#how to build a email list

[tealfruit]

another day another dealing with management scrambling about their own poor decisions and supply chain/budget issues even tho I'm really fucking not paid enough for all that

[mehmetyildizmelbourne-blog]

What Merging of Fable & Everand Mean to Indie Authors

Early reflection and perspectives from an indie author on how this strategic merger empowers book authors to reach engaged, censorship-free audiences across borders. Publishing Case Study #137 Are you a book author looking to reach a broader audience through a proven system supported by a like-minded community? Are you an aspiring writer who wants to publish your first book within 3 months with…

[lmsintmedia]

The Power of Email Marketing: How Nigerians Are Making Money from Email Lists

Email marketing might sound old-school—but it’s quietly making people rich in Nigeria. While everyone is chasing viral trends on TikTok or grinding on Instagram for likes, smart digital entrepreneurs are cashing out quietly by building powerful email lists. Why? Because email is personal. It lands in your inbox, not on a noisy feed. And when people trust you enough to give you their email,…

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[enfinizatics]

dear americans,

as a polish queer woman and human rights activist, i know exactly how you're feeling right now and what to expect from these elections. i lived through the 2015-2023 regime of pis, a right-wing populist party that divided families in the same way trump did. i’ve experienced the rise of fascism in poland, the influence of far-right parties like konfederacja, and their “santa’s little helpers”—ordo iuris, an ultra-conservative catholic organization (banned in many countries, mind you) that helped enforce a near-total abortion ban and runs anti-queer campaigns in public spaces. i supported the black protests in 2016 as a middle schooler when they first tried to ban abortion. as an adult, i actively participated in the 2020 women’s strike, running from police tear gas daily after they finally passed the ban. i supported friends who faced charges.

i’ve lived through intense homophobia in poland as a queer teen and adult. i survived the first pride march in my hometown, where far-right extremists threw stones and glass at us. i endured the anti-queer propaganda spread by the ruling party in state-owned media. i survived the “rainbow night,” poland’s own stonewall moment in summer 2020, when police arrested around 50 queer activists following the arrest of margo, a nonbinary activist. i survived the "lgbt-free zones," the targeted violence, the slurs from strangers on the street, and the protests i held against queerphobia. it was hard as fuck, but i survived.

but just because i survived, it doesn’t mean others did. many women died because of the abortion ban—marta, justyna, izabela, dorota, joanna, maria, and many others who didn’t survive pis’s draconian anti-abortion laws. milo, kacper, michał, zuzia (she was 12), wiktor, and other queer and trans kids and young adults took their own lives because of the relentless queerphobia.

despite all of this, our experience in poland can serve as a guide now. here are some tips for staying safe and how we, polish queers and women, organized under the regime:

safety first, always. if you know someone who’s had an abortion, no you don’t. if you know someone is trans, no you don’t. if you know people who help with safe abortions, no you don’t—at least not until you know it’s 100% safe to share. if you are queer or have had an abortion, only share this with people you trust fully. most importantly, not everyone has to be an activist just because they’re part of a minority. if it feels unsafe to share that you're queer, trans, etc., then don’t. it doesn’t make you any less queer.

use secure, encrypted messaging like signal for conversations on potentially risky topics, such as queerness, abortion, organizing counter-actions, protests—anything that might be used against you.

stay anonymous online. if you want to research or report something without surveillance, do not use regular internet. get a vpn (mullvad is affordable and reliable), download the tor browser (for both onion and standard links), and if you plan to whistleblow, consider using a riseup email account.

organize and build networks. community is everything now. support each other, foster independence, because your government won’t have your back. set up collectives, grassroots movements. create lists of trusted professionals—lawyers, doctors, etc.—who can offer support.

to lawyers and doctors: please consider pro-bono work. this is what got us through poland’s hardest times. your work will be needed now more than ever.

for protests or risky actions: always write a pro-bono lawyer’s number on your arm with a permanent marker.

get to know the anarchist black cross federation and other resources on safety culture: "Starting an anarchist black cross group: A guide"; Still We Rise - A resource pack for transgender and non-gender conforming people in prison; Safe OUTside the system by the Audre Lorde Project;

for safe abortion info or involvement: get familiar with womenhelpwomen.

stay radical, stay strong, stay informed: The Anarchist Library

if i forgot to (or didn't) include something, don't hesitate to reblog this post with other resources.

[mina-org]

part one - part two (youre here) - part three - part four - part five- six

warning for smut, 141 are panty sniffers! and more yanderery than the last! I have another part written but I just felt like was already dragged a lil so lmk if you want the next part! also not edited bc im lazy

“The birds just not fuckin’ into ya johnny. She never took this long to respond to me.” Simon smirks, truthfully he didn’t really remember but he was fucked off with this entire thing, not only was Johnny after his bird but texting you became a group sport, even the double text.

Simon seethes, usually you would've crawled back to him by now, you'd get drunk and call him sobbing from whatever pub you were at and you'd owe him, rinse and repeat.

At least if you were into Johnny he'd know what you were doing but now your absence started to eat at him, he just wondered your were like a deer fresh out the womb, learning to walk, how would you survive when Simon wasn't there to pick up your the pieces when you inevitably fell apart again.

simon couldnt take them fawning over you anymore so he returned to his bedroom, he had a little secret that he had to keep from those closest to him, your underwear. A collection really.

to start with, they were just tucked in his bag for when he was deployed, he’d push a pair around his cock, satin felt nice but the cream pair with little berries on? they were too cute and so you. He’d pump his cock until they were stick with his cum.

then when he was home more often and you were fucked too dumb to bounce on his cock, neglecting him after hes giving you so many? he'll remember that for next time. and really left him no choice but to scout out your discarded panties, maybe a fresh pair if you packed them, and he'd finish himself off before tugging them up your legs, his cum from earlier still leaking out your pretty pussy. something about you walking home in shame, carrying him with you, a sense of ownership simon loved.

now these panties were all he had, and he wasn't gonna share them. maybe with Johnny, if he was good.

after a week it just wasnt doing it for him anymore, he needed to see his girl but all his texts weren't sending:( and he hadn't seen you at the gym or the pilates class you spent so much money on. almost like your little temper tantrum was serious this time.

okay so it took simon a week or two to turn up begging, well demanding your forgiveness.

or he would've, if you answered the fucking door? after coming over and almost fighting your door guy a few times, he gets the hint, stealth is wealth and all that.

now here he is, staring at you through binoculars, on the rooftop opposite your building, like he's gathering intel or some shit. originally he was gonna keep this to himself, threes a crowd after all but it was chilly on the rooftop and simon is all about efficiency and your safety of course!

thing is, that pesky door man knows who simon is, and its doubtful a stick on moustache and boiler suit is gonna convince him that simon is also the buildings engineer!

through this process they've found out your building has a lot of security issues, nobody even thought about cyber security so when gaz sends out an email with a list of apartment numbers and a time, stating some maintenance was needed, no one bats an eye.

and of course you dont want any awkward conversations, like offering them tea or coffee 50 times while they try to focus but they'd think you rude if you dont and you can't ignore them, thats rude too. so you have to go out and stay out.

so you go shopping, you've been needing more underwear anyway!

soon enough John and gaz are in your apartment, putting up hidden cameras, slipping trackers into the linings of your most worn clothes, rifling through your belongings and testing out your perfume, trying to figure out which one you use daily from the memories of your scent lingering on simon and around the flat.

however gold is struck when they come across your laundry basket! feral is the best fitting word, Johnny will froth at the mouth once they tell him and of course share the bounty of their conquest.

taglist: @skeletonsucker @supernova2205 @wh0re4-alexademi @grr457

[comicaurora]

Hi! I remember you saying at some point (I think, on the podcast?) that just realizing you have ADHD helped you to deal with it because you found some practices and techniques to help it, even without medication - or something along these lines, do I remember correctly?

Can you tell, which techniques? I seem to be somewhat resistant to medication (tried all options we get in the country I'm in, and improvement is very minimal), so I'm interested what else can be done there just to make it manageable

Caveat that every ADHD person is different so what works for me might not work for you, but this is what I've found helpful:

Break up Executive Dysfunction and fight Time Blindness by SETTING TIMERS. I have a fitbit, and on days I can feel my brain being restless and uncooperative, I set a ten minute timer on it. When it runs out, I set another one, and so on. It buzzes on my wrist, so it's hard to ignore, but it's not gamebreakingly distracting so it doesn't ruin my mood if I'm on a work roll. A brief, tangible reminder that time is passing can help me snap out of a break period or, if I'm working, give me a feel for my rate of progress. I can also use that reminder to take stock of if I need to eat food, get up and stretch, or lie on the floor for a bit to reset.

Take SMALL, LATERAL BITES OF PROGRESS. If you're having a hard time working on something, feel out what else you might be able to make headway on. Maybe you've got some writing notes you could jot down to build on later. Maybe there's a tiny item on the day's to-do list you could cross off quickly. Maybe there's a text or an email you've been meaning to fire off, or you've got a mild itch to doodle something in a sketchbook. Any progress is better than no progress, and even if you're just on your phone on the couch, you can get a lot of good work done just jotting down thoughts in the notes app. The lateral element is also very important; if you're fixating too hard on the ONE thing you're SUPPOSED to do, you can trap yourself in a spiral of how it's what you're SUPPOSED to be working on but it feels IMPOSSIBLE. Literally let yourself do anything else. Don't trap yourself with "it's either doing your responsibility or it's NOTHING." Your work is not a plate of broccoli you're not allowed to leave the table without eating. Give yourself permission to un-imprison yourself.

Related, If there are external factors on the responsibility - like an outside deadline or a team of people you're working with waiting on your stuff - don't be afraid to let them know where you're at, or if you're uncertain you can make the deadline as stated, even if you think your "brain is not working" reason isn't good enough to justify the delay. Most people are extremely chill about it, and some of them will even offer to help or make it easier for you in some way. "Struggling with deadline" is not an ADHD-only experience. It is one of the most relatable human experiences, and basically everyone will be inclined to help you out.

ANY PROGRESS IS BETTER THAN NO PROGRESS. LARGE projects can feel extremely overwhelming because you know you can throw everything you've got at them for a day or even a week and it still won't be finished, and if you've got that shadow looming over you, you might sink into a malaise of "I can't finish it and that means I can't even bring myself to start it." The best way to fight that is to make ANY progress in ANY direction. Every large project can be broken down into bite-sized chunks. Anything feels overwhelming if you see it as an unassailable monolith. Work you do now is work you don't have to do later.

CHECKLISTS. It's hard to hold a large list of things that need your attention all in your head at once. It is unbelievable how helpful it is to just write them down somewhere obvious, and when you're done with something, CHECK IT OFF. Don't erase it, leave it visible that you FINISHED it.

Tell your anxiety to CALL YOU BACK. This one's weird, but when I'm stuck stressing over something, I've found it legitimately works to pull up my schedule and pencil in "worry about <thing>" for a specific date and time. My brain registers that SOMETHING has been resolved and nothing has been outright dismissed or ignored, so it settles down. When the time rolls around, the source of the anxiety is still there, but the feeling of anxiety itself has been drained out of it.

On a related note, this might not be an ADHD thing, but I've found it's very useful to Avoid Anxiety And Guilt Spirals by HOLDING COMPULSIONS AT ARMS' LENGTH. I picked this up from some readings on OCD, which is in the category of "I don't seem to HAVE this to a diagnosable degree, but some of the structures were at one point familiar to me." It's good to be aware that, if your brain keeps circling back to any given thought that distresses you, that is structurally an obsession, and if in reflexive response you have a desire to do a specific thing to mitigate that feeling, that is structurally a compulsion. This includes things like "I bet my friends think I'm annoying - I should message them something fun and casual to see if they still like me." Or "I'm worried about the state of the world - I should check the news so no new horribleness blindsides me." The compulsion might contain a sensible thing to do; checking in on your friends is good, keeping up with world events is smart. But done AS a compulsion, it reinforces the anxiety cycle. Even when it results in something neutral or positive, it only confirms that this innocuous thing is your only lifeline over a yawning abyss of terror and stress, because if this time it was fine, it must be because THIS time your vigilance Saved You. So you'd better do it next time, too, because there WILL be a next time, and you might not be so lucky twice, right? The way to stop this cycle is to weaken it over time by, when the obsession pops up (a random reminder of a stressor, an old fear) and the compulsion is prompted, do not do it, no matter how reasonable it seems. Hold the compulsion at arms' length, becoming aware of what the obsession wants you to do and why. Similarly, sit with the awareness of the obsession. You are having an unpleasant thought, but having a thought does not make it inherently meaningful in any way. It doesn't mean you're actually in any danger, any more than you were before you had the thought. It's discomfiting because it removes the salve of the compulsion from the sting of the obsession, but in the medium to long term, it withers the cycle at the root and makes the entire process loosen its grip. Then you can do things like talk to your friends and check the news without it being underlaid with the sting of panic and desperation; they are, after all, neutral activities with typically beneficial consequences, not lifelines over the abyss. It might startle you when, months later, an intrusive thought pops up that used to send you spiralling into misery for hours or days, but now it feels irrelevant - even absurd - and easy to disregard. It really does work, and it's surprising how many things you can untangle this way.

Avoid boredom time prison by HARNESSING HYPERFIXATIONS. My most controversial take, but I think if your brain is desperately hungry to do This One Cool Thing Today, it's a good idea to let it. Even if that means you spend the whole day drawing fanart or bingewatching a show or baking croissants instead of Getting Work Done, the benefits you reap from just letting your brain tap into the rare Infinite Dopamine Opportunity usually outweigh any and all work slowdowns that result from taking the impromptu day off. When your brain works in the ADHD way, your enthusiasm is a vital fuel to keep it running. You need to have energy and joy in your life, energy and joy to spare and spend on things that may not be inherently energizing. If you have the option to spend a day doing something ridiculously fun, fill up that tank and reap the productivity benefits for the next week straight.

[p1girlfriend]

how the grid shows love — acts of service version

Lando Norris – washes your favorite hoodie and leaves it on your pillow – plugs your phone in every night without saying a word – buys your period products “just in case” and stocks the bathroom like it’s a shrine – "I didn’t know what snacks you’d want so I got one of everything.” – gets real quiet when you’re overwhelmed, and just starts doing stuff around the house so you can rest – “it’s no big deal. you’d do it for me.”

—

Oscar Piastri – the king of tiny, meaningful routines – makes your coffee exactly the way you like it. Every. Single. Morning. – adjusts your car seat before you get in – notices when you’re cold and quietly sets a hoodie on your lap – answers your emails if you’re stressed. like, literally types them out for you – “you didn’t ask, but I figured it would help.”

—

Charles Leclerc – he can’t cook to save his life but he’ll clean everything for you – does the dishes while humming your favorite song – packs your bag if you have to travel: always includes your charger and a note – “I didn’t know if you needed help, but I wanted to anyway.” – reorganizes your closet by color because he saw it on pinterest – makes your bed every day and fluffs the pillows like it’s an art

—

Lewis Hamilton – plans your wellness like a pro – books your therapy appointment, sets up a diffuser, leaves fresh flowers with a note – “Don’t forget to rest today. You deserve it.” – builds you a playlist when you’re going through it – if you’re sick, you’ll wake up to teas, soups, vitamins, and a hot water bottle already there – treats acts of service like sacred care – “loving you means protecting your energy, too.”

—

Carlos Sainz – this man lives for doing things for you – oils your scalp. carries your bags. opens every door. – sees you struggling with something and it’s DONE within minutes – “you are not lifting that. give it to me.” – teaches you how to do stuff but still does it for you because he likes taking care of you – sneaks out early to fill your gas tank – always keeps water and your favorite gum in the car because he remembers everything

—

Max Verstappen – very quiet acts. barely says anything, just does it – you mention you’re tired of your broken closet door? it’s fixed the next day – changes your tires without being asked – “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.” – lets you sleep in and does all the housework while blasting music and feeding the pets – no fuss, no show — just pure, consistent devotion

—

Daniel Ricciardo – makes you breakfast with silly little heart-shaped pancakes – decorates your work desk with random things that make you smile – sings while doing your laundry. tells your shampoo “you’re lucky to touch her hair” – writes dumb love notes and puts them in your sock drawer – full of chaotic energy but so intentional: “You were overwhelmed, so I did the boring stuff. You owe me cuddles.” – will do anything to make you laugh AND make your day easier

—

Lance Stroll – acts of service are quiet love with him – folds your sweaters neatly – updates your calendar for you when you’re too tired – cleans your jewelry, resets your alarms, zips your dress slowly like he’s painting a masterpiece – doesn’t always say how much he loves you but he shows it in every action – “You don’t have to ask, sweetheart. I already knew.”

—

Gabriel Bortoleto – techy acts of service king – updates your apps, fixes your laptop, organizes your desktop folders for fun – orders food when you forget to eat – starts calling places for you when you’re too anxious to deal – leaves you little lists like: “Water. Sunscreen. Breathe. (Love you.)” – makes your life feel ten times lighter without making it a thing

—

Franco Colapinto – builds your IKEA furniture. with NO instructions. – wraps your gifts better than anyone – remembers tiny things you said once and surprises you with them – helps your parents without being asked – if you’re working late, he brings you snacks and kisses your forehead “Don’t forget you’re human, mi amor. Take five.”

©p1girlfriend | requested

[dailymanners]

Compliment someone on one of their personality traits 

Write a handwritten card to someone to say thanks

Text a friend to share your gratitude for something they did for you

Leave a positive review online of a restaurant you like

Tell a friend what you love about their children

Compliment a photo someone posts on social media

Let someone cut in front of you in line

Introduce two people who you think would get along

Pick up trash on the ground and put it in the garbage

Compliment someone on their clothing or hair

Use old grocery bags to pick up dog poop you see on your neighbor's lawn

Shovel snow off the sidewalk in your neighborhood

Offer to mow the lawn for an elderly neighbor

Give up your seat on the plane to let a couple sit together

Talk to someone at a party that doesn’t seem to know anyone

Invite someone new in your town to a social event and introduce them to everyone

Invite a friend that you haven’t seen in a while out to lunch

Offer to pick up a friend at the airport

Reach out to an old friend to let them know of an experience you had with them that you value

Spend time with the elderly at a local retirement home

Offer to bring someone else's grocery cart back to the store

Keep an extra pen in your purse to give people when they need one

Put a positive note in a library book

Attend events that support your friends’ passions (like an art show, musical performance, etc…)

Donate unused items to charity

Bring snacks to the local fire station

Keep packs of toothpaste or packs of socks in your bag to give to homeless people

Post an uplifting photo on a friend’s social media

Compliment someone on something they’ve done or accomplished

Tell a parent that they’re doing a great job raising their kids

Bring or send your mother flowers

Bring a friend a small gift next time you see them

Buy a warm meal to give to a homeless person

Share an article, event, or other information with someone who might be interested

Help to connect a friend seeking a job to someone who has a job to offer

Help a neighbor bring in their groceries

Make dinner for your friend group

Compliment a neighbor on how nice their yard looks

Bring in the trash bins for your neighbor after trash has been picked up

Send an email to a former teacher to let them know how they impacted your life

Leave a thank you note in your mailbox for your mail carrier

Give a flower to a stranger

Buy a gift card to give to a stranger

Ofter to be there for a friend when they are struggling with something

Give bottles of water to people working outside on a hot day

Buy a sandwich for the next person in the lunch line

Leave a sticky note with a positive note somewhere public, like at a bus stop

Bring brownies to your next neighborhood association meeting

Scrape the ice off the car windshield of the car next to yours

Leave a positive comment on someone else's social media post, #ProsocialPost

Put coins in someone’s parking meter that is about to run out

Slow down to let someone merge in front of you in traffic

Be on time (don’t waste others’ time)

Hold the door open for the person walking behind you

Make a double batch of dinner so that you can give a meal to someone in need

Give directions to someone who is lost

Give an extra big tip when eating out

Practice compassion when someone else is struggling

Be self-compassionate when you’re struggling with something

Share veggies you grow in your garden with friends, neighbors, and family

Become an organ donor

Volunteer at the local animal shelter

Bring dinner to a friend who's just had a baby

Build a “little free library” box in your yard with books for everyone to read

[piastriprincess]

fell  in  love  at  the  orange  show  speedway ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  she  fell  first  he  fell  harder  . word  count  2k author’s  note  wow  wow  wow  we’re  finally  here  !  this  is  the  culmination  of  my  birthday  build - a - fic  event  .  thank  you  so  much  again  for  all  the  love  on  the  event  ,  i  was  so  happy  that  everyone  was  interested  !!  it  still  blows  my  mind  that  so  many  of  you  are  excited  about  my  work  and  i  am  so  so  grateful  .  i  had  so  much  fun  going  on  this  journey  with  yall  and  i  really  really  hope  you  love  the  result  !  depending  on  when  i  hit  my  next  follower  count  milestone  another  event  may  be  coming  very  soon  lol  …  as  always  PLEASE  come  tell  me  what  you  think  and  lmk  if  you  want  more  of  this  reader  and  osc  <3  title  is  from  orange  show  speedway  by  lizzy  mcalpine  !

The email shines up at you like a spotlight, the kind that always makes you wince and look away.

F1 Rising Stars promotional photoshoot. Thursday, 12 PM, at the paddock. Hair & makeup will be provided; race attire required. And just below that, in the participants list: Oscar Piastri is attending.

You’ve read it so many times the words have begun to blur together, except for his name, which has remained annoyingly clear in your mind every time you close your eyes. You didn’t know it was possible to have a crush on the shape of someone’s name in your phone, but you suppose when it comes to your feelings for Oscar, you should stop being so surprised. 

The worst part is, it didn’t take much. It started last year, when you were new to the grid, the first woman driver in fifty years. A heavy legacy to carry on your shoulders, and an even worse one to carry alone. You were never much for the spotlight anyway, but when you got to F1 it felt like every eye was on you: not just to watch your performance, but to pass judgment about every single woman in motorsport if you put a foot wrong. The other drivers were polite but distant, like their reps had forced them to memorize the HR handbook before they were allowed to talk to you. Except Oscar, who walked you to the media pen when you got lost with a friendly smile, who gave you a fist bump and an “impressive drive” when you dragged the Racing Bulls tractor to Q3 in your first ever quali. That was it — since then, you’ve been disgustingly down bad, wearing your heart on your sleeve for him like it’s the team’s newest sponsor. 

Everyone can see it. Isack clocked it within five minutes of becoming your teammate. There’s a running bet in your garage about whether you’ll ever say more than six words to him at a time without blushing. Through it all, Oscar’s remained his lovely, friendly self. You don’t know if he knows, and you definitely don’t want to find out. You’re not sure what would be more humiliating: him being completely oblivious, or him knowing and politely pretending not to.

“Hey,” your performance coach says gently as she hands you a water bottle, evidently getting tired of you fidgeting with your phone for the better part of ten minutes during what is supposed to be a training session. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a photoshoot.”

Just a photoshoot. Alone. With Oscar Piastri. The boy who makes you forget how to string sentences together when he smiles at you during driver briefings, all bunny teeth and big brown eyes. The boy you’ve been harboring the world’s most embarrassing crush on for months. With a camera shoved in your face, documenting your every move. 

“Right,” you sigh, shoving your phone into your bag and taking a long swig from the bottle like it will cool your flushed cheeks. “Just a photoshoot.”

You’re early on Thursday, of course. You’re always early when you’re nervous, and over the past few days the anxious buzz in your stomach has transformed into full-on nauseous butterflies. You’re nearly hyperventilating by the time you get to hair and makeup, picturing photos with your hair teased, siren makeup, and suit unzipped in the sultry way you know in your bones you could absolutely never pull off. But thankfully, they let you wear your hair the same way you always do, just smoothing a few flyaways and dabbing a bit of highlighter over your cheeks. “Natural beauty,” the stylist calls it with a proud smile. “Just like you.”

You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, and today is no exception, mumbling a thank you and ducking your head so they can’t see the blush on your cheeks. But you do look pretty, you think — at least, you look like you, just… a more confident version. 

The confidence goes out the window the minute you step onto the set. You’d thought your punctuality might buy you a bit of time, but Oscar’s already there, leaning against the prop car like a teen idol pin-up and talking to the photographer about camera angles, or lighting, or something equally important you should probably be paying attention to. You’re not listening. Instead, you’re cataloguing the way his race suit stretches over his broad shoulders, the way his hair falls in the perfect swoop over his forehead. Drinking in the details of his face so carefully that you forget to look where you’re walking, promptly trip over a lighting cord, and nearly go sprawling to the ground. 

Oscar turns at the noise, smiling at you in a way that makes your chest go tight. “Quite an entrance,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. It’s not unkind, just amused, but your face feels hot enough that someone should probably pull a fire alarm. “You ready to be rising stars?”

You take a deep breath and straighten up, manage what you hope sounds like a normal laugh in return. “A-As ready as I’ll ever be, I think.”

The photographer introduces herself. She’s almost aggressively cheerful, treats you and Oscar both like old friends. It doesn’t put you at ease, exactly, but it soothes some of the anxiety in your stomach. “How about we start with some individual shots, get you both warmed up,” she says kindly, gesturing toward the backdrop. 

Your solo session is… fine. You’re not comfortable, exactly, but you know how to smile on command, how to look confident even when your palms are sweating and your fireproofs feel tight around your neck. Oscar, of course, looks completely calm in front of the cameras when it’s his turn, like he’s done it a thousand times (he probably has — you can hardly forget the Vogue photoshoot you pored over a few months ago). You can’t help but steal glances at him as he laughs with the photographer, at ease in this world in a way you’ve never quite mastered. 

“Let’s get some shots together,” the photographer calls, ushering you back to the car to stand next to Oscar. The first few poses are easy enough — standing side by side, crossing your arms, holding out your helmets to the camera. It’s awkward, though. Your chest feels tight, and you’re hyperaware of your body, of Oscar’s closeness. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours, your heart flutters completely unprofessionally against your ribs.

“Are you okay? You’re standing like you’re being held hostage,” Oscar mutters out of the corner of his mouth as the shutter clicks.

The dry humor takes you so by surprise that you forget to be nervous, giggling lightly. “Stop. I’m trying to be photogenic, Oscar.”

“Maybe just relax a little,” he says softly, eyes bright. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

The sincerity in his voice is evident, and now your heart is doing something indescribably stupid in your chest. You don’t say another word, but he keeps making those dry little observations about the poses, the overzealous assistant with the reflector, the way the wind keeps sweeping at his hair, and despite the camera flashing in your face it somehow makes it a little easier to breathe. 

“Let’s do something a little less formal,” the photographer says. “Oscar, can you sit on the back wheel there? Perfect. And you, darling,” she says, turning to you, “sit next to him, but angle towards him slightly. Like you’re having a conversation.”

You settle beside him, taking slow, deep breaths. You can smell his cologne from here, something clean and comforting that makes it very hard for you to think straight. 

“You really are nervous,” Oscar says quietly, in a voice reserved just for you, as the photographer adjusts her camera. 

You exhale slightly. “Terrified,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

He turns to look at you properly, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Never would’ve guessed, honestly. You’re usually so… composed.” 

“They have me well trained,” you say dryly, and he laughs like he wasn’t expecting it — wasn’t expecting you. 

“Well, they did well,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re pretty brilliant at it.”

Your cheeks flush, fingers curling tight around the edge of your sleeve. But you don’t look away. “Thanks,” you say, and mean it. “But I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think the spotlight’s really for me. I’ve been here a year and I still always feel a bit out of place.” You wish you could take back the words as soon as you say them. You don’t know why you’re being so honest. Something about the way he’s looking at you, maybe. Like in this photoshoot with what feels like a million people roaming around, you’re the only person he sees. 

“You’re not out of place,” he says quickly. “Not to me.” Then his mouth snaps shut, and he blinks those big brown eyes at you like he hadn’t even expected the words to come out of his mouth. 

You don’t know what to say in response. It’s nicer than you could have imagined, something you wouldn’t have even dared to hope for in the secret moments when you close your eyes at night and picture what it might be like to have Oscar’s lips against yours. 

“Whatever you’re talking about, keep it up!” the photographer calls. “The chemistry is beautiful.”

Oscar flushes, eyes darting to the ground like he's only just realized what he said. You glance down too, pretending to smooth a wrinkle in your sleeve, the edges of your mouth betraying you with the start of a smile. Your hands feel too warm. Everything does.

You don’t look at him, not yet. You’re afraid that if you do, it’ll be written all over your face.

The sun is low in the sky by the time you’re finished, the photographer loudly declaring you two the easiest couple she’s ever worked with. You can’t meet Oscar’s eyes after you hear the word couple, settling for watching him rub at the back of his neck nervously out of the corner of your gaze. The two of you split up after that, heading back to the trailers. You change out of your race suit, and start packing up your things.

As you start walking back down the track towards the garages, you’re expecting that to be the end of it. Until you hear Oscar calling your name from somewhere behind you. 

For a moment, you’re expecting him to be holding something you forgot — your gloves, or a spare helmet, or something. But when you turn to face him, he’s empty-handed, standing a little awkwardly with one toe turned inward, the late afternoon light making his skin glow. 

“Hey,” he says, and it’s almost shy, like he’s gone over it in his mind a couple times the way you do when you’re trying really hard to sound nonchalant. “D’you wanna walk back together?”

“Sure,” you say softly, falling into step beside him. The sunset makes the paddock look like something magical, all golden and glittering. Your shadows stretch long across the asphalt, so close together they look like they might fold into one being. 

Neither of you say much, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Easy. He walks you all the way to the Racing Bulls garage, even though you pass McLaren on the way there. 

“Thanks for walking with me,” you say somewhat reluctantly when you arrive. You’re not in any hurry to leave, but surprisingly it doesn’t seem like Oscar is, either. He’s dragging his toe against the gravel like it’ll keep him tethered to the spot. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and you can hear the hesitation in his voice. Like he’s on the edge of doing something he’s not quite sure of. You wait for just a moment, heart in your throat, but he doesn’t move. And then, just as you sigh and turn to go, he speaks.

“You know, I meant what I said earlier. You didn’t even have to try, and it was hard not to look at you.”

You’re only frozen for a moment before you whirl around, but it’s enough. He’s already walking away, but you can see even in the setting sun that he’s pink up to his ears. 

You smile to yourself, pulse thrumming wildly in your ears. All of a sudden, you don’t feel so out of place anymore. 

[writesvani]

dear me | 01

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3k // date: 18th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too." A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97

[friendlyneighborhoodshark]

"How to Life" Masterlist

Cleaning and Tidying

Make your bed in the morning. It takes seconds, and it's worth it.

Reset to zero each morning.

Use the UFYH 20/10 system for clearing your shit.

Have a 'drop-zone' box where you dump anything and everything. At the beginning/end of the day, clear it out and put that shit away.

Automate your chores. Have a cleaning schedule and assign 15mins daily to do whatever cleaning tasks are set for that day. Set a timer and do it once the timer is up, finish the task you're on and leave it for the day.

Fold your clothes straight out of the tumble dryer (if you use one), whilst they're still warm. This minimises creases and eliminates the need for ironing.

Clean your footwear regularly and you'll feel like a champ.

Organisation and Productivity

Learn from Eisenhower's Importance/Urgency matrix.

Try out the two-minute rule and the Pomodoro technique.

Use. A. Planner. (Or Google Calendar, if that's more your thing.)

Try bullet journalling.

Keep a notebook/journal/commonplace book to dump your brain contents in on the regular.

Set morning alarms at two-minute intervals rather than five, and stick your alarm on the other side of the room. It's brutal, but it works.

Set three main goals each day, with one of them being your #1 priority. Don't overload your to-do list or you'll hit overload paralysis and procrastinate.

If you're in a slump, however, don't be afraid to put things like "shower" on your to do list - that may be a big enough goal in itself, and that's okay.

Have a physical inbox - a tray, a folder, whatever. If you get a piece of paper, stick it in there and sort through it at the end of the week.

Consider utilising the GTD System, or a variation of it.

Try timeboxing.

Have a morning routine, and guard that quiet time ferociously.

Have a folder for all your important documents and letters, organised by topic (e.g. medical, bank, university, work, identification). At the front of this folder, have a sheet of paper with all the key information written on it, such as your GP's details, your passport details, driving licence details, bank account number, insurance number(s), and so on.

Schedule working time and down time alike, in the balance that works for you.

Money

Have. A. God. Damn. Budget.

Use a money tracker like toshl, mint, or splitwise. Enter all expenses asap! (You will forget, otherwise.)

Have a 'money date' each week, where you sort through your finances from the past seven days and then add it to a spreadsheet. This will help you identify your spending patterns and whether your budget is actually working or not.

Pack your own frickin' lunch like a grown-up and stop buying so many takeaway coffees. Keep snacks in your bag.

Food and Cooking

Know how to cook the basics: a starch, a protein, a vegetable, and a sauce.

Simple, one-pot meals ("a grain, a green, and a bean") are a godsend.

Batch cook and freeze. Make your own 'microwave meals'.

Buy dried goods to save money - rice and beans are a pittance.

Consider Meatless Mondays; it's healthier, cheaper, and more environmentally friendly.

Learn which fruits and vegetables are cheapest at your store, and build a standard weekly menu around those. (Also remember that frozen vegetables are cheap and healthy.)

Learn seasoning combinations. Different seasoning, even with the exact same ingredients, can make a dish seem completely new.

Misc

Have a stock email-writing format.

Want to start running, but find it boring? Try Zombies, Run!.

Keep a goddamn first aid kit and learn how to use it.

Update your CV regularly.

Keep a selection of stamps and standard envelopes for unexpected posting needs. (It happens more regularly than you would think!)

[pathologicalreid]

merry christmas, please don't call | s.r.

in which Spencer pens an email to you, since you've already blocked his phone number

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: nondescript break up, described as spencer's fault, reader is mentioned to have worn lipstick, yearning, word count: 907 a/n: and the worst part is!!! that we both know!!!!! we are doing kind of an unofficial margotmas/reidmas! really i've just been building up christmas ideas for a while lol

To: xreader@gmail.com From: Spencer.Reid@gmail.com Subject: Merry Christmas

Hey,

Spencer shook his head, that was too casual.

Good afternoon,

Much too formal.

Hello,

Too rigid.

Darling,

I passed by the house that you told me you adored. It used to be your dream house; you’d always show me the Zillow listing whenever you were browsing. The owners didn’t put up their Christmas lights this year, and it looks like they’re getting ready to sell. I haven’t been online to check the listing, that was always your thing rather than mine.

Do you remember the house? It had four bedrooms for our kids to sleep in and a library with stained-glass windows. You always told me the stained-glass windows were your favorite feature of my apartment. I keep it covered now; the colored glass just serves as a painful reminder of you.  

Emily called me last week. I suppose no one told her that we weren’t together anymore because she asked what our holiday plans were. I haven’t made any since you left. I’m finding myself hopeful that we get called on a case over Christmas so that I don’t need to be surrounded by the world celebrating while I continue to wallow in the memories of you and me.

That’s all I have now: memories. We made so many of them over the course of three years that I don’t know what to do with them. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that having an eidetic memory is a curse just as much as it is a blessing, but with you gone, I know it’s more of a curse. I see you when I close my eyes as if your features have been permanently tattooed on the back of my eyelids, but when my eyes are open, everything is exponentially worse.

You left in such a hurry, so you were bound to leave a few things behind. When I went to make a cup of coffee and found one of your mugs in my cabinet, JJ and Penelope had to practically scrape me off the kitchen floor. There was still a lipstick smudge on it, a piece of our history the dishwasher couldn’t quite wash off. Your necklace was on the bedside table, though maybe that was left behind on purpose. I wish we could go back to the day I gave it to you, you could wear the same green dress, and maybe work wouldn’t get in the way. If I could, I’d call you to ask why you left it behind, but you’ve blocked my number.

There was no need for you to leave me things to remember you by, how could I ever forget you?

I’ve been finding myself grateful that you got so close with Garcia during our relationship, she doesn’t give me any explicit details on your life when she updates me. I never ask, but she knows I want to hear.

It’s a rather odd phenomenon to have once had someone who you shared everything with, only to one day find they want nothing to do with you. I always find myself reaching for my phone to send to a message, or leaning over to show you a line in my book, but you’re not there anymore. I don’t hold any malice in my heart for you, even after you called it all off. My biggest regret is that I couldn’t be the boyfriend that you needed, and I’m proud of you for realizing you wanted someone better. I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.

Maybe I still have some growing up to do. There might be some sort of emotional stunting as a result of my less-than-orthodox upbringing and education, which makes sense when you consider two of my most common nicknames, “boy genius” and “kid.” One day I could find myself in the same place you were, ready for more, but maybe then I’ll be with someone who is ready for the same things as I am. She’ll never be you though. You’ll always hold that special place in my heart.

Speaking of my upbringing, my mom keeps asking about you. Each time we talk on the phone, she asks if she can talk to you, but I’ve been telling her that you’re still working or are otherwise preoccupied. I know I shouldn’t lie to her, but if I tell her, she’ll inevitably forget, and I’ll be forced to recount the story of how I lost the best thing to ever happen to me forever. That would be my eternal damnation. There’s Sisyphus and Tantalus and Spencer Reid, slowly becoming nothing but a myth. I wonder if I’m a story that you tell your friends at O’Keefe’s.

I go there sometimes, just to see if I can catch your gaze, but you’re never there.

I know this is your favorite holiday, and I don’t intend to ruin your holidays with my message. I suppose I just needed to see if you still dream about that house. To see if you still dream of me the way I dream of you.

Merry Christmas,

Spencer

He clicked send nervously, ready to snap his work-issued laptop shut when it chirped with a notification. Surely you hadn’t responded that quickly. Spencer opened his inbox once more, checking the latest email.

To: Spencer.Reid@gmail.com From: mailer-daemon@googlemail.com Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)

Message blocked.

Your message to xreader@gmail.com has been blocked. See technical details below for more information.

[leadyoutothelight]

Please Hold- Part 2

Joel has figured it out, you're his missing client Cherry Pie. Hurt and confused he goes to drown his sorrows. But when you appear at the same bar to ignore your own problems truths and feelings collide.

Part 1: Here

Word Count: 9k

Rating: E MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Warnings: Alcohol abuse, misunderstanding, grinding, fingering, Oral (m receiving), car sex, slightly public sex, slight exhibition, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex. (Please let me know if I missed anything) If my writing is used to train AI it will be deleted.

Notes: Holy shit this weird little idea took off and I'm so happy you guys have enjoyed it! This will be the final installment of the Please Hold series. Now without further delay part 2!!

Tag List: @cinnxmxngxrl , @inept-the-magnificent , @lillaydee , @speaktothehandpeasants , @maried01, @pedrofan , @harriedandharassed , @sophiek222 , @stories-we-read , @aquanatalie , @itsdrewharriso , @mallingcalling-blog

Rascal’s is the town’s local dive bar. A cinder-block building that’s seen better days. The front windows are dusty, and dirt-caked. The bar’s sign flickers, the ‘Ras’ blinks on and off, so sometimes the bar only looks to be named ‘Cal’s’. 

Joel doesn’t care that the bar stinks, the floors are sticky, and that the dancefloor is crowded with drunk college kids, grinding on each other like rabbits in heat. He just wants to drink, better yet he needs to drink. 

Drown his sorrows in the whiskey he’s been chugging since he got here, and the bartender is generous with their pours. Each glass ensures he forgets the way his heart felt when he discovered…you were Cherry Pie. 

He should have realized, he takes another swing as the memory swirls in his mind. You in your 50’s outfit, unaware of his inner turmoil as you helped the other customer. It all made sense now, Cherry’s calls ending right after you met. You’d figured it out quicker then he had, that first meeting, you breaking the plates when he’d asked for a slice of fucking cherry pie. 

Of course after meeting him, a sad old man, you’d been disgusted. 

He understands, you’re young, and have a life ahead of you filled with excitement and partners to match you. A vibrancy he couldn’t hope to keep up with, but he lingers on the calls. The way your voice would hitch when you’d beg him to let you cum. The soft noises you’d make as you touched yourself, he takes another gulp of whiskey, wincing at the burn. 

But the burn is welcome, as compared to the ache in his chest. He sighs finishing his current glass, and the bartender is busy with a group of frat brothers that’s come bumbling in. He snorts and leans back in his stool, looking out over the sea of bodies, entangled in their respective conversations, dances, and their late night revels. 

He sighs through his nose, seeing a few eyes taking him in. When he first arrived a girl sauntered up beside him, put her pretty tits on the bar and asked for a drink. He’d been in such a foul mood all he’d given her was a dismissive once over and jerked his head with annoyance announcing he wasn’t looking for a whore. 

The look she’d given him, would have killed him ten times over. Maybe that’s what he wanted, she’d left with a muttered ‘asshole’ and he’d ordered a whiskey on the rocks and to keep them coming. 

He won’t stay here much longer…though he’ll probably need to call a cab–Uber, right the girls mentioned Uber was what cabs are called now. He can barely see straight, and he’ll have a hell of a hangover in the morning. But it’s worth it, after the diner…which he’ll now never go back to. 

Another jolt of shame, and disgust rushes through him. You fucking knew the whole time, and he’d been strung along ever the idiot.

He looks at his phone as it pings with notifications. Client’s asking where he is, nameless profiles he’s never bothered to know more about, save for how to get them off. With a huff he sends out an email, he’s done, now that he knows Cherry will never come back. There’s no point in working the phones anymore. You were the only reason he stayed on, besides the money. So he’ll go out with a whimper, reduce his prices and hours and be done with it. He closes his email with grimace as he downs the last shot of his whiskey. 

He sighs rubbing his face about to turn back to get the bartender's attention to close his tab, when a pair entering Rascal’s catches his attention. 

Shit, as if the world hadn’t already kicked him around enough. There you and your friend Kristin stand, she’s got her arm around your shoulders and you look more than a little put off to be there. 

He panics, wondering if you see him, but he relaxes as Kristin drags you to a distant corner booth. He wants to look away, turn back to his drink and get the fuck out. But he can’t, seeing you out and about, no longer wearing your usual 50’s outfit.

Instead you’ve dressed down into a pair of ripped jeans, tennis shoes, and a tight fitted short-sleeve shirt neckline cut low enough you can see the tiniest peek of cleavage, backpack slung over your shoulder. It’s a plain outfit, yet it makes his cock jolt. His hands clench as he imagines slipping one of them into the back pocket to cup your ass. 

“Goddammit,” he huffs, even though he’s pissed, and drunk. He can’t stop the thoughts, or his cock twitching impatiently. He can’t look away as your friend calls over a waiter, orders, the two of you sit alone. While Kristin looks about excitedly you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. 

Kristin leans close whispering something, and you smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. The waiter returns with two pastel colored mixed drinks, which you both cheers, clinking your glasses together before taking long drinks. 

Your eyes wander around, and Joel jerks turning back to his drink, praying you didn’t see him. 

“You getting another drink?” 

The bartender appears, half-filled whiskey bottle already in hand, Joel sighs, but nods. The bartender pours slow and steady, the satisfying glug of the liquor leaving the bottle settles some of Joel’s nerves. He takes another drink, and risks another glance at you. 

Kristin has left you alone in the booth, you don’t look like you mind though. Fingers playing with the rim of your glass, the pastel liquid mostly drunk. You pull out your phone, pause, then put it back. 

He wonders if you think about calling him…but the thought rushes away as you finish your drink, and someone approaches from somewhere in the pulsing crowd. Joel watches the guy approach you, a cock-sure swagger to his steps. 

The guy is older, maybe late 30’s or 40’s. Joel doesn’t care; he knows how it will end. You’ll brush him off, just like you did to him, you obviously don’t do older guys.

But life has a way of kicking you when you’re down, instead of brushing the guy off you start talking. A smile splits your lips, still shining in the dim lights with whatever drink you’ve finished. The stranger, leans over you, hip cocked, says something–you laugh. Your eyes take in the stranger’s jeans, and plain black t-shirt, but he says something and your bottom lip goes between your teeth as you consider him.

Joel’s body tenses, his fingers tighten around the glass. 

The stranger offers you his hand, and you take it, leading you to the dance floor. Joel’s ears start ringing all over again. All he sees is red as you follow the stranger to the dance floor and press yourself close. 

“Girl, I’m going to start playing the ASPCA commercial music in a sec if you don’t lightin’ up!” 

You ignore Kristin’s jab as you finish busing the last table for the night, flicking off the diner’s neon window lights to signify it’s now closed. 

But Kristin will not be ignored, she follows you with her own tub full of dirty dishes to bring to the kitchen. Standing beside you as you both end the night cleaning up the plates, and utensils for the morning crew. 

“Girl–” 

“Kris, I really don’t want a pep talk right now, I want to finish my shift, go home–” 

“And cry your eyes out over the dude you’d been having hot, nasty phone sex with leaving you high and dry for the second time?” 

You pout at her words, ignore the sting of tears that threaten to flow again. You swallow down the lump forming your throat. You’ve cried enough tonight. 

She’s right, ever since Joel stomped out of here a few hours ago, you’d been left wondering…if this was it. If you’d truly fucked over whatever relationship you could have formed with Joel. 

The first time he’d stormed out…you swore it was because he’d found out. Discovered that you were Cherry Pie and he’d distanced himself in order to–keep the peace? Maybe he was just disappointed, after all Cherry Pie was...different a facade you used when talking to him, a sexual temptress who indulged in the forbidden.  

After all Cherry was still you, in a sense but…over the phone it was easier to pretend. To be more adventurous, do things you…normally wouldn’t do. In the real world, you enjoyed staying home and reading, getting your work done, and being a TA until you graduated and defended your thesis. Maybe went on to get a doctorate. To be honest you’re boring, and while that hadn’t bothered you before…now it felt like it was the whole reason relationships just never clicked.

You put more effort into your studies, and your pursuits than yourself. But then when Joel showed up and suddenly the man, the mystery who’d been integral to you finding some sexual relief turned out to be real. Not just some shadowy figure you could imagine and fantasize about. 

Even worse he was fucking hot, yes, older--but that didn’t matter to you. When he’d looked at you with those deep brown eyes, looked sheepish at your playful jests. Fucker hadn’t realized it, but he’d stolen your heart the moment you laid eyes on him, and when you’d realized who he really was?

Just when you thought, maybe he’d break the connection for you, he’d come back! You’d almost fainted at the sight of him, and then he’d apologized and for a moment it seemed like things would return to normal. You’d almost confessed then and there to him who you were. But he still didn’t know, and you took some comfort in that. 

That your little secret was still safe, and the man before you…might still be interested in seeing you. But then–he’d left, nothing to say besides he needed to go. In such a rush you’d felt like the world had collapsed around you all over again. 

Now you just want to mope. You hadn’t called the line in a month, terrified he’d hear your voice and put two and two together and get four. You couldn’t risk it, so you’d thrown yourself into work. Taking extra shifts, adding on additional TA hours. 

Run yourself so ragged you couldn’t focus on the growing sexual frustration, and the dull pain of Joel being Lonely Cowboy and that he’d never be interested in you the same way you’d been to him.

You should have put more distance between the two of you, besides ending your calls with him. Maybe offer to give your section to someone else, keeping him at a companionable distance. But everytime he came back to the diner, gave you a soft smile, and chatted with you…How could you keep away?

“Earth to y/n!” 

You're brought out of your thoughts by Kristin splashing you with warm soapy water, you let out a disgusted shriek as wet food sticks to the dampened fabric. 

“Fuck! Kris!” You shout, your matching shirt and poodle skirt now soaked, you turn, aiming a nasty glare at her. All Kristin does is smile. 

“Get changed, we’re going out!” 

“Kris–” 

“Nope, you need to get out, have some fun–” 

“I don’t want to–” 

“Don’t care, girl, you look like a kicked puppy dog, and I cannot stand it.” She finished putting her dishes in the drying rack, before drying her hands. Heading back to you and putting her hands on your shoulders. 

“Come on! Go out and live for a bit, if you’re not having a good time you can leave alright?” 

You sigh, but Kris means it, she’s not letting you leave without going somewhere. 

“Fine, where are we going?” 

“We’re going to Rascal’s!”

Rascal’s is the last bar you’d want to come to for a good time, but Kristin insists they have the best mixed drinks, and the crowd is usually rowdier than the other bars around town. So you’d changed into your jeans and a plain shirt, to get out of the soapy, sticky mess that is your work uniform. 

Kristin drove, and when you’d arrived she’d all but dragged you to a booth, ordered something for you and then…proceeded to leave you high and dry when she’d gotten distracted by a pretty brunette at another table. Who she is now fawning over, and they are equally enamored. 

So you’d stayed at the booth, gazing around the bar, it’s the usual for such a late night, frat bros hyping each other up to take more shots. A few sorority girls peppered into their ranks, a couple of locals at the bar nursing their own drinks. 

You pause on a man with his shoulders hunched and back turned to you, wondering who that could be, but in the terrible lighting you're not able to make out much. Your attention turns from the stranger at the bar to your phone buzzing in your pocket. You risk a quick glance to your notifications and wince, another email about Lonely Cowboy, and his prices. You stare silently for a moment at the email, an announcement of price reductions, you don’t read more of the message. Hurt enough from Joel’s sudden departure, the last thing you want to think about is him getting off to other clients. Ones much more interesting than you.

You put the phone back in your pocket, drinking down the last of the pastel sugary drink that you couldn’t remember the name of. It tasted like too much sugar and not enough like tequila.

“‘Scuse me–” pulled from your people watching you turn to meet the eyes of a stranger. He’s older, maybe in his late 30’s. With pale golden hair, and pretty green eyes. You wonder if he’s just passing through, you’d recognize someone like him if they stopped at the diner or if he worked at the University. 

“Uh, yes?” You blink with owlish confusion as to why he’s bothering you, thankfully the tequila is loosening you up. So you settle back in the booth aware of the guy giving you a once over. You don’t mind the attention though…at least someone’s looking at you. 

“What’s a gorgeous girl like you doing alone in a bar like this?” 

You can’t help it, a laugh bubbles from you at the horrid pick up line. His smile falters for a second, probably waiting for the inevitable let down. But…he’s attractive enough, and after being rejected, it’s nice to feel wanted. And he looks nothing like the man who’s turned your heart inside out and stomped on it one too many times.

So you lean forward, press your tits to the table, making sure the low cut of the t-shirt shows off the tease of skin. 

“Sadly, I’ve been ditched by my friend, but if you’ve got a better way to spend the night,” you smile sugary sweet, licking at the coating of sugar left on your bottom lip by the drink. “I’m all ears.” 

It’s satisfying watching his pupils widen, the way his eyes take in your every move. He chuckles, carding his fingers through his hair. 

“Well, I’d love to dance with you,” he admits, tilting your head considering him, as he offers you a hand. One you notice that’s calloused and rough…you smile sweetly and take it. 

“I’d love to,” even in the dim light of the bar you see the apples of his cheeks go red. He seems sweet, and right now you’d prefer sweet and soft over being lonely. 

He leads you with easy confidence to the dance floor, swinging you into his arms, you both sway to the some rock song you don’t know the name of. 

“I’m impressed the little lady can dance,” he calls over the noise of the crowd, and the shouts of the frat boys. You laugh swaying your hips to the beat. His hands find their way to your hips pulling you closer. 

Your breath hitches, you glance up, and try to tamp down on the disappointment that it’s not brown eyes staring back at you, and a southern drawl tickling your ear. You jolt as his hands sneak their way into your back pockets. 

“I have a lot of surprises up my sleeve,” you return, reaching down to pull his hands back up to your hips. He relents, which you’re grateful for. 

“I’m sure,” he smiles, the both of you go back to swaying together, silence consumes your dance. You’re unsure of what to say next, conversation doesn’t come easily to you, and right now you're lingering on the fact that he’s not Joel. 

Even as his hands wander lower again, hand caressing the fat of your ass, giving it a soft squeeze. Your breath hitches and it hits you then, you don’t want a sloppy rebound so soon after everything with Joel blew up in your face. Much less do you want some stranger feeling you up like a piece of meat at a butcher shop.

Pushing back you blink, stammering out a quick apology, and something about needing to use the restroom.

Mystery man calls after you, but you ignore it, pushing through too many bodies on the dance floor and to the hallway leading to the restrooms. One downside to Rascal’s being so small, they have limited bathrooms. One room each for women and men, thankfully the women’s is open.

As you push into the room, you don’t realize you’ve been followed, a shadow having slipped from his bar stool and through the crowds. You don’t sense him until a body is forcing you through the open doorway. Forcing you back against the door with a hard thud, and locking it behind you. 

You gasp, thinking it's the mystery guy, you’re about to bite his head off–maybe scream if he doesn’t get the message, but all arguments die on your tongue as you meet familiar dark brown eyes boring into your own.

“Joel?” You manage to squeak out as he traps you against the door, the bathroom is small, a toilet pushed off to the corner, and a sink that is splattered with water, and soap to the side.

He glares at you, shoulders rising and falling with every breath. Jaw grinding side to side as his eyes take in your sorry state.

“So, you’ll just fuck any old guy that shows up huh?” 

You blink, trying to ignore the way your thighs tremble at his growled insult. His breath stinks of whiskey, and his eyes can’t seem to focus. He’s drunk…better yet he’s probably close to shitfaced. 

“Joel, what the fuck?” You hiss, though with the music pounding through the walls, you know none’s going to hear the conversation between you two. 

“You can’t just—barge in here,” you press back against the door, putting space between you two, the tequila not helping as your skin heats so close to him. “Also I can dance with whoever I want! None of your fucking business.”

He lets out a harsh laugh, he doesn’t pull back, rather leans in. “Oh, I saw that dancing wasn’t the only thing on his mind,” his eyes dip down to your heaving breasts, heat fills your stomach. A dull throb begins between your thighs. “But then again, I know that Cherry Pie has needs, and I guess I couldn’t fill ‘em anymore.” 

The way he spits out your nickname, it hurts, like he’s disgusted to say it to you. You freeze hearing it spoken so callously, when he’d said it so sweetly before. 

“So…you did know.” You whisper, eyes lowering as you fight back the same damn tears that you’d kept at bay for the last few hours. 

“Figured it out a lot later than you,” he growls, and gives a humorless laugh. “Was it fun? Toying with the sad old man when you realized? This was who you were talkin’ to?” He gestures to himself, and you gap at him.

“The hell are you talking about Joel?” You know it’s cowardly to try and deny it, that you’ve known ever since the first day you met him. When you’d dropped the plates, upon hearing him ask for the slice of pie you’d called yourself.

“Don’t lie!” Joel shouts, slamming his hand beside your head, you jolt with a soft gasp away from the sound. Joel’s eyes burn into your cheek, and trail a dangerous line down your neck, to your breasts. Before coming back up to meet your gaze.

“I didn’t mean…” you fumble trying to find something…anything to explain your actions. Figuring it out, and then stopping all forms of communication. You couldn’t find the words, not without revealing your own faults. 

That you’d fallen for the man, and the idea of him rejecting you. Was too much to bear, you close your eyes and hope he’ll stop. Back away and just forget this all happened. But Joel surprises you by slumping forward, caging you between his too hot body and the door.

Pressed between the bathroom door and Joel, you feel trapped, squirming in his hold. He growls low in his throat and you gasp as his hands find themselves on your hips, pulling you against him. The rough rasp of his beard against your cheek sends electricity crackling through your nerves. 

“J–Joel,” a whimper of his name and he chokes on a noise, low in his throat, those eyes burn into yours. 

“Why,” his voice is a soft, drunken slur. He leans forward, nose brushing the skin of your neck, making you jolt. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. As those pretty eyes take you in, you again smell the whiskey on his breath. 

He presses harder against you, hands trapping your hips against the door, you flounder for a second. But you can’t help the sadness that wells up in you. 

“I–I thought you knew at first–” 

“What do you mean?” He growls, pressing you harder to the door, his knee pushes between your legs, brushing against your core. A distracting bolt of pleasure tickles up your spine, your eyelids flutter. 

“When we first met–the Cherry pie comment–I thought you knew it was me,” his brows furrow as you see his drunken mind try to piece together your rambling. 

“A–and then you kept showing up, kept being so sweet–I thought you were–”

“Were what?” He snaps and you jolt, grasping for straws to get him to understand. 

“Disappointed? Mocking–I don’t know, maybe playing mind games with me?!” You huff, gasping as his knee brushes against your core again. 

“Maybe you realized I was Cherry…and were disappointed in what you saw,” you mumble, pressing back further into the door looking around the bathroom, noting the water stains in the ceiling tiles, and the suspect stains around the toilet. Anything but looking into those deep brown eyes that burn into you. 

“Why would I be mocking you?” 

“I–I liked you…no, fuck,” your head falls back as you fight the urge to get quiet, there’s no point in lying to yourself anymore. “I fell for you–Cowboy…and when I finally met you, that first time…and you didn’t show any interest in me.” 

You bite your lip struggling to find the words to explain, “I thought you figured out I was Cherry, and since you never bothered to tell me…I thought you had no interest in me like that, and it hurt.” 

“I didn’t want to admit I had feelings for Cowboy–you,” you mutter fingers pressing in his shoulders as you look anywhere but his eyes. 

“How sad, right?” A humorless chuckle, the sting of tears filling your eyes, “the lonely college student falling for the sex phone operator, who she paid to listen to her get off–” 

“I fell for you too,” Joel whispers, and the world freezes. The dull thump of the bass outside of the bathroom deadens as Joel pulls back. “Cherry–Y/n, I had no idea till…tonight.” 

He mutters, leaning his forehead against yours. Now you can’t escape his eyes, but you don’t want to. His whiskey breath is heady, your fingers toy with his jacket seam. 

“I…I’ve been waiting–needing for you to call,” he pulls you closer, your back arches fingers grasping at his shoulders to steady yourself. “I thought–I thought I’d overstepped, messed up somewhere and then…when I figured it out.” 

He gives a breathless laugh, “thought you were disappointed…seeing that Lonely Cowboy was nothing but a sad old man, seeing as you figured it out long before me.” 

There’s a moment of quiet before you can’t stop the giggle that leaves you, Joel, looks annoyed. But you shake your head as a soft burst of laughter leaves you. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“We’re idiots–”

“The hell you mean?” 

“Joel…we both thought the other was disappointed, or didn’t want them,” his eyes shine even in the dim florescenes of the bathroom, and then you see them shift. “But…that seems to be the farthest thing from the truth.” 

“You–You want me?” 

“How drunk are you Cowboy?” Joel growls his fingers dig into the fat of your ass, his lips hover just above yours. 

“Not Cowboy—Joel, you’re gonna call me by my name tonight Cherry–y/n,” he stumbles over your name, looking unsure again. Like he’s overstepped a boundary that you placed and he didn’t check. You place a reassuring hand against his cheek. The stubble of his beard coarse against your palm. 

“Joel, I love it when you call me Cherry, I understand why you’d rather be Joel,”you whisper, he sighs softly, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. Those big brown eyes devouring you as you both hesitate for a moment. “But Cherry is me, so please keep calling me that baby.” 

You have no idea where the husk in your voice comes from, or how you’re able to keep your eyes locked with his. Joel’s silent for a bit too long, and for a panicked moment you wonder if you’ve crossed some boundary.

“Joel–” you’re cut off by his lips smashing against yours. His lips are warm tongue tasting of whiskey and smoke, as it presses between yours, tangling with yours. 

You make a noise in the kiss, fingers grasping at his shirt as your eyelids flutter shut, meeting Joel’s every move with your own. He pulls back, lips red and glistening. You press back against the door, head spinning, unsure of where to go next. After all…the last time you’d been intimate, he’d been on the phone. 

His eyes take in your state, and he chuckles, moving to press a kiss to your cheek, before trailing down to your neck. Nibbling at the skin just above your pulse, his hands kneading into your hips, as you whine. 

“Joel–”

“What Cherry Pie, tell me what you want?” 

“Fuck, anything Joel–I want anything you can give me,” you gasp as Joel sucks a mark into your neck. Joel groans as your hips buck against his, his knee trapped between your legs rubbing just right against your clit. Pleasure sparks hot and sudden, racing up your spine and coiling in your belly. Joel grins, panting against your skin, the warmth of his breath tickles along sensitive flesh, your fingers grasp his shoulders as Joel finally speaks.

“I know you can’t cum with just your fingers,” he groans against your neck, “but maybe you can cum with mine.” His words send a throb through your cunt, his hands slide to the button of your jeans, with a flick it pops open, and the zipper hushes open as his hand slips inside. 

“J–Joel,” you gasp, the heat of his palm resting against your panty cover mound sends your mind spinning, you feel his lips curve into a wicked smile as the tip of his middle finger toys with your covered clit. 

Teasing touches, that make you keen, hips bucking into his hand. He doesn’t tease for too long though, feeling the wetness soaking your panties, he moans, “So wet already Cherry?” 

You whine, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth to quiet the noises leaving you. Joel’s hand slides back up, and past the hem of your panties. The first touch of his rough fingertips against your clit has you jolting, a choked cry leaving you at the shock of pleasure slicing through you.

“Joel!” You keen his name as your world spins, Joel pulls back, those dark eyes watching as your every reaction, as his hand cups your cunt. He teases the tip of his middle finger between soaked folds. Letting out a shuddering breath, stroking his finger back and forth groaning as your slick covers his fingertip. 

“God, Cherry, so wet,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the apple of your cheek, the rasp of his beard against your skin making you whine. You feel like a live wire, everything keyed up to one hundred. Too aware of your clothes covering your body, Joel’s finger teasing your soaked cunt, the warmth of his breath against your skin. His palm rubbing against your clit, it’s both too much and not enough. 

“You ready?” he asks, all you can manage is a jerky nod, not trusting your voice to not quiver. He smiles, and his eyes glow in the too bright fluorescents of the bathroom. 

When he presses his finger inside your fingers claw his shoulders, they’re thick, rough with callouses and so different from anything you’ve ever felt. The stretch feels good, your cunt flutters around Joel’s finger, a gush of slickness coats his fingers and palm as he presses deep. 

Joel lets out a breath, as he starts a slow pace, keeping his middle finger buried deep in your cunt, stroking against your walls, he pauses as his finger brushes against something that has you tensing, forcing out a wrecked keen. He chuckles, leaning down lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “did I find a spot Cherry?” 

All you can manage is a choked ‘yes’. Joel growls as your hips press into his hand, the rough skin of his palm rubs against your clit every thrust of his hand sends another wave of delicious pleasure through you, all your mind can focus on is the delicious feelings Joel’s hand stirs in you. 

“I’ve thought about this so much,” he whispers, nipping your earlobe, you whine as he pulls out and adds another finger, thrusting both in, there’s a slight burn just beneath the pleasure. You gasp, hips bucking into the mixing sensations. 

“About what I’d do if I ever got my hands on you,” he presses a series of wet kisses against the corner of your jaw pressing you both harder against the door, you feel a bulge against your hip. You grind into it, and Joel groans, nipping at your flesh. “Wanted to know what you felt like, sounded like, without a phone distancing us.” 

His fingers curl, and your eyes roll, lids fluttering as scorching pleasure boils through you. You’re stumbling closer and closer to the edge as Joel continues whispering into your ear. 

“The noises you make…Cherry, god, wish I could have figured it out sooner,” his fingers go faster, the wet noise of them fucking you open filling the small bathroom. Your cheeks heat, the lewd noises should mortify, but only serve to intensify the heat building. Your breaths hitch, your voice pitching higher as Joel pushes you closer and closer to crumbling. 

“So wet, and you’re just taking two fingers,” he gives a soft laugh, grinding his bulge again into your hip. “I’ve dreamed of this, fucking you, anywhere, everywhere. Would have taken you on one of the diner tables if I’d known.” 

He chuckles as your cunt quivers around his fingers, a gush of slick coating his fingers and palm. 

“You like that baby?” He hums, sucking another mark into your skin, fingers speeding up his palm crushing against your clit, taking a moment to let it press against your clit, grinding against the sensitive nub. Another ripple of pleasure courses through you, your head falls back a wrecked gasp leaving you as the world spins. 

“Joel,” you whimper, he pants, fingers going faster he hears it in your voice, the hitch of your breath. Feels it in the way your cunt tightens around his fingers, you’re so close and he’s pushing to see you at your end. Waited so long to see this witness you coming undone, and from just his fingers. You keen, cries leaving your lips with every thrust, so close–

A loud pounding on the door shatters all thoughts of release. You both jolt at the interruption, Joel’s fingers still buried in your cunt, the rough calluses of his fingertips stroke your walls sending delirious bolts of pleasure along your spine.

You let out a broken whine as those thick fingers slip out of you, heat burning your cheeks as you register the wet noise they make leaving you.

“Fuck Cherry, you’re soaked,” Joel’s eyes are black pits ringed by mahogany. Devouring your every reaction, as his fingers slip from your jeans, you watch dazed as he brings them to his lips. 

Something over takes you, a feral desire to make him just as wrecked as you, your hand clasps his wrist dragging his hand to your lips. Taking the two fingers shining with your slick, enveloping them with your lips and tongue.

The noise Joel makes deep in his throat causes another flutter in your cunt. Another gush of slick dampens your ruined panties. As you taste yourself on his fingers, sucking the digits, swirling your tongue along each knuckle and fingertip. 

Your eyes locked with his as he pants, “fuck baby—need you—“

Another impatient knock at the door, and someone shouting about needing to piss, and to ‘get on with it’. You both groan, you can’t continue this here. You release Joel’s fingers with a wet pop, you give him a dazed look.

“Need you too baby, but where the hell can we go?”

Joel huffs and you feel the grind of his bulge against your hip.

“My trucks’ outside—“ without answering you’re fixing your jeans, and unlocking the door. Joel hot on your trail, the patron waiting for the bar has the decency to not look either of you in the eye as you scurry past. 

The bar is still busy, couples out on the dance floor—-where you notice your previous catch looking put off as he looks around the room, most likely trying to find you. But you don’t care as Joel’s gaze tickles at the back of your neck. 

The urge to slow down, make him wait, let him suffer a little bit longer—but no, the fire in your belly is too persistent. You grab your bag and then you’re both rushing out the door. Racing to his rusty pick up, tucked into a darkened corner of Rascal’s parking lot. 

You're pressed into the driver’s side back door, Joel’s hands grasp your hips, lips finding your neck. Every touch sends your mind spiraling, you whimper as his teeth find your pulse and they scrape against skin. 

“J–Joel–” you whine, pressing back against him, as another throb pulses through your cunt, panties soaked. He hums low in his throat as he continues to devour your neck. “Joel–we can’t fuck in the parking lot–” 

He chuckles, a hand slipping forward from your hip to between your thighs, pressing the seam of your jeans against your clit and your body jolts. Hands pressing against the chipped paint of his beaten down truck, seeing your faces reflected in the window. 

Joel’s eyes never leave your face as he presses again. Groaning against your neck as your hips jerk back into the bulge in his jeans. You grind into each other, rough, desperate. 

“Who’s gonna stop us?” He pants, his breath warm against your skin, even in the chill of the evening you feel like you're burning. 

A breathless laugh leaves you, ending in a strangled moan, “A public indecency charge.” 

He presses harder into you, grinding his bulge hard between your ass cheeks, you yelp as another delicious wave of pleasure threatens to consume you. It’s so tempting, the thought of his hands ripping down your jeans, fucking you stupid in Rascal’s parking lot. The thought alone sends a painful jolt through your cunt, a ripple of want courses through your abdomen. 

“Joel–please, another time–wanna fuck you–but not out here–” you’re statement is cut off by Joel ripping himself away from you. The clink of keys, and he’s opening the back door to his truck. It's old with one of those benches for a backseat. With a grunt he hefts himself into the back, the shocks of his truck groan at the weight before settling. 

Taking a moment to readjust himself sitting with his back against the opposite side, one leg hanging off, and the other against the seat back. He looks up at you before gesturing to his spread lap. You hesitate for a moment, taking him in. His salt and pepper hair is ruffled, but still curls around his face. 

His shirt’s bunched up revealing a peek of a soft belly that sends a heat through you. Your eyes land on the bulge between his legs. Your mouth going cotton-dry, bottom lip going between your teeth. Fuck, he’s big, if that tent is anything to go by. 

“You gonna get in or keep staring at me darling?” 

The spell broken, and your cunt all but screaming at you to get in, shutting the door behind you. You straddle Joel, settling easily over his jean covered bulge. You giggle as he lets out a soft sigh, temptation wins out and you roll your hips slowly along the length of him. Joel makes a choked noise, hands grasping your hips, stopping your movements. 

“You’re playing with fire Cherry Pie,” he growls, and you let out a wispy laugh. “You have an idea of what you want?” 

“Save a horse ride a cowboy,” you feel him throb beneath you, and a soft mewl leaves you. Even with the barrier of jeans, you can feel the heat of his cock. He’s big, bigger than any of the guys you’ve been with before. 

“You gonna get out of those jeans, or do I have to rip them off?” Joel growls fingers digging into the soft fat of your hips. You whine and maneuver as best you can in the confined space, popping the button of your jeans tearing apart the zipper. With a quick wiggle of your hips you rid yourself of the jeans and your panties in one go. 

You try to ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze taking in your naked thighs and legs, tossing the clothing to the floor. His hands are quick to grab you again, helping you settle low on his thighs. A soft moan leaves you with his fingers rubbing patterns into your thighs. Your nerves spark with every touch, hips jolting as your cunt presses to his jean covered legs. 

“Joel,” you whimper, hands finding purchase on his stomach finger fisting his shirt, before slipping down to the hem of his jeans. You glance up meeting Joel’s burning gaze, he pants softly nodding. 

Your fingers scramble to undo the button and zipper, Joel chuckles his thumbs dancing close to the seam of your hip and thigh, you let out a huff. 

“Stop tormenting me asshole–” Joel’s finger brushes against your mound, you tense, glaring at him. He returns it with a cocky smirk, two can play at that game. 

Opening his jeans, your hands play over the outline of his cock straining in his briefs. Joel’s hips buck at the touch, he lets out a shuddered breath. 

“Enjoying taking your time?” He groans, as you smirk leaning down, you nuzzle his abdomen, scooting down his body until your mouth is level with his cock. You flash him an innocent look, fingers rubbing teasingly along his shaft. Feeling it throb beneath your fingertips, a patch of wetness grows at the tip. 

“So hard already Joel?” You hum, fingertips circling the head of his cock, biting your lip with a gleeful smile as Joel grunts hips pressing into the soft touch. “Damn baby, you’re big…might need to prep you before I can ride you.” 

Joel shifts, taking his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes glued to you. You lean down, pressing soft kisses along his shaft. Joel’s hands fist at his sides, he lets out a soft moan which sends a pulse of heat through you. 

“C–Cherry,” he whines, you glance up at him, salt and pepper hair tousled as he presses back against the window. His mahogany eyes half-lidded and unfocused, lips parted as his tongue slicks out to wet them. “Please–” 

You smile, a wicked glint in your eyes as your fingers slip up to the hem of his briefs and pull. A happy trail of curled hair leads down from his navel to his crotch. Revealing the soft v leading down to his cock, while he does have some pubic hair he keeps it well trimmed. You slip the hem of his briefs down, Joel adjusts himself so that his pants slip past his ass to settle in the middle of his thighs. 

His cock springs from its confines. You stare in open awe, your mouth watering at the sight of him. Half-hard he’s still big, with a thick shaft laced with veins. It twitches against his hip, the tip leaking a small bead of precum. 

You don’t say anything, going down to lick along a vein that catches your eye. Joel jerks, hands going to your head, thick fingers careful as they card through your tresses, a surprised shout leaving him. His fingernails against your scalp causing shivers to ripple down your spine. You cunt quivering. 

“Fuck! Wasn’t ready–” 

Ignoring his comment, your tongue continues its journey up to the pink head of his cock, circling around it, lapping at the salty bead, moaning softly as it coats your tongue. Your hand fists lower on his shaft, taking the head into your mouth. The other palms his thigh, helping you keep balanced in between his legs. 

Joel groans, his cock pulsing in your hand, his fingers flex against your scalp. The weight of him on your tongue makes you moan, hollowing your cheeks as you start a slow bob with your head. Taking him slowly into your mouth, inch by inch. Teeth lightly scraping the soft skin of his shaft. Joel’s head falls back, his eyes rolling, as he fights the urge to buck his hips up into your mouth. 

Your tongue cradles his cock as you take more of him in, hand stroking the part of his length that you haven't tried to get into your mouth. Joel’s deep moans fill the truck, one hand staying in your hair, the other going to grip the seat. Every one of his moans goes straight to your core, your innards clenching around nothing.

As you bob your head, you drop your jaw, bobbing lower, taking more of his thick length into your mouth, his length goes deeper. The head is so close to touching your throat, you’d never be able to get much deeper, then again, most guys you’d been with hadn’t been big enough.

“S–Shit, Cherry–Fuck,” Joel pants as you take more of him, tongue cradling the underside of his cock, giving another suck. His hips buck, you cough as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. 

You pull back with a gasp, strings of spit linking your lips to Joel’s cock. A flick of your tongue across your lip and they break, Joel’s fingers surprise you as they wipe your lip cleaning it of your spit. The rough callous of his palm strokes across your cheek, you press a kiss to his fingertips. Joel moans, deep in his chest, his cock jolts shining in the dim light of Rascal’s parking lot lights with your spit. 

“Goddamn Cherry, never thought I’d get to see your pretty mouth taking my cock,” he hums as his hand cups your face and pulls you forward. You relent to his whims, shuffling forward straddling his hips once more he presses a hungry kiss to your lips. 

You mould to him, gasping against his as your cunt rubs over his length, his hands press your hips down, forcing you to splay your legs open. Joel groans feeling your cunt spread over his shaft, slick and spit coating him as you grind against each other. 

“Fuck, you ready?” He growls fingers digging half moon marks into your hips, you whine rolling your hips, gasping as the head of his cock catches on your clit. 

“Yes, Joel, yes–” 

“Do you have a condom?” He rasps, pupils blown, and for a moment you freeze. Your fingers grasp at his shoulders, and your lip goes between your teeth. 

“I…don’t–” 

“Shit,” he hisses, for a moment the heat dissipates and you worry for a second that this whole thing was for nothing, and this cannot all be for nothing. You find your voice again. 

“I’m clean–and I’m on the pill,” you reply.

Joel sighs, pressing his forehead to yours considering you. 

“You sure you still want to? I’m clean too if that helps?” 

“Yes, please, Joel, if you don’t fuck me I’m going to explode–” he says nothing just readjusts himself beneath you, hand sliding from your hip to between your bodies where he grasps his cock. 

You follow, shifting yourself up as he positions himself, the head of his cock brushes your entrance. Your body shivers, you hesitate glancing at Joel, he lets out a huff, nodding. 

Slowly you lower yourself on him, the stretch is agonizing. Stealing your breath as you slow, only the head stretching you. Your fingers clawing his shoulders as you hover, unsure that you can continue. 

“Shit, Cherry you alright?” Joel pants, his cheeks flushes the window behind him fogging over, you whine the prick of tears making you close your eyes. 

“Fuck–’m okay, you’re just–so much bigger then any guy I’ve taken,” you gasp as his cock throbs inside of you, and you sink a little lower. “Stroke your ego much?” 

Joel lets out a breathless laugh, “Can’t lie, nice to hear I’m impressive.” 

You chuckle, and let out a soft breath. 

“Cherry if you can’t take it we can–” 

“Shush, just…need to be slow, and maybe next time you can finger me open enough,” His cock jolts again, and you moan, lowering down a bit more. His hands steady you, taking some of your weight, his thumbs rub soothing circles into where your hip and thigh meet.  After what feels like forever, you settle against his hips. 

His cock fills you to your breaking point, but as the pain dulls. A sweet overwhelming pleasure overtakes it. You can feel every inch of him inside of you, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, every throb and jolt you feel. 

Joel pants, grinding his teeth as he watches your face for any indication to stop. 

“You okay baby?” He asks, the care in his voice makes you weak kneed. You lean forward pressing pecs to his cheeks, and finally his lips. He responds eagerly, meeting your lips with a fervor. It makes you cunt pulse, his tongue lapping at your lips lazily, tangling with your own. 

Slowly your hips lift, the head of his cock drags deliciously against your walls, catching against a spot that has your mind blanking and stars flashing behind your eyelids, as pleasure coils inside your abdomen and sparks along your nerves. You let out a strangled moan, fingernails clawing at the door as you fight through the pleasure to keep moving. You start at a slow pace, getting used to him, to the strange position. 

His hands support your hips, fingertips gripping your ass cheeks and spreading them as you fuck yourself on his cock.  Joel grunts, groans, and moans as you lean forward resting your head against his shoulder as you find a steady pace. 

Your hands going from his shoulders to the door behind him, giving you better leverage, you speed up. The truck jolts and groans around you both, as you lift your hips, and bring them down. Your skin slapping against Joel’s, it fills the space along with your shared moans. As you lower your clit grinds just right against Joel’s pubic bone, adding additional pleasure zaps to the dull throb of your core.

“Fuck, Joel–feels so good, wanted this so bad, thought about it all the time,” you babble as pleasure overtakes common sense. 

Now pleasure consumes you, and you chase the high you were denied so cruelly inside, Joel’s fingers had been one thing, but his cock is something else. Filling you, as you ride him he spears you open again and again. 

With every lift of your hips slick drenches his shaft, Joel watches with half-lidded eyes hands groping at your ass, groaning as you soak him. 

“Fuck, Cherry, dreamed of this for so long,” he pants into the shell of your ear, you whimper in response all thoughts disappear as you fuck yourself onto Joel’s cock, “You feel better then I ever could have dreamed.”

“Wanted this so bad, for so long,” he gasps, pressing messy kisses to the corner of your jaw and neck. “Your cunt feels so good baby.” His praise makes you moan, your cunt quivering around him as his hips jerk up, pressing himself deeper. 

Joel nips your earlobe and you gasp, he groans as your cunt flutters around him, another gush of slick as the head of his cock drags over that spot, again and again. 

“Joel, feel so good–” you keen, every shift of your hips dragging you closer to the edge you’d been denied. But you’re starting to falter, the pattern getting out of sync. Joel hums low in his throat, his fingers gripping you harder as you whine, the edge getting farther away again.

“Need me to take over Cherry?” 

All you can manage is a nod with a strangled whine, Joel shifts, planting his feet, one on the seat the other on the floor. His fingers tighten their grip on you. Suddenly he’s pounding into you, a choked cry leaving you as his cock fucks you hard and fast, your body jolts with every thrust. 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fucks you, suddenly the edge that was so far away comes hurtling back, a coil tightening impossibly fast, all you can manage out is a babble of incoherent words, “Fuck, Joel—f–fuck!” 

He grunts, feeling your cunt tighten around him, he won’t last much longer, and he wants to see you come undone first, he growls into your ear, “Come on Cherry, by my good girl and cum on my cock, wanna see you cum so bad.” 

It’s all you need, his voice, and final slam of his cock so deep into your cunt you see stars. Muscle tensing, back bowing fingers scraping against the door, a howl leaves you as you climax. 

Joel follows with a shout, pulling your hips flush against him. His cock pressed deep inside you, as your cunt quivers around him, the warmth of his release filling you. A final gush of slick and his cum soaks your inner thighs and his hips, Joel groans arms going around your waist to mold you to him. 

You pant softly into the crook where his shoulder and neck meet. Nuzzling the skin there as your brain returns from its high. Joel’s hands rub soothing circles into your lower back, as you shift, gasping as Joel’s cock softens inside of you. 

It’s quiet, and pleasant, neither of you seems interested in filling the silence–until someone bangs on the fogged window. You both jolt, and freeze hearing a chorus of cheers outside from a very inebriated group of frat brothers. 

There’s a comment about Titanic, and another about rocking the truck, thankfully they move on quickly as their drunken escapades take them away. 

Your cheeks heat as you bury your face into Joel’s neck, he chuckles, “should we finish this somewhere else?” 

You manage a nod, Joel leans back, you move to lift yourself up and Joel takes the opportunity to pull you back in for another long kiss, nipping your bottom lip and groaning as his cock pulls free from your soaked cunt. 

“Fuck Cherry,” he moans against your lips, “Think I might be ready for round two.” 

You laugh, kissing him softly, before leaning back, considering him, “Can we please go to my place or yours? I really don’t feel like having frat bro’s interrupt again.” 

Joel laughs and nods, both of you quickly redressing and Joel considering if he should drive, you volunteer and with some directions he gets you back to his place in one piece. 

“So…why Cherry Pie?” Joel hums into the crown of your head as you both lay splayed out on his bed. His fingers playing with the tangled strands of your hair, you sigh, nuzzling yourself closer into his side with a sleepy chuckle. 

“I know it’s not your favorite, you said as much the first time I went to dinner with the girls,” he mutters. 

“Fun fact, I actually hate Cherry Pie,” you admit smiling as you look up at Joel’s confused face. Giggling, you press a kiss into his chest before sitting up the sheet wrapped around your body hanging dangerously low on your breasts, Joel’s eyes glance down hopeful that the cloth will fall away, but they return to your eyes, as you smirk. “But…it was the last pie I’d served that night–”

“The first night you called?” 

“Mhm,” you lean forward pressing soft teasing kisses along his pec, up to his collarbone and pausing at his neck. Giving the skin above his pulse a soft nip, he groans, hands coming to pull you down against him. You straddle his hips, the sheets the only barrier between you and him. “And when you asked what to call me…I knew I couldn’t just–give you my name, so Cherry Pie…and then hearing you moan it that first time.” 

You shiver at the memory, the way he’d crooned the nickname into your ear, you were gone. Cherry Pie was the only thing you’d ever want to be called, by him at least, you smile as Joel chuckled his hands cupping your cheeks, pulling you to him for a slow kiss, with lazy tongues and the sinful bite of his teeth against your bottom lip. 

“Cherry, I’ll call you whatever you want, so long as you’ll have me.” He hums this against your lips, and you can’t help but smile. 

“Joel, you’ve had me from that first call.”

[ms-demeanor]

My Boss: I want to send out quotes to all our customers with old computers but I don't want it to take a month.

Me: Okay, I've been building a spreadsheet with all the computers that can't upgrade to Windows 11, why don't we send customers a structured schedule of replacements so they can swap those out over the next eighteen months?

My Boss: Sounds good, but just quote them all at once. How many can you get out today?

Me: Uhhhh well getting the data from each computer takes a couple minutes and we manage a couple thousand computers so if I work through the client list alphabetically I can maybe do a couple clients a day? Maybe five?

My Boss: I said I don't want it to take a month.

Me: Okay, well, how about this, I'll work on this while we've got phone coverage. I'll spend five solid hours on it and I'll ignore my teams channels and email and just do this until Patty leaves at two and I have to take over the phones, because yesterday I was slammed with stuff and didn't get any work in on the list. I'll just focus on this alone for five straight hours and I'll respond to other stuff in the afternoon.

My Boss: Well you can't ignore the techs, if they need you you need to drop what you're doing to get stuff done for them.

Me: And that's why putting together this list has taken a month *so far.*

My Boss: Well, figure it out. I want to get these quotes out today.

-----

Anyway so that's why I'm fucking around on tumblr at work. If I'm going to fail at the task he's set anyway I might as well be relaxed while I'm failing at it.