hadn’t texted him — in fact, you’d double-texted, one message sent this morning about how you burned your tongue on your coffee, and another after your final class of the day when you’d seen he still hadn’t responded:

Busy day?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the gears in your mind whirring as you debate whether or not to send the words punctuated by a flickering cursor on your screen:

Can I call you later?

He’ll probably say no. Or worse, continue to ignore you. Maybe this is it — maybe weeks of dancing around residual tension have driven him to call it quits. He’ll block you, and then you’ll never hear from him again.

The thought has bile rising up your throat.

You close out of the app and put your phone down before stalking over to the living room, letting yourself fall stomach-first onto the couch. You stuff your face into a throw pillow and scream.

You almost don’t hear it over your muffled yells — the rapping at your front door.

You still, lifting your head from the pillow. Listening intently. It comes again — rapraprap.

Ugh, you groan, lifting yourself onto your elbows, then your feet. You pull your cardigan tighter over your front. Drag your feet across the hardwood to the entranceway, wondering who the fuck could be at your door on a Tuesday evening, unannounced.

Is it the property manager?, you speculate as you reach the door. Was there an issue with my rent?

Your fingers wind around the handle apprehensively. You peer through the peephole and your heart plummets into your stomach.

Because Joel is standing right outside your apartment.

You wonder if you’re seeing things. If you’ve gone full-on hysterical. But it’s him, it’s unmistakably him — in his favorite flannel and his workwear jacket, which is smattered in rain spots. His gaze is trained on the floor by his feet and his hands are fidgeting at his sides — just like the first time you met him.

You throw the door open. Joel’s eyes shoot up. For a long moment, you just stare at each other, waiting for the other to say something — do something.

When your breath pulls, he rushes forward and crashes his lips into yours. He backs you into your apartment, letting the door slam shut behind you.

You barely hear it, still registering that Joel is here, he’s here and he’s kissing the hell out of you. And just minutes ago, you’d been sulking on your couch, convinced it was over between you two.

You feel dizzy. You pull back, only because you fear if you don’t, you’ll literally topple over. Joel’s breathing is heavy — it matches yours.

“What are you — fuck — what are you doing here, Joel?”

“I need to talk to you,” he pants.

“Could’ve called,” you say, as if there’s any universe in which you’d prefer that.

You lead him to the living room. Fall back onto the couch. He sits down next to you, taking both of your hands in his. You get a good look at him for the first time since he’d barreled into your apartment, and he looks wrecked.

“Are you okay?,” you ask.

His response isn’t much of an answer. “’m selling my house.”

Your head spins. “You — what?”

“Listed it last week,” he says. “Already got a couple offers.”

“Oh,” you blink. “Okay.”

“‘m gonna move up here.”

Oh.

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat straight out of your chest. You’re — speechless.

“I put an offer on a place,” he continues. “‘ts a ranch with some land. Room for sheep. I’m sellin’ my half of the business to Tommy. Leavin’ Texas.”

He exhales. His eyes search yours with tangible desperation. “Say somethin’.”

“I — fuck, Joel,” you breathe. “You’re — when? How?”

“Found the place a couple days ago. ‘ts about thirty minutes Southeast of here. Just went and saw it in person. Sent my offer letter before I came here.”

“Right,” you nod. “But Joel, you can’t just leave-”

“Sure I can,” he interrupts. “Nothin’ there for me anymore. Not Sarah, not you.”

A beat passes. And then he adds:

“I can’t lose you.”

Your heart swells in your chest as you imagine Joel this past week, making all of these plans to rectify the distance between you, to be sure he doesn’t lose you. And still — you’re not sure if you deserve it after the way you hurt him.

“You — you still want me, even after what I said?”

“Darlin’,” he says, in that honey-sweet drawl. “I love you. There’s nothin’ you could do to make me not want you. You were right. This isn’t feasible. We can’t do this forever.”

“Joel,” you sigh, “I just — you’re sure you want this?”

“I want you,” he says plainly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — like nothing else matters. “And you need to be here. So it’s a no-brainer”

The rain picks up outside. It patters against the windows.

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave,” he says. “I’ll retract my offer. Go back to Texas.”

“I do Joel — want you here more than anything, love you more than anything. But-”

“Good.” He cups your face in his hands. You stare into his eyes, your future.

“It’s settled, then,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. “I’m movin’ to Vermont.”

“This is crazy,” you laugh. “I love you. So much.”

“I love you more,” he beams. “No gettin’ rid of me now.”

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Cowboy.”

end notes: ty again for reading! pls consider reblogging and leaving a comment if you liked it <3

tagging everyone who expressed interest in reading a part 2 (lmk if you don't want to be included going forward): @anoverwhelmingdin, @joelalorian, @lol-im-done, @bensonispunk, @sereindreams, @survivingandenduring, @stevie75, @vee-bees-blog, @brittmb115, @casssiopeia, @bbyanarchist, @janaispunk, @barbellpedro

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel x reader #pedro pascal as joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #fiiyb

695 notes · View notes

lueurjun · 1 year ago

Text

shy soobin as your boyfriend

shy bf! soobin x reader — loving soobin hours rn majorly<3 in which soobin is completely and utterly enchanted and captivated by you, enamored with all that you are.

oh you lucky lucky gorgeous specimen

he is fr the perfect man but ur just as perfect so you know what? MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN

the way you met is pretty standard

you worked at the barista he liked to visit frequently

he visited the coffee shop twice a day just to see you

and you had no idea that he thought u were a lil cutie patootie so you were a little concerned by his caffeine intake

he would stay and have like 3 cups each visit just so he could see you for as long as possible

most of the time he would be trying to work up the courage to say something other than his order but he couldn’t get the confidence

and despite you being concerned for his health, you lowkey HIGHKEY got excited everytime he came in because he was just so???

perfect

like you’re sure you heard wedding bells the first time you saw him

it’s okay babe so did the rest of us

we’re all a little delulu for soobin

anyways one day you’ve had enough

running off like two hours of sleep, the delirium kicks in and you have a massive burst of confidence

so you write your phone number on the cup for his final order which is to go

and soobin doesn’t notice until he gets home and taehyun spots the number on the side

“who in their right mind decided to give you their phone number? are they okay? why would they want you?”

soobin’s kinda like ??

because first of all RUDE of taehyun to attack him like that unprovoked

and second of all WHY IS THERE A PHONE NUMBER ON HIS CUP

from what he saw, you were the only one on shift making his drinks so??

it had to be from you

omg. the poor boy nearly goes into cardiac arrest

because wtf does he do now? he can’t just text you

what if it’s an accident?

there’s no way he can embarrass himself like that

so he decides to leave it despite the agonising ache to do anything but that

once he’s out of the room taehyun’s little shit mode is activated

soobin may not have the confidence to text you

but he sure does

‘hi. is this the girl from the coffee shop?”

honestly your heart shits itself

because you totally were not expecting him to text you back

‘yeah. sorry if this is weird and unprofessional. you can totally get me fired- i mean-i’d like prefer you to not but you totally can… i’m not a creep though… i promise’

you totally nailed that babes

definitely didn’t come across as a creep

already taehyun ships it and decides he has to play matchmaker because he already knows you’re perfect for soobin

so he sets the two of you up on a date

soobin damn near cries when he finds out an hour in advance

“a date? what? i don’t know how to do that”

poor boy is STRESSED

but much to his surprise, he doesn’t totally mess things up

the date actually goes smoothly and he leaves you with a kiss on the cheek after setting up a second date

you both squeal when you part ways

you’re both so cute pls get married

lemme be your maid of honour

ONTO THE RELATIONSHIP BC THIS IS ALREADY LONG IM VERY SORRY

boyfriend soobin is straight out of a book istg

he’s so awkward but in the best way??

like he’s not afraid to show you affection and tackle you with love

but the second you do something as simple as kiss his cheek

BLUSHING STUTTERING MESS

you have him wrapped around your pinky finger

honestly you could probably tell him to jump into a river and he most likely would without any questions

follows behind you like a lost puppy despite towering over everything

holding onto the tips of your fingers letting you drag him along

fancy dinners happen but the two of you are more order in and play mario kart

he’d probably let you win the first few times but the second you gloat about it

nah he’s playing like there’s 100k on the line

BACK HUGS BACK HUGS BACK HUGS

BACK MF HUGS

he loves snuggling into your neck and inhaling your scent. it calms him down for sure

you do this thing where you gently slide your hands up the back of his shirt

AND HE GIGGLES EVERYTIME

silently sharing his food and drink with you

he just holds the straw or food to your mouth without saying anything

whenever he buys you flowers, he takes one out and keeps it for himself so he knows when it’s time to replace them

you also love buying him flowers

he gently didn’t know what to do with himself the first time you did it

“these are for me? no way- you didn’t-babyyy”

can you hear my cries?

sliding down the wall rn

his instagram is pretty much a y/n fan page

like genuinely his feed is just you

visits you during work and spends half of the time flirting with you and the other half stuttering over his sentences because you threw a compliment at him

also your concerns for his health lessened once you realized he only drank that much caffeine just because he wanted to see you

if anyone tries to flirt with him, he’ll incorporate you into the conversation

the other person will just be stood there whilst he rants about all of the things he loves about you

it’s a reflex. he just loves you sm

taehyun can’t tell whether he’s happy for you both or genuinely disgusted

“the happiness i caused for you both makes me severely sickened.”

cue beomgyu popping up like “ALSO WRITING YOUR NUMBER ON HIS COFFEE ORDER? REALLY Y/N? THATS SO LAME”

they’re super happy for you both tho they just won’t admit it

you and soobin are in your own little love bubble

two hopelessly in love puppies who are destined to be together

absolutely adorable.

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chelseypprimrose · 1 year ago

Text

The Nanny Next Door / dbf!negan x reader / no apocalypse au

Warnings: unprotected sex, use of degrading language, dirty talk *not proof read yet*

Summary: When you came back for summer break, you didn’t expect your father to have such a handsome neighbour.

‘Ding!’ Juggling 3 small carry on bags and 2 large suitcases, you let out a sigh as you pressed the doorbell.

Finally you had made it back to your dad’s house after the long flight and Uber journey you had to take to get there. While you liked travelling, having to bring so many bags for such a long stay, your arms felt like they could drop off at any moment. Having finished the college semester for the year, you took your fathers gracious offer to come home for a couple weeks to be able to fully relax before going into your final year, you’d really missed your home comforts and family being so far away, FaceTime calls not being enough to make you feel properly connected to them.

The front door opened with a quickness, your fathers beaming smile, dressed in his usual beige cop uniform, indicating he’d just got back from work. “Hi dad.” Your face beaming back at him, as he engulfed you in a deep hug. “Hey sweetheart, we’ve missed you so much, it’s just not the same without you round here.”

“Dad, who is it?” You heard a small voice call out from the kitchen, their head poking around the archway. “Carl!” You shouted, him running towards you when he saw you. “I missed you so much!” Trapping him in a even bigger hug than your dad had given you, out of all your family, you always missed Carl the most. After your parents divorce, you’d been each other’s shoulder to cry on, someone to talk through how you felt about the whole situation, even though Carl was still pretty young, he was more mature for his age than other children. He always knew how to get you out of a bad mood, made you laugh more than anyone else you knew.

“I can’t believe your actually here Y/N! Dad didn’t tell me you were even coming!” You laughed, squeezing him in your arms. “I think he wanted it to be a surprise kid.”

Your father began to grab your bags from the front porch, placing them near the staircase as you raised up off your crouched position you’d got into to hug Carl. “Jesus, did you really need all this stuff?” He questioned, a sharp breath leaving him as he managed to bring the last bag into the house, closing the door with his foot afterwards. You walked into the kitchen, pouring a coffee into your favourite cup from the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. “Yes, everything in those bags is essential, I’m not here for a couple days like last time you know.” You replied, taking a sip of the steaming drink. You softly moaned, the sweet caffeine perking you up straight away after what felt like such a long day. “So, got any plans to see anyone while your here?”

You shook your head at your father, you weren’t really bothered about seeing anyone other than your family, most of your relationships had fizzled out when you’d moved away, not many people showing any interest in coming to visit or even keep a good messaging schedule with you. “I’m here for one thing and one thing only, my family and relaxation baby!” You exclaimed, making them both laugh, while Rick would always be proud of how much care and effort you put into your studies, he knew how much you needed a break from it all. There had been many instances of late night phone conversations where you’d been at your wits end, the stress of college weighing you down. Carl took his leave, moving into the living room, the faint noise of the game system starting up.

The doorbell ringing caught you all off guard, Rick’s eyebrows furrowed, “Not expecting anyone?” You asked, placing your now empty cup into the sink. “No, I’m not.” He retorted, walking back over to the door. “Oh hey! Negan, come on in.” You heard your dad say, the noise of heavy footsteps and the door closing behind him and his guest. You flicked your coat off your shoulders, placing it on a chair at the dining room table, letting yourself get fully comfortable.

“Hey, Y/N! This is Negan, he moved next door after you went back to college.” You turned back to face the archway, your breath getting caught in your throat as you got a first glance at the 6’1 man walking in next to your father. He looked around his mid thirties to early forties, his jet black hair slicked into the classic ducktail look with his sideburns slight greying. Same for his salt and pepper beard, neatly trimmed into a full beard style.

Dressed in a white t-shirt that clinched his obviously toned torso, denim jeans fitting so snug on his body, a black leather jacket to top it all off. He walked with a certain attitude that you couldn’t work out if it was confidence or cockiness, a small smirk sat on his features.

“So this is the smart cookie you are always bragging about, Grimes?!” He laughed, his large hand coming out indicate a handshake. You grasped his hand, the softness of yours against the roughness of his causing your mind to wander away on what it would be like around your neck. The strong grip left yours after what felt like minutes, you looked up at him with a small smile.

“Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.” He grinned back at you, “Right back at you… Negan? Wasn’t it?” You questioned, a slight false innocence in your tone. He nodded, eyes softly taking in your form. You realised your milkmaid style dress didn’t leave much to the imagination, being quite short but it was the summer you thought, too hot to be wearing anything else really.

“Did you need something, Negan? Wasn’t expecting you to be calling in.” Your dad quizzed, bringing you both back out of the little bubble your introduction had put you in. Negan swinged back around to look at your father, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually I had a bit of a favour to ask, I need someone to look after Elise. Gotta go out and do a couple things, was going to ask if she could come over here for a few hours, spend sometime with Carl. He’s been a really good influence on her since they became friends, finally been paying goddamn attention at school.” He confessed, Rick looking a bit sheepish at him. “Unfortunately, Carl’s got a baseball game tonight, otherwise it wouldn’t be a problem.” He felt bad for declining but these plans had been in place since the beginning of last week.

“I can look after her. I haven’t got any plans.” You mentioned nonchalantly, shrugging your shoulders. You heard Carl whinge from the living room, shouting. “Aren’t you going to come to my game?” Running into the room, almost knocking you over as he hugged you from the side. “I’ll have plenty of time to come see you play kid. I’m here all summer! Besides, it’s nice to help other people out.” You laughed, your hand rubbing his shoulder trying to comfort the small child. “Any friend of my family is a friend of me, right dad?” You suggested, your eyes sparkling as you looked at Negan and your father.

“Are you sure doll? I’ve only just met you and I’m already dumping my kid on you.” You shook your head, leaving Carl’s embrace, walking over in front of him. “It’s no problem at all, what time do you need me to come over?”

And that’s how you got here. Making your way towards Negan’s front door, waving to your dad and brother as they left in his sheriff’s car to go to Carl’s game. You couldn’t lie to yourself, you were nervous. You’d done your fair amount of babysitting when Carl was younger, being the one to watch over his birthday parties, getting the kids involved in all the party games and fixing all the little squabbles children got into between each other, sleepovers he’d had with his friends, always cooking a small buffet dinner for them all, letting them watch scary movies until they eventually regretted it when they couldn’t fall to sleep afterwards. This was unfounded territory, Carl didn’t have many friends that were girls and you hadn’t had much experience with them. Would she even like you? Would she even want to talk to you? All these questions raced through your mind as you brought your hand up, knocking on his door three times before waiting with your hands locked together.

The door swung open, that deviously handsome face with that grin meeting you once again. “Hey doll, come on in.” Negan greeted you, moving slightly to the side so you could enter. “Thanks again so much for this, I really appreciate it. Elise! Get in here please!” He shouted, a small girl walking into the hallway. She looked the spitting image of Negan, just more innocent looking than her father. Her hair braided into two long pigtails on her head, making you wonder if Negan did her hair for her or it was self taught. “This is Y/N, Rick’s daughter, she’s gonna watch you for a while, daddy has some things he needs to do, okay?” He explained, grabbing his car keys off the side of the entryway table. Elise nodded, a shy smile on her face as she looked at you. “I gotta run doll, make yourself at home, mi casa es su casa!” He grinned, giving Elise a kiss on the head before heading out the door, locking it behind him. You turned back to the little girl, smiling softly.

“Hey Elise, it’s nice to meet you! Is there anything you want to do?” You questioned, hoping you could find some common interest with her so she felt less awkward. “Mummy always makes cookies with me? Daddy isn’t very good at it.” She gleams, you letting out a small laugh. Of cause, a eligible bachelor like Negan can’t cook. You nodded your head, agreeing that you could do it, she took your hand in her smaller one, leading you towards the kitchen.

You were about half way through finishing the batter, picking Elise up so she could put the chocolate chips into the bowl, showing her how to fold them into the mixture properly. Unfortunately for you, her elbow accidentally knocked the flour packet that was still open over, causing you both to be covered in the white powder. You squealed, Elise’s giggles filling the room as you joined along with her, placing her down back onto the ground. “Okay, okay! Oh no, come on, let’s get this into the oven before we make more of a mess!” You exclaimed, quickly rolling the slightly sticky dough into small circles, placing them on the grease proof paper covered baking tray. Putting on the red oven mitts, you opened the oven, the hot air hitting you in your face, sliding the tray onto the rack. You took the cute chicken egg timer and set it for 25 minutes, now looking down at your flour covered clothing. Elise had a little on the front of her dungarees, you getting the most of the mess on yourself. It was now around 8:00pm, Negan hadn’t given you a specific time for her to be in bed but you gathered that it was quite late now, with some resistance you managed to get Elise to agree to get into her pyjamas, promising to bring her up a cookie when they were finished. You put her into bed, with a warm glass of milk and the small tv in her room playing a animation film as well.

You made your way back down the stairs, leaving a crack in her door so you could hear if she shouted you for anything. You got to work cleaning the kitchen up, noting there was around 10 minutes left on the egg timer. You didn’t know what to do about your clothes, not only the flour but also the general mess from making cookies with a 7 year old, you decided that Negan wouldn’t mind if you washed your clothes here, right? The washer and dryer were in the kitchen, it shouldn’t be a problem.

Managing to find a cabinet with towels, bed sheets and other laundry items, you grabbed a large white towel, stripping down to your bra and panties, covering your body with the towel and putting your other clothes on a short wash cycle. After this, the egg timer rang out, causing you to jump a little bit. You grabbed the oven mitts again, pulling the tray out of the oven, using a utensil to put the cookies on a large plate to cool down. The smell of vanilla was soothing you, reminding you of your own childhood memories baking with your mother. You broke one of the cookies in half, placing it in your mouth as the taste made you moan a little. You were a damn good baker you thought, the still warm gooey centre melting on your tongue.

The beep of the washer went off, you took your clothes out, moving them over to the dryer, setting the cycle off again for 20 minutes. You grabbed a another cookie off the plate, a slight jog as you went up the stairs, fulfilling your promise to the sweet little girl. Getting closer to the door, you heard soft snores, indicating she’d already fallen asleep. You softly smiled, closing the door fully so the landing light wouldn’t disturb her sleep. Tip toeing quietly down the stairs, you walked into the living room, taking a seat on the cream coloured leather couch.

Grabbing the TV remote of the coffee table, you scrolled through the Netflix catalog, choosing some random reality competition show to put on as you waited patiently for the dryer to be finished. The opening of the front door making you nearly jump out of your skin. Negan was back early, he’d told you 10pm, it was only 9pm! The awkward moment rushed over you, you were in a towel with barely any clothes on underneath, sat in your dad’s best friends house who you’d only met today. You didn’t know what to do, did you hide? Did you scramble to the dryer hoping your clothes had finished? There was no logical route of escape from the embarrassing situation that was ahead of you, so you jumped up, the low light of the room causing a large black shadow of Negan on the wall as you heard his footsteps get closer to the room you were in.

He finally came into view, his eyes widened which turned into a small smirk on his face as his tongue swiped along his bottom lip. “Well, shit doll, I was going to give you some cash for your time but if you’d prefer payment this way.” You blushed, looking down to the floor. “I’m sorry, I swear this isn’t what it looks like, we were baking cookies and my clothes got all dirty, I didn’t think you’d mind me usin-” He cut off your rambling with a deep belly laugh, sauntering slowly over to you. You could feel your heart in your throat, his eyes wandering over your scantily covered body. “No need for apologies doll, I should be apologising for the absolute rock hard erection I’ve got from the sight of you like this.” He whispered softly, you were sure your cheeks were crimson red, you could feel the heat overcoming your face. “What would your daddy say if he knew you were in my house, nearly half naked?” He questioned, his face dangerously closer to your own, his lips ghosting over yours. His minty breath hitting your nose, causing shivers throughout your entire body. “He’d probably be very disappointed, Negan.” You whimpered out, feeling your pussy getting slicker from every word that left his mouth.

“Look at you! Innocent on the eyes but underneath, a real dirty girl huh? If you want this doll, Let. The. Towel. Go.” He punctured his last words with a deep growl. Your hands moved up towards the top of the towel, unwrapping it and falling to the floor, pooling around your feet. Negan watched you with a dark intensity, your perky breasts sitting in your turquoise blue lace bra, matching panties to match, you thanked god you’d decided to put on a proper set in advance.

A small wet patch had gathered on the material of your panties, his hands finally meeting your breasts, his heavy touch lighting your body on fire. “Are you sure you want this doll? No going back.” You quickly nodded, desperate for his touch between your legs. He pulled your breasts out of the bra, leaning down to take your left nipple in his wet mouth, his tongue circling your areola, small goosebumps coming into view. His rough hand playing with your right nipple, switching between sucking and rolling each nipple in his fingertips a couple times, causing small moans to leave your lips. You moved your hands to unclip your bra, throwing it to a unknown corner of the room, now giving Negan full access to your ample breasts.

His hands now moving slowly down your stomach towards your dripping pussy, his fingers playing with the waistband of your panties, teasing you. You lightly moaned out, trying to keep as quiet as you could, knowing who was upstairs. “Negan, please. Touch me there, please.” Negan’s grin got even wider, if that was at all possible, a beautiful woman in front of him, practically begging for his dick, it was enough to get any man feral.

He picked you up in one fluid movement, placing you back first on the large couch. His hands now pulling your panties off down your legs, placing the soaked material into his jeans pocket. You moaned at the thought of him keeping them to himself, a personal trophy. His mouth placed soft kisses on the smooth skin of the inside of your thighs, one hand on your other thigh, keeping your legs open for him. “I’m sorry doll, I need you so goddamn bad. I’ll make it up to you next time.” Next time you thought, god there’s going to be a next time. Trying to hide the excitement from your face, Negan quickly unbuckled his belt, zipper coming down to expose his hard erection, your eyes lighting up at the girth that met you.

Negan’s tip met your wet opening, slowly teasing you by rubbing it up and down in between your folds, you hissed at the movement. “Shit Negan, please! I need you so fucking bad, just fuck me!” You begged, his relentless teasing making your head spin with lust. “Well since you asked so fucking nicely, doll.” His tip finally pushed in, smoothly filling you up.

Negan gave you a moment to get used to the fullness you were feeling, before moving his hips back and forth, his pace getting quicker. You actively started pushing yourself down to meet his thrusts, rolling your hips and squeezing your muscles to make sure he hit all the right spots.

He grunted, these new found angles milking him just right. His hands coming to your breasts, grabbing them roughly, causing your moans to get louder. Your bodies slapping together, you felt the pleasure build, you knew you were getting dangerously close. “Fuck, I knew you were a dirty fucking slut, doing favours for a man you barely knew, you couldn’t wait for me to be balls deep, could you?” You felt your hips bucking at his dirty statement. “No, I wanted you from the moment I saw you Ne-Negan!” You whimpered, hands grabbing bunches of the leather jacket he still had on from earlier, the cold temperature of it clashing with your hot skin.

Negan leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss. “Come on doll, cum all over my cock pretty girl. I can feel how fucking close you are.” He whispered against your mouth, his thrusts getting deeper until he was hitting the back of your walls. That’s all you needed, your hips started to slightly buck, your walls convulsing around his shaft as it kept hitting your cervix. Negan’s hand came over your mouth, trying to stop your loud moans from reaching upstairs. “I love those pretty moans doll, can’t wait until you can scream as loud as you need to.” Your breathing heavy as you felt yourself let go, your vision blurring as you threw your head back, letting your orgasm wash over you. Negan moaned himself, the pressure of your walls tightening from your climax, he managed to hold on for a few more seconds than you until he pulled out, the hot cum coating your lower abdomen, falling softly on top of your body, him leaving little kisses on your neck as your arms came around him to hold him against you. Your throat feeling dry from the open mouth breaths you’d been taking, trying to regulate your heartbeat again. He grabbed the towel that was by his knees, giving it to you to clean up, his frame not moving from his position on top of you,

“Have I killed you, old man?” You teased, laughing softly as he managed to give you a little spank on your exposed hip. “There’s plenty more where that came from dollface, you’re mine for the next couple weeks.” He grinned, before nipping at your neck again, already ready for another round.

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