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jjungkookislife · 10 months ago

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Navigating Tides

♡ pairing: ex-boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

♡ genre: exes to lovers, angst, fluff, smut [18+]

♡ summary: A cruise is the last place you expect to see your ex-boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook. You broke up six months ago, and your best friends Jimin and Yoongi assured you your ex wouldn't even remember this cruise that you booked a year in advance. However, on your first night on board, you discover your ex isn't only on the cruise ship, but there are no rooms available for him to stay in other than yours.

♡ wc: 18.9k

♡ warnings: alcohol use/mention, food mentions, mention of murder on cruise ship documentaries, threats of violence, sexual thoughts, jealousy, making out, marking (hickeys, biting, scratching), hair pulling, oral sex (f. giving and receiving), fingering (f. receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

♡ a/n: a huge thank you to the anon who suggested the title ❤

♡ date: September 1, 2024

“Jimin, I don’t think this is a good idea,” you sigh heavily as you adjust your sunhat. Your large sunglasses keep the sun out of your eyes and make it easier to take in your surroundings.

Passengers stand around you, some checking their tickets, others counting their luggage, and your best friend scoping out your next boyfriend while he checks his phone for messages regarding his beloved cat, Moon.

“Come on! You bought the ticket in advance! You know Jungkook isn’t going to show. You broke up six months ago, he wouldn’t come on this cruise if you paid him!” Jimin exclaims trying (and failing) to ease your worries.

“He’s right,” Yoongi chimes in once he gets a photo of his cat from his parents. “Jungkook wouldn’t leave his office to come on a cruise his ex and best friends booked a year in advance. He probably doesn’t even remember it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you give in as the line moves forward. You pull your luggage beside you. “There’s no way he’d be here.”

Jimin nods as Yoongi moves their luggage. You stand in line with your ticket and passport in hand as Jimin rattles on about all the things he wants to do for the next seven days out on the ocean. You half-listen, looking around at the passengers, hoping for a relaxing time.

“We’re a few doors down,” Jimin continues, “but we’ll come get you for all our meals and we can figure out what to do that day. There’s a casino and a karaoke night.”

You nod, smiling as the line moves again. The breeze ruffles your hair beneath your hat and you close your eyes momentarily.

A vacation was just what you needed.

Jeon Jungkook is a strong man. He’s got a lean body and hands that could rip open a pineapple with ease. He normally doesn’t demonstrate his great strength, but the women are eating it up at the bar closest to the dock.

His assistant had reminded him about his vacation last week. A cruise, she had informed him as she showed him the next ten days blocked off his calendar.

Jungkook had denied taking the time off but his assistant had insisted he go. When he tried to protest again, the assistant threatened to call his mother.

Jungkook took a bite of the pineapple before throwing a handful of bills on the bar.

“Gotta go!” He yelled over the ruckus he had caused and grabbed his suitcase with his sticky hands. The women were sad to see him go, but Jungkook had minutes before the cruise ship left the dock.

“Welcome,” Jungkook is greeted before his ticket and passport are checked. He was directed to his floor but Jungkook headed straight for the bar, where more passengers were gathered to get their vacation started.

By the time you get to your room, you’re pleased to see your luggage waiting for you. You head to the balcony, admiring the view as the ship pulls away from the dock.

You take a few minutes to fix your makeup and grab your sunblock before shoving your suitcase under your bed. Yoongi had insisted you cram everything into one large suitcase and he’d bring an extra one for souvenirs. Jimin had allowed you to sneak some more outfits into his luggage since Yoongi knew better than to try to limit his clothing options.

“That should do it,” you say to yourself as you head out of the cabin, just to spot Yoongi and Jimin heading your way.

“Let’s get something to eat and hit the pool,” Jimin grins as he takes your hand and Yoongi’s in the other.

Meanwhile, Jungkook has finished his drink at the bar and heads toward his cabin.

He’s glad to see his suitcase has been delivered and he slides it under the bed easily. He takes his room key and heads back out to see what there’s to do on this cruise.

He wishes he had paid more attention to the details when you had booked it.

Yoongi is soaking wet, shaking his long black hair, making you and Jimin scream. He laughs, his gummy smile makes Jimin melt.

“You’re drying yourself off like a dog,” you comment as he sits in the chair with Jimin.

Yoongi shrugs, leaning forward to take a large bite of the watermelon slice Jimin holds out for him.

Jimin had slathered the three of you in sunblock, lecturing on the dangers of the UV rays and whatnot. You knew better than to ignore his advice, seeing as he was a dermatologist and Yoongi was a plastic surgeon.

“Are either of you going to get in the pool?” Yoongi asks as he cards his fingers through his wet hair. Jimin bites his bottom lip as he watches Yoongi with a look that’s all too familiar.

“Don’t you dare!” You swat at Jimin with your book. The couple laughs.

“You promised I wouldn’t be a third-wheel,” you remind them.

Yoongi nods. “We promised.”

Jimin nods. “Of course, we’re just teasing.”

“More like setting up foreplay,” you mutter but they ignore you as Jimin hands you a slice of watermelon and a cube of pineapple. The two of you were waiting for this evening’s dinner to have drinks, though the cocktails of the passengers around you looked delicious.

“Since we’re on vacation, are you gonna be seeking a dance partner?” Jimin asks wiggling his eyebrows.

“You know, for the horizontal hula?” Yoongi smirks, earning a swat to his arm.

“No! I’m here to relax!” you insist as you open your book. You clasp your kitten bookmark before it can slip out of the worn pages.

Jimin sighs dramatically as he falls over onto your chair. “Come on! You don’t have to marry anyone, just flirt.”

“Min,” Yoongi warns, noting the shift in your posture.

Jimin mimes zipping his lips as he sits up.

“I just worry about you.”

“There’s no need, Minnie. If it happens, it happens, okay?” you ask as you close your book once more, giving up on getting any reading done.

Yoongi places his hand on Jimin’s shoulder, tugging him to their chair. Jimin goes easily, placated for the moment.

You steal a grape from Jimin’s plate before lying back on the chair with your hat covering your face.

Jimin smiles as he grabs his book and lies back to read, his fruit plate long forgotten.

As Yoongi reaches for a grape, his eyes catch a familiar tattoo sleeve but when he blinks, it’s gone.

Must have been the heat playing tricks on him.

Dinner had been a blast.

Yoongi and Jimin had gotten every cocktail that you had eyes on earlier in the day. You danced, laughed, and forgot all about Jungkook.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” Jimin said as he walked you to your cabin. Yoongi waited out in the hall outside of theirs’ to make sure Jimin was in his eyesight. He’d seen too many documentaries on shit going sideways on cruises to leave either of you unsupervised.

“Goodnight, Minnie. Love you,” you hug him tight before he leaves you with a kiss to your temple.

Once he’s gone, you kick your shoes off in your cabin. It’s just as you left it.

You let your hair down as you begin to unbutton your blue dress, allowing the thin straps to fall off your shoulders.

You’re startled when the bathroom door swings open, steam flooding out of it, obscuring whoever is there.

You scream!

The steam clears and out walks a man with a colorful tattoo sleeve on one arm, his other hand holding the white towel around his waist.

His doe eyes widen as he spots you.

“What are you doing here?!” you shout at the same time. “Me?! YOU?! Stop that!”

You both stomp a foot at the same time.

Water runs down your ex’s sculpted chest and abs—you can’t help but stare. You remember tracing those delicious abs with your tongue, ending up on your knees with his cock down your throat.

A shiver rolls down your back.

“What are you doing here, Jungkook?” you huff, stomping your foot. You hope your next-door neighbors don’t complain about the noise.

“I’m on vacation,” he answers in a duh tone.

“In my cabin?”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here! We haven’t talked since…” Jungkook trails off, sighing heavily. He feels the knots in his throat, the ache of holding back tears.

“You never take vacations. Why did you come?” you demand answers as you cross your arms over your chest, eyes widening when you realize your bra-clad tits are exposed. You immediately turn around, fixing your dress before facing him once again.

Jungkook rubs his nape awkwardly. He grabs the robe from the bathroom and puts it on.

“I know. My assistant insisted. I never canceled the vacation request and she made plans,” Jungkook shrugged.

“Well, you can’t stay here!” you exclaim, pointing toward the door sharply.

Jungkook says your name, but you glare at him. He raises his hands in defeat.

“At least let me get dressed, okay?”

“Fine,” you grumble as he grabs his suitcase from under the bed. You head to the balcony to sit while Jungkook gets dressed.

This was not how you wanted to spend your vacation. Was it too late to fly home from the next port? You couldn’t be stuck on the same ship with Jungkook for the next seven days and six nights. Just knowing he was on board would drive you up the wall.

Five minutes later, Jungkook is dressed as you reenter the cabin. You go with him to the front of the ship, flagging down someone who could help you.

Jungkook explains the situation, and the cruise worker listens while searching for any available rooms.

“I apologize, but there are no other rooms available. We’re fully booked. You’ll have to stay in the room, sir.”

“But-” You go to protest but the worker cuts you off.

“There’s nothing we can do, ma’am. I apologize but we’re in the middle of the ocean, hours from our first stop.”

“Thanks for checking,” you state in defeat as you turn on your heel with Jungkook behind you.

Back in your cabin, you go to the bathroom to shower. You come out in a robe, going for your suitcase to grab your pajamas before going back into the bathroom.

Jungkook stays out on the balcony until you’re getting into bed.

“I’m sorry. If I had known-”

“Just don’t,” you stop him. He shuts up immediately. “I just want to get through tonight, okay?”

Jungkook nods as you pull the covers over your body. You tug the pillows and place a few between you and the spot where Jungkook will have to sleep.

Silently, Jungkook climbs into bed.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Jungkook whispers as you turn out the lights.

Heat stifles you as you arouse from your sleep. You moan as you push the covers but the pillows’ warmth is still making you hot. You push at them, trying to shove them off the bed, but a grunt greets you instead.

“Quit,” a familiar sleepy voice wakes you up in an instant.

You scramble to sit up, but you’ve wrapped yourself around Jungkook, who is shirtless. His bed head looks adorable as he whines at the loss of warmth before he tugs the covers toward him, sleeping some more.

Quickly, you get dressed and storm out of your cabin.

You could not deal with this without a stiff drink and your best friends.

Part of you hoped you were dreaming.

“He’s here!” you yell when you reach Yoongi and Jimin’s table. Plates of fruit, eggs, and pancakes greet you along with glasses filled with water, some with various types of juices, and mimosas.

You plop down on a free chair, reaching for a mimosa and then Jimin’s. Both men watch you with wide eyes as Yoongi offers you his drink.

“Who’s here?” Jimin asks, befuddled.

Jimin and Yoongi exchange a look. They had watched you go to your room before they retired for the night.

Who could you have run into?

“Jungkook!” You hiss in explanation. “He’s here!”

Yoongi frowns. “I thought that was him.”

You whip your head to face him. “You knew?!”

Yoongi rapidly shakes his head. “I thought I saw him yesterday but when I blinked, he was gone. I thought the heat had gotten to me.”

You cackle, nearly losing your mind. “Well, he’s fucking here! And he’s staying in my room!”

Jimin and Yoongi’s mouths drop open wide in shock.

“He’s what?!” Jimin recovers first as he waves down a waiter and orders more mimosas for the three of you. This revelation demanded a drink.

“Can’t he get a room for himself? Lord knows he can afford it,” Yoongi grumbles as he picks at his buttery toast.

“No, it’s booked solid,” you sigh as you cover your face with your hands.

“Good morning, everyone!” Jungkook greets you before he takes the empty seat beside you. He helps himself to some fruit and some of your mimosa.

Jimin and Yoongi stare at him with wide eyes. So you weren’t lying to go home.

“Hey,” Jimin waves weakly. “Surprising to see you out of the office.”

Jungkook ignores the jab at him. “You look good, Jimin. Very good.”

“Watch it,” Yoongi growls. “Just because he’ll be amicable doesn’t mean I won’t wipe the table with your face.”

Jungkook raises his hands in defeat. “Just being friendly. We are spending the week together after all. Isn’t that right, roomie?”

Jungkook nudges you with his elbow.

“Eat dirt,” you respond as you ignore him and grab a stack of pancakes. You drown them in syrup and ignore Jungkook and Jimin catching up. Yoongi glares at him the whole time before breakfast ends and you head back to your room to get ready to reach the first port.

The first two days on board, you manage to avoid Jungkook after his appearance at breakfast that one morning.

You were three days into your cruise when you were hanging poolside with Jimin and Yoongi once again. The warmth of the sun felt nice on your skin, even with Jimin’s nagging about flipping over and reapplying sunblock.

Your swimsuit was something sexy Jimin had picked out to accentuate your favorite features of your body. He had picked out a few outfits for you and Yoongi to match his. You looked more like a polytriad than a group of friends, but you liked the outfits.

Your sun hat and sunglasses kept out the gazes of any men who would have the slightest interest in you, much to Jimin’s annoyance.

Jimin sits on his sun lounger slathering more sunblock on his skin while Yoongi goes off to get the three of you drinks. You’ve been busy the past few days shopping, eating, dancing, laughing, and enjoying life away from the claws of capitalism.

Shade casts over you, and you look up to see Jungkook’s smiling face, dimples and all.

“What do you want, Jeon?” you huff as you sit up, removing your sunglasses.

Jungkook stands over you, checking you out in your swimsuit. He briefly remembers the times he held you in his arms, when his touch aroused you, not repulsed you.

Jungkook sits down at the end of your seat. His body glistened as if he had just gotten out of the pool. You’re sure there’s at least a gaggle of men and women staring at the both of you. Jungkook attracted attention wherever he went. His glorious body, tattoos, hair, and a radiant smile broke more than just your heart.

His piercings catch the sun, the glint hitting your eyes.

“Yeah,” Jimin pipes up. “This zone is for loading future husbands only.”

You roll your eyes at Jimin but lean back as Jungkook’s body freezes.

“Husbands?”

“Yes,” Jimin retorts, “Husbands.”

“I didn’t know you were looking,” Jungkook said as he looked at you, perplexed.

You shrug.

“I figure the next person I date will be the one.”

Jungkook remains silent. He cards a tattooed hand through his wet hair, and you curse him in your mind. He knew how hot he looked, he just wanted to make you suffer.

You weren’t going to give in to his tricks though.

You move your legs toward you, pretending you don’t want to get hit with water droplets but you can’t ignore the rapid heartbeat between your legs.

“JK!” Yoongi shouts as he approaches, squirting Jungkook with a water gun.

“Hey!” Jungkook shouts as he chases Yoongi, quickly catching up to the older man. A fight ensues as both men try to gain control of the water gun before Jungkook acquires one from a bystander.

“Fuck,” you groan as you put your sun hat back on.

“He’s fucking hot,” Jimin groans as he lies back. You look at each other and burst out laughing.

“He’s a menace,” you sigh but your heart flutters as you spot him in the pool with Yoongi. The two are splashing each other and some of the other passengers but they don’t seem to mind as they join in.

Jimin is silent for a few minutes before he turns to face you.

“Be honest with me, babe. You still love him?”

“Do you even have to ask?” you respond as you watch Jungkook shake the water out of his hair before he pulls himself out of the pool.

Jungkook ignores the way his cock throbs at the sight of you in your sundress as you walk down the hall to meet Jimin and Yoongi. He nearly drools at the sway of your hips as your body shows off all your best assets.

His thoughts easily wander, you were the only one he ever felt like he could be himself. You were his best friend and he’d lost you over a heated argument about him working so much. He had said some things he had regretted, especially when he lost you.

He had spent the last six months thrown into work, avoiding any socialization wherever possible. He didn’t want to meet someone new, he wanted you. But you had blocked him, made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with him and now you were confined to a cruise ship and he would do whatever it took to get you back.

You turn when you hear your name being called, and heat rushes to your cheeks when you spot the captain, Kim Namjoon.

He looks divine in his crisp white uniform, his hat tucked under his right arm.

“Good evening,” he greets you with a dimpled grin. You smile brightly at him, asking him about his day.

He had heard about your predicament with Jungkook the following morning and had invited you to a special dinner with him tonight as an apology for the inconvenience.

Normally, you would have denied any sort of offer, not wanting to inconvenience anyone but Namjoon was hot, smart, and funny.

Namjoon offers you his arm, which you take giddily as he escorts you to your private dinner.

Within five minutes he had you laughing, wine threatening to shoot out of your nose.

Jimin had encouraged you to go to dinner after he spotted the captain later that day, and now that Namjoon’s schedule allowed, you sat in front of him in a candlelit room with a spectacular view.

A white ceramic vase sat in the middle of the table with fresh pink peonies. Soft music played from a speaker overhead, and the sound of the ocean filled the background.

Namjoon’s eyes lit up every time he shared a snippet of his tales from the sea. You listened intently, batting your lashes whenever he’d smile with his dimples on display.

You know this wasn’t a date, and it would never work out with how long Namjoon had to be out at sea, but it was nice to get back into the game after such a long time. You never imagined being tossed back into the dating pool after Jungkook.

The thought makes your smile waver for a moment, and you reach for your glass of wine instead.

Two silver-covered trays arrive shortly, stopping Namjoon mid-sentence as he smiles proudly.

“I caught tonight’s dinner. I had our chef cook it with a special sauce that you’ll enjoy,” Namjoon states as your tray is set in front of you and you nod excitedly.

All excitement vanishes as you see two little beady eyes staring back at you.

Jungkook looks immaculate. His undercut is on display, his tattoos pop against his white-button shirt, and his smile can dazzle just about anyone… except Min Yoongi.

Yoongi is the first to spot Jungkook heading to the table where he sits beside his boyfriend. Yoongi had loved Jungkook, still did but his loyalty to you made him pull away from the younger man. An annoyance brewed where he held brotherly love for him once. If you decided to get back with him, it would take Yoongi a while to thaw out.

Jungkook looks around the area, finally asking Jimin where you are.

“She’s on a date,” Yoongi smirks as Jungkook’s hopeful smile turns into a frown. The younger man toys with his lip piercings worriedly.

“With the Captain,” Yoongi continues, ignoring the jab of his boyfriend’s sharp elbow to his ribs. “So she’ll be late coming to bed tonight… if she goes to bed at all.”

Jungkook’s heart deflates further as he twiddles his fingers. His eyes shine as he blinks back tears. Jimin scowls at Yoongi.

Perhaps, he had gone too far. Yoongi slouches into his seat, abashed.

“It’s just dinner,” Jimin tries to assure Jungkook. “They’re on the balcony by the lobby.”

“Jimin!” Yoongi hisses before Jimin elbows his ribs again.

“What? He loves her!” Jimin exclaims, gaining the attention of a few patrons.

Jungkook feels his ears burn from the attention as he thanks Jimin quietly before leaving the couple to enjoy dinner.

Heartache is quick to consume Jungkook despite Jimin’s poor assurance of you and the captain’s night. He remembered how mesmerized Captain Kim had seemed when he offered his apologies before asking you to dinner right in front of Jungkook. As if he were invisible!

Okay, maybe Jungkook was jealous. He never wanted to end things, and he didn’t mean any of the things he said that awful night of your breakup. He had taken steps to fix himself, working less, going home more, and prioritizing himself and his family. He was a new man, even his mother had noticed the change. She was hopeful you and him would get back together.

Jungkook wallows in his sadness as he heads down one hallway and down another. He ignored the conversations around him and anyone who tried to strike up a conversation.

Before he knows it, he arrives at the kitchen with the swinging doors. He’s about to turn away when he gets grabbed by a man in a white hat with a stern look.

“Why are you just standing around?!” The man shouts as he hands Jungkook a silver tray with a thick lid that reflects his befuddled expression.

Jungkook looks at the name tag on the man’s white coat that reads, Soobin.

“Listen,” Jungkook tries to protest but he’s shoved in the direction of the other doors that lead who-knows-where. Jungkook stumbles before righting himself as the staff in the kitchen zoom back and forth adding garnish, stirring bubbling pots, and plating elaborate dishes in pristine white ceramic plates

“Hurry!” Soobin shouts from across the kitchen, his scowl sends a shiver of fear down Jungkook’s spine. He balances the tray in one hand as he pushes the black doors in front of him.

Jungkook’s not even sure where he’s going, or how he got into this situation from just losing himself in his thoughts but now he had to deliver whatever was under the tray and look for an exit.

Perhaps he could scale the side of the ship to get on another floor.

There was no way he’d be facing Chef Soobin’s wrath again. That much he was sure of.

“We’ve been waiting on you,” someone else hisses at him once he goes through the swinging door, biting his lip when one of the doors smacks his back and jolts him forward.

“I don’t-” Jungkook tries to explain but is interrupted as someone apologizes to a man clad in white.

Jungkook’s heart sinks as he recognizes you with every step he takes.

“Here is dessert,” the person grins as Jungkook sets the tray on the table.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him, confusion forming on your brow.

Jungkook looks to the side where the waiter is placing the remains of your dinner on a cart, and two black beady eyes seem to follow his movements as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Kookie?” You ask in surprise and his heart flips at the nickname he’d only allow you to use.

However, before he can bask in the sweetness of it, you clear your throat and correct yourself, using his full name instead.

“What are you doing here?”

Jungkook bites his lip. This looks bad from all angles. The truth sounds like a fabricated lie and a lie would sound worse.

Namjoon raises a brow at the two of you, quickly putting the pieces together.

“Join us for dessert,” Namjoon smiles warmly as he waves over the waiter to ask for another chair but Jungkook shakes his head.

“No, that’s okay! I just got lost is all,” Jungkook blushes as he cards a hand through his hair nervously. You follow the action closely, studying Jungkook and the way his fingers twitch at his side. He avoids your gaze and Namjoon’s, apologizing as he takes a step back.

“I’ll go find my way back to Jimin and Yoongi. Please, don’t let me interrupt any further,” Jungkook can taste the vileness of his words but he’s at odds with his words and his thoughts.

“Why don’t I walk you back,” you offer, surprising him and Namjoon.

“Oh, no that’s not necessary,” Jungkook shakes his head but makes eye contact with the little beady eyes from before.

Had Namjoon tried to feed you that prawn? Did he not know food with eyes freaked you out? How long had you stared at those bead-like eyes before the plate had been removed from the table?

“Of course it is,” you say as you rise from your seat. Namjoon remains silent as you thank him for dinner.

“It was a pleasure,” Namjoon responds as he stands. He takes your hand in his and kisses it, making you smile bashfully.

“I’ll be going now!” Jungkook squeaks, his face red like the prawn still staring at him. Why hadn’t the waiter taken that abomination back to the kitchen yet?

Was he hiding out of Chef Soobin’s wrath too?

“Kook!” You huff, flustered as you take his arm to link with yours. Jungkook stays silent as you lead him out of the private dining quarters through a door he could have easily spotted if he hadn’t been so flustered by the events.

Weakly, Jungkook waves at Namjoon, who watches the two of you leave.

Jungkook gets a good look at the captain, admiring the long, thick hair that sits at his shoulders. He looks dapper in his uniform and hat, with thick arms and thighs to die for.

Jungkook was glad he had appeared just in time, or you’d be Captain Kim’s wife before the end of the cruise.

Hell, Jungkook would vie for Namjoon.

You remain silent as you drag Jungkook by the arm. He goes willingly as you lead him toward the giant dining room with the rest of the passengers.

You come to a halt before entering, ignoring the hunger pangs in your belly.

“What exactly is it that you are doing, Jungkook!” You ask as your anger bubbles over now that you’re alone with him.

Jungkook steeled himself, biting his lower lip in the way you love.

“I apologize,” Jungkook says sincerely, though the words taste like poison. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”

“It wasn’t a date,” you respond automatically, cringing at the speed of your words.

Jungkook visibly perks up.

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” you mutter as you cross your arms over your chest, drawing Jungkook’s saddened gaze for a moment. “Though I did need some rescuing, so thank you.”

Jungkook perks up again, smiling cutely.

Before any more words are exchanged, your stomach rumbles loudly. Jungkook bites back his laughter as you cover your face.

“Oh my!” Jungkook giggles when your tummy rumbles again.

“Kook!” You whine, stomping your foot. “Stop laughing!”

Jungkook continues to laugh, broad shoulders shaking as he does so. You pout, flipping him off.

“Come on, let’s get you something to eat,” Jungkook smiles as he takes your hand to lead you to the buffet. You thank him sheepishly as he hands you a clean plate to fill with food.

You ignore the rumble of your stomach as you sit beside Jungkook in a booth. The dinner rush has come and gone, only you and a few stragglers are left behind as the servers clean tables and stack dirty dishes a few tables away.

“How long did you have a staring contest with that thing at the table?” Jungkook asks midway through dinner as he chews his food. For a moment he looks upset as he chews but you know it’s just him enjoying his meal.

“Hey! Namjoon is a nice guy!” You retort as you move your mashed potatoes around your plate.

Jungkook blinks owlishly, his cheeks stuffed with food. He resembles a cute little chipmunk.

He swallows, pounding his chest with his fist before he speaks. “I meant the prawn.”

“Oh!” you squeak as your body heats with embarrassment while Jungkook bursts into laughter.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, his pretty nose scrunches and his teeth make an appearance. Your heart flutters in your chest, his laughter healing the wounds he’d left behind.

No matter how much you tried to deny it, you were still hopelessly in love with him.

You’re up bright and early the next morning. Jungkook snores softly beside you, cuddled to the pillow between the two of you.

His hair is splayed on the pillow, one arm tucked under it to support his head.

His broad back is on display, the covers hanging on his hips as he rolls over an inch. You had spent several mornings waking up beside him, cuddled up, sharing kisses and each other's bodies. Mornings filled with happiness and love, memories you held onto, wishing to relive.

Instead, you get ready for the day. Jimin and Yoongi are excited to get to the port. There will be tons to do today before coming aboard for dinner and a show.

You put your swimsuit on under your sundress. You pack a change of clothes, sunblock, sunglasses, wallet, water bottle, mini first aid kit, and lip balm in your bag before heading out.

Jimin waits for you in the hallway, informing you that his other half has gone to secure a table in the dining room before the early risers can fill up the area.

“Soooo,” Jimin wiggles his eyebrows as the two of you sit down with Yoongi. Your plates are filled with eggs and sausage, fruits, and muffins.

“So what?” You ask as you eat a slice of an apple Jimin cut for you, the only way you could easily eat fruit.

Jimin is exasperated as he rolls his eyes at you.

“What happened on your date?” Jimin asks as he takes a sip of his iced coffee.

“It wasn’t a date,” you shake your head. “Just dinner.”

“Dinner with the cruise ship captain,” Yoongi cuts in. “That’s a big deal.”

“A private dinner with the cruise ship captain,” Jimin rephrased as he gave you his undivided attention.

A heavy sigh escapes your beeswax-sticky lips. Should lip balm tingle?

“He served prawns,” you whisper, looking around to make sure Namjoon and his staff are not around.

“Oooh,” Jimin smiles.

“No, they had beady little eyes like marbles. They stared into my soul,” you shiver at the memory.

“Yikes,” Yoongi shakes his head in disdain. He knew how much eyeballs freaked you out.

“I couldn’t eat it,” you continue as you munch on a grape. “Then Jungkook came in and I didn’t have to.”

Jimin and Yoongi exchange a bewildered look. “What do you mean Jungkook came in?”

“Yeah,” you nod as you stab a cube of watermelon with your fork. “He brought dessert? The whole thing was odd now that I think about it.”

“You didn’t ask him?” Yoongi questions but you shrug as you finish eating.

“We came to have dinner and it didn’t come up,” you explain with a second shrug.

Yoongi raises a brow at you. It wasn’t normal for you to be so nonchalant about this, especially with how you’d reacted to Jungkook interrupting your vacation so far. You always had a quip or snide attitude when it came to your ex, so interrupting your not date was major.

“Your ex-boyfriend interrupts your date and you don’t ask him why?” Yoongi is blunt with his question, seeking a direct answer. Jimin would have toed around it all day but Yoongi wanted to enjoy his cruise, plus he needed all drama set aside when he proposed soon.

“It wasn’t a date,” you remind him in a sing-song tone. “I didn’t want to eat the eyes, sue me if I was grateful he showed up.”

“Jungkook aside, how was dinner with Namjoon? Do you like him? Do you wanna go on a date date?” Jimin inquires, hopeful that his friend may move on from Jungkook at last. You seem to want to but he knows you still love the dark-haired, tattooed man.

“No,” you shake your head firmly. “He’d be away too much. That’s why Jungkook and I didn’t work out. Why go get involved in the same situation?”

“Fair,” Yoongi agrees as he clears his plate. “Come on then, we have a city to explore.”

“Yeah!” Jimin cheers as he takes your hand in his to lead you toward the exit with Yoongi in tow. You smiled brightly as you headed for the port, excited to spend the day with your two best friends.

No matter what life threw at you, they’d be by your side always.

Jimin was excited as he watched the waves crash against the boat.

You had stripped down to your bathing suit, and gotten lathered up in sunblock thanks to Jimin.

Your sun hat sat on your head and your sunglasses nearly covered half your face as you laid back enjoying the breeze.

You were doing your best to ignore Jungkook’s shirtless body. Jimin had rubbed his back with sunblock after he’d done you.

The three of you had been surprised to see Jungkook jogging toward you at the pier, making it just in time to join you for your scheduled scuba diving session.

Great.

Okay, so you were a little happy to see him. After all, you had planned this excursion with the four of you in mind.

Though after the breakup, you never imagined it would be the four of you here in the ocean breeze.

Music plays softly from Yoongi’s speaker. He’s got a thick book in his lap, as his sunglasses cover his shut eyes. He takes a cat nap, lulled by the sound of the waves crashing.

Beside you, Jungkook puts his life jacket on, tightening the straps to keep himself safe but all it does is draw attention to his tiny waist, a waist you used to trace with your tongue. You flush at the thought, memories of you on your knees licking him up and down, teasing him just to hear him whimper and cry out your name…

“Hmmm?” You look up when you realize someone is calling your name.

“I asked if you needed help with your life jacket?” Jungkook asks as he holds out the red monstrosity. You doubt it would look as good on you as it did him. You always felt like they were choking you.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” you say as you take the jacket from him. Cordial. You could do this. It was your vacation, you should enjoy it to the best of your abilities. You should be relaxing, and thankful to be away from the world of work.

The boat stops soon after and a tall, lean man comes to join you. Yoongi yawns as he awakens from his nap at Jimin’s prodding. He’d be damned if his boyfriend spent the entire vacation snoozing.

“My name is Taehyung or Tae. Whichever you prefer,” the man introduced himself with a boxy grin. His dark curly hair moved with the breeze and his sun-kissed skin seemed to glow beautifully under the early morning sun.

“Today we’ll be scuba diving in one of my favorite spots. We’ll be using the buddy system for this excursion, break for lunch, and then sail until four pm.”

You groan. The buddy system. You were shit out of luck as Jimin grabs Yoongi and leads him to the edge of the boat as Taehyung goes over a few more rules.

Your two best friends hold hands as they get into the water, laughing as they resurface.

Taehyung approaches you, smiling. “Let me know if you have any questions or if there’s anything specific you’d like to see today. The weather seems to be cooperating with us this morning.”

“Thank you,” you say graciously as you begin to snap the buckles of your life jacket. You cry out when your hair gets caught in one and Taehyung is quick to unsnap the buckle and release your hair.

“Here you go,” he coos gently as he pulls your hair upward to tie it in a loose bun. “Safety first.”

You lock your gaze on him as he easily ties your hair. He’s so close it makes your heart flip. His minty breath brushes your skin as he leans in closer to make sure he’s got all of your hair in one hand before tying a scrunchie around it.

“There we go,” he muses as he takes a step back to admire his handiwork. “Perfect.”

Jungkook glares at the back of Taehyung’s head, cursing him in his mind. Would pushing Taehyung off his boat be rude? Jungkook didn’t think so. However, he didn’t need to be charged and stranded overseas. So he’d play nice.

For now.

“Can we get in the water now?” Jungkook huffs as he puts his goggles on. “We came here to scuba dive.”

“Yeah,” you nod as you put your goggles on with Taehyung's help, much to Jungkook’s indignation.

“There we go, love. Don’t want you getting hurt,” Taehyung smiles warmly as he helps you into the water.

“It’s cold!” You exclaim, giggling as Taehyung dips into the water only to resurface moments later. He brushes his wet hair back, and you bite your bottom lip as he shakes the excess water off.

Jimin notices the interaction and swims toward you, easily escaping Yoongi’s attempts to stop him from playing Cupid in the middle of the ocean.

“Tae, can we go down now?” Jimin asks pleasantly, ignoring the death flares from

Yoongi and Jungkook.

“Sure,” Taehyung responds as he leads the group to an area a few feet away from the boat. He gives them some information about the sea creatures lurking about, warning them to be careful as all are not friendly.

Jungkook sticks close to you, grinning when you go underwater with him.

The two of you take photos with his camera, giggling at the bubbles that escape underwater before coming up for air.

“This is amazing!” You grin as you float on your back for a moment. Jungkook watches you, his heart fluttering giddily in his chest.

All he wanted was for you to be happy. How could he have allowed his work to consume him to the point of breaking up? He always swore to himself he’d be nothing like his workaholic father, and now here he was recreating his old man’s mistakes.

Never again, Jungkook swears to himself. He would not lose the love of his life over the company. You mattered more, you always would. He had lost sight of that but never again. Being without you these past six months had been torturous.

Somehow he had spent days in bed, wearing ramen-stained pajamas to go with his red-rimmed eyes. Jungkook didn’t know your eyes could hurt so much from crying, that the ache would almost rival that of his broken heart.

He didn’t want to imagine what you had gone through. The pain he had caused.

“Earth to Kook! Are you there?” Jungkook is startled out of his thoughts as you wave your hand in front of his face. “We’re going to the boat for lunch.”

Jungkook follows you as you swim back to the boat. Taehyung helps you out of the water, offering you a towel to dry off with before joining Jimin and Yoongi.

Taehyung gives the four of you space as the boat hits the waves once more.

“I’m so hungry,” Jimin hums as he takes a seat to look at the spread on the table.

“Ooh, guacamole, tacos, and burritos,” Jungkook nearly drools as you grab a plate for him and one for yourself.

The four of you enjoy lunch before Jimin falls asleep with Yoongi’s head on his lap. You dab some sunblock on their faces, and hope the sun doesn’t hit them.

“Today was fun,” Jungkook said as he sipped his beer. He sets it between you, and you reach for it to sip it. You weren’t a fan of beer but now and then you’d enjoy a sip of Jungkook’s. Old habits die hard apparently.

Jungkook remains silent at the indirect kiss. However, on the inside, he’s giggling to himself.

“It was,” you agree as you lie back, moaning as your muscles relax. You could easily fall asleep right there with the waves gently rocking the boat.

“I’m sorry for crashing your vacation,” Jungkook apologizes after a moment of silence. “I wouldn’t have come if I knew you’d be here.”

“Gee, thanks,” you huff, offended.

“No, no!” Jungkook shakes his head quickly. “I meant because I know you wouldn’t want to see me after…”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you toy with the edge of the towel to distract yourself. The wind ruffles your hair as you stare out into the ocean.

“Despite everything that’s happened, I’ve had fun on this cruise. We can be cordial, right?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook nods, ignoring the crack in his heart. “Of course.”

You turn to face Jungkook, his dark brown eyes locked on yours. For a split second, you consider leaning in closer, kissing him for old-time’s sake but you don’t. No matter how many times you fantasized about being with him, he wasn’t yours. Not even the cute mole under his lip could tempt you enough to kiss him, and you loved that mole!

“I accept your apology,” you say, focusing your eyes on his instead of the mole beneath his lip or his tongue tracing his piercings like you used to.

Fuck, why were you denying him again?

“Friends?” Jungkook asks as he offers his tattooed hand for a handshake.

Your eyes flit from his to his hand and back before sighing. “Friends.”

Jungkook smiles brightly, fireworks going off in his chest.

“But try anything fishy, and you’re out of here!” You inform him.

Jungkook chuckles but agrees nonetheless. “I’m not planning on feeding you beady eyes or anything.”

“Good,” you stuck your tongue out at him and lay back on your towel. Jungkook lies beside you as you stare at the sky.

You’re dozing off, and you swear it’s just your imagination playing tricks on you when you hear a whisper, “I missed you. I still love you.”

“They’re adorable,” Jimin cooed quietly as he looked at you curled up with Jungkook.

“We should take a picture of them,” Yoongi agrees as he hands his phone to Jimin. Eagerly, Jimin takes a handful of pictures from different angles, all blackmail material for later.

Once the photos are taken, Yoongi kicks Jungkook’s butt. “Get up! We’re here!”

Groaning, Jungkook stirs before Yoongi kicks him again. This time harder.

“Hey!” Jungkook grunts as he swats Yoongi’s foot away. His shout wakes you, an annoyed frown on your face.

“What is it?” You ask as you rub your eyes. The life jacket is still tied to your chest as you sit up. You probably shouldn’t have slept in it.

“We gotta get back on the ship. We’re having dinner and a show, remember?” Jimin offers you his hand to help you up. You nod as you gather your belongings and Jimin helps Yoongi gather his.

“I hope you enjoyed your time,” Taehyung bows as Jimin and Yoongi climb off the boat and onto the dock.

“We did!” Jimin assured him as they waited for you.

“Oh, need some help?” Taehyung asks as you struggle to undo the buckles of the life jacket. They had gotten tangled while you slept.

“Please,” you pout as you try to untangle one strap only to tangle it more. Taehyung chuckles softly as his fingers make quick work of the buckles, setting you free in moments.

“There we go, love. All set,” Taehyung smiles warmly at you as he helps you out of the life jacket. You thank him sincerely as you put your sundress over your bathing suit.

“Thank you so much for today, Taehyung. I had a great time,” you say as you take his hand to get off his boat.

Taehyung kisses your hand gently. “I hope to see you again, love. Take care.”

You giggle as you wave goodbye to the curly-haired cutie.

Jungkook grunts as he gets off the boat last, rolling his eyes at Taehyung.

He knew he had no right to be jealous but that was easier said than done.

When you got back on the cruise ship, you were still smiling whilst looking at your hand.

Jungkook was beyond jealous.

“What was that between you and Taehyung?” Jimin clasps his hands at dinner.

You giggle at his excitement, knowing you’re gonna nip any hope of finding a man at sea in the bud.

“It was nothing,” you assure him. “He’s just friendly.”

Jungkook scoffs from his seat, his eyes glued to his menu.

Yoongi kicks him under the table.

The three men are dressed to the nines. Jimin wears a black tuxedo with a white button-down shirt and skinny black tie. Beside him, Yoongi looks just as hot in a matching tuxedo with a black bow tie.

Next to you, Jungkook is in all black. He looks delectable, and it takes all your willpower to keep your eyes off him. He had the same problem earlier when you stepped out of the bathroom in your maroon A-line dress with the deep v-cut that made your breasts look fabulous. He nearly proposed to you then and there.

“Looked like something was blooming,” Jimin insists as a server brings a basket full of fresh rolls and butter.

“We had a few conversations while I booked the excursion,” you shrug, nonchalantly. “Nothing came of it.”

“Until he kissed your hand,” Jungkook grumbles into his menu.

“Ow!” He yelps when Yoongi’s foot kicks him again.

“Anyway, he kissed your hand,” Yoongi grinned devilishly. “Could mean something.”

You wave him off. “He’s just being friendly.”

“He wasn’t that friendly with me,” Jungkook muttered.

You ignore him.

You take a roll from the basket, cut it in half, and share it with Jungkook out of habit. You don’t notice the surprised look on your friends’ faces.

“Who’s headlining anyway?” You ask as you spread butter on your roll. “I heard the act had backed out and someone else took their place.”

“Kim Seokjin,” Yoongi responds as he sips his whiskey. “I looked him up before dinner. He’s got an amazing voice. You’ll like him.”

You nod, eager to get to the show after dinner.

Jungkook looks up Seokjin on his phone, pouting when he sees an image of him on the screen.

Did everyone you came in contact with on this cruise have to be so fucking attractive?

The lights dim as the last member of the audience takes their seat. Jungkook pouts beside you, not the least bit enthused about the handsome man who will be serenading the crowd in a few moments.

Jimin is excited, chatting your ear off as he looks through the set list on the table. A few waiters come and go with trays filled with drinks and tiny napkins.

The candlelit tables are the only form of light until the spotlight comes on and the first few notes of a song fill the air.

“Welcome everyone,” a sultry voice greets the crowd from his spot at a piano. His hair is long and curly, it reaches his shoulders. He wears an all-white suit with a pink shirt underneath, the first few buttons undone to show a bit of his chest.

His lips are plush and look oh-so kissable. He’s gorgeous, more so than his pictures. He is truly a vision that your eyes are blessed to behold.

“Wow!” You breathe in awe as he sings a beautiful song about loving oneself. Jungkook frowns, what are the chances of him being able to steal the microphone and serenade you instead?

Nobody pays him attention as he watches Seokjin both in awe and jealousy. You seem enamored with the man as he dances with a group, never missing a note, and never sounding out of breath.

On top of it all, he’s funny too. After the first three songs, he takes a seat on a stool set out for him. He has a guitar beside him, and Jungkook wonders if there’s anything Seokjin can’t do.

“This one goes out to all the loves that could have been, the broken hearts, and the ones hoping for a second chance,” Seokjin introduces the next song as the lights dim and he strums his guitar.

“And it feels like you’re getting further away,” Seokjin croons as his eyes mist with tears but he continues to sing.

Jungkook sits up in his chair, turning to look at you. You’re focused on Seokjin but tears are rolling down your cheeks as you take in every lyric, feeling as if it’s being engrained into your heart.

Gently, Jungkook wipes your tears with his monogrammed silk handkerchief. You gasp in surprise but soon smile through your tears, thanking him. Jungkook nods, remaining silent as the song comes to an end, and you take a shaky breath.

The show goes on, and after a few more songs, Seokjin rises from his seat. He does a few upbeat songs, getting the crowd clapping and singing along with him.

Seokjin pulls members from the audience to join him, teaching them simple choreography before he has them perform alongside him.

Yoongi and Jimin get pulled on stage, and they do amazing beside Seokjin. You cheer the loudest for them as they do body rolls all while sending flirty gazes to the audience. They both enjoy the attention, smiling as they thank Seokjin once the song ends.

Jimin blushes once he’s back in his seat. You hug him tightly, kissing his cheek. “You’re wonderful!”

“That?” Jimin giggles. “That was nothing.”

“Please,” Jungkook adds. “You were made for the stage. The both of you!”

You nod in agreement, smiling when people stop by your table to compliment the couple. Seokjin takes the stage once more, sitting on the stool for a moment while he introduces the last song.

“I’d like to end this night on a higher note,” Seokjin states as he looks out into the crowd. “Feel free to grab a partner and dance.”

Seokjin heads to the crowd while singing. A few couples head to the dancefloor, swaying slowly to his beautiful voice.

Jimin and Yoongi join the other couples shortly after, whispering sweet-nothings to each other as they go.

Awkwardness bubbles inside you, as you look down at the tablecloth. Would it be possible to leave the show unnoticed? Seokjin was nearby, surely nobody would notice if you made a hasty exit.

You rise from your seat sharply, surprising Jungkook. He stares at you with wide eyes, wondering where you’re going.

However, before Jungkook can ask, Seokjin chooses that moment to take your hand, dancing with you at your table for a moment.

“When I’m with you, there is no one else,” he sings beautifully. Your heart skips a beat as you place your hand on his shoulder, smiling bashfully as he spins you once.

Jungkook is ready to head back to the cabin, not wanting to see another man fall for you just as he had. He knew when it was time to throw in the towel, and you may have accepted his apology and agreed to be friends, but how often did that actually pan out? Would you still talk to him once you weren’t stuck on a cruise ship? Jungkook wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t going to stand around and watch you fall for someone else. That much he was sure of.

Seokjin stills you once he finishes spinning you. He then places your hand in Jungkook’s before leaving to another table.

Jungkook’s doe eyes are wide with surprise. You look shocked, but lead him to the dancefloor beside Jimin and Yoongi.

“You were shining towards me, the only light found in the darkness,” Seokjin sings wholeheartedly as Jungkook holds you close. It’s been so long since the last time he held you like this; since he realized how perfect you fit in your arms. He promised if you gave him one more chance, he would make sure to never ruin it. He’d never hurt you again. He’d be more mindful of his words, he’d prioritize you over his company. Jungkook would make sure you never felt like you were an afterthought. It saddens him to think he had made you feel like that, and that it took losing you for it to snap him into reality.

How long had you been unhappy at his side? Was he selfish in wanting you back? In pursuing you still? Had his appearance on this cruise been a divine intervention or a simple coincidence?

Jungkook forces himself to focus on you and not the downward spiral of despair brewing in his mind. You rest your head on his shoulder, swaying with him as he holds you closer.

Perhaps tonight the two of you could have a private moment to talk things out. Or maybe he’d be asking for too much?

Too soon for Jungkook’s liking, the song ends. He blinks his unshed tears away as you take a step back, clapping with everyone else.

“I’m going to head to the bar,” you inform him as you leave as quickly as possible. Jimin and Yoongi watch you go, and Yoongi places his hand on Jungkook’s shoulder.

“Tough break, man.”

Jungkook nods as he watches you squeeze through the crowd, disappearing soon after.

Jimin and Yoongi leave him by himself, the two enamored with each other after a romantic evening, both eager to get to their room for some privacy.

Jungkook is a little envious.

“Screwdriver, please,” you tell the bartender once you reach the bar. You need something to take the edge off, just a few minutes away from Jungkook and your array of emotions.

“I’ll have the same,” the voice beside you says. The bartender nods as he goes to make the drinks. You turn to your left to see Seokjin.

“You were wonderful,” you compliment, smiling genuinely. You hope you’re not bothering him. Surely he has people circling him at all times, especially after his shows.

“Thank you,” Seokjin bows his head, his ears turning red.

The bartender places the drinks in front of you on black napkins with a gold border. You thank him before sipping your drink.

“Fuck, I needed that,” you muttter as you take a second sip.

“Trouble in paradise?” Seokjin asks as he sips from his glass.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you respond sadly stirring your drink with your paper straw.

“I’m all ears,” Seokjin smiles, disarming any protests you might have had.

“Don’t you have another show?” You ask with wide eyes, surprised this stranger would want to hear about your woes.

“Nope, that was the last one for the night,” Seokjin informs you. He holds out his hand for you to shake as he introduces himself. You shake his hand after giving him your name.

The two of you scoot to the end of the bar with your drinks. It takes you a few more sips of your screwdriver before you fill in Seokjin about your trip thus far and how you were stuck sharing your cabin with your ex.

“Sounds to me like there’s a lot of love there,” Seokjin responds after you’re done telling your tale. He waves down the bartender, asking for two glasses of water before he continues. “If you’ve forgiven him, what’s holding you back?”

You bite your bottom lip as you try to make a list of your doubts.

“What if he hasn’t changed? What if we get back together and I’m brushed aside again?”

Seokjin thanks the bartender as he pushes a glass of water toward you. He clicks his tongue before shrugging.

“There’s no way to find out unless you try. Second chances are few and far between. Some people don’t get second chances, most try to make it work the second time. If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again,” Seokjin grins as he chugs his water.

“So you do greeting cards on the side, huh?” You tease, playfully bumping into Seokjin. He laughs wholeheartedly, his eyes turning into half-moons.

“I could, couldn’t I,” he says after his laughter has subsided. “But on a serious note, the two of you looked great on the dance floor. I didn’t know you were broken up when I danced with you.”

“Why do things have to be so complicated?” You huff as you finish your water.

“They don’t have to be,” Seokjin assures you. “They’re only complicated if you make it so. You love him, he loves you, what more is there to it?”

You sigh heavily, you know Seokjin’s reasoning is a little half-baked but it makes sense. What’s keeping you from giving it a second shot? You love Jungkook so much, and despite Jimin’s attempts at fixing you up with someone, you always compare them to Jungkook. He was the love of your life, knew it from the moment you laid eyes on him in your flower shop. He had walked in looking frazzled. His black suit was well fitted and his broad chest showed from the few buttons left undone at the top. His hair had been brushed back, his undercut on display.

Frazzled, he’d asked you for a custom bouquet. His mother’s birthday dinner was that evening and though he had a birthday present for her, he didn’t want to show up without flowers. She adored flowers, he’d informed you. All kinds, any color, any array. He never went empty-handed but the last floralist he’d ordered from had sent him nothing but stems and wilted roses.

After that day, he made daily appearances, until eventually he asked you out.

On your third month of dating, he had you meet his mother, her house filled with flowers from your shop.

“It’s so nice to meet the woman responsible for my new garden,” she joked as she welcomed you into her home with a tight hug.

Jungkook had blushed, hiding his face in his hands.

His mother adored you right off the bat, and that’s when Jungkook knew he couldn’t live without you, didn’t want to.

Your relationship had been perfect at first, something out of a fairytale. You spent a lot of time together, went on dates, spent the night, and tried his hobbies which involved rock climbing, kayaking, and bungee jumping. He tried yours, cooking, baking, painting, candle making. However, as your relationship wore on, Jungkook spent more and more time at work at his company. Business trips overseas, meetings late into the night, days off spent sleeping or moody.

You understood at first. You were supportive and gave him space when he needed it but soon came the canceled dates, the forgotten anniversaries, and the forgotten birthdays.

“I’m tired of coming second all the time, Jungkook,” you told him one day in his office after another canceled dinner.

“I have to work, babe. I can’t put it off for dinner,” he said as he sat at his desk, barely looking up from his laptop.

“It wasn’t always like this, Kook. You used to make an effort to come home,” you frowned as you placed your hands on your hips.

“You know I would of I could,” Jungkook huffs as he rubs his face with his hands. He had a knot in his shoulders from the stress and a headache was building rapidly. He didn’t have time for this argument. The longer you interrupted him the longer it would take for him to finish and go home to your shared apartment.

“Kookie,” you sigh, defeated. “I’m tired of waiting for you.”

“Nobody asked you to!” He exclaims as he shuts his laptop.

His words shattered your heart and a knot formed in your throat. You held back tears, simply nodding.

“Don’t worry, I’m done waiting on you.”

You had walked out of his office without another word. You headed straight to your shared apartment to pack up your belongings and crash on Jimin’s couch.

Jungkook had gone home late that night exhausted from his day at work. He had been put off by the complete silence. The lights were all off which was unusual since you were scared of the dark. You always had one light on, whether it was the living room lamp or the light over the stove.

Jungkook called out for you but got no response as he made his way to the bedroom.

The silence was eerie, just like the darkness. When he flicked the light switch, his eyes widened and his heart sank in his chest.

Drawers were open and emptied. Your half of the closet had nothing but empty clothes hangers.

Jungkook shook his head, this couldn’t be happening.

He rushed to the bathroom to see your makeup, face products, and toiletries were gone. He heaved, resisting the urge to puke as cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

Jungkook went to the kitchen, opening cabinets to see if your favorite mug was gone. There wasn’t an item left that belonged to you in the apartment.

You truly had grown tired of waiting for him.

Jungkook fell to his knees on the cold kitchen floor. His heart felt like it was cracking into tiny pieces. He had lost you. He was sure of it.

You were gone.

“Hello?” Seokjin waves his hand in front of your face when his question goes unanswered.

You apologize before he repeats his question. “What more is there to it?”

Seokjin had a point. What was keeping you from making amends? Jungkook was here, you’d forgiven him, and secretly his mother had called you throughout the six months to check on you but also fill you in on Jungkook’s change. No longer was he missing dinner, he was at her home promptly at six every evening. He had his days off, and spent more time with her, which she loved but she missed the shine in her son’s eyes, the little sparkle he got when he was with you.

Fear wasn’t a good enough reason to stay away, not anymore.

“You’re right,” you give in with a small smile.

“I always am,” Seokjin chuckles as he reaches into his suit pocket and hands you a card. “Here, call me when you need a singer for your wedding. I’ll give you ten percent off.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks, Seokjin.”

Seokjin shakes his head. “Think nothing of it. Now go, get your man back.”

“You only want us together so we’ll book you,” you laugh as his cheeks turn pink.

“Hey, I gotta make a living somehow,” he winks at you to make you laugh. “Now quit stalling and go!”

“All right! All right! I’m going!” You laugh as you hug him goodbye, promising to update him before the cruise is over. Seokjin waves as you go, hopeful that you and Jungkook will make amends.

Seokjin orders a shot, raising it in your honor before downing it.

Perhaps his next endeavor would lead him to matchmaking.

You’re filled with nerves by the time you reach your cabin. You use your bracelet to let yourself into the room, hoping the butterflies in your stomach will settle.

However, your nerves are for naught as you spot Jungkook asleep in your bed.

Disappointed, you head to the bathroom to change and wash your face.

Jungkook opens his eyes once he hears the bathroom door shut. He looks at the time and notes you’ve been gone a little over an hour.

He hopes you and Seokjin will be happy together.

The next morning you’re up bright and early. You roll over expecting to see Jungkook, but instead, you find his spot empty and the sheets cold.

Frowning, you get out of bed to get ready for the day.

You were hoping to talk to him before reaching the next port.

“Good morning!” Jimin sings as he enters your bedroom after knocking incessantly while you get dressed.

“Morning,” you mumble as you grab your purse and sunglasses. Another sundress covers your body, this one purple with white flowers. Your bathing suit hides beneath the cool fabric, riding up a bit as you bend down to fix the strap on your sandal.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Jimin raised a brow at your response. “I thought you and Seokjin hit it off last night. At least it looked that way when we were heading to bed.”

“Nothing happened,” you roll your eyes at Jimin’s nosiness. “We talked about Jungkook.”

“Ew, talking about an ex on the first date is such a downer,” Jimin comments as he follows you out of the cabin and into the hallway.

“It wasn’t a date,” you insist as you face forward. “Have you seen Jungkook? He wasn’t in bed this morning.”

“He’s probably at breakfast with Yoongi. I sent him ahead to get us a table,” Jimin explains.

“Oh,” you say dejected. “So you haven’t seen Kookie?”

“Kookie?” Jimin’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’re calling him Kookie again? He’s not a dick anymore?”

“Jimin,” you huff. “Have you seen Jungkook or not?”

Jimin shakes his head. “Not since last night.”

You frown. You wanted to speak with him sooner rather than later. Tonight was one of the last nights on board, and if he was nowhere to be found you’re not sure if you’d have the courage to reach out to him once you went back home.

“Let’s have breakfast and go about our day. I’m sure he’ll show up at some point.”

“What if he doesn’t?” You bite your lip nervously.

Jimin scoffs. “Please, this is the man who somehow found you in the captain’s private dining room. He’ll find you.”

You giggle as you take Jimin’s arm in yours, feeling much lighter as you head to the dining area.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Aren’t I always,” Jimin states cheekily.

However, Jungkook isn’t at breakfast and he’s nowhere to be seen when you get off the ship at the next port.

“Don’t worry about him, babe,” Jimin links his left arm with your right. “He’ll show up.”

“I hope you’re right,” you sigh. “I need to talk to him.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Don’t let him ruin your day. We’ve got a whole day at the beach.”

You smile as you go with the couple to check out the market on the way to the beach. You fill your bag with souvenirs for your family and friends. Jimin buys you snacks, trying them all on the way to the beach.

“This weather is so nice,” you sigh happily as you rest on your lounger under a large blue umbrella Yoongi had set up for the four of you, despite Jungkook being nowhere to be found.

“I’ll go get us some drinks,” Yoongi volunteers as Jimin mentions wanting a blue drink with an umbrella that the person a few feet away from you was sipping on.

“Get me one too!” you call after him as he raises his hand over his shoulder to assure you he heard your request.

The sand is hot on Yoongi’s feet as he reaches the bar. There’s a crowd at one end of the bar, cheering as some shirtless dude rips open a watermelon with his bare hands. Yoongi rolls his eyes as he orders your drinks and a bottle of water for himself.

“JK! JK! JK!” The crowd cheers. Yoongi whips his head to the crowd, spotting Jungkook’s tattooed arm dripping with watermelon juice. He pours the juice into a few shot glasses, while the bartender adds vodka.

“Cheers!” Jungkook grabs a shot as do a few of his fans.

“Thanks!” Yoongi pays for the drinks, sliding the cold water bottle into the pocket of his swim trunks. He barrels through Jungkook’s onlookers, earning a few angry looks as he grabs Jungkook’s shoulder.

“Hey! No touchy!” Jungkook exclaims before he realizes it’s Yoongi grabbing his shoulder.

“Oh! Yoongi! What’s up?”

“You know your girl’s been looking for you all morning?” Yoongi raises a brow as he tugs Jungkook away from the bar, ignoring the onlookers’ protests.

“She’s Seokjin’s girl now,” Jungkook shrugs.

“You’re an idiot! You know that?”

“I do,” Jungkook agrees easily and Yoongi hands him his water.

“Drink this and come join us. I’m proposing to Jimin tonight and I don’t need you ruining this for us.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “Oh shit! You’re proposing! Congrats! Does he know?!”

Yoongi’s forehead vein twitches. “I haven’t done it yet.”

Jungkook nods, smiling. “You should.”

“I’m gonna.”

“Good,” Jungkook grins. “You should.”

“I’m gonna,” Yoongi rolls his eyes at the younger man.

“You should.” Jungkook bobs his head.

“I’m gonna,” Yoongi insists before carding a hand through his long black hair. “Will you shut up?! Let’s go!”

Jungkook chugs the bottle of water before following Yoongi to where you and Jimin chat under the large umbrella.

“Hey stranger,” Jimin greets Jungkook as Yoongi hands you and Jimin your drinks.

“Hey,” Jungkook waves weakly as he takes a seat on the end of Jimin’s chair. Jimin eyes Yoongi, silently asking him what gives. Yoongi answers with a shrug.

“Okay…” Jimin grins. “Glad we’re all here.”

You nod as you sip your blue drink, not knowing what to say or do. Yoongi sits on your chair, stretching out. You poke his chest, and he pouts.

“Be good,” he swats at your hand, making you laugh as you and Jimin talk about the drink. Jungkook remains silent as he watches the ocean, wondering what he can do to make things between you less awkward.

Hours pass, and soon it’s almost sunset.

“It’s right over here,” Yoongi says as he leads Jimin by the hand to a place further down the beach.

“Hello!” A bright voice greets the four of you along with three giant horses.

“Horseback riding?” Jimin squeals in delight. He kisses Yoongi on the cheek.

“I’m Hoseok,” the man introduces himself. “I’ll be giving you a tour.”

You all introduce yourselves.

Hoseok has Jimin and Yoongi meet their horse, becoming familiar with the steed before helping them onto Pepper, a beautiful black stallion.

“All right you two, you’re on Sugar,” Hoseok states as he hands you and Jungkook sugar cubes for the horse. “She’s the sweetest I own. Be good to her and she’ll be good to you.”

Hoseok helps you onto the horse, his hands gently guiding you forward so he can get Jungkook on behind you.

“Place your hands around her waist and place them here,” Hoseok instructs before telling you where to place yours.

“Aren’t you a good girl?” Hoseok coos, and you giggle.

Hoseok pets Sugar, but winks at you before he gets on his horse, a beautiful sandy brown mare named Cinnamon.

Unknowingly, Hoseok is leading you to the spot Yoongi will propose. However, he takes the long way around, showing you as much of his beautiful city as possible.

Hoseok hangs beside you and Jungkook. He’s very outgoing, filling any awkward pauses with jokes, and information you’re eager to hear.

“Why don’t you two hang back a bit?” Hoseok raises a brow, winking at you once more before he goes to Yoongi and Jimin. Sugar comes to a stop, and Jungkook jolts forward, his chest hitting your back.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as he grips your waist tighter to keep himself on the horse.

“What’s going on?” you ask as you watch Hoseok lead Yoongi and Jimin further up before he hands Jimin a blindfold. Hoseok calls for Sugar, and she goes willingly.

“Whoa!” you hold tight to the horse and Jungkook, scared you’ll fall off and get a mouthful of sand in the process.

Soon, lights appear in the sand in the shape of a heart. Rose petals are spread perfectly throughout, spelling out the words, Will you marry me?

“Oh my god,” you whisper, tears immediately filling your eyes.

“What’s going on?” Jimin asks as Hoseok helps him off the horse once Yoongi gets into position. A photographer and videographer stand nearby, waiting as Hoseok leads Jimin to Yoongi. Hoseok then comes for you and Jungkook, helping you off the horse before leading you to the side.

“You may remove your blindfold,” Hoseok instructs as he grabs the three horses' reins to get them out of the photos.

Jimin is confused but does as he’s told. His heart is racing in his chest, his hands have grown sweaty from nerves, and butterflies swirl in his tummy.

A gasp escapes him as the silk blindfold flutters to the sand. His hands cover his mouth as he looks at Yoongi kneeling in front of him with a black velvet box containing a perfect amethyst ring.

“Will you marry me?” Yoongi asks with hope in his eyes.

Jimin nods, “Yes. Yes!”

You grab Jungkook, shaking him in your excitement as your two best friends kiss. Yoongi places the ring on Jimin’s finger, and you allow them to have their moment, waiting for the happy couple to turn to you and wave you over.

You wrap your arms around them both, squeezing them until they tell you they can’t breathe. You release them, admiring Jimin’s ring, giggling in your excitement as you begin talking about wedding plans.

“Congratulations,” Jungkook tells Yoongi as he watches you and Jimin bounce ideas off each other as Hoseok approaches with the horses.

“Thanks,” Yoongi smiles brightly, love in his eyes when he looks at Jimin.

“We should get going before the ship leaves without us,” Jimin turns to face the two, urging them onto the horses. Hoseok helps you back onto Sugar, his hand lingering on your waist as you settle. You laugh at something he says, gently swatting him as he laughs before he goes to help Jimin and Yoongi.

Jungkook gets on Sugar without any help, his hands gripping your waist as Hoseok gets on Cinnamon and leads the four of you back to his office.

Jimin and Yoongi are all smiles at dinner. Champagne glasses in your hands as you toast their engagement before they go off on their own.

“I’m so happy for them,” you grin as you watch your best friends leave.

Jungkook nods in agreement.

“What should we do now?”

“Want to check out the party on deck?” You ask as you see fireworks going off in the distance. Jungkook nods as he follows you out onto the deck.

The two of you haven’t had a chance to have a serious conversation due to all the excitement but now with Jimin and Yoongi gone, you were unsure how to approach the subject.

More fireworks go off as you find a spot for the two of you to watch the rest of the show, amazed by the beautiful colors and patterns of the fireworks.

Jungkook smiles as the last few go off before the passengers clap and disperse.

“Should we head back to the room?” you ask Jungkook as a chill runs down your spine, your hands rubbing your arms.

Jungkook nods. He takes his jacket off to drape over your shoulders as he follows you back into the ship, going down the halls until you reach your cabin.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you inform him as you set his jacket on the bed before going to the bathroom with your pajamas in tow. Jungkook nods, as he hangs his jacket in the small closet.

He cards a hand through his hair before he heads out to the balcony to watch the waves. Something about the endless ocean at night made him uneasy but he couldn’t stand the tightness he felt in his chest being in such a small room feeling somewhat awkward.

“Bathroom’s free!” You call twenty minutes later as you climb into bed before Jungkook can see you wearing one of his old t-shirts to bed. You had packed it with the thought that he wouldn’t be joining you on this cruise and now you were stuck hiding under the sheets.

“Thanks!” He responds before he heads into the shower. You scroll on your phone absentmindedly, humming until he comes out. He’s shirtless as he does his nighttime skincare routine, singing a song softly to himself.

You stare at his perfect abdomen, wishing you could run your hands over his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Your lips ache to kiss every mole and scar on his body, to taste him once more.

“Jungkook, can we talk?” You ask as you muster all the courage you can.

Jungkook's eyes widen in surprise, his toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

He nods as he rushes to the bathroom sink to spit out the toothpaste.

You wait patiently for him to finish before he sits on the edge of the bed.

Jungkook waits apprehensively for you to speak as you play with the sheets.

“I’ve been talking to your mom these past few months,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

“My mom?” Jungkook is surprised at the revelation. “Why?”

You shrug. “I didn’t break up with her.”

You’ve got him there.

“She says you’ve changed a lot these past six months,” you continue as you finally meet his gaze. “That you’re different now.”

“I am,” Jungkook nods eagerly. “I swear.”

“I want to believe you,” you respond honestly as you focus on the sheets, tugging them to peaks. “I’m just scared of getting hurt again.”

“I know,” Jungkook sighs heavily. “I’ve been kicking myself for how I treated you back then. I was an idiot. I said things I didn’t mean. I missed so many events and dinners. I’m truly sorry.”

“I still love you, Jungkook. I never stopped,” you admit sheepishly as you feel heat rush to your cheeks.

Jungkook moves closer, his hand gently cupping your face. He waits patiently until you meet his gaze.

“I never stopped loving you, baby. I want to be the man you deserve. I want to be everything I wasn’t. You are my priority. I’m sorry it took me losing you to figure it out,” Jungkook gently caresses your cheek. Tears well in your eyes as you try to blink them away.

When one rolls down your cheek, Jungkook tenderly wipes it away with his thumb.

“I never meant to hurt you, love. And I swear that I never will,” Jungkook promises as he hooks his pinkie with yours. You smile through your tears, wrapping your arms around him to hold him close.

Jungkook rubs your back softly, holding you tight, afraid to let you go. He can feel your tears land on his shoulder as he holds you, whispering assurances and sweet nothings until you’re sniffling instead of crying.

When you let go, you wipe your eyes and smile at him sheepishly.

Jungkook holds your hands in his, kissing each of them before pressing his lips to yours. His forehead rests on yours, and your gaze meets his hopeful one.

“You are my everything,” Jungkook whispers. “Today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life. I love you.”

“One last kiss before we head out,” Jungkook pouts as he stands in front of the door to your cabin, his back pressed to it.

You roll your eyes playfully, but lean in close to kiss him. Jungkook’s large hands grip your waist, tugging you closer as he deepens the kiss, making you moan when he sucks on your bottom lip.

“Fuck,” you curse when you take a breath. Jungkook smirks, his hand moving higher on your back.

“We could say we’re sick,” Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at you.

“Please,” you scoff. “You know Jimin would break the door down if he thought I was sick.”

Jungkook pouts, “But we just got together. I want to make up for lost time.”

You run your hands over the smooth planes of his chest. You have lunch plans with Jimin and Yoongi, some wedding planning, and more celebrating you’re sure. It’s why you’ve decided not to announce your relationship to the happy couple just yet.

Your plans for the day are very relaxed for your last night on board, until the farewell party this evening. Seokjin will be performing at dinner once again, and then the passengers will get to have one last big hurrah before going home in the morning. You were apprehensive about going home, would Jungkook keep his promise? Could you put yourself through a second breakup if things didn’t work out?*

Should you just come clean to your two best friends and ask for their advice?

“We can do all that tonight,” You assure Jungkook as you kiss the corner of his mouth and reach for the doorknob behind him.

Jungkook smiles, nodding as he steps aside to let you by.

“I was about to go banging on your door!” Jimin huffs as you and Jungkook sit at the table with Jimin and Yoongi.

“So dramatic,” you mutter as you stab a cube of watermelon from Jimin’s plate.

Yoongi looks at Jungkook with a frown. “I see you’re still here.”

“Where else am I supposed to go?” Jungkook asks with a raised brow as he reaches for a roll.

“Kinda hoped our girl here would have pushed you over the balcony by now,” Yoongi huffs, a disappointed look on his face as he turns to you. “I guess there’s always tonight.”

“Yoongi,” you roll your eyes. “Be nice. This is a happy time for the two of you. We should celebrate!”

“We have been,” Jimin giggles, ignoring Yoongi’s rosy cheeks.

“Did you bring your wedding binder?” You ask Jimin as you sip your mimosa. Jimin shakes his head but hands you his phone where he keeps a digital copy just in case.

“Of course, you’ll have to be my maid of honor!” Jimin exclaims as he shows you his ideas for themes and colors.

“Duh,” you grin as you scroll onto the next page on his phone. The two of you are lost in wedding planning mode but Yoongi is watching you.

Something about you seemed different and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Jungkook eats his lunch quietly listening to you and Jimin chatter about the wedding. He keeps one hand in his lap as he tries not to look over at you too much. It’s harder than he thought pretending you weren’t back together. He wanted to hold your hand, to lean his head on your shoulder, or to even hold a conversation with you but he knew it would be too risky.

If it were up to him, he’d announce it to the whole ship, so that they knew you were his once again.

However, instead, he eats his lunch and keeps to himself.

Yoongi can’t shake the feeling. As lunch ends and the four of you head to the pool, Yoongi keeps his watchful eye on you.

He notes the way you laugh at Jungkook’s jokes, how you seem to lean into him more as the day goes by, sharing snacks and drinks when you would have poured them on Jungkook at the start of the cruise.

Jungkook’s longing stares are almost nonexistent. He seems to have regained the sparkle in his eye as he laughs with you and Jimin. His nose is scrunched, and his eyes are closed into pretty little half-moons.

“Something’s off,” Yoongi whispers to himself before the four of you split to get ready for the last evening on board.

Music played softly in the background as dinner was served to the passengers. Everyone wore their best gowns and suits. Diamonds, pearls, rubies, and all other colorful gems were in abundance on passenger’s necks and ears.

The candlelit room gave a softer, more romantic feel to the evening as you awaited your waiter to get to your table.

“I’m so sad it’s our last night,” Jimin pouts as he places his hand over his fiancé’s.

“I know,” you frown. “I wish we had more time on board.”

“You can always honeymoon on a cruise,” Jungkook suggests as he reaches for his glass of water, trying to ignore Yoongi’s intense gaze.

“Ooh, what a marvelous idea!” Jimin chirps as he claps. He turns to Yoongi with a smile, “What do you think, babe?”

Yoongi blinks once. “You’re fucking him.”

Jimin’s eyes widen as Jungkook chokes on his water.

“What?!” Jimin is scandalized, protests sitting heavy on his tongue. He was most definitely not fucking Jungkook or anyone else for that matter.

Yoongi looks pointedly at you, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Of course not!” You hiss, shaking your head as Jungkook coughs repeatedly. You pat his back gently, asking if he needs anything as his face turns red.

“There’s something up with you two,” Yoongi states as he stares into your soul. He quirks his head to the side as he notes the way you gently rub Jungkook’s back, offering him your glass of water and checking on him again.

“You’re back together!” Jimin exclaims as he looks at Yoongi, who is frowning now.

“Ew, I wish you two were just fucking again,” he spits.

“Oh, you love me,” Jungkook laughs but doesn’t deny Jimin’s allegation.

“Can we not do this right now?” You ask as you smile at the waiter approaching the table.

Surprisingly, Yoongi and Jimin remain quiet as your dinner is set on the table.

Jungkook stuffs his mouth with food, nearly choking so he can avoid speaking.

Once the waiter leaves, Jimin smirks. “So, are you two back together?”

Jungkook chews noisily beside you, looking at nearby tables instead of Jimin.

“Technically,” you answer, giggling when Jungkook pokes your side.

“Kookie!”

“Oh, no! They’re going to be insufferable again!” Yoongi whines as he pouts.

“I know,” Jungkook chirps. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Yoongi groans, but despite his outward displeasure of your revelation, inside he’s delighted to have you happy once again.

Though he will tear Jungkook a new one if he breaks your heart again. Jimin and you won’t be able to hold him back again…

“I’m so exhausted,” you groan as you kick your heels off in your cabin.

Jungkook is fresh out of the shower, drying his hair with a towel on his way to the bed as you unzip your dress before scurrying into the steamy bathroom with Jimin’s gift tucked behind your back.

Jimin had insisted you walk him to his cabin despite his confused fiancé being at his side.

“Go away, Jungkook! I’ll walk her back,” Jimin had pushed Jungkook towards your shared room, insisting he needed to talk to you.

“What is it, Jimin?” You ask as you follow him into his room. Jimin waves you off as he lugs his suitcase in front of you.

He searches through his clothing and some of yours that he’s packed for you. He pushed everything out of the way until he finally came out with a pretty bubblegum pink gift bag.

“What is it?” You ask with wide eyes as he hands it to you.

“You’re welcome!” Jimin grins as he stuffs everything back into his suitcase.

“Jimin!” You're scandalized as you see the tiny pieces of black fabric he expects you to wear for Jungkook tonight.

Jimin shrugs. “I had hoped you’d meet some hottie on the ship and bang his brains out. The fact that it’s Jungkook works for me.”

You turn to Yoongi who shakes his head, chuckling. “Leave me out of this.”

“Go,” Jimin pushes you gently towards the door. “Fuck his brains out. Get an orgasm or six, was that the record?”

Jimin looks over at Yoongi who holds up seven fingers.

“Ooh, seven like that song we like. Fuck him to that,” Jimin snickers as he leads you out of his cabin and walks you to yours.

“What if it’s too soon?” You whisper as you reach your door.

“Only do what feels right. Whether it’s on the cruise or later on,” Jimin says. “The gift is yours regardless.”

You unlock your bedroom door, leaning against it. You hug Jimin tightly, kissing his cheek.

“Thanks, Jimin. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” you squeeze him once more.

When you part, you spot Yoongi waiting for Jimin in the hall, you blow him a kiss and step into your cabin.

“Thank you, Jimin,” you whisper as you look at yourself in the mirror. You admire the way the ruffles are soft on your skin, the lace not itchy like some sets you’ve worn before. You’re thankful Jimin cut the tags off because you don’t even want to imagine how much your best friend spent on something to get you laid.

You smile, tugging on Jungkook’s shirt that you stole from his suitcase while he showered before dinner and hid in the bathroom for this moment.

It felt surreal to be back together, and you swore you’d take things slow this time around but tonight had been so lovely. From dinner with your favorite people in the world to dancing the night away under the stars.

Jungkook was just as he was, and you hoped he kept true to his word. You love him so much, sometimes it feels overwhelming but you’re sure he’s your person and you are his.

Your love knows no bounds, and being back together makes your heart sing.

“You can do this,” you tell yourself, trying to hype yourself up but it feels like the first time all over again. You had been nervous that night, spilled wine on his pants, and bonked his head with yours when you both reached for a napkin to dab at the wine.

Jungkook ended up wearing some of your Kuromi pajama pants while his pants were in the wash. Who knew he’d look so good in them?

Jungkook is in bed when you finally open the bathroom door. He’s shirtless, scrolling on his phone until he hears the door.

“Oh,” his doe eyes widen when he spots you in his t-shirt. You climb into bed beside him as he sets his phone on the nightstand.

“Hi,” you whisper shyly.

“Hi,” Jungkook giggles in response as you get under the covers with him. He lies on his side so he can face you, his hand rests on your hip while the other gets tucked under his pillow.

Silence envelopes the two of you, shy smiles on your lips. Your heart beats in tune with his as he pulls you closer. Your forehead rests on his, your noses brushed, and Jungkook breathed you in.

It only takes a moment or two before his lips meet yours, kissing you softly. Slowly, your lips move with his feeling the slight pressure from his lip rings.

You moan, gripping his bare shoulders as he tugs you over him, making you straddle his tiny waist.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes in between kisses and light touches. “So much.”

“Jungkook,” you whisper, afraid that speaking too loudly will pop this bubble of comfort.

Jungkook hushes you with a finger to your lips, shaking his head befo he moves his hand to the back of your head to pull you towards him. Fiery lips meet yours as desire pools in your abdomen.

“Fuck,” he curses gripping you tightly, afraid to let you go lest he lose you again. He’s not sure he could survive it one more time.

“I’ve missed you. I love you. I need you.” Jungkook states as he kisses his way down your jaw towards your neck. Your fingers thread in his thick black hair, tugging as he nips at your neck.

“I missed you,” you confess in a heady tone as he tugs the collar of the shirt to the side. He’s eager to kiss any bit of you within reach, wanting to familiarize himself with your body once more and hopefully hear those dulcet sounds he loves so much.

Just hearing you moan his name might be enough to send him into the stars, dispersing among the sky.

“I love you,” you admit. Jungkook pauses, his gaze locked on yours as his heart flits in his chest, a sweet grin on his lips. You kiss him. You kiss the mole on beneath his lip, the mole on his nose, the scar on his cheek, and the mole on his neck; your favorite.

Perhaps later you’ll kiss the scar on his shoulder, the one on his ribs, and any new ones acquired in your time apart. You’ll familiarize yourself with his body once again, and become one just like you were always meant to.

Jungkook’s hand cups your face, moaning your name as his hands grip the shirt you’re wearing. “Let’s get you out of this, love.”

You nod, raising your arms to aid him.

“Wow!” Jungkook exclaims, admiring the lace that barely covers your body. He tongues his lip rings, his eyes dark and hooded as you grab his hands to place on your hips.

“Don’t just stare, baby.”

Jungkook nods, smiling as he pecks your lips before you guide his hands to your breasts.

His fingers toy with the string tying the two cups together, knowing he could easily get this undone.

Without a second thought, Jungkook easily flips the two of you over. You giggle when your head meets the pillows, your body caged between Jungkook’s broad shoulders and deliciously thick arms. You run your hands over his bicep, clenching around nothing when he flexes for you.

The list of things you’d love to do to him is endless but right now all you can focus on is him and the needy whimper that escapes him when his cock rubs against your cunt.

“I don’t want to rush,” Jungkook admits but a roll of your hips has him seeing stars.

Your hand laces with his, your thumb gently stroking his skin. “We can go slow, babe.”

Jungkook nods as he kisses you again, his hand cupping your cheek as your legs wind around his hips to pull him closer. Your name escapes him in a groan, the sound shooting straight to your cunt. Your eyes flutter shut as you curse, kissing him hungrily as your nails drag down his back. Jungkook kisses you feverishly, his tongue meeting yours, sucking it into his mouth. He pulls back, nipping your lip before he kisses his way down your body until he settles between your tits.

“I’ve missed these fucking tits,” Jungkook grunts as you tug his hair.

“Kook!”

He smirks, “Soon, baby. Be patient.”

“It’s been six months,” you whine as you tug his hair again, earning a tiny bite on your wrist.

“I know,” he responds, kissing your sternum. “But we have all night and I want these in my mouth.”

Jungkook grabs the black string between his teeth and tugs until the bow comes undone. Your breasts are exposed as the thin lace material goes in opposite directions.

It feels like heaven when his lips meet your heated skin. His soft lips draw out the sweetest moans from your parted lips with each kiss pressed to your skin.

“So beautiful,” Jungkook whispers as his eyes meet yours for a brief moment. He grins when you whine his name, begging him to keep going.

Jungkook aims to please as he takes a hard nipple into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it slowly, gently tugging on it to make you groan before he sucks it into his mouth.

His hand grips your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingertips before he switches.

Your nails scratch at his scalp, gripping his hair to hold him closer to your tit. He sucks until your legs clamp around him, your hips writhing as you grind against him.

You’re soaking wet, dripping through your lingerie and soaking his sweatpants.

“Stop teasing me,” you plead as you arch into him, head lolled back as your hair splays on the pillow.

Chuckling, Jungkook releases you before he licks and sucks his way down your body until he’s gripping your hips with his hands. He tugs you onto his lap.

“I love you so much, baby,” Jungkook says as runs his hand over your mound. He pressed his index finger to your pussy, teasing you for a moment before he undoes the bows on your hips.

You lay bare underneath him. He’s transfixed by your arousal slick on your thighs, and he licks his lips. Fuck, he’s missed you so much.

“I love you, Koo,” you respond as he grips each of your thighs in his hands. He lies flat on his stomach as he drags you closer, draping your legs over his shoulders.

His tongue is flat as he licks a stripe on your folds. His tight hold on your thighs makes you moan as he teases your clit with his tongue.

A sigh escapes you as you stare at the ceiling, thighs trembling as Jungkook buries himself in the apex of your legs. Your hand reaches for his, fingers laced as he continues to feast on you. The sounds that escape the two of you are lewd, and if you weren’t so focused on the pleasure you’d be embarrassed by how loud you were being.

“That’s it, baby. Pull my fucking hair,” Jungkook encourages as you do as he’s asked. You squeeze his head between your thighs as his experienced tongue makes you cry out his name, covering your mouth with your hand to muffle your pleasurable cries.

“Don’t,” Jungkook huffs as he licks his lips. His dark gaze makes you clench around nothing as you focus on him. His lips and nose shine with your arousal, his hair is in disarray from all your tugging and pulling, and his eyes darken further as he moves your hand off your mouth. “I want to hear how good I make you feel. I want all your moans. I want everything.”

You nod, cursing as he slides two fingers into you and you arch, moaning when his thumb rubs your clit in circles. Jungkook kisses your thighs, his lips joining his fingers soon after.

Heat races through your veins as Jungkook curls your fingers, watching you intently as you begin to unravel. Your breathing has changed, your moans have risen in octave, and you dig your nails into his shoulder as your orgasm hits, and your back arches off the bed as a loud moan of his name fills the room.

Jungkook rubs himself on the mattress, your moans going straight to his cock as his chest fills with pride.

“Kookie,” you whine when the last tremors of your orgasm leave you feeling overstimulated.

Giggling, Jungkook kisses your clit before sitting up between your legs. His hands move up and down your thighs, settling on your hips.

“It’s been so long,” he admits in a soft tone. “Way too long.”

You sit up, cupping his face in your hands. Your noses brush as you look him in the eyes.

“Let’s make up for lost time.”

Nodding, Jungkook kisses you gently, falling deeper in love, if that were possible. With each kiss, he promises to be a better man for you, to be the one you deserve.

“Lie down for me, baby,” you instruct as you get on your knees to allow your “beefcake” of a boyfriend to take your spot. Perhaps you should have laid down a towel before ensuing your activities but it was too late now.

With Jungkook beneath you, your hands are free to roam where they please. You straddle him, your bare cunt on his erection with only the sweatpants keeping you from feeling him. Soon, you promise yourself. Soon.

A kiss here, a kiss there. You kiss each of his moles, licking and sucking his skin beside his neck mole to leave a pretty little mark. Perhaps you’d be more cautious, knowing he’d have work soon but you don’t care in the moment. You’d cover him in love bites from head to toe if you could.

Your finger traces the scar on his shoulder, and Jungkook watches you with bated breath. When you kiss it, he gives a quick anecdote of how it happened before you move across his chest to the scar on his ribs. You trace it as Jungkook fills you in on what occurred.

Your hands run over his chest, feeling the strong muscles beneath. Jungkook’s always had a wonderful body. Such a beautiful man, inside and out. Everything about him makes you fall for him even more.

Your lips trail kisses down his taut abdomen, leaving hickeys on his hips, near his navel, and below his scar.

Teasingly, you stroke his hard cock over his sweatpants. He moans your name, begging you not to tease him. You giggle, kissing his cock over the sweatpants before slowly tugging them down his thighs.

You help him take them off before wrapping your hand around him, but your fingers still don’t meet. You smile as you stroke him, his soft whimpers making you wet.

“So pretty like this,” you coo, and Jungkook gasps when you spit on his cock.

“Please, baby,” he pleads as you lower your mouth, kissing the underside of his dick.

“You can beg better than that, can’t you?” You smirk.

Jungkook nods hastily, begging for you to touch him and stop teasing him. You reward him by wrapping your lips around his cock, your tongue swirling around the leaking head.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans as you slowly bob up and down his length. His hand finds its way into your hair, gently gripping it to steady himself.

You start slow, ignoring the ache in your knees as you slurp and tongue at his slit. His moans flow prettily from his pretty pink lips as you take more of him in your mouth. You do your best to take all of him but you gag, spluttering around him as you focus on breathing through your nose.

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Jungkook breathes as his eyes roll back when he hits the your throat and you choke on him before pulling off. A bridge of saliva connects your lips to his cock as your eyes water before you take him back in.

You spit on him, using your hand to stroke him while taking his balls in your mouth. Jungkook curses, eyes squeezed shut as the knot in his stomach tightened. Fuck, if he didn’t know any better, he’d be sure you were torturing him to get back at him.

But you want to please him, you’ve missed having him just like this.

His whimpers encourage you as you release him, kissing the head of his cock once more before you bob up and down his length.

It’s Jungkook who stops you with a tug of your hair, wiping the tear that rubs down your cheek.

“I’ll cum down your throat if you keep going, my love,” he chuckles as you release him petulantly.

“But I want more,” you pout as Jungkook kisses you, his hand on the back of your head as yours winds around his neck.

“So greedy,” he chuckles before kissing your nose. “Don’t worry, I am too.”

“How do you want me, Koo?” You ask bashfully as you sit back on your knees, ready to get into any position he desires.

“Lay down for me, baby. I want to look at you while we make love again,” Jungkook helps you lie down beneath him.

His fingers lace with yours when you settle under him. Your heart races in your chest as he kisses you gently..

You spread your legs further for him, wrapping them around his waist to pull him closer. Jungkook lines his cock at your entrance, moaning when he slides home.

“Fuck,” he grunts as you curse against his lips. “Fuck, love.”

“I know,” you sigh as you take all of him, the stretch delectable as you remember. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you free your hand from his to grip his forearm. “Fuck, Kook.”

Jungkook tongues his lip piercings as he watches pleasure overcome you. He gives you a moment to adjust to his length. Your nails dig into his arm for a moment before your lustful gaze meets his.

“More,” you plead in a whisper as Jungkook pushes a little deeper, bottoming out when you feel like he’ll reach your throat.

Fire blooms in your belly, desire swirling deep inside you as you kiss Jungkook.

Jungkook pulls out nearly all the way before sliding back into you. Your back arches as he sets a pace that makes you moan incoherently. He kisses you, all teeth and tongues, and dulcet moans.

His lips trail kisses to your neck, sucking and biting, leaving marks behind as he moves his greedy lips to your breasts.

Jungkook’s broad frame cages you beneath him, his hips meeting yours as the lewd sounds of your lovemaking fill the room.

“Jungkook!” you cry out as you drag your nails down his perfect back.

“Baby,” he moans, slamming into you again and again, enthralled by the way your tits jiggle with each of his thrusts. You tighten around him, biting back a guttural moan as fire courses through your veins.

“So fucking wet for me,” Jungkook praises. His hand moves between your bodies to rub your clit while his lips find your tits.

“Love you. I love you,” you gasp as he grabs your hips, squeezing as he pulls you onto his cock.

“I love you,” he responds, groaning when your thighs quiver at his sides. You whimper, eyes fluttering shut as his name rolls off your tongue in a heady tone that makes his head spin.

“Jungkook, fuck,” you can’t think straight, too overwhelmed with pleasure to warn him of your approaching orgasm, but this is Jungkook, he knows you better than you know yourself.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you,” he assures you as your hips meet his, and his lips meet yours in a messy kiss that swallows your moans as you hit your high. Your body tightens for a moment, your cunt milking Jungkook as he moans your name into your neck.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he whines as he fucks you through your orgasm and then through his. Sweat beads on your forehead and his. His black hair sticks to his face as he rocks his hips, sure he’s fucked you full of his seed before he pulls out and lays at your side.

Silence envelopes you two for a moment before you’re giggling with each other.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” you grin foolishly as you roll onto your side to face Jungkook, who is already watching you.

“Definitely,” he agrees, his hand pushing your hair out of your eyes. “You’re amazing.”

“Don’t get cheesy with me,” you poke his chest, smiling when he bites your finger playfully.

“You love it when I’m cheesy,” Jungkook responds as he pulls you to his chest. You’re both hot, and sticky with sweat but you’re willing to ignore it for now, at least until you can drag yourself up to use the bathroom and shower again.

“I love you,” you confirm as you place your hand in his. He laces your fingers together, moving your joined hands over his heart, kissing them.

“I love you too, baby. I always have, and I always will.” Jungkook swears as you lay your head on his chest, beside your joined hands, falling asleep to the sound of his heart beating for you.

The next morning is a haze.

You wake with Jungkook draped around you, his leg over your hip as he snores by your ear. You hate to wake him, but after you fell asleep, Jungkook had to wake you to shower, clean up, and change the sheets.

“Don’t get up,” Jungkook whines in his sleepy tone. “Stay with me.”

“We leave in a few hours and we haven’t packed,” you remind him. Jungkook groans as he clings to you.

You kiss him, morning breath not bothering you. “You’ll get more kisses if you get up.”

Jungkook whines. “No up, just kiss.”

“That’s not how this will work,” you laugh as you wiggle out of his grasp. Jungkook sighs as he sits up, his adorable bedhead makes you smile.

Lazily, Jungkook gets out of bed, yawning as he heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth and style his hair.

“I don’t wanna leave,” he says, well, you think that’s what he said with his toothbrush in his mouth. You shake your head when he spits into the sink as you pack your belongings in your bag, including the tiny pieces of fabric Jimin gifted you.

“We can vacation again soon,” you tell him as you shut your bag, and tug on the zippers to close it. It’s funny how you didn’t even want to come on this cruise, and now you weren’t sure you wanted to leave. However, you’d come without Jungkook and now you were leaving with him at your side.

Perhaps this trip hadn’t been so bad after all.

“I’ll hold you to it, babe. Now, when are we having breakfast? I’m hungry as hell after last night,” Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “And this morning.”

You laugh at him, throwing a shirt at him.

Jungkook ducks out of the way, cackling as he shuts the bathroom door.

Jimin and Yoongi meet you for breakfast. The two are in their bubble as you approach with Jungkook at your side.

You sit beside Jimin, kissing his cheek. “Thanks for the gift.”

Jimin brightens, “You used it?”

Jungkook and Yoongi look at each other confused.

“Used what?” Jungkook asks as he takes a biscuit from the basket on the table. He bites into it before Jimin answers.

“The lingerie.”

Jungkook chokes on his biscuit, hitting his chest with his fist before he forces himself to swallow. Yoongi hands him a glass of juice, and Jungkook thanks him with a thumbs-up.

“You’re so back together!” Jimin cheers as he hugs you tightly. Yoongi rolls his eyes in annoyance, but a pleased smile appears on his lips.

“Can we stop talking about them fucking and move onto our wedding plans?” Yoongi asks as he stifles a yawn.

“How about a destination wedding?” you offer as you rub Jungkook’s back soothingly. He smiles weakly at you, his cheeks pink.

“I like the way you think,” Jimin grins as he rattles off ideas with you and Yoongi. Jungkook is too focused on breakfast to offer any input, but he’s sure you’ll catch him up on the way home.

Things were looking up for him.

Jungkook would have to give his assistant a bonus upon his return.

“Do we have to go?” Jungkook whines as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Jimin and Yoongi are packing the bags into the trunk of your airport shuttle.

“We do, work awaits,” you remind him as he frowns.

“What if we take a few days for ourselves? Just the two of us?” Jungkook questions.

“Oh?” You raise a brow. “What did you have in mind?”

“It’ll be a surprise until we get to the airport,” Jungkook smiles brightly. “I want you all to myself for just a little longer.”

“Then I am all yours,” you rest your head on his chest as he leads you to your friends.

“Ready to go?” Yoongi asks as he shuts the trunk.

“Definitely,” you answer as you take Jungkook's hand in yours.

You’re not sure what the future holds for the both of you, but you’re hopeful it’ll be bright with Jungkook at your side once more.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader insert #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook angst and smut #captain!namjoon #cruise au #exes to lovers jungkook #fic: navigating tides #jimin x yoongi side pairing #ex!jungkook

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theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

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I KNOW LOVE | CS55

an: i know love when it hits when it hits yeah i know lovvvvvvveeeee. i want to be in love im sick and tired of being single. anyway enjoy this situationship turned relationship.

wc: 2.6k

summary: a university student and a carlos sainz fall into a no-strings-attached situationship that slowly, quietly turns into something real. between teasing banter, soft confessions, and tender moments, they navigate the blurred lines of love and timing. what begins as casual ends in a kiss on the graduation steps, proving that love doesn't always come loud. sometimes it arrives exactly when you're ready.

SHE HADN’T MEANT TO MEET ANYONE THAT NIGHT.

It was meant to be one of those throwaway evenings. Cheap drinks, too-loud music, and her best friends dragging her onto sticky dancefloors under pulsing neon lights. A Friday night reset before deadlines started piling up again. But then there he was.

Carlos.

All dark eyes and an easy smile, pressed against the bar like he wasn’t used to standing still for long. He looked vaguely familiar, like someone she’d scrolled past on Instagram once or twice, but she hadn’t connected the dots until later. After he’d offered her his jacket outside, after he’d walked her to her Uber and kissed her like he already knew what she tasted like.

That was six months ago.

They didn’t call it anything. No labels, no promises. He was a Formula One driver.

A fucking Formula One driver.

Always bouncing between cities and time zones, giving her just enough to keep her coming back. And she was a full-time student, juggling seminars, flatmates, and a dissertation she barely understood. Still, between the chaos, they found time for stolen moments. Late-night calls, blurry selfies, hotel rooms that smelled like his cologne, and whispered words that felt dangerously close to confessions.

Now, she was sat in his Grove flat, legs draped over his lap, one of his race team hoodies drowning her frame. He was flipping through some post-race briefing on his iPad, lips moving as he read, brow furrowed. His accent was thick, words rolling off his tongue like slow honey, and every now and then he’d look up at her like she was the only thing in the room worth watching.

She wasn’t sure when it had changed. When casual had turned into something that lingered in the silence. When kisses stopped feeling like a game and started to taste like maybe.

Maybe she was already his. Maybe he was already hers.

“¿Qué?” he murmured, catching her watching him. “You look at me like that, I forget all my words.”

She smiled, heart tripping over itself.

“You should really learn to focus, Carlos.”

He leaned in, eyes dark and slow-burning, voice a low drawl. “Hard when you’re here.”

Carlos tossed the iPad onto the sofa with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just stolen every ounce of her attention.

“You read that or just stared at the screen pretending to be clever?” she teased, nudging his knee with her toes.

He looked at her, deadpan. “I am clever. Just... very distracted.”

“Oh yeah? By what?”

He leaned closer, like he was going to whisper a secret, but all he said was, “You.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. “Smooth.”

“I am smooth.” His accent thickened around the vowels, “You say this like it’s not true. You know what they call me on track.”

“You flirt like it’s your job.”

He tilted his head, mock serious. “It’s not my job. I drive cars very fast. But this?” He gestured between them. “This, I do it for free.”

She laughed, curling her legs back under her. Carlos had a way of making her laugh without trying too hard. He didn’t come off like the typical athlete, didn’t need to peacock or throw stats in her face. He was easy, in a way that made him dangerous.

“Do you always flirt this much with girls you’re not dating?”

His mouth curved slightly. “We are not dating?”

Her breath caught. That was the thing with Carlos. Hhe could say something like that, loaded with implication, but his eyes would stay soft, almost shy, like he was trying it out on his tongue.

“I mean, we said no labels.”

He gave a little shrug, like labels were just stickers on a helmet. “Sometimes I think about... putting one on. Maybe. When you are not looking.”

She swatted his arm. “Cheeky.”

“You like it.”

She did. God, she really did.

Sometimes he brought her flowers, nothing fancy, usually from some street market in whatever city he’d landed in, always slightly crumpled from the travel, wrapped in paper that smelt like espresso and jet fuel. Once, he turned up outside her lecture hall in a hoodie and cap, waiting in a beat-up rental car, blasting music from the speakers. Another time, he’d cooked her dinner in his Monaco apartment, not well, but with so much heart it tasted like comfort anyway.

She learned early on that he liked to touch. Always brushing his fingers over her knuckles when she talked, or resting his palm against her thigh when he laughed. Acts of service came next, unasked for, casual, like carrying her shopping up three flights of stairs without blinking, or fixing the wobbly chair in her flat without mentioning it.

And when she was overwhelmed with uni stress and hadn’t replied to him all day, he’d sent a voice note. Just his voice, soft and sleepy and a little accented.

“Don’t worry, cariño. I wait. Always.”

She hadn’t even told him she liked being called that.

Now, she watched as he fumbled with the zip on her hoodie — his hoodie — and made a face like the whole thing was conspiring against him.

“Why do your zips always jam?” he grumbled.

“Because you insist on owning overpriced team merch that’s all show and no substance.”

“Hey,” he protested. “This is quality.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, then lunged suddenly, pulling her into his lap with a laugh. “Okay, no more insults. You stay here, and be quiet. It's better that way.”

She wriggled, pretending to fight him off. “So bossy!”

“Mmm,” he murmured against her hair. “Only with you.”

They settled, eventually, in a tangle of limbs and easy silence. The telly played quietly in the background, but neither of them paid attention. Her fingers traced the soft fabric of his sleeve, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her cheek.

“Hey, Carlos?”

“Hmm?”

“If we keep doing... this,” she said, voice low, “are we ever going to talk about what it is?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kissed the top of her head, slow and careful, like the question mattered more than anything else in the world.

“Maybe. But not tonight.”

And somehow, she was okay with that.

Because love. Real love didn't always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it came like this.

Quiet. Familiar. And already here.

It was raining the next morning.

Not dramatic, cinematic rain, just that persistent England drizzle that made everything feel grey around the edges. The kind that clung to windows and turned pavements slick. She stirred awake to the smell of coffee and the faint hum of music from the kitchen, something mellow and Spanish that drifted through the flat like a memory.

Carlos had a habit of waking up before her. Not in a restless way, more like he just didn’t need much sleep. He always said racing taught him how to switch off and back on again like a light. Still, she never got used to finding the other side of the bed empty.

Pulling on a pair of his joggers, she padded barefoot into the kitchen. He stood by the stove, shirtless, hair messy, humming along to the song as he stirred something in a pan.

“You’re cooking?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

He turned, grinning. “Trying. No promises.”

“What is it?”

“Something my mama makes. Very simple. You’ll like it.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him move. The way he added things with a sort of confidence that didn’t entirely match the slight panic in his eyes. He was like that with everything, really. Confident, until he wasn’t. Charming, until it got too real.

He set two plates down and slid one in front of her with a flourish.

“Taste. And be kind.”

She took a bite. It was warm, garlicky, a little too salty. But perfect in a way that had nothing to do with flavour.

“It’s good,” she said softly.

He beamed, relief flickering across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve won me over with your terrible attempt at Spanish comfort food.”

“Terrible?” he gasped, placing a hand on his chest like she’d wounded him. “You wound me, mi vida.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You just love being dramatic.”

“You just love me.”

The words slipped out so casually, so easily, that for a moment she didn’t react. He was already reaching for the kettle like he hadn’t just cracked open something fragile between them.

Her breath caught.

“You said—”

“I know,” he said, not looking at her. “Was a joke.”

It wasn’t. She knew it. He knew she knew.

“Carlos.”

He finally looked at her. The humour was gone from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something that felt a lot like fear.

“I think about it sometimes,” he said, his voice lower now. “Saying it. For real. But I don’t want to scare you.”

She stared at him, heart thudding in her chest. Not because she was afraid, but because she wasn’t.

“I’m not scared.”

He smiled, small and unsure. “I am.”

She reached for his hand across the counter, fingers threading through his. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, trembling just the tiniest bit.

“Carlos,” she whispered. “Say it.”

He hesitated, eyes scanning her face like he was still trying to decide if this was safe. And then, just barely audible over the rain against the windows, he said it again, softer, and this time, real.

“I love you.”

No fireworks. No music swelling in the background. Just those three words, fragile and naked and hanging in the air between them.

He looked at her, dark eyes open and honest in a way that made her chest ache. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured.

“I want to,” she said quietly.

He stilled.

“I love the way you always try to cook for me, even though you never measure anything properly,” she began, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I love the way you switch to Spanish without realising when you're tired. The way you fiddle with your necklace when you’re nervous. I love that you let me steal your hoodies even though you pretend to complain.”

His eyes softened, like each word was settling somewhere deep inside him.

“I love how you always remember to ask about my deadlines even when you’ve just come back from a race halfway across the world. I love the way you look at me like I’m the only person in the room. And I love—” she paused, voice barely a breath now, “—I love you, Carlos.”

His jaw tightened slightly, like he was trying not to fall apart. “Joder,” he whispered, standing up and pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her neck. “You say these things and now I don’t know what to do with myself.”

She laughed, muffled against his skin. “You don’t have to do anything.”

But he pulled back just enough to see her face. “No, no, I want to. I love... how you talk back to me, even when I’m trying to be charming. I love how you look in the morning when your hair’s a mess and you’re still half-asleep and grumpy. I love how you look at me like I’m not just the racing guy.”

“You’re not,” she whispered. “Not to me.”

“I love that you make me slow down,” he said, brushing a hand down her cheek. “You make everything quiet. Even the noise in my head.”

She didn’t give him time to say more. She just kissed him, not the kind of kiss that tried to prove anything, but the kind that simply was. The kind that told him she was staying. The kind that said, we’re in this now.

When they finally pulled apart, he was smiling, a real one, soft and boyish and slightly dazed.

“I can’t wait to show you off,” he said, thumb brushing her lower lip. “You have no idea.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” He looked offended.

“No paddock,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Not until I graduate.”

He groaned, loud and dramatic, flopping backwards onto the nearest chair like she’d just cancelled Christmas, leaving his plate of food to go cold.

“You are cruel. Cruel,” he mumbled, arm flung over his eyes. “Do you know how long that is?”

“Five months.”

“Five months?!” He peeked at her. “That is forever. I’ll be grey.”

“You’ll survive,” she said, perching on his lap and poking his side.

“I’ll wither without you next to the garage.”

“Carlos,” she said dryly, “you’re literally on telly every other Sunday. You’ll manage.”

He sighed deeply, then wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in so their foreheads touched again.

“Fine,” he said, voice quieter now. “But the second you toss that cap in the air at graduation... I’m making you mine in front of everyone.”

Her heart gave the softest thump.

“You already have me.”

And he did.

He didn’t care about all the phones capturing the moment, or the look of shock on her classmates’ faces as he kissed her senseless on the steps of the graduation hall.

She’d barely turned around after tossing her cap when he found her, grinning, breathless, and already tearing across the crowd like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“Carlos—what are you—?”

“I told you,” he murmured, already wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. “No more waiting.”

And then he kissed her. Right there, in front of her entire class. In front of her professors, her friends, even her mum, who pretended to be scandalised but later whispered that she always had a soft spot for Spanish men with good teeth and bad timing.

It was ridiculous. It was loud. It was absolutely perfect.

After that, everything changed. Not all at once, more like dominoes falling gently, one by one.

She started travelling with him between her freelance work and post-grad plans. Not every race, just the ones that fit. Enough that his team started saving her a spare pass without asking. She kept her boundaries, her life. But somehow, they found a way to overlap without losing themselves.

He still brought her flowers from dodgy airport shops. Still sent voice notes when they were apart, his voice sleep-rough and full of words that didn't always come out in the right order, but always landed in exactly the right place.

He’d whisper “te quiero” into her hair when he thought she was asleep. She wasn’t. Not once.

They argued, sometimes, usually about stupid things, like how she always left wet towels on the floor, or how he kept eating her snacks and then replacing them with “better ones” from some Spanish brand she didn’t even like. But they always found their way back.

They became a thing, not in the public, polished way people expected, but in the quiet, private corners of the world they carved out for themselves. Late nights watching old race footage. Slow mornings tangled up in hotel sheets. Sundays when he wasn’t in the points and she said the right things without pretending to understand every detail.

She loved him for who he was, not what he did. And he adored her for all the things she didn’t realise she gave him.

The calm. The truth. The place to land.

And when they fell asleep, limbs tangled, voices low and sleepy and full of I love you’s in whichever language felt right there was no need to call it anything but theirs.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @carlossainzapologist @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn @obxstiles

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drippingghoneyy · 4 months ago

Text

No Touching - Vander x Fem!Reader

Summary: You worked at the bar, alongside Vander, for a few years now. Everyone knew the silent agreement that anyone who dared to get too close to you, answered to Vander. One man got a little brave, so Vander makes the rules clear.

Genre/ Pairing: Smut, Friends-to-lovers, Vander x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: MDNI!, SMUT 18+, Smoking/Drinking, Crying, BigDick!Vander, tension, teasing, dom/sub dynamics, pet names, piv, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, oral sex ( f receiving),... (lmk if I missed any!)

Word Count: 9.2k.

Notes: I’ve been wanting to write about more people! So give me suggestions!

Reblog and like!! I read every comment, they make my whole day!

If you find any spelling errors, no you didn't. Grammarly don’t fail me now 🙂 If you don't like nsfw content, please don't read it!

The neon lights outside the bar flickered erratically, casting a sickly glow on the sidewalk. Inside, the air had the mingled scents of cheap whiskey, sweat, and the faint hint of burnt popcorn.

It was a Friday night, and the usual mix of locals and travelers packed the place, the chatter and laughter bouncing off the sticky wooden floors and stained walls. You glanced at the clock. It was almost closing time, and the anticipation of the weekend buzzed through the room like an electrical current.

You wove through the crowd, tray balanced precariously on one hand, delivering drinks with the ease of a seasoned dancer. The rhythm of the music pulsed in your veins, a silent metronome to the chaotic dance of your shift. The regulars greeted you with knowing smiles, and the newcomers with hopeful glances, trying to catch your eye. It was a game you played, flirting without meaning it, serving with a touch of charm that kept the tips flowing.

"Coming right up, sweetie," you called out to a customer, placing a frosty mug of beer in front of him with a flourish. The foam bubbled over the rim and he laughed, catching the overflow with his mouth. You winked in response, then spun away to grab the next round from Vander. He nodded in approval, a half-smile playing on his lips as he poured drinks with a practiced hand.

The children, the ones you had practically raised alongside the patrons, had already retreated to the back, their giggles and whispers echoing through the bar like a ghostly chorus. They knew the routine—once the sun dipped below the horizon on a Friday night, they had to make themselves scarce. They had their own world of tricks and games to navigate, leaving you and Vander to handle the adult one.

Vander's eyes met yours over the sea of heads, and you could feel the weight of his gaze even amidst the cacophony. His expression was a silent question, checking in to make sure you were okay. You nodded, a quick reassurance that you had everything under control, before diving back into the fray. The music grew louder, the laughter more raucous, and the lights dimmer as the night progressed. The energy was palpable, a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that fueled your every movement.

You loved weekend nights like this. The bar was alive with the throb of bass and the clink of glasses, the air thick with the promise of stories waiting to be told. Each person you served had a different tale etched into their features, their eyes telling silent narratives of triumphs and heartaches. You moved among them like a social butterfly, placing a gentle hand on a shoulder here, sharing a knowing smile there. Your touch was light, a whisper of comfort in the chaos.

But as the clock ticked closer to midnight, the atmosphere grew more volatile. A man, three drinks too many, began to leer at you, his gaze lingering on your curves in a way that made your skin crawl. He called you "sweetheart," and "babe," his voice slurred and too loud in your ear. You tried to ignore him, but his hand found your waist, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, his breath hot and unwelcome against your neck. Your smile faltered for a fraction of a second, and you felt a flicker of fear in your belly.

You searched the room for Vander, hoping he would notice, but he was busy with a rowdy group at the other end of the bar. The man's hand traveled higher, and you swallowed a gasp. But before you could react, a firm grip clamped down on his wrist, and you felt a jolt of relief as Vander's voice boomed over the din, "You don't wanna do that, buddy."

The man looked up, his eyes glazed and surprised, but the grip didn't loosen. Vander's smile had turned to a snarl, and you knew from experience that was the only warning he'd give.

You stepped away, heart racing, watching as Vander dragged the man to his feet and out of the bar, the crowd parting like the Red Sea for Moses. The music didn't stop, but the volume seemed to drop as the patrons' eyes followed the scene unfolding before them. You could hear the thud of fists and the grunt of pain outside, the sound of the man being taught a very clear lesson.

This wasn't the first time someone had overstepped, but it was the first time in a while. Usually, the regulars knew better than to lay a hand on you. You had an invisible barrier around you, a respect that had grown from years of serving drinks and smiles without ever leading anyone on.

They knew you were off-limits, even if they didn't know the full story. Vander had made sure of that, his protective aura as much a part of the bar's furniture as the stools and the pool table.

A few new faces would show up every week, not yet privy to the unspoken rule, and they'd try their luck. They'd leer, whisper sweet nothings, and maybe attempt to slip an extra dollar into your apron. But as soon as Vander caught wind of it, they'd be met with a glare that could cut through steel. It was a dance of dominance, a silent communication that sent the message loud and clear: don't touch what isn't yours. And when the music was too loud, or the whiskey too smooth, someone would forget the rules.

The man's hand had been like a brand on your skin, leaving you feeling dirty and exposed. You shivered, despite the warmth of the bar, and took a deep breath to steady your nerves. You could still hear the sounds of the scuffle outside, the thuds and grunts punctuating the night. The crowd had grown hushed, the tension in the air thick enough to slice with a knife. The music played on, but it felt like the bass was thumping in your chest now, a rhythm of fear and adrenaline.

Vander reappeared in the doorway, his knuckles red and raw, a smear of blood on his cheek. The man lay outside, a crumpled mess of pride and regret. The crowd, having witnessed the spectacle, returned to their drinks, murmuring among themselves but keeping a safe distance. They all knew the score—you weren't just another pretty face behind the bar; you were part of the fabric of this place, a sacred piece of its soul, and Vander was its fiercest protector.

The whispers grew louder as Vander approached, a silent wave of respect and fear rippling through the patrons. He'd sent more than one man packing with a bruised ego and a few bruised ribs. It was his way of reminding everyone of the unspoken rule—hands off. His eyes scanned the room, searching for any signs of dissent or discomfort, before finally landing on you. The fury in them softened as he saw the tremble in your hand, the way you gripped the edge of the bar like it was a lifeline.

You had become a local legend of sorts, the enigmatic woman behind the counter who served drinks with a smile but had a line no one dared to cross. It wasn't just Vander's protective nature that kept the peace; it was the aura that clung to you, a mix of sweetness and steel that everyone sensed. You were more than just the bar's employee; you were its heart, the reason some came back night after night. You were the dream they chased, the memory they clung to, the whiskey-soaked mirage that kept them coming back for more.

But tonight had been a close call, the man's touch a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the bar. You took a shaky breath, trying to shake off the feeling of his hand on your skin. Vander stepped closer, his bulk eclipsing the rest of the room. His hand reached out, not to touch you but to offer support, a gentle gesture that spoke louder than words. You took it, the warmth of his calloused skin grounding you.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the thump of the music.

You nodded, forcing a smile. "Thanks, Vander."

He nodded back, his eyes dark with anger as the crowd had returned to their conversations, the incident already forgotten, but the memory lingered in the air like the smell of spilled beer. Vander took your tray and nodded towards the back. "Take five. You've earned it."

You slipped through the kitchen, the clank of dishes and the sizzle of grease a stark contrast to the thumping bass outside. The children peeked out from their hiding spot, their wide eyes reflecting a mix of fear and awe. They knew the score, too. They'd seen it play out before, the silent standoffs and the not-so-silent brawls.

But it was the way Vander looked at you afterward that always sent shivers down their spines. It was a look that said, "You're safe. You're mine." And in that moment, you weren't just the bartender; you were the queen of the night, and he was your knight in faded denim armor.

You took a deep breath, the cool air washing over you like a balm. The scent of the kitchen—spicy and greasy—was a welcome respite from the suffocating tension of the bar. You leaned against the wall, feeling the roughness of the peeling paint against your skin. It was a reminder of reality, a grounding force amidst the chaos. You knew the look Vander gave you was one of concern, but it was tinged with something else—possession, maybe. You weren't just the bar's employee; you were a part of its soul, a piece of its very essence, and he was its fiercest protector.

You'd only been here a few years, but in that time, he'd made it clear that your safety was paramount. He'd thrown men out for less, men who'd been regulars for longer than you'd been old enough to drink. You knew it was because of what you served—not just the whiskey and beer, but the dreams and the comfort, the fleeting moments of companionship that made the hard days bearable. The touch of the man's hand was a violation, a breach of the unspoken contract between bartender and patron.

Straightening your apron and plastering a smile back on your face, you stepped out of the kitchen, the music swelling around you once more. You didn't look at the spot where the man had been, didn't acknowledge the hushed whispers of the patrons. Instead, you made your way back to the bar, your hand brushing against Vander's as you passed. It was a silent thank you, a promise of something unspoken. You knew you could never repay the countless times he'd stepped in to keep you safe, but the touch was all you had to offer in that moment.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of drink orders and laughter, the adrenaline from earlier slowly draining away. But the memory of Vander's touch lingered, a gentle reminder that you weren't alone. His eyes never left you for long, and every time you felt the weight of his gaze, you knew he was watching over you, making sure the invisible barrier remained intact. It was a luxury, that safety, one you hadn't had before you'd stumbled into this job, into his life.

And as the last of the patrons stumbled out into the night, the bar echoing with their drunken goodbyes, you couldn't help but feel a swell of gratitude for the towering presence that was as much a fixture of the place as the sticky floorboards.

You'd only been here a few years, but it felt like a lifetime. The bar had become your second home, the regulars your extended family, and Vander, well, he was more than just a co-worker. He was your rock, your shield, the person who had taught you to stand tall and never take crap from anyone.

You knew he had his own demons, his own reasons for being so protective, but you never asked. You didn't need to; his actions spoke louder than any words could. And as the final chords of the jukebox played out, the room empty but for you two, the silence was filled with the unspoken promise of camaraderie and protection.

The children had long ago retreated to their beds, the whispers and giggles replaced by the soft snores of the sleeping. Vander locked the door with a finality that was almost comforting, the heavy thud echoing through the room.

The neon lights outside cast a soft glow through the grimy windows, painting the bar in a palette of pinks and blues. You took a moment to appreciate the quiet, the hum of the fridge, and the ticking of the clock, the only sounds breaking the silence.

You wiped your hands on your apron, the fabric sticking slightly to your palms. The motion was automatic, a ritual performed countless times over the years. But tonight, it felt different—a declaration of strength, a symbol that you were ready to face whatever the night had in store.

You walked over to Vander, the floorboards creaking under your boots. His eyes searched yours, the concern in them unmistakable. Most people would have shrunk away from such a gaze, but in that moment, you felt an odd comfort in his fierce protection.

You looked up at him, your heart racing from the adrenaline of the evening. He towered over you, his face a mask of hardened steel. Yet, when he looked at you, there was a softness that only you saw. You leaned in, licking the pad of your thumb before gently raising it to the smear of blood on his cheek. Your hand hovered there for a brief second, a silent question in the air. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and you swiped the blood away with the tender care of an artist cleaning a brush.

The touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. You stepped back, the moment lingering, and then turned away to start wiping down the tables. The bar was a mess of spilled drinks and discarded peanut shells, but you tackled the task with renewed vigor, the need to keep moving a balm to your shaking nerves. Each swipe of the cloth was a declaration of normalcy, a silent protest against the ugliness of the world outside the bar's walls.

As you worked, you felt Vander's eyes on you, his presence a comforting warmth at your back. He didn't speak, but his silence was a conversation of its own, a wordless reassurance that he'd always be there, that you were safe. The tension slowly drained from your body as you fell into the rhythm of the task, the sound of the cloth swiping against the wood a soothing lullaby in the quiet after the storm.

When you had finished, the bar gleaming under the low lights, you turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but you could see the concern in the lines around his eyes. He took a step towards you, closing the gap between you. You didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, you took a deep breath and stepped closer, the air around you crackling with the energy of a thousand unspoken words.

His hand reached up, mirroring your earlier gesture, but instead of blood, he found your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the roughness of his skin. It was as if he was memorizing every contour of your face, committing it to memory in case the night ever came when he couldn't be there to protect it. You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch spreading through you like a warm embrace.

"I'm sorry, darlin'. I should've kept a closer eye on you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within your very bones. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of distress, of fear. But all he found was a steely determination that made him proud.

You gave a small shake of your head, reaching up to cover his hand with yours. "It's okay, Vander. It's not your fault," you assured him, your voice steady despite the tremor you couldn't quite hide. "But, I appreciate you stepping in."

He nodded, the lines around his eyes deepening as he searched your face for any lingering traces of fear. "It's always gonna be my job to keep you safe," he said firmly, his voice a warm rumble that seemed to fill the space between you. "No one lays a hand on you unless you want them to."

There was a fierce possessiveness in his tone, a promise that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the kind of protectiveness that could be suffocating in the wrong hands, but with Vander, it was comforting. He had never crossed the line, never stepped too far, and you knew he never would. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt or discomfort, and when he found none, he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your forehead.

It was a gesture that was as surprising as it was tender, a gentle reassurance that you weren't just another body in the bar. You felt a warmth spread through you, a sense of belonging that was as potent as the whiskey you served. It was in moments like these that you realized just how much he cared, how deeply the bonds between you had grown over the years.

The silence stretched out, filled with the promise of more than just friendship. You knew it was there, the tension that had been building between you, a current that hummed just below the surface of every interaction. But you also knew that now wasn't the time to explore it. There were still dishes to wash, floors to mop, and a bar to close down. So, you stepped back, breaking the spell, and turned to grab the cleaning supplies.

"I'm fine, Vander," you assured him, your voice strong despite the tremble in your hands. "It's part of the job, I guess." You tried to laugh it off, but the sound was hollow, even to your own ears.

Vander's expression softened, his hand sliding down to yours, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of your hand. "It's never fine when someone puts their hands on you without permission," he said, his voice low and intense. "I shouldn't have let that happen."

He looked down at the floor, his jaw clenched, as if he was holding back a tide of anger. Then he looked up at you, his eyes searching your face for any trace of fear or upset. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words heavy with regret. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

The sincerity in his voice was palpable, and you felt your heart swell with affection for this gruff, protective man who had become so much more than just your boss. "It's okay," you repeated, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "But thank you for looking out for me."

Vander nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn't need to say it; you could see it written all over his face—his regret, his concern, his promise to keep you safe. It was a silent vow, a bond forged in the fire of the bar's chaos, a pact that went beyond just employer and employee.

He stepped closer, his hand moving from your cheek to cradle your jaw, his thumb resting gently against your chin. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of fear, any hint of doubt. "You're more than okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the lingering buzz of the jukebox. "You're amazing."

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning, and you felt your cheeks flush. You knew he didn't dole out compliments lightly, and the fact that he was saying this now, in the aftermath of the incident, meant the world to you.

The air grew heavy with unspoken emotions, the bar's lights flickering in the quiet. For a moment, you just stood there, his hand on your face, your eyes locked on his. It was as if the world outside had ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the two of you, the beat of your hearts in sync with the fading music.

Vander's touch was firm but gentle, a contradiction that perfectly encapsulated his nature. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as his eyes searched yours. In that moment, you could feel the weight of his dominance, the power of his protective instincts that had just been on full display. Yet, there was something soft there too, a tenderness that you hadn't noticed before, or maybe you had just never allowed yourself to acknowledge it.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. "I don't ever want to see another man's hands on you like that," he murmured, the words a low, steady rumble. "You're mine to keep safe, and I won't let anyone take that from me."

You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his primal urge to claim and protect and his respect for your boundaries. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, the touch so light it was almost a question. You didn't pull away, your breath hitching at the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was asking permission, giving you the power to decide the next move.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice a whisper in the quiet night. "But if you want more than just my protection... if you want me to touch you, to kiss you, to make sure that no one ever makes you feel that way again..." He trailed off, leaving the offer hanging in the air.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you considered his words. It was a bold move, one that could change everything. You knew what he was asking, what he was offering. And deep down, you knew you didn't just want it; you craved it. The safety of his arms, the warmth of his touch, the promise of his protection. It was tempting beyond belief.

You took a deep breath, your hand rising to cover his. "If that's what you want, Vander," you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. "If you're sure."

His eyes searched yours, the softness in them belying the steel in his spine. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, they held the weight of a thousand promises. "I am," he murmured, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. "But only if you're okay with it."

The air grew thick with anticipation as you stared at him, the silence stretching out like a tightrope. You felt the heat of his hand, the warmth of his body so close to yours. The bar, the customers, the world outside—it all faded away until there was only the two of you, the thump of your hearts the only sound in the quiet.

"I am," you murmured back, your voice a soft echo of his.

Vander's eyes flared with something that could've been relief or desire—or both. His hand tightened on your face, and he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both gentle and fierce. It was a kiss that spoke of protection and passion, of the bond that had grown between you over the years. A silent declaration that you were his to cherish, his to protect.

You melted into him, your hands sliding around his waist to pull him closer. The scent of whiskey and sweat clung to him, a heady perfume that seemed to intoxicate you. His other hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, holding you in place as if he never wanted to let you go. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if he was trying to erase the memory of the man's touch with his own.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of regret or doubt. But all he found was the same fire that burned in his own chest. "I never want to see another man's hands on you," he murmured again, the words a solemn vow. "I want to be the only one to make you feel this way."

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps. "Then it's a good thing I don't plan on letting anyone else touch me," you said, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. It was a bold statement, one that sent a thrill through you. But with Vander, it felt right.

He took a step back, his hands lingering on your hips. "But if you ever need me, if anyone ever tries to take what's not theirs..." He let the threat hang in the air, his eyes burning with a possessiveness that sent a thrill down your spine. "They'll answer to me."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken promise in his words. Vander was a man of his own set of rules, and protecting you was at the top of that list. It was a comfort, knowing that you had someone like him in your corner. But there was something else there too, a yearning that went beyond just keeping you safe. His thumb traced small circles on your lower back, a silent question.

You took a deep breath, looking up into his eyes. "I don't want anyone else's hands on me, Vander," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. "Only yours."

His eyes searched yours, looking for any trace of doubt or fear. But what he saw was a spark of something else, something that mirrored the desire burning in his own chest. His hand slid up your back, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer. The kiss was slow and deliberate, a promise of things to come. His dominance was unmistakable, but it was tempered with a gentleness that made your heart ache.

He broke away, his eyes never leaving yours. "If we do this," he said, his voice low and gruff, "it's not just because of what happened tonight. It's because I want you, because I've wanted you for a long time, sweetheart "

You nodded, your heart racing. "I know," you murmured. "And I want you too."

Vander's expression softened at your words, the fiery protectiveness in his gaze morphing into something softer, yet equally intense. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his hand sliding up your spine to rest at the base of your neck. "We don't have to do anything tonight. Not after...this."

You turned to face him fully, looking up into his eyes. "I'm sure," you said firmly. "I want this. I want you."

He searched your face for a moment longer before giving a single nod, as if to say, 'If you're sure.' His hand tightened around your neck, the grip firm but gentle, sending a thrill through you. It was a silent assertion of his dominance, a promise that he would take care of you, that you were his. And for the first time in a long time, you didn't just feel safe; you felt desired, wanted.

He leaned in again, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was everything you'd ever dreamed of. It was as if the bar and all its troubles had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in the quiet, dimly lit room. His hand slid down to your waist, his other arm wrapping around you to pull you closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the coldness of the metal barstools. You melted into him, feeling the hard planes of his chest against your soft curves.

The kiss grew more urgent, his hand sliding down to cup your bottom, lifting you onto the bar. You gasped into his mouth, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His grip was firm, almost bruising, but it only served to make you feel more alive. You knew he was holding back, that he could crush you with his strength, but he never would. It was part of the dance, the push and pull that existed between the two of you, a silent conversation that had been building for months.

"Vander," you whispered, your voice trembling with need.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to do this," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Not after tonight. Not if you don't want to."

But you did want to. You wanted him to erase the feel of that man's hands with his own, to replace the fear with something else entirely. "I want this," you assured him, your voice strong. "I want you."

His gaze searched yours, all he found was the same burning need that reflected his own. He leaned in again, his kiss deepening, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the lines of your back. You arched into him, the softness of your body against his hardness. The bar was forgotten, the mess of the night left behind. There was only the two of you, the heat of your bodies melding together.

As the kiss grew more passionate, Vander's hands grew more insistent, his touch sure and confident. He knew exactly how to make you melt, how to make you feel like you were the only woman in the world. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint he was fighting to maintain. But tonight, you didn't want him to hold back. You wanted all of him—his strength, his protection, his passion.

"Please," you breathed against his lips, the word a plea.

He groaned, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over the hardened peak of your nipple. You gasped, the sensation shooting straight to your core. He took the sound as an invitation, his mouth moving from your lips to kiss along your jaw, his teeth grazing your earlobe. The bar was forgotten, the patrons a distant memory. There were only the two of you, the air charged with the electricity of a promise made and a need that had gone unspoken for too long.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "If you need me to stop, if it's too much, just say the word," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation of the bar.

You looked into his eyes, the softness there almost overwhelming. "I don't," you whispered, your voice a plea. "I need this, please…"

Vander nodded, his expression a mix of relief and desire. He kissed you again, his hand sliding down to the button of your jeans.

"Vander," you gasped, your body trembling with anticipation. His touch was firm but gentle, a stark contrast to the iron-willed man who had just defended your honor so fiercely. His fingers danced over your skin, unbuttoning and unzipping with a precision that spoke of his experience and control.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "You're sure?, last chance.." he asked one last time, his voice a low growl of need.

"Yes," you panted, your eyes never leaving his. "I'm sure."

With a final nod, he lifted you off the bar, his arms around your waist. He carried you to the back room, the sanctity of your shared space a stark contrast to the chaos of the bar. The room was small and cramped, filled with boxes of liquor and cleaning supplies, with a small cushioned chair, but in that moment, it was the most romantic place you could imagine. He set you down gently, his hands never leaving your body.

His kisses grew more urgent, his teeth nipping at your lower lip before he soothed the sting with his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, your hands fisting in his shirt as he unbuttoned it, revealing the hard planes of his chest. His skin was warm and rough, a stark contrast to the softness of yours.

You reached up to touch him, your hand shaking slightly. His muscles rippled under your fingertips, and you felt a thrill of power, knowing that this man, so strong and so fiercely protective, was yours to explore.

Vander's eyes never left yours as he carefully unbuttoned your shirt, his touch a gentle caress that belied the iron in his grip. He took his time, savoring the moment, his calloused fingers brushing against the softness of your skin. With each button released, you felt the weight of the garment slip away, baring more of yourself to him.

As he parted the fabric, his eyes trailed down your body, his gaze heated. But there was something else there too, a softness that made your heart race even faster. He was taking his time, treating you like something precious, something to be handled with care.

When the shirt was open, he took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. His eyes roamed over the curves of your breasts, the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed in anticipation. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and kissed the hollow of your neck, making you shiver.

His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding the shirt down your arms. It fell to the floor with a soft whisper, leaving you in just your bra. He reached behind you, his movements precise and practiced, and unhooked the clasp. The fabric fell away, revealing your breasts.

The fabric pooled around your waist, leaving your breasts bare to his gaze. His eyes darkened with hunger, his pupils dilating as he took in the sight of you.

But it wasn't just about control—there was something tender there, too. A caring that was as palpable as the desire. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your skin as he took one peak into his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive flesh sending shockwaves through your body.

His hands slid down to your hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to keep you in place. You could feel the tension in him, the need to claim you, to possess you utterly. But he held back, his movements a gentle dance of power and restraint.

As his mouth moved to your other breast, his hand slid down to your stomach, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the soft curves. You trembled under his touch, the combination of his gentle care and the promise of his dominance leaving you breathless. His hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your open jeans to cup your sex. His eyes never left yours, watching for any sign of hesitation, any hint that you weren't ready. But all he saw was a desperate need, a reflection of his own.

Vander's dominance didn't just come from his physical strength or the way he wielded it. It was in his eyes, in the way he held you, in the possessive tilt of his head as he kissed you. His hand on your hip was firm, guiding you, but the way he touched your cheek was feather-light, a stark contrast that made your skin tingle with anticipation. He was a man who knew what he wanted, but he was also a man who knew how to ask for it without words.

His hand slid down your jeans, his grip tightening as he tugged them down your hips. He was urgent, but his movements were deliberate, as if he was savoring every moment. His eyes never left yours, as if he was looking for permission with every touch, ensuring you were as lost in the moment as he was. The denim hit the floor with a muffled thud, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He stepped closer, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of his body making you ache. His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, his touch gentle yet insistent. You could feel his restraint, the way his muscles coiled tightly as he held back, waiting for your consent. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of fear or doubt, but all he saw was the same fiery need that burned within him.

He stepped closer, his leg pressing between yours, the hardness of his thigh against your center making you gasp. His hand slid around to cup your backside, his fingers digging in just enough to make you aware of his power. But the way his other hand caressed your cheek, the way his thumb stroked your lower lip, was anything but rough. It was as if he was whispering sweet nothings with his fingertips, promising to cherish every inch of you.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes devouring you as if you were the only thing in the world. "So soft, so sweet."

Vander's voice was a low rumble in the quiet of the room, the words sending a shiver down your spine. His hand traveled up to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin just under your ear. His other hand remained on your hip, guiding you, controlling your movements with a gentle but firm touch. It was a dance of dominance and submission, one that you found yourself eagerly following.

"I'm going to make you feel so good," he promised, his voice a dark whisper, as his touch grew more insistent, his hand sliding between your legs to cup you fully. You were wet, soaking the fabric of your panties, and the feel of his palm against you was almost too much. His fingers slid under the elastic, his rough touch a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. You whimpered, your body begging for more.

He slid a finger along the edge of your panties, tracing the slickness that had gathered there. "You're so wet for me," he murmured, the words a dark praise that sent a shiver through you. His thumb circled your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you moan. "So responsive, so eager."

Vander's eyes never left yours, his gaze a mix of hunger and something softer, something that made you feel cherished. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that made your knees weak and your core clench with need. "You're mine," he murmured, the words a declaration of ownership that sent a thrill through your body. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing aside your underwear, his rough fingertips teasing the sensitive skin. His touch was firm, but not harsh, a gentle dominance that made you feel both safe and utterly claimed.

You moaned as his finger found your entrance, sliding in easily with the slickness of your arousal. He stroked you gently, his thumb playing with your clit in a rhythm that made your eyes roll back in your head. "So sweet," he whispered, his breath hot against your cheek. "So wet for me." His praises were dirty, but there was something tender about the way he said them, as if he was worshipping you, as if every part of you was sacred.

He slid another finger in, the sensation overwhelming as he curled them, pressing against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds that wanted to spill out, but his eyes never left yours, urging you to let go, to be as loud as you needed. "You're going to come for me," he murmured, the promise in his voice making your body tighten around his fingers. "And when you do, it's going to be because of me, because you're mine."

His hand worked you expertly, his thumb pressing harder, his fingers moving faster. You could feel yourself climbing, the tension in your body building. "Vander," you gasped, his name a plea.

He leaned in, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was as demanding as his touch. His tongue slid against yours, mimicking the motion of his fingers, driving you closer and closer to the edge. "Mine," he whispered again, his voice a dark promise.

And then you were falling, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. Vander held you through it, his hand never stilling, his kiss never breaking. He whispered sweet nothings against your lips, his praises turning into words of comfort as you rode out the waves of pleasure. "So good," he murmured. "So beautiful."

When you finally came down from the high, you were breathless, your body boneless against Vander's. His hand remained between your legs, his fingers still moving gently, keeping you on the edge of another climax. He leaned in, his teeth grazing your ear as he whispered, "You're so perfect, baby." His voice was a dark velvet caress, the kind that made you shiver.

You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with desire. He smiled, a wicked curve of his lips that made your heart race. His hand slid from your thigh to the center of your chest, his thumb tracing the rapid beat of your pulse. "You had to come for me," he murmured, his voice low and deep. "I need to feel you all around me." His eyes darkened, his need clear in every line of his body. "But once isn't enough. I need to make sure you're ready for me."

He stepped back, giving you space to breathe, his eyes never leaving yours. With a gentle tug, he removed your underwear, leaving you completely bare before him. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, his gaze lingering on the softness of your belly, the curve of your hips, the slight dark thatch of hair between your thighs. "So beautiful," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Vander leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered his dirty praises, his voice a mix of rough dominance and tender adoration. "You're so wet," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. "So tight and ready for me." His hand slid over your hip, his grip firm as he turned you to face him fully. The softness of his touch was a stark contrast to the iron in his voice, his fingertips tracing patterns that made your breath hitch.

He knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours as he spread your legs wider, his gaze dropping to the wetness between your thighs. "All mine," he said, the words a gentle demand. "I've needed to taste you, for so long..." His mouth closed over your sex, his tongue flicking over your clit in a soft, teasing motion that had you gripping the edge of the bar. His dominance was clear in every touch, every lick, but there was something soothing about the way he held you, his strong arms keeping you steady as your body trembled with need.

Vander's praises grew more insistent as he licked and sucked, his bearded cheeks brushing against your sensitive flesh. "You're going to come for me again," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent vibrations through your core. "And then, baby, I'll make sure I fit." His fingers slid inside you, stretching you gently, preparing you for what was to come.

You felt his dominance in every stroke of his tongue, in every firm press of his fingers. But the way he held you, the way he whispered sweet nothings against your skin, made you feel cherished, adored.

Vander's tongue danced over your clit, his movements precise and practiced, as if he'd been dreaming of this moment for just as long as you had. His beard scraped against your sensitive flesh, the roughness a delicious contrast to the softness of his tongue. You could feel him savoring the taste of you, the way his eyes had searched your body just moments before. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you in place as he explored your folds with his mouth.

He licked and sucked with a gentle fierceness that had you panting, your body arching towards him. His hand slid up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over the peak as he watched your face contort with pleasure. His eyes never left yours, the intensity in his gaze making you feel like the most important person in the world. It was as if he was worshipping you, as if every inch of your body was sacred to him.

As you approached the peak again, his tongue moving in a steady rhythm that had you teetering on the edge. "Vander," you moaned, your voice a desperate plea. His only response was to suck harder, making you see stars. He was relentless, his dominance clear in every touch, but it was the tender. He held you in a way that made you feel safe, like you could let go completely.

You shuddered, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. His name was a cry on your lips, a declaration of surrender. Vander's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched you fall apart, his tongue never stopping, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure. His grip on your hips tightened, his mouth working you through the aftershocks until your legs could no longer hold you.

He stood, his eyes never leaving yours, his face a picture of masculine beauty, a mix of desire and dominance. His hand slid up your body, his thumb brushing over your swollen clit, making you jerk in response. His touch was feather-light, yet it had the power to make you tremble with need. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "You're mine," he murmured, the words a soft demand that sent a shiver down your spine. "Every part of you."

Vander took a step back, his gaze raking over your exposed body with a hunger that made you feel like the most desired woman in the world. He reached for his own pants, unbuckling them with a swiftness that spoke of his urgency. The fabric slid down his legs, revealing the hard length of him. You watched, your eyes wide, as he freed his cock, his hand stroking it gently. The sight of him, so focused on your pleasure, made your stomach clench with need.

He stepped closer again, his cock brushing against your thigh. The chair was behind you, and without a word, he positioned you, his hands on your hips guiding you back. The cool leather met your skin, sending a shiver through you. He leaned in, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered, "You're going to take me, baby. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

Vander's hands were gentle as they helped you straddle him, his own need evident in every line of his body. But there was a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that belied the iron in his grip. He was a man who knew what he wanted, but he also knew how to give, to take care of the woman who had just entrusted herself to him. He held you there for a moment, his cock pressing against your opening, his eyes never leaving yours as if asking for one final consent.

You nodded, unable to form words, your body trembling with anticipation. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance. He pushed in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. His dominance was a gentle coaxing, his eyes full of a question that needed no words. Are you ready? Can you take me? The question was in his touch, his gaze, his every movement.

You sank down onto him, feeling him fill you completely, his girth stretching you in a way that was slightly painful. But the pain was quickly overridden by the pleasure, the feeling of being so utterly filled and claimed. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, setting the pace as he began to thrust up into you. His movements were slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he was watching for any sign that you weren't ready, any hint that he was being too rough. But all he saw was the desperate need reflected in your gaze, the silent plea for more.

Vander's dominance was a gentle coaxing, a whisper of power that made your body sing with every stroke. His hands slid up to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, his eyes never leaving yours. You leaned back, your palms flat on the chair, your body arching as he drove into you. His touch was firm but not harsh, a testament to his control, a silent promise that he would never hurt you, even in his need.

He kissed you, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips, his teeth nipping at your lower lip in a way that made you gasp. His movements grew more urgent, his hips slamming up into you, the chair groaning under your combined weight.

"So tight," he murmured, the words a dark praise that had your core clenching around him. "So good for me." His voice was a low growl, a declaration of possession that sent shivers down your spine. His hands were everywhere, one hand squeezing your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, the other hand sliding down to tease your clit, keeping you on the edge of ecstasy.

Vander's dominance was a gentle storm, his touch both firm and tender as he claimed you. "You're mine," he whispered, his eyes boring into yours. "Say it, darlin'. Tell me you're mine."

Your breath came in pants, his words echoing through your mind, mixing with the sensations that overwhelmed you. "Yours," you whispered, the word a declaration of submission that made your heart race. "All yours."

His grip tightened, his thrusts becoming more demanding, his praises turning into a chant that matched the beat of your pulse. "Mine, mine, mine," he murmured, his voice a dark symphony of possession and desire. His cock filled you, the feeling of fullness so intense it was almost too much to bear. But you took it, eager for more, your body moving with his, desperate to be one with him.

The room faded away, the bar outside forgotten as Vander brought you to the brink of another orgasm. His eyes never left yours, his gaze a mix of fierce need and something softer, something that made you feel cherished. "Come for me," he ordered, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Now."

And with that, the dam broke. His hand clamping over your mouth to stop you from screaming his name, your body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. He held you through it, his arms a steel band around your waist, his cock never stilling. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his dirty praises turning into gentle coos that soothed you through the aftermath.

As you came down from the high, you felt Vander's own climax building, his hips moving faster, his grip on you tightening. "I'm going to fill you, darlin'" he murmured, the words a promise that had your core clenching around him. "You're going to take all of me." His eyes were dark with lust, but there was something gentle in his gaze, something that made you feel safe, cherished even in the throes of such raw passion.

He whispered dirty, dominant praises as he thrust into you, his voice a mix of grit and velvet. "So good, so tight, so wet," he groaned, his words sent your mind spinning. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making you feel like you were the only person in the world. The way he took you, the way he filled you, was both a claim and a promise.

Vander's touch remained soft, even as his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hips. He held you in place, his dominance a gentle but firm presence that made you feel safe. With each stroke, you could feel him getting closer, his breath hitching in his chest, his eyes never leaving yours. The tension built between you, the air thick with the promise of his release.

And then it came, a low groan torn from his throat as he emptied himself into you. His body tensed, his muscles coiling with the force of his orgasm, but his hands never faltered, never let you go. He held you through it, his eyes a storm of pleasure and possession. It was a moment of raw, primal connection, one that had your heart racing and your body quivering.

As he came down from the peak, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you against his chest. His heart pounded against yours, a steady rhythm that matched the aftershocks of your own climax.

His breath was hot against your neck, his lips whispering sweet nothings as he kissed the sensitive skin there. "Always," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "I'll always be here to protect you."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of comfort and excitement. Vander's dominance was a comforting blanket, wrapping you in a warmth that made you feel cherished and protected. You leaned into him, your body boneless with satisfaction. His cock was still inside you, a reminder of the claim he had made, the promise he had fulfilled.

The bar outside from earlier tonight was a distant memory. "Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. His only response was a gentle squeeze, a promise that he heard you, that he felt the same.

Vander pulled out of you with a groan, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of you, sprawled on the chair, your body a canvas of sweat and passion. He reached out, his thumb tracing the slickness on your thighs, the evidence of your pleasure. His eyes held a warmth that made your heart flutter.

He helped you off the chair, his arms strong around your waist as you swayed slightly, legs wobbly from the intense pleasure he had just given you.

Vander took a step back, his gaze sweeping over your body with a possessive hunger that made you feel cherished and desired. His eyes lingered on the marks his passion had left on your skin, the love bites and bruises that would fade to a sweet memory of this night.

With a gentle touch, he reached for a nearby towel, using it to clean the evidence of your shared ecstasy from your thighs. His movements were tender, his touch reverent, as if you were something precious that needed to be handled with care.

He helped you to your feet, your legs still shaky from the intensity of your release. You stepped closer to him, your bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces that had finally found their match.

He kissed you softly, hands roamed your body, his touch soothing the tender spots, his kisses leaving a trail of fire wherever he went. "Tomorrow," he murmured against your skin, "we'll do it all over again."

#artists on tumblr #arcane #vander league of legends #vander arcane #vander smut #vander x reader #vander #arcane league of legends #arcane smut #arcane vander #arcane vander smut #warwick #league of legends #drippinghoneyy

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seokwrts · 25 days ago

Text

I LIKE ME BETTER | jjk

PART TWO

summary : After walking in on her boyfriend Sanho cheating, Y/N moves out and ends up living with Jungkook, a cocky yet caring acquaintance she once couldn’t stand. What begins as a tense, passive-aggressive roommates situation slowly transforms into something deeper, as both navigate heartbreak, vulnerability, and emotional healing. Through stormy nights, late-night confessions, domestic routines, and quiet tension, Y/N and Jungkook gradually uncover the warmth and safety they’ve both been missing—especially in each other.

“After all, what’s the worst that could happen just living under the same roof?”

pairing : jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre : roommates , fluff , smut

word count : 6.2k

warnings : Explicit. This story contains sexual content, explicit language, and themes of emotional trauma. Expect a roommates-to-lovers slow burn with intense enemies-to-lovers tension, mutual pining, and eventual smut. Features include domestic intimacy, past cheating, emotional hurt/comfort, and lots of kitchen tension. There’s jealousy, unresolved sexual tension, first times, comfort sex, and characters who are both emotionally guarded and touch-starved.

When Jungkook returned from his errands, the apartment was steeped in an eerie kind of stillness—the kind that made you slow your footsteps without realizing, as if even sound didn’t dare to linger too long. The late afternoon light filtered through the living room blinds in golden slats, painting stripes on the hardwood floor like prison bars. Shoes off.

Keys tossed lightly onto the counter. The silence pressed in, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft, irregular rustling of something fluttering in the air.

He turned toward the kitchen and saw it.

A yellow Post-it, barely clinging to the fridge door, its corner twitching in the soft breeze from the slightly open window above the sink. Below his own note—short, stiff, factual—another had appeared in familiar, looping handwriting.

“Good, because I don’t belong to him anymore.”

For a moment, he just stood there, a canvas bag of groceries still clutched in one hand. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. The words registered slowly, then all at once—slipping past his rational mind, sinking straight into his chest like ink bleeding into paper.

Her handwriting.

He recognized the way she looped her y’s and how the ‘t’ never fully crossed. Slanted, a little rushed, like she didn’t want to think too long before committing it to the page. Like it came from somewhere raw. Honest.

He exhaled, quietly. His body relaxed before his brain could catch up.

It wasn’t for him. Not really. The note was a rebuttal to what he had written earlier—a cold, information-only message about her ex showing up. A neutral report, no commentary. But this… this was personal. This was a declaration. Of freedom, of closure, maybe even of defiance.

And still—somehow—it felt like it was his.

Not his to own. Not his to claim. But his to witness.

Something stirred in him. Not quite joy, but not far from it. Warmth bloomed in his chest, curling around his ribs like ivy. Was it pride? Relief? Possessiveness? God, he didn’t know. He barely even knew her. She was a stranger two weeks ago, now occupying the same apartment, drinking from his mugs, sleeping behind a thin wall, leaving sticky notes on his fridge like they’d lived ten lifetimes together.

He reached out and touched the edge of the Post-it with a finger. It crinkled gently beneath the pad of his thumb. Fragile. Intentional. A message meant to be read. To be seen.

He reread it.

“Good, because I don’t belong to him anymore.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a full smile. Just a flicker. The kind that rose up before you could stop it—quick, involuntary, and all the more dangerous for it.

She didn’t belong to him anymore.

That line repeated in his head like a song stuck on loop, and goddamn if it didn’t make something in him tighten. Not because he wanted to own her. No. It was something else. The conviction. The edge in her tone. The reclaiming of her own body, her own choices, her own damn name.

She wasn’t running back. She wasn’t cracking under the weight of gossip or guilt. She had chosen—again, and deliberately—not to go back to the boy who broke her.

And she had written it down. Here. For him to read.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

The groceries hit the counter with a soft thud. He didn’t bother unpacking them yet. Instead, he leaned back against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on that little square of yellow like it might vanish if he looked away.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Not really.

But he knew how he felt when she was in the room. He knew the sound of her laugh in the morning, muffled by her toothbrush. He knew she sang to herself while washing dishes.

That she hoarded teabags in the second cabinet to the left and stole the good throw blanket when she was curled up on the couch. That she cried, quietly and with her whole body, when she thought no one was listening. That she left her vulnerability hanging in the air like smoke, stubborn and soft and impossible to ignore.

He knew all that. And he hadn’t known her at all two weeks ago.

A stranger, they said.

Some girl, they said.

And now—now he felt like her fucking shadow.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through gritted teeth. The weight in his chest twisted and pulsed, too close to something dangerous. He didn’t want to name it. Naming it made it real. And real meant risk. He didn’t do real.

But he was thinking about the night she fell asleep on the couch with her hair tangled in his hoodie. He was thinking about how her bare feet looked on his kitchen tile. He was thinking about the way she had smiled—just a little, just once—when he handed her a bowl of instant ramen without asking if she wanted dinner.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “FUCK”

“What the fuck is happening to me?” he muttered aloud.

His voice echoed back at him, thin and unimpressed. There was no one to answer.

And still, something about the apartment didn’t feel so cold anymore.

He turned back toward the Post-it. Read it one last time. Then pulled open the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked away—heart heavier than it had been that morning, but somehow lighter, too.

Like something had changed.

And maybe it had.

Maybe it was already too late.

That morning, Y/N had left early for college, the lingering scent of Jungkook’s hoodie still clinging to her like comfort. The fabric wrapped around her like a memory she wasn’t ready to fold away yet—a soft promise in a world that had become too loud.

She didn’t look in the mirror as she stepped out. Not because she didn’t want to see her face, but because she couldn’t bear to face the girl behind it—the girl still stitching herself together with trembling fingers and borrowed strength.

Campus was already awake. Students flooded the halls, laughter and music spilling from the dorms like the world hadn’t ended just a few days ago. But today, it all felt different. Laughter didn’t sound quite right.

The air was too sharp. The conversations stopped too abruptly when she passed by. Eyes dragged across her body like questions she didn’t want to answer.

She ignored it. Shoulders back. Chin up. Pretend nothing had changed.

And then, she saw him.

Sanho.

Standing just beyond the courtyard gates like a curse she thought she’d buried. Like an old wound torn back open. He wore that same leather jacket he always had when he wanted to look put-together. Hands in his pockets. That same smug confidence like nothing had touched him. Like he hadn’t shattered her.

He called her name like it still belonged to him. “Y/N.”

She stopped walking. Everything inside her twisted into a fist.

He stepped forward. “Can we talk?”

Her voice was cold. “No.”

“Just five minutes,” he insisted, his tone drenched in entitlement. “I just want to explain.”

“There’s nothing left to explain.” Her arms crossed over her chest—guarded, stiff. “You cheated. End of story.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he muttered. “I made a mistake.”

She barked a bitter laugh. “No, Sanho. A mistake is forgetting a date. A mistake is spilling coffee. You didn’t trip and fall into someone else’s bed.”

“It didn’t mean anything!” he hissed. “It was one time.”

“That’s supposed to make it better?” Her voice cracked, high with disbelief. “That it was meaningless? You broke me for nothing?”

“I was drunk. She came onto me. You were always so—so distant.”

There it was. The excuse. The one she’d been waiting for.

“Don’t you dare try to blame me for your inability to keep it in your pants.”

He rolled his eyes. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re so fucking dramatic.”

Her blood ran hot.

“No,” she said. “I’m not dramatic. I’m devastated. There’s a difference.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“And now you’re living with some guy you barely know? That’s not devastated. That’s pathetic.”

She didn’t flinch, but her heart did.

“Don’t talk about him.”

“What, are you sleeping with him now?” he sneered. “That why you’re so quick to forget me?”

Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“No, it’s not,” she spat. “You lost the right to ask anything about me the moment you climbed into someone else’s bed.”

Sanho’s voice rose. “You’re really gonna act like I meant nothing to you?”

She blinked. Pain pulsed behind her eyes like a bruise she hadn’t touched. “You meant everything to me. That was the problem.”

The silence between them was thick, suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, softer now. “You weren’t supposed to find out like that. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think I’d matter enough to protect,” she cut in. “Just admit it, Sanho. You liked the way I loved you. You just didn’t want to be responsible for it.”

He didn’t answer.

“You talk about what we had like it was some epic love story,” she said. “But the truth is, it was a slow erosion. You chipped away at me, piece by piece, until I was small enough to ignore.”

“I messed up,” he said. “But we can fix this.”

She stared at him. “No. You messed up. And I’m finally done paying for it.”

He narrowed his eyes, his voice turning sharp. “You think he’s better than me?”

“I think he’s not you,” she whispered.

He scoffed. “You don’t even know him.”

“And you never tried to know me.”

Sanho took a step forward, eyes hard. “He’ll leave you, too. Just wait. You’re not exactly easy to love.”

That hit like a punch. She staggered back—emotionally, if not physically. But she didn’t let it show.

“No,” she said. “I’m hard to hurt. That’s why you’re so angry.”

He was silent.

“And for the record,” she said, stepping close now, so only he could hear, “if I were sleeping with him? That would be none of your goddamn business.”

His eyes blazed, lips parting—but she wasn’t finished.

“You can’t stand it, can you?” she whispered. “That I’m not broken without you. That I’m still standing. That I might actually find someone who sees me.”

She saw the twitch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But she didn’t back down.

“You didn’t lose me because I moved in with someone else,” she said. “You lost me the moment you decided I wasn’t enough.”

And then she slapped him.

The sound echoed through the courtyard like the end of something. Final. Brutal. Righteous.

He recoiled, hand flying to his face in disbelief.

Everyone saw. Everyone heard. But for once—she didn’t care who was watching.

Y/N didn’t wait for him to recover. Her chest heaved, but her shoulders were square. She turned, her feet steady, and walked away.

And this time, she didn’t look back.

By lunch, it was all over Twitter.

#Y/NHomewrecker

#SanhoDeservedBetter

#RoommateAffair

#SheCheatedFirst

#CampusSlutFiles

They spun tales from scraps of reality like rabid playwrights addicted to drama.

According to them, Y/N had cheated first.

According to them, Sanho was the heartbroken angel.

According to them, the man she now lived with was either her secret boyfriend, her escape plan, or her latest conquest.

One thread read:

🧵 @campusKween

Not her moving in with a whole man as if we wouldn’t notice 💅

Roommate?? sis you don’t need six suitcases for “boundaries” 😭

#Y/NHomewrecker #RoommateAffair

Another posted a blurry photo of her outside Jungkook’s dorm, dragging her suitcase behind her:

🧵 @truthordorm

ok timeline:

• Y/N and Sanho date for 3 years

• Sanho caught crying in econ lecture

• Y/N moves in w campus hot boy

• Y’ALL DO THE MATH 💀

#SanhoDeservedBetter

Even the fake-feminist takes hurt the most:

🧵 @feministfae

i love women. i support women.

but not women who cheat and lie and manipulate soft boys.

Sanho used to bring her lunch. Now she’s bringing trauma to a new man.

this is why therapy > relationships 💋

#Y/NHomewrecker

Confession blogs began to pile on:

🧵 @confessU_blog

💌 “I used to know her. She always needed attention. Once told me Sanho was ‘too clingy.’ I’m not shocked.”

#Y/NTea #CampusConfessions

🧵 @libconfessions

“We don’t know him, but the guy Y/N moved in with looks cold af. Tall, sharp jaw. Probably doesn’t talk to people. Probably writes poetry. Probably ruins lives.”

same anon: “…but hot.”

#MysteryRoommate #RoommateAffair

Group chats got leaked:

Group Chat Screenshot: Architecture Girls GC

👩‍🎓 Hana: bro she sat 3 rows behind me in studio yesterday

👩‍🎓 Nari: did she look guilty??

👩‍🎓 Yejin: nah she looked DEAD inside

👩‍🎓 Nari: maybe she should be

👩‍🎓 Joo: idc she’s got taste, that guy is sexy

👩‍🎓 Hana: SANHO CRIED IN FRONT OF THE DEPARTMENT

She didn’t cry. Not again.

She walked into the library with her hood up, gaze lowered, hands stuffed deep into her pockets. A pair of students paused mid-conversation when she passed. One of them smirked.

“That’s her. The homewrecker.”

“She looks tired. Guilt must be exhausting.”

Y/N didn’t look back. She just kept walking, all the way to the last table near the dusty old window where no one ever sat. The light above her buzzed, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or die altogether.

She pulled out her notes. The page was wrinkled. Her highlighter was dry at the tip — yellow, faded. She licked it. It worked again.

She underlined half a paragraph before her vision blurred.

In her head, it played like this:

Sanho cheating.

Sanho crying.

Sanho weaponizing her silence.

Jungkook saying nothing. Jungkook letting her be.

And then the tweets again, looping, glitching in her brain like static:

“She moved on in 48 hours. Who does that?”

“I heard he’s a dropout.”

“She’s disgusting. Poor Sanho.”

Hours passed.

She didn’t get up to pee. She didn’t eat. Her hands were ink-stained. Her phone vibrated once, twice. She didn’t check.

By the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, she felt like she had aged years.

She packed her things silently, walked past the whispers again.

“She didn’t even flinch.”

“Probably doesn’t feel anything anymore.”

“You think they’re sleeping together?”

“Duh.”

Outside, the wind was sharp. It slashed at her cheeks and turned her breath into cold clouds. But she didn’t feel it.

She walked to the convenience store like she was sleepwalking. Her feet knew the way. Her mind was back in that night — the night she saw the text on Sanho’s phone.

The girl’s name.

The apology she hadn’t asked for.

“I didn’t even finish,” he had said. Like that excused it.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights made her headache bloom behind her eyes.

She stared at the wall of soju bottles — peach, grapefruit, lemon, classic.

The green glass shimmered like fragile promises:

Peach for the girl who used to believe in gentle love.

Citrus for the bitterness lodged in her chest.

Original for the version of herself that didn’t exist anymore.

Should she get drunk?

Would it help?

Would it make her cry or feel numb? Would it make her want to knock on Jungkook’s door at 2 a.m. and tell him she was tired of being strong?

Would it make her forget Sanho’s hands on someone else?

Would it make her forget the public shame — being reduced to a hashtag?

She didn’t choose.

She bought all six.

The cashier didn’t say a word. Just scanned the bottles and handed her the receipt without a glance. As if this kind of thing happened every day.

Maybe it did.

The plastic bag thudded against her thigh as she walked back home.

The streets were quieter now. The wind less cruel. The numbness thicker.

Her thoughts drifted like fog. To Sanho. To Jungkook. To everything she’d lost and everything she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.

Sanho had cried publicly. He’d collapsed into people’s sympathy like a prince denied his crown.

Jungkook hadn’t cried. He hadn’t asked questions. He hadn’t even judged her.

He let her take the bigger bedroom. He passed her a cup of warm tea last night without saying anything about the trembling in her fingers.

He didn’t pretend to understand her. He just stayed close enough for her to feel less alone.

She wondered what people would say if they knew the truth.

That Sanho cheated.

That she never wanted revenge.

That she hadn’t even kissed Jungkook.

Not yet.

Her apartment was close now.

The windows glowed softly in the dark, one of them flickering — probably Jungkook’s room. But as she drew closer, her footsteps slowed.

The light was on, but the apartment felt wrong. Still. Unoccupied.

No music. No soft hums from his room. No muffled sounds of him moving about the kitchen in that quiet, economical way of his — like he was trying not to disturb something already too fragile.

The apartment was empty.

Jungkook wasn’t home.

That hit harder than she thought it would.

She’d told herself she didn’t want him to see her like this — a ghost with shaking hands and six bottles of denial rattling in a plastic bag. But some buried part of her, cracked and craving, had hoped he would be there. That he’d glance up when she walked in, maybe nod silently like he understood something without asking. That he’d be there to keep her from doing what she was about to do.

But he wasn’t.

The door creaked open. The hallway greeted her with shadows and the faint smell of clean laundry and sandalwood — the scent Jungkook carried in the folds of his sleeves.

Her fingers closed tighter around the plastic bag as she stepped inside.

The lights had been left on — one in the hallway, dim and gold, casting long, quiet shadows. His door was ajar, the curtain fluttering softly from the cracked window. He’d forgotten to close it again. He always did that.

She toed off her shoes without a sound. Her socks caught on the edge of the rug and twisted. She didn’t bother fixing it.

The apartment was too quiet. The silence almost rang.

She moved to the kitchen and placed the soju bottles on the counter with more care than they deserved. One by one. Their green glass clinked gently against the laminate, each thud a soft admission.

She stared at them. Like they might answer something she hadn’t dared ask aloud.

Who am I now?

She didn’t know.

She wasn’t the girl Sanho loved anymore.

She wasn’t the girl the internet thought she was.

She wasn’t even sure she was the girl who had once walked across this campus with a smile and a future and a boy who held her hand like it meant something.

She wasn’t the girl Jungkook knew, either.

Not really. He’d never asked for her story. He just made space for her to breathe inside his.

Her steps faltered. She walked away from the counter.

Into the bathroom.

The light was harsh when she turned it on. It flickered, then held. Her reflection stared back — a stranger made of bruised eyes, bitten lips, and skin that looked too pale under the fluorescent wash. She looked tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

She turned the tap on and scrubbed her hands with a vengeance, like she could scrape off the day. The noise filled the room, water rushing over her trembling fingers, but inside her chest, everything was quiet.

Jungkook’s voice flickered in her memory — something he’d said a few days ago when he thought she wasn’t listening:

“You don’t owe anyone your pain.”

She hadn’t responded then.

Now she almost laughed.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she did owe it. Maybe that’s why the world was making her pay for it, over and over.

She turned off the faucet and stood there, breathing.

Then she walked back to the kitchen, like someone moving through the wreckage of a place they used to call home.

The bottles waited for her.

One in particular — peach, soft pink label, the kind she used to share with Sanho on the nights they pretended they were more than just tired and trying.

She picked it up.

Twisted the cap.

Click.

The scent hit her — sweet, syrupy, childish. Like it was mocking her for thinking it could fix anything.

She stared at it for a long moment.

Then, with slow, deliberate hands, she poured it into a glass.

It barely filled halfway.

Her fingers trembled when she picked it up.

The first sip burned a little — not from the alcohol, but from everything behind it.

And in the silence of an empty apartment, surrounded by shadows and unopened bottles, Y/N finally stopped trying to hold it all in.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But her throat burned.

And she kept drinking anyway.

Jungkook had been at the studio most of the day, headphones wrapped tight over his ears, fingers tracing melodies on the worn keyboard. A new track was slowly coming together — a rising indie artist with raw, honest lyrics that stirred something fragile inside him. Nothing fancy, no big labels or flashing lights, just music that paid the bills and gave him a sliver of joy he couldn’t find anywhere else. A quiet refuge from the chaos outside.

The dim lights of the studio hummed softly, casting long shadows against scattered sheets of lyric paper and half-empty coffee cups. He closed his eyes, searching for the right note, when suddenly his phone buzzed insistently against the cluttered desk.

Dad.

His chest tightened. The name alone felt like a weight pulling him under. He almost didn’t answer — every fiber of his being screamed to let it go to voicemail, to shut that door again. But curiosity mixed with exhaustion made him lift the phone.

“What are you doing with your life, Jeon Jungkook?” The voice was sharp, cold — like an ice blade slicing through thin skin, no greeting, no softness, just judgment.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly. “I’m working,” he said evenly, forcing calm into his voice.

“Working? You call that music shit a job? You think producing beats and mixing tracks will get you anywhere? You had potential—medical school, business, something real.”

“It’s my career,” Jungkook shot back, voice rising slightly. “I’m not wasting time. I make music people want to hear. I help artists find their sound. It’s real work.”

“Real work?” his father sneered. “You’re a kid playing with sounds, fooling yourself that this is success. You’re nothing but a failure in my eyes. When will you grow up and face reality?”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the phone. “I’m not you. I’m not living your life.”

“Then you’re wasting it. Don’t expect me to support some fantasy.”

The words weren’t new. They had echoed through years of silence and disappointment. But today, they landed differently — sharper, heavier, bleeding beneath his skin. Like a punch he didn’t see coming but felt in every breath afterward.

“I’m proud of what I’m building,” Jungkook said, voice quieter now but firm. “Maybe not what you want, but it’s mine. I’m working with artists who believe in me. I’m not just chasing a dream—I’m making it real.”

“You’re chasing nothing but failure. I hope one day you realize that.”

He ended the call before he said something he’d regret.

Jungkook sat motionless for a moment, the phone still pressed to his ear, as if holding on might keep the words from settling in. The soft buzz of the studio faded into a distant murmur. He wanted to scream, to throw everything against the walls, but instead, his hands fell to his lap, shaking.

The artist, who had been quietly watching from the mixing console, finally spoke.

“You okay?” she asked softly, her eyes gentle but concerned.

Jungkook forced a tight smile. “Yeah. It’s just… family stuff.”

She nodded knowingly. “I get it. My family thought this whole music thing was a joke too. But you’re good. Really good. This track? It’s got soul. You’ve got a gift.”

He looked up at her, the weight of his father’s words still pressing down but softened a little by her faith.

“I’m trying,” he admitted. “Every day. Producing, mixing, writing… It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest. I don’t have a big studio or a fancy label. I’m just me and a laptop, a couple of synths, and whatever beats I can create. It’s small, but it’s mine.”

She smiled. “And that’s enough.”

“Maybe for now,” he said, gathering his jacket. “But sometimes, it feels like I’m fighting against the whole world.”

“Then fight smarter. Take care of yourself too.”

He nodded, grateful for the reminder.

“Let’s call it a day,” she said softly. “You’re not here right now.”

He wanted to argue — say he could still fix the track, could still lose himself in the music — but he knew she was right.

“Tomorrow, Jungkook,” she added gently.

He nodded, though she couldn’t see it, and stepped out into the night.

The city buzzed around him — distant car horns, muffled conversations, neon signs flickering with tired light. But none of it touched him. His mind replayed the call, his father’s voice echoing louder than any street noise.

As he walked home, the cool wind nipped at the edges of his hoodie, but Jungkook barely felt it. His mind had wandered off somewhere else — somewhere messier, somewhere strangely warm.

That stupid little Post-it had resurfaced in his mind again.

Good, because I don’t belong to him anymore.

He’d read it hours ago, just once, maybe twice. Okay, four times. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

The thing was — it wasn’t just what it said. It was the tone. The bite. The breathlessness beneath it. It wasn’t about Sanho, not entirely. Not anymore.

Some reckless, whispering part of him kept circling back to the way she’d left it — stuck to the fridge, where he would see it. Where only he would see it.

He hadn’t meant to read it. But now that he had, it was like it had been written for him.

His lips curved upward, slow and stupid. God. He was smiling. Like an idiot.

Like a full-grown man who couldn’t stop grinning over a pink square of paper and seven sharp words.

What if she wanted him to see it?

What if, deep down, it was meant for him?

The idea wrapped around his chest like a dangerous promise — a terrifying kind of hope he didn’t know what to do with. He hadn’t believed in stuff like that in a while. Maybe never.

He reached the edge of the block, stopped under the flickering streetlamp, and leaned against the brick wall for a second. His fingers itched to text her. Or say something dumb. Like Thanks for the note, or I don’t want you to belong to anyone either.

But that was the problem.

He wanted to say something.

He wanted it to mean something.

And that scared the hell out of him.

What if he was reading too much into it?

What if it really was just about Sanho?

What if he was just the roommate — the temporary, emotionally damaged guy who happened to be kind enough not to ask too many questions?

His smile faltered. The warmth in his chest began to splinter under the weight of reality.

But even so, he couldn’t shake it.

That Post-it note was burned into his memory now. The way she wrote it like a punch she’d finally thrown. Like she had no one else to say it to. Like she’d waited too long to say it at all.

And still… she’d stuck it there.

Right on the fridge. Right in their shared space.

Maybe it wasn’t a confession.

Maybe it wasn’t anything at all.

But to Jungkook — walking home from a long day, his father’s voice still echoing in his ears, his hands still trembling from words unsaid — it meant everything.

It meant someone else out there was trying to choose themselves, too.

And that felt like the closest thing to connection he’d had in years.

He exhaled slowly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and crossed the street toward their apartment.

Scared or not, smiling or not —

he knew one thing for sure.

He was going to remember that note forever.

When Jungkook walked into the apartment, the lights were dimmed, and Y/N was leaning against the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped around a green soju bottle, her eyes vacant, distant — like she hadn’t quite come back to earth yet.

She didn’t look up when he entered. But he didn’t need her to. The air between them already knew how heavy the day had been.

Wordlessly, he stepped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass beside her. The bottle clinked softly against the rim.

She glanced over, finally. “Bad day?”

He nodded and downed the shot.

Another followed. Then another.

After the third, he finally exhaled, jaw tight. “My dad called.”

Y/N’s fingers curled loosely around the neck of her bottle. “Yeah?”

“He thinks what I’m doing is a waste. That music’s a fucking phase I’ll grow out of. Wants me to quit and get a 9-to-5 like a ‘respectable adult.’” The last words dripped with bitterness.

Her gaze softened, quiet fury and quiet pity threading together in her throat. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he muttered. “But it’s expected.”

They drank more. The silence thickened—not heavy, not empty. Just swollen with everything unsaid.

When she passed him the bottle again, her fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away.

She watched him quietly for a second. “He doesn’t know you,” she said. “What you’re capable of.”

Jungkook let out a dry laugh. “Maybe. But he’s right about one thing—I don’t have much to show for it.”

Y/N’s voice sharpened. “That’s bullshit.”

He looked at her.

“I’ve heard your mixes,” she continued. “I’ve watched you work in your room for hours without blinking. Your music has this… ache. Like something alive trying to crawl out of you. It’s not just beats and basslines, Jungkook. It’s fucking beautiful. It matters.”

The words landed differently than anything else had all day. Deeper. Unfiltered. Undeniable.

They passed the bottle again. Their fingers brushed. This time, neither of them moved away.

He was about to ask her something—anything—when her voice cracked the silence again. Quiet. Small.

“Sanho came up to me today.”

Jungkook stilled.

“Outside the student café. Just—walked up to me like we were still something. Like I was his.”

His jaw tightened. “What’d he say?”

She laughed bitterly. “Called me a whore. In front of everyone.”

Jungkook’s shoulders went rigid. “What?”

“Said I was flaunting you. That I moved in with you to get back at him. That I’ve probably already fucked you and that’s why I’m so smug.”

“What the actual—” He started pacing. “That fucking prick. That pathetic, hypocritical, lying little shit—”

“He said I ruined his life.”

Jungkook turned around sharply. “He cheated on you. He ruined yours.”

Y/N’s hands curled tighter around the bottle, but her voice remained calm. Too calm. “I didn’t even say anything. Just stood there. Let him talk.”

Jungkook cursed under his breath. “Motherfucker. And the rest of them? Twitter?”

She gave him a flat look. “#RoommateAffair. #Y/NHomewrecker. #SanhoDeservedBetter. Apparently, I cheated. I slept around. I’m using you for attention. Nobody remembers what he did. Not one tweet questions him.”

“Fucking hell,” Jungkook hissed. “I swear to fucking God, I hope every single one of those dipshits breaks a nail scrolling through their fake-ass hot takes. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

He turned to her, furious now. “You’re not a goddamn villain. You’re not some rebound whore or social climber. You’re just—you’re just trying to breathe and they’re treating you like blood in the water.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell sharply, but her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t cry.”

He looked at her.

“Not after the tweets. Not after he yelled. Not even after people started filming me. I didn’t cry. I just walked to the library and kept reading the same paragraph for three hours. I don’t even remember what it was about.”

Something twisted in Jungkook’s chest.

“I thought about drinking the entire way home,” she confessed. “I thought about getting so drunk I wouldn’t have to feel any of it.”

She looked up at him then.

“But then I remembered that post-it.”

His breath caught. “The one on the fridge?”

Y/N nodded. “It wasn’t just about him. It was about… choosing myself. For once.”

Jungkook swallowed hard. The ache between them stretched, pulling taut, desperate to snap.

“You’re too soft for this world,” he said, voice low.

She gave a hollow laugh. “Then stop making it harder for me.”

Something shifted.

A slow, magnetic pull.

He reached for the bottle again, but she caught his wrist.

Their eyes locked.

And then—finally—he leaned in.

Their lips met, slow but aching. One kiss. Then another, firmer, deeper.

The tension that had coiled between them for weeks unspooled all at once. He cupped her jaw with one hand and slid the other to her hip, tugging her against him with a soft groan that trembled through both of them.

She gasped into his mouth, and it unraveled him.

It wasn’t gentle now.

It was hot, hungry. His tongue swept over hers as her hands clutched at his hoodie, dragging him closer until there was no space left. Her back hit the counter, and he pressed into her, chest to chest, heart to heart.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging when his lips moved from her mouth to her throat, tracing a path of heat and hunger.

She moaned. “Fuck, Jungkook…”

He exhaled sharply against her skin. “Say that again.”

She whispered it slower this time, teasing, breathless:

“Fuck, Jungkook.”

Something in him shattered.

The sound of his name on her lips—fragile, wrecked, desperate—tore into whatever thin thread of control he had left. His mouth crashed against hers, hungry and bruising, hands threading into her hair as he pressed her further into the counter like he wanted to crawl inside her chest and live in the space where pain met desire.

And she gave in—fully, freely—fingers clinging to his hoodie, thighs tightening around his hips, a low moan slipping out between their kisses.

But just as she leaned in to kiss him again—

He froze.

Right there.

A flicker of hesitation. Then dread.

Jungkook pulled back abruptly, breath ragged, eyes wide and frantic like he’d just woken up from something dangerous.

“I…” He stepped back another inch, voice cracking. “You don’t want me.”

Y/N blinked. Confused. Lips swollen, chest heaving. “What?”

“You don’t,” he said again, quieter now. “I’m not—” He exhaled like it hurt. “I’m not safe.”

She straightened, sliding off the counter as her high drained into something hollow. “What are you talking about?”

Jungkook shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I’m not the guy people fall for, Y/N. I’m the one they use to feel something again. I’m the rebound. I’m the one you get over someone with.”

His voice turned rough, desperate. “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s not—”

“You think this is a good idea?” he snapped, gesturing between them. “You’re hurting. You’re angry. You’re drunk. You don’t want me, you just want a way out.”

Her heart thudded. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know myself,” he muttered, taking another step away. “And trust me, you deserve better than this mess.”

Silence fell between them—heavy and final.

And before she could say another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

The door to his room clicked shut behind him.

Y/N stood there for a long time, staring at nothing. The fridge hummed behind her. The bottle sat open on the counter, still half full.

Her fingers pressed to her lips, and for a second, it felt like he was still kissing her.

The warmth hadn’t faded yet.

But god, the cold was starting to creep in.

« previous | next »

hey tumblr !!

i’m back with part two of “i like me better” — and things are definitely starting to heat up 👀

hope you guys can feel the tension simmering between these two because it only gets messier from here.

also, the masterlist for this series is now up, so don’t forget to check that out if you’re new or need to catch up!

reblogs, comments & kisses are always appreciated 💌

with love,

xo, ario 💋

336 notes · View notes

ortegahaze · 9 months ago

Text

love at first fight

pairing: Cairo Sweet x gn!reader

synopsis: you meet Cairo in a dive bar, and sparks fly at first sight. Over time, the two of you share an intense connection, but her fear of getting too close leads to a fight that pushes you both to the edge. When she storms out, you chase after her, realizing just how deeply you need her.

warnings: brief mentions of alcohol, fluff, angst, fear of abandonment, family issues. i think that’s it.

a/n: i watched miller’s girl, and my spotify shuffled into LANY’s love at first fight, so that’s what you’ll get! bear with me on my first attempt at writing something!

word count: 5,1k

—

You push open the creaky door to a crowded dive bar on the Lower East Side, the warm, sticky air washing over you as you step inside. It’s one of those dim, unassuming places where the music is just a bit too loud, and the lights are almost nonexistent—perfect for people looking to get lost, even if only for a night.

Navigating through bodies and laughter, you head to the bar, scanning the room for the friends who insisted you needed a night out. You finally spot them, greet everyone, and order a drink, feeling the thump of the bass in your chest as you settle into the rhythm of the place.

After a few rounds, as conversations start to blur, you feel the need for some fresh air—and maybe a trip to the bathroom. You follow a dimly lit hallway and join a small line in front of the restroom. That’s when you see her.

She’s leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on her phone, with a slightly furrowed brow that only adds to her effortless cool. You notice her right away—her dark hair falling just below her shoulders, curtain bangs framing her striking, intense features. You watch as she raises her head, eyes flickering with curiosity before they lock onto yours.

For a moment, everything else fades, and it’s just the two of you, held in place by a magnetic pull neither of you quite understands. She studies you, her lips curving into a faint, intrigued smile. Her gaze is steady, deliberate, like she’s sizing you up, and you can’t help but feel a surge of excitement under her scrutiny.

“You waiting on the bathroom too?” you ask, nodding toward the closed door, trying to initiate some sort of conversation.

She tucks her phone into her pocket, crossing her arms as she leans in a little closer, deciding to gift you with her full attention. “I thought about cutting the line,” she replies, her voice low, with a hint of mischief. “But I’m trying to behave tonight.”

You chuckle, noting the playful gleam in her dark brown eyes. “Is that something you have to work on?” She tilts her head, considering you with a smile that makes your pulse quicken. “Depends on who’s asking. What’s your name?”

“Y/N.” You tell her, feeling strangely nervous, but the nerves melt away as she repeats it softly, as if testing it out. “Nice to meet you. I’m Cairo.”

“Cairo,” you say, letting the name roll off your tongue. “That’s a unique name. I like it.”

She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “It’s grown on me. So, what brings you here?”

You laugh at her directness. “Oh, you know, just another Thursday night. Friends dragged me out of the house and into trouble.”

Her smile widens, and she leans in a little closer. “I like that. I don’t usually come to places like this, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”

The bathroom line moves, but you both stay put, caught up in your conversation. There’s a palpable energy between you, sparking with each shared glance and laugh. She’s bold, with a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room, even though the bar is packed.

Cairo glances around, then turns her attention back to you, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Alright, so tell me something interesting about yourself,” she says, her gaze unwavering.

You think for a moment, trying to come up with something that might catch her attention. “I once accidentally ended up in a closed museum after hours,” you say, grinning. “Security found me taking selfies with the dinosaur exhibit.”

She lets out a laugh, her eyes lighting up. “Okay, that’s a good one. Remind me not to follow you into restricted areas.”

“Noted,” you reply, feeling warmth spread through your chest at the sound of her laughter.

The dark-haired girl steps closer, and you feel the energy between you growing, a spark that neither of you seems interested in ignoring. Talking about everything and nothing, words flow easily, punctuated by shared glances that linger just a little too long. Cairo asks you questions that dig deeper than typical small talk, and you get the sense that she’s genuinely interested in what you have to say.

Someone clears their throat impatiently behind you, reminding you of the line you’ve barely moved through, but Cairo only glances over her shoulder before looking back at you with a shrug. “Guess we’re holding things up,” she says, though she doesn’t make any move to step aside.

“Seems like it,” you say, matching her casual tone. “Not sure I’m ready to leave, though.”

“Good,” she replies, a playful gleam in her eyes. “Then let’s get out of here.”

You follow her out of the hallway and back into the main part of the bar, where the music is even louder and the lights even dimmer. She slips her hand into yours, leading you to the small dance floor near the center of the room.

The moment feels surreal, like something out of a dream, but you let yourself get lost in it, letting the music pulse around you as you move together, the crowd pressing in on all sides. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, moving in sync, bodies close and breaths mingling.

Cairo’s hands find their way to your shoulders, pulling you closer, and when she leans in, her lips brush against yours in a kiss that sends a jolt of electricity through you. It’s intense, overwhelming, and you feel yourself melting into her touch, the world around you fading until it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

After a while, you both break apart, breathless and grinning. She leads you to a quieter corner, where you spend the rest of the night talking, laughing, and stealing kisses. The hours slip by, and before you know it, the bar is starting to close up, your friends nowhere in sight.

As the night winds down, you walk with her outside to wait for her roommate, the cool air a welcome change from the heat of the bar. She turns to you, that familiar spark in her eyes, and you can’t help but smile, already wondering when you’ll see her again.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. “Give me your phone.”

You chuckle, pulling out your phone and handing it to her unlocked. “Better late than never.”

She takes it, typing her number in with a quick, practiced ease, then hands it back to you. “Don’t disappear on me,” she says, a playful smirk on her lips. “I’m not done yet.”

Watching her close the distance with a quick peck on your lips, her arms resting on your neck, nails grazing the back of it. “Send me a text, and maybe we’ll continue this somewhere quieter.” She detaches herself from you, glancing back once with a smile that makes your heart race as she heads to her roommate’s car.

You look down at your phone, where her number is saved under the name “Cai.” You’re smiling as you head home, already looking forward to whatever comes next.

—

The days turn into weeks, and before you know it, you and Cairo have fallen into a rhythm that feels almost effortless. You find yourself thinking about her constantly—her quick wit, her sharp observations, and the way she makes even the most mundane moments feel alive with possibility.

It doesn’t take long for Cairo to start spending more time at your place. Her books are scattered around the apartment, and some of her clothes now occupy a corner of your dresser. One morning, you notice her toothbrush beside yours on the sink—a small, almost trivial thing, but it feels monumental, a sign that the two of you are sharing something real. Most mornings, you make coffee together, often in a rush as you both scramble to make it to class on time. You’re studying music education at NYU, and Cairo, as you quickly discover, is majoring in English Literature at Columbia.

You’re fascinated by her mind, by the way she sees the world and how she captures those feelings with words. Sometimes, she reads her writings to you, her voice soft and steady, and you find yourself captivated, hanging on every word. There’s a vulnerability in her poems, a rawness that she doesn’t always show in everyday moments, and it makes you feel like you’re glimpsing pieces of her that few others get to see.

One evening, you’re lying on your bed, a book in her hands as she rests her head on your chest, the two of you wrapped up in a comfortable silence. She’s engrossed in a collection of poems by Sylvia Plath, and you watch her as she reads, the way her brow furrows slightly whenever she comes across a line that resonates with her. After a moment, she catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“Caught you staring,” she teases, nudging you gently with her elbow.

You chuckle, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Can you blame me? You’re kind of fascinating.”

She smirks, setting the book down and propping herself up on her elbow. “You’re just saying that because you don’t understand most of these.”

“Oh, is that so?” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “For the record, I appreciate literature. I just happen to be more of a music person.”

She grins, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Alright, Music Person, what’s the last good book you actually read?”

You hesitate, trying to come up with an answer, but she doesn’t wait. Instead, she grabs a notebook from her bag, flipping it open to a page covered in her neat, slanted handwriting.

“Here, let me educate you,” she says, settling back down beside you as she begins to read some of her notes. Her voice is soft, but there’s a power in her words, an energy that draws you in. She speaks with a passion that makes you feel as if you’re experiencing the books through her eyes, sharing in the emotions that each story brings to life.

When she finishes, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You’re incredible,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I could listen to you read all day.”

A faint blush rises to her cheeks, and she ducks her head, smiling. “Yeah, well, it’s just words,” she mumbles, closing the notebook and tucking it back into her bag. But you can see the pleased expression in her eyes, and it makes you want to know her even more.

On another night, the two of you find yourselves walking along the riverfront, the cool night air wrapping around you as you talk about your lives, your dreams, the things that keep you up at night. You tell her about your goal of becoming a music teacher, how you’ve always felt that music could be a way to connect with others, to make a difference. She listens intently, her gaze never leaving yours, and you feel a warmth spreading through your chest, grateful to have someone who truly cares about your passions.

“Why music education?” she asks, genuine curiosity in her voice. “You could do anything with your talent. Why teaching?”

You smile, looking out at the shimmering river as you gather your thoughts. “Because I want to give others what music gave me—a place to feel understood, to feel like they belong. I guess I just want to share that feeling with someone else.”

She nods, her expression thoughtful. “I get that. Writing’s like that for me. I can put all these thoughts and feelings down on paper and make sense of them, even when everything else feels like a mess. It’s like finding pieces of myself in the words, you know?”

“Yeah...” Feeling a rush of affection for her. She’s so open, so unguarded in moments like this, and you feel grateful to witness it. For all her confidence and sharp edges, Cairo has a tenderness about her that draws you in, a depth that makes you want to know everything about her.

There are still times, though, when you can sense her pulling back, as if she’s afraid of letting herself get too close. You see it in the way she’ll suddenly grow quiet when you talk about your childhood, her gaze turning distant. You realize that for all her brilliance, Cairo is used to keeping people at arm’s length, holding them just far enough away to keep herself safe.

Her self-sabotaging habits linger, small tells that make it clear that trust doesn’t come easily for her.

One evening, as you lie together on your bed, she turns to you, a serious expression on her face. “So, what happens when we graduate? What if this… I mean, we’re both on different paths. What if you end up teaching in another city, and I’m still here?”

You take her hand, gently tracing circles on the back of it. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. But right now, I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

She nods, but you can see the uncertainty in her eyes, a flicker of doubt she can’t quite hide. You understand; she’s had people come and go, and part of her probably believes that you will eventually, too. But you’re determined to prove her wrong, to show her that not everyone leaves. For the first time, you feel like you’ve found someone worth holding onto, and you’re not about to let her slip away.

In those moments when she lets you in, you see the side of her that’s kind, vulnerable, and deeply passionate. It’s a side that not everyone gets to see, and it only makes you fall for her harder.

The weeks pass, filled with nights spent talking, laughing, and sharing dreams and insecurities, building a connection that feels stronger with each passing day. Cairo challenges you, inspires you, and makes you feel alive in ways you hadn’t known before. And despite the little cracks, the insecurities, and the fears, you both hold onto something rare, something worth fighting for.

As you lie together, her head resting on your shoulder, you realize this is what you’ve been searching for—a connection that goes beyond words, a feeling that’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying. You’re falling for her, and deep down, you know you’re in it for the long haul, ready to face whatever comes next, as long as she’s by your side.

—

It’s been a couple of months since you and Cairo started officially dating, and things are going well. You’ve fallen into a comfortable rhythm together, and you find yourself feeling more at ease around her than you ever have with anyone else. Then, one night, you get a text from your parents—they’re in town for a couple of days and want to meet up for dinner.

Excited, you bring it up with Cairo, hoping she’ll join you. “So… my parents are in town. And they want to meet you,” you say, flashing her a warm smile as you lean over the counter where she’s flipping through one of her books.

Her reaction is almost immediate. She tenses, her fingers pausing on the page, and her gaze grows distant. “Oh,” she says, not meeting your eyes. “They want to meet me?”

“Yeah,” you reply, noting her sudden change in demeanor. “I mean, it’s just dinner. I figured it’d be nice for you to meet them. They’re great—they’d love you.”

She frowns slightly, closing her book with a sigh. “I don’t know. Meeting parents is… kind of a big deal. It just… feels a little too… serious.”

You reach over, gently taking her hand. “Hey, it’s just dinner. We don’t have to stay long, and you don’t have to do or say anything special. I just want you to meet the people who mean a lot to me.”

She hesitates, looking torn, and you can sense her reluctance. You know—or at least assume—that she has a complicated relationship with her own family, since she never shares anything about them, but you hope that she’ll agree, if only to understand a little more about your life. Finally, she lets out a breath and gives a small nod. “Alright. I’ll go.”

The dinner starts off smoothly enough. Your parents are warm and welcoming, clearly eager to get to know the special girl who’s making you happy. They ask her questions about her studies at Columbia, about her dream to become an author, and at first, she responds politely, if a bit reserved. But as the conversation shifts to family, you notice Cairo’s demeanor start to change.

“So, Cairo,” your mom says, smiling kindly. “Do you see your family often? Are they from around here?”

Cairo’s shoulders tense, and she forces a smile. “Not really,” she replies, a slight edge to her tone. “They’re pretty much always traveling. I grew up mostly on my own.”

Your parents exchange a quick glance, and your dad offers a sympathetic smile. “That must’ve been hard. You’re very independent, then.”

“Guess I had no other choice,” Cairo replies, and the words hang heavily in the air. She quickly takes a sip of her water, avoiding further eye contact.

Sensing the tension, you try to shift the conversation, hoping to steer things back into safer territory. But the rest of the dinner feels strained, and you can tell Cairo’s growing increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you wrap things up, saying your goodbyes to your parents and walking Cairo back to your apartment.

Heading back to your apartment, you can feel the tension building, a heavy silence settling between you that only seems to grow with each passing block. She has been silent since you left the restaurant, and as you step inside, she slips off her coat and heads straight to the window, arms crossed, her body tense as she stares out at the city, the light from the street lamps casting shadows across her face.

You close the door, taking a deep breath as you try to gather your thoughts.

“Cai,” you say softly, “babe, what’s going on? You’ve barely said a word since dinner.”

She doesn’t turn around. Instead, she lets out a bitter laugh, her shoulders stiffening. “Your parents were just… so perfect,” she says, her voice tight. “The way they talked about family, about you. It’s like this little fairytale that I can’t be a part of.”

Her words catch you off guard, and you step closer, trying to understand. “They weren’t trying to make you feel that way. They were just… they were just being themselves. They were trying to get to know you.”

Cairo spins around, her eyes blazing, the moonlight filtering through the window and casting shadows across her face. “But don’t you get it?” she snaps. “I didn’t have that. I didn’t grow up with parents who actually cared. Mine were never around, always off in some other part of the world, leaving me to figure things out on my own. I had empty rooms and empty promises. That’s my reality.”

You reach out, hoping to bridge the distance between you, but she steps back, her fists clenched at her sides. “Cairo, I know you’ve been through a lot. But I’m here now. I want to share my life with you—everything. I want you to feel like you’re not alone anymore.”

She shakes her head, her gaze fierce and defiant. “That’s just it, though. You’re so desperate to bring me into this perfect world of yours. But that’s not who I am, and it’s not who I’ll ever be. I’m not some puzzle piece you can just fit into your life. I don’t want to be fixed.”

“I don’t want to fix you!” you say, your voice rising in frustration. “I just want to be with you, to understand you. I want to know the real you, Cairo, all of you. But you keep pushing me away, like you’re afraid of letting me in.”

She scoffs, a flash of anger in her eyes, and you can see her jaw clench, her expression hardening as she glares at you. “Afraid? You don’t know the first thing about fear. You’ve never had to look at everyone around you and wonder how long they’re going to stick around. People leave, okay? They always do. And I’d rather end it now than wait around for you to realize I’m not worth it.”

Her words sting, and you feel a surge of desperation, a need to reach her, to break through the wall she’s built around herself. “Why are you so determined to sabotage this? To ruin something that could be good?”

She laughs, a sharp, bitter sound, her eyes filled with a mix of pain and anger. “Because that’s what I know. This is how I survive, alright? By keeping people at a distance. It’s better to feel nothing than to risk everything and end up with nothing.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel the anger bubbling up inside you, the frustration spilling over as you step closer, looking her in the eyes. “You think I’m going to leave, don’t you? You think I’m just like everyone else, ready to walk away the second things get hard. But that’s not who I am, Cairo. I’m here because I want to be, because I care about you. But you’re making it impossible when you keep shutting me out.”

The brunette clenches her jaw, her eyes blazing with an intensity that takes your breath away, and for a moment, the only sound between you is the faint hum of the city beyond the window.

The moonlight catches in her gaze, and you see the fire there, a fierce, untamed energy that both draws you in and scares you. She’s like a storm, unpredictable and powerful, and you’re caught in its path. She turns away, her shoulders heaving as she takes a shaky breath.

“This… this isn’t going to work,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m not what you need, and I can’t be what you want me to be.”

You reach out, desperation filling your voice as you try to stop her. “Cairo, don’t say that. I don’t need you to be anything other than yourself. I just need you here, with me.”

Practically interrupting you, she gives her back to you and heads for the door. She turns, looking at you one last time, and for a brief moment, you see a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. But then she shakes her head, her expression hardening once more. “I can’t do this,” she says, her voice trembling as she opens the door and storms out into the night, without even getting her coat.

The door closes behind her, leaving you standing there, alone, the silence pressing in around you like a weight. You feel the hollow ache in your chest, the pain of words left unsaid, and you sink down onto the couch, replaying the fight in your mind. You remember the way the moonlight caught in her eyes, the fire in her gaze as she looked at you, and you feel a surge of regret, a desperate need to chase after her, to tell her that you’re not giving up that easily.

You grab your coat—and hers and head out. Sprinting down the stairs, feeling each step rattle beneath you as you grip the railing, your breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. You’d hit the elevator button a dozen times, but it never came, leaving you with no choice but to take the stairs, every floor dragging you further into a spiral of regret and desperation.

As you descend, something inside you crystallizes—a single, undeniable truth that settles deep in your chest. Cairo has put up walls, pushed you away, tried to convince herself and you that she isn’t meant for this—but you know better. You know her and you’re not ready to let her go. Not now, not ever.

And it hits you all at once. You don’t care if the train to her dormitory isn’t running. You’ll keep running until you catch her.

It’s been two months and twenty-five days since that night at the bar, since you’d both shared a knowing smile that set off sparks. You’ve shared so many moments together since then—small, precious details that mean more than you could have imagined. And it’s in this moment, barreling down the last flight of stairs, that you realize you’ve never fought for anyone like this before. You’ve never felt so sure about anyone before.

You hit the last step and burst through the door, the cold air hitting you like a shock as you scan the street, your heart pounding. You spot her down the block, her arms wrapped tightly around her, shoulders hunched as if she’s trying to disappear into the shadows. You take off running, your voice breaking through the silence of the night as you approached.

“Cairo!”

She stops, and for a moment, you’re both suspended there, the world around you quiet and still. She doesn’t turn, but you can tell from the way she holds herself, the slight tremor in her shoulders, that she’s struggling. You catch up to her, breathless, reaching out to gently touch her arm, handing her the coat. She pulls away, just slightly, but getting the piece of clothing and wearing it, still standing close enough to let you know that she’s listening.

“Please,” you say, voice barely more than a whisper. “Don’t go. Not like this.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and you can see her clenching her jaw, the moonlight casting shadows across her face, illuminating the fierce, guarded expression in her eyes. “Why did you follow me?” she asks, her tone filled with a mix of anger and something else—something raw and wounded.

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “Because I can’t just let you walk away. I can’t pretend that this fight didn’t happen, and I can’t pretend that I don’t care. Cairo, I’ve never fought with anyone like this before. And maybe that’s because I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”

Her eyes flicker, and you can see the conflict warring within her, the tension in her shoulders as she struggles to hold herself together. “You don’t understand,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m not… I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to be the person you want me to be.”

“I’m not asking you to be anyone but yourself,” you reply, stepping closer. “I don’t need perfection. I need you—the real you. The one who’s scared and fierce and so damn beautiful that I can’t think straight when I’m around you.”

She looks down, her fingers twisting together as she takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never let anyone this close,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to let someone stay.”

“You never really know someone until you see the other side of them,” you say softly, the realization settling deep inside you. “I didn’t know you were the one until tonight, until we almost lost this. But now I know, and I’m not letting you go.”

Her gaze finally lifts, meeting yours, and you see the tears shining in her eyes, the vulnerability she’s so carefully hidden beneath the anger and sarcasm. Slowly, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against yours as if she’s afraid that you might disappear.

“I’m afraid,” she admits, her voice breaking. “Afraid that if I let you in, you’ll see all the things I’ve tried to bury, and you’ll decide I’m not worth the effort.”

You take her hand, holding it tightly, grounding her in the moment. “Cairo, I’ve already seen them. And I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m not going anywhere.” She lets out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down her cheek as she looks up at you, her expression softening, the fire in her eyes replaced by something warmer, something hopeful.

“I don’t know if I can promise that I won’t push you away again,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But I… I want to try. I want this. I want you.”

A surge of relief washes over you, and without thinking, you pull her into your arms, holding her close as she wraps her arms around your waist, clinging to you as if you’re the only thing keeping her grounded. You can feel her heart racing against yours, the warmth of her breath against your neck, and for the first time, you feel a sense of peace, a quiet certainty that you’re both exactly where you’re meant to be.

As you pull back, you look into her eyes, a smile tugging at your lips as you finally let the words spill out. “I love you, Cairo Sweet. I don’t need things to be perfect. I just need you, with all your flaws and fire. Because you’re the only one I want, and I’m ready to fight for this, as long as it takes.”

She stares at you, her eyes wide, and then she lets out a breath, a small, almost incredulous smile breaking through her tears. “I love you too,” she whispers, her voice filled with a quiet, unguarded honesty that makes your heart swell. “Even if I’m still a little scared… I love you.”

You pull her close again, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, and for a moment, the world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other. You can feel the weight of the past slipping away, replaced by a warmth that fills every corner of your heart, a quiet promise of all the things yet to come.

Finally, you step back, still holding her hand as you start walking together, side by side. It’s been two months and twenty-five days, but you knew without a doubt that her toothbrush was there to stay, and so was she. You both share a quiet smile, knowing that while the road ahead won’t be easy, but it’s one you’re ready to face together.

#jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega imagine #cairo sweet #cairo sweet x reader #cairo sweet x y/n #millers girl #miller's girl #liwriting

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oikarma · 1 month ago

Text

sometimes the fall kills you 𝜗𝜚 ln4, mv1

navigation / masterlist

summary: (19k) it begins the winter of ‘28. you know this is how ghost stories start. a season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something.

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

notes: this ended up so much longer than i expected, so this is part one only ☹️ freaking tumblr would not let me post my 1000+ blocks. max is literally not in this, sorry for the clickbait, but reading this is important to understanding the next part where he comes in.

lando is a manipulative and unstable person in this fic. his and yn’s relationship might seem romantic or alluring, to have someone so attached to you, but it’s not healthy at all. from what i’ve seen lando is a sweet person and speaks out about mental health, this fic does not claim to represent him in any way. his behavior here is a figment of my imagination.

anyway, this is the first fic i wrote in google docs, i bled, sweat, and teared my way through it, please be nice. i’m sorry in advance. hope you enjoy!

18+... fingering, blowjob, half-choking, unprotected sex, suggestions of oral (smut is in a specific section, i've marked it in bold, please scroll past if you're a minor)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Most days, you feel like the shittest boot-licking piece of trash ever thrown away. It stems from your phone, what all the preaching psychoanalysts tell schoolchildren. Don’t compare yourself. Humans weren’t meant to see their own faces. Fuck that. Mirrors are an age-old invention. Every goddamn thing on this planet is a comparison. You know what they won’t admit: the problem is you, in every lifetime.

So. There’s you, and there’s Lando Norris, Formula 1 world champion, certified ladies’ man since his early twenties and maybe the owner of the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen, right down to his perfect nose. There is no overlap in your venn diagrams, save for the fact that you carved out a piece of him and fit yourself there, like you were born to. You didn’t mean it. But, like you already said, you were born to.

It begins the winter of ‘28. You know this is how ghost stories start. A season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something. The death of what, exactly?

You’re getting ahead of yourself. 29 is hardly old—it doesn’t show on Norris’s face, not yet. It is too early to say “middle-aged,” contrary to popular belief. It is also too early to become a sugar daddy. Then again, standards don’t apply to him. He’s 29 and rolling in cash. It would not be a stretch to say he’s in his prime.

This is not how you find him in the winter of ‘28. The man slumped over a table at a dingy bar in Bristol is nothing like the Lando Norris the world knows. You don’t even recognize him when he’s a bit more sober, only noting that bleary-eyed and slurring somehow suits him. He’s well into the two-digit rounds when your shift begins. Your co-worker shrugs helplessly, tells you to keep an eye on this one (poor thing, drunk out of his mind), and drops the keys into your dumbfounded hands. Consolation has never been your strong suit. You’re allergic to pity, incapable of giving it or swallowing it quietly. The only move you make to help him is to water down each passing drink, more and more, before the ratio is unmissable. By that point, you’re not sure if he can tell the difference between piss and what he’s ordered. Maybe he can, but he’s not drinking anymore.

Now he’s slumped forward, forehead pressed to the sticky wood. His fingers are loose around a glass he’s forgotten how to lift.

“Hey,” you call, leaning over with the rag in hand. “We’re closing soon.”

Nothing.

You sigh and toss the rag on the counter. When you get closer, the smell hits you. Maybe you weren’t close enough, before, in your attempts to stay out of his single-minded drinking. You catch expensive cologne, drowned under sweat and whiskey. Up close, he’s younger than you thought. Late thirties? You might know that face.

“Hey, man.” You tap his wrist, careful not to provoke any sudden movements. Fuck, you’re tired and you don’t want an angry, stubborn man to start a bar fight now. “Time to go.”

His head lifts slowly. It’s too heavy for his neck. This is the first time you see those ridiculous eyelashes, the sharp jaw softened by stubble, the mouth parted. He’s halfway between a laugh and a cry. You’ll get very familiar with those features, in the months to come.

“Where’d she go?” he slurs, blinking up at you like you have the answer. “Where the fuck did she go?”

You freeze for a second. No, this is bad. A sleepy man is okay, as long as he’s not causing trouble. A crazy, inebriated man is a little more than you can take right now. “Who?”

He lets out this bitter little laugh. “My mum,” he mutters, keeling back over and miraculously not splitting his skull in half. “Dead. Just gone. S’fucked, yeah?”

You exhale. The bar is empty. It’s just you and a guy with a dead mom fraying on your counter.

“Okay.” You walk around, crouch slightly, resting a light hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”

He flinches under your touch but doesn’t pull away. Just mumbles, “did you know…did you know she kept every helmet I ever…” His words dissolve into a dry laugh. They then evaporate into silence. You manage to get his arm around your frame, hoisting him up with more effort than you thought you would need. He leans into you, a sandbag with no intention of helping, murmuring nonsense as you steer him toward the door.

“C’mon, champ,” you mutter under your breath, only half-mocking. You’re not cruel.

Outside, the cold air hits his face. It must be enough to jolt his senses a little. He sways, blinking hard at the streetlights like they’ve just been invented.

“Where—” he starts, before bursting into more giggles. “Where am I supposed to go?”

You exhale. This man, half-draped over you, a stranger whose grief is soaking through your clothes, a spilled drink of something you shouldn’t know about. You don’t know yet that his name is Lando Norris. You don’t know yet that—no, you’re getting ahead of yourself again. At this moment, your priority is not having a dead man and a murder investigation in your name.

At this moment, all you know is you need to get him into a cab before he collapses on your doorstep.

“Home,” you say, and hope to God he remembers where that is.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Two nights later, he walks in, a reassurance that, yes, he did remember where home was.

He’s so different that you almost don’t recognize him, if not for the same cologne, honey and saffron that wafts into the air. It oozes confidence and allure, just the way the man that wears it does. He does now, at least, with a crisp white shirt (loose, but precise enough to show that it’s been tailored) and a watch that probably costs more than all your student debt combined.

You watch him from behind the counter, heart sinking into your shoes. Of course. Because God forbid one night of decency go unpunished.

He slides onto a stool (right in front of you, of course) and leans in with this easy, practiced charm that makes you want to punch something. It’s so fake, so unlike everything you know about him. He has no right being able to compose himself. You hate rich douchebags who act like they have no problems; this man’s signature is halfway onto that list.

“Evening,” he says. “Miss me?”

You snort before you can help it. The audacity. It’s a wonder he remembers your face, considering he’d forgotten what lamps looked like. You think he’s pathetic. Pity, as you’ve already said, isn’t in your dictionary. He’s a poser who pretends he’s not sad.

“Wow,” you deadpan, draping the rag over your shoulder. “Back to slum it with the peasants so soon? We’re honored.”

He smiles with all his face, from his mouth to his eyes, from his laugh lines to his immaculately set teeth. There are no canine fangs in this man’s mouth, but his grin still comes off sharp and pleased. He was hoping you’d bite.

“You’re quick. I like that.”

You arch a brow. “What do you want, fancy boy? Another blackout? You know, I usually charge extra for babysitting drunks, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

He smiles again, this time with a laugh. You hate the way you notice the way his fingers through his hair, the effortless grace of it.

“Came to settle my tab.” He reaches into his pocket—wallet? You don’t see clearly—and places a black card on the counter. To him, it’s nothing. “And maybe buy the bartender a drink for her trouble.”

You glance at the card, then back at him. You know how to look helpless, how to mold yourself to what a customer wants. You also know how to look unimpressed, in an attempt to ward off this preening pretty boy. “I think you’re overestimating how much I care about your conscience.”

Not once does his smile falter. “Oh, I’m not here to clear my conscience.” His eyes flick over you. Not in that greasy, leering way you’re used to. It’s as if he’s cataloging you for future use, pulling you apart in his head. “I just don’t like owing people.”

You push the card back toward him. Your fingers tap the bar once. “Then consider us square. You lived, I didn’t get vomit on my shoes. We both win.”

You see his eyes widen, just for a moment—you’ve surprised him—and then the grin snaps back into place, looser now. This is a game he’s decided he wants to play.

He leans back on the stool, thumb brushing his bottom lip. He’s savoring something. You don’t know what. “Alright,” he says to himself. “Square, then.”

You nod once, already turning away.

“See you around, bartender.”

You don’t look back. You won’t look back. You’re walking away, carried by your feet and better judgement. There’s a hook under your skin. You know, with a sinking in your chest, that he’ll be back. You don’t even know his name, but you know that much. Not because he owes you, not because he should.

Now, you’re interesting. And men like him never let interesting go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through a paper when your laptop freezes. You stare at the spinning cursor. It’s the montage people talk of when they’re about to die. It is, in its own right, a death sentence.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, fingers hammering at the keys. Please, please, let it save you. The library around you is packed. Someone two tables over is crying, not-so-quietly, into their sleeve.

You drag your hands through your hair, tug hard at the roots, blink down the burn in your eyes. Coffee-stained hoodie, cracked phone screen, empty energy drink cans rattling in your bag—who’s going to give in first, your body or your mind?

Understandably, you’re a little too occupied to care about who’s around you. They’re all tired and equally as demotivated, so you think. Your chest gives a sick lurch to inform you otherwise.

Leaning against the archway across the room is the devil, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He wears a dark jacket and a faint smirk.

No, you think wildly, almost laughing. What the fuck? This is not happening.

But it is. Your drunken spoils, in the flesh. He pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. You still don’t know his name.

“Didn’t peg you for the overachieving type,” he says when he reaches your table, voice pitched low enough it curls right under your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, slamming your laptop shut. It’s already broken, might as well end its misery now. “Are you following me now?”

He raises both hands. “Relax. I’m giving a talk here.” He tips his head toward the auditorium doors down the hall. “Motivation, hard work, all that crap they pay me for. But you,” he adds, eyes flicking over the mess of your table, “you’re making us all look bad.”

Your chest is tight, your breathing ragged. You’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or exhaustion laced in your bones. Probably all three. “Look,” you snap, shoving papers into your bag, “why don’t you stick daddy’s money up your ass and find your way home. Go harass someone who gives a shit. Maybe someone with money, so they’ll be more sympathetic than me.”

When you lurch to your feet, he’s suddenly right in front of you. You see the lashes again, long and tantalizing, about to pull you to your death. You’re going to suffocate on his cologne.

“Burning out, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s no mockery in his voice now. “You should pace yourself.”

You shove past him hard enough your shoulder clips his arm. Asshole. You hope he trips down the stairs and chips his veneers. You know exactly why he’s here—it’s not the first time you’ve seen a man cracked open and raw on that barstool, trying to drown themselves in grief and whiskey. Men like him don’t let anyone keep hold of that kind of power. So yeah, you’re overworked, underpaid, and too close to your deadlines.

He’s going to be pulling on that string for a while. He’s going to enjoy dragging out your inevitable unraveling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next day at work, it’s quiet. You’re restocking glasses behind the bar. Your eyes are gritty from no sleep, brain still fried. Right now, you’re trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to make this month’s rent. Bartending is great when people give good tips. Today it’s hell.

Your manager taps your shoulder, frowning. “Hey, someone left this for you.” You turn and take what’s in his hands, an envelope with your first name on it. It’s handwritten, a surprising gesture of humility compared to the numbers on the check inside.

You stare at it for a long, long time. Long enough that your hands start to go numb. It’s made out to you. Enough to clear everything. Rent, loans, student debt…fuck, it’s enough to buy you a new car, too.

There’s no note or explanation. Although you’ve never seen his handwriting before—from Lando Norris, the check says, and this is how you finally get his name—you know somewhere across the city, Lando Norris is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You find him outside a hotel, and obviously, it’s the most expensive one in town. You did a little research on him when you got his name. He’s from here. So he has a house, probably, and he’s at a hotel anyway because the cash burning his pocket is oh-too-much to bear. He’s stepping out of a sleek black car, sunglasses pushed into his hair, scrolling lazily through his phone. The world doesn’t touch him. He practically tosses his keys at you.

“What the fuck, man?” you burst out, voice sharp enough to turn a few heads.

Lando looks up. “Afternoon to you, too. I thought you were the valet.”

You stop in front of him and jab the envelope toward his chest. “You’re not a mafia boss, you know that, right? You can’t just—you can’t just throw money at people like they’re strays and then disappear.”

His brows lift slightly. “Didn’t realize helping was a crime.”

“Helping?” You bite back a laugh. “I know what you’re doing.” Your fingers tighten on the paper, knuckles white. “You want me to owe you. You want me tied to you. You think if you pull hard enough, I’ll snap, and—and what? You’ll own me?”

You see his eyes darken at the suggestion.

“Sweetheart,” he says. He’s talking to a scared cat, pushing off the car, closing the distance between you in one easy step, “you already owe me. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

He grins again, now with all his teeth, and says it so casually it makes your head spin: “I want you to be my sugar baby.”

“You’re insane,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You’re insane. They need to put you in a psych ward. You can’t say that to people you barely know—”

Lando tips his head slightly. He’s a cat watching the mouse try to run. “Why not? I always say what I want. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just buy people. You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” he cuts in smoothly, like he always does. He seems advertent to letting you finish your sentences. “Help you? Save you some time? Give you a way out before you collapse in that library corner you’ve been camping in for weeks?”

You glare at him, but your chest is tight and you can’t force the words out.

“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, smile slipping softer now, almost gentle. “What people are willing to let me buy.”

For one furious, helpless second, you want to slap him. Or start crying. Or do something, something that’ll make him feel out of control. What you do is step back, trying to muster venom, voice cracking on the words: “Go to hell, Norris.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.” He winks and hands the actual valet, who’s snuck up behind you two, a nice wad of money. “You’ll come around.”

The check burns in your fist, even as he vanishes between the golden hotel doors.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You crash through your apartment door at midnight, still tasting the metallic buzz of panic on your tongue. It might also be blood. You have a nasty habit of opening cuts on your lips.

The envelope goes on the counter, torn halfway open, the check peeking out, mocking you, taunting you. You slap a hand over your face and groan into your palm. What the actual hell is happening?

Your phone buzzes.

mara(malade) holy fuck

mara(malade) u alive? shift was hell

You practically sag with relief. Mara, your coworker—ex-roommate (now she’s got a bit more money of her own), bartender, chaos magnet, saint. You fire back a desperate come over please bring wine before you can overthink it. Twenty minutes later, she’s on your couch, a bottle of grocery store rosé cradled like it’s a baby.

“So,” she says, fumbling around for a bottle-opener, “what’s the emergency? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or committed tax fraud.”

You shove the check at her. She squints at it, reads the amount, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Who’d you rob?”

“Lando Norris,” you blurt, and immediately regret it.

“You wish.” You don’t laugh, a sign something’s wrong and this is not a joke. She looks up, finger pointing accusingly. “Fuck me. Lando Norris as in Formula 1 driver, millionaire, owns-half-of-Monte-Carlo Lando Norris?”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know about all the rest, but yes, Lando Norris!”

Mara lets out a snort of disbelief. “Okay, back up. Why is Lando Norris writing you a check that could wipe my student loans and buy me a new liver? Did you save his life or something?”

“I—” You collapse onto the couch, pressing your knuckles to your mouth. “He was drunk at the bar. Like, blackout. I stopped him from, I don’t know, choking on his own tongue? And now he thinks I’m some charity case or—”

Mara raises both brows, an impressed little smirk tugging at her mouth. “Babe, respectfully…why you?”

Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

“I love you. Don’t get me wrong,” Mara says, hands raised, “but he’s…him. And you’re.” She gestures vaguely. “You’re, like, you. You’re brilliant and broke and working three jobs and I know you, and no offense, but you have no chill. What do you have on him? Are you blackmailing him? Did you see him cry in the bathroom?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, useless.

“Oh my God,” Mara cackles. “You did.”

You groan, dragging the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your face. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nightmare? This is the plot of every bad Netflix movie I’ve ever binged.” Mara unleashes the rosé with a nice pop. Hardly one for decorum, she takes a sip right out of the bottle. “So. Are you gonna cash it?”

You think of Lando’s smile—smug, that’s the best way to describe it—and the way he looked at you. To him, you were a puzzle he adored having his hands on. You think of the way your stomach twisted when he leaned in close. He already knew how you’d break.

“I don’t know.”

Mara’s grin fades. “Careful, babe. Guys like that, they don’t just give. They take.”

You know. God, you know.

You spend the next hour pacing the apartment, a lunatic. Mara refreshes your instagram every other minute. She says it’s bad for you, but in your state, maybe she should be doing it instead. The current report: “Nothing. No messages, no tags, no random follows.”

You check the bar’s security footage on your phone and it’s just his blurry back slipping into a car.

You Google him (why did you Google him, why, it was normal the first time and now it’s dangerously close to stalking) and end up falling into a YouTube spiral. Lando’s podium interviews, Lando’s champagne-soaked parties, Lando’s Monaco apartment tour, and Lando’s something with his trainer that makes your stomach do an ugly little flip. Somewhere between the videos, Mara falls asleep on the couch, too tired to be your better judgement. But his number? His email? A way in? You have nothing. Now you’re the desperate one. You should stop, really.

“God, you coward. You can just drop a check on someone’s life and walk away? What are you, Batman? What am I supposed to do with this, frame it?”

You curl forward, forehead pressed to your knees. You laugh under your breath in that shaky, half-hysterical way that’s closer to a cry. You’re not even sure what’s eating you alive more—the fact that he did this, or the fact that some awful part of you wants him to show up again, wants him to walk back through the bar doors like it was just some normal Tuesday, like this hasn’t cracked open something huge and stupid and terrifying inside you.

He doesn’t, in that infuriating way of his, and you can’t find him.

When you fall asleep on the couch at four in the morning, the check is still there on the table, its stupid smooth paper whispering you’re already in too deep, sweetheart, every time you roll over.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando doesn’t plan on showing up again, that’s the thing.

He tells himself it’s done. Box checked, debt cleared, one good deed in a life otherwise soaked in champagne and carbon fiber and a mile-long string of bad decisions. Hey, he’s a marginally less shitty asshole. He’s sitting on the balcony of his hotel suite when it starts gnawing at him.

You didn’t cash the check.

He knows because his assistant flagged it. That’s the kind of man he is now—detached, insulated, always three degrees removed from the mess he makes. He sends the money, someone else watches. He screws up, someone else cleans it. But you didn’t play the part.

He hasn’t gotten a thank-you (you told him to go to hell, actually) letter. He hasn’t gotten any gratitude, not even for the money (you told him to stick it up his ass). You didn’t even try to contact him. He leans back in the chair, tipping his head toward the sky. He lets out a slow exhale. There’s a bitter curl of something in his chest, and it has nothing to do with grief or guilt. It’s irritation.

He can’t stand that you saw him wrecked, sprawled across that bar, drunk out of his mind, cracked open and human. He can’t stand that you walked away. Now you’re out there, a loose thread in his neatly stitched life, and it’s driving him fucking insane. So yeah, he’s going to give it a few more days and then he’s going to go back. He hasn’t any intentions of apologizing or explaining. This is for him only. Lando Norris has never been the type to walk away without solving the goddamn puzzle.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

His patience pays itself over in gold.

You cashed the check. Of course you did.

He knows the exact day, in fact. His assistant texts him with a one-line update (“it cleared this morning”) while he’s halfway through an espresso and a team meeting he hasn’t listened to in twenty minutes. For a moment, Lando just sits there, thumb running along the rim of his cup, that devilish smile peeking out. You finally cracked.

Now he gives it three days before he shows up. He does it quietly, just him at the edge of the bar.

Your head jerks up when you see him, eyes wide. Lando feels it like a hit of adrenaline, clean down his spine.

“You.”

“Me,” he agrees. “Been a while, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” You’re rattled. “I didn’t—I only cashed it because—”

“Relax. No strings, remember?”

Your jaw works, teeth catching on the inside of your cheek. “Why are you here?”

His smile tilts with his head, so lopsided it might seem innocent. “To see you.”

“You don’t even know me, asshole.”

“But I know enough,” Lando says, lowering his voice. He knows your name, he knows your situation—well, he cleared all that—, and he knows you’re nervous. You’re breathing too fast. He leans on the bar, eyes half-lidded. He loves watching you scramble for ground. “You’re working two jobs. You’re barely sleeping. You think you can handle everything by yourself, and you hate that you can’t. “You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day you cashed that check.”

He hears you gulp. He waits a bit longer, two heartbeats, maybe.

And then, with a wicked little grin, he says, “So. How about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Lando says again. You’re sharing a secret. “You eat, don’t you?”

You flounder. When you get riled up, it wakes something inside him. Maybe that’s why he’s been coming back, not just because he needs to do charity, but because you entice him.

“I’m not your little project,” you snap. “You wanted me to take the money, I took the money, will you please just leave me alone instead of trying to…” You don’t want to finish the sentence. You can’t even find your arsenal of vulgarity.

“Seduce you?” Lando supplies lightly. “Mmm. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Before you can throw another insult, before you can spit him out, he’s sliding a card across the counter, tapping it once with his finger. You’ve seen this film before. You know what you should do next: push him aside, push all of this down so you don’t think about it. You’ve done it before, can’t you do it again?

“Tonight. Seven. Wear something dangerous.”

Like the shitbag he is, he just walks away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He came back and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. In your defense, it’s only been a few hours. Your shift ends and you half-stumble home. You shut the door to your apartment, sag against it, and press your fists to your eyes, hoping you can squeeze Lando Norris out of your skull.

You’re not a project. You’re not his charity case. You’re not going to whore it out for more money. Greed is dangerous. You’re satisfied. Do this one thing and let it go.

Your bank account is whole for the first time in a year. The past-due notices are gone. The constant panic is still there, but now it’s now less mechanical notices and more an unspeakable Brit.

Mara’s on your couch when you finally topple over. She’s digging into a bag of chips.

“You’re a mess,” she announces. “Also, is it true Lando Norris tipped you a down payment on a house?”

“Not a house. Not—” you’re muffled by the pillow that your face sinks into.

“Babe,” she says through a mouthful of salt and vinegar, “do you have any idea how hot, rich, and deeply emotionally unavailable that man is? He must really hate what you saw.”

“I don’t know!” you groan. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—”

You don’t tell Mara about the card he left. You don’t tell her that it’s still in your jeans pocket. You don’t take it out. If you do, you’re worried it’ll manifest into a contract with the devil, one you are a little too eager to sign.

You shouldn’t have worried so much, in retrospect. Now you’re face-to-face with Lando, your fear of the card is replaced by a constant need to fidget with the napkin. It’s brutally wrinkled. You’ve been twisting it in your fists since the appetizers.

Lando, of course, looks completely at ease. The glass turns slowly in his hand. You’re half-convinced he’s heard your every thought and is simply waiting for you to confess them.

“I can’t believe I came,” you mutter.

“You say that like I put a gun to your head.”

You scowl. No one’s looking at you, but you still feel eyes crawling over your skin. Maybe it’s just him. “You left me a check.”

“Mm. So I did.”

“Enough to clear my loans. Rent. Half my fucking soul.”

He leans in across the table, his halfway unbuttoned shirt dipping down in a way that strains you to keep your eyes up. “You’re welcome.”

You bristle. “You think this is charming? Is this how you get girls? Buy their dignity and then flash them a smile like they should be grateful?”

Lando’s brow arches. It’s not in surprise, because he was waiting for that, too. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” His mouth twitches. “Darling, if I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t have picked the most hostile bartender in Bristol. You think you’re the first woman who’s ever told me to fuck off?”

It stings. “So why me?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Right. Like a bug.”

“No. Like a puzzle. One I want to take apart with my teeth.”

What the fuck? For a second, all you can hear is the soft click of silverware, someone laughing across the room. Did he just say he wanted to take me apart with his teeth? You were stupid for coming here. You’re going to beat yourself up about it later.

“I’m not a puzzle,” you snap. “I’m a person. A tired one. Who works too many hours and hasn’t taken a proper day off in months. You don’t get to walk in and play white knight just because you’re bored.”

“Who says I’m bored? Maybe I just liked the way you looked at me that night.”

You go still. “That night,” you say carefully, “you were a wreck. You were just another wreck. I had no idea who you were.”

He smiles, almost genuinely this time. “Exactly.”

You pick at the edge of your plate, push around your roasted carrots. They’ve offended you.

“I don’t want to owe you,” you say finally.

“Like I said before, you already do.”

He doesn’t smile. “You cashed the check. You came to dinner. And you’re still here. With me. Which means a part of you wants to know what happens next.”

You’re going to choke on all of this. “What do you want from me?”

All his smiles are wicked. This one is particularly knowing. “Honesty? Time. Your attention. Eventually, your mouth. But I’m patient.”

Egotistical, much? Demanding, much? You’re compiling a list of unflattering words to describe him in your head. It makes the issue feel a bit more manageable. He stretches out like a man completely at home, and says, “you think I’m dangerous. You’re not running. Either you’re stupid or you’re curious.”

You don’t have an answer. At least, not one you can say out loud. You finish your drink in one long, burning swallow and stare at the man across the table who just might end your entire life and make you beg for it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now, the flowers. You come home from work, fingers raw with cold. Your shoes are damp with spilled beer—another asshole; this one couldn’t even tip well—only to trip over a box sitting outside your apartment door. You stare at it for a full minute before crouching down. It’s ridiculous, a bouquet four times the size of your head and more colorful than any plants you’ve seen in your life. You think they might all be roses, but you don’t know your flowers very well.

The card is small, white, blank except for a few words:

For the tired girl.—L

You know that handwriting. You’ve seen it on the envelope that decided your fate. You don’t take them inside. You leave them in the stairwell, daring the universe to care.

The next night, he’s waiting. Not at your door, no, that would be obvious. He’s at the bar, same corner stool.

“Figured you’d show up.” Your voice is flat.

“Did you?”

You slam a glass into the rack a little too hard. “Didn’t figure you were the type to stalk.”

“I’m not.” Lando’s long legs kick under the bar. His designer coat is thrown over the adjacent stool. To him, it’s nothing. Probably sent for free, for exposure. “You left the flowers outside.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like wasting effort.”

At least he’s honest. “So what? You’re here to monitor your investment?”

“I’m here,” Lando murmurs, “because you’re the first person in months who hasn’t wanted something from me. Well, until you cashed the check.”

“Fuck you.”

He says, “careful. You might make me fall in love.”

You whirl on him. “Why me? You could have anyone. Any rich little hanger-on, any girl looking for a payday. Why this?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve already had this conversation. What are you drinking after your shift?”

You shake your head. “Not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is bad news. You are bad news.”

“And yet here we are.”

Lando Norris loves giving things, like they might buy your interest. First the card, then the check, then the card again—fuck, you shouldn’t have used it—and now a piece of folded paper. What now, marriage papers?

No. On it is a string of numbers. His number.

He tugs on his coat. The smile he flashes you a smile so uncaring it makes your knees weak.

“Call me. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you soon.”

You don’t touch the note for the rest of the night. When you lock up hours later, it’s gone. You know exactly where it is: folded in the bottom of your bag.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

you you’re fucking insane

Delivered. Read.

Lando and you kept the number

You bite down on a curse, drop your head back against the fridge. Why the fuck did you text him? You’re crazy and deserving of whatever comes next, that’s what you are.

you what do you want

Lando a lot of things

Lando you’re at the top of the list

You huff under your breath, disgust growing under your ribs. You should end this here. You should block him, delete the number, set your phone on fire for good measure. But it won’t do anything, you decide. If he truly means to mess with you, it will do absolutely no good. He’ll show up at your job. He’ll do something about the very generous amount of money he gave you, even if he said “no strings attached.” You owe him, that’s the ugly truth.

you go bother someone else

Lando a few things, sweetheart

Lando you texted me first you’re so much fun when you’re madand besides. no one else keeps me entertained like you.

you i’m not your fidget toy

Lando not yet

You actually breathe when you hear he’s gone. Thank god for that millionare job he’s got, driving in circles. It’ll keep him out of your hair for a good amount of time, according to the information you’ve got online. Racing is a very demanding schedule, and now winter’s drawing to an end, he can’t afford to waste his time on you.

You work the bar in peace. You go home in peace. You wake up, no trace of him in the corner booth or at your barstool or leaning against your car with that maddening smirk. You’ve only seen Lando Norris a few times, yet every time you do, your heartbeat goes up like you’re about to die.

Of course, good things never last. His texts start coming a few days after he’s left your life.

Lando do you miss me yet

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

you i didn’t even notice you were gone

Lando liar

You toss the phone facedown on the couch. The next morning, there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, there’s a courier with a fucking bouquet. It’s the second one, somehow larger, more obnoxious. There’s no card this time.

You snap a photo and send it to him.

you seriously?

Lando what kind of asshole would i be if i left you alone completely

The next night, it’s a box, no flowers this time, just expensive chocolate you would never buy yourself. You don’t even like sweets. You text him anyway.

you stop

Lando make me

You grind your teeth. You tell yourself not to engage, but you can’t resist sending a:

you you know, i really wish i could

You don’t mean it with any connotation. You just wish he’d shut up and fall off a cliff or something. Then all your debt would be miraculously cleared.

By day four, you’re jumpy, checking your phone when you swore you wouldn’t. Waiting for a message that makes you want to scream.

Like clockwork:

Lando you thinking about me? be honest

You flop down on your bed and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a week. You’re not supposed to want this. You hate him, you really do, and you know that’s true to a certain degree. When he comes by, your fists clench and you try to look anywhere by him. His name brings irritation, gets under your skin, and then it turns into something else. You heard someone say once that hate and love aren’t very different things. Bullshit. Hate and want, more so. That feeling, that despisement, is intoxicating.

Lando i’ll be back soon, sweetheart

You scream into your hands.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara nudges you. You don’t need to look up. He’s back.

This time, you have a response prepared. You smile coquettishly, the way you do when you need good tips. You aren’t privy to swaying your hips a little, maybe angling yourself so the curves of your waist are more enunciated. “Did you cry on the plane or after you landed?”

Oh, he’s glaring. You love that. It makes it easy to maintain your perfect picture of innocence, so eager to be happy. “Oh, sorry. Did you not want anyone mentioning Monaco?”

“Funny.”

You reach for another glass. “Did Oscar at least send you a thank-you basket for letting him win?”

Lando’s jaw flexes, a tiny tic. “You keeping up with the races now, sweetheart? Or just the standings?”

You grin. “Just the losses. Yours, specifically.”

Every inch of him is coiled tight. His shirt is rumpled and the sleeves shoved up. You notice how his throat his exposed, like he dressed in a rush, like he couldn’t stand being away from this city another second. Away from you. You’re flattering yourself. Maybe Monaco really did suck and he was so, so, sad he had to live in a million-dollar penthouse that he came back to this city.

“You know,” he says, “I could’ve stayed in Monaco. Big party tomorrow. But no. I flew home.” His eyes flick over your face, unapologetic. “Guess why.”

Dry as sandpaper, you say, “miss your favorite bartender?”

“You make a mean whiskey sour.”

“I also make a mean ‘get out of my bar, you gosh-darned cunt.’”

He chuckles under his breath, but the sound isn’t fully natural. Lando’s holding something back “You’re good, you know that? Gosh-darned cunt, really?”

“At what?”

You see his knee bounce. “At getting under my skin. You rile me up like you’re trying to start something.”

“Maybe I am,” you say.

“Careful.”

“Is this the part where you try to scare me?”

“No.” His composure is back. He knows something—at the very least, he thinks he knows something. “This is the part where I wonder how long you’re going to pretend you don’t want me.”

Heat licks up your spine. You hate him. You hate how good he is at this. What would it be like, you wonder for a moment, to be rich and good looking and cocky as a man with a two-inch dick.

“You’re right, Lando. I want you so bad I’m shaking,” you say, voice husky. You let your eyelids lower, as if you’re staring at him in a post-orgasmic haze.

His expression changes.

Then you smile a toothy grin. “For a restraining order.” The snort that bursts out of him might be a little impressed.

“You’re insufferable,” Lando mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“And you’re still here,” you shoot back.

He slouches back on the barstool.

“Fuck, you drive me insane.”

You turn so he can’t see you biting your lip to keep from smiling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The texts are still a thing, something to keep your wits sharp while Lando’s out of town. Getting to bicker and not having to see his face? The gods made this arrangement just for you. To be fair, you haven’t asked for anything aside from what he gives you of his own free will. He never says the words “sugar baby” anymore, but there’s an unspoken agreement that he pays. You can afford some of it, sure, but investments are better. You still have the rest of your life to spend money.

Your phone lights up on the counter. For one second, you consider ignoring it, you really do.

Then you swipe, anyway.

“Hello,” you say, with that voice you only use with him, like you’re about to fall asleep from how dull he is.

“Thought you’d never pick up.”

It’s great he can’t see your face. Your stomach dips, traitorous, and you are absolutely not bored by him.

“What do you want?” you mutter, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you scrub harder at the countertop.

“Relax,” Lando says. “I’m not asking for your soul.”

“I think I already signed it away,” you quip.

There’s a pause. You can hear the faint sound of city traffic behind him, the rustle of fabric as he moves. You can picture it too clearly: his fingers at his collar, half-distracted, grinning to himself because to him, this is all a game.

“I need a favor,” he allows.

Your laugh is mean. “Oh, do you.”

“Don’t get excited, sweetheart. It’s not that kind of favor.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

You often send him chuckling, as he does now. “You’re really something.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere near your little circus. Whatever it is, I’m sure you have a dozen girls on speed dial who’d jump at the chance.”

“Sure,” Lando says smoothly. “But they’re not you.” Too cheesy. You won’t give it to him. Still, that lands somewhere you don’t want to admit. You pace behind the bar.

“Look, I’m not some accessory. I thought we already agreed on this. Fuck it. Dinner, okay. If you want to text me, I guess you can have that, asshole. If you have to show up at work, okay, but anything aside from that…”

“Calm down.” His voice dips, completely unriled which only makes you angrier. “It’s just an event. Monaco. Black tie. Tomorrow night.”

You stop pacing. “Tomorrow? Monaco, like, France? Which son of a bitch crashed into your car and gave you a concussion?”

“Mm,” he says. You can hear him smile. “It’s a shame you’re going to say no. Especially since I already had the dress sent over.”

“You what?”

“Check the door.”

You lunge for it, yank it open, and there’s a hotel courier on the stoop of your bar. The garment bag in their hand, something out of a fever dream. You whip back around, phone still pressed to your ear. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you’re still on the line, sweetheart. I had my assistant email the plane tickets.”

“My god. This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage.

“Of course not. See you tomorrow.”

You wave away the courier weakly (they say no need for tip, it’s been covered) and toss the garment bag onto the barstool like it’s radioactive. Mara looks up from her ramen, mouth full, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. “Is that a dress? Please tell me that’s not a dress. Shit, that bag looks expensive.”

“It’s a dress. Kill me.”

Mara sets her wrinkled noodle cup down. “Okay, back up. Shit. You’re going to have to explain. You had a couture gown delivered to your workplace?”

“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I, fuck, I don’t even know what I said. He just called. I guess he knew I was still at work and sent it here instead.”

“Oh, he called.” Mara clearly wasn’t listening. It was valid, because you would’ve been very invested in your noodles too. “And you picked up. Shocking.”

“I was caught off guard, okay?”

Mara leans back, arms crossed. She’s settling in for a show. “Mm-hm. Off guard, even though you have his contact. And what exactly did our emotionally unstable sugar daddy.”

“He’s not my—whatever, he wants me to go with him. To this stupid black-tie thing. In Monaco—Mara, I’ve never been outside the country, and he wants me to meet more pissy millionaire with egos just like his? Goddamnit, I’m a blasted idiot. I should’ve hung up.”

“And now you’re here,” Mara finishes, “having a full-on meltdown over a man you keep calling a pissy millionaire, but whose name you’ve Googled so much your phone probably thinks you’re a fan account.”

You shoot her a betrayed look.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “Just, are you sure you’re not into him? I don’t know, if you really hated it, you’d be gone.”

You throw a dirty, soaking towel at her. She catches it easily and puts it down. “Fine, fine. But listen, babe. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, even if you think he’s hot.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mara says, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “But you are going to text me photos once you get dressed. If you’re going to dance with the devil, baby, you might as well look smoking doing it.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

At some point, after pacing the suite, after staring too long at the ocean view, after wondering what the hell you were even doing in Monaco, the dress ended up on your skin. Now you’re cursing again, fingers fumbling at the clasp behind your neck. It’s a bit worrying how well the dress fits you. You’d be more worried if you had a spare thought. Currently, you’re occupied with trying to get this fucking clasp doe.

There’s a knock at the door. You wonder who it could be, because the hotel people usually announce themselves. One culprit.

“Lando, if you come in here—”

The door swings open. How the fuck does he have a key?

“Relax,” he drawls, stepping inside like it’s his suite, his eyes sweeping over you in one slow, sinfully amused pass. Well, he did order the room. Maybe he had a spare he didn’t bother letting you know about. “I knocked.”

You scowl. “Get out.”

But your hands are still twisted up at the clasp and he sees it.

“Need help, sweetheart?”

You spin halfway, trying to yank the zipper yourself, but it only slips lower, baring more skin, making you hiss under your breath. “No. Go away.”

He’s already crossing the room. There it is, that cologne, honey and saffron, so inebriating you almost close your eyes to savor the smell. It makes your pulse spike. You know that body heat amplifies the notes. Lando Norris is warm and right next to you.

“Stay still,” he says. His fingers brush yours, gentle yet firm, easing you out of the way. His knuckles graze your nape and your breath hitches before you can bite it back.

“I hate you,” you mutter, as his fingers work the clasp. You wonder if he’s done this many times before. The answer is probably yes.

“Mm,” Lando hums, mouth too close to your ear. “You keep saying that.”

He lingers, too long, his thumb ghosting over your bare skin. Your chest tightens; your hands flex at your sides.

“You think this is charming? Bursting into my room when I’m trying to change?” you snap, half-turning toward him. “Is this how you—”

He cuts you off, his eyes flicking down. “You’re beautiful when you’re pissed off.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

“Not yet.” Lando smirks. His voice is gasoline, about to set your insides—everything, really—on fire. You shove at his chest. He doesn’t move, but the contact jolts both of you. One hand is still on your back, holding you like he’s about to dance.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whisper.

“Guilty.” He lets go then. “I’ll wait downstairs. Ten minutes. Though I think you look ready.”

“And if I don’t come?”

Lando’s already at the door. “Oh, you’ll come.” His voice is absolutely certain.

You tell yourself you’re only going down because you need to tell him to his face you’re not doing this. That’s it. That’s the only reason. When you step into the elevator, your palms sweaty, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

The car is waiting outside (probably his, judging from the custom initials ‘LN’) with, you note, tinted windows. Lando’s hair is raked back.

“Took you long enough,” he says, opening the door with a theatrical little flourish.

“Fucking wanker,” you say. There’s no malice behind it.

The door closes with a soft, expensive thunk. You press yourself against the far side of the seat. You can still feel the heat of him even across the car, the subtle glance he steals when you cross your legs, the way his hand ‘accidentally’ finds your thigh instead of the gear shift.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You want to wipe that smirk of this face. “Like I can’t decide if I want to ruin you or worship you?”

There’s a thought you have often when it comes to Lando Norris. What the fuck? You, who cusses every other sentence, have more decorum than this man. And he’s saying all this with a straight face. It might be sincere, if you didn’t know him any better. You dig your nails into your palm. “You’re such a fucking nightmare.”

Lando looks away from the road. He’s way too confident to be driving safely. “Maybe. But you’re still in my car, wearing my dress, going to my party. You can tell yourself whatever you need to, sweetheart, but you already chose.”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, watching the glittering coastline smear past in a blur of gold, watch it turn into a cathedral of money and ego. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, women in dresses you’d need a mortgage to afford. Well, now you have a willing bankroller, maybe you don’t.

Lando doesn’t so much escort you as claim you. His hand remains at the small of your back, hot breath brushing your ear as he murmurs names you don’t recognize, introductions you don’t want. You slip away from him the moment he’s distracted by some sponsor, ducking toward the balcony again for air. As it turns out, you’re not alone.

“Big crowd, huh?”

You turn, startled, and find a brunette against the railing, glass of water in hand. His tie’s loose, hair slightly mussed like someone’s been messing with it all night. His smile is easy, genuine, the kind that makes your shoulders drop without meaning to. You let out a breath. Lando gets you all tense.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s a lot.”

Alex chuckles. “First one?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little.” He grins. “But you’re doing fine. Better than I did my first one. I tripped over a server. Champagne everywhere.”

Your laugh is genuine, this time. That makes the first nice person you’ve met all evening.

“I’m Alex, by the way.” He offers his hand and you shake it, thankful for the small, normal gesture in a night that’s felt anything but.

You introduce yourself and he brightens. “Oh, you’re with Lando tonight?” he asks lightly, with only curiosity. “How’d you two meet?”

You freeze for half a second—how do you even explain that? That he crashed into your life like a hurricane, arrogant and infuriating, with a check big enough to clear your debts and a smirk that’s been haunting your sleep ever since?

“Long story,” you hedge, a little helpless. “Sort of accidental.”

Alex chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He nudges your shoulder gently. “He’s not all bad, you know. A menace, sure, but not all bad.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice.”

“Well, someone has to balance him out. You okay, though?”

Hell no, you want to say. Your mouths are already forming the words, before you smell that goddamn cologne. It’s like the electrical smell that precedes a storm, a warning. You turn and there’s Lando.

His eyes flick to Alex, then to you. “Making friends without me, sweetheart?”

Alex winks. “Just keeping her company, mate.”

Lando’s mouth falls into a frown, before he catches himself. “Right.” His gaze cuts to you. “Come dance,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You glance at Alex, completely helpless. He just squeezes your arm gently. “Go on. He’s useless without you.”

He leads you into the throng of people, fingers pressing into the silk at your hip. “Why’ve you been hiding?”

You twist, glaring up at him. “I wasn’t hiding. You dumped me for the wolves.”

“I was making the rounds.”

“And now what, you want a medal?” you snap. God, your heart is about to give out, as his thumb strokes a slow, deliberate line against your side. He spins you into him, just like that, the room tipping for half a second. His chest brushes yours. You feel the hard line of his arm at your back.

“Tell me,” Lando says, “how many of them have come over tonight? Kimi, Charles, George…they’re all wondering what you’re doing with me.”

“Makes sense,” you mutter, “so am I.”

“You’re not a model. You’re not anyone’s plus-one. You’re not chasing some influencer deal.” He lists them, all while keeping his eyes on you. “And you’re the only one in this room who actually wants me to fuck off all of the time.”

“Where’s this going, Norris?”

The edge of his thumb grazes your jaw. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t see you looking? You think I don’t know why you stayed?”

You snap, “I stayed because you booked me a goddamn plane ticket. And you keep showing up. And you don’t let people walk away.”

He leans in until there’s barely any air between you. You can’t breathe without inhaling every bit of him. “Neither do you. Couldn’t leave me without getting the last word, could you?”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I know. You like to tell me that a lot.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Inside the suite, it’s all hush and gold. You sigh, dig your thumbs under the straps of your heels, and nearly groan when they drop to the floor. God, why did you tolerate them? Your feet are crying with relief.

He clears his throat.

Lando.

He has one hand braced above his head, elbow to the doorframe, watching you with a kind of feigned indifference. You can tell it’s fake because his searching eyes are anything but lazy. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, from champagne or the night air or maybe just arrogance. His curls are mussed in that artful, infuriating way that makes you want to bury your hands in them and tug until he curses, letting out a guttural sound in spite of himself.

Fucking hell. It’s obscene, really, how beautiful he is. How sculpted his mouth is, the flash of gold at his throat, though gold isn’t the right word when you look at his tan skin. You should not be noticing any of this. You should not be noticing how his shoulders fill out that jacket or how his chest looks under the thin black shirt or how his lips parted, just slightly, when you caught his gaze.

“Why are you still here?”

He pouts. “Missed you.”

“You barely even know me.”

He pushes off the door, saunters in. “That’s the thing. Don’t know you, but I do know you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a trophy.”

You shake your head. “‘Course not. Trophy’s a little too nice to describe you.”

“You’ve been pulling away.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No I haven’t.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“You can’t just fly me to Monaco, drop me in a five-star hotel, and expect me to—”

“To what?” His voice drops. “Want me?”

Your throat clicks when you swallow.

“Don’t.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t get it, do you? You walk into a room and it bends around you, like you’re a fucking messiah. I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.”

And then he’s in front of you, crouching, one hand on your knee. Lando’s always had beautiful eyelashes. You’ve known since you first saw them that they would be the end of you. Now, they frame his eyes, those mesmerizing pools of light. They never stay one color. They might actually be clear, only reflecting what you want to see in them. He looks at you like you’re the moon, the stars, the sun.

His fingers are warm. Solid. For a moment you wonder what it would be like if you stopped fighting this, if you leaned in, if you let him win.

“I don’t want you to keep your head on straight. Not with me.”

“Maybe I should’ve been nicer to you.”

The adoration lingers in his eyes, but there’s a glint. “Oh, I like you mean.”

God help you, you want to kiss him. You want to shove him back on the bed, crawl into his lap, see if his mouth tastes like champagne or heat or both. You want to know if his hands shake when they touch skin or if he’s always this sure of himself.

All you can do is whisper, “Are you staying?”

His fingers curl a little tighter around your knee.

“Unless you tell me to go.”

You’ve never seen him so compliant to your wants. It does something to you. You’ve been demanding to him, always swearing, always telling him to go fuck himself. Still, he’s patient in a way that makes you ache, beautiful in a way that makes you furious.

You might owe him a moment. Just one, you swear to yourself. Just this once.

You pull him by the collar. He’s shocked, lips forming a perfect circle before they crash into yours with the urgency of someone who has waited far too long. Honey and saffron. Honey and saffron. You’ve associated it with him so long you’re certain someone wearing the same cologne is enough to make your knees buckle in public. His mouth is soft and prying, bringing out a soundless intake of breath from you. His mouth melds to yours.

Lando’s lips part, his tongue teasing against yours. You pull back, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows, his lips trailing down your jaw, then your neck. It’s like he can’t get enough.

You grip his shoulders, trying to steady yourself. It’s useless. Everything about him is a magnet, pulling you back in. You see him in his euphoric haze, his lowered eyelids. He makes a noise like a whine when you leave, as if he physically cannot bear being separated from you, and you think you might actually drown in want.

“Lando,” you whisper. God, your senses. Your head feels light, dizzy with the taste of him.

“Mm, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Just once, you told yourself. Just once.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re still half-wrapped in the robe you swore you’d only wear for five minutes after your shower, hair damp, skin bare and a little too aware of itself. But it’s so comfy, like being wrapped in a cloud, and you really can’t bear to take it off.

The door flies open once more, only seconds after you hear the buzz of an accepted keycard. Lando Norris is hardly a gentleman. He doesn’t even knock!

What he is, however, is a vision of casual, expensive sin—white tee hugging his shoulders, curls damp like he’s only just come from his own shower—okay, those are places your thoughts absolutely should not be going. He smiles. He knows exactly how pretty he looks standing in your suite.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”

Lando gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug. “You looked like you might sleep all day. Figured I’d save you from the crushing boredom.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Why did you even book the hotel for longer? The event is over.”

For a second, you swear he’s surprised you noticed. “I wanted to show you around. Monaco’s wasted on you if all you’re seeing is room service menus and the inside of a suite.”

You fold your arms tighter, suspicion prickling up your spine. “Are you serious? You could have just texted.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to see your face when I said it.”

Your pulse jumps. Stupid, traitorous heart. You still need to talk to him about that whole kiss last night. Is now a good time?

He pushes off the doorframe. “You coming or not?”

Once more, the everlasting train of no, I really shouldn’t, what the fuck? You should remind him you’re not some prize to be paraded around, not some girl in his endless rotation of models and influencers. You’ve done that many times now. But it doesn’t matter. The real problem is, he knows you’re not, and it’s why you’re still standing here.

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. There’s probably some sunscreen (expired, years old, from the last time you saw the light of the sun) and a water bottle in there. “But if you start acting like you own the place, I’m leaving you on the yacht or whatever ridiculous thing you have planned.”

“I’ll do my best. Deal.”

As you brush past him to the closet, you feel his fingers ghost lightly over your back. It’s nothing overt, just enough to set your skin humming, a sensation that’s only amplified when he pulls away.

“By the way, you look good in that robe.”

You nearly trip on the marble floor. Fuck. And he’s gone, before you can have him answer any of your other questions.

The café he drives you to is perched on the edge of the cliffs, all whitewashed stone and trailing flowers. Below, the sea stretches blue and endless. It’s so stupidly picturesque you almost laugh when you get out of the car.

He notices. “Yeah, yeah,” Lando says with a crooked grin. “I’m disgustingly good at this.”

“You? No, you probably have an assistant on speed dial for this kind of thing.”

He presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I need help to be this charming?”

Inside, you settle at a little table by the window. He orders for you without asking (of course he does) and the worst part is, he gets it right. When the waiter leaves, his eyes flicker to yours.

“So. About that kiss.”

You busy yourself unwrapping the sugar packet. Hey, you were going to ask about it. He keeps beating you to the punch. Fucker. God, you want to punch him. “It wasn’t a thing.”

“Oh, wasn’t it? Didn’t feel like nothing to me. Actually, didn’t sound like nothing to me either.”

You flush, scowl at your coffee. There’s a foam design on it, swirling hearts, little stars, and you have an itching suspicion that’s not the way they make all the coffees. “I was, well, I don’t fucking know, man. I was tired, it was late, you were being—”

“Devastatingly handsome? I recall being on my knees for you, too, if that helps.”

“A pain in the ass.”

Lando’s grin widens. He sets his foot against yours under the table, light and shameless. “You know, you can just admit you like me. We’re past pretending, sweetheart. You’ve already travelled the globe just to be with me.”

You kick at his ankle half-heartedly, to which he recoils, then returns. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, you have no idea what’s in my dreams.” His voice drops. You have to look away because, honestly, you don’t trust yourself enough to keep making rational decisions.

“You’re such a fucking menace.”

Lando’s foot nudges yours again under the table, a teasing little tap that makes you jolt. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”

“You’re lucky this is good coffee, or I’d have thrown it in your face by now.”

He grins, all teeth and trouble. “You like me like this.”

“Fuck off.” You kick his ankle harder, but it’s not much of a deterrent. His leg just shifts, stretching out under the table, and now the toe of his shoe is tracing up your calf. “Christ, Lando.” You squirm in your seat, swatting at his knee under the table. That’ll stop him. No, it doesn’t. It only enhances that shit-eating grin.

“What?” he says innocently. “Just stretching my legs.”

“Stretch them in your own damn space,” you hiss. There’s no bite in it, not really, not when your skin feels hot where his foot brushes yours, not when he’s watching you like that.

“Tell me you didn’t think about it last night.”

You scowl. “Bullshit.”

“Mm.” His foot hooks lightly around your ankle. “Didn’t deny it, though.”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. “For fuck’s sake, you are relentless.”

“You’re cute when you swear at me.”

You flip him off without lifting your head.

“Adorable,” he says, chuckling.

After you have another cup of coffee (it really is that good, you wish you could bring it back to Bristol), he finally gets you to leave. “So, tell me. You’re wearing all this, and we’re on a beach in Monaco. Aren’t you hot in that?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, though you can already feel the heat creeping up your neck.

“I mean, that dress. You’re practically suffocating in it. You should’ve gone for something lighter. You know, something a little more practical for the heat.”

His gaze traces over every inch of you. “It’s a fucking dress, not a snowsuit, Norris,” you say, feeling that faint heat rise between your legs from his words alone.

Lando steps closer to you, matching your pace, his shoulder brushing against yours. You want to push him away, to keep some distance. “I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve got all these layers on. Don’t you want to take them off?”

The way he says it, so casually, so confident…you freeze.

Lando sees you hesitate. “What, you can’t handle the heat? I could help you cool down, you know.”

“No, we are not shagging in a public space.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, and his hand brushes yours. “Who said anything about shagging? You’re not fooling me. I can see it in the way you’re walking.”

“Don’t,” you warn him.

“What? Don’t what? Don’t call you out for being so hot and bothered? You’re practically begging me to notice.”

You can’t stop the sigh that escapes your lips, not when his words are like a drug running straight through you. You step away from him slightly. Like all the other attempts you’ve made to clear yourself of his presence, it’s futile. He’s there, his voice in your mind, the ghost of his touch on your skin. He’s still right there. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You trail behind Lando as he unlocks the door to his apartment. You already bumped into two other drivers, one you don’t know, the other who looked like he belonged in a museum. Some French name, you forget. His girlfriend was also exceedingly pretty.

You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe sleek bachelor minimalism or cold, show-off money. But it’s surprisingly cozy. There are a few race helmets. The scent hits you next, nice laundry detergent layered with leather, engine oil, and beneath it all, unmistakably him. Sweet like honey.

Lando drops his keys into a bowl, sauntering off toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.

Your eyes wander. There’s the massive racing simulator near the window. It’s absurdly expensive, obviously. Framed photos of him on podiums, some with friends you half recognize (Max, you think his name is, Lando’s best mate.) Some are just his grinning face in a champagne shower. Photos, photos, trophies…a small handbag, perched on the back of the couch.

Next to it, delicate sunglasses, definitely not his. They’re too small to cover his face. And a hair clip, one of those pearly ones, girly and pink, resting on the coffee table like it belongs here.

You frown, fingers brushing the edge of the bag without thinking. “Uh…Lando?”

“Yeah?”

You pick up the clip, turning it over in your fingers. “Whose stuff is this?”

For the first time, there’s a pause. He stills in his movements. Then, “Oh, uh, Magui’s.”

You blink. You repeat, “Magwee?”

He pokes his head out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in one hand. “She’s a friend.” Lando’s tone is light, breezy. “Mostly PR.”

“Mostly?” you repeat.

“Why? You jealous, sweetheart?”

You scoff, dropping the clip back onto the table. “No.”

“Mm. Could’ve fooled me.”

The handbag. The sunglasses. That hair clip. Now it’s flipped onto the other side, you see gems spelling out ‘Magui.’ Magui. Who the hell is Magui? More accurately, what the hell is Magui? Who even names their kid Magui? Is it short for something? Marguerite? Magnolia? Some cool European thing?

You watch Lando move casually back into the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter as he opens the water. You cross your arms, aiming for indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like we’re a thing anyway.”

His brow twitches. You almost miss it, because then he’s sauntering toward you. “Not a thing, huh?” he murmurs.

“Exactly.”

“Hmm. Funny.”

“What’s funny?” You glare at him.

“That you care so much for someone who’s not a thing.”

You answer, too quickly to seem casual, “I don’t care.”

“Sure, sweetheart. That’s why you’re glaring at a hair clip like it killed your cat.”

You open your mouth, splutter, “I don’t even have a cat—”

Lando plucks the clip from the table and twirls it between his fingers. “She’s just a friend,” he says, “we have fun at events. She knows the game.”

The game. Right. You know exactly what game. And yet, the thought of him with someone else—all golden skin and quiet smiles and easy laughs, God, you can imagine her already—punches straight through your stomach.

“Good for you.”

“You know, she always said I should bring someone to the next Grand Prix.”

“So?”

“So…” He flashes a slow grin. “Guess I already have someone, don’t I?”

“Lando, I have a job. A real one. With hours and a boss and everything.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need a job. You have me.”

Your heart trips, stumbles, tries to right itself. “No, not really.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a cut slice of abs, just to be a menace. “When’s the last time you took a real break? You deserve one.”

“When is it even?”

“Miami. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Hell no. I already followed you to Monaco. I got to go back, I have assignments due. Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he drawls, sinking onto the couch and one knee brushing yours. “You’d look so good on my arm. You can do your work when we get back to the hotel, baby. It’s not all day.”

You try not to feel your insides go liquid. “I hate eagles.”

“What?”

“Miami. Eagles. I don’t know.”

His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “You would’ve loved Logan.”

You pull a cushion onto your lap, hugging it to your chest. “Is there another one? Somewhere…less Miami?”

“There’s always another one. But you might have to stay longer.”

“Whatever. Okay. This one.”

His whole face lights up. “Yay,” he says, and it’s so cute your heartbeat picks up. He brushes his fingers over your wrist like he can’t help himself. You hope he doesn’t realize.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Baby.”

You ignore him.

“Baby.”

You click aggressively on your document. It’s crazy that planes have WiFi. Thank god Lando’s rich, you can’t imagine how much it must cost to get this good of a connection.

“Sweetheart.”

You sigh, yanking one headphone out. “What, Lando?”

He’s sprawled across the leather seat across from you. He has one socked foot propped on the table and his hoodie looks very comfy. You’ve been working for two hours. Come nap with me.”

“Some of us have to pass our classes.”

“Some of us are world champions.”

You roll your eyes. “Go flex that on someone else.”

He does, apparently. Miami hits you like a slap in the face, like it’s annoyed you’re taking up so much of its mistress’s time, the mistress being Lando. You can tell he loves this place. You do not. You’re not going to miss the heat, the flashing cameras, the chaos outside the airport. Lando’s security team pushes through the crowd as reporters yell his name.

“Who’s this? Lando, is this your girlfriend?”

“Miss, what’s your name? Are you coming to the paddock, too?”

You’re stunned into silence. Lando’s arm finds itself around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Alright, that’s enough, guys,” he says coolly. He wears a practiced smile as he steers you through the crowd. He’s probably done this thousands of times. You barely remember how you get to the car.

“Breathe,” Lando coos, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

You shoot him a flat look. “You owe me so much coffee for this.”

So, you’ve never watched Formula One—aside from that one time Mara sent you a video of someone passing Lando—but this looks a lot more stressful than that clip. Speaking of Mara, you pick up your phone and dash a quick message:

you bloody hell i hate this place

She doesn’t see it. She’s still sleeping, which is much nicer than your current situation. Cameras flash in your face. Women with glossy hair and model-long legs float past in designer dresses and tiny heels that shouldn’t work on gravel but somehow do. You grip the pass hanging from your lanyard so tight your fingers ache.

Lando’s hand is still on your lower back, an anchor you can’t leave. To be honest, you don’t want to. He’s the least irritating thing at the moment.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re with the coolest guy here.”

“That is so debatable. We walked past Florence Pugh five minutes ago.”

“I said guy.” He grins, one-handedly signing a cap handed to him, posing for a photo, laughing with a sponsor. Lando looks perfectly at ease here. The attention craves him.

You just want to disappear.

“Hey!” a voice cuts through the noise. You turn and nearly crash into Alex Albon, beaming, casual in his shirt. “Hey, hey. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” There’s a gorgeous woman next to him, who he gestures at and says, “This is Lily.”

“Hi Lily, hi Alex.”

You hear someone say “Babe!” and it’s sure as hell not Lily, because her mouth hasn’t even opened yet. Your head snaps up. A girl with sun-streaked hair and model cheekbones walks up and kisses Lando’s cheek.

“I’m Magui,” she purrs, eyes flicking over you dismissively. She’s already decided you aren’t a threat.

“Oh. Hi,” you say, because what else is there? You hear yourself, how flat and awkward you sound, and you want to punch a wall.

Lando glances at you, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know Magui. Magui, careful, this one tends to cuss.”

This one. Not your name. Not even a soft tease. Just…this one. Magui laughs like she’s heard this joke before and tucks herself closer to him. You’re going to lose your mind.

When the clock ticks closer to the start of the race, you’re left largely to your own devices. There’s no Lando to latch onto now.You try not to look for Magui—you try—but your eyes keep flicking toward where she disappeared into the swarm of PR people. The lights go out.

It’s chaos into Turn 1. Lando’s there, starting in fourth (or something, maybe you heard wrong) carving his way through like a man possessed. P3 by lap 10, P2 by lap 25, and you can hear his engineer crackling through the headset:

“Let’s bring this home.”

Lap 40. P1.

P1.

You know, it would be a lot more interesting if you understood this a little more. P1 is at the front, you know. Everyone’s glued to the screens, to the track. You’re just worried he’s going to crash. Fuck, these cars are loud. And fast, but you already knew that. By the last ten laps, the whole McLaren garage is on its feet, the mechanics shouting, banging on the pit wall.

When the checkered flag waves, it’s like the world explodes. The crowd is screaming. The McLaren crew goes ballistic and you’re just frozen, stunned, chest so tight it hurts.

P1. Miami winner.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The champagne is still stuck to him after the podium spray. His cheeks hurt from smiling, his throat’s raw from shouting over the team radio (“fuck yeah, well done, team!” Or, more accurately ‘f***yeah, well done team!) because the FIA censors everything. You know, he almost slipped in a few more expletives, thanks to your bad influence), and there’s only one thing that could make his day better. Lando’s eyes dart through the crowd. Everyone wants a piece of him. Everyone but you.

Where the hell are you?

A hand wraps around his arm. “Lando! Oh my god, you were insane out there!” Her arms are around his neck, perfume sugary-sweet. She presses a kiss to his cheek, laughing for the cameras, pulling him in like she belongs in this moment. He stiffens.

“Magui,” he says quietly, trying to peel her off. He’s still looking for you and she’s blocking half of his line of sight. “Not now.”

She just giggles and loops her arm tighter. She’s basking in the spotlight, it’s too late to get her to snap out of it. Lando’s patience snaps like a wire.

“Magui,” he barks. It’s sharp enough that she flinches. “Did you say something to her?”

Her eyes go wide, faux-innocent. “What? Who?”

“You know who. Where the fuck is she? Did you say something to her? Did you screw this up?”

Magui’s lips part in a little gasp, that wounded look she pulls out when it’s convenient. Hell, the cameras are going to love this. “Lando, I didn’t—”

He swears under his breath, before yanking her limbs off him. He twists on his heel to scan the crowd again. The garage. Check. The gates. Check. The pit lane. Check. All the people chanting his name, all the cameras flashing. Normally, he loves it. Right now, none of it matters. None of it means a damn thing if you’re not here.

I just won Miami. Why the fuck aren’t you here?

He kicks at the ground.

“Maybe she left,” Magui suggests from behind him. Her voice irritates him, a little stab between his ribs.

His fingers twitch. Is he panicking, right now? His breath shallows, oppressed by the noise. His mind is a whirl. Did you see something? Did Magui corner you? Did you think you weren’t wanted here? That you didn’t matter? He can’t breathe, it’s like your presence is the only thing keeping the rock off his chest, and now you’re gone its plunging, weighing him down and—

You. His whole body kicks into motion before his brain can catch up.

There you are.

He hears someone yell his name, probably for an interview, maybe for a photo, and he ignores it, almost knocking over a cameraman.

He only wants you.

You looked pretty overwhelmed, shoved forward by the crowd but still somehow trying to disappear.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then you’re in his arms. Lando buries his face in your hair, the scent of you cutting through all the smoke. His fingers tremble a little where they clutch at you. He was going insane looking for you. “I couldn’t fucking find you. Jesus, you.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His large hands cradle your jaw.

“I just won Miami,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “And the only thing I could think was where the hell is she—” Lando surges forward, hungry, desperate. All these people and he just wants you to anchor him.

You flinch back, hands on his chest.

“Lando,” you whisper, lips just brushing his. “no. Not here. I don’t want…”

He readjusts, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Okay. Okay. Not here.”

“Mate!” You’re not seriously leaving, are you?” He hears Max holler. You back off instinctively.

“I don’t know,” he says, glancing back at his best friend, then at you. “My girl—”

Max whistles low, “Didn’t know we were calling her that yet.”

Lando flips him off half-heartedly, before pulling him into a quick hug. “Shut up.”

He side steps toward you, but you beat him to it, pushing off the wall, sliding in beside him, and you’re trying so hard to be relaxed but he can read it all over your face: the tight shoulders, the too-wide eyes, the quiet little “ugh” under your breath when another cluster of reporters swarms over. “Hey, hey.” Lando ducks his head to you. “You good?”

You sigh. “Fucking hell, man. Sure. Let’s go. I’m a bartender, I’ll make drinks for your cocky ass or something.” You wave a hand. Your eyes flick to the cameras and your mouth pulls tight again.

“That’s why I keep you around, sweetheart.” Before Lando can say more, the media hits.

“Lando! One quick word!”

“Lando, what changed after quali?”

“Who’s the mystery girl, Lando?”

“Will you be celebrating together tonight?”

“Is this your girlfriend? Are you confirming?”

You freeze. You’re plastered to his side. Lando leans into the mic with a smirk, his arm around you. “You’ll have to wait for the documentary, mate.” He’s still grinning when he steers you out of the crush. Obviously, a win brings a hell lot of adrenaline; but this, this right here, with your fingers knotting nervously into the hem of his sleeve?

This is what’s making him dizzy.

Lando’s enamored with how you lean on him, how your trust in him is something sacred. It’s something earned, something he has carved slowly with every word and every action. From pity to hatred to tolerance to…well, you kissed him, didn’t you? There’s a sweetness in the way you depend on him now, even if you can’t do it without cursing him and his mother, too.

He doesn’t want you to slip away, to ever feel like you could. It’s simple, really. Lando just wants to keep you close and needing him. Because you don’t, not all the time, not like all the others. He’s earned this.

To hell if he’s going to let it go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

There’s plenty for him to focus on at the club, with bodies packed tight. There’s bass rattling his chest and too many drinks being passed around. Lando’s friends are out there, hollering, getting wasted, but he can’t look at anything but you.

You in that dress, that little black thing that glimmers every time you move. It rides scandalously high on your thighs, straps slipping just barely off your shoulders like they’re exhausted from the fight to stay up. Your skin practically glows under the club lights. You’re flushed from dancing, laughing, drinking. God, the way you laugh with your head tipped back. Lando swears it’s rewiring his brain. He’s never seen you so carefree before. Usually, you’re all sweet behind the bar, testy when its necessary, but that’s all to make the customers happy. You’re happy right now and its out of duty to no one.

“Jesus Christ,” Lando mutters, eyes glued to you. He doesn’t even hear Max at first.

“Mate.” Max elbows him. “You coming or just gonna stand here having a religious experience?”

“Fuck off,” he says jokingly. His eyes never leave you.

He’s not even drunk, not really. He’s had one, maybe two drinks, something shoved into his hand after the podium. And there was another raised in a messy toast when Max pulled him into a corner, but Lando feels wrecked.

Every inch of his skin is hot. He can’t stop touching you, can’t stop following you with his eyes. It’s like his body has locked onto yours, marking his territory. As usual, a palm on the small of your back. His fingers like to graze your wrist when you reach for a drink, almost like a nice bracelet. The way you fit under his arm, the way you lean into his space without even thinking about it, it’s all setting him on fire.

His mind is a mess:

You smell like vanilla and summer.

You feel like absolute sin pressed up against him.

He wants to ruin you. Desperately wants to pull you into a dark corner and shove you against the wall, mouth hot and desperate on your throat, hips pressed so tight you’ll feel him in your bones. He wants to peel you out of that dress, watch it pool at your feet while you look at him. Wants to sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, leave marks no one else can touch, can claim. He wants to leave them there for the whole world to see.

But more than that, more terrifying, is this ache in his chest. It’s not just lust, unfortunately. Lust is easy to deal with. If he just wanted to get in your pants, it would’ve ended that second time you met, when he was sober and at the bar. He wouldn’t have bothered to keep hounding you.

It’s the way you look at him like he’s just Lando, not the man on every billboard. It’s the way you call him out on his bullshit, the way you refuse to laugh at his terrible jokes, the way you chew on your straw when you’re tipsy and overthinking. It’s the way you make him feel seventeen again, half-drunk on adrenaline and dizzy with wanting. The way he turns clumsy and nervous and utterly gone for someone who could shatter him with a word.

And when you come back from the bathroom, eyes lost until they land on him, when you light up like the fucking sun just because he’s looking at you…Lando feels his knees damn near buckle.

“There you are,” you tease, somewhat out of breath from dancing, “thought you were supposed to be the life of the party. Disappointing.”

“Yeah? You gonna dance with me, sweetheart, or just torture me from across the room all night?”

Your mouth comes dangerously close to his ear. “You look thirsty.” You press your drink into his hand. “Try not to choke.”

“You’re fucking killing me.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I really do.”

“You know what I keep thinking about?” His fingers trail up your spine, making you shiver. “How fast I could get you out of this dress. How good you’d sound falling apart for me. How bad I want you right now.”

He feels your body react to the words. “Lando,” you warn, “behave.”

“Not a chance, baby.”

Max whistles as he passes, wiggling his eyebrows. “You two gonna come to the afters, or are you skipping straight to dessert?”

“I’m a bartender, Max, I am the afters,” you laugh, shaking your head. Then, lower, so Max doesn’t hear, “c’mon. I owe you a dance.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

(SMUT STARTS HERE)

You step into the elevator, your heels clicking against the polished floor. Lando follows, eyes hungry, already deprived of what he’s been begging for the entire car ride. You know you’re going to regret holding him off. Well, it’s going to be enjoyable on your part.

“Did you plan this, or are you just cruel by nature?”

You turned your head away, as not to distract him from the road. Who’s flustered now?”

His fingers slid a little bit higher. “You want me dead? Well, you’ll get your wish if you keep acting like this.”

The car jolted forward. Lando’s hand tightened instinctively on your thigh. God, his hands were too close to your core. You meant to shift away. If he knew how wet you are, it’d be the end of your ego and dignity.

“Lando.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rasped, “I know, I know.” But his hand was still there, his thumb tracing idle, maddening circles against your skin.

The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal the plush hallway. It doesn’t matter that you’re not inside the suite yet. Lando’s decided it’s close enough to get started, plump lips on yours. He tastes like the last drink you mixed for him and you feel a flush of pride at that. He’s what you make him, isn’t he?

Your arrogance doesn’t last very long, because he smirks against your mouth when he draws out a lewd moan. Fucking hell. Lando’s hands roam your body, shoving you against the walls as the two of you stumble to the door. Hopefully, you’re not causing too much of a commotion for the neighbors.

“Lando—” you choke out. He has a special reaction to his name, a brief moment of lucidity, and the door is finally open. He spins you around, pushing you against the door in order to close it.

His fingers find the hem of your dress, hiking it up to reveal your bare thighs.

“Lando!” you hiss again, “what are you doing?”

There are no more questions out of you, though, because you’re rendered to brief whimpers as his fingers brush against your entrance. He’s shoved your panties aside in the haste to get to you. Almost as an afterthought, he loops two fingers around each side and pulls them down your legs. You step out of them and allow him to resume.

He’s back at your folds, fingers sliding up and down the wetness, almost in preparation. Having collected enough lubricant, he dips inside, curling up to hit that sweet spot. It’s astounding, really, how easily he did so. As if he knows you already, inside and out. You sigh, your head falling back against the door, gaze falling away from him. In, out, in, out. You hear nothing but your own ragged breaths and the sound of his fingers pumping against your slick.

He doesn’t like that. Lando's other hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He angles his hand so he grasps you under the jaw. You can only keep your head up now. “Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers picking up pace.

Your hips buck against his hand, body begging for more.

"Such…a fucking asshole," you pant.

Lando chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and drawing his name, over and over, like that’s enough to bring you to exaltation.

Then he stops, the cruel thing he is. Lando pulls out his hand, leaving you empty, legs bare to the air around you. His fingers are dripping, and he makes sure you watch him as he takes a taste. “Mm. Sweet. Well, come on, sweetheart. Can’t have our first time be against a bloody door.”

God, you’re trembling. You have to hold your thighs together, desperate for friction, desperate for something to be where he once was. He’s ridiculously calm about all of this. You’re the one panting for more, he’s the one in control.

Lando watches as you stand before him, your body flushed with arousal. You know he can see your nipples, hardening under the dress’s sheer fabric. You didn’t wear a bra tonight. Bold choice. He’s noticing now, by the growing bulge in his pants.

"Clothes off," he commands. “I want to see you."

You hesitate for a moment, then your fingers fumble for the dress and yank down the flimsy material in one go. Lando's gaze never leaves you. He sits on the edge of the bed expectantly.

"Come here.”

You obey. You look at him, swollen lips, dark eyes, and wonder if he’s about to kiss you again.

“On your knees.”

Oh.

The words sink in. Want tightens, low in your belly. You drop, hands brushing the floor for balance, a shiver curling up your back as the cool air hits your skin.

How long has it even been since you’ve given a blowjob? You can barely remember, and that sharp flicker of panic slices through your arousal. What if it’s not good enough? What if this isn’t enough to hold him here?

No. You can’t have that. Now that you’ve finally let yourself give in, you’re going to make the most of it. Make him happy. Make him stay. God knows what you’d do without him, now you’ve gotten used to him. It’d be like trying to give up an addiction once you’re already useless without it.

You lift your eyes, fingers brushing lightly over his waistband. The way he looks at you—half-wild, like you’ve undone something inside him—makes the nerves fade a little. You work his belt loose, the sound of leather sliding through metal too much to bear. It only makes you think about what that belt would sound like against your skin. Stop daydreaming. He’s right there.

Above you, Lando’s breath hitches. When you glance up through your lashes, his hand is flexing at his side as a way of holding himself.

“Fuck…” he grunts, “baby, get on with it. Please.” His eyes are pinned to you, disbelieving. Like your mouth on his cock is something he’s wanted too long, and can’t quite believe he’s finally getting. You ease him free, feeling the weight of him in your hand. Bigger than what you’ve had before, definitely. You’d say six and a half, seven? Seven and a half? It’s hard to compare when your mind is so foggy.

“Look at you.” His thumb brushes your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth and prying open. “So fucking pretty like this.”

The praise hits you hard. Wetness pools again. Fuck. Such a tease. You let him guide your pretty mouth to his hardened erection, and lick at it, just a bit. You his breath punch out a muttered curse, his hips jerking just slightly.

“Jesus—”

You move slowly at first, widening your mouth and taking in him, bit by bit. You find your rhythm, your tongue tracing delicate patterns, learning every twitch of his body. Every choked-off sound that spills from his throat is a sign that you’re doing good, a beautiful sound you’re going to be replaying the next time you’re alone in your room. His fingers thread into your hair, tight enough to sting. For a second you wonder if he’s going to pull you back, but he just holds you there.

You try something new. You lick a slow line along the underside, feeling him twitch in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you, the muscles jumping as he swears again.

“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his hair teased with sweat that trickles down his neck. He’s golden, even now, a god in your palm. All yours to toy with. You have no doubt that if you asked for anything right now, he’d give it. His chest heaves, a flushed pink creeping down his body. He’s not even undressed yet and you can only dream about what’s under that shirt.

When you take him deeper, hitting the back of your throat, his whole body jolts. You hear a choked sound breaking out of him. The sound reverberates through his whole body, and in turn, through yours.

“Look at you,” he pants. You’re drooling a little from his sheer girth and he wipes it away. “So good for me, fuck! So good, baby.” You bob your head up and down, ignoring the urge to gag, trying to take his whole length. That does it.

“Shit—shit—baby—” His fingers yank hard on your head, wanting even more of you, wanting to fill you all the way, so nothing can ever come between you two. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—wait—”

He comes in your mouth, hot and salty. You have to move your head back so you don’t choke on all of him. You’re sure some of it makes it out of your mouth, drips onto your chin. He doesn’t mind. Lando drags you up roughly.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him. On the taste of him in your mouth, on the way his hands grip your hips like he’ll die if you move even an inch away, on the broken sounds that slip out of him like he’s never been this unmade.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice shaking, mouth grazing your jaw, your cheek, your temple like he’s blessing you with every kiss. “No one’s ever—”

And you realize it’s not even about sex, not anymore. This arrangement? Fuck, all the little details are lost in every moment you spend with him. He murmurs mine, mine, mine between half-kisses like a prayer.

“God.” Lando says, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. Really, it’s mixed with his, the culmination of whatever the hell this is. “You’ve fucking ruined me.”

You’re ruined right alongside him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs weak, lips parted. This hasn’t even started yet. No desperate, gasping stretch of bodies fitting together. You’ve only gotten the slightest taste of him, he only the slightest of you. There’s so much you don’t know yet, so much to discover.

“Come here. You’re mine, yeah? Say you’re mine.”

Your hands clutch at his shirt. “Yours.”

The sound he makes at that nearly undoes you both.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now it’s hours later. You’ve lost track of time. His shirt’s somewhere near the minibar, your dress is long discarded. The sheets are twisted, dirty, pulled halfway off the bed. Lando’s asleep. His arm is locked tight around your waist. Unconsciously, his head is still in the crook of your neck. You can feel him, his breath hot against your skin, and judging by how ragged he sounds, someone’s having fun in his dreams.

His fingers keep sliding over your skin, as if the act calms him.

“Baby, baby,” you whisper. You can’t do this either. Might as well get him up, let him have the real thing. “Baby.” You turn around and the loss of contact is enough to wake him. His eyes flutter open, dazed, beautifully clear.

He croaks your name, the one thing he’s certain of. His lips graze yours, then your shoulder.

You’re drunk on him. The warmth of his skin, the way his hands know exactly where to go, the softness under all that cocky charm. You haven’t left the room in days. Neither has he. You reach back, threading your fingers through his messy curls, and Lando groans, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck.

There’s a knock at the door. You both freeze, blinking at each other. You’ve forgotten anyone else exists.

“I’ll—I’ll get it,” he says, voice hoarse. Lando scrambles into sweatpants, hair sticking up wildly. You admire the view, the way his chest peeks out under the hastily buttoned shirt. He opens the door just enough to grab the tray, mumbling something to the waiter you can’t hear, and then he’s kicking the door shut again. He’s grinning like an idiot.

“Saved the day,” he says, collapsing onto the bed beside you. “Hero.”

The food goes mostly ignored. Fries are stolen between kisses; champagne is knocked over onto the carpet, bubbling and forgotten. He feeds you a piece of a burger with his fingers, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, asking for permission. You allow him, swallow the food, and yet his thumb lingers. His eyes are wide and pleading.

God, you’d do anything for him.

You glance up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Hours after his last orgasm, his pupils are once again blown wide, lips parted slightly. Slowly, you part your lips and let his thumb slip inside, just a little, your tongue barely grazing the pad.

The sound Lando makes is low in his throat, instant. His free hand fists the sheets, knuckles going white.

“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again. “Sweetheart…”

You pull his thumb deeper, hollow your cheeks a little, tongue brushing lazy circles over the tip. Your teeth grazing just enough to make him flinch and tighten his grip on the bed. You know exactly what it’s doing to him.

“So pretty for me, all for me.” he says. When you finally release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, his control snaps. His hands are on you in an instant, dragging you into his lap, kissing you open-mouthed, messy.

You can feel him, hard and aching beneath you. Lando’s not the only eager one here. You roll your hips, trying to find the right feeling. You rise up just enough to tug his sweats down, both of you breathless with laughter and gasps, trembling with how bad you need this, need each other. He’s perfect, red and angry, glistening with pre-cum.

Of course, this is no longer the first time. Your bodies know each other, have found the map to ecstasy. You sink onto him in one smooth plunge, swallowing him whole. Lando curses low and sharp, head falling back against the pillows.

You move slowly at first, a teasing roll of your hips. You spell his name, starting with the ‘L,’ a long roll downwards, then jerking to the side. It has him nearly sobbing beneath you, but you can’t stay slow for long. He bucks up into you, chasing every drag and slide. You hear his skin on yours, a slapping noise that reverberates around the room, his voice underneath you, pleading, praising, cursing. You bounce in his lap, legs on both sides of him.

And when it’s over, when you’re both boneless and shaking in the sheets, Lando’s hand slides lazily up your spine, caging you close. He starts, “oh, sweetheart, you’re—” but the words fall away.

You’re both still catching your breath when his phone, forgotten on the nightstand, starts to buzz insistently.

Lando groans, trying to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing.

Finally, he gives up and blindly grabs for it.

“Hello?” He winces. “Oh. Hi, yeah. Yeah, I know.”

You watch him, propped on one elbow, smiling as you stroke a hand down his chest. You draw little hearts on his abdomen, watching him breathe sharply with every ticklish sensation. He shoots you a helpless look as your hand wanders lower.

He says again into the phone, “I know I can’t stay in Miami forever…yeah, okay, okay, I promise.” Lando throws the phone to the side. “I can’t, technically, but I can bring you around, yeah?”

“Don’t talk about work,” you feign a yawn. “It’s boring me.”

“Oh yeah? Does this bore you?” he drawls, before shifting further away from you, towards the end of the bed. You raise your eyebrows, unsure of where this is going, before he pulls one of your legs across him, sitting you firmly on his face. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

His tongue laps at you and you squeal.

(SMUT ENDS HERE)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re hunched over your laptop on the hotel balcony, knees tucked to your chest. The blue glow of the screen painting your face. Hot air sticks to your skin, plastering your hair across your forehead. Your inbox is overflowing, your Google doc blinking a half-finished sentence back at you, and every five minutes your school portal pings another notification. One of your professors has flagged your last assignment as ‘significantly late.’ You close the tab fast. That might make it less real.

Inside, the room is still dark. Although it’s nearly noon, blackout curtains are drawn shut. Lando’s sprawled across the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single deadline to his name. He probably doesn’t.

“Come back to bed,” he calls, not looking up.

You shake your head. “I need to finish this. I’m behind.”

Then: “Behind on what? You’re on vacation, sweetheart. You’re with me.”

“I still have work,” you say, and a little bit of temper makes its way through to your voice. “Just because you hauled me off to another country doesn’t mean my life disappeared.”

You hear the sheets rustle. Then he’s there, barefoot and warm behind you, crouching down so his chin rests on your shoulder. He kisses just below your jaw, softly, and the resulting absence only deepens your craving.

Lando murmurs, “you’re always working. Even when you’re with me.”

You stiffen. “That’s because I have a degree I need to get. I can’t afford to screw this up, Lando.”

His arms slip down, under your arms, around your waist, and he nudges the laptop closed with one finger.

“Hey,” he says, “no one’s asking you to screw anything up. But you’ve been so stressed. You haven’t smiled properly in days.” His lips brush your collarbone. “Don’t you want to just breathe for a second?”

You hesitate. You want to say no, because breathing for a second is not going to help you get anything done. You want to say this is important. But Lando has a voice of silk, wrapping around your ribs, and the laptop is already closed. He shifts so he’s in front of you, and now his hands are warm on your thighs, slowly maneuvering upwards, upwards.

“I can help you. Just take a break. Come lay down with me. We’ll get someone to handle whatever you’re behind on. I’ll make some calls. Easy.”

“You can’t just make calls to fix my classes.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lando says. It’s a joke, but not really. “Baby, you don’t need to kill yourself over a few grades. You have me now.”

“I like working,” you say. It sounds weak.

He kisses you again, on your cheek. Both your hands are in his. “You like overthinking.”

“Come on. Ten minutes. No school. No stress. Just me.”

Ten minutes of heaven. Ten minutes turn into twenty, thirty, and you’re in Lando’s bed for at least an hour before you check the clock, maybe longer. He’s in the shower. Your phone buzzes on the pillow beside you.

mara(malade) babe you can’t be dying on me

mara(malade) hellloooo?

mara(malade) ANSWER MY FT

You answer, flipping the camera up too fast, revealing the luxurious headboard and the messy room behind you. There’s evidence of room service on the nightstand, a folded tablecloth under unused cutlery. Mara clocks it immediately.

“No. Are you in his hotel room again?”

You push your hair out of your face. “Yeah, just for a bit.”

“Don’t shit me.”

“I’m writing,” you lie, moving the laptop slightly to show the open doc, never mind that it’s been untouched for hours. “I’m almost done.”

“Dan told me you missed discussion again. Twice.” Dan is Mara’s boyfriend, a few years younger, and he’s in your class. What a snitch. You didn’t think he’d be watching your every action.

“I’ve been traveling. It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch up—”

Mara frowns. A little crease forms between her brows. “Babe, you said that last week. I’m just worried.”

You shift, tugging the blanket up higher even though it’s not cold. “I’m fine. I’m going home after this one. Just this race.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m not going to drop everything for some guy, okay?”

You hate how Mara looks at you. She doesn’t believe you. Her eyes are tired, emphasized by the smudged eyeliner she likes to wear, like she’s already mourning something you haven’t lost yet.

Behind you, the bathroom door clicks open. Lando walks out, a towel slung low on his hips. Steam curls out around him. He sees you on the phone and mouths who is it?

You wave him off and turn back to Mara. “I’ve got to go. We’re leaving for the track soon.”

Mara’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks more resigned. “Okay. Text me tonight, okay?”

“I will.”

You hang up before she can say anything else. Lando’s standing at the end of the bed now, rubbing his hair dry with another towel, bare chest still damp.

“Everything good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just Mara being dramatic.”

“Come here,” he says. “Come here.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara’s voice had been calm on the phone, but her words weren’t. “Just come back for a little. A week. You’re slipping, and I don’t mean your mental state—God, I don’t even want to touch on that. Babe, please. You’re scared to check your grades, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer that part. You just sighed and said, “Okay. Yeah. Maybe a few days.”

When you told Lando, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a while, not moving, and you were a little scared why you couldn’t read him. Then he nodded, real slowly. “Right. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s just a week.”

“Sure.”

You tried to kiss him before you left and he let you. His hands stayed in his pockets, though, and he turned away before you got into the car.

You feel it as soon as you land. A few hours pass with no text from him. No morning check-in, no “you up?” not even a dumb joke. You text him first. He replies and it’s short.

lan have fun with your school thing

You stare at your phone, heat prickling the back of your neck. Is he mad? He said it was okay. You try again later, sending a photo of the library, something neutral. This time, he doesn’t reply.

You lie awake that night wondering if you should’ve just stayed. If this means he’s over it. Over you.

You check your phone again. Still nothing. And you’re cold in your own bed, wondering when your own life started to feel less like yours and more like something you borrowed from him.

From your manager:

“Hope your break was fun. Let me know how many extra days you’ll be taking. If you’ll be back.”

You sit frozen in your desk chair, rereading the line over and over. You hadn’t even realized how many days you were gone. You think of Miami and Emilia Romagna as a blur of cameras, hotel sheets, and Lando’s breath against your skin. You think of how quiet it is now. How he hasn’t even texted today.

From your professor:

“Please come by office hours ASAP. I’m concerned about your last two assignments.”

You close the laptop. Everything feels loud. Your room looks like someone else’s now, dust on untouched things, half-opened drawers. You haven’t unpacked. You haven’t even told your friends much—ha! Aren’t you a regular comedian, what friends are you talking about? Mara? And maybe that one other co-worker who kept getting the same shifts as you, Lils? Mara, Mara, who has been so good to you. Mara keeps sending messages, checking in. You brush her off, saying it’s okay. You’re not sure if you believe that.

Lando hasn’t called. It’s worse without him here, without the promise that he can make it go away with a little wave of his finger. No. Fuck him. If he can’t even call, he can go with Magui and make her problems go away. You can do this. You haven’t needed him up until now—why does it have to change?

You show up to Professor Wilk’s office five minutes early. You tap your fingers against your folder, trying to remember what it feels like to be someone who’s on top of her work. Her door creaks open before you knock. “Come in,” she says. Her voice reveals nothing, but you know she’s already seen your grades. You sit down stiffly across from her desk.

“I’ll get right to it. You’ve been slipping.”

You open your mouth. No excuse comes. Nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous, at least. Sorry, I was off on vacation with my sugar daddy. Sorry, he said he would solve it and I believed him. At least until I realized the problem was big enough and maybe I should take care of it myself instead of crawling back into his bed. Sorry.

“I know the beginning of the term was strong,” she continues, looking at your file. “You wrote one of the best first essays I’ve read this year. And now you’re missing half your citations. You left a whole section blank.”

You swallow. All she’s saying is true. “I’ve been dealing with some things.”

Professor Wilk nods. “We all do. I’m not here to punish you. But I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

You hesitate. You think of telling her that you flew across the world with a man who called you sweetheart before he called you anything else, who you knew first as a wreck that couldn’t get himself out of a pub. That you forgot what day it was because he kissed you like it was the end of the world, like there was nothing else he had to do. That your job is probably gone and your friends are worried and you haven’t had a proper thought to yourself in weeks. That it’s all been Lando this and Lando that and Lando please come back.

You tell her, “I’ve been distracted.”

“I can see that. I’m going to offer you a rewrite. A clean slate for your last essay. But I want to see you in my office every week until finals. Deal?”

You nod. “Deal.” Already, you’re wondering how you’re going to manage this. Lando’s not going to fly you back every week, is he? There must be limits to even his abilities.

She watches you for a moment longer. Gently, she says, “Don’t lose yourself for someone else. You’re too smart for that.”

You wonder if she knows. Not exactly who, maybe, unless she’s seen the tabloids. After all, Lando Norris isn’t exactly nobody in Bristol. But the way you look right now, tired, expensive sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to you, the faint shadow of a bruise under your collar…maybe she doesn’t have to know everything to know enough.

You leave the office quietly.

lan everything okay

You pause and stare at the singular message. There are no question marks, even though he’s asking things. And this is the first time he’s texted. Maybe three days since he responded. What does he want now?

you she offered me a rewrite

lan great

you but i have to meet w her every week

The read receipt pops up almost immediately. No reply, though, and you know what this means. He only confirms it.

lan so you’re staying longer?

you only a few more days i want to get things under control

lan ok then, sweetheartdon’t let them stress you out yk you don’t have to prove anything to them

you i know

lan come back when you’re ready

lan or just come back now

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: part 1! i have beef with tumblr, why did it make me split my beautiful story into two parts.

#formula one #lando norris x reader #max verstappen x reader #f1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #mv1 #ln4 #lando norris #max verstappen #fanfic #oikarma ᯓᡣ𐭩

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sheepispink · 2 months ago

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(platonic, 996 words)

Ghost wasn’t too keen on love, by definition it was clear he wouldn't be the man who sweeps anyone off their feet and into the sunset. Though nor would he snatch you up in the bar, take you home and then leave you shivering between sheets by morning.

Sure, he used to indulge himself in the occasional one night stand, but when he’s busy hunting down terrorist organisations, that’s considered to be a luxury only the sane can afford. Though, don't get him wrong, he doesn't have the slightest problem with it, even if Soap has tried to encourage him to find himself a pretty thing one of many times.

He just doesn't see the need. Special forces have never left room for outside commitments, whether that’s a pet or a houseplant. It’s not like he wants to deal with the emotional turmoil of guilt that comes with practically any relationship– he already misses his favourite mask when he has to put it in the laundry. The point was, he doesn’t want someone to entirely depend on his existence, who’ll crumble when he eventually disappears without a trace; it’s a fate too common with this job. All that matters in the end is having his team’s back, and them having his.

You loved to take that phrase a little too literally.

In fact, he’s positive you’ve fallen asleep against his side or back nearly every overnight mission you’ve had with him. Of course the other two sergeants followed too, until he had a cuddle pile all eventually leaning onto him like dominoes.Missions aren't the only thing though.

Today is the third time this month his door has opened on its own, during a similar hour of the night each time. Then, just like always, there’s a small whisper. “..Ghost?” He’s never really all that asleep anyway, but he makes sure to grunt and roll over like he’s been woken from the best sleep possible. Your wide eyes look at him, almost like a nocturnal animal the way you always have energy.

Every damn Saturday.

The first time it was a level you couldn’t nearly complete on your current game, last time it was because you had watched at least 20 commentary videos and thus had 20 topics to rant to him about. Today was different though, hence the oven mitts on your hands. “You want a snack?”

After scurrying back to the common room to grab whatever baked good you made, you return back with the entire airfryer tray, navigating through the darkness of his room to hop on the bed beside him. There’s a faint rustle as you open a pack of Price’s digestive biscuits and pass one over to him, who's still lying beneath the covers, blinking at you in confusion. “You came ‘ere to give me a biscuit?”

You huff and roll your eyes, snatching the biscuit back out of his hand and scooping up whatever is in the airfryer with it. “No you idiot; if you sat up you’d find out!” You can't actually shout at him since it’s two am, but you make your annoyance well known with a whisper shout anyway. Then you hand the biscuit back, letting his fingers pinch the bottom instead as he holds it up to his face. Sticky and sweet marshmallow and dripping chocolate–you got influenced by social media again. “Air fryer smores!” You announce excitedly, digging your own digestive biscuit in and scooping some up for yourself before letting out a whispered “Mmm!”. Well now he knows it’s edible, he scoffs it down all at once enjoying the balance in tastes.

Soon the pair of you have practically licked the tray clean, not a single speck left to pay remembrance to what you had cooked. You flop back against his pillows, licking your lips which does practically nothing to wipe away the chocolate smears on your cheeks. “Don’t get chocolate on my pillows.” He huffs, throwing a tissue into your face, which you only snicker at before cleaning yourself up.

“Were you actually sleeping when I walked in?” You roll onto your side to look at him, his hasty balaclava only letting his eyes peek at you, ones that look a little duller than usual. “A bit.”

That just makes you raise your brow almost accusingly, before he relents, his face half pushed into the pillow as he groans, hating the way you always see right through him. Just to prove his point, he rolls over, facing his back to you as he huffs, “You can go to your room now.”

“You’re so grumpy.” He can tell there’s a grin beneath your tone, especially when the duvets move, accompanied by your cold legs touching his. “Night, Ghost.”

He glances back at you, watching as you snuggle into the pillows on the other end of his bed. Damn you; of course you knew he’d sleep better with someone else beside him, reminding his shattered mind with each soft breath which leaves your lungs that the battlefield is far far away. You were always like this, the complete opposite of Soap and yet you both lit up the room the exact same. Ghost was stupid to think he wasn’t capable of love because whilst he’d never imagined kissing or even doing anything inherently romantic with you, his heart ached for your presence and his hands waited on your touch.

He rolls over, watching as you tighten your arms around the pillow, and decides to shuffle closer. You’re awake, clear from how your head twitches at the sound of the mattress creaking as he moves. “Stop ruinin’ my pillows.” He grumbles, arms snaking around your middle and tucking his face against the warm skin of your neck. It’s not romance; it’s stability and comfort, it’s warmth and emotion and he hates to admit it but he was wrong.

Ghost isn’t keen on romance, but he does love you for everything you are, and that wont change.

buy me a coffee!

#simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost fluff #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod x reader

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svtimagination · 12 days ago

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reply and regret | jeon jungkook | eyes in the dark series

✦ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook × Female Reader ✦ Genre: Dark Angst, Fluff, Smut (18+) ✦ AUs: Stalker AU, Obsession AU, Hidden Identity, Texting Stranger → Dark Romance ✦ Chapter Warnings: Stalking, Alcohol Use, Hidden Surveillance, Psychological Manipulation, Obsessive Behaviour, Flirty but Creeping Control ✦ Word Count: 2.1K ✦ Summary: Y/N’s harmless texting turns dangerously addictive, drawing her deeper into a stranger’s charm—unaware he’s been watching her long before she ever hit send. And now, she’s playing right into his hands.

MINORS DONT INTERACT

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-Y/N POV-

The shower helped. A little. Hot water washed away the sticky feeling of last night's alcohol, but my headache clung like a bad memory.

I wrapped a towel around myself, steam clouding the bathroom mirror, and grabbed my phone from the counter. The screen glowed with a new message.

Jungkook: Glad you survived, sweetheart. Tequila's a brutal opponent. Need me to send coffee?

I smiled, my cheeks warming despite the pounding in my head. Sweetheart. That word again. It felt… nice. Too nice for a random guy I'd texted by mistake.

But he was fun, and after last night's embarrassment, I wasn't ready to let the conversation die.

Me: Haha, you're sweet. I'll survive… but I'm never drinking again. Famous last words, right?

I hit send, biting my lip. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since… well, probably those bar fries last night.

Gross. I needed food. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Dressed in a comfy sweater and jeans, I headed to the kitchen, where my roommate,

Mina, was already brewing something that smelled like heaven. "You look like death," she teased, sliding a mug toward me.

"Thanks," I mumbled, grabbing the coffee. "Last night was… a lot."

She laughed. "Yeah, you were a mess. Texting some random guy? Bold move."

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Don't remind me. But… he's kind of fun."

Mina raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. "Fun? Spill."

I showed her the texts, and she giggled at my cringey drunk messages. "Jumpy JK? Billionaire Bunny? Y/N, you're a disaster."

"Shut up," I laughed, swatting her arm. "He's nice. Flirty, but not creepy."

"Yet," she said, smirking. "Just don't send him your address or anything."

I rolled my eyes. "It's just texting, Mina. Relax."But as I sipped my coffee, my phone buzzed again.

Jungkook: Never drinking again? I'll believe it when I see it. What's the plan today, trendsetter?

Trendsetter. I grinned, remembering my dumb nicknames for him. My fingers danced over the keyboard.

Me: Just surviving this headache. Probably heading to the café to study. You? Counting your billions?

I sent it, then grabbed my bag. "I'm going to the café," I told Mina. "Need to finish that assignment before I fail."

She waved me off, and I stepped outside, the morning air crisp against my skin.

The café wasn't far—just a short walk through the busy streets. My phone buzzed as I dodged a group of students.

Jungkook: No billions today. Just boring meetings. Send me a pic of that café. Bet it's cozy.

I raised an eyebrow. A picture? Bold. But it was harmless, right? When I reached the café, I snapped a quick photo of the storefront—its warm wooden sign and fairy lights twinkling even in daylight. I sent it to him.

Me: Cozy enough for you, Mr. Jeon?

I settled into my usual corner table, textbooks spread out, and kept texting him between sips of coffee. It was easy—too easy.

He asked about my classes, I teased him about his "fancy businessman life." It felt… friendly. Flirty. Fun.

But one thing bugged me. I didn't know what he looked like. Curiosity got the better of me.

Me: Okay, Jumpy JK, I sent you a café pic. Your turn. What does the mysterious billionaire bunny look like?

I hit send, my heart doing a little flip. Would he actually send a photo? I tried to focus on my assignment, but my eyes kept darting to my phone.

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

The café photo popped up on my screen, and I leaned back in my chair, a slow smile spreading across my face. My Marionette.

She was so trusting, so open. Sending me a picture of her favorite spot without a second thought. Did she even realize how much she was giving me?

I zoomed in on the image. The café's sign. The street name visible in the corner. I already knew this place—knew she went there almost every weekend to study.

I'd watched her through the window before, her pen between her teeth, her brow furrowed in focus.

But now, she was inviting me into her world, piece by piece. My thumb hovered over her latest message.

Marionette: Okay, Jumpy JK, I sent you a café pic. Your turn. What does the mysterious billionaire bunny look like?

A photo. She wanted to see me. My pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the thrill of it. She was curious. Good.

That meant she was invested, even if she didn't know it yet. I was careful. Always careful. My men were already nearby, watching her.

One lingered across the street from the café, blending into the crowd. Another was stationed near her apartment. I didn't need to be there myself—not yet.

They sent me updates: She's at the café. She's alone. She's texting.

Every move she made, I knew. Every step she took, my eyes followed. But she couldn't know that. To her, I was just a charming stranger.

A flirty businessman with a quick wit. Not the man whose world revolved around her.

I stood, adjusting the cuffs of my suit, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window of my office. The city stretched out below, but my mind was on her. Always her.

A photo. I could send one. But it had to be perfect—enough to draw her in, not push her away. I opened my camera, angling it to catch my face: sharp jawline, dark eyes, a faint smirk.

The suit helped—polished, expensive, but not overdone. I snapped the shot, checked it. Good. Let her see the man she was flirting with. Let her wonder.

I typed a reply.

Me: Careful what you wish for, sweetheart. Here's your billionaire bunny.

I attached the photo and hit send, my chest tightening with anticipation. Would her breath catch? Would her cheeks flush? I wanted to be there, to see her reaction, to watch her eyes widen.

The dots appeared. She was typing.

Marionette: Oh… wow. Okay, you're not a nerd in glasses. Hotshot businessman checks out.

I chuckled, low and dark. Hotshot businessman. If only she knew the truth. But for now, this was enough. She was hooked, and I was slipping deeper into her life with every text.

-Y/N POV-

My jaw dropped when his photo loaded. I blinked, leaning closer to my phone like that would make it less real. Jeon Jungkook was… gorgeous.

Dark hair falling just right over his forehead, eyes that seemed to stare right through the screen, a jawline that could cut glass.

And that suit—sharp, expensive, screaming money. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine.

"Holy…" I whispered, my heart doing that stupid flip again. Okay, maybe I was in over my head.

This guy wasn't just flirty—he was dangerously hot. I typed back, trying to play it cool.

Me: Oh… wow. Okay, you're not a nerd in glasses. Hotshot businessman checks out.

I hit send, then immediately regretted it. Too eager? Too obvious? Ugh. I set my phone face-down, forcing myself to focus on my textbook.

But my eyes kept drifting back. That photo. Those eyes. My phone buzzed again.

Jungkook: Glad I pass the test, sweetheart. Your turn. Fair's fair.

My turn? A photo of me? I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I wasn't drunk anymore—no liquid courage to make me reckless.

But… it was just a photo, right? He'd sent one. And he was being nice. Fun.

I glanced around the café. No one was watching. I opened my camera, angling it to catch my face—messy hair, no makeup, but the sunlight hit my eyes just right.

I smiled, soft and shy, and snapped the shot. Before I could overthink it, I sent it with a quick message.

Me: Don't laugh. Hungover Y/N isn't a model.

I held my breath, waiting. What would he say? Would he think I was… pretty? Why did I even care?

Jungkook: Laugh? Sweetheart, you're stunning. Hungover or not.

My cheeks burned. Stunning. He was good—too good. I hid my smile behind my coffee mug, my heart racing. This was just texting, I reminded myself. Just fun.

But as the day went on, I couldn't stop texting him. At the library, I sent him a photo of my messy notes, teasing him about his "boring meetings.

" Walking home, I snapped a picture of the sunset, joking that it was prettier than his office view.

Even when I met Mina and our friend Soo-jin for dinner, I sent him a group selfie, all of us laughing over pizza.

Me: Friends night! Bet your billionaire life isn't this fun.

He replied every time—quick, witty, flirty. It was like he was always there, waiting for my next message. And I liked it. Too much.

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

Every photo she sent was a gift. A piece of her life, handed to me without a second thought. The café. Her notes. The sunset. Her friends.

And that selfie—her smile, soft and unguarded, her eyes bright even through the screen. My Marionette was beautiful, and she didn't even know it.

I saved every image, my fingers lingering over each one. My office was quiet, but my mind was alive with her. She thought she was teasing me, pulling me into her world. She didn't realize I was already there.

My men sent updates: She's at the library now. She's with two friends at a restaurant. I didn't need to ask—they knew to watch her. Always.

From the shadows, from the edges of her life. She'd never see them. Never suspect. Her latest message buzzed through.

Marionette: Friends night! Bet your billionaire life isn't this fun.

I smirked, typing back.

Me: Pizza and laughter? You're winning, sweetheart. My night's just contracts and coffee.

A lie. My night was her. Always her. She was so open, so trusting. Sending me photos, telling me about her day.

Did she feel it—the pull between us? The way each message tied her closer to me? I was careful, always careful.

My replies were light, charming, never too much. She thought I was friendly. Flirty.

She didn't know I was obsessed.Her photo request had been a risk, but it paid off. She liked what she saw. Good.

Let her imagine me as the handsome stranger, the businessman with a soft side. Let her fall for the mask.

Because the real me—the man who watched her from the shadows, who knew her every move—wasn't someone she'd smile at. Not yet.

But she would. One day, she'd understand. She'd see that no one could love her like I did. No one could know her like I did.

For now, I'd play the game. Keep her texting, keep her smiling. Every message was a step closer to her heart. And I was patient. So patient.

-AUTHOR'S POV-

Y/N moved through her day unaware of the eyes on her. The man across the street, pretending to read a newspaper. The car that lingered a little too long at the corner.

The stranger who brushed past her at the library, his gaze lingering a second too long. Jungkook's web was invisible, spun with precision and care, and she was caught in its center without a single clue.

To her, the world was normal. The texts from Jungkook were a thrill—a secret game that made her smile, made her heart race. She didn't notice how quickly he replied, how perfectly he matched her energy.

She didn't question why he seemed to know exactly what to say, or why his words felt so intimate, like he'd known her forever.

Jungkook, meanwhile, was a master of control. His office was a fortress of power—glass walls, endless deals, a life that screamed success.

But his true empire was Y/N. Every photo she sent, every detail she shared, was another brick in the foundation he was building. A foundation she didn't even see.

He was careful—oh, so careful. His men were ghosts, blending into her world without a trace. His texts were a dance, each step calculated to keep her close but not too close.

Not yet. He couldn't afford a mistake—not when she was finally opening up, finally letting him in.

But beneath the charm, beneath the flirty words and handsome photo, something darker simmered.

An obsession that grew with every message, every smile she sent his way. Jungkook didn't just want her attention.

He wanted her everything—her thoughts, her heart, her life. And he was willing to wait, to play the long game, to weave his web until she had no choice but to be his.

Y/N laughed with her friends, oblivious to the man watching from the shadows. She texted Jungkook, unaware that he already knew where she was, who she was with, what she was feeling.

To her, it was a game. To him, it was destiny. And the strings of his web tightened, inch by inch, around his Marionette.

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TAGLIST: toosweetforyall6h magicalnachocreator

– DO NOT: repost, translate, copy, continue, or reimagine my work, and upload on different sites. this is mine. let it rest here.

#jeon jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook #bts fanfic #bts army #jungkook ff

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the-kr8tor · 3 months ago

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Do I Wanna Know?

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Synopsis: Hobie invites you to a gig and it doesn't end well.

Word count: 14.2k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Reader has nicknames, co-worker AU, part 2, mockumentary AU, slow burn, co-worker! Hobie, CW alcohol, CW anxiety, a bit of loser! Hobie.

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Co-worker AU Masterlist

Buy me a ☕?

Part 2 >>> Part 3

The music booms around the bar, bass reverberating against the sticky walls whilst the boom mics had to be toned down unless it'll break from the sheer volume. The glasses on the tables shake from the loud music, it's all felt through your chest. You stand near the bar, draped in black and a clearly borrowed leather jacket that still bears the initials of its owner right on the lapel— MJ.

Spotlights flicker in and out in the darkened room as the cameras hone in on your bobbing head and shining eyes. Your face says you're having fun, but from how you hug yourself and how you make your presence smaller by hiding behind the cheering crowd— you look uncomfortable to say the least. The music is nice while you tap your foot to the rhythm, but the new place and unfamiliar faces meld together in harmony to make you feel as out of place as possible.

Pursing your lips together as your gaze falls on Hobie's bare arms down to his lithe fingers playing the guitar expertly, you feel like a creep at your obvious ogling of your co-worker. Your hand feels frozen around your drink, as you take a sip, expecting the warm concoction to ebb through you, there's nothing left but a drop of it. You frown, eyes roaming around the noisy venue, trying to look for MJ until it stops at the out of place camera crew all huddled around in the corner.

Blinking, you narrow your eyes at them, realization flits across your face and morphs into shock and disgust.

“Fuckers.” You say, muffled and quiet enough to not be picked up by the boom mic as you place your glass on the table with a thud.

The documentary crew dodges the dancing crowd and elbows flying around as they get to you. All the while you try to escape from them by weaving through the crowd.

“Is that a dog?” Your eyes catch a four legged friend. You pause in the thick of it, pointing at an actual dog being carried around on someone's shoulders. It's meant to be a distraction for the camera crew, but it has you stopping by to look at the very happy dog getting pet by everyone.

The crew doesn't believe it at first while they're still a few steps behind you, but as you continue to point at the dog, they wrench the cameras away from you to film the dancing dog in the crowd. When they look back at you, you're already gone.

The numerous sweaty limbs uncomfortably brushing along your arms as you dodge people has your skin crawling. The cameras still follow you around like paparazzi as Hobie's band continues to play, adrenaline flowing through the lunch club as they play and sing their hearts out. You almost make it out towards the bathroom, but you're stopped by the owner of the jacket you're currently wearing.

“Woah, where are you heading out to? I got your refill.” The redhead shows you a half empty glass of your preferred drink as she places a hand on your shoulder. You sigh and look behind you, finding that they're now filming you and hounding you. MJ notices them, and tries to shoo them away with a sharp glare. They take a step back, and only that.

You fully face the camera and get hit straight on by the bright light held by a crew member. Shielding yourself with your hand over your eyes, you look like you're about to hit them.

“Why are you all even here? It's Saturday!” You yell above the loud music, peripheral picking up Hobie looking at you, or behind you as MJ steps in between you and the camera.

“C’mon, guys, leave the girl alone.” Her words are slightly slurred around, clearly tipsy from drinking.

The producer tries to say something, and you only pick up the words, ‘contract’, and ‘obligated’ above the sound of the raging crowd and the guitar riff on stage. You take a glimpse at the show and you almost fall backwards from how Hobie's making his guitar sing with his expert movements.

“Obligated for what?” MJ asks for you, body nudging your own when her balance fails her.

“To film some drama!” This time, the producer yells above the sound.

“Drama? There's no drama here! It's just us hanging around!” The audience's clapping falls in your deaf ears. “Go away, we're not at work!”

Just as you say it, Hobie jumps off the stage, instruments and all. Even the cameraman has a shocked look on his face. Before you could react, ears still ringing from the prolonged loud sound banging around in your eardrums, and the shining light blaring in your eyes, you're overwhelmed by everything. The alcohol in your system doesn't help. Hobie siddles up next to you, an after show musk coupled up with burgundy wafts on your nose. His elbow perches on your shoulder, eyeing the lenses that stare back at him.

“Hobie—”

“Y’know, ‘m not one to complain ‘bout shit like this but,” he pokes the lense, smudging it with his index finger. “Stay the fuck away, yeah? Or I'll get your little show cancelled before it premieres on shitty cable.”

The producer grumbles and glares at Hobie before leading the rest towards the far end of the bar. After a quick wipe on the lense, they continue to film your group from a distance. At least they're not in your space anymore.

“Thank you, Hobie—”

“Hobie, our knight in shining armor!” MJ exclaims, warm breath fanning across your cheek as the cold drink spills all over your front.

“Shit, MJ!” You flinch away, frantically wiping at your blouse that now smells of alcohol and regrets.

“Fuck, I'm sorry!” She grabs a napkin from the nearby table to the dismay of its occupants. Fruitlessly dabbing on your blouse and smudging the wetness even more.

Hobie takes a handkerchief from his pocket and gives it to you. “I think your friend ‘ere has had too much to drink, love.”

“Thank you.” You give him an apologetic look as you desperately try to dry yourself off.

You wince at how you probably look like in front of him and his band right now. Hobie looks handsome in his leather and metal getup complete with mascara running down his cheeks. You never thought that running mascara would look good on anyone, but here's Hobie proving you wrong once again just like the fishnets decorating his arms that are in full display from his sleeveless shirt. A sleeveless shirt is a generous way to call it as it's ripped from his armpit down to his lean stomach. You feel lightheaded.

To add insult to injury, the rest of his band appears from the stage. Sweat clinging on their brows, instruments still in their hands as they look at you with unfamiliarity.

“Yeah, sorry, h–hi.” You laugh nervously, eyes roaming around the familiar faces and new ones that accompany him. “I made it— we made it.” MJ is still trying to wipe at your probably see through blouse right now. But Hobie's eyes are staying right on your face, you can't say the same thing to one of his blond mates though. Grabbing the edges of the leather jacket, you close it around yourself and make your roommate stop fussing around you.

“Hey!” MJ stumbles backwards but Hobie catches her with a firm hand around her wrist. “Thanks, dude.” She clumsily winks, and you regret letting her out of your sight for five minutes when she went to the bathroom.

“Sure,” Hobie smiles just as a pink spotlight illuminates his face. You're sure the camera crew are having a field day, and you're definitely going to complain to O’Hara when you get back to work. Clearing his throat, he sidles up next to you once again, palm placed on your shoulder and nudging you in place. “Meet the band, this ‘ere is Yuri.” He points towards a woman with slicked back hair and dark shadow around her brown eyes.

“Hey,” she nods at you, spiked earrings moving around. “I met your friend in the bathroom before we played, I had to stop her from calling her ex.”

“Thanks?” You eye MJ, and she cowers away from you teasingly as she hides behind Yuri, who only chuckles at her. “I—I mean, nice to meet you Yuri.”

Hobie grins as he continues to introduce you to his friends, including the blond aka James, who's six foot two and looks like he came out of a magazine catalogue. Giving a spare glance at MJ, whose head is lolling back, but with Yuri's help, she's kept upright. “This one's Ned, my roommate, who's leavin’ me for some fancy school.”

Ned rolls his dark eyes at Hobie, keyboard placed next to him as he gives you a hand to shake. “He's overdramatic,” you take it with a smile and let go not a moment longer. “I'm just moving to a dorm.” Hobie dramatically pouts, chin placed on your shoulder that he immediately moves away after what his adrenaline made him do. Ned gives him a knowing smile, one that the camera didn't miss out on. “Still going to be in the same city, I might add.”

“Nice to meet you, Ned. And I'm getting used to his overdramatic self.” You say, and Hobie nudges your side with feigned offense.

“You better get used to it, I think you two will hangout more.” Ned raises his brow at Hobie with a snicker.

“‘course they will.” Gwen clicks her tongue, arm looped over Miles’ shoulder, who doesn't seem like he minds it very much as he holds onto her hand gingerly.

Hobie gives her his middle finger as he leans against you. “You're jus’ jealous that I let her in the mailroom, Gwendy—”

A loud gasp and then a squeal can be heard from MJ, eyes wide as she gazes behind you. The whole group turns towards the bar where a familiar set of faces sits and waves her down.

“Mary Janes!” MJ bolts towards them, arms flailing around excitedly while her band meets her halfway.

You wince, thinking that your friend has ruined her first impression, and in turn yours.

As you turn towards Hobie, there's a smile on his face and eyes twinkling in the light as he watches MJ and her band embrace and jump for joy at the reunion. He notices your eyes on him, and as he meets with yours, his smile turns into a grin, piercings shimmering and hand splayed over your back. You're entranced by him, lips smiling bashfully as you feel your heartbeat quickening the longer he gazes upon you.

“They seem excited.” Yuri's voice smacks you out of your stupor.

Hobie looks away, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows down thickly. He coughs on his fist, hand falling away from your back to your slight disappointment. He still stays in place, elbow to elbow and shoulder to shoulder right next to you.

“Y–Yeah, they're always like that even though they see eachother everyday.” You manage to let out despite your wobbly legs.

“We should introduce ourselves.” James says as he combs his hair with his fingers and fixes his shirt.

Ned raises a brow at James as he saunters over to the all girl group. “I gotta make sure he doesn't get punched this time.” With a sigh, he follows his bandmate.

“I think I know the purple haired one.” Yuri murmurs, and slowly walks over to the bar with her eyes straining to have a look. “Oh shit, I definitely do.” She quickly walks towards them, even overtaking James and Ned.

You see MJ mouth something to her bass player, and the band's eyes collectively move towards the man standing next to you. They smile and beckon him and the rest of the band over.

“Good thing we have to leave before we have to socialise.” Gwen says, looping her arm around Miles’ shoulder. “Study at my place again, Miles?”

Miles visibly stiffens, mouth in a straight line. You swear you can see a bead of sweat dribble off his temple. “S–Sure.”

“You guys are leaving already?” You ask, smiling as Gwen holds out her fist to you. Awkwardly fist bumping her, Miles nods at you. An attempt to make a coherent farewell while Gwen still has her arm around him.

“Yeah, homework. College sucks, man.” She clasps Hobie's shoulder. “Take care of her, wanker.” She chuckles out, copying his accent.

“Sure, knobhead.” Hobie waves them off, watching as the pair walks out of the bar with Gwen's drum sticks sticking out of her back pocket and Miles lugging his guitar case. “Those two better have real homework for bailin’ on us. Did you like the show?” He asks, biting his lip.

“They're driving home?” You ask, worried about them. Your eyes glance over to his lips before flicking back to his brown eyes. “Yeah, I loved it. You were great— and the band too.”

“Don't worry about them, they're sober.” Hobie lingers next to you. “And thanks, love. I thought you wouldn't show up.”

“I couldn't miss it.”

“Too bad Pav ain't ‘ere, he fancies meetin’ other bands.”

“Oh, what happened to him?”

“Got himself sick after takin’ care of Gayatri.” He sighs as he leans against the wall casually with his hands tucked inside his pockets.

“That's too bad.” Glancing at the bar, you see them making introductions and it looks like they're all hitting it off. “Aren't you going to join them?” You nudge his boot with your own.

“Aren't you?” He raises a pierced brow, the corner of his lip tugging into a subtle smile as red lights flicker in and out of his face.

“I have to clean myself up before I make a fool out of myself even more.” You chuckle nervously, the lack of humour from your tone has Hobie standing up straight.

“You didn't do anythin’ foolish, love.”

“I smell like beer, and I'm not in my own clothes. I feel and smell silly.”

He twists in place, head laying against the wall as he turns his full attention on you. “You do smell like a pub right now.”

You groan, eyes closing briefly like you're in pain. “More reason to head to the bathroom and clean myself up.” Turning around to head towards the restrooms, Hobie reaches for your wrist, tugging you back in place.

“I like pubs.” He says a bit sheepishly as his hand remains braceleted around your wrist.

You feel like you're about to choke on your own breath. And the two of you haven't realized that the cameras are now situated right next to you and Hobie, a lot more sneaky this time as they use the darkness of the bar to their advantage.

“But why aren't you in your own clothes?” Hobie asks, genuinely concerned for you.

“I—” the cameras capture your wobbling lips and blown out irises. “I just thought I'd stick out like a sore thumb if I went in wearing my regular clothes.”

Hobie smiles, a softness etched in his smile lines and eyes slowly blinking at you. All the while the documentary crew records the whole thing with bated breath.

“Yeah, but you'll be yourself. That's better than tryin’ to blend in with the rest of the crowd.”

You inhale shakily, insecurity gnawing at the back of your neck. “Who would want that?” It's meant as a joke, a self deprecating one that's only targeted to yourself but a joke nonetheless.

“I would.” Hobie says matter-of-factly. “I might've seen you sooner while I was on stage. If you're uncomfortable, we can go somewhere else. Bail on these arseholes.”

“I'm not uncomfortable— well, not because I don't want to be here. I do want to be here.” You ramble on and he listens wholeheartedly. “It's just…I get nervous around new people, and being at a new place…it's just I don't know.”

“Nah, I do know.” He pats your bicep, palm warm as he lingers there for a second. “If it gets too much, tell me, and I'll drive you home or somewhere quieter.”

Biting your lip, you take a leap and take one step closer to him. You think he's about to move away from you, but he adjusts his position so you're perfectly in place in front of him; so that he can see your eyes illuminated by the spotlights. Your knee brushes along his own, and his hand grows closer to your hand, fingers dangling on the jacket's sleeve, mere inches from the back of your hand. A comfortable silence wafts over the two of you. After a beat, you finally talk.

“The coolest thing I have in my closet is a brown corduroy jacket and these boots.” You gesture by lifting your foot up to show him your high heeled boots with dangling stars on the laces. “And maybe a pair of spiky earrings that I bought when I was in highschool.” Chuckling, you try not to let your shyness ebb out ever since MJ managed to persuade you to get out of your well worn shell.

Hobie smiles with every word you uttered. “That sounds like a bloody good outfit, love. It suits you.”

“Maybe I'll wear that next time— I mean— if there's another show?” Your brave face falters.

He can't help but be endeared by your flusteredness. “We have another one if you're free on December twenty four, only if you can make it. It's a long shot, ‘m sure you have plans with mates and family.”

You nod a bit too enthusiastically, so you try to act more smooth by slowing your nodding. You have no idea if you look as suave as you think you are when you're probably smiling at him like you've won a car. Then it hits you, he's a colleague.

The fact that he's your co-worker at your very new job, a job that's still teetering you on the edge of unemployment whether you do good in the next six months or not. Maybe it's better if you just stay professional with him. Or at least just be friends, and you can't bring yourself to ruin what you currently have with Hobie so you'll keep talking to him. But if it's heading in the direction towards what you think it's going, you have to rein it in before you end up in the streets. Or worse, back in your parents house. It's just a well meaning crush anyway.

The cameras zoomed in on your face has a front row seat to your internal dilemma through your micro expressions that Hobie isn't privy to.

“I’ll see, I–I have to check first, it's the holidays after all.”

“Yeah, ‘course, love. No pressure.” Hobie beams, as if the prospect of your maybe was just as good as a yes.

“Do I have to bring a gift?” You joke, poking his stomach that you immediately regret after feeling the lean muscle underneath. If HR was here, you'd be in trouble.

Chuckling, Hobie shakes his head, trying to ignore the calling of his name from the other side of the bar. “Nah, but I won't say no to a present from you though.”

You snort, nodding awkwardly as your bout of bravery wavers away into the sounds of the bar. “Okay.”

“Hobie! Bruv!” James yells for him so loudly that half of the dancefloor looks towards the source.

Hobie groans, head falling down to his clavicle before turning towards him and flipping the bird. “Right, ‘m comin’” You smile as he cranes his head back to you. “C’mon then, they're an impatient lot.” He tugs you by your sleeve, but you stay in place.

You look between the waiting group then to Hobie. “I need to get cleaned up first, it's starting to get sticky.”

“Right, I forgot, go ahead I'll wait for you outside.” He lets your sleeve go, hands placed back inside his pockets as he gestures towards the bathroom right next to the stage.

“Oh no, it's fine. Go to them, I'll survive being alone for a few minutes.”

“You sure?” You nod as his face flickers with concern. “D’you have the handkerchief I gave you?”

“Yeah,” you take the said hanky out of your pocket. “Here, thanks again.”

“Keep it, love.” He laughs as the backdrop of dancing and wild lights frame around him.

“Shit, right, sorry, I need to wash it first.” Shoving the cloth down, you internally curse yourself.

“Nah, I meant that you should keep it.” Hobie starts walking backwards casually as the yelling of his name gets louder and louder that he's sure that they're gonna kick his band and the Mary Janes out of the pub.

“Wait, are you sure?” You ask him again just to be sure that he truly meant that he's giving it to you, but his figure is already retreating away with a smirk on his lips.

Watching him and the band together with your roommate and mutual friends brings a smile to your face. Even the smell of alcohol clinging to your front and your botched attempt at trying to act cool in front of your handsome co-worker couldn't ruin your night. Now all you have to do is clean yourself up and prepare your social battery for all the talking you're about to do. Going out of your shell might not be so bad after all.

Until you notice the sneaky cameras that is.

—

After much scrubbing and awkwardly drying your blouse under the bathroom’s hand dryer, you come out of it like a new woman who only faintly smells like booze.

The bar is still alive and in full swing just as you left it. An unfamiliar band plays on stage, hyping up the dancers. Spotlights flicker in and out to the beat, multicoloured lights illuminating your way towards the bar.

As you walk by a table, you notice the camera crew still inconspicuously (or trying to be) recording you.

“Really? Do you guys have nothing better to do?” You give up and decide to just ignore them from now on.

Dodging bodies and trays of drinks, you finally make it to the bar where your friends are. The place has gotten rowdier and nosier as more patrons filter through the doors. You smile as the bar is busier than ever, serving more people than when you left it. You look over to where you last saw them, only to find that strangers are now occupying the seats.

“Oh.” Your heart plummets down to your stomach, but you go on, roaming around the whole bar and doing laps to look at every table and every seat to find them. After going around the whole place three times, you end up back at the bar with a worried frown.

With the documentary crew still following you, you refuse to ask them for help when you've decided to ignore them.

“What's your poison?” The bartender asks you above the booming house music.

“Uh,” your hands involuntarily shakes. “Have you seen a red head with the band that played here?”

“That's not a drink order.” He says with a heavy tone.

“Please?”

You ask nicely, and his tough guy persona crumbles with a sigh. “Impossible to not notice them with a whole ass crew following right behind them.” He rolls his eyes, he's even annoyed at the cameras. “They went out for a smoke, but that was a long time ago. Paid their tab though.”

Relief washes over you as your stiff shoulders sag. “Thank you.” Quickly going outside, the cold hits your face like a train. “F–Fuck.”

It wasn't this cold when you got here, the freezing breeze nips at your cheeks, blowing at your lashes harshly and making you squint. The overcast sky greets you as you look up, grey clouds floating above. It looks like it's about to rain.

You hug your jacket tighter around yourself as you step fully outside into the street. Your jeans don't help much in protecting you from the cold, and your borrowed leather jacket feels like a denim jacket in a blizzard. At least it's not raining or worse, snowing. Your heeled boots would make you slip and crack your skull if there's sleet on the concrete.

“O–Okay.” You make your way towards an alleyway next to the bar where you surmise where people smoke. As you go around the building, you see a few people there but none of them have familiar faces. “Shit.” Your teeth start to chatter as you turn back around only to find the camera pointing right at you. You still refuse to even acknowledge them when you return towards the bar doors.

“Sorry, we're full.” The bouncer bars you from entering with a muscular arm stopping you. There's now a line around the building that you just notice through your slight panic.

“What?”

“We're full, sorry.”

“You just interchanged the words.” You huff, brows knitted together in worry. “Please, it's cold out here.”

“Go someplace else, kid.” He says gruffly, shooing you away before shutting the door right on your face. “There's a line, wait like the others.”

“What the fuck?” You've had enough and you grab your phone from your pocket. As you click it open, the screen doesn't wake and you're met with a black screen with your reflection staring back at you. You keep pressing the screen in hopes that it'll open, but to no avail. “F–Fuck.” You shiver in place, remembering that you forgot to charge it this morning.

The producer taps your shoulder and tries to hand you her phone.

“No, thank you.” With a frown, you put your foot down, shove your phone back in your pocket and continue walking towards the direction of the bus stop or what you think is where the nearest bus stop is.

“Other direction—” the man behind the camera says and you huff and turn the other way with your hands shoved in your pockets.

Your heels click against the pavement, body shivering as you feel like a walking popsicle. The sadness hasn't reached you yet, not when your fury keeps you warm. How could they just up and leave you like that? How could they even forget you? A whole ass person, and their friend? Especially MJ, whom you share a half of a locket with.

As you stop your marching, the camera pauses right with you as they stay further back. Your lip wobbles, sniffing and hands feeling numb. They forgot you, just when you finally feel like you're seen. Hobie forgot you.

Chest aching, and with a sob threatening to claw up and escape, you bite your lip that you almost draw blood. The fists hidden inside your pockets shakes, nails digging into your palms harshly and leaving crescent shapes on your skin. The producer pleads with you to ride in their van so you don't have to tread the cold but you insist with a glare and continue to ignore them.

“Y–You should go.” Your teeth clack against each other, while the soles of your feet now feel numb. The October weather isn't agreeing with you right now. “I can go on my o–own.”

“You'll freeze, and it looks like it's going to rain.” The cameraman says with frustration, “we can call you a cab.”

“I’m close to the stop, you don't—” you chase your breath. “You don't have to.” But you're starting to feel that walking to the bus stop might not have been the best idea. Maybe if you just admit defeat to the crew you'll be warm and cozy at home in no time.

You're so cold that you don't notice the car following right behind you.

“Let's at least go someplace—”

“Y/N?” A familiar voice calls out.

You stop, face lighting up with hope, only to find the source of the voice as someone you never thought you'd see outside of work. “Harry?”

He parks his car, leaning over the empty passenger seat to look at your shaking form. “What're you doing out here? You'll freeze to death.” He glances at the crew following right behind you. “Christ, they got you too, huh?” With a roll of the window on the backseat, he shows another set of camera and crew sitting behind him. “O’Hara's new memorandum is bullshit by the way.”

You could only shiver in place, not having enough warmth left to ask what he's talking about.

“Shit, you'll get frostbite. Get in.” Harry opens the door for you, and you shake your head. “I don't want to be responsible for Layla’s favourite dying on my watch. Please.”

“I–I can just go to the bus stop.” Your lips feel like icicles. And it's not even snowing.

“That's miles away from here.” His voice is laced with genuine concern.

“I don't— don't want to intrude.” There's clouds of smoke billowing out of your lips now that the cold has picked up. Maybe it's about to snow. “And I don't know you, you might be a murderer or something.”

Harry laughs, the least you expect from someone as straight faced as him. “There's literally cameras following us.”

“That's— that's still a no on the murderer part t–though.”

“If you don't get in and I let you stay out there then I'll definitely be a murderer.” His nose scrunches up, smiling at you. “And I really don't want to get fired.”

You look straight towards the cameras, before you could refuse again, raindrops drip down from the sky and towards the tip of your nose. That decides it for you. With a few steps, you enter Harry's car. The warm seats immediately make you melt into the leather chair. You put on your seatbelt and close the door to let the warmth stay as you sigh in your seat.

“You get in too.” Harry tells the camera crew that was following you to get in after you. “It'll be a tight squeeze but I'm sure you'll make do.”

You don't even realize that the car is now moving when you feel your tired and cold bones melting into the seat and your heavy lidded eyes overtake you.

“Hey don't fall asleep or you might not wake up.” Harry nudges your shoulder.

That has you immediately opening your eyes. “What?”

“You might have hypothermia.”

You scoff, “I don't have hypothermia.”

“Sure,” Harry smiles. “Show me your fingers, they might be purple.”

“I'm not showing you my fingers, Harry.” You hide your frozen hands inside your coat.

“You weren't saying that when you cut your hand with the stapler.” He says with a lilt, camera lenses moving in on his expression and your embarrassed ones. “Seriously, we should give you safety staplers instead.”

“You had the first aid kit!” You nervously laugh as he mirrors your smile, remembering how gentle he was while dabbing antiseptic to your ‘grievous’ wound. “I had to show you.”

“And thanks to my medical skills you still have your hand.” He jokes, emerald eyes shining in the rearview mirror.

“I already said thank you for the band-aid, Harry.” You roll your eyes, sniffing as you can finally feel your toes. “Are safety staplers even a thing?”

He makes a face, shrugging as he waits for the stoplight to turn green. “I dunno, maybe. So where am I dropping you?”

“So you're not going to ask?” You awkwardly shift in your seat.

“No, it's none of my business. Unless you're in trouble or hurt. Are you either of those?” He says with concern, eyes flicking over to your shivering form.

“No.”

“Then it's not my business to ask. So where to, ice princess?”

You scoff at the nickname, the sound akin to a flustered giggle. “Just the nearest bus stop is fine.”

“We passed that a long time ago, newbie. You're clearly not from around here.” The car idles in place, engine whirring in your ears.

“I'm not. And fine, just don't tell anyone else where I live—” you suddenly remember the cameras behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you narrow your eyes at them. “I want my street to be blurred out.”

The producer sighs but nods in agreement. Harry snickers with amusement.

“If you're not from here, where are you from exactly?”

“I'm not doing the whole…” you gesture around you, “...thing with you.”

“You don't like me very much, do you?” Harry raises a brow, briefly glancing at you. He doesn't sound hurt from your words, just genuine curiosity.

“I like you enough, you're my co-worker and I literally just met you. Would you tell someone you just met your life story?” You can definitely see Harry being a friend and not just a co-worker in the future, but you're still getting used to this life and making friends seems harder now that you're older. He's friendly to you at work and he once walked you to the bus stop and waited for you to get on when you both had to work late. He's kind at least, a good criteria to have as a friend.

“I do actually, that's how first dates usually go.”

“Well, this isn't a date so.” You say, immediately regretting being rude. “I—”

“You never know. Maybe next time it'll be one.” Harry says it so casually that it has you gawping at him for a second before looking back at the road. In the corner of your eye, you see him clenching his teeth, probably cringing and regretting his comment. The car starts again, and the silence hovers above you. “Address then? Unless you want me to keep driving around blindly.”

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. From embarrassment? Maybe. But definitely not from an uncomfortable feeling. You can't deny that his brown locks and green eyes aren't pretty. Well, not Hobie pretty, but still, handsome enough that has you flicking your eyes at his side profile. Hobie seems to hate the guy, but you still don't know why he could hate him when he's decent and seems to be nice enough to you. Perhaps there's something going on between them. A tiff or even something more? The thought provokes you as you hatch a plan to know the reason why Hobie glares at the man during meetings and when he's doing his rounds. Meanwhile Harry isn't phased by it, not ignoring him per se, indifferent more like.

As the camera crew stops filming due to the lull in conversation, you guide Harry to your place. Would it hurt to give your saviour a cup of tea before he heads in his way?

—

“Shit!” Hobie honks the van’s horn loudly, the camera behind him shakes from the sudden stop. “C’mon pick up the bloody phone!” Your caller ID blinks out as the call drops after a few rings. “Damn it.” He shakes his head at the traffic while the rain is finally rolling to a stop, now a slight drizzle.

Being the designated driver for tonight did not give him any favours. At least he saw you in all your glory without the haze of alcohol in his veins. But with him being the only sober one in the group, he had to drive everyone else to James' lest something unsavoury happens to them.

The scene shifts to back at the bar, the bass hitting him right in the chest as he glances at the bathroom door to check in on you from time to time. Hobie catches the cameras doing the same thing, filming the door and Hobie's face as he waits and sighs in his seat while everyone else were having shots and laughing.

“Fuck off.” He mouths, flipping the bird at the cameras. It's blurred but still recognizable thanks to the crappy blur. The other half of the crew are nowhere to be seen, maybe out for a smoke break.

A shrill gasp can be heard, and the camera hones in on MJ, who's bouncing on her feet.

“We should all go!”

That doesn't bode well in Hobie's ears as he tries to pry Yuri's twelfth shot from her hands. “Go where?”

“To James'!” James himself slurs, raising his glass as everyone else is cheering for him.

The thing with bands drinking together is that within fifteen to twenty minutes the drinking could put a sailor to shame. But with Hobie's band and MJ's band combined together, it only took ten minutes for them to get the bartender's signature disappointed shake of his head.

“Wait—!” Before Hobie could voice out his protest for you, who's still missing out on the fun, the rest are already drunkenly putting on their jackets as James wobbles on his feet and closes the tab. He sees that James definitely overpaid as the rest head out. With the van keys dangling in between Ned’s not-so-sober fingers, he groans and briefly glances at the door in hopes to see you coming out. Still no you though.

“Shit.” He panics, grabbing a napkin on the counter and plucking a pen from the bar that he had to go over the counter in an awkward way to fetch it. He side-eyes the camera on him, grimacing that they captured the scene in 4k. With a hasty scrawl of explanation of where they went, he writes that he'll come back for you. After a quick look, he calls the bartender. “Oi, mate,” the man shifts his gaze at the note with a bored gaze. “Can you give this to someone for me?”

“Depends, what's in it for me?”

“‘m with the group that just tipped you a fifty, bruv.”

He rolls his eyes and opens his palm begrudgingly. “Fine.”

“Thanks, she's wearin’ a leather jacket and is probably followed by a camera crew, yeah?” Hobie hurries, walking backwards until the man nods. The docu crew follows behind him, adding to his annoyance.

He only hopes that the bartender gave you the message, he'd hate it if you thought that they abandoned you. Well, the rest did, even your own roomate did, but not him as he races down the street to get to the same pub.

Finding a parking spot was a horror show, with desperation, he parks the car next to another on the street, turning on the hazard lights. The car door slams, not missing another minute of leaving you alone. The crew had to quickly run after him, camera shaking in place as they sprint after him.

There's a long line outside the bar that wasn't there before, and now he knows why they got the time slot in the hip bar.

Hobie heaves, a dried leaf crunches under his boots as he calls for the bouncer. “Mate, can you let me in, ‘m jus’ gonna pick up a friend.”

“I've heard that before, dude, no chance in hell.” He gets barred by the security guard with a burly hand on his chest.

Hobie curses internally as a car honks for him to get the van off the street. “Listen, ‘m just gonna do a quick run around to see if she's there. C’mon, bruv, she's alone in there.” He gestures towards the door, voice rising an octave as he worries about you.

“Well, shouldn't have left her all alone in there then.”

He can't even argue with that when he did exactly that. The car honks again, looking over his shoulder to see a few more cars lining up to get around the van. “Fuck.” At least this makes compelling TV as the crew doesn't even move to help him.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he races off towards the sides of the place, looking around the building for you, hoping that you're waiting outside. But hopefully not with the freezing cold nipping at his cheeks. To his dismay and increasing worry, he only finds unfamiliar faces.

His hands reach to the back of his neck, anxiety crawling up his spine. Patting his pockets, he feels for his phone until he realizes that he left it inside the van. Leaves crunches underfoot as he makes his way towards it, grumbling, shoulders hunched with a whole film crew following behind.

“Wait!” The bouncer's gruff voice calls him back. “Did your friend have a camera guy with her too?”

Hobie immediately runs to him. “You've seen her?”

“Yeah, she left an hour ago, man. Probably grabbed a cab or walked.”

“Walked?” He says, eyes widening. The first words flying over his head. “Which direction?”

“I don't fucking know, I closed the door behind her.”

“You—” Hobie points accusingly at the man but reins his frustration in, pinching the bridge of his nose. Instead of cursing the guy out after helping him, he returns back to the van with his brows furrowed deeply.

The crew doesn't look worried for you, not even a bit. Hobie knows that you have at least two people with you since the documentary crew split up, but he can't help but be concerned when he's the one who invited you and left you behind. You probably think of him as a bad friend.

“You're welcome!” The bouncer shakes his head, pushing a guy away from him when they try to sneak past him.

He fishes for his phone, dialing MJ’s number. The ringing sound has him clenching his teeth as he drives away.

—

It took a while to get coherent words from MJ as he tries to decipher the address she's giving on the phone. If the loud music booming from his speakers were any indication, the party's just getting started. Hobie doesn't care enough to listen to their drunken chanting of his name when he’s out here looking for you. He's thinking about giving them a wakeup call and telling them that they left you at the bar all alone. Especially to your roommate. But he has to find you safe and sound first.

“What if she's at the hospital?” The cameraman asks him, lenses roaming around the sticker filled van.

“You're not helpin’, Jericho.” Hobie huffs, not an ounce of humour in his tone.

“I'm just saying that she has two people with her, she's probably fine—”

“Shut it, we're ‘ere.” He parks the car right in front of the red bricked flat. The place is a classic house that was turned into an apartment sometime in the early 2000s. He can tell that it has three floors for each tenant and by how there's three mailboxes by the main door.

Hobie doesn't waste time in bracing the cold again to check on you. The camera follows behind, red light blinking as he resists the urge to punch its lights out.

Climbing the steps, he looks for the doorbell with yours or MJ’s name on it. Weirdly enough, he doesn't see either one. Jericho, the camera man taps his shoulder, using the camera to point towards the basement where stairs lead down to the side of the house.

He glances at the man then over to the steps as he grumbles a thanks. Making quick work of the stairs by climbing down two steps at the time, Jericho hurries along to catch up to him.

Hobie pauses in front of the window, chest heaving from the exercise and eyes staring through the glass. The lenses follow his line of sight, seeing his co-worker, Harry, sitting comfortably in the small sofa with you appearing from the side with a smile to hand him a steaming mug.

Hobie sighs in relief when he sees you, but with Harry in your flat, in your living room no less, has him turning around and climbing up the stairs.

The camera tries to follow him, but Hobie stops on the last step, back turned away from the camera. For a moment, he stands there, staying still.

With a clench of his fists, he runs back down to the landing, knocking on your door.

The camera captures Hobie's clenched jaw, and your surprised expression when you heard the sharp knock. You tell Harry to wait, and he smiles softly at you as you leave. Your footsteps hurry towards the door, cracking it open to see Hobie's strained smile.

“Hobie—! How— Hi?” You glance at the cameraman next to him, filming you two and not giving you two some privacy.

“Hi.” Hobie could only say as Harry leans on the armrest to look at who's at the door. He gives Harry an acknowledging nod, curt enough to be polite, not friendly though as his lips are stretched into a line as he stares coldly. “I went back to pick you up.”

“Oh.” You play with the string of your hoodie, “You guys kind of left so I–I just walked home. Harry saw me and drove me home though, so that's…good.”

Hobie winces, face deeply apologetic. “Fuck, ‘m sorry, everyone else were drinkin’ and they wanted to leave and I couldn't just let them drive off.” His eyes drift down to your fluffy indoor shoes, and he realises that it's the first time that he has seen you in comfy clothes, looking more relaxed unlike your office outfits and the borrowed clothing. You looked more relaxed with Harry.

“I understand, Hobie, I—” you glance behind you at Harry, who looks away immediately, sipping casually at his drink. “Can you move away for a bit?” You ask the cameraman. To your surprise, he actually walks up the stairs and gives you space. After a few moments, you gaze at Hobie as he looks like he's about to kneel down for your forgiveness. You go outside completely, shutting the door behind you. With an inhale, you reassure him. “It's really okay, Hobie, I took a long time in the bathroom—”

“It's not,” he curses himself for stopping you mid sentence. “Shit, sorry. It's jus’ it's not alright, we did leave you.”

Your eyes glissens in the moonlight that bounces off the wet pavement. “You did, and it— to be honest, it really hurt, Hobie.” You finally confess, unbeknownst to you, the mic picks up your broken tone, every word of it. “I thought you really wanted me there.” Jericho can practically hear your shattered heart from where he stands.

“I did.” He tries to reach for you but retracts his hand away. “I do, and I left a message to the bartender to tell you that I'll be back for you. I didn't mean to fuckin' leave you out there alone, love.”

You chuckle without humour. “The guy didn't say anything to me when I asked about you.”

“Fuck.” He rubs a hand over his tired face. “He must've forgotten. ‘m really sorry. I called a hundred bloody times. You didn't answer— and I don't blame you.”

“My phone ran out of battery, I'm sorry.” Hobie shakes his head subtly at your unnecessary apology. You give him a tight smile. “Well, apology accepted.”

Hobie sighs, brows knitted together, frown deeply set in place. He says your name softly, hand cupping at your wringing hands. “Are we really alright?”

You nod, staring at your joined hands before meeting with his eyes. “Yeah, don't worry, shit happens and you gotta have your priorities straight.”

You're my priority too. “Alright, good.” Is all he could say. “The next one I invite you to would be more fun, I promise.”

“Yeah,” you smile, exhaling out a cloud of smoke. “Sure, maybe.” Moving away your hand from his own, you clear your throat. “They're probably looking for you. Take care of MJ for me, she gets very kicky when she's drunk.”

Hobie chuckles, a genuine one. “Thanks for the tip. Will you be alright? Where's the camera crew?”

“I'll be fine, don't worry about me.” You nudge his bicep. “And they left a while ago, said something about us being too boring so they went out to go find you.”

“Harry?” He gestures towards the door with his chin.

“He's just about to leave, he saw my broken record player and asked to fix it for me. Don't be jealous.” You joke to help lighten the tension, hugging yourself as the cold goes through your hoodie.

“I'll try not to be.”

Heat rises to your cheeks despite the cold and your lingering sadness. “It's going to be hard, but I know you'll rise above the green monster.”

“That's true, but I can't promise to wait outside just to check if he leaves with a body bag in the shape of you.”

You finally laugh, shaking your head at him. “A charmer *and a stalker, this is why you're my favourite co-worker.” You reach to poke him jokingly, but you put your hand away to his dismay. “Seriously, I'll be fine, I have pepper spray in my pocket to ease your worries.”

“Right.” He sees you grasp the doorknob, a clear sign that you're done with the conversation. “Aim for the eyes, yeah?”

“Taking note of that. Thanks.” With your laughter lingering, he stands there in front of your door a bit too long before he remembers to walk away.

Hobie is greeted by Jericho waiting for him near the top of steps. Great, the disaster of a night you two had are recorded in the annals of history.

—

“Here's mine,” Harry hands you back your phone after he typed his number in your contacts. “If you need any help, work related or not, don't hesitate to call me, okay?”

“Okay,” you say with a shy smile as you hand his own phone back. “Thank you again, Harry. I'll pay you back for the gas—”

“Don't, I'm just glad I ran into you. I would hate for you to turn into an icicle in the downpour.” He glances at his screen and laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sorry, the snowflake emoji right next to your name got me.”

“I have a sense of humour too, y’know.” You hug the coat tighter around you as small raindrops continue to drizzle down on you and Harry, painting him in fallen dew drops while the streetlight above shines down on the two of you. The camera crew in the corner under the tree ruins it though.

“It’s not a competition but mine’s better.” He gestures towards your phone with his chin, green eyes alight.

You take a peek at your contacts, finding that he has named himself ‘free uber’ in it. With a giggle, the sound echoing in the night, you look back at the smiling Harry. “Yeah, you're right, yours is better. I'll change it to your name by the way.”

He groans dramatically as he walks backwards towards his car. “C’mon, that took a lot of time for me to think of.” Unlocking his car, he enters and waves at you after putting on his seatbelt. “I'll see you back at the office, ice princess.”

“Ice princess, really?”

“You survived the cold, so I say it fits you.” Grinning, he starts the car.

You pat your head to wipe away the dew. Skin aflame despite the weather, you tuck the coat tighter around yourself. “Take care, Harry.”

“You too. Stay warm.” With one last smile, he rolls the windows up and drives away.

The smoke from the car's exhaust hasn't fully dispersed when the cameraman is already up in your face, asking for an interview.

You sigh, “fine, I'll do this quick. Today was… complicated. I was uncomfortable, then comfortable. Then left behind and then perfectly fine right after.” The blinking red light still flashes as the man behind the camera isn't satisfied by your answer. “I'm fine.” You say with emphasis. “Don't you have a family to go home to?”

Huffing, smoke puffing out of your cold lips, you walk back towards your apartment while you walk carefully on wet pavement. Leaving the camera and the crew behind as you shut the door closed. And yet, the microphone still picks up the quiet sobs from behind the old door.

—

You stare at the scruff of your work shoes, the scratches glaring right at you. Your leather heels are a direct contrast to the white tiled floors that try to mimic expensive marble. But the indents and subtle square lines around it indicates that it's just regular tiles. The office lobby is quiet this early in the morning, the security guard munches on his breakfast burrito as he watches the news on his tiny TV. And the place hums with electricity, lights too bright against your exhausted eyes.

MJ came home in the early morning of Sunday, you woke up to the smell of sick and the sound of her hurling her entire stomach down the toilet’s drain. You couldn't just leave her be when you're afraid that she'd choke on her own vomit. So you stayed up when you should be sleeping in just to watch over her. When afternoon came, you thought that you finally had time to relax or do some chores, but with a very hangover MJ clinging to you as apologies spilled from her lips— you had to stay to comfort and reassure her. Of course that came with making food, mixing in the regular concoction for a hangover cure, and everything else that she needed. If it was anyone else, you wouldn't do that much, but MJ has been your friend since middle school. And without her you'd literally be homeless, she's a good friend. But sometimes you just wish your only problem with her was pushing her away from her toxic ex like back in highschool.

Your exhaustion can be read on your face, and as the camera crew arrives, and their bright lights hit your tired skin, you feel more fatigued than ever. Sighing, you don't even acknowledge them while you wait for the elevator doors to open. Your index presses the button three more times impatiently. The annoying twinkling elevator music seems a lot better compared to the glare of the camera lenses.

“Hey, morning, ice princess.” Harry comes into view, giving you a brief smile while he holds onto a cup of coffee. “You okay?”

“Morning.” You almost scoffed at his well meaning question. “Yeah, couldn't sleep last night.”

“That sucks,” he says as he sips his drink. You stare heavily at the cup, wishing you should've stopped by the coffee shop near your place before heading to work instead of braving the sleepiness. “I should've gotten you one.” Harry notices, winching at his own actions. “I'll get you a cup next time. A cappuccino with an extra shot, right?”

Your heavy eyes widen briefly, the lights making your expression more prominent. “You don't have to, really— wait, you know my coffee order?”

He chuckles, cheeks a bit flushed. “Of course, we're desk neighbours, and you always order the same thing whenever Miles asks for our coffee order.”

“I'll keep it down next time then.” You chuckle.

“Not what I meant, but you do type a little too loudly.” He nudges you playfully.

“Type louder you say? Sure, Harry.” Your joke earns a laugh from the brunette.

The elevator pings and the doors open to reveal the empty space. The walls are covered in reflective glass, it seems that you can't hide from your exhausted face as you step inside. Not even concealer or a blush could hide it.

You're joined by Harry and the documentary crew. Harry stands beside you, back straight as he glances at you for a second. You miss the look he has, but the cameras don't as they stand in front of the doors, facing you and Harry in a perfect frame.

“Oi, hold the door!” The familiar voice has your sleep fogged mind waking up that no amount of coffee could.

Shit. You look like shit and you're staring a bit too much at Hobie, whose lithe hand is holding onto the door. He's back in his office appropriate attire, still no tie though but at least it's a button up that's perfectly ironed that Miguel himself wouldn't even bat an eye at.

He mirrors your expression as he pants by the doorway. The black coat he has on fits him well, really well as it cinches his waist, and the long length of it seems to make him look taller even though he doesn't need the added height.

The cameras has the full view of you, Hobie and a very curious Harry, who looks at you then over to Hobie.

“Good morning, Hobie.” You say, slightly in a higher pitch than you thought it would be.

“Mornin’, love.” His expression softens, but returns to the nonchalant and unbothered look when he glances at Harry beside you. “Osborne.”

The lenses shift from Hobie's strained greeting to Harry's tight lipped smile.

“Brown.” Harry says with a flat tone. “Your shoes are untied.”

Hobie doesn't even glance down at his feet to check. You do, and it is indeed untied. “It’s called fashion, Osborne.” He replies with the same tone as he pushes through the crew to stand on your other side. The cold still clings to his shoulders, and his lashes flutter as he gazes at you gently. “Have you had breakfast yet, love?”

You shake your head while you feel both of their warmths encapsulate you. Cageing you in between them. “Not yet, but I'll probably just grab something from the vending machine.”

“The sandwiches there are shite.” Hobie nudges you as the doors close. “How about I order us a bagel from the deli across the street?”

“I can get us a coffee.” Harry adds, or interrupts more like. Hobie raises his chin, chest puffing up as they stare at each other while you're acting like their barrier. “How's that sound?”

“Or that tea you fancy.” Hobie tilts his head, eyes boring into Harry's skull.

You stare at Hobie then over to Harry, you feel like a referee. You might not be good at reading cues, or feeling the vibes of the room, but you're not an idiot, there's definitely something going on with the two. Looking into the camera, you see yourself in the lenses as you clutch your work bag tightly, and you see the crew's subtle grins behind their equipment.

You have to answer them or else they'll start offering you more food and drinks.

“Thanks, but I have a lot of work to do today, so maybe next time.” It's best that you decline both, you don't want to start something that you have no idea will end. Especially if your job could be on the line. And yet, they still stare at you, waiting on who's the lucky winner. “For— for both offers. I had a big dinner last night, and coffee makes me jittery this early in the morning.” A big fat lie on both statements.

“Right, next time then.” Harry takes it in stride, smiling softly at you.

“Of course, love, you know where to find me.” Hobie does too as he tugs gently at your coat sleeve. You give them both a friendly smile, tamping down any embers that might be setting fire under them.

The three of you realize that neither of you have pressed a button.

The crew's producer takes initiative, and the three of you give her an apologetic yet embarrassed smile.

The elevator shifts slightly before it starts to move. The whirr of the cables cut through the thick tension in the air.

“So, what did you do this weekend?” Harry asks, seemingly a taunt at Hobie that you can't confirm.

“Nothing much, just did some laundry. Boring stuff.” You answer, staring at the numbers atop the doors as it goes further up. You were supposed to do laundry, but they wouldn't want you to talk about how you had to scrub the bathroom clean of vomit.

“Well, I had a show with my band. Meal prepped for this week and visited a friend.” Hobie glances at you briefly with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Harry's jaw clenches at Hobie's reply. “I thought you were askin’ me too.”

“Oh, I was.” Harry smiles at Hobie but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I also visited a friend, picked her up from walking in the cold.” Your face falls at the memory, you didn't expect to be used as something to taunt and provoke someone, but here you are— shoulders slumped and frowning deeply. “Thanks for the hot chocolate by the way—”

The doors ding open and you don't waste time in leaving the elevator with a downturned head as you look at the scruff of your shoes once again.

“Shit.” They both say, and again, the cameras capture their faces as the door closes on them, not giving the two enough time to get off.

The camera gets a glimpse of them trying to get out before the doors shut.

—

You stare at your computer screen like you want it to spontaneously combust right in front of you. The sounds of keyboards clacking and the whirr of the building’s vents has you more than irked, especially at what transpired this morning. The bullpen is quiet, the air smelling of carpet conditioner and printer ink that someone spilled a few hours ago. Your nose itches, tinnitus acting up as you heavily gaze on the excel and blinking lines.

The muscles in your fingers are stiff against the keyboard, face unreadable while the stress of work and you being caught in the crossfire has your eye twitching against the harsh lights. You have no idea what's going on between the two, but you know what happened in the elevator was unnecessarily uneasy for you. Awkward is an understatement.

Lunch has passed by, and you stayed at your desk throughout it without a single glance at the cafeteria in your peripheral. Opting to eat a pack of biscuit that was just intended for a snack. Your stomach keeps reminding you that you have missed breakfast and lunch. You can't wait for the day to be over.

The sound of the familiar clanking wheels of the mailcart doesn't even have you lifting up your head from your report. To the disappointment of Hobie and to Harry's glaring satisfaction.

You've seen Hobie and Gwen doing their rounds with the mailcart, Hobie gave you his usual smile when he handed you your package for the day. And Gwen came to apologize for what happened last weekend even though it was unnecessary. They were both met with your customer service smile and tone of voice. Partly because you're still frustrated at what happened, and because of the elevator when the two men used you as a way to get back at each other— for whatever they're dealing with. Whatever it is, you've decided to stay away from it. Or until you can't ignore Harry's guilty eyes, Hobie's strained face, and the trio's puppy dog expression whenever they pass by your side of the bullpen.

You really don't mean to be an ass to them, but the ridiculous amount of work you have and your tiredness, coupled up with your grumbling stomach, anyone would be behaving like you.

To you it's literal torture to ignore your friends the whole day, for the documentary crew— it makes good TV.

The sound of crinkling paper and the scent of spice has you looking up from your computer. You see the green wrapping of a sub teetering dangerously on top of the divider. The packaging almost bursting at the seams from the hearty sandwich.

Harry's green eyes peek over the wall, hand inching towards the sandwich as he places a bundle of napkins on it like he's about to steal a diamond from its laser protected case.

“Don't mind me, just delivering you lunch.”

“Harry,” you can't help the smile appearing on your lips. “What are you doing?”

“I hope you like cold cuts and cheese.” His voice is slightly muffled by the divider, eyebrows raised as his eyes smile. You blink at him, head tilted. “I noticed that you haven't had lunch yet, so I bought you a sandwich.”

“Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you.” You reach for the sub, standing up from the chair for the first time in hours. It has the shape of you indented on the plush seat. You meet with Harry's eyes, lighting up as he gazes at you. “How much do I owe you, Harry?”

His head leans back, like he's taken aback by your statement. “One penny.”

“I have to pay you back, y’know.” You glance to your left, finding that the camera has you and Harry in its sights.

“Says who?”

“I do.” You chuckle at his feigned innocence.

“How about you pay it forward next time? Just not to me.” His index taps at the top of the divider as he smiles sweetly at you.

“Fine, but I still owe you for the gas—”

“Sorry, busy busy busy.” He sits back down, hands dramatically typing randomly on his keyboard.

“Harry.”

He picks up the silent phone, “Hello, Harry Osborne here, yes, absolutely.” His eyes look up to you with a subtle smile, placing his index right on his lips, shushing you, and then pointing at the phone's receiver.

With a roll of your eyes, you return to your seat, hands immediately unwrapping the sandwich.

The camera zooms out and moves over to the doorway where Hobie stands there with a brown paper bag while looking in the direction of your desk.

His eyes flick over to the camera, jaw tightening and eyes hardening as he stares right into the lenses. “What of it?” Tossing the paper bag into the trash, he walks away only to immediately double back and fish it out and grumble back towards the mailroom with a huff.

—

The clock finally ticks to five, and you release a sigh of relief the second you send the very last report you needed to finish for today. Without sparing another second wallowing in your seat, you stand up and collect your things.

“Hey, Y/N.” Pavitr’s voice makes you look towards the side, where the trio and an unfamiliar face joins them. His hands are on top of Gwen and Miles’ shoulders, pushing them towards you. “We just want to say sorry about what happened.”

“That's okay, Pav, I already forgave them. And again, it's not really their fault.” You chuckle nervously at the small crowd gathering around you.

“But I haven't.” He says sternly, pushing Gwen and Miles towards you further. “Apologize to Y/N.”

“I already did, Pav—” Gwen squeaks out but Pav nudges her. “Okay, I'm sorry. I feel like shit that the band left you. And since the band isn't here, we're apologizing for them. That was a shitty thing to do.”

“It's really okay—”

“I'm sorry too.” Miles interrupts, frowning deeply, brows knitted together out of guilt. He looks like he's going through it, and probably doesn't need the coaxing from Pavitr. “I heard you had to walk out in the rain.”

“Apology accepted, for both of you— you really don't need to. Hobie and I already talked about it and it's fine.” You hold your hands out to them in a way to calm, and Gwen guiltily takes your hand briefly. “I'm fine, you guys weren't even there.”

“Still, we feel guilty and responsible for it.” Miles mumbles out and Gwen nods along. “If we were there, we would have reminded them.”

“It doesn't seem fine.” The unfamiliar co-worker adds beside Pav. “I'd be livid. I'm Gayatri by the way.” She holds out her hand in greeting, smiling gently at you.

“Hi, it's nice to finally meet you.” You take her hand and shake it, mirroring her smile. “I've heard a lot about you through Pavitr.”

“And I heard a lot about you, through Hobie mostly.” She shrugs with a chuckle. Pav gives her a look, and she takes his hands off of the two and intertwines her fingers with his own. “Anyway, you're cool, because obviously I'd be livid.”

“Oh, I was, for a bit. But it's really alright, alcohol was the real culprit.” It's a half truth, you're still bummed about it, but you'll get over it eventually. For now, you just want to lie down on your bed and sleep.

As you gather your things, the interns still seem to doubt you. You're about to put on your coat but Miguel's voice rings out into the bullpen.

“Meeting now.”

“Now?” Lyla’s head pops out from the doorway, already halfway out of the office.

“Yes, now.” With every footstep from Miguel, the almost hidden groans of your co-workers echo around the office. Including yours.

“I have homework, man.” Miles stomps over to the conference room, while Gwen verbally protests by loudly putting on her backpack with all the charms clinking on it.

“This is why I got a B in advanced chem.” Pavitr grumbles but follows the two, he looks over to his girlfriend when she doesn't follow. With a simple look, he continues to cross the distance and waits by the doorway for Gayatri as she pokes at your bag.

“Are you really okay?” Her eyes are soft, you can feel that her concern for you is genuine. She has that air around you that helps you feel at ease with just a look. “I was going off in our group chat after I learned about it. Ned, Yuri and James have a week until they apologize to you or I'll give them shit during band practice.”

“Yeah, I'm over it.” A half lie. “And they barely know me, it's really okay.” Another lie. It wouldn't hurt for them to apologize. Is it mean for you to want them to apologize?

“Yeah, that's why they need to say sorry because they barely know you.” You open your mouth but she immediately shuts you down. “And don't say that it's fine, or okay. That was horrible, you were alone at a shady bar during happy hour. If the cameras weren't there… I don't know, I think you and your roommate need to talk. I wouldn't forget a friend like that, even if booze was involved.”

You blink at her, nodding in agreement. “I think you're right. I can see why Pav loves you so much. You lay it on thick.”

She pats your arm, chuckling. “I'm always right.”

“I’ll talk to her when I get home.” You sigh, fists tightening as you enter the conference room.

“Well, if you need anything, I'm always in accounting.” She taps your back as Pavitr wraps an arm over her shoulder, letting you inside first as they follow behind.

“She likes to take strays, don't mind her.” Hobie suddenly sidles up to you, hands tucked inside his pockets as he whispers to you. “I blame the saviour complex.”

Gayatri heard his comment as she whacks him over the head. “Shut it, Hobie.”

He holds onto the back of his head, chuckling while Pavitr laughs along. “‘m jus’ sayin'”

“Are you calling me a stray, Hobie?” Your words make him falter, stammering out but no coherent words come out. It was a joke on your end, but you can't hide the amusement from his reaction.

“Now you've done it.” Pav smacks Hobie's chest while Gayatri pulls you away from the punk and towards the seats in the back of the room.

“I didn't mean it that way.” Hobie's voice is a tone higher, wincing at his previous words. “I jus’ meant—”

A loud clearing of throat takes his attention, and Miguel sends him a glare as a warning. Hobie huffs, surprisingly not saying any rhetoric as he sits down wordlessly beside you with the rest of the interns on your right.

“It was a joke by the way.” You whisper to him, side glancing at Miguel, who stands at the helm of the room.

Hobie pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to hide his smile. “You got me there, love.”

“Seriously, we're okay, Hobie. I hate that we're being awkward now.”

“I missed you at lunch today. I thought, y’know...” He shrugs, whispering back to you as more people filter inside the room. The cameras stand by the sidelines, bright lights and lenses roaming around the different faces. You're just glad you're not the only one they're focusing on right now.

“I had a ton of work so I couldn't join the lunch club today. Sorry for making you feel horrid.” You say genuinely, hoping to put a close on what happened last weekend. As much as you disdain what happened, you can't lose a friend because of it.

Hobie turns his head towards you, smiling fondly as his hand pat the back of yours. “You can never make me feel horrid, love.”

Your heart leaps in your chest from the close proximity. “We'll s–see. I mean, we're still new friends.”

“I hope we never get to see it then. You might break my tiny heart.”

“Your heart is far from tiny, Hobie Brown.” You nudge him with your shoulder, smiling as you return your attention towards Miguel, who's looking more tired than ever. “So far I've seen nothing but kindness from you.”

“Fuckin' hell.” He mutters under his breath, eyes refraining from looking into your own. “Go easy on me.” He holds onto his chest, head thumping on the wall.

You chuckle at his dramatics. “What does that mean?”

Before he could answer, Harry slides on the seat in front of you. “Hey, princess.” He says with the same demeanor he sported when he picked you from the curb.

“Hi, Harry.” You smile back at him as he side glances Hobie. He turns his back from you, still smiling.

“Princess?” Hobie says with an irked and disgusted tone. The interns turn to him, all sharing the same look that you're not privy to.

“It’s better than newbie, I guess. It's just a nickname.”

“...Sure.” Hobie eyes the lunch club, then over to the cameras with the same uneasy look.

“So, is everyone finally here?” Miguel gruffly days from the front. “I know you all want to go home, but today has been too busy to sneak this meeting in. So Jess and I will make this quick—”

“Holy shit, you two are dating!” Peter says from his seat, gasping in surprise.

“What, ew, no. I'm married, Parker.” Jessica shows her ring, rolling her eyes at Peter. “You knew that. You were at my wedding, idiot.”

“Right, I forgot.” He chuckles, scratching his head. Meanwhile Miguel is mouthing the word ‘ew’ with a questioning look.

“Anyway, Jess is here to talk to you about the company holiday party.” Miguel side steps and gives Jessica the floor.

“As always, I'm the unfortunate soul who has to organise it.” She sighs, “For the new employees, we always have a little party before the holiday break starts. There's gonna be a secret Santa, we'll pick names tomorrow since it's already late. And it'll be a potluck so I'll be assigning what you need to bring to prevent people from just bringing drinks.” She looks towards Lyla.

“That was one time! And everyone was well hydrated!” Lyla defends herself while Peter shakes his head. Jess calls out names and what they would bring.

Hobie snickers next to you, and you whisper to him. “What did you bring that year?”

“Punch.” He says with a chuckle. “There was a line in the loo the whole bloody time.”

“That's a terrible party.”

“We were all starvin’, in the end Miguel got us a dozen pizzas or else people would riot. Which ‘m not opposed to.”

“I would join in, honestly.” You tap his hand, and he returns the gesture with another tap on your pinky. Jessica calls your name, and you almost jump in your seat. “Y–Yes?”

“Do you mind bringing in some holiday cookies or cupcakes?”

“Oh, I don't mind. Are sugar cookies alright?” You unconsciously play with the frayed edges of your sleeve.

“Fine by me, just no nuts, Miguel's allergic.” Jessica continues to call out names and food while reading her list. “Hobie and Harry— H and H, can you two bring some drinks in?”

The two glance at each other pointedly. “Sure.” They both say with clenched teeth.

“Good,” she nods and closes her notes. “Oh and Y/N,” your heart stops. “Can you help me with the decorations on the day?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod enthusiastically, relieved that it wasn't a reprimand, making Hobie beam at you.

Unbeknownst to you, Gwen looks behind the rest and over to you just to give Hobie a teasing gaze. The cameras capture it all perfectly while Jess gives the floor back to Miguel.

“Right, thanks Jessica.” Everyone begins to stand up even before Miguel could even end his sentence. “We're not done yet,” he points at Hobie, and at first you thought he was pointing at you, making your eyes widen. “You wanted to say something quick, Hobie?”

The room groans in disappointment as they sit back down with a resounding squeak from the chairs.

“Right, the lot of you want to go home, I'll make this quick.” He stays standing up, casually speaking to the whole room with nonchalance that passes off as confidence. “There's a few of you ‘ere who haven't signed yet with the union. As your rep, I have to make sure that you all know that we exist.” His eyes glance over to Lyla, and everyone follows his line of sight.

“Don't look at me! I'm a union girlie but the big man says I can't explicitly say it.” She accusingly points at Miguel, and everyone turns to him.

“Not me, the other big man.” He sighs tiredly.

The scene shifts to him giving an interview near the elevators. “I’m vice president of the union. Everyone keeps forgetting that.” He says with disdain.

The clip comes back to the conference room in the present with everyone listening in on Hobie.

“—the new hires are ‘encouraged’—” he almost rolls his eyes at the company friendly word. “to join the union so you have protection jus’ like the rest of us, yeah?” Hobie clasps your shoulder, smiling at you. “That's it, the lot of you go home.” With Hobie's closing remarks, people leave their seats without another grumble.

“Wait— I haven't said anything yet—!” Miguel tries to say something but everyone leaves the conference room.

Hobie turns to you, hand cupping your elbow as he helps you off your seat. “That includes you, princess.” He says the nickname with a slight scoff.

“I didn't know you're our union rep.” You say as he guides you out of the room. “That's really cool.”

“I did it for the birds.” He walks backwards towards the mailroom to probably grab his things and to quickly rejoin you in the elevator.

“The birds?” You chortle out

Hobie bites his lip, hands placed inside his pockets as his back hits the wall. “The ladies.”

“Ah.” You nod with an amused smile. “Of course, that usually makes us all weak in the knees.”

“Right?” With a smirk, he turns back around to prevent himself from smacking to another wall or worse, a window.

“I thought it'll never end.” Harry appears next to you, already in his coat and messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, thanks for the sandwich again.” You smile as he shrugs.

“Just like I said, no problem. You need to remember to eat sometimes or you'll get sick. We can't afford to lose our best quality assurance agent, hm?” He nudges you, palm lingering on your bicep for a second longer.

“I'll remember next time, don't worry.” You give him a wobbly smile.

“D’you need a ride home?” He glances at the elevators. “I heard it's gonna rain again.”

You shake your head with a polite smile. “No need, I'll be fine. Thank you though.”

“Sure, take care.” With a grin and another pat on your shoulder, he leaves.

“Y–You too!” You call back, and he turns to you, giving you a two finger salute while walking away.

“Boo!”

“Fuck!” You shriek, hand on your chest while Lyla snorts next to you.

“Sorry, I didn't know you were such a scaredy cat.” She tilts her head playfully. “Anyway, how are you doing so far?”

“Uh, good.” You swallow down your thumping heart. “Workload is tough but I'll survive.”

She hums, nodding along. “Yeah, good. Also what do I hear about you and…” she pauses, looking around the near empty office, and you think she's gonna say Hobie as you bite down your anxiety. “Harry.”

“H–Harry?”

“Yeah, I heard from the interns that he gave you a ride home from the bar? Sounds serious and definitely something that the HR should know.” Lyla fist bumps your shoulder awkwardly. “Y’know, just in case there's a conflict with your relationship with him and work.” You try to get a word in but she continues. “I'm not against it, oh no not me, and he's kinda cute so good on you. I'm just warning you that you two need to tell me and sign a little something, something. Nothing major, just a contract telling us that your relationship won't hinder you from doing work and we're not liable for any heartbreak that could occur—” she grabs your elbow like she's already reassuring you for the inevitable. “— not like there would be any heartbreak in your future with him.” She chuckles a bit nervously.

“We're not together.” You say matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” she blows a raspberry. “Right, well, mystery solved!” With a pat on your arm, she leaves you be. “Have a good night!”

You huff, going back to your desk to retrieve your things and go towards the elevators only to find Hobie waiting there for you.

“Thought I lost you to the ghost janitor.” He smiles, leaning against the doors as he smirks at you.

You sigh while your hands grow clammy. “I'm not scared of that anymore— watch out!”

The elevator doors suddenly open and he falls right through it with a groan.

“‘m alright!”

—

A baseball hat is shoved right on top of your keyboard while you work on a spreadsheet. Your watery eyes gawk at the slips of paper all folded inside the hat. The scene reminds you of secret santas and white elephant parties back in school.

“It's not gonna pick itself.” Jessica leans against the table, neat brows raised up in question.

“Right, sorry, you just caught me off guard.” You chuckle nervously, intimidated by your boss as you dip your hand inside the hat. Feeling for a random one, you fish it out of the hat. You don't read it just yet.

“I see you're working hard.” She smiles, nodding at your screen. “Good job on the Metropolis report by the way, keep it up.”

A sigh escapes you as your eyes twinkle at Jessica. “T–Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“‘Course, just don't work too hard, you're making the rest of us look bad.” With a chuckle and a shake of the hat, she leaves. “Oh, wait.” Turning back around, you pause from unfolding the slip of paper. “Don't forget, we have a maximum price for the gift.”

“Okay, thanks for the reminder.” You awkwardly wave her off as her heels clack on the floor.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, eyes peeking over the cubicle dividers as he knocks rhymically, one that you're familiar with but can't quite put your finger on. “Who’d you get?”

“I don't think we're supposed to say.” You whisper back with an amused smile.

“I didn't take you for a rule follower, princess.” He smiles, now standing up to look at you fully. “Please?”

You shake your head with a quiet chuckle. “No.”

He sucks in his teeth, but his smile stays. “You're no fun.”

“I haven't even read it yet.” With a playful roll of your eyes, you unfurl the paper, expression suddenly falling flat as you read the big printed letters— Hobie Brown. “Oh.”

“Is that ‘oh’ good or not? Shit, did you get Miguel?”

His voice falls on deaf ears as you feel your nerves rushing in, blood filling your ears like you're about to skydive. It seems that Hobie has had that effect on you recently. With an exhale, you pocket the slip of paper inside your blazer pocket.

“I think it's the former.” You smile up at Harry, looking curiously at you. “I'm not gonna tell you my secret Santa, Harry.”

He dramatically deflates to show you his disappointment as you grin at him. “Fine, well I'm not going to show you mine.”

“I don't even want to know yours.”

“Ouch, okay, mean.” He holds his chest like he's been shot through the heart. “Oh, yeah, good on you with that report. You even got Jessica's approval.” With a thumbs up, he slowly slinks back to his seat.

“Thanks, Harry.” Your words waver as you take the paper from your pocket and read it again as if you hallucinated the name on it.

The familiar whirr of the camera lenses enter your space, zooming in on the print. You immediately turn towards it, glaring and frowning. “Really? Even that?”

Jericho the cameraman nods, giving you an apologetic tight lipped smile. You're starting to really hate cameras right now. If it didn't cost you your job, you would've yanked the microphone in your shirt already. But you've got a bigger problem— what to give Hobie that he will surely like.

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themefork · 3 days ago

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love-lilacs · 7 months ago

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what a cruel summer! | tyler owens x reader (18+)

Tyler laughs. That deep, clear rumble that sends every girl swooning into his arms. You aren’t immune to its charm from your spot, a roiling envy settling in your stomach as you turn away from where you had been watching them out of the corner of your eye.

You can’t be jealous. You just can’t.

No matter what this feels like.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. drinking. porn w some plot??? smut. unprotected pnv (wrap it before you tap it pls). oral, f receiving. spanking. dirty talk. no use of y/n. fwb relationship and feewings.

word count: 5.1k

The heat of Oklahoma is only bearable because of the storms that pass through, with their cold fronts and sweet smelling rain, creating rotating funnels of wind for you to chase with your friends.

That, and Tyler Owens.

It wasn’t meant to be this serious, which is why you keep telling each other that it isn't. You almost exclusively dance only with each other because you’re the only two that are only ones who aren’t clumsy and like doing it, sneaking into each others rooms for sex but staying overnight because it’s easier than sneaking back to your respective beds. Tyler insists you ride with him in his truck because you have an uncanny ability for reading the radar and navigating, not because he’ll push to get as close to the cell as possible so that you can get the perfect shot for your journals.

It’s not serious, but when he holds you close and spins you around the floor of whatever sticky dive bar you’re in, it sure feels that way.

It felt that way when some guy put his cowboy hat on your head, taking it back only after Tyler snatched it from your head, pulling you backwards into his chest while drawling that the guy had picked the wrong girl.

It feels that way on the odd day off in some hotel pool when you’re perched on his shoulders after another winning round of chicken fight and his short nails are digging into your thighs while you tangle your hand in his hair. The image of your thighs around his head border on too much to handle while he cheers you on- “Atta girl!”

“I’m getting another round.” You say to no one, well aware that your friends are deep in a debate about who was stupider in today’s chase and will not hear you. They don’t notice that Tyler has been gone for the better half of 15 minutes, laughing and charming the young female bartender. She can’t be much younger than you, but has on one of those tiny blank tank tops that make boobs look like gravity is a suggestion. That paired with low pigtails that the middle-aged men at the end the bar are drooling over; you’ve decided you can’t possibly compete with her. You step up to the spot only a few spots down from Tyler and the girl, desperately trying to make eye-contact with the other bartender for a refill.

You’re just close enough to hear their conversation as he tells her about the tornado you had chased earlier that day.

“That must be so scary.” She gushes, resting her chin in her hand, “You’re so brave. I could never do that.”

You can’t be jealous. You just can’t.

No matter what this feels like.

“Another one, miss?” The older bartender asks. You nod, “and a shot of Jack,” placing a few bills on the counter as he prepares your drinks.

“Is that your team in the corner over there?” She asks. Their two voices are growing nearer to you. You trace your finger down a grain in the wood, wincing at the stickiness that follows you as your drinks are placed in front of you. You down the shot before you can think too hard about it, the bittersweet liquid burning down your throat.

“Yup. Best in the damn south. And this-” Tyler claps a hand on your shoulder causing you to jump back into his chest. His stupidly firm, warm and comforting chest.

“This is my wingman. My partner. Don’t know what I’d do without her guiding me.” Tyler’s hand slips down your middle, tucking you firmly into his side.

You look up meet his gaze, hoping your face is as steely and sharp as the mask you desperately want to wear. “Probably drive straight into a tornado and die.” You deadpan, wrapping your lips around your straw and raising your eyebrows.

“Without you darlin,’ I don’t think I’d be getting anywhere near any one of ‘em.” Tyler grins down at you, squeezing your waist as he pulls you closer to his side. “Nice meetin’ ya, Bailey! See ya ‘round.” That’s all the goodbye he affords her as he guides you back to the group with his hand on your lower back.

“She seemed nice.” You say, trying to keep the bitterness out of your tone. You fail.

Tyler laughs, clearly bemused by the whole situation.

“She’s alright. Why? You jealous, darlin’?” Tyler stops, tugging your belt loops to face him. The sudden movement combined with your tipsiness makes you stumble, placing a hand on his pec to steady yourself.

You set your jaw as you snatch your hand away as if burned, glaring up at him. “Never.”

“Well then, you won’t have an issue with me asking her to dance? Her shift is over soon.”

Your free hand clenches into a fist, squeezing tightly as you shake your head.

“No?” Tyler asks, a knowing look on his face. Mouth quirking up at the side, in that stupidly charming way.

“No.” You repeat, turning on your heel and walking back to your table. When you sip from your drink, he’s talking to Bailey again and she steps out to the dancefloor as he guides her around. The men from the end of the bar watch as they do so, jealousy clear on their faces. You’re sure it must be clear on your own too, taking another larger sip and wincing. The bartender made you a double. Not that you’re complaining as you suck it down quickly. “Let’s do shots!” You exclaim to the group, grabbing Kate’s arm. A resounding ‘yes!’ is heard from around you and two of the guys head to the bar, returning with enough shots for everyone to have two.

Tyler is peering over Bailey’s head curiously, watching as you knock both back in quick succession. Tequila. Your personal nemesis. You cannot bring yourself to care. “Let’s dance!” You giggle to Kate and Lily, dragging them to a spot on the dancefloor opposite of Tyler. They oblige you easily, moving to the beat. As the night crawls on and the music gets louder, you’re fed shot after shot until Kate has you hanging off of her left side and Lilly clutching her right hand. Tyler has long since abandoned Bailey, choosing to stand with the guys and watching you move with a smile on his handsome face. All it does is make you sad.

“Alright, party girls. Come on, last call is coming up and we should get back.” Tyler has appeared in front of you, the rest of the guys in tow.

“Aw!” You pout, stepping away from Kate and looking up at him. “But I’m not done! And you can’t leave Bailey!” You sing her name bitterly, wrinkling your nose and spinning, maintaining eye contact as best you can. You’re warm and swaying, much lighter than earlier. You manage to ruin your own mood when you face him again, shocked that he would still be in front of you. Your brows furrow and lips form a pout.

Tyler sighs, wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you, guiding you out of the bar. “‘M not interested in Bailey, sweetheart. I like you.”

“You can’t say things like that.” You insist as the cool night air hits your body. One of your friend’s cars is in front of you, backseat door open and engine running.

“Like what?” Tyler asks, carefully turning you to face him. Concern is written on his face while he hands rest on your hips. A thumb rubs back and forth on the skin where your shirt has ridden up.

“Like sweetheart, especially after you’ve spent your night flirting with another girl.”

“I wasn’t flirting.” Tyler insists, “I wouldn’t do that to y-” He cuts himself off, “I wasn’t flirting with her.” He insists quietly, cheeks going pink.

You scoff, pushing off of him and into the backseat. “Could’ve fooled me.” You call as you buckle in your seatbelt. Tyler sighs dejectedly as he closes the door behind you. With only Lily in the backseat with you, the world suddenly feels a lot less steady in the dark car. You don’t realize you’re crying until you’re on some unlit back road towards the hotel, sniffling softly as tears fall down your face.

Lily says your name once, then twice until you look at her. You’re sure you’re eyes are red and puffy. Concern is written on her face. “Are you okay?”

You nod, wiping furiously at your cheeks. “M’fine.” You blubber, crossing your arms as another cascade of tears leak down.

Tyler says your name from up front this time. “We’re almost back, okay?”

“Okay.” You sob, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. You run to escape from the team’s prying eyes in the lobby, not catching Tyler’s gaze as he assures them; “I’ll check in on her.” as you rush past the closed pool, desperately searching your pocket for the room key. Only when the green light flashes and you shut the door behind you do you allow yourself to gasp for air.

30 minutes later, you’re wrapped in a soft blanket, watching a rerun of an HGTV episode, putting sour candy after candy on your tongue. You can’t bear to look Tyler in the eyes, can't bear to face Lily and Kate’s comforting text messages inquiring about your well being.

A knock interrupts your sulking. Expecting it to be someone from the team you ignore it, not wanting to face the music. But it comes again, louder this time, and you mute the TV.

Creeping up slowly, you reach for your phone and the nearest potential weapon- your textbook on Differential Equations in Chemistry from a summer class you’re taking. Your name is called from outside the door before you can stand on your tiptoes to peer through the peephole. Even though you recognize the voice, you check anyways. Standing sheepishly with his hands in his pockets is Tyler.

“Can we talk?” Tyler asks, raising his hand to knock again, “I know you’re mad, darlin’, but I-”

You open the door before he can finish speaking, taking a moment to bask in his startled gaze. You look him up and down. He’s changed his clothes since the bar, sporting a backwards cap and too-small gray t-shirt he’s had since you were freshmen in college. You try to ignore the way his biceps bulge and strain against the sleeves when he adjusts the stupidly attractive hat.

“I’m not mad.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest, hoping he doesn’t realize its his shirt that you donned. Based on the way his gaze flicks down to where your breasts are pushed up against the logo and quirks his eyebrow ever so slightly, you know he does.

“Had me fooled, then.” He stares you down, waiting for a response. You stare back, a silent battle between the two of you on who will fold first. Begrudgingly, you concede, stepping aside for him to pass and enter the tiny room. You think he’s going to comment on the mess you’ve made; in your frustration after the chase, you left your clothes in a heap on the floor next to your damp towels from the shower and the candy bag on the unmade bed.

“You’re a bad liar.” Tyler teases lightly with his usual lopsided grin on his face.

To anyone else, he looks relaxed and nonchalant. You know him better. Based on the way his thumb is fiddling with his belt loop, you know he’s walking on eggshells around you. You shrug, sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling your shirt down to cover more of your bare thighs.

His sullen face, half shadowed by the lamp in the corner, follows the movement. His throat bobs as he steps towards you.

“I’m sorry.” Tyler confesses, stepping towards you.

You look up at him, quirking an eyebrow.

“I shouldn’t have danced with her.”

You raise an eyebrow, waving a dramatic hand for him to continue.

“And I shouldn't have said what I did to you.” He steps again, falling to his knees. Carefully spreading your thighs, he looks up at you and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“And?” You ask as he traces from your knee to the edge of the shirt leaving goosebumps in its wake, never once breaking eye contact with you.

“Jesus woman, you’re the smartest, prettiest girl I’ve ever met and I will never doubt you again. We men are nothing compared to you.” Tyler recites, causing your smile to finally break away. You laugh, cupping his cheek as he grins too, green eyes following your movement.

“Good.” You lean down, pressing your forehead to his. Tyler closes the distance quickly, pressing a tiny kiss to your lips, unable to resist.

“She wasn’t interesting either.” Tyler admits, trailing lazy kisses up and down your legs. You hum in response, carding your hand through his sandy locks. “Too sulky.” He quotes, not stopping his movements as he gets closer to those pitiful excuse for sleep shorts you like to wear. He presses his hand against your stomach, pushing gently until you fall backwards onto the bed.

“Oh?” You ask, voice choked.

“Mmm. I like you so much more. But don’t worry, baby, I’m gonna fix this.”

“Fix it?”

“Can’t have my girl mad at me.”

My girl.

If he didn’t have your head spinning, you’d jerk up and demand exactly what that meant.

But Tyler does, as always, as he pushes the shirt up to expose a bit of your stomach.

Tyler rises slightly, kissing at the waistband.

“Not mad anymore.” You sigh, fisting a hand in his hair. “Was a bit disappointed, maybe.”

You feel him smile against you stomach, knowing better. But he doesn’t say anything.

“Didn’t get dinner before we left.” Tyler mumbles, more to himself as he hooks his fingers in the shorts.

“You must be hungry.” You muse breathlessly, lifting your hips to help him.

Tyler’s eyes darken, pupils blown as he leans forward to kiss your bare, soaking core.

“Starving.” He agrees, eyes only on you. Then he leans forward, pressing his tongue flat and licking a fat stripe up your pussy.

The action has you crying out desperately, tightening your grip on his hair as his fingers tease at your weeping hole.

“Can’t believe I’m so lucky.” Tyler murmurs, watching carefully as he inserts one finger. You clench around him, moaning desperately “got you, pretty baby, waiting for me, in my shirt, no panties. Don’t deserve her.”

“No.” You gasp as he presses another finger. “Maybe not after today.”

“Absolutely not.” Tyler agrees, curling his fingers experimentally. “Gotta make it up to her.”

Tyler repeats the motion a couple times watching intently until you keen forward. He surges towards you, wrapping his lips around your clit, tonguing at the little bud with his usual fervor.

You moan loudly, pulling his head closer to you as you throw your head backwards on the messy bed, arching your back as you pull him closer, closer, closer.

“That’s my girl.” Tyler grunts into your core, “Is my pussy gonna come for me?”

You cry out head wobbling in a desperate ‘yes.’

“That’s right. My girl, my pussy. My sweet cunt. Who makes you feel this good?”

You squeeze your eyes shut as he repeats his motions, holding you just on the edge of coming. His arm brands across your hips, holding you in place and preventing you from squirming to get the friction you need to push you over the edge.

Tyler pulls his fingers halfway from your soaking cunt, inhaling sharply as you clench, desperately trying to pull him back in.

“Baby,” He reminds gently, toying at your clit with his thumb, “who makes you feel this good?”

Your body jolts at the featherlight touch, “You, Tyler!” You cry out, and he nods.

“That’s my girl.” He wraps his mouth around you again, working you closer to your high as your thighs shake and breaths come quicker. Flames lick at your skin, threatening to consume you whole. The icy cold room cannot compare to Tyler’s mouth, not when he’s working you just like this. When it hits, your orgasm surrounds you like a supernova, heat covering your skin despite the overworked air conditioner blowing cool air towards your bare body. Starbursts of white bloom behind your eyelids as you thrash, desperately grinding into Tyler’s face to ride out your high.

Tyler lets you use him, grinding your pussy into his face and drinking up your orgasm, working you until you carefully pull him away, muttering “sensitive.” His chin is shiny, slick with your release and the smile he sports can only be described as smug. Tyler wraps an arm around your center, sighing as you pull him on top of you.

You’re dimly aware of the TV casting a blue glow over the two of you as you reach for his belt, undoing it carefully.

“I really am sorry.” Tyler catches your hand, emerald eyes boring into yours. Sadness is reserved in them, touch tentative as he raises your wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the soft skin there. The action is so endearing you nearly want to cry.

“I know.” You pull your hand from his, running a thumb over his mouth and pulling his lip down. His tongue darts out, touching your fingertip ever so slightly. You continue your movement until you brush the scruff of his chin. You lean up to kiss him chastely. “So am I.”

Looking down at you, he’s a work of art. Face flushed and damp strands of hair hanging over his forehead, likely from a shower. That hat he was wearing is somewhere on the bedsheets of this shitty motel room. He smells strongly of cedar and pine, shrouding you in the world’s most comforting blanket. Tyler lets his body sink lower to cover you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck. You comb your fingers through his hair, ignoring the way the cool metal of his belt buckle is digging into your thigh. Wet kisses are being placed along your skin in between murmurs and praise you can’t quite make out.

This doesn’t feel like friends.

You want to say as much and the sentiment is mirrored in his eyes when he opens them, hovering above you on his forearms.

But you don’t, instead whispering “can I?” as you trail your touch from his pecs to his abs, lifting his shirt and running your fingers along that light trail of hair just above his belt.

Tyler nods. “Please, sweetheart.”

You peel your shirts from your bodies first, taking a moment to marvel at his chest as you always do, grazing your teeth across his nipple just to make him shiver. His jeans come next and you take your time unfastening them. He ungracefully kicks them off, boxers following seconds later. Tyler lowers himself fully on top of you again, careful not to let his weight crush you.

Not that you would mind if he did.

The kisses he offers are far from filthy, instead tender and gentle, as if you’d disappear if he wasn’t careful. You can faintly taste yourself on his lips, a blush rising in your cheeks at the thought. He cups your face delicately, calloused hands rough against your soft skin.

When you reach down to grasp him, he hisses, pressing his face into your neck .

”Shit, sweetheart.” Tyler gasps out as you trace your fingers gently over a thick vein,. “‘M not gonna last long.”

“I don’t need you to.” You mutter into his collarbone, sinking your teeth into his smooth skin and brushing a thumb over his swollen tip. Precum smears with your thumb’s movement and he groans again, hiding his face lower in your chest and messily kissing the tops of your breasts.

You continue moving your hand, drinking in his gasps and moans with pride. Finally, you guide him to your dripping heat. You gasp and he moans long and pretty when you drag his tip through your heat. The first press of his

The stretch is something you’ll never get used to, nails digging into your shoulders as Tyler drags his lips over your cheek. “So good.” He gasps and you nod fervently, catching you lips against his. You dig your nails into his shoulders, rolling your hips once. Tyler takes his cue, pulling out slowly, watching your needy cunt grip his thick cock. When he bottoms out again, it punches a high pitched breath from your lungs. He maintains the slow, bruising pace, arms bracketing your head as he pounds your poor pussy. Every thrust hits deeper, fat tip bullying that spongy spot you can never quite reach on your own.

Every nerve on your body is alight, hot and burning. All you can possibly conjure from your fucked-out mind is his name. Clearly, Tyler isn’t not far off from your state with the way your name falls from his lips like a prayer.

You clench around him, lips catching in a messy kiss that can hardly be counted as such. Panting against each other’s mouths like you’ve just ran a mile. To call it a kiss would be an insult to the romantics attached to the word. It’s messy, dirty, and downright nasty. It’s hot.

Tyler shifts, angle changing ever-so-slightly, but the movement causes his pelvis to brush against your neglected clit.

“There?” Tyler asks as you cry out. He trails his hand down to where your bodies meet, watching the way your cunt grips his cock, wet from every thrust into your tight pussy. His fingers circle your clit and you gasp sharply, nodding eagerly and throwing your head back. “‘S fuckin’ hot.”

“Good girl,” Tyler murmurs, “This little cunt is gon’ come for me again, ain’t it? Can feel the way you’re gripping me. ‘S like heaven.”

The world around you grows dull. The roof could rip off of this dingy place, rain pouring on your skin, but all you could know is the way Tyler feels against you. The way his voice coaxes you closer to your high. The way his breath fans your cheek when you come, thrusts slowing as you ride out your orgasm, clenching around him. Your senses dull as all you can feel is the way his body presses to you. When you open your eyes again, Tyler is still sheathed inside of you, pressing butterfly kisses across your cheeks. You meet his concerned gaze, and something akin to a challenge seeds itself in your brain.

With one movement, you’re pushing him off and out of you, flipping him onto his back and straddling his thighs. Tyler’s gaze is wide as he watches you, those emerald eyes nearly black from arousal and astonishment.

His hands find themselves gripping your thighs as you rub your pulsing pussy up his length. Tyler groans again. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby.”

You lean down, pressing his tip into your cunt again as you whisper into his ear. “But what a way to go, huh cowboy?”

Tyler thrusts up into you, fully inside you once again. A smirk toys at your lips as you swivel your hips around him. His gaze makes you feel powerful as you begin to ride him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, alternating between shallow thrusts to meet your body and letting you fully take control, as if overcome by the picture in front of him.

Your eyes catch on something near your knee and the corner of your lip quirks up as you reach for it. Tyler’s hat, the one abandoned however long ago is resting backwards on your head. The too-big accessory falling over your face with every bounce.

“Fuck.” Tyler huffs, gripping your ass so tightly you’re sure he’s going to leave bruises. “You really are my girl, ain’t ya?”

You nod, a wolfish grin spreading on his face at “Atta girl. Prove it.”

So you do, fully intending to ride him within an inch of his life. His hips meet yours with every thrust, the sound of skin hitting skin not deterring either of you. Neither does the noises spilling from your mouths. Each sound of his is music to your ears, pride surging in your chest at the knowledge that you pull those sounds from him. They may not know now, but if anyone walks by your room, there is no doubt that they would understand exactly what is going on behind that closed door.

Still, your movements never cease as flames paint your skin, too lost in pleasure to even think about the exhausted ache blooming in your thighs. A particularly hard trust has your head tipping back with a guttural moan. Two orgasms in has left you sensitive and leaking, but Tyler doesn’t hesitate, reaching up to cup your breasts and thumbing over a nipple. Your hand reaches down to rub at your swollen and forgotten clit, easing the ache from the lack of simulation.

He looks at you in awe, as if you’ve hung the stars in the sky, painting every constellation with your hands. As he can’t believe you’re real. There’s no way. He can’t look at you like that. Like there’s something more, like you’re something special, not without promising you something.

This doesn’t feel like just friends.

You don’t have time to focus on the intruding thoughts, shaking them away as you brace your hands on his chest and riding him faster, harder. Desperate to feel him, make him feel as good as he’s made you feel. Desperate to be closer.

Tyler yanks you down to meet his lips, tugging your hair and taking control as he sets a fast pace, chasing his own high.

“Can I-?”

“Inside me, Owens.” You order, biting at his eat and tugging slightly at his blonde strands.

Tyler has a habit of clutching you tightly when he comes, bodies pressed so tightly together that nothing could possibly separate you. Ribbons of white coat your walls as he comes with a shout, thrusting sloppily as he rides out his own high. When he finally comes to a stop, you clench around him teasingly, knowing he’s still sensitive from his orgasm. A curse spills from his lips as he slips from your weeping cunt. You don’t know how long you stay there, curling on top of him with his hat still atop your head. Tyler brushes his fingers over your back, tracing invisible pictures as the air conditioner whirs in the background. Your own fingers draw up and down his collarbone. There’s a scar on his bicep from some brush with debris after a storm. A soft kiss to the skin there has a shaky breath tearing from his lungs. Somewhere in there, you doze off, only stirring when Tyler carefully moves you off of him and tucking you into a pillow. Your eyelids flutter open, a sinking feeling settling as your stomach as Tyler leans over you, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’ll be right back.”

You know he means it, returning in his plaid boxers with a wet washcloth to clean the remains of your sex from your inner thighs. You catch the scent of your lavender lotion being rubbed onto your legs, stifling a soft sigh into your pillow. A kiss followed tap to your hip has you sitting up, silently taking the t-shirt he offers you- his shirt. The same one he wore into your room. It’s silent as he feeds the fabric over your head and through your arms. Your eyes meet his, and he looks suddenly shy and sheepish, as if this isn’t a dance you’ve danced a million times.

This time is different, you both know that.

“Can I stay?” Is what he asks, looking for permission before settling into his routine. You know he’ll lay on his back before turning on his side and tucking you into him.

Still, its a question this time, waiting for your answer. Tyler is ready to go and pretend this never happened if you would just say the words.

As if you ever would.

You shake your head, patting the spot next to you. “Yeah.” You swallow as you slide your legs under the covers. “You should stay.”

You can’t remember the last time Tyler looked so relieved.

When you wake up to a warm body pressed against yours, it takes a moment for last night’s memories to trickle in. Your body aches deliciously, brain somehow clear despite the copious amounts of alcohol you consumed the night before. Tyler breathes quietly behind you, clutching your waist as if you’ll slip away like sand if he loosens his grip. His exhales tickle your ear and you squirm backwards into his grasp, desperate to be closer closer closer.

“Mornin’.” Tyler murmurs in that deep voice of his. “You sleep okay?”

Your eyes close again, finding his hand and intertwining your fingers. “Mhmm. You?”

Tyler hums in agreement, turning you gently to face him. His arm is tucked under his head, bicep flexing deliciously as he studies you. A question is written on his face, searching for something in your eyes, maybe regret.

He must not find it though, because he quietly clears his throat. “So about last night…”

You shake your head cutting him off in a feeble attempt to restrain your smile, watching the corners of his eyes crinkle as he mirrors your expression. There isn’t anything more that needs to be said, any questions answered simply by meeting the other’s gaze. Without words, it suddenly all makes sense.

You aren’t sure who moves first, lurching into each other with such vigor that your noses collide before your lips meet and your bodies tangle into the messy sheets as one.

This is most definitely not just friends. But you were never that in the first place, were you?

Seems you both knew that.

#twisters #twisters 2024 #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader

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