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absolutelynotmate-archive · 1 year

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said something stupid, instead of 'i love you.'- c.leclerc

can't we just act like we never broke each other's hearts? pairing: charles leclerc x female reader word count: 26.9k (my bad fr fr) warnings: 18+ minors dni, protected sex, oral sex, google translated french. tw: charles' 2022 season (including france) a/n: this is something, that's for certain. good or bad is yet to be decided. I'VE MOVED BLOGS! if you enjoy this and are looking for more, follow me @formulaforza

You’d texted him two weeks before the season opener. It was short, simple, and a huge overstep, one you promised yourself years ago you’d never make. Do you have any extra paddock passes? He’d said yes, and you begrudgingly asked if you could have an extra, if you could bring a guest, a boyfriend, Michael. He’s a big fan, of Charles and of Formula One. I really want to impress him.

Michael’s been impatiently itching to meet Charles since he spotted a photo of the two of you in your living room. You thought you’d taken them all down before he came over, but, you missed one. He’s sort of a Ferrari fan-boy, an Italian whose transplanted himself to Monte Carlo. You’d been putting off the meeting as long as possible, forced to consider if Michael actually liked you, or if he just wanted to know Charles. It wasn’t easy, to keep them apart. It was winter break, and Charles was in Monaco too much to be easily avoided. There’s a lot of verbiage that is used to describe home, vast is not one of them.

You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now, the way you followed him around the globe like a helicopter parent that first year he wore red. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. Michael was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldn’t contain when amongst the chaos you’d become accustomed to. His presence, though, felt intrusive on something that had, for so long, been just yours.

Arthur’s familiar voice calls your name, over the bustling hum of different important and wealthy figures. You grin when your eyes meet his, stand up from the leather sofa you’re seated on, give him, and Pascale, big hugs. Charles told me you brought someone? She asked, voice sweet and curious.

Her tone was contrasted by Arthur’s quip asking where your arm-candy had run off to, wiggling his brows and searching the room for a man he’d never seen. He’s oblivious to the glare Pascale shoots into the side of his head.

You explain that he’s in the bathroom, check your watch. “Have you seen Charles today?” It’s not like him to not stop by and say hello, to check in and make sure you’re still enjoying yourself–or that you’re still capable of pretending you are. You wonder if he’s avoiding you, annoyed by the presence of your guest, a guest he doesn’t know. It’s unheard of, you asking for passes. It’s literally never happened. You’d asked about the possibility of one for yourself, back when he was with Sauber, and he’s maintained that you have an open invite since.

“We were just with him.” Arthur says.

“How is he?” You ask, because he might be mad at you, but also because you know him. His brain works like clockwork. Two hours before a race, right now, he’ll be doubting himself, doubting the car, doubting himself again. In his moments of downtime, before he’s swept up into the chaos of it all, his brain will pick itself apart with nervousness. You think it’s endearing, his nerves. They remind you that he’s still Charles at times where he feels so grand and invincible.

“He’s good.” Arthur says, because between crucifying jokes and mockings of his big brother, Arthur idolizes him. He’s none the wiser to Charles’ anxieties and insecurities because he’s never looking for him, blind confidence in the man he’ll never admit is his biggest role model. You look to Pascale, who understands the depth of your question, and get a reaffirming nod.

Arthur diggs two sticker tags from his pocket, full grid access. “For you.” He says, fastening one onto your lanyard. “And for the boy.” He holds out the other, presents it like a crown jewel. You sigh, snatch it from his hand and shove it into your pocket. You hate watching races in the garage, with all the hyper-wealthy motherfuckers who buy their way in. You always feel like you don’t belong. Like, no matter where you move, you’re always in someone more important’s way. Your limbs don’t feel like your own, unable to settle, so close to the comfort of your best friend yet miles away from his occupied mind.

“What’s going on?” Michael asks, airy tone in direct conflict to his hand on the small of your back, tense with envy. He’s silently laying claim to you, reminding you who you belong to, and you almost laugh at the thought of someone being threatened by Arthur. Charles, you could see. Charles, you’ve had that argument about before. Arthur, though? Arthur, who slept with his ratty blanket until he was sixteen, who lost not one, but two pet goldfish in the span of a year. Arthur, who is very happily in love with the sweetest girl to ever grace this Earth.

“C’est lui?” Arthur asks, tone bored. “Il est vieux.”

“This is him.” You say, through gritted teeth, introduce them all formally and sit by as an observer in their conversation. The lowlight was Arthur’s mention of grid access, and Michael’s giddiness at watching the race in the garage. You knew then that you’d be uncomfortable well into the night.

You end up in the garage during the driver’s parade. “Don’t touch anything.” You told Michael, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage. The warning you give was less for your boyfriend, and more for you, who is desperate to run a hand over the red chassis, to memorize every detail of it. If you do, you might feel more comfortable when he’s inside, might be able to pretend you understand the concepts he casually mentions over dinner.

You squeal like a child when you see Isa, hugging her tight and spilling all the details of your lives since Abu Dhabi last year. You introduce her to Michael, who says he’s a big fan of Carlos. Joris tugs on your ponytail, appearing with Andrea, who kisses your cheek, tells you Charles is going to be so happy to see you in the garage. You roll your eyes.

Charles is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. He’s probably just as surprised to see you in here as you are uncomfortable about it. When you hug him, the knotted waist of his overalls digs into you awkwardly. “You’re warm.” You say, peeling your body from his sweaty form.

“It’s hot.” He says, runs a hand through his salty hair.

“They shouldn’t make you wear all this during the parade.” You said, and he shrugged it off, asked where your guy was. You look around, search the garage for him. He can’t be far, and surely he’s gawking from one corner or another. If not at the sight of Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver, than at Charles, a man, whose hand hovers just behind the small of your back.

Two hands, two separate distinctions. One, possessive and impossible to ignore. The other, protective, almost goes unnoticed. For a few breaths, your shoulders are relaxed, but then his hand is gone, shaking Michael’s. “Good to meet you, Mate.” Charles says, and the whole place feels like a straightjacket again.

– –

You stand next to Isa, your hands wrapped nervously around each other’s the entire race, watching monitors and listening in on the headsets. “Carlos says the cars have it this year.” She says, while the guys are lining up in their starting spots. It feels like everyone at Ferrari has been chasing it, whatever it is, for a decade. Every year is the year, and every year, you’re begging Charles not to base his self-worth on a bad race or a bad season. You’ll believe in him until your last breath, but your glass of Ferrari is never going to be half-full.

Charles and Max, Max and Charles, Charles and Max. They flip flop positions lap after lap. When it seems like he’s settled in, you allow yourself to breathe. The universe has never allowed him comfort, though. Enter, safety car. The replay is on the screen, and your heart pangs for Pierre, watching his dash go black in system failure. Your heart aches for Charles, though, and the forty-six laps of hard work that was erased just like that.

Max races like Max, inching closer and closer to Charles, practically lining up next to him. You’re rearing up for a dogfight, but Max fucks up. You don’t know what he did, why he did it, and it doesn’t seem like anyone else does either. It doesn’t matter, though, because Charles is gone. Something in you settles, sure and confident, even if it’s not over yet. You hear murmurs, celebrations, Max is retiring. Charles is going to win.

A Ferrari one-two to start the season. Your smile is so big your cheeks ache. Under the lights, watching him up on the top step, listening to your national anthem, you allow yourself to hope, to buy into the hype everyone else is swearing by.

His skin shines brighter than his smile, sparkling with whatever lemon-lime soda they’d filled the champagne bottles with this year. You have a momentary lapse, consider what his skin would taste like, sweaty and sticky and sweet. Michael’s presence, his arms caging you in between him and the barricade, assures that the thought is nothing more than a passing one.

He hugs you when he makes the rounds, being whisked away to whatever media responsibilities he had to fulfill before he heads to the debrief. Sweat and seven-up soaked, he’s running on pure adrenaline, squeezing you so tight you struggle to breathe.

– –

You shower back at the hotel, wash his hug down the drain with the rest of the race anxiety. He takes everyone out to dinner late that night; Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Andrea, Joris, Michael, and you. It’s a tradition. No matter how late or early in the day it happened. A podium, a celebratory dinner. Like always.

The air is light, happy conversations flow from smiling faces, filling the room with laughter and excitement and hope. You’re sandwiched between your boyfriend and your best friend. Charles’ arm throws itself around your shoulder when Lorenzo retells a story meant to embarrass you. Michael reacts accordingly, hand on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. They’re fighting over you and only one of them knows it.

Charles is engaged in conversation, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to have bruises in your leg by the time you go to sleep tonight. You nudge Charles’ foot with yours, his head turns before his eyes, lingering on Andrea and the conversation you’re pulling him from before he's searching your eyes curiously. You shrug your shoulder, and as if noticing it’s there for the very first time, he drops his arm onto the table and returns to the conversation.

He must’ve showered, changed, and hurried here. His hair is still damp, and you want to play with it. Curl the long pieces around your finger and play with the short pieces at the nape of his neck. You soak up his presence as much as you can, knowing it’s going to be several weeks and several races before you see each other again. Crazy lives and crazy schedules that won’t feel normal again until break. You both take care to cherish the times you do get to spend together these days. You’re not twenty-one following him around the world anymore.

“Merci.” You say, at the end of the night. “For everything.”

He shakes his head, shoos your words away like they’re unnecessary, like you shouldn’t be thanking him for pulling strings. “Ton jouet garçon parle-t'il français?” He asks quietly, just for the two of you to hear. You roll your eyes, shake your head. “Il aest assez fan de moi.”

“Tu l’aime bien alors?”

“Non.” He chuckles. “Je ne l’aime pas. Pas pour toi.” He says it matter-of-factly, annoyingly so and without any elaboration.

“Heureusement, que tu n’es pas ma mère.”

“Heureusement.”

It’s Miami when you see him next. Hot and humid and sunny, once more. Windy, too. Big gusts move the palms, gluing your hair haphazardly across your face before you tie it back, blowing his shirt tight across his chest. “How’s grandpa?” He asks at lunch. You’re sat across from him on the expansive patio of a waterfront restaurant, waves crashing against the cement beams below you, a seagull running around on the wooden planks in search of fresh crumbs.

After Bahrain, Arthur wouldn’t drop the salt and pepper allegations, pushing until he found out Michael was seven years older than you. None of the boys have referred to him as anything but a grandfather since.

“Oh, that?” You say, nonchalant, like you can’t be bothered when you very much were. “He liked me too much.” Translation, he wanted me on a leash.

“He liked you too much.” He repeated, smile tugging on his lips. “Please,” He gestured to you, “Élaborer.”

“You never liked him, anyway.” You say into the rim of your water glass, taking a long, cold drink. The condensation from the glass drips down your wrist, forearm, off your bent elbow and onto your bare thighs, just past the hem of your sundress. The glass makes a heavy clunk when you set it back on the tabletop.

“Oh, I loved him.” He laughed. “He was just wrong for you, chou.”

“You barely knew him.”

“After he left you alone in the garage?” He leans back in his seat, gestures harshly across his throat and clicks his tongue. “There was nothing to know.”

“You leave me alone in the garage.” You remind him and he’s quick to jump in.

“I do not.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, animated. You smile, he smiles. “I leave you with Arthur.”

“You do not!” You laugh, protest without thinking, without needing to. The memory of each and every race you’ve spent in the garage is burnt into your memory. Every second feels like a second and a half. There are no distractions, it’s just you, in the way, and him, flying around in a death trap at a million kilometers an hour.

He tries to argue, insist he would never leave you alone if he thought you were uncomfortable. You don’t want to hear it, though. If he does leave you under the watchful eye of someone, they have always done a pretty shitty job at looking out for you. “Whatever.” He finally concedes. “Who’s on the radar now?” Nobody, you tell him. Going to be single for a while.

“What are your plans tonight?” He asked over the phone. It was the middle of the decade, the start of your first year at University. The longest you’ve been away from home and the only time he’d been there without you.

Jules had died that summer, and the sun had felt dimmed since. You spoke to Charles almost every day, but you were in no rush to get back home. It was ironic, Monaco reminding you of Jules, you finding an escape from the memories in France. It should be the other way around, but, logic has never had much hold over grief.

“I have a presentation, remember?” He listened to you revise for it, mindlessly picking apart your notes, adjusting even the most minute details, for hours last week. You cried when the ancient printer in the library wouldn’t fulfill it’s only earthly purpose, and he patiently calmed you down, stayed with you on the phone until you fell asleep that night. He never acknowledged it, and you were grateful for it.

“That’s tonight?” He asked, sounded defeated.

“Yes. Why?”

“I miss you.” He said, and you nearly crumbled into a little ball on the street. “I was going to come see you.”

You hesitated for a moment, tried to remember just how messy your apartment was, sized up your outfit. You didn’t want him to go telling stories to your parents of a disheveled daughter drowning somewhere just below the surface in France. You wanted to be put together when you saw him again, be the rock you were before you left.

Generously, you would say you fell somewhere in the grey. “Come, then.’ You told him. “You can pick me up.”

– –

Nearly three hours later, after the conclusion of your presentation and his mind-numbing drive, he’s parked a short walk from your university building, waiting for you. “Sulut.” He said.

“Hey.” You replied, climbing into the passenger seat. “How was Portugal?” He’d just gotten home and you’d been too busy with school to check any race results. Plus, you always liked hearing his recounts of races more than Google results.

“How was your presentation?” He asks, doesn’t answer your question.

“Good.” You smiled, buckled your seatbelt.

Last season, before last summer and before Jules, you couldn’t get him to shut up about racing. It was all he ever wanted to talk about. He could be winning races or embarrassing himself on track, it didn’t matter, he’d talk your ear off. Now, he’s a lockbox with a combination that changes every day. You talk and you talk but nothing is really said, not anymore. You use each other’s voices to drown out the ones in your heads, to dull the pain, if even briefly.

Growing up, it had always been your three families. Your fathers were best friends, had known each other before they knew their wives. You vacationed together, spent holidays together, had monthly family dinners and walked to the bus stop together. All of you kids were the same ages. Not planned, completely coincidental, they’d always say. You didn’t buy it, Arthur was the only one without a match, poor kid, the permanent brunt of jokes and the forever baby brother.

“I don’t know my way around here.” He says, hand on the back of your headrest, backing the car out onto the road.

“I do.” He smiles. Oh, how you missed his smile. All perfect and pretty, just like the rest of him, only happier.

You arrive in Spain early, with him. There’s optimism after Miami, Charles is back on track, back to believing he deserves the title and then some. You all spend the entirety of Monday in La Barceloneta, soaking up as much tranquility and Spanish sun as you can.

Someone is knocking–pounding–on the door of your hotel room. The sun has barely risen, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting hard golden shadows on the entire room. “Fuck.” You groan, rubbing sleep from your eyes, dragging your feet the entire way to the door. When Charles had said, we’re going to spend all day at the beach, you thought he meant midday, at the earliest. “What?” You say, met with Arthur’s annoyed face.

“You could sleep through a freight train.” He says, and you flip him off.

“You could have called me.” You say, yawn, stretch your arms out above your head. He rolls his eyes, and it gets under your skin in a way only a little brother can manage. You wish you had a shoe to throw at his stupid face.

“Charles did. Three times.” He holds up a matching amount of fingers and you nod, that sounds like something you’d sleep through. “Are you ready?”

Deep breaths, deep breaths, don’t lunge at him. “Do I look ready?” He looks you up and down and you can actually see the gears turning in his head, all three of his brain cells working overtime trying to convince him to keep his mouth shut. “Don’t answer that.” You say, stop him before your eye starts to twitch. “Give me half an hour.”

You knock on the door to Charles’ suite forty-five minutes later. Messy ponytail that you barely brushed, swimsuit, shorts, cotton button-up, entirely too large tote bag slung over your shoulder. Lorenzo answers, “Good morning, sunshine.” He says, all sing-songy and stupid. “Sleep well?”

You walk straight past him into the suite. You think your entire room could fit in his living area. You walk through it, past Joris and Arthur, engaged in a heated conversation, and Carla, who looks about as sleepy as you do. Charles is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of something colorful. “No coffee?” You say.

Mouth full, he answers around his spoon, “I don’t drink coffee.”

“But, I do.” You say, grab a sliced strawberry from his bowl, eat it in one bite.

“Feel free to make some.” Lorenzo chimes in. You flip him off, too, pouring coffee grinds into a paper filter and starting a pot. Lorenzo grabs a strawberry from Charles’ bowl too, and the metal spoon promptly collides with his arm. “Ay!” He yelps, tries, and fails, to jump away from the cutlery. “You let her have one!”

“She scares me when she’s tired.” He says, and you take another one because you know you’ll get away with it. He points the spoon at you, warningly. You wink, pop it in your mouth and he smiles, chuckles into the breakfast.

– –

You fall asleep on the cabana bed in your shorts and bikini top, cotton shirt unbuttoned and laid over your face like it’s going to block the light out. You wake up when you’re hit with a bottle of sunscreen. There’s a possibility whoever threw it didn’t realize you were asleep, but the seam lines on your legs lead you to believe you’ve been relatively stationary since laying down here.

You pull the shirt off your face, sit up, disoriented from the nap. “You’re going to burn,” Charles says, rubbing the lotion into his face. “You have pink cheeks.”

“No, I don’t.” You say, but lather up anyway, ask Carla to reach the places you can’t.

The first drinks of the day come with lunch, a round of beers. Corona with lime. You keep yourself paced for the first couple hours, a 1:1 ratio between liquor and water. You maintain the slightest of buzzes, one that you really only feel when you catch yourself giggling too hard at one of their stupid jokes. It’s not the beer that takes you out, you’ve spent your entire life trying to keep up with Charles and his professional-drinker friends. It’s not the Sangria, either, however fun that is to sip. It’s the shots. It’s always the cheap tequila shots that do you in. You feel them too late, don’t realize you’re tipsy until you’re shitfaced. You’ll learn one day. One day, but not today.

You and Charles are sent to find tequila, and you walk down the beach until you find a bar that looks like it’s got decent shit. “I like you like this,” You say, toes sinking into the wet sand, cool water washing over your feet with each crashing wave.

“Like what?” He asks, squinting through the sun to see you. You left your sunglasses at the cabana and he gave you his to wear. They were big on your face and you thought if you moved too quickly they’d fall off into the sand. His linen shirt whips in the wind, his hair is sticking up in all directions, greasy with sunscreen. He glistened with sweat and coconut lotion, beautifully sunkissed.

“Just.” You shrug. “Happy.”

“Awww,” He teases, throws an arm around you, makes you miss a step and trip into him. He smells like summer and sandalwood and fresh, warm towels. “So sweet.”

At the bar, you order and he pays. Licking the salt off the back of your hand, you down the shot, pucker your lips around the lime, and set off back toward the rest of the group with a handful of shot glasses. It’s harder to carry them than you thought it would be, both of you fighting laughter when a bit of alcohol spills out of the tiny glasses, moving quickly over the burning sand. Back with everyone, you take another shot, no salt this time.

The next round is broken up by something sweet and fruity. Joris takes a picture of you and Charles drinking them, arms intertwined like newlyweds at their wedding reception. You hope it doesn’t end up on social media, uninterested in a weekend full of online death threats.

Another round of shots follows soon after, and then another. Not a single water has been sipped in hours. “We should go swimming.” You declared, unbuttoning your shorts and wiggling out of them. “Before we’re too drunk.”

“We’re not getting drunk.” Lorenzo says. Carla laughs from Arthur’s lap.

You shrug. “I am.”

“You already are.” Charles laughs into a beer bottle. “No deeper than your ankles.” Fuck you, you mouthed, walked backwards towards the sea. You wade out until the waves splash against your chest. On the beach, Charles is unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it on the cabana, taking off his sunglasses. You feel hot in the chilly water.

“My babysitter!” You laugh when he’s within earshot, slowly cutting through the water to you.

“I told you ankles.”

You shrug, form first with your hands and push them against his palms. “I’m not drunk.” He pushes back, laughing, you are. You shake your head, move your hands from his and run them over your hair, gather it to one side, twist the water from the ends. “The water is sobering me.” You lower yourself, sinking down until the salt water tickles your chin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look up at him, probably with blown, tipsy pupils.

“I don’t believe you.”

You hum, dipping your head back into the water. “You never do.”

“I always do.” He says, and you laugh at the immediate contradiction like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You might be drunk.

You cut yourself off after that, until you can eat something and drink a non-alchoholic beverage. You won’t let yourself get sober, because then you’ll be passed out on someone’s shoulder by sunset. You won’t get trashy, though. It’s a race week, anyone could see him, take a picture with him, a video with you in the background. When you’re together, whether you like it or not, you’re a reflection of him, a public display of the type of people he wants to associate himself with. Tipsy and fun is cute and carefree. Trashed and blacked is messy and irresponsible.

You’re trying to hold your composure in the taxi, resting your head, and eyes, on the window. The guys picked a restaurant while you and Carla were using the bathroom, and now you’re making Charles read you the menu. He’s doing it in butchered Spanish, trying to pick out the words and meals he recognizes.

“Is there tapas?” You ask, smacking his chest with the back of your hand.

“There is tapas.” He confirms.

You almost cry, laugh instead. “My god, I could kiss you right now.”

“You are so drunk.” He chuckles, and you bite your fist, sink into your seat, wish you could fake it better. Have fun and let loose without embarrassing him.

“Je suis désolé.” You whisper, drop your head the other way, onto his bicep. He adjusts, moves his arm so it’s around you, runs a hand over your hair. He doesn’t ask you what you’re apologizing for, knows that you’ll tell him anyway. “Pour être embarrassant.”

“Chérie,” He says into the crown of your head, a soft kiss before continuing. “You could never embarrass me.”

– –

The sobriety returns during dinner, bringing a pulsating headache with it. You drown your sorrows in delicious, cheap food, and drink an entire pitcher of water by yourself. When you leave, on the street outside, a band is playing in front of a fountain. You all stop, gather around and listen, sway to the lyrics you can barely understand. Joris is taking pictures of the band, Arthur is spinning a giggly Carla around. Charles grabs your hand, twirls you around and dances with you under the orange street lights. You rest your head on his chest.

“You should sing along.” The vibrations from his laugh soother your aching head.

It feels like a scene from a movie, like every other person in the city fades away into obscurity and it’s just you and he swaying on the cobblestone street. You’re so close to him, can’t be much closer, wish you could be. If you could, you’d crawl inside him, inspect his brain and the beautiful way it thinks, admire the way he sees the world. You know it’s special. Everything about him is magnificent, from the tallest hair on his head to the soles of his feet, every birthmark and fallen eyelash in between.

Slowly, your sway has come to a stand still, and he’s staring at you with dopey, tired eyes. It should be illegal, the way he;s looking at you. His sightline jumps all over your face. Your right eye to your left, your nose to your lips. They linger there, on your lips, and then he’s staring into your soul, searching for something. Can I kiss you right now. Give me a reason not to. You don’t know what he wants you to silently speak. If you knew, you’d tell him.

A cat-call whistle snaps both of your heads to Lorenzo. “Get a room!” Arthur yells, pretends to gag. Carla smacks his chest a little too hard to be playful.

The gap between you and Charles is only a few inches larger, but he feels unreachable, eyes glossy and avoiding you. “Fuck off, mate.: He says, drop a bill into the band’s opened guitar case.

– –

Sunday is a nightmare. There’s no way to sugar coat it or make it sound prettier than it is. Andrea grabs you from hospitality, throws his pass around your neck because nobody is going to stop him from getting into the garage. He keeps you at an arms length for the entirety of the short walk.

The car is already stopped in front of the garage, he’s climbing out. His posture is defeated, depressing. You wonder if you’ll be able to say the right words or if he’s just going to want to yell. A few people give him encouraging words, pats on the back, a hug. They’re already asking him to go to the media pen, to feed him to the sharks like a bucket of chum. He moves past them all, gets his weight taken and bee lines it to his drivers room.

Andrea nudges you in his direction. You stay in play, your feet frozen. You don’t know what to say. Go on, he says.

Fuck.

You knock on the door softly, nothing. Opening the door just wide enough to squeeze through it, you find him sat on the floor. Knees bent, arms locked and resting on them, fingers intertwined. His back is against the edge of the couch and his head is hung low. He doesn’t look like himself.

“What?” He says, rigid, doesn’t even bother to look in your direction.

“Do you want me here?” You ask, and his eyes shoot over to you. He looks exhaustingly sad and sorrowfully tired. You wish you could make it better, rub Neosporin on his cutes and stick a race car bandaid over them. Promis the wound would get better and know you were telling the truth.

“Stay.” He says, so you close the door behind you.

You sit on the couch, awkwardly scooch yourself over and around him, a leg on either side of his body. His head rests on your knee and your fingers toy with his hair, soaked with sweat. You don’t know how long you sit like that, just that it’s long enough for someone to knock on the door twice. You stay seated.

“You should change.” You finally say, after the third set of knocks noticeably lacks the patience of the previous two.

“Yeah.” He says, and you both stand. “Don’t go home?” He asks when you’re already halfway out the door, when you’re already looking at Mia in the stairwell. You look over your shoulder, nod, smile, and leave the door open for her to slide in and get to work.

You wait on the stairs, take a deep breath before re-emerging into the chaos. Carlos is still fighting for the podium and you don’t want to drag the mood to the Marianas Trench. It’s just so, so hard to see him hate himself.

Energy is low, morale is lower, but you stay seated in the back of the garage. When the race is over, you head back to hospitality, linger in his room there. Your phone is dead, abandoned on the floor and you lay on his massage table, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Everything replays on the blank canvas. The perfect lap the day before, his pole position. The sparkle in his eyes and the lightness to his voice. A great start and a commanding lead and a quick pit stop and then he’s slowing down, Andrea is grabbing you and hurrying you across the paddock strip.

Your presence scares him, makes him jump when he opens the door. “Fuck.” He says. “I thought you went home.”

You don’t bother to look up at him, to sit up. “You asked me to stay.” You listen while he shuffles around the room. His presence means the presence of others, and it’s not long before Andrea is there, picking up your phone and placing it on your stomach. His brothers are gone, Carla too. Joris lingers, the silent, unrelenting support of a friend.

“Are you hungry?” Charles askes, and you turn your head to face him. His expression is as tired as his voice.

“Are you?” You aren’t, but you can be if he is.

“No.”

“Me neither.” His eyes narrow, trying to decipher if you’re telling him the truth or if you’re being agreeable. He hates it when you do that, when you tell people what they want to hear instead of what they need to, instead of the truth. “Serious.” You reaffirm, and he returns to packing up his things.

You just watch him. There’s nothing else to do, but, you want to live in his head, know what he’s thinking and feeling and fighting. You relish in any hint towards those emotions, from the way his shoulders hand to the way he zips up his backpack.

“Come,” He says, extending a hand, pulling you to your feet. He grabs his sunglasses from their comfortable position on the collar of his shirt. It’s dark out. He just wants to hide the disappointment. There are still people lingering on the track, after all these hours. On your way out, he stops and talks to Pierre and Esteban. About what, you don’t listen. You don’t ever want to talk about this race again, want to leave it in the past. Head down, focused on the things yet to come. When Charles is ready to move on, Pierre gives him a heavy pat on the shoulder and a hug, one of the largest displays of encouragement any of these guys are capable of giving to each other.

It must be so strange, you think, hoping for someone’s success and failure simultaneously.

Fans are still here, too. He holds his head high and takes pictures and signs everything, makes them all feel loved and appreciated. Nobody is any the wiser to his inner turmoil, to the way he wil pick apart every single aspect of the race and internalize it, use it as fucked up motivation. He’s silent when he’s not interacting with the stragglers. You, Andrea, and Joris all trail behind him, engaged in quiet conversation about Monaco; the race, sleeping at home, the always surprising strangeness of a race you could watch from your bedroom window. Ahead, he holds out a hand to you, and you take a hurried couple of steps to match his pace.

“You okay?” You ask. He nods. “Anything but?”

Anything but, a term you’d coined after Jules’ accident, when all anyone ever wanted to talk to you guys about was how you were doing, what you were feeling. The constant retelling, reliving, reassuring everyone you were doing okay when you were far from, it was almost as painful as losing him. Anything but is invoked, and the other has to change the subject, ignore the elephant in the room, no matter how big it is.

A soft, sad smile tugs on his lips, silent gratitude, and he squeezes your hand tighter, barely so. “Yeah.” He says, and you go on about the haircut you’re thinking about getting once you’re back home in Monaco, asking if he thinks bangs are an option on a face shaped like yours.

– –

You’re flying to Monaco with Charles, and the rest of Ferrari, early tomorrow morning, so your small group deciding in the hotel lobby that the night will be made better by liquor, probably isn’t the wisest of decisions. You do it anyway.

You all behave, careful not to get tipsy. Andrea reminds Charles he still has to train tomorrow, and that keeps him from going too far. The rest of you are just following his lead.

He insists on walking you back to your room at the end of the night, even though Andrea and Joris both swore they’d get you there safe. She’s a runner when she’s drunk, he’d said, and you scowled. “Not since I was sixteen!” You defended, insistent that you didn’t need anyone; Joris, Andrea, or Charles, to walk you to your room. It’s not like you’re lost and drunk somewhere in an unfamiliar city. It’s a five-star hotel and you had all of one floor to travel between.

He doesn’t even say anything on the walk he’d insisted on being present for. Your footsteps echo off the carpeted floors, bouncing between the thin walls and reflecting off the sleek, minimalist artwork. He has a beer in his hand, something from the hotel bar, priced entirely too high for the quality, you’re sure. Each time he brings it to his lips, the glass clinks against the ring on his pinky finger.

He’s flushed, beautiful as ever, and you wished you were an overpriced bottle of beer; your sweat on his skin, the cold ring contrasting his warm, calloused hands. Those soft, pink lips on you, the way they almost were this week. They almost were, you keep telling yourself, you weren’t imagining it. “Charles.” He raises his brows, silently tells you to continue. “It,” You hesitate. You falter, because it’s not too late to say nothing, to bask in the silence a little longer. You can still stop yourself, shove the thoughts deep down and abandon them somewhere in the back of your mind. Curiosity, desperation, something sparked by the green in his eyes and the red on his shirt and the condensation on the bottle, it all gets the best of you. “The other night, it felt like you were going to kiss me.”

“Hmm.” He hums against the lip of the bottle, finishing off the last of the drink. There’s a long pause. You, waiting for him to say something, memorizing the strange pattern on the carpet. Him, saying nothing. You reach your room, hold the key card up to the lock. The silence is amplified by the shifting electronic gears and you’re pushing the door open. “Are you going to ask me?” You blink. “If I was going to kiss you?”

You exhale. Long and slow, do you want to know? “I haven’t decided yet.” You finally say. I’m not ready for this to get flipped on its head, you could’ve said. I love you too much to like you, you could have said. You didn’t. “Nuit, Charles.” You say instead, disappearing into the darkness of your room.

“Bonne nuit.”

“I’ve decided against the bangs.” You tell him in the grocery store around the corner from his apartment, leant against one of the doors in the refrigerator aisle. He’s waiting for a text back from his nutritionist, trying to figure out what he’s going to cook on the boat tonight. It’s family dinner night, and he’d volunteered to host, which meant he volunteered you to host on his yacht

“Good.” He says.

“You told me they would look good.” You laugh, wonder if he even remembers the conversation or if your words were just the backing track to his overthinking.

He shrugs. “You’re supposed to stop me from looking like a fool.” He laughs at his phone screen, turns it off and slides it into his pocket.

“My favorite thing about you is that you’re a fool.” He says, pulling open the door you’re leaning against, moving you with it. That’s not very nice, you said as he piled two packages of chicken breasts onto the groceries already in your hands.

“Chicken. Brave.” You add, reminiscent of the last time he tried cooking chicken on the water. It’s a good thing there was a fire extinguisher on board, and saying anything else would break the oath of secrecy you were sworn to.

“Ha, ha.” He mocks. “Not funny.”

“You know what isn’t funny?” You grab another pack of chicken, just in case. “Telling me bangs would be good.”

Good luck this weekend, the cashier tells him when you’re checking out. Break the curse, yes? Charles laughs, because he’s a good sport, and agrees. You hate all the curse talk, it pisses you off, more than it does him. The conversation around it gets worse every year, every time he doesn’t win at home.

They love him so much here, he’s their poster-boy during their poster-week, they don’t mean any harm by it, but it still gets under your skin. Curse this, curse that. Fuck off, shut up about it already. Everyone knows his Monaco track record, can everyone please find anything else to talk about?

– –

He finishes fourth, and it feels somehow worse than last year’s DNF. SO close, only to be screwed by the same shit as last week. You drink your weight at the club that night because maybe a lack of sobriety will make it sting a little less.

“You are not wearing that.” Lorenzo says when you walk out of your building. You groaned, looked down at your outfit. It was slinky, but slinky is what everyone wears to the club, especially during the grand prix.

You settle for a blazer, tell him to suck your dick, and fill the pockets so you can abandon your purse. You start off at a smaller club, one that transitions from a restaurant after dark and has intimate, smaller tables. You’re there for a couple hours, eat something and get buzzed. Predictably, you meet up with half of the grid at Formula One’s favorite club, where you have a bigger section and a bigger group and get a bigger buzz.

“I can’t wear these anymore,” You whined, stopping to lean against the wall of a building to take off your heels. Your feet were blistering, and the thought of having to continue the walk with them on was dreadful. Charles carries them because you keep dropping one without realizing it. It’s not your finest moment, but, you only threaten to jump into one bush on the nearly fifteen minute walk. Overall, a strong showing on your part.

You lose Charles at Jimmy*z, dancing with friends and strangers and other drivers and their parties. You’re drinking Negroni’s, and you aren’t sipping, occasionally splitting it up with a shot whenever someone suggests it. That’s when you see him again, when he’s putting a double shot of something expensive in your hand. I shouldn’t, you say, because you're teetering close to the line of embarrassment. He rolls his eyes, fully inebriated. Shiftfaced, if you will. “Shut up and take a shot with me.”

You do, it goes down smoother than water.

“That’s good!” You say, examininging the glass.

“I know.” He deadpans, and you both laugh. Sober Charles is one of the funniest people you know. Drunk Charles is the funniest person you know. He’s so unserious in everything he does–the way he talks, dances, expresses emotions, there’s nothing not funny about it.

The club comped the table and a few bottles of champagne for the publicity that comes with having half of Formula One partying under their roof. In exchange, a manager is trying to wrangle Charles’ section into a group photo. You were standing back, laughing at them all failing to maintain any semblance of sobriety, all logic and composure out the window three drinks ago. Charles and Arthur are yelling your name, yelling at each other, looking for you in the strobe lights. You move, hope he doesn’t see you. He does, locks eyes with you, dopey smile, summoning you with this come-hither motion, his middle and ring finger calling you to him. Even drunk, you notice the gesture, the subtle curl, twitch of his long fingers.

Fucking, hell. Flushed cheeks burn bright and you’re grateful your hair is down, covering your undoubtedly matching ears. He almost kissed you. He did. You’re not crazy, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s too smart not to.

You smile, lips pursed, and shake your head. It makes him pout, and then he’s yelling your name, gesturing you over with the rapid movement of his entire arm. His other hand is smacking Arthur’s face, trying to rile he and Carla up. It works, and now half the group is yelling your name, so, you give in. Celebratory cheers leave their mouths and the boys share a near-miss high five. Charles grabs the back of your head, pulls you under his arm in one fail swoop. You hone in on his cologne. Tom Ford Tuscan Leather, no doubt. His signature night-out fragrance, the one you and Lorenzo nearly peed your pants laughing at when Pascale bought it for him a few years ago. The hints of raspberry and amber wood, the ones nobody can smell unless they’re this close to him, make you dizzy.

“You smell nice.” You say, and he just looks at you, lowers his head to talk directly into your ear. You look beautiful, he says, and you might be sober. “Don’t say that to me.” You laugh, smooth down your hair.

There’s a real possibility at least one of the twenty people in the photo were actually looking at the camera.

At some point in the night, you end up in the bathroom with Carla for an evening debrief. You don’t realize how drunk you actually are until you’re staring into your hazy soul in the bathroom mirror. It’s an out of body experience, truly, you’re watching this conversation from the astral plane.

“Fuck.” You say, looking to Carla, who appears to be having the same experience as you. You both burst into a fit of laughter, the hunched over, sore abs, red faces, threat to the integrity of your bladder-type laughter that doesn't require anything to actually be funny. “I have to work tomorrow.” You say, trying to catch your breath. You work from home, she reminds you, and you’re both laughing again. “Je t’aime.” You slur, overwhelmed by the alcohol and emotion. “Beaucoup.”

“Non,” She giggles. “Je t’aime le olus.”

“You look.” You hiccup. “So pretty, I hate you for being so pretty.” Carla shakes her head at her own reflection, adjusts her top, checks herself out. You pat the sweat off your forehead and wipe under your arms with toilet paper from a stall. “Arthur is so, super lucky.” Another hiccup. “You are so pretty. So nice and pretty.”

“No, you are so pretty.” She laughs. “Charles is lucky, and he doesn’t know it.” Charles, Charles, Charles. You don’t want to talk about Charles and his stupid face and stupid smile and stupid fingers and stupid skin. “I should call Michael.” You say, digging your phone out of your jacket pocket.

“You should not.” She laughs, but you’re already searching your contacts for his name. “Nope.” SHe says, snatches your phone from your hands and holds it out of your reach.

“Carla.” You hiccup, pleading and pouting.

“Nope.” She says, putting the device in the bag that hands around her body.

– –

“This is my song!” You yell, quickly downing the shot in your hand, entire body vibrating with the bass pouring from the speakers.

“We should start a band.” Someone says, and Charles laughs.

“We should!”

“You’re my best friend.” You tell him, stumbling over your own feet without even taking a step. His arm reaches out as a stabilizer, just in case you need one.

“No,” He laughs. “You’re my best friend. More-er.” That’s not a word. You shake your head.

“I could play the drums.”

“I know we’re drunk, but, like. I love you.” You slur, test the waters of shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Another stumble, another hiccup. “I’d do, like, anything for you.”

“I know.” He says, but you can’t hear his voice over the music. “I love you.” He adds, smacking Lorenzo on the arm to get his attention, to draw him out of band practice planning. “She’s my best friend!” He says.

“I know!”

“I love her.”

Lorenzo laughs. “We all know.”

“We should take a picture!” You suggest to Charles, and he agrees. “I don’t have my phone. Someone stole it.” He gives you a puzzled look, concerned, grabs your elbow like you’re going to float away in the crowd and asks you to clarify. You just shrug. I have it, dumbass. Carla laughs, takes a picture of the two of you, doesn’t give you your phone back.

The next time you see him, you’re sat at the table having one of those drunken moments of emotional, existential crises. Your fingers twiddle with the fake eyelashes you peeled from your lids minutes earlier. “I’ve been looking for you.” He says, heavily drops into the space to your right, slings an arm around you.

You’re always under his damn arm, you never realized before just how often you’re here. Not that you don’t like it, it’s just an observation, confusing and emotionally charged, but an observation nonetheless. He’s so relaxed, completely slouched into the rich leather, legs spread wider than they need to be, the arm that’s not around you resting on the back of the booth. He’s watching everyone else, observing the different people with sleepy eyes and heavy lids. When he talks to you, he turns his head all the way, cranes his neck so he’s speaking into your ear again. You don’t turn your head, you’d be too close. “I have a secret to tell you.” He doesn’t whisper.

“What?” You laugh, settle into his side, into the laxity of it all.

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, rests his forehead on your temple. “I forgot.” He chuckles. You hiccup. You both laugh.

Your eyes are closed, tired and so, so comfortable. You might fall asleep here, despite the loud noises and loud music and loud heartbeat. “You were going to kiss me in Barcelona.” You say, liquid courage forcing the words from your mouth like vomit. It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be.

“I kiss you often.” He says, a weak defense, and kisses the crown of your head. “See?”

You’re not crazy. He was going to kiss you. He was. “Charles.” Your voice is quiet, strained and scratchy and serious. You don’t open your eyes, can’t look at him when you demand an answer, a confirmation.

“I was.” The admission is suffocatingly delicate, like he might go for it, right then. His hand might grab your face and guide you to him. You’re ready for it, you think, as ready as you’re ever going to be for everything to change.

You don’t have to worry about it, to think about it and dwell on if he’s going to do it. He doesn’t. He just rests his head on yours. Your thoughts race faster than your heartbeat, and you wonder if he can feel your temples pulsing.

2013, family dinner. You’re in your room, hiding out for as long as possible, uninterested in the family events. Very teenaged girl of you, in all regards. Charles burst through your door, no knock, no warning. You didn’t even know they were there yet. Luckily for you, nothing incriminating was happening. He was quite the snitch back then, a real tattletale, especially if you were the one getting in trouble.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Unless it’s that you’re going to turn around and leave my room, I don’t care.” You’d said, annoyed by his presence. At sixteen, your relationship could best be described as friendly enemies. He was always around, especially when you didn’t want him to be, and he was always the golden child. Perfect in school, perfect on the track, perfect son, perfect friend. His existence was infuriating and because you were so close in age, everyone always wanted you to be the best of friends.

As a teenage girl, it was evolutionarily impossible for you to go alone with what everyone else wanted. You had to rebel, to run against the grain. Charles and you were not friends, and you did not care about what was going on in his life.

“Single-seaters.” He said with a dumb smile, leaning on his hand against your dresser. You take maybe one step between your bed and his arms, hugging him tighter than you had since you were children. Okay, maybe you did care about his life. There are some things even evolution can’t change.

“With who?”

“I thought you didn’t care?”

“I don’t”

His smile grew. “Fortec.”

You half-screamed, half-laughed, hugging him again, somehow tighter. “I’m so happy for you, Cha.” You said, with a level of sincerity you hadn’t used in years, especially with him. You thought for a moment you might cry, that he would make fun of you for it, that you’d do it anyways because you were so happy for him.

“Don’t tell anyone, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Who knows?”

“Like, nobody.” He’s giddy, it’s almost cute. Almost.

“Jules?” You ask, even though you think you already know the answer. Jules is God to Charles, this untouchable, invincible figure that represents the culmination of all his own dreams. He was the first person, you expect him to say.

“Not yet.” He told you before Jules.

You’re traveling in the weeks after Monaco, jet-setting around the world for your own career. It’s not until France that you see him again. You beat him there, actually, opting to spend some time visiting friends from University nearby, taking a bit of time to enjoy yourself and relax. Despite what everyone in your Instagram comments thinks, race weekends are not a holiday. The nerves and anxiety and heightened emotions you feel during one is so stress-inducing that the work week feels like a week in the Maldives.

Love you, always proud. You texted him moments after he won in Austria, along with a picture of you and the drink you were having in celebration in your hotel room.

You were a little bummed you couldn’t be there, celebrating with him. He really needed that win, and you could only imagine the weight it lifted off his shoulders. It’s been a while since you saw him genuinely happy on a Sunday night.

Love you, too. You suck. He texted back seven hours later, reiterating the sentiment the entire time he was home in Monaco and you weren’t. When you jokingly suggested he come to France early, you were met with the threat of being blocked.

– –

You spent the weekend with Pascale, spending every day at the track trying to out-anxious each other. You don’t know how she sleeps, Charles and Arthur both doing this shit. You’re a nervous wreck and she barely flinches.

“You remind me of myself a lot.” She tells you. Your knee is bouncing anxiously under the table you’re eating at. “Your mother, of course, but. Selfishly, I see the good parts of me in you.”

You’d always wished Pascale was your Mom, growing up. You have a great mother, you love her to death, but she was your mom. She had to discipline you, she had to put her foot down. Pascale didn’t have to do those things, not with you. She could be cool and carefree and spoil you because she was a bonus parent, not an actual one. If you grew up to be all kinds of fucked-up, she could wash her hands of you. Your mom couldn’t do that.

You’re so lucky to have her as your Mom, you would say to the boys. They’d say the same thing to you.

“You’re going to make me cry.” You say, picking at your cuticles.

“Chérie.” She says, grabs your hand, stills your anxious fingers. “Je suis nerveux rien qu'à te regarder.”

“I don’t like Monaco.” You say. “No room for error.”

“You don’t like any track.” She chuckles, releases your hands. You put them in your lap and go back to picking at the skin. “Not when the boys are out there.”

She’s right, you’re squeamish when you watch Arthur and Charles, don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. Charles loves to make fun of you for it, has videos saved on his phone of you, caught on the television cameras, captured by friends, that one time you were in the background of a Drive to Survive episode. He laughs and laughs at them, but when he watches Arthur, he’s just as bad as you are.

It’s different, when you love the driver. When you love them more than the sport, more than the team, more than nearly any other person in the entire world, every corner feels tighter, every straight feels faster, the whole thing feels like a narrowly avoided death sentence.

“I don’t know how you do it.” After Jules, how you do it after Jules. After Anthoine, after hugging a grieving mother and watching your son drive on the same track.

“I love watching them race.” She says. “I hate it, but I love it. All a mother can hope for her children is that they are brave enough to achieve their dreams.” They’re brave because of her, because of Hervé and because of her. They raised all three of their boys to be strong and brave and kind, and when Hervé passed, she picked up the pieces of her boys and glued them together again, built them up stronger, braver, kinder than before.

– –

You don’t see him for a while after the race, don’t know if you want to. He’s been eerily calm all when things have gone wrong all season, at least when you’ve been around. It’s only a matter of time until he loses his cool, until he snaps. That radio call? Snapped like a glowstick. He’s angry, at himself, at the car, at the team, at the world. There’s nothing anyone is going to be able to say or do that would make him happy, neutral even. It’s going to be all pity-party and hushed curses until he gets some rest and resets.

Behind the garage, when you’re finally leaving, he hugs Pascale tight. Her hand runs comforting circles on his back, and then it’s your turn to be suffocated. He squeezes you like it’s the last time you’re ever going to see each other, hangs on like gravity is pulling him in the other direction. “Anything but.” He said. “All night.”

You nod. “My mom sent me a video of Gi playing with the dog today.” You spoke of your niece, of Charles’ goddaughter. If anyone could hit his soft spot, it was her. “Do you want to see it?”

“Yeah.” He said, and when he watched her stumbling around the park, when her innocent belly laugh and giddy screams spilled out of the speakers, he actually smiled, might have even let a little laugh slip. It’s impossible not to, really, with that little girl.

He walks in relative silence back to the driver's lot, just listened to you go on and on. You feel nauseous, watching him put on a smile and interact with fans, laugh and take pictures and make children’s days by just existing. It must be such a strange life, a miracle his head hasn’t gotten ridiculously big.

– –

At the hotel, you can tell he’s still pissed. Rest, reset. He’ll be himself in the morning. You exchange goodbyes in the elevator, you’re on a different floor than him. You expect it’s the last you’ll see of him until summer break. He leaves for Hungary early in the morning and you’re driving back to Monte Carlo with Pascale tomorrow afternoon. You expect, because he’s knocking on your door an hour later while you watch L’Atalante on your laptop.

The light from the hallway is almost blinding in contrast to your dark room. “Hi.” He says, in running shorts and a t-shirt, bare feet. “L’Atalante?”

“How do you-”

He smiles. “You’re predictable.”

“What do you want?” You say through a yawn, shocked he makes out the words at all.

“Can I watch it with you?”

You sigh. “Charles.” You were minutes away from falling asleep, from putting this day behind you. Now, your feet are so cold on the floor it hurts and you’re becoming increasingly conscious and awake with each passing moment.

“Please?” He asks, voice small and broken. Fuck. You hold open the door, because you’re weak when it comes to him. You’d let him treat you badly if it meant he’d treat you. “You know there’s a giant TV right here, no?”

“I like my computer.” You say, crawl back into the bed, sit up against the million pillows. He flops down next to you, on top of the comforter because he runs hotter than a fireplace. When he’s finally done moving around, shifting until he’s nice and comfortable–sorry, he said–you press play on the movie.

“I love this part.” He says.

“You hate this movie.”

“I do not.” He does. He complains every time you watch it, says you need to find a favorite movie that’s in color, that doesn’t have random cat montages, that the main love interest has too many glaring red flags. Watch it with rose-tinted glasses, you told him once, threw a piece of popcorn at his head. “This is my favorite part.”

“No, it’s not.” You laugh. “You hate this part.”

He laughs, too, sweetly and softly, into his own shoulder. “I love it.” You shush him, shove his shoulder because he can’t even say it with a straight face. He doesn’t stay quiet for long, and it’s clear he came here to talk, not to watch the movie, but he tries to pretend. “You need to come to more races.” He says, his head resting on your arm. “I don’t like it when you’re not here.”

“Okay.” You say, only half-listening. It’s your favorite movie.

“Today sucked.” You paused the movie. Blinked twice, hard, frustrated because it;s your favorite movie, but he’s your favorite person.

You look at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He reaches over and unpauses it, adjusts so he’s sitting up, too.

You pause it again. “I think you do.”

“I don’t.”

You close the laptop, set it on the bedside table and flip on the lamp. “I don’t know how to make you feel better right now.” You say, stand up, pace the room. It sounds like you’re admitting your defeat, expressing disappointment in yourself with a half-hearted apology.

He stands up, too, follows you for a step but then you're still. There’s something unfamiliar painted across his face. Exhaustion, anger, desperation–you can’t pinpoint it. Urgency. You realize its urgency when his hands are on your face, thumbs dancing on your jaw, eyes darting between yours. Urgency.

He was going to kiss you. He is going to kiss you, you think, and you’re going to let him. He can use you as a distraction, if he needs to. You can kiss it better, you’re sure you can. His forehead rests on yours, the tips of your noses bumping against each other, shuddered, broken breaths. Your lips are so close, jaws slack, sharing the air. You’re dizzy. Dizzy and hot and then he’s kissing you. The taste of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the softness of his lips, it’s all so new, so butterfly-inducing. He smells like himself, whatever soap he always uses when he’s traveling. It’s crisp and clean and you want to lick it off his skin.

He’s the one to pull away, but you open your eyes first. “Sorry.” He says. You smile, kiss him again because you’re not sorry, wishing you could crawl inside his mouth and build a home there behind his beautiful, sharp, white teeth.

Your name sounds like a symphony when he says it, all dopey and sing-songy, hands firmly on your waist. “Don’t look at me like that.” He says, laughs into your mouth.

“Like what?” You ask, innocently.

“Just. Fuck.” He shakes his head, one of his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, open and flat, exploring the vast bareness of your back. “You.”

“Me?” You giggle at his words, the stumble of them, cheeks hot and flustered. You shouldn’t be nervous. It’s Charles. You know him like you know your own hand, but, he’s never been yours, not like this. Your hands have never searched him like this, fingers never tugged on his hair with lust and longing, never felt the scratch of his stubble on your skin.

“Yeah,” He says into the crook of your neck, leaving a flurry of open mouth kisses in the space between your jaw and your collarbone. “You.”

“We shouldn’t.” You say, even though you’re helping him out of his shirt. “We should stop.”

“Do you want to stop?” He asks, his fingers stalling on the buttons of your pajama top.

“We can do this, right?” You ask, because you need his reassurance. You don’t need honesty. You know the truth. You need to hear what you want to hear, for him to tell you if it’s safe to jump, to fall aimlessly into the unknown. You need him to lie to you. “Can we go back to normal after this?”

“Ouais.” He says, and even though you don’t believe him, you think he believes himself. “Retour à la normale.”

“Okay.” You say, and he’s unbuttoning your shirt again. If his mouth didn’t feel so good on you, if his big hands didn’t send shivers up your spine when he ran them up the sides of your body, you might have thought a bit harder about what normal is for the two of you.

His hands do make you shiver, though, and he’s looking at your body with these sweet, drunk eyes, sliding the shirt off your arms and letting it pool on the ground with his.

You’re dropping to your knees on the cold floor next to the bed, pulling his shorts, his underwear, down with you. While he steps out of them, kicks them to the side, you admire him, toned and tanned and so, so pretty. You want to memorize it in case it’s the last time you see him like this, take notes on every freckle and muscle and defining feature under the harsh light. You need to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to make him feel as good as he looks.

He’s already hard, cock twitching with lust and adrenaline and arousal, all for you. Your work is cut out for you. You tease him, whisper profanities and place soft kisses against the skin of his upper thighs. “You make me crazy.” He says, you take him in your mouth, and he goes momentarily stiff before he relaxes, lets your fingers and your lips work in tandem to pull your name from him.

“Fuck.” He says, tastes like sex, sweet and salty and manly. His hands knot into your hair, pull it back into a haphazard ponytail that only loses shape as you continue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He repeats, rutting into your mouth, fucking into your throat. You swallow around him, hollow your cheeks and he lets out this whimpered, wounded sound, forces your mouth off him. “Don’t do that.”

“You don’t like it?” You ask, take him in your hand, stroke over the slick of your spit, kissing the base of his cock and looking up at him with these big, saucer eyes.

“No,” He shakes his head, drags a hand over his stubble. “You’ll make me come.”

You swipe your tongue in one long stripe, swirl it around the head of him, smile. “That’s the point.” You say, filling your mouth with him again, sinking until he’s hitting the back of your throat, gagging you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

He says your name like he’s battling to reason with himself, his grip on your hair tightening, pulling you off him again. You pout, and he rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Tu es mauvais.”

“Ç’est vrai.” You roll your thumb over the tip, mindlessly, really, looking at him and waiting for him to speak. You’re an addict, already. It’s just so pretty.

“Want to last for you.” You’re not even standing and your knees are unsteady underneath you. You look at the floor, your forehead on his thigh, and laugh. You laugh harder than you should, just out of shock and disbelief. “What?” He laughs, too.

You’re standing, he’s helping you stand. “Who would’a thought?” You can’t stop giggling, cock your head to the side and try not to smile. “You and me?”

His tongue is in his cheek, eyes rolling in such a bratty way. You wonder if he can see how swollen your lips are, all because of him. Your mouth feels empty without him there. “I hate you,” He says with a smile, and kisses you.

Your knees buckle at the edge of the bed, and it’s too easy, the way you’re both on it without ever parting lips for more than a hasty breath. He moves you around like a doll, gentle and effortless in his removing of your shorts, of your underwear, in the manipulation of your positioning on the soft mattress.

He’s kissing you, sucking bruises into your collar, marking you like there’s any possibility you’re not already his. It’s hazy and intoxicating, him exploring your body, taking his time as he trails down your collar bone, through the valley of your breasts, hot, sloppy breath on your stomach, on your legs. You’re almost disoriented by it all, the natural comfort, the familiarity of him in a place so unfamiliar to his touch. He kisses your clit, you watch him, feel his hot breath on you, jaw slack and eyes glazed over. It makes you hot, makes your whole body flush and shiver.

“Putain, t'es chaud.” He curses, smiles at you from between your legs. His fingers splay over your hip, his thumb dragging itself over you, parting your lips with the slick of you, amused smile tugging on his face. “You’re so wet.” He says, moves up to kiss you.

“Sorry.” You whisper into his open mouth.

He shakes his head, mumbles something incoherent, kisses you again. “It’s hot, chérie. That you want it.”

“Want you.” You say, and he slides a long finger inside you, surprised whimper escaping from your lips into his open mouth. He curls it into you, crooks it at just the right angle and you writhe against the sheets. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, that you’re a mess for him over a single finger.

He moves back down your body, another trail of nibbles and kisses before he laps at you, swirling his tongue around your clit in a way that’s almost painfully good, curling his finger into that same spot. When he slides in another, you’re a goner, moaning out his name like it’s the only word you know.

“Let go.” He says. Your eyes are pinched shut in an attempt to keep yourself at bay for just a while longer. His eyes are glued to yours when you can finally open them.

You shake your head. “I’m not.” You start, stopping short to compose yourself when your leg twitches, shakes in applause of his work. “No ego boosts.” You sputter. He laughs against you, the vibrations of it blinding, a whole new sensation that spreads fire over your skin, sends you over the edge with little warning.

He doesn’t stop, not for a second, when you come. His fingers maintain their rapid pace even as you tense around him, his tongue, his lips, suctioned to you as your body tries to wiggle away. “Charles.” His name leaves your lips in a shudder, your thighs trying to close in on his head, the hand that isn’t inside you holding you open for him.

He works you over, skilled fingers and skilled mouth, coaxing you through another, louder this time. He leaves you catching your breath, restless, incoherent, shaky on the crisp white sheets and two orgasms ahead.

He’s so satisfied with himself, licks his fingers clean and grins and kisses you some more, just because he can. Because, it’s all gone to shit and the unspoken, unwritten rules of your friendship have gone so far out the window, they’re in another country. Maybe they’re in Hungary already, or waiting for the two of you on summer break, in Monza, hell, they might even be Abu Dhabi, there’s no telling.

“Do you have a condom?” You ask.

He freezes, strong arm holding him over you, caging you in. His eyes shut hard. “No.”

“You didn’t bring one?”

“When I came to your room, I didn’t.” He sighs.

“How gentlemanly.” You quip, wiggle out from underneath him. He flops back onto the bed, apologizing. You grab his t-shirt from the floor and hold it up to cover your body, he chuckles at that. “Apologize if I don’t have one.” You say, rifle through your backpack. Your leg shakes under you while you try to balance, squatting in front of the bag. You hope he notices, sees what he’s done to you without even filling you up all the way.

“Why would you have one?” He asks, just as you find the little package at the bottom of your bag. You turn on your heels, still bent over, condom wrapper in your teeth and look at him with narrowed eyes.

“Do you really want me to tell you?” You ask around the wrapper.

He thinks about it for way longer than should be required. “No.”

“Yeah.” You nod, dumbfounded, and stand back up.

“Really, with the shirt?” He asks, laughing about it again.

“Salope!” You say, drop the shirt, throw the condom at him. “Put this on yourself.”

“I don’t even like you.” He says, rips open the wrapper with his teeth and slides it over his cock. It hurts, almost, how badly you want him inside you, how empty you’ve felt since he took his fingers out.

“Don’t do that, you’re going to make me come.” You mock his earlier words, puff out your lips, raise your brows, a knowing glance.

“I was.” He defends, and you straddle him, wrap your arms around his neck.

“No, you weren’t,” You kiss him, his hands explore the curve of your ass, fingers dig into your hips, push you down so you grind against him, spread your wetness over him.

“Okay.” He says with a smirk, lust riddled and completely enthralled by you, one hand moving to thumb at your clit, start chasing another release for you.

“Okay.” You repeat, barely a whisper, lift yourself up enough for him to line himself up with you. You sink down slow, savor the burn of the stretch, wish it was the first time anyone had ever done this to you, that you could belong to him and only him.

“Fuck.” He says into your shoulder, kissing and sucking a purple spot into the flesh there, his hands splayed across your back, warm and strong and dragging across the hot skin. “Si bon.” Every inch of your body can feel him, hungry for more, the insatiable urge to hear his moans, to make him whimper, make him feel how you feel.

You grind your hips against his, chasing an unachievable leverage, a static inducing friction. Your foreheads rest on each other and your noses collide roughly in the sweaty, steamed, hitched breaths.

You’re obsessed with the way he watches your bodies, eyes glued where he disappears into you. You never want to hear anyone else say your name, not after hearing the way he says it while he’s inside you. “That.” He says. “Love that.” You do as you’re told, eager to please, hungry for him to finish. “Es-tu proche?” You shake your head, because you are, but he’s closer.

In a swift movement, he flips you over, switches your positions, slides back inside you. Even when he’s manhandling you, using you as a device for his pleasure, strong and without thought, there’s something gentle about it, something that anchors you to him.

He fucks into you with deep, measured thrusts. The new position, the new angle, it drives you fucking crazy, your back arching off the bed, grinding onto his fingers in the selfish chase of your own high. “Charles. Fuck.” I know, he tells you, shaky, pace reduced to an erratic grind. I know, baby, and you’re coming again, biting into the muscles of his strong shoulders, wet and warm and so fucking full of him.

“I’m.” He whispers into your neck, nibbles on your ear. He pulls out and you whimper at the loss. “Where?” He asks, pulls the condom off, jerks himself with those long, veiny fingers. You smiled, devilish. You wanted, needed, his cum in your mouth.

He’s too close to be gentle, now, to take care and take time. He’s desperate, it’s so fucking hot. His hands are on your head, knotted into your hair, holding you steady so he can fuck your throat. You gag around him, dizzy, hazy, eyes forced shut because everything is white and on fire. “Look at me.” He says. You do, and he has a fucking smile on his face, lewd and practically pornographic.

You hum, pleased with the state you’ve got him in and then he’s bottomed out, still and stiff, coming down the back of your throat, chanting your name like a prayer.

– –

“What am I supposed to do with these?” You laugh into the bathroom mirror, after a shared shower, delicate fingers examining the fresh bruises he burned into your skin. “I’m spending the day with your Mother.”

He’s drying his hair with a towel, laughs. “Nobody thinks you’re La Sainte Vierge.”

You move through the bathroom, back into the bedroom to retrieve your pajamas from the floor. “And what is that supposed to mean?” You tease, returning, tossing his clothes on the counter.

“It means,” He hums, wraps his arms around you, hugs you from behind. Your knees are weak and wobbly, his chin resting on your shoulder, looking at each other in the mirror. “Tu es belle, jeune et amusante.”

“Je suis amusante?” You ask, try to bite back a smile, fail.

“Très.” He says, nuzzles into your neck.

He sleeps in your room that night, wakes up early, shuffles around the bathroom, the light pouring out. His movement stirs you, his heavy feet roaming around the silent room. “Go back to sleep,” He says, kisses your hair, and the heavy door locks behind him.

Tired, from the weekend, from him, you let yourself go back to sleep. You should’ve got up and kissed him, you think. Really, truly kissed him, while the rules still didn’t apply and things weren’t back to normal. Whatever normal is for the two of you.

“What?” You said, spit, when Charles called you for the third time within five minutes. The first Monday of summer break, he’s in Monaco and you’re in France, a thousand kilometers, an hour and a half flight, away. More specifically, you’re standing in the corridor of your office building, meters away from the door you’d just stepped out of, the meeting you had to excuse yourself from leading because your phone won’t stop ringing and surely, something must be wrong.

“Hello to you, too.” He says, and you can hear the smile on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

“Work.” You say, inspiringly calm. Fuck, she’s at work, you hear him say to someone. “Can I call you back in a bit?”

“Oui, désolée.”

“Ne sois pas.” You force a smile, like he can see it, and hang up, shut your phone off completely before returning to the meeting with an apologetic grimace claiming family emergency.

You call him back an hour later, after the conclusion of your meeting and then some, pushing past the heavy glass doors to your office building and out onto the street, the breeze blowing your hair into your mouth as you step between two buildings. He answers, but it’s just shuffling on the other end, hushed, muffled voices. “Are you there?”

“Oui, oui. Une seconde.” He says, far from the speaker. More shuffling before a proper greeting. “You’re on speaker.”

“What are you doing?” Shopping, he says, moves the phone, how’s work? You have to put a finger in your other ear to hear him, between the sounds of the city and the chatter on his side. “It’s fine.” You say, drag out the vowels because you’re bored, because you wish you were with him. He’s always so relaxed on summer break, so content and breezy and fascinating. You haven’t seen him since he was kissing your hair goodbye in France. You need to know if you can actually return to something normal.

“It’s fiiineee.” He mocks, laughs with whoever else is with him. You smile, all toothy and stupid. “Coming home today?” You can hear the hope in his voice. You’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours, it’s an unusually short trip. Most times, you’re here for a minimum of a weekend, almost always more. He shouldn’t be expecting you.

“Yeah.” You check the time on your watch. “In a few hours.”

“You want to come on the water tonight?” He asks.

“La Mala?” Of course, he says, like it shouldn’t even be a question. “With?” He speaks to someone else in Italian, you think you hear Andrea say something, and then Charles’ voice is louder, off speaker, you assume.

“Lorenzo and some camera guys. We’re doing some… comment dire, day with my life?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitate, because the last thing you want to do is be one of three people, to be on display somewhere on Instagram or Youtube or wherever the video they’re making is going. You love him, but the attention is overwhelming and you like to stay as far from it as possible, especially when you’re nervously sorting out the normalcy of your relationship.

You took a photo of him once, with a fan, just walking around the city. You weren’t even in the photo, didn’t say more than two sentences to the guy he was posing with. And yet, when he posted it on Twitter, said Charles was with some girl, posted a screenshot from your Instagram and said her, he was with her, you had a full inbox begging to know if you were dating Charles, calling you obscene vulgarities, threatening you. You weren’t even in the fucking picture.

“It will be fun.” He says. “I haven’t seen you since france.” Exactly, you haven’t seen each other since France. Just over a week. It’s chump change for the two of you, at least it was, before his spit dripped down your thigh and he came in the back of your throat. Now, a week is the opportunity for an awkward plant to take root, grab onto you and make everything weird and uncomfortable and wrong/ “We’re having pasta.” He says, can sense your uncertainty, knows it sweetens the deal.

“No chicken?”

“Never again.” He laughs. “You’re coming?”

“I guess.”

“You guess.” God, he is a child, truly. “Call me when you land, yes?”

“Yeah.”

– –

You can’t remember the last time you felt so nervous to see him. Sitting on the edge of the concrete landing, watching him cruise in on a little boat full of strangers, it’s almost worse than watching him race. Do you have to say something? Is he going to say something? Do you ignore it? That’s the agreement, right? Everything goes back to normal. Normal, normal, normal.

He looks like he’s been in the sun all day, cheeks pink and rosy, the blue of his shirt mellowing him out, making him glow. A God, Heaven shining down on him, presenting him to you like a gift. You hate that you have to share him with anyone when he’s like this, especially with strangers, with people who don’t know how lucky they are to see him like this.

“Did you miss me?” He calls out when he’s within earshot. You stand up, take your shoes off because there is no way that boat is making it all the way to you.

“Who called who?” You say, and he laughs.

You hopped off the landing into the shallow water, walked out to the boat on your tip-toes, trying to keep the bottom of your pants as dry as possible. You had a change of clothes in your bag, but, even a minute in wet pants is too long. He helps you into the boat and you introduce yourself to the strangers pointing cameras at you.

This was a mistake. It doesn’t even take the distance from the landing to the yacht for you to realize that. So fucking uncomfortable, cameras in your face, recording your conversations, watching the way you look at him. You can already see the comments calling you pathetic, calling you a whore, calling you a bitch.

It is pathetic, you remind yourself when your hand is on his, stepping around him, moving from one boat to another. They will think it’s pathetic and they’ll be right.

There’s more production people waiting for your arrival, waiting to take your place next to Charles and capitalize on the fleeting light and beautiful scenery. It’s unusual, there’s nobody here. You introduce yourself to them, too, because it feels strange not to.

Once you’re onboard, you change in the guest suite. Sweats and a hoodie because the sun is setting, dusk settling on the horizon, bringing in wind with the tide. Bowl of pasta in your lap, mindless television playing, you lounge on the couch, watch Charles do an interview on that stupid little boat, rocking back and forth like a buoy on the open water.

You want to reach out and grab his hand, hold it still, stop him from pulling his fingers and twisting his rings because then nobody will know he’s nervous, that he’s off balance. “What do you think they’re talking about?” You ask, pulling Lorenzo’s attention from the television. “He looks nervous.”

Lorenzo laughs, quiet, under his breath. “You.”

You don’t turn back, know your face is going to give it away, can feel the blood rushing, the skin of your cheeks boiling. There’s no way he knows, right? Charles didn’t tell him. He wouldn’t. Lorenzo has no idea how close his joke hits, how deep the knife cuts. He’s just an older brother, living with the sole purpose of embarrassing you. “What?” You say, force out a laugh and almost choke on it.

“Kidding.” He says, and goes back to whatever is on TV. Your eyes stay on Charles, though, infatuated with the way the wind runs its fingers through his hair, the way it tugs on his shirt and inches the boat closer and closer to the yacht, to you. You stare so hard he can feel it, catches your eyes mid-sentence, smile pulling on his words. You’re convinced the upturned corners of his lips can lift even the lowest of spirits. He winks, and then he’s back in the conversation like he never missed a beat.

Charles has made fast friends with the crew long before you got there. You wonder if they know each other, if they’ve met before. Light words flow with the waves, your body relaxing at the loss of the cameras, put aside to enjoy the experience, to breathe in the moment. His pull is gravitational, even through the strange tension and the awkwardness of the unknown. In your uncertainty, you linger just out of his reach, now comfortable enough to participate in their conversations. He catches you staring off into space, into the vast, starry sky, silently identifying the constellations above you. He pulls your mind back to your body with the tap of his foot on your outstretched leg. With what has to be the softest smile to ever grace this beautiful Earth, he calls you to his side with careful eyes and a subtle nod.

You scooch closer to him, half-expect his arm to lazily drape itself around you because that’s what always happens. It doesn’t, and a pit of something grief-like settles in your chest. Instead, your arms hang at your sides, upper arms gracing each other every time one of you even thinks about breathing. Your hands are knotted in your lap, thumb examining the texture of your palm, fingers tugging on each other with agonizing anxiousness.

You were so naive to think, even for a split second, that you would go back to normal. THe tension you thought would settle has only become increasingly taught.

“You okay?” He asks. You nod with a weary smile. A lie, and he knows it. “You worked all weekend?” He continues to prod, ignores the conversation happening around you like it’s just the two of you in a bubble.

“No, just today.” You said. “Meetings all day.” You don’t look at him, eyes focused on your hands, popping knuckles and digging nails into your palm. You can’t remember the last time you were so unsettled in his presence. “I got a huge logo redesign deal.”

“Of course you did.” He bumps your shoulder, jolts you. “You’re the best they’ve got and they know it.”

“I’m not the best one there.”

"Maybe not the most confident.” He laughs, reaches into your lap and grabs your hands, stilling them like a patient partner would do. “But definitely the most talented.” He squeezes your hand tighter, and you slide your fingers between his, envelope his hand in both of yours like you’re the one doing the comforting, squeeze back, thank you.

Your head falls to his shoulder, sigh like you’re carrying the weight of the world, like you’re moments away from breaking down into a pile of ash, blown away with the breeze. A new normal. Maybe that’s what you’ll have to do, create a new normal that’s just as sweet as the old one. When the only options are a life of awkward anxieties or one without him in it entirely, a new normal doesn’t seem so sad.

– –

He gets stopped seven times on the walk from the berth to the parking garage, takes careful time to be kind, especially to the kids. He’ll never not stop for a child, making their grabby hands, freckle faced days time and time again. You’re a good guy, you say after the fifth, know it’s the last thing he wants to do after his long day. I don’t know how you do it.

He shakes his head, sighs. “Le strict minimum ne fait pas de moi un bon gars.”

“You go beyond the bare minimum.”

He shrugs. “The bar is in Hell, I suppose.”

You take the train to Monza, hunkered over your laptop for the entirety of the ride, working. You weren’t planning on coming in until late Friday night,but Charles asked you if you’d get on the next train, if you’d come with him to sponsorship dinners and obligatory events in the leadup to the weekend. Please, he’d texted. Sayingno, doing anything but getting on the 6 am departure this morning, didn’t feel like an option.

You texted Isa for three hours trying to figure out what the dress code was for these events, planning out your outfit. All you could get from Charles was, I don’t know, I’m wearing a blazer, probably. The last thing you wanted to do was stick out like a sore thumb, draw anymore attention to yourself or embarrass him. Underdressed, overdressed, you don’t know which is worse.

You check your phone, scroll through social media and pick at a meal from the dining cart. You’re met with the same stuff you’ve been seeing since that stupid Monaco Vlog on Charles’ YouTube channel. The general consensus amongst all the strangers who know you so well, is that you and Charles are dating. I want this. They way they look at each other. Couples who are best friends make me melt. A friend told you those should make you smile, they don’t, because you aren’t dating. You aren’t dating and he’s going to see them and everyone wants to know everything about you and someone asked on a bikini picture how good Charles was in bed. None of them made you smile.

Does she know she’s the third choice? Not smiling. Charles, serial monogamist or serial cheater? Not smiling. You’re a whore. You’re a slut. I hope you die, bitch. No smiles.

They stung, they made you cry at your reflection in the mirror, private your accounts, limit your comments. They were everywhere, in your Instagram DMs, your Twitter mentions, your TikTok ForYou page. It was suffocating.

Charles was trying his best to check up on you, which only made it all worse. You wanted to believe he wasn’t seeing them. He was just making sure your head was above water, and it was those best intentions that got you invited here, you assumed. It’s easier to keep an eye on you when you’re with him.

It was a good idea, a good effort, for sure. It was a miscalculation, though, Charles seemingly forgetting just how much attention he has to give to strangers at these events. In a room full of people, dressed in your best cocktail attire, sipping a martini and watching people fight for his attention, you can’t remember feeling so alone, so on display.

Everyone knows, or thinks they know, you’re Charles’ girlfriend. You’re a bigger extension of him than ever. Side-stepping cameras won’t cut it anymore, they’re hungry to judge you. Look who Charles brought, what do we think of her? Look what she’s wearing, how she speaks, how she stands. They hate you, you’re sure of it. You aren’t classy enough for this scene, not sweet enough, not pretty enough. You aren’t important enough.

“How are you doing?” Isa finds you leaning on a tall table, poking your olives around your drink with the toothpick they were originally skewered on.

“Are these things always this weird?” You ask, voice laced with hope that there is a learning curve, that there is some top-secret strategy she can give you so you don’t feel so shitty and deflated again tomorrow night.

She laughs. “You’ll get used to it. But, yeah.”

“Any advice?”

“Threaten a sex strike if he leaves you alone for too long.” Your eyes go wide, shocked by her words. She just shrugs, downs the remainder of her drink. “Works every time.”

“Charles and I. We’re not. We–” You stumble over your words, and she looks at you with raised brows and a grin that makes you think Charles might be blabbing to the whole grid. “We’re not sleeping together.”

“Aren’t you, though?”

“Did Charles say something?”

She smacks her hand over her mouth, muffling her laugh. “No, but you just did!”

You nod, jaw clenched, tongue running over the front of your teeth. You’ve been so paranoid that Charles was going to tell someone and you’re the one who can’t keep their mouth shut. “It was once, and you can’t tell anybody.” You whisper, sharp. “Not even Carlos.”

“I’m going to tell Carlos.”

“You can’t.” It comes out as more of a plea than an argument. “He’ll say something to Charles, and then Charles will know I told someone.”

She says your name so sweet and patient, like you’re a preschooler about to get a passive-aggressive scolding. “I’ve never seen two people look like they want to fuck more than the two of you. If Carlos says something, it won’t be the first time someone has vocalized it to him.” It’s a horrifying thought that burrows all the way to your bone marrow. You’ve always thought you were so good at hiding it.

You’re drowning at this party, under the waves of lingering and prying eyes. It’s been an hour since you’ve spoken to Charles, forty-five minutes since you’ve seen him. You pull out your phone and delete all your social media. This is so much worse than wallowing about death threats in the comfort of your own bedroom with the familiarity of your favorite ice cream.

– –

You’re doing your hair when he knocks on the door. Impatient, impatient, impatient. You don’t answer, he keeps knocking, over and over again. “What?” You say, sharper than warranted, opening the heavy door with as much force as it will allow.

“This is what you’re wearing?” He says, walks right past you and into your room. You’re not in the mood for his humor today.

“That’s really funny, coming from you.” You say, go back to the bathroom, hairspray your hair, pull a few face framing pieces out from the low ponytail.

“I look great.” Says the man who hate-crimed an entire country with his jeans in Monaco, who is cosplaying as a banana this weekend.

“Did you dress yourself?”

He appears in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning on it, looking annoyingly handsome in his suit jacket and white button up. “I did.”

“Oh,” You lock eyes with him in the mirror, put on a phony smile, fingers digging through your makeup bag on the counter searching for eyelash glue. “How nice for you.”

You watch him check his wrist in your peripheral, opening the cardboard lash box and pulling them out, carefully applying glue to one. “What aren’t you ready?” He asks.

“I’ll be ready at five.” You said, setting the falsies on your lash line, trying not to make your concentration face because you know he’s watching.

You put glue on the other lash. “We’re leaving at four-thirty.” Your head snaps up from the task at hand.

“You told me five.”

“I did not.”

“You did.” You say, continue putting the lash on before the glue dries because you don’t have another set with you. Quicker, this time, because apparently you’re running a half hour behind.

“I told you it starts at five.” He says.

Oh. He did tell you that. “We have to be there when it starts.” You say in unison, your foggy recollection becoming clear.

“Wonderful.” You laugh, to nobody at all.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and it feels earnest, makes you laugh harder while you hove all your makeup back into the tiny cosmetics bag. There’s no way he’s that clueless, you think, blink hard in the mirror a few times, size up your hair and makeup.

“No, I’m not okay!” You say, toss the bag onto the counter with a heavy noise. “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to do this.” You push past him in the doorway, stop in the little hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, next to the mini fridge and Keuring-clad kitchenette, sigh at the ceiling so you don’t cry, don’t ruin your makeup. You’re already running late, no time for tear streaks. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

You scoff, don’t even know why you’re angry, so emotional, why every nerve in your body feels supercharged. “You do a great job of letting me feel like one.” You don’t mean it, not really. You say it anyway. You know it will hurt him, and you’re tired of hurting alone.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.” You say, hoist the ironing board out of the wardrobe. “You did nothing.” You don’t bother setting the legs up, just lay it across the bed.

“What was I supposed to do?” He asks, grabs the iron from your hands and fills it with water in the kitchenette sink, sets it on the iron board, plugs it in and turns it on. You did through your suitcase for your dress and blazer, shaking them out like they’re dusty old relics rather than something you’d bought just for this.

You don’t know what to tell him. You can’t summarize all of your emotions into something succinct and comprehensible, especially not while you’re in the middle of feeling them. Everyone wants me dead, everyone is staring at me, I know I’m not good enough for this. I want to be good enough for this, to make you proud, but it’s so hard. “You left me alone last night.” You say, roll your eyes and take the tears with it. Elaboration feels like a giant, insurmountable, unachievable challenge. “You left me alone last night.” All you can do is repeat yourself, stare at the dress in your hands, examine the stitching like your life depends on viewing the heather grey fabric at a microscopic level.

You can’t look at him, know he’s going to be staring at you with soft, sad eyes. You see him look at you like that and it’s game over. You’re not leaving the hotel tonight, not making it to that event. You’re going to cry yourself a bath, melt into a puddle of your own tears.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“Don’t be.” You flatter out the dress on the ironing board. “You’re doing your job.” You move the iron in hard, quick lines over the fabric.

“I’m still sorry.” He’s behind you, wrapping his arm over the front of your chest, pulling you back against his chest in some kind of strangely affectionate reverse-hug. It feels to right, so you squirm from his grip, keep at the hasty ironing.

“Don’t feel bad for me.” Flip the dress, iron the other side. “I can hold my own in a room full of strangers.”

“I know you can.” You hate the tone in his voice; proud, almost. You’re not his to be proud of, even if everyone else seems to think you are.

“Can we just?” You look at him for the first time since he dropped the time bomb on you. “Anything but?” He nods. You nod, switch the dress out for the blazer.

“I like this jacket.” He says. You look at the outfit, grey dress, green blazer, white accessories. You thought it was too Christmas-y, the red accents on the bottoms of your heels and the red of your lip. It’s Ferrari red, Isa convinced you, very subtle. “You look good in green.”

“Green is my favorite color.”

“I know.” He laughs.

“You know.” You yank the iron cord from the wall and pull your top over your head without thinking. You meet his eyes, and they don’t dare to waiver from yours. You nod, an I really just flashed you nod, sigh, pick up the dress and walk past him into the bathroom. “You can stare, Charles. I have good boobs.” A laugh from the other room while you step into the dress, pull the straps over your shoulder and leave the back unzipped. “And, you’ve literally been inside me.” You add for good measure. He coughs, chokes on his own laughter.

Leave it to anything but to abandon one elephant and pick up a new one. “We’re talking about that now?”

You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, wonder if he can hear it in your voice, if he knows you that well, listened to you speak so intently for so long that he can pick out minor fluctuations like that. “Talking about what?”

“You are.” He pauses, you tug on the hem of your dress and it doesn’t give any. You thought there was more fabric than there is. “Are you on something?” You can hear the smile.

“I haven’t been not talking.” You say, coming out of the bathroom, ball of pajamas wadded up tight in your hand. He tracks you across the room, back exposed, while you put the clothes in your bag. You walk back to him, pull your ponytail to one side, gesture for him to zip up the back of your dress. You suck in before he does it, even though the dress fits.

“You’ve been telling people?” He says, his warm fingers gracing your skin, sending goosebumps up your spine. This never would have happened before, you lie to yourself. You’ve been blushing everytime he looked at you since you were in high school.

“Maybe.” You say quietly, bit the smile off your bottom lip when his fingers linger at the top of the zipper. “Have you?”

“No.” He says, and when you turn around his eyes trail up your body slowly, taking your permission to stare as gospel, soaking up every inch of you with unabashed eyes.

“I told Isa.” You say, shove an earring through your lobe.

“You.” Your words pull him back from the glossy eyed size-up with a chuckle. “You told Isa.” The other earring, and then you clasp a necklace, wish you had the nerve to make him do that, too.

“Accidentally.” You add, pull the blazer on, tug on the dress again. Still not budging.

“Does that mean I can tell someone?” He pretends to mess with the settings on his watch. Pretends, you know, because his watch is never wrong. He changes it as soon as he’s in a new location. That watch has been right since his plane landed.

You sit on the edge of the bed, put your heels on and wonder if the red bottoms are really with the pain and suffering. “No.”

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asks, follows you to the bathroom where you’re already twisting your tube of lipstick, painting them a dark, lustful red. Ferrari red, a dark, ferrari red.

“We’re running late.” You close the lipstick, put it into your handbag and clasp that shut.

“We are.” He says, and you’re already tugging the door open and gesturing him out. “I’m sorry for not looking out for you last night.” He says in the middle of the elevator ride. “Really.”

“Don’t.” You say. “We agreed, anything but.”

– –

Anything but, you agreed, but he’s silently apologizing all night. You’re not out of arm’s reach for more than a few minutes the entire night, and when you are, he’s got eyes on you, eyes on the bathroom door, eyes on the back of the head of whoever blocks his sightline. He finds you in the crowd every time. The green, he says, I just look for the pretty girl in green. “Don’t say things like that to me.” You told him, even though it makes you warm and fuzzy and grateful when he says it, when he’s there every time you look for him.

“Questa è la tua ragazza, no?” Mattia says to Charles when he introduces you. You’ve met him before, always in passing, though, so it’s a safe assumption to think he won’t know you.

“Qualcosa del genere.” Charles says, thinks you don’t catch it, pulls you closer to his side.

“Che cazzo significa?” Mattia asks, and all three of you laugh with varying levels of awkwardness, too much to say for anything to be whispered in the unsaid.

By the end of the night, you've spoken to more people than you can count and done so in three languages, four, if you count the butchered Spanish class Carlos held with you. You’ve been confused for his girlfriend a dozen times, and somewhere along the line his corrections progressed from just a friend, through no correction at all, to yes.

“Why did you say that?” You asked the first time he did it.

“They’re going to think what they want to think.” He said. It felt like a cop-out answer.

You don’t know if you’re more affected by his presence or if the hoards of strangers are, but it seems like everyone is more interested in what you have to say instead of just staring you down. Calling yourself comfortable would be quite a stretch, but, the room tonight feels a little less like a fishbowl and a little more like a cocktail party.

You love watching him on stage, really love it, him addressing the audience. You almost burst into laughter, the customer service voice that transcends industries and languages and is something you never get to hear from him. He oozes confidence, talking and laughing with the MC and Carlos and Mattia. He’s so pretty under the hard lighting, it makes all his features look sharper, more defined, somehow. Heaven-sent.

When he comes back he says he’s hot, takes off his blazer and hangs it from the back of his chair, rolls up his shirt sleeves. It’s very grassroots political, very, mind-numbingly attractive. “How are you doing?” He asks, takes a sip of your drink because his is empty, maintains insightful, careful eyes and contrasts them by wriggling his brows over the lip of your glass.

“I’m good.” You say, nod and smile so he knows you mean it.

“Really? He sets the glass back down on the tablecloth.

“Really.”

– –

You’re at the track early Friday morning, watching Arthur’s practice session with Carla. You haven’t seen him race nearly as much as you’d like to this year. In Bahrain, you didn’t come to anything except Charles’ race, so scared about bringing Michael along. No Imola. You wish you could have been in Silverstone, watched it on your phone at work with the volume on level one. The only time you’ve actually seen him race in person was in Barcelona, and you were basically hungover that entire weekend. Hungover, and trying to convince yourself Charles was going to kiss you.

You were going to watch him as much as you could this time around, make up for all the ones you missed. That was one excuse for staying away from Charles. The other, everything the two of you did felt emotionally charged. You’re either wishing you could wring his neck, or wishing you could nuzzle into it. Sometimes both. A lot of times, both.

You grab lunch with Carla in general hospitality and then sneak your way into the Paddock Club’s pit lane walk to blow some time. Charles is doing his warm up, probably playing football or doing neck exercises that could be in the director’s cut of a Fifty Shades of Grey film. Carlos, though, Carlos is talking to some engineer about something or another, and you catch each other’s eye. He smiles, looks away, and does a double take, furrowing his brows. You just shrug, make him laugh and shake his head.

“Heard you were being sneaky today?” Charles asks when you’re leaving the track. Someone ahead is taking pictures of him, one of the regulars, one you recognize but don’t know. He’s the one that always asks Charles for a smile and is responsible for half the pictures in his living room.

You step several feet to the side, remove yourself from the frame, out of the shot. Arthur laughs. No free food for anyone, not even the ones he likes. It’s going to be a long time before you volunteer yourself to be tormented online.

He says your name, the photographer, and it startles you because you don’t know him. He shouldn’t know your name, you’ve never introduced yourself to him. Charles looks in your direction, holds out his hand and even though you don’t want to take it, don’t want any pictures of you two walking hand-in-hand, you also don’t want to leave him hanging like that in front of a camera. So, you take his hand and let yourself get pulled back into the shot. Maybe they’ll never see the light of day, you can only hope. Surely, a million other things will be more interesting than this.

Mr. Photographer, Kym, Charles calls him. Kym asks your opinion on the yellow, and Charles laughs because you haven’t been shy with him about your distaste for them. You know Ferrari is really pushing it, though. “I think they’re great. Very avant garde.” You lie.

Yellow not a favorite color? He asks, says your name again.

“She thinks yellow is a coward’s color.” Charles says, laughs with Kym the photographer. You cringe, even though he’s right. “She likes green.”

– –

You wake up miserable on Saturday, spend the day in your hotel room with the shades drawn and the do not disturb sign hanging from the door handle. Flu symptoms, someone from Ferrari, someone worried about Charles’ possible exposure, delivers a rapid test to your door. Negative.

You have your phone playing on the lowest possible volume, still too loud, if you’re being honest, and listen to Arthur’s Sprint Race, to FP3, to Quali.

I thought you didn’t have it in the straights, you mustered up the nerve to text him. Pole, right? You weren’t positive where anyone was starting tomorrow, too many penalties. If you had to bet on being right about one, though, it’s that Charles is on pole. You’d bet on that blind, though.

We don’t, he replies an hour later. Extremely timely for him, especially on a race weekend. How are you feeling?

Like shit. Even with the brightness all the way down, your eyes still yearn to be clawed out when met with the LCD screen.

Sorry.

You wallow, pick at the entirely too expensive meal from room service, take a few too many Advils because you’re pretty sure this bug will kill you before the liver damage gets a chance. You nap, you shower, shiver and shake, and nap some more. COnsider scoping your brain out and squeezing it until it pops, your pulse making your temples bulge.

Your phone lights up the dark room. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling, forcing your eyes closed until galaxies and oil spills of color paint themselves across your eyelids. It could be eleven in the morning. It could be eight at night. Will you answer if I knock?

You say yes, figure he’s still at the track. He’s not.

A single, quiet knock on the door, he couldn’t have used the force of more than a single knuckle. Your eyes are squinted shut when you open it, hand shielding your eyes. He laughs, just as quiet as his knock, slides into the room and pulls the door closed as fast as the slow-closing hinges allow.

He puts the back of his hand on your forehead. You search to make out his features in the pitch-black darkness. “I’m dying.” You say, pitiful.

“You’re not dying.” You think he’s smiling, can hear it, even with congested sinuses and clogged ears.

“I promise I am.” Your voice is so nasally and muffled and sick.

“Poor thing.” His voice is half an octave higher when he mocks you.

“Did you just come here to be mean?”

“No. I came to check on you.”

“Consider me checked.” You said, crawling back into bed. Even with your hands moving wildly in front of you in the dark room, you still run into the side of the bed with a thud. “Don’t laugh.” You warn, and he tried his hardest not to. You read once that orgasms can cure headaches. Briefly, you consider the logistics of it.

Not worth it, you decide. You’d rather have your brain explode all over the walls of this dark room than make things any weirder, leave more feelings and emotions to linger in the shadows of the unknown. “Sommes-nous bons?” He asks, and your face controls into a twisted mess. No way is he doing this now. No way.

“Pourquoi ne serions-nous pas bons?” You mutter, after much hesitation.

“Je ne sais pas.” He says. “Vous vous sentez loin.”

“Je suis là.” You lie, and reach your hand out. He finds you in the darkness, or you find him. You find each other, that’s all that matters, really. You move in the bed messily, tangling the sheets and comforter with your legs, pulling him with little force onto the bed. “I’m here.” You repeat with your head on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. You don’t say it because you mean it, you say it because you know when his thoughts are on the verge of becoming all consuming. You say it because the last thing he needs to be thinking about this weekend is if you’re distancing yourself from him. You might know him better than he knows himself, you think sometimes.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, you’re feeling alive, less corpse-like. He’s not in the room anymore.

You wonder if it’s possible to distance yourself from Charles, or if your lives are so completely and utterly intertwined that it’s too late for that. A life lived together too long to make distinctions, you think. Nothing is yours, not really.

Fight or flight, you will freeze every time. You can’t take the leap, have the hard conversations. If you do it, and it goes terribly wrong, crashes and burns brighter than the sun, there’s no walking away, no picking up the pieces and putting yourself back together again.

When you were young, your Mother once told you she thought you and Charles were each one half of a puzzle–incomplete without the other. You’re lucky to have him, she told you, people spend their whole lives looking for the other half of their puzzle.

You always found comfort in it. Now, you think maybe you and Charles are two separate puzzles that have been combined into the same box. Sure, they could be sorted, but pieces are probably missing, stolen by time or never there to begin with. The only way to sort each other apart would be to dump it all out on the table, slowly rebuild from the corners in, constantly checking the box to make sure that piece is a piece of you, not him. Nobody has time for that task, not even the people who love the puzzles, not even the puzzles themselves, so you sit on a shelf all mixed up until the end of time.

He came to see you on your nineteenth birthday. Drove in from Monaco to the apartment you were renting with University friends. Four bedrooms, six people, two emotional support cats, low ceilings, broken fire escape, one bathroom, and a pantry full of cheap alcohol.

When he arrived, there were significantly more than six people, the pantry full of liquor was a kitchen full of liquor, and you were dancing on a table, drunk in a way only a nineteen year old is on her birthday. Even sloppy and shitfaced, you could make out the distinctive tone of his holler over the hoots of the rest of your cheer squad.

You’d laughed, giddy and loud, jumped off the table and threw yourself into his arms. “Vous êtes ici?!” You yelled into his ear, adjusting the strap of your top.

“Je suis là.” He said, at a sober volume. “Bon anniversaire.”

“Merci!” You laughed, hiccuped. “Buvons!”

He should have been playing catch-up, but you’d never let a friend take a shot alone. A gruesome mistake you learned when you were curled over the porcelain toilet bowl two hours later.

He had your hair knotted into a shitty ponytail, too loose, the part of your haircut meant to frame your face falling victim to the contents of your stomach. He rubbed his hand on your back, like a parent would, and told you it was going to be okay. You spit, laughed into the toilet because he was always so annoyingly sweet to you. You looked over your shoulder and told him so. You’re too sweet to me, you said, he looked at you all sober and earnest and chillingly, and then you threw up again.

You rallied, though. The birthday girl always rallies. You smoked a cigarette from the perch of your bedroom window and listened to Charles talk about some girl and lecture you, going on and on about how you really shouldn’t be smoking. It’s quite bad for you. You wondered what would happen if you threw yourself out the window, if it would hurt more than his bashful words about her. It’s only the third floor. It won’t kill you. Hearing him say her name and blush one more time might, though.

Jealousy is ugly on you. You realize that in the weeks that follow, and decide that until you have the balls to say something to him, to take charge, you don’t get to be jealous of who he spends his time crushing on. Jealousy is for women who lose, and you’re not even playing, not even on the team.

It’s a good thing you do, put it behind you, because he brings her to the family cabin you spend Christmas at every year. He warms her hands in his and kisses her under the mistletoe hung in the entryway. At the end of the week, he thanks you for being so kind and warm and welcoming to her. You smile, hug him. Anytime, you told him, cry yourself to sleep for three days thinking about how happy he is.

She’s too good for you was the nicest thing you ever said about her. It was a lie. Nobody is too good for someone as sweet as him.

You see him next in Austin, a late birthday celebration in the land of unfamiliar accents and oversized portions. The losing battle for the championship is over, Max won in Japan and sat in some stupidly oversized armchair in the cool-down room. It’s ridiculous, honestly, I’m glad I didn’t win, he told you. You went along with it even though you know he’d give an arm and a leg to look like a fool in an oversized armchair in a cool-down room in Japan.

Despite that, because of that, whatever, the pressure is off his shoulders a bit, the need to perform at superhuman level lowered. He seems lighter when you hug him.

“I did a hot lap with Brad PItt.” He tells you.

You laugh at the absurdity of his life, follow him on his walk up the paddock. “And?”

He shrugs. “Tires were shit.” His typical day at the office might be batshit insane, but he’s always going to be Charles–little boy who loves cars-Leclerc.

“Tires were shit.” You repeat. “That's all you got for me?”

“He didn’t speak much.” Make him speak, Charles. It’s Brad fucking Pitt, you would’ve said if it was a few months earlier and things were normal and deadpan and sarcastic between the two of you. You roll your eyes instead.

– –

“You guys should not let them do this.” You tell the girl working the counter at Austin’s–an amusement park in, you guessed it, Austin, Texas. Americans are incredibly creative, you’ve come to learn. “They’re going to kill each other.”

She can’t be making more than minimum wage–seven U.S dollars and twenty-five cents an hour–but there isn’t any amount that is enough to deal with this crowd in karts. Two of the most competitive men on the planet, egged on by each other and by the group of guys in line behind you trying to pay for your group’s tickets.

Do not let them pay for you, you told Charles and he nodded, told you he knew, paid for everyone’s tickets. At any moment it feels like a little red dot is going to appear on your head and Ferrari is going to take you out. They won’t be thrilled to discover both their poster-boy and Disney prince were out late the night before a race, even less thrilled when they find out Charles and Carlos were risking injury in search of cheap thrills with strangers.

You and Isa share a laugh, feel like mothers chasing toddlers around at Disneyland. We should do that, we should do this. Oh! Look at that, we can’t leave without doing that.

You watch them ignore the teenager telling them the rules about the karts, telling everyone not to run into one another. It’s just the four of you; Charles, Carlos, Isa, and you. You know they’ll be crashing into each other before you get through the first turn.

They argue about if they’re fighting for first or fastest lap, flip a coin and throw a fit about the results, play rock-paper-scissors to come to a decision. They lap you and Isa–the rule followers who don’t exceed the speed limit–fly around the track at a speed you didn’t expect anyone to be able to pull from the cheap karts.

Carlos wins, Charles contests, says he’s going to formally protest it. Then, they want to switch to two-seater carts, so you and Isa are passengers to their reckless driving. Charles wins that round. Carlos and Isa leave after that, claim they’re tired. You and Charles stay for a meal.

“It’s a pre-podium celebratory meal.” You said.

“You’re going to curse me.” He groaned.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, a meal shared with Charles is awkward, stiff. Before today, you’d barely spoken since Monza. Your social media was still full of death threats, or so you’d been told. The apps have yet to be redownloaded, it’s not healthy for anyone to see that kind of stuff.

This is how it happens, you think. How lifelong friendships fall apart. There isn’t a separation spot that you can pinpoint and say yes, this is where it all went to shit. It’s a gradual separation, a day without a call, a week without a text, a month without speaking. Slow, steady, and sure, until eventually, you live separate, untangled lives.

“So,” He says, eats a fry. “That big work deal?”

“Yeah.” You nod, cross one leg over the other on the cold metal chair. “It’s good. Almost done, I think.”

“I’m sure you killed it.”

“Yeah.” Uncross the legs. “Thanks.” Cross them again. The positioning of your legs isn’t the problem, the cold metal chair that doesn’t sit evenly on the floor and rocks when you shift your weight isn’t what’s making you uncomfortable. The food is good and the drinks are cold and your waitress is a sweetheart with a southern accent and long blonde hair.

Y’all came from the race? She asked. We were busier than ants at a picnic all weekend. You told her yes. I like y’all’s accents, and that was the end of it. He couldn’t get away with that interaction anywhere else in the world.

Everything is perfect, but you’re still uncomfortable. The problem is him. The problem is you. Everything breaks under enough pressure, even unbreakable things.

“I miss you.” He said, because the closer your bodies are, the further away your minds wander.

“I’m here.” You lie.

He sees right through it. “No, you’re not.” Any possible defense would be weaker than the lie, so you don’t bother, sit in suffocating silence and pick at your fries. “Things have been weird since we slept together.” It was a mistake, you brace for the impact of it. Sleeping with him wasn’t a mistake, not for you. It was everything that has followed that was the issue. It should have been the end of a chapter, a closing book, one way or another. Instead, you’re writing an epilogue and flying by the seat of your pants, stumbling over your words and forgetting characterizations and just trying to make it to the next page. You should be in a new book entirely–a book without him or a book with him on every page.

It was a mistake, you brace and brace but it never comes. He doesn’t say it. The other shoe doesn’t drop. He just looks at his hands, twists his rings on his fingers, pops his knuckles. “I don’t know how to fix this.” He speaks, finally, and it reminds you of when he kissed you, when you didn’t know how to make everything better.

More silence, until you’ve both cleaned your plates, until Mary-Grace, the sweet talking southern-belle, sets the check down on Charles’ side of the table, until you watch him google how much gratuity he’s supposed to leave because he’s always scared he’s going to mess up tipping when you’re in the U.S.

Distance is good, you think. Distance. People need distance. “Abu Dhabi is going to be my last race.” You whisper.

He laughs almost, sliding his card into the leather folder and setting it back on the edge of the table. “It’s going to be everyone’s last race.”

“My last race for a while, Charles.” My last race, ever, you think, if distance goes the way you think it will. “I’m going to–I think we.” You sigh. “We need some space, I think.”

“No. Don’t be stupid.” He shoos your words, brushes them under the rug.

“We can’t fix it. We both know we can’t–”

“--I don’t know.” You speak over each other, building a Jenga tower of lies and one-ups until you finally snap into a different language.

““--Doit-on vraiment continuer à prétendre que tout va bien?”

“I love you.” He blurts, cuts you off like it’s some grand admission, like you haven’t been saying it to each other since before the word love had any sort of connotation to it, back when it was just something people said to each other. The distance, it doesn’t mean you don’t love him. You’ll always love him, he’s Charles. You just. You need to breathe, and you can’t catch your breath when he’s around.

“I love you, too.” You say, like you have a million times before, like you’re almost offended he thought any of this meant you didn’t love him.

“No, no.” His voice is desperate, pleading with you to understand something you’re clearly missing. Surely, he doesn’t mean. “How do you… je suis amoureux de toi.” You clench your jaw and blink, and you’re pretty sure one eye closes before the other.

“Don’t say that to me.” You say. Not, I’m in love with you, too, even though you are. You’re trying to put yourself first here, trying to objectively look at your life, at the things in it that are hurting you. Mixed signals, hurting you. Death threats, hurting you. Unwanted attention, hurting you. The common thread is him, you need to separate yourself from him and he’s saying the only thing that could make you waiver.

“Pourquoi pas?”

“Because.” You dig your shaky fingers into your leg, burrow them into the denim. It’s going to bruise, you don’t care, so will this conversation, so will walking away. “You don’t mean it.” Shake your head, lip quivering like a little girl who got hurt on the playground. He does mean it.You know him well enough to know he does, which only makes it that much fucking harder. “And I’m not going to say it back.”

You love him so much, more than oxygen, maybe. You’d throw it all away for him, your heart would let you lose yourself if it meant making him happy, if it meant being with him. You’d stay off social media and pretend nobody was wishing for your death. You’d sit at awkward dinner parties and watch races with limbs that didn’t feel like your own. You’d do it all, if your heart was in charge, because you love him, and can’t fathom losing him.

Space. Space will make it better, ease the sting of unspoken feelings and heavy words and stupid little games. Space will wash the salt from the wound.

He says your name like a plea, a desperate prayer, bloody knees and lit candles. You say nothing, too much internal conflict to sort out to verbalize anything.

The drive to the hotel is deafeningly silent. You can hear the tires of the rental car on the road below, can hear his feet on the pedals, the grind of his teeth because he’s angry at you. He’s angry and he doesn’t want to be. In love with you and he doesn’t want to be. You understand it well, recognize your own emotions being reflected back at you. If you listen hard enough, you convince yourself you can hear the traffic lights changing colors.

You fly home commercial the next morning, skip the race, hear about his podium three days later from a friend.

You don’t go to Abu Dhabi.

You don’t go to November, or December’s family dinner. He doesn’t text you, doesn’t call, makes no attempt at playing phone tag.

You skip Christmas at the cabin, find out after the fact that he’d done the same thing.

“Ça devient ridicule, chérie.” Your mother tells you over the phone. “Vous agissez comme un enfant. Vous l’êtes tous les deux.” You’d just told her you were skipping your dad’s birthday party. I have to work, you lied. I’ll bring his gift by the house next week. It was the straw that snapped her back, it would seem. “Vous serez ici demain. Pour papa. Il ne t'a rien fait.” She said it sternly, and if you were sixteen you might have been intimidated by it, might have listened.

You told your sister after you got off the phone with Mom that you wouldn’t be there, told her as a heads up, so she knew the shit-show of slamming cupboards and passive aggressive comments she was walking into tomorrow.

Go to your dad’s birthday. He texted you for the first time in months. I won’t go.

I’m an adult. There’s no way to send a message like that without sounding like a child.

I wish I could see my dad on his birthday. Nobody does the guilt-trip like he does. Go. I promise I won’t be there.

Charles is scarily close to your Dad. Growing up, Charles–hell, all of the boys–they were the sons your dad never had, the ones he didn’t realize he wanted. It was infuriating, sharing him. And then Hervé got sick, and then he was gone, and your dad became a father figure for the boys. It was slow, and subtle, but it happened nonetheless.

You were the one who blew things up, who demanded space and time and distance. If anyone should suffer because of it, it’s you, not him. You should be there.

Not more than you. You disagree, but he’s impossible to argue with without being face-to-face.

I can be an adult. You say, even though you aren’t so sure you can be. We can both go.

– –

You lingered in your apartment, wondered if he was really going to show up, if you were actually going to get in the car and drive over there, if it was too late to say you’d caught Covid or something.

You change clothes seven times. Seven, because you want to look good, but not like you tried to look good. Effortlessly glamorous and classy and sophisticated. You don’t know why, it’s not like he’s the one who wronged you. If anyone should be spending extra time in the bathroom today it should be him, he should be trying to prove you wrong, to show you your mistake in walking away.

It wasn’t a mistake. It was the biggest mistake. There were two very distinct sides to the coin. You’re back on social media, back to living your life without death threats and constant judgment. You haven’t spoken to your best friend in months, have no idea what he’s up to, don’t know anything more than his millions of followers. You miss him, but you don’t miss being Charles Leclerc’s friend, Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend. You like having your own name, being a person with traits that go beyond knowing him. You hate not seeing him, not being with him, worrying that you’re going to run into him around any corner. It’s a small, congested city. He could be any of the faces in the crowd.

You get to your parents house after your sister and your brother-in-law and your niece. The house smells like pasta sauce and your mom’s flowery candle–the one that is teetering awfully close to potpourri and death and elderly woman. The Bianchi’s aren’t coming–they thought the party was next weekend, called and apologized three different times in the past forty-eight hours, according to your dad. The Lecelerc’s are yet to arrive.

You slip into comfortable conversation with your family, Mom is right, you aren’t avoiding any of them. You help her out in the kitchen, get yelled at for tasting the sauce, chase your niece around the house, fulfill your duties as the fun aunt, sneak her candy from the jar in Dad’s office and swear just enough that she might call the dog a bitch.

Arthur and Pascale get there first, before Lorenzo and Charles. They’ll be here late, Pascale says to someone, not you. “My brother is an idiot.” Arthur says when you greet him with a tight hug. You haven’t seen him since Monza, either.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You say. You haven’t seen him, but you’ve spoken to him, congratulated him on moving to F2, offered to take him out to dinner the next time your schedules lined up. Drama with Charles wasn’t going to stop you from celebrating the closest thing you’ll have to a baby brother.

You almost forget he’s coming. Almost, and then he’s knocking and walking through the door with a small, gift-wrapped box and an expensive bottle of wine, charming smiles onto everyone’s face with just his easy presence. He looks good. He always looks good, but damn, he looks good in that sweater and those jeans and his glasses–he should wear his glasses more, you’ve always thought. He doesn’t hug anyone, and you wonder if it’s so he doesn’t have to hug you. Instead, he hoists Gigi up into the air and steals her seat on the sofa. It’s his seat, unassigned, but assigned by years of occupying it at every family function. Gi wants to lay claim to it, but she’s just as happy on Charles’ lap as she is curled up in the corner seat of the sectional.

You keep meeting his eyes, snapping them back to the ground every time. It’s sad, if you think about it too long. You were right,the two of you are too entangled. There’s no separating you, not with ties that run so deep, not when you and Charles are just pieces of a giant web of people. There are a million invisible strings and unseen connections that intertwine every member of your family and every last one of your friends.

You’re painfully cordial. He helps your mom serve dessert, hands you a plate with a corner piece of cake and your favorite ice cream, doesn’t have to ask you like he does everyone else. You don’t even know how he knows your favorite flavor of ice cream, why he remembers that you love the corner piece of cake.

You thank him, tell him the wine he brought is good and overpriced. I’ve missed being judged for every purchase I made He said, and you told him he couldn’t get rid of you that easily. It’s weird, the weirdest, because he did get rid of you pretty easily.

“I’m going to F1. Sauber.” He told you in his kitchen while the two of you were washing dishes. You dropped the forks into the dishwasher with a spattering of clangs.

“Really?” You asked, a glaring absence of excitement in your voice. You knew it was coming, everyone knew it was only a matter of time, a talent like his is destined to get to the top. You knew it was coming, but, still, you selfishly and silently hoped it wouldn’t work out. He was yours, and you wanted to keep him to yourself, hated how much you already had to share him with the rest of the world. Gone for nine months of the year, away from home and away from you, it will be so lonely.

He’s happy to leave you behind, overjoyed, even, and you struggle to come to grips with it, struggle to separate the emotions he’s feeling about achieving the dream versus the ones he feels about leaving you. It feels like the end of the world to your young and naive heart, like nothing is ever going to be the same, like you’re losing another person you love more than life.

– –

It was the beginning of the season, he hadn’t been home in almost two months, was in the middle of a double header, China and Azerbaijan, you think. You were just trying to survive to Monaco. He’d never been so busy, you’ve never missed him so much.

Your roommates were having a party, and you were working late. When you got home, his favorite song was playing through the apartment. You don’t know the name, aren’t even sure about the artist, but you know every word, learned them all against your will. Listened to him sing it under his breath while he cooked and scream it during long car rides and blast from his headphones so loud you were worried he’d have hearing damage. He was always, always, singing this song, and you were always, always, asking him to turn it off.

You wished he was here right now, singing it out of tune and thinking he’s a popstar. You wish you could begrudgingly sing it with him. Instead, you grab a snack from the pantry and lock your bedroom door and put in your headphones, play your music so loud you can’t hear the party on the other side of the door. Tune it out, turn off your longing for him with it.

You can’t wait until you graduate, until you can pack everything up into a little suitcase and spend all of your money and follow him around the world, can’t wait until you never have to miss him again.

Come see me. He texted, a month after your Dad’s birthday, right before pre-season testing in Bahrain. He’s already there, or so you can piece together from the text, from the attachment in the subjectless email he’d sent you. Plane ticket, two, actually. Nice to Dubai, Dubai to Muharraq. Both first class.

No. You replied. Get a refund.

See you tomorrow night. You hated the cockiness of the reply, hated more that you were already packing a suitcase. He didn’t even ask if you were working, didn’t check to see if your schedule was clear or if it was even something you wanted to do.

I’m not your booty call.

Trust me, I know. He said. Ma vie serait tellement plus simple si tu l'étais. Well, he’s not wrong about that one.

Your sister drives you to the airport. “I think I’m in too deep.” You told her. You two have never done shallow, she said. You promised to protect yourself, to prioritize yourself, and to text her updates whenever you had them.

You wished your life was as simple as hers, a good job and a husband and a perfect baby girl. Big family parties and plenty of babysitters for date night and a village that loved and supported everything they did. She had the perfect family, had all her ducks in a row and her shit situated. “I love living vicariously through your insane life.” She said, and you kissed her cheek goodbye.

– –

You follow his instructions, feel like you’re on a delusional scavenger hunt. Board the plane, land in Dubai, board another plane, land in Muharraq, get on the bus, talk to Azim at the front desk of the hotel, he knows you’re coming. Azim isn’t there. He works the night shift, apparently.

Azim is not here. You texted your sister.

Who is Azim?

They call Azim, he answers, and it’s all sorted out when the day-shift manager hands you a key. You wonder what Charles had told Azim. There’s a girl coming, be discreet. It doesn’t seem like him, none of it seems like him. Azim, I’m drunk and tired and invited my best friend, who claims to need space from me, to my room. Please let her in. That felt like more of a possibility, felt like it would confirm your suspicions, that he doesn’t want you here. He wants you, of last year, here. You, of France, likely.

You’re not having sex with him. Not happening, you won’t fold, not even if he asks nicely. It would solve nothing, and has already fucked up enough of your relationship. If you suck his dick again, you won’t be able to be cordial at birthday parties, he’ll forget what kind of ice cream you like, and neither of you will ever be seen at the christmas cabin again.

When you get to the room, the suite, you find there’s two bedrooms. Maybe he wasn’t looking for France, maybe he got into the room and saw there was another room and had a momentary lapse where he thought, you know who would enjoy being here? He bought the tickets, sent the text, and by the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late to back out.

You’re replying to emails on the couch when he walks through the door. That redesign deal, after months and months of back and forth about something as small as the shade of one pixel versus another, is finally launching this weekend. You’re trying to make sure everything is in order, putting the final bows on the project and making sure no ends are left loose.

“Hi.” You call out, in case he forgot he invited you.

“Hi.” He says, appears in the lamp-lit room all comfy in that one sweatshirt you’ve always loved on him. “Are you watching L’Atalante?” He asks, moving past you and into the kitchen. It’s too normal. Eerily so, the plane might have passed through the z-axis or something and now you’re in an alternate timeline where none of it ever went sour.

“No.” Everytime you watch it you think of him. Not in the cheesy, God, I love him and he is such the main character in this love story, way. In the God, I love him and wish he was here to make fun of me for loving this movie, way. “Haven’t watched it in a while.”

“Shame.” He says. “I liked that movie.”

You don’t feel like humoring him about this again, vividly remembering exactly where it got you the last time. Really, you could blame all of this on that fucking movie. If you never watch it, he never asks to come in, you never have sex, and everything is happy-go-lucky between the two of you. “How’s the car this year?”

“Don’t know yet.” He says, pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, the seal snapping when he turns the cap. “Why aren’t you watching L’Atalante?” He takes a drink.

“I told you.” You say quietly, unfocused on your words, fingers rapidly moving across your keyboard.

“No, you told me you haven’t watched it.” He says, flops down onto the couch. “I want to know why.”

“I don’t know, because I haven’t felt like it.” You tell him, a little more annoyed this time. You haven’t watched the movie. A lot of people don’t watch their favorite movie all of the time. “Why do you care so much? Did you call me out here to play anything but?”

“I called you out here because I miss my best friend.”

“You don’t know me, anymore.”

“It’s been a few months, not a few lifetimes.” Even then, he’d probably still remember the corner piece of cake and his hand would probably still hover behind you protectively and find you in the dark rooms and the crowded rooms. You know no amount of time could make you forget his favorite song, or at what point in his day he gets nervous, what he needs when everything is going wrong, and the way he can sober you up with one look. “I still know you. I still love you.” You sympathize with it, relate to it, because nothing is as hard as trying to unlove another person, you’ve come to learn. “I miss my best friend.”

Don’t break. I still love you, Charles. Don’t break. I miss my best friend, too. Don’t break. Don’t break. “We can pretend for a weekend.” He says. “Just, be normal again. Be us again.” Us. There is no us. Don’t break.

It’s not like it’s an argument you can just apologize and move on from. He can’t apologize for loving you, for needing to vocalize it. You can’t apologize for loving him, for not being able to take the leap. Normal, normal sounds so good.

Can we go back to normal after this?

Yeah. Back to normal.

You never should have let yourself believe him. You wonder if he loved you, then. If he knew when he said it that it was a lie. You can’t remember when you knew you loved him, like really, really loved him. It was gradual, you suppose, a combination of time and sweetness and jealousy, of grief and joy and innocence. At some point, you were forced to face the sobering reality, but, you don’t know how long you’ve loved him like this. Does he remember a moment, or was it gradual for him, too?

“Back to normal.” You said. The ultimate game of anything but, the final boss of your friendship. “Just for the weekend?”

“Whatever you want.” He says. “We can do whatever you want.”

Don’t break. Do not break. “Okay,” you crack, and then, with the force of your entire heart, “yeah.” You break.

A long time ago, before the gradual realization, you thought Charles and you were platonic soulmates. Today, can you go back to that? To the platonic love. Was there ever a fork in the road, a wrong turn, a path where you end up somewhere else, or have you always been destined to end up like this, in a hotel room, in a foreign country hiding from the rest of the world and pretending everything is light and breezy and comfortable when it’s far from.

– –

It’s Monday morning, and your weekend together is over. It was a shorter adjustment period than you could have predicted, like relatives who don’t see eachother but once a year. It’s awkward hellos and bombed small talk until suddenly one of you makes a joke and it’s like you were apart for minutes instead of months.

You go to this tourist attraction together, the Tree of Life. It’s a four-hundred-year-old tree that’s like, ten meters tall or something. It sits alone in the middle of the desert and nobody knows how it’s still alive. It’s a spectacle, according to Google, and was nominated to be another wonder of the world. Someone says its roots run fifty meters deep, and it sticks with you, the idea that there’s so much beneath the surface. You wonder if the tree had a companion four hundred and some odd years ago, if it always imagined spending every day with the companion tree, if their roots were tangled fifty meters below the surface. The tree is gone, now, but maybe its roots are still there, fifty meters down, all tangled up in the roots of this tree.

It’s probably not from the Garden of Eden like they claim, and there’s surely a scientifically sound explanation for where the tree is getting its water from in the middle of the desert in a rain-less country. It’s just a big tree, destined to dry up and fall over and burn with the rest of the planet. It’s just a big tree, unless it isn’t.

Does the tree know if it’s special or if it’s just that? You don’t know if what you and Charles have is something special or if you’re just something, but, then again, you aren’t a tree. Maybe the tree knows. Maybe you know. How does a person know that they know?

Charles seems to know, to think you’re worth his unrelenting patience, deserving of the corner slice and the color green, of the stars and the sand and everything in between. He understands you, and he still seems to know, to declare with confidence in the rush of a sports bar in the middle of Texas that he loves you. He’s sure enough that he skips Christmas because you thought space would make everything better, doesn’t tell you that you’re wrong even when you so obviously are, doesn’t stop loving you when you push him in the opposite direction.

You’ve never been that sure about anything, you think.

“Looks a bit lonely, doesn’t it?” He offers into the dry air, taking a picture with his phone. You hadn’t thought of it as lonely until he said something, viewed it as possessing an other-worldly strength and unmatched level of determination. The tree never told its companion it loved it, the tree kept to itself and eventually, learned to live alone in the sand.

You shook your head. “It’s strong.”

“You can be both.” The tree can be both, he’d meant to say, because the Tree of Life is not a metaphor. It’s just a tree.

– –

The weekend, the game of anything but, the avoidance of the World’s biggest elephant, is over. It’s Tuesday, now, breakfast from room service in the suite, awkward tension filling all the available space, compromising each molecule at an atomic level. He’s wearing a red t-shirt, because he always is, and it sits on him so nicely, looks so comfortable on his skin. You’re wearing a yellow pajama top and the silky material is charged with static and clings to you in all the spots you wish it wouldn’t.

How do you know when it’s real? You had texted your sister in the middle of the night prior, two-twenty-three if you remember correctly. You couldn’t sleep, had a bad dream–couldn’t decide what was worse, the nightmare while you sleep or the nightmare when you wake.

You don’t. She replied at a normal hour, when normal people wake up after going to sleep at a normal time. You never know for sure.

That’s fucked.

“I booked a flight home last night.” You told him, picking at the plate of eggs in front of you, the fork scraping on the ceramic plate like nails on a chalkboard, your teeth clinking against the metal everytime it was in your mouth. Just, wrong. In every possible way.

“Why?” He asks, takes a drink of orange juice, a new quirk, you think. He always used to complain about the pulp getting stuck in his teeth. Don’t be such a princess, you’d tell him and he would roll his eyes, drink the remainder of the glass just to prove he could do it without complaining.

“The deal was a weekend.” You say, pretend you’re not conflicted, regretting buying the ticket, admit you’re running away again. “The weekend is over.”

“You’re just going to leave again?” He nods, reassures himself through the sentence, wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Not even going to talk about it?” You stay quiet, teeth clicking against the fork. “I–you are. God, you are so–”

“–Anything but.” You invoke it like a constitutional amendment, like a prophecy, like an unbreakable law.

“Oh, va te faire foutre.” Your head rears back, but you don’t let it sting, know you deserve it. “We’re not doing Anything-fucking-but.” It’s been a long time since he was angry with you, openly like this, cussing you out. He’s scary when he’s angry at you, because he’s always calm about it. Raises his voice, maybe, but never yells at you. You wished he’d scream sometimes, it would be easier to read.

“This weekend was really great, Charles. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“I just. I don’t understand.” He runs his hand over his stubble, deep in contemplation, trying to analyze you, make sense of you. Good luck, you want to tell him. “I love you. I really, really fucking love you. Je sais que je ne suis pas fou. Vous le sentez aussi.”

A single, heavy tear falls from the corner of your eye. You wipe it with the rough cuff of your jacket before it can trail down your face. The inside of your cheek is bleeding, you think, because you can’t feel the pressure from your teeth but you can taste copper. “I’m scared.” There, you said it. You admitted it, exhaled it with the weight of the world, vomited it into his lap.

His lips are tight in their frown, eyes red and glossy like he’s going to cry, too. He laughs, though, a sad and defeated chuckle. “You think I’m not scared?” He asks, voice fighting against itself not to crack. “I’m scared as hell to want you.”

He’s scared? But, nothing scares him. He’s fearless, you’re frightened. Unflinching and hesitant. Gutsy and cowardly. Nothing scares him, not even his own mortality. You’re supposed to believe that you, of all people, you, scare him? Impossible, you think.

“I didn’t tell you for fun.” He continues. “I told you, because it was eating me alive. I was so scared to tell you, thought I would ruin us. Mais tu partais, et je ne pouvais pas te perdre. Je ne pouvais pas.”

Why, why, why is this so fucking hard for you. Sixteen-year-old you, twenty-year-old you, twenty-five-year-old you. Every version of you is screaming at you, we’ve loved him forever, this is all you’ve ever wanted from him. They kick your shins and gut-punch the breath from your lungs and scrape their nails behind your eyes. They are furious, because for longer than you can remember every wish–shooting stars, birthday candles, fountain pennies, fallen eyelashes, dandelions, and ladybugs–they’ve all been for the same thing. The very thing being served to you on a desert platter, all you have to do is pick up the fork.

“Tu as peur?”

“Pétrifié.”

Pick up the fork. Eat the corner piece of cake and savor every bite. Be scared. Be terrified that the world is going to take something pure and wreck it. Be scared, but do it together. Pick up the fork.

“I love you, too.”

You feel strangely out of place with someone else to look after in the paddock. Ferrari hospitality had been your home away from home for years now. The paddock was always different, but maintained a comfortable familiarity, recognizable faces, names, buildings and colors. He was wide-eyed and curious and you smiled at the way the sun bounced off his hair, the excitement he couldn’t contain when amongst the chaos you’d become accustomed to.

“Ask before you touch, please.” You told him, his hand in yours, the same warning Charles had given you the first time he brought you through a garage.

He is heard before he is seen, a loud laugh, a familiar voice calling out your name as soon as he turned the corner. “Hi.” You beam.

“Hi” He says, kisses you, runs his hand through the boy’s hair. “Quoi de neuf, Crevette?”

“Il fait chaud, papa.” He says, with poor enunciation and the dramatic waving of a little hand, fanning himself. Charles nods, hoists the little man onto his hip, whispers something in his ear. A private conversation between the two of them, you don’t dare intrude. “Dis-sa.” Charles says, repeats it when he’s met with a giggly belly laugh.

“We go.” He says, in little, butchered english with a thick french accent. It’s easier to decipher a babble.

Charles laughs, quirks his brows at you, shrugs. “We go.” He backs away from you slowly.

“We go, where?” You say, laughing, too, because you can’t not laugh at your little boy’s giggle. It’s too pure, cracks even the toughest exteriors. Charles looks to his mini-me. “Où allons-nous mon amour?”

“La crème glacée.” He says, beams at his father.

“You coming for ice cream, Maman?” Charles asks, holds out his free hand because it’s a rhetorical question. He’s looking at you with the eyes that make you sober and find you in any crowd, but he doesn’t have to have eyes on you to know you’re coming. “Do you think they have Maman’s favorite flavor?” He asked.

“Ouais. Ils l'ont eu."

2K notes · View notes

kingkatsuki · 2 years

Text

CNC | Bakugou Katsuki x Kirishima Eijirou x Reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 - 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲.

Kinktober masterlist.

I can’t believe its October already and I’m posting the first day of Kinktober 2022. This was actually supposed to be Day 29 of my Kinktober last year, but its better late than never! I hope you guys enjoy it, and thank you to anyone that gives this a go! As always, read the warnings and if its not for you, please don’t read.💕

Summary: Your boyfriend Dynamight is hard at work trying to keep the city safe and apprehend the perpetrators of a spate of home invasions across Musutafu. But unfortunately for you, it seems as though your house is next on their list.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Kirishima Eijirou x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, PWP, consensual non-con, role-play (home invasion fantasy), threesome, blowjobs, fingering, spit roasting, cum swallowing, creampie, not proof read!

Word Count: 4.7k.

The perpetrators still haven’t been caught in what has been a prolific spate of home invasions around Musutafu. The villains are known to be armed and dangerous, and citizens are advised to keep their doors and windows locked, do not open the door to anyone you don’t know and remain vigilant. Here is Pro-Hero Deku with some tips on keeping you and your family safe in these trying times.

Having a Pro-Hero boyfriend had its perks as you felt nowhere near as scared as some other citizens of Musutafu must have felt seeing the latest news broadcast play on the television. Grinning as Deku appeared across the screen as the spokesperson for the home invasions in full hero costume. Bright eyes spoke directly to the camera as you picked your phone up to text Bakugou about it, knowing that he wouldn’t be home tonight due to a scheduled night shift.

You[6:29PM]: Just saw Deku on the 6 o’clock news giving tips about staying safe! Shame they didn’t ask my favourite hero Dynamight :(

Smiling as you pressed send, watching the message quickly turn to read as you waited for the three dots to appear to indicate he was texting you back, but instead, your phone began to ring.

“That fuckin’ nerd would be the spokesman.” Bakugou scoffed on the other side of the line, the rough whirr of traffic was loud in the background as you assumed he was out on patrol.

“You had any luck today?” Bakugou had been picking up extra shifts at the agency since these robberies had occurred, vowing that he would be the one to catch them before they struck again. Unfortunately, these villains appeared to be far more elusive than anyone had originally planned, even managing to hit Pro-Hero Uravity’s apartment while she was out on duty.

“If I catch the fucker it’s on sight.” Bakugou snarled, the frustration evident in his tone.

“I know, baby. You keep us safe.” You smiled softly.

“Damn right,” Bakugou continued, “But you better listen to Deku, keep the doors locked.”

“Yes, daddy.” You teased.

“Careful woman.”

“I think I’m gonna have a bath and go to bed,” You smiled, “It’s boring and lonely here without you.”

“You’re really doing everything in your power to make me hard at work, hah?”

“Maybe,” You laughed, stretching as you stood from your position on the bed, “Is it working?”

“Behave, angel.” He replied, as the husky rasp to his voice had you squeezing your thighs together, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Night, sweetheart.” Bakugou murmured, “Make sure you keep the doors locked and don’t—”

“Don’t let anyone in. I know, baby. I will. I love you.”

“Tch, love you too.”

You grinned as you tossed your phone onto the top of your bed, pulling your clothes off as you made your way into the bathroom.

The steam from your bath had made your skin dewy, your fingers pruned from how long you’d spent inside the hot water as you wrapped a fluffy towel around your torso. Stepping back into your bedroom with the idea of sending Bakugou a flirty text message with a selfie before falling asleep, so he would regret picking up the extra shift tonight when he could’ve been home with you. But now your phone was nowhere to be seen as you looked at your empty bedspread, checking to see if it had maybe vibrated onto the floor.

Your heart began to speed up when you noticed the open window, your black curtains blowing in the cool evening air as you wrapped your towel tighter around your frame. Suddenly feeling completely exposed as you tried to decide what to do next. Wondering whether you should step back inside your en suite and lock the door until Bakugou returned home in the morning, knowing that nothing in the house held the same value as your safety.

A loud clang made you jump as you looked with wide eyes toward the source of the noise, your grip on the towel immediately tightening as you felt goosebumps begin to prickle against your skin.

There was someone in your house.

Backing up as you turned to run towards safety but you were instead met by a tall wall of muscle as you ran straight into someone’s chest. Crying out in surprise as you tried to move back, wide eyes staring up at piercing ruby red.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” The man spoke giddily, like the cat who got the cream as you noticed your cell phone in his large palm, “Oh, were you looking for this? Too bad-”

You always used to think about how you would react in a situation like this, convincing yourself that if something like this were to happen you’d be primed and ready to attack. But your flight or fight response activated and you felt yourself bolting towards the door, a hand holding the corner of your towel tight to your body as you ran down the hall.

“You won’t get far, sweetheart,” The red-haired man’s voice bellowed behind you, “ It’ll be easier if you don’t run.”

Ignoring him as you bolted down the hallway, running directly into the nearest room which happened to be your guest bedroom as you slammed the door shut behind you. Hearing the familiar click of your lock as your chest heaved, a mixture of adrenaline and fear brewed inside you as you tried to quell your racing heart. Maybe he’d take what he wanted and would leave without incident, wishing that you had your cell phone so you could call Bakugou and tell him to come home early.

There was a heavy pounding against the hardwood door as you tried to think of what to do or where to go, there was no way you’d be able to climb out the window, especially when you were on the second floor. The banging increased with each heavy blow as the door finally gave way, the lock snapping as the wood collapsed onto the floor, narrowly missing your bare toes.

You screamed at the motion, your back hitting the wall as you tried to put as much distance between yourself and the intruder as you could.

“Shhh,” He hushed you gently, “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He made his way into the room, stepping over the broken door as he caged you in against the wall.

“Come on, sweetness.” The large man cooed as he stepped over the broken door now lying on the floor, his boots heavy against the wood, “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be, yeah?”

He caught you by surprise as his lips met yours in a sloppy kiss, his nose bumping against yours as you tried to struggle away from him. Instantly thinking about Bakugou and what he would do if he knew this was what was happening to you right now, the rage that would coarse through him. Your boyfriend was out pulling extra shifts to find the very man that was currently inside your home.

Everything felt foreign as tears continued to spill down your cheeks, his hands rough against your hips as he pulled you into his touch. Allowing you to feel the tent beneath his pants as he ground himself against you, a low groan reverberating from deep in his throat as his tongue swiped against yours to deepen the kiss. You were certain you were going to pass out, the lack of oxygen was causing you to become lightheaded as you tried to remember to breathe through your nose.

Everything would be okay, if you could just distract him enough to make your escape you could make it to the front of the house to make enough noise to cause a scene. Someone in the neighbourhood would call law enforcement and you’d be safe, you just had to make it to the front door—

“Fuck,” He groaned, his large hands snuck beneath the hem of your towel as calloused palms dragged against the smooth skin of your inner thighs, “You’re so soft—”

“Please, you don’t have to do this,” You pleaded with the man, “My boyfriend will be home soon, he’s a Pro-Hero—”

“A Pro-Hero?” The man scoffed, “Oh yeah? And what’s his name?”

“D-Dynamight.”

“Dynamight?” Kirishima began to laugh, “I hate to break it to you, sweetheart. But Dynamight can’t do shit to me.” He squeezed your cheeks together in one large hand as your lips puckered into a pout as he stared down at you, “I bet he’d be happy to know that Blood Riot was currently in his house with his girl, though.”

Blood Riot? Was this the villain responsible for the spate of burglaries in the area over the last few weeks? The man that Bakugou had been spending extra hours and taking extra shifts to try and apprehend? The thought filled you with dread as the headlines continued to replay in your head, almost numbing you to the sensation of his hands groping the meat of your hips.

“Look at you,” He groaned, pressing another sloppy kiss to your lips, “So fucking pretty.”

“How lucky was it that I picked your house?” You were barely listening to him as you tried to plan an escape route, trying to remember everything Bakugou had taught you about what to do when you were in a sticky situation. Bakugou had always been weary that you were dating a popular Pro-Hero so you could be seen as a target, so you’d gone through hours of roleplay scenarios with him for when things turned sour. But it’s as though your mind was completely blank as you stood in front of the hulking tower of a man in front of you, his knuckles stroking your cheek as you took a deep breath.

“Shit,” Kirishima snarled as you ducked beneath his arm, his palm knocking against the doorframe as he turned to follow you.

Speed was on your side as you ran down the hallway, turning the corner to knock face first into another man’s chest. You stumbled back as you almost fell back onto your ass, squealing in surprise as you put your palms out to steady yourself. Large palms circled your arms to keep you upright as the man bent his knees slightly to bring his face level with your own.

“Where’d you think you’re going, sweetheart?” The man’s raspy voice had your stomach in knots, his grip firm as though he thought you might struggle again.

“I— uh, I—” You stuttered, feeling his vermillion eyes piercing through your soul as his gaze remained unwavering on you.

“Hey, Bakugou.” Kirishima came around the corner to stand directly behind you, “You’ll never guess who her boyfriend is.”

“Who, Kiri?” Bakugou replied, his warm breath fanning your face.

“Dynamight.” He practically sang the name.

“Well shit.” Bakugou’s lips curled into a smirk, “This is Dynamight’s house?”

“Yeah, dude. We hit the jackpot.”

“Of course, Dynamight would have a beautiful girl hah?” Bakugou’s palm cupped your cheek as he leaned in closer.

You felt them eyeing you up like a piece of meat, fingers tightening in the corner of your towel as Bakugou’s lips met yours in a rough kiss, his grip firm on your face to prevent you from moving away as his tongue swiped against your lips. Gasping in surprise as he took the opportunity to delve inside your mouth, his tongue lashing against your own as he deepened the kiss. Distracting you as he moved his other hand to the hem of your towel, tugging roughly as you felt the cool air from the hallway hit your exposed skin, the fabric pooling around your feet on the hardwood floor as you were left completely naked in front of both strange men.

Bakugou broke the kiss to take a look at your naked body, watching the way your nipples began to pebble in the cold room, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a breath. Kirishima let out a low whistle behind you as he was given the perfect view of your naked back as you felt a hand come down on your ass hard. Yelping in surprise as you stepped closer to Bakugou, his body looming over yours as he unabashedly ogled your chest.

“Best one yet.” He murmured, reaching out to grope your breast as you arched your back into his touch. Holding the weight of it in his palm as his thumb flicked your taut nipple, causing a soft whine to slip past your lips.

“She’s fucking perfect right?” Kirishima pressed his clothed body up against yours behind you as his lips began to pepper kisses along the apex of your neck.

“She is,” Bakugou murmured, curving his neck to take one of your nipples between his lips. His tongue flicked against it as he massaged the mound with his palm.

You hated the way your body was betraying you, your thighs rubbing together to try and create some friction as you felt the familiar sensation brewing in your pelvis. A movement that didn’t go unnoticed by the two men surrounding you.

“Does that feel good?” Kirishima goaded, his palm flat against your abdomen as he pushed you back into his clothed erection, letting you feel how hard he was for you, “Yeah it does, listen to you moaning.”

“No, please.” You mumbled, your fingers curling into the fabric of Bakugou’s shirt as you feebly tried to push him away, “Please stop—”

“You can cry and whine as much as you want that you don’t want it, but your body is betraying you, sweetheart.”

Bakugou’s hand moved between your plush thighs to cup your warm sex, his touch had you gasping as you rolled your hips back into Kirishima’s crotch. Causing the large man to bite down against the supple skin of your neck.

“Please, don’t.” You continued to plead, but your cries fell on deaf ears as both men continued their assault on your body, “I’ll scream.”

“Ain’t no one gonna hear you, princess.” Bakugou scoffed, “Go on, try—“

Deep down you knew he was right, your boyfriend had specifically chosen this neighbourhood because it was quiet, the houses weren’t close to each other and it gave you both the privacy you craved.

“Didn’t think so.” Bakugou grinned at your silence, lifting his hand slightly to put more pressure against your slit as you moved onto your tiptoes. Your eyes rolled as you let out a soft mewl, feeling Kirishima’s hands coil around your body to cup your naked breasts.

“Wanna show us your bedroom, sweetheart?” Bakugou whispered, “I can give you a real reason to scream.”

“We gonna fuck in Dynamight’s bed?” Kirishima scoffed.

“We’re gonna destroy her in Dynamight’s bed,” Bakugou smirked, already pushing you down the hall towards your bedroom, as though he knew exactly where to go.

Stepping inside the room as he pushed you back onto the soft mattress, leaving you sprawled out in front of him as both men stopped to admire the view. Kirishima palmed himself through his sweats at the sight as he stepped into the room behind Bakugou.

“Dynamight’s gonna come home to find his girl dripping in our cum.” Kirishima grinned as he pulled his sweats down around the curve of his ass, the heavy meat of his cock hanging down a sheer indication of its weight. Wrapping a large palm around himself as he gave it a teasing pump, his wrist rolling around the head to smear the pre oozing from the tip along the length.

“She ain’t ever gonna want Dynamight’s cock again when we’re done with her,” Bakugou spoke as though you weren’t even there, “She’s cryin’ now but she’ll be begging us to come back later.”

Bakugou’s fingers brushed through your messy folds, dipping into your slick as he circled your tight entrance. The movement had your hips jerking on the mattress as he smirked down at you, dragging his fingers back up to nudge your puffy clit as you let out a soft moan.

“You like that, hah sweetheart?” He watched your lips part in a silent moan as he continued to rub teasing circles against your clit.

You didn’t want to admit how much you liked it, how he’d managed to touch you in the exact way that had your toes curling and your chest heaving. Your body betrayed you as your tight walls clenched around nothing, desperate to feel more of him.

“It’s okay, you can tell me how much you’re enjoying it, baby. Dynamight doesn’t have to know.” He scoffed, moving his fingers back down to press against your tightness.

“She fucking loves it, look at her.” You felt the mattress dip as Kirishima crawled onto it beside you, angling his cock towards your mouth as the tip smeared a glistening line of pre against your cheek.

You kept your lips pursed shut as you felt fresh tears beginning to clump in your lashes, trying to ignore the sensation of Bakugou’s fingers prodding your tight entrance.

“Oh fuck,” Bakugou grunted as he slipped one solo finger inside your tight heat, feeling your walls clamping down around him as you gasped at the intrusion. Your eyes widened in surprise as Kirishima took the opportunity to press his cock inside your mouth, groaning as your lips wrapped around him.

“That’s it- just like that.” Kirishima cooed as he watched more of his length disappear inside your mouth, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You tried to remember to breathe through your nose as you felt Bakugou add another finger inside your tight cunt, stretching you out as he began to curl them inside you. Pumping them roughly as Kirishima matched his movements, rolling his hips as he pushed his cock deeper inside your wet mouth.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” Bakugou continued as he continued fingering your cunt, “I know you want it,”

“She’s so good at sucking cock,” Kirishima groaned, “Dynamight’s a lucky guy. Maybe we should just take her instead. So we can use her whenever we want.”

You blanched at the idea, wide eyes staring up at them pleadingly as tears began to stream down your temples, soaking the pillowcases beneath your head. You hoped if you just did as they said they’d let you go—

“Fuckin’ shit,” Kirishima grunted, his balls tightening as he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat. Gagging at the sheer size of him as your nails dug into the tops of his thighs, trying to get him to pull back. Your jaw ached and your throat burned as he tried to get as much of his thick girth inside you as possible, an obscene challenge as he was met with resistance.

“That’s if you don’t kill her first with that fat fucking thing, be careful Kiri. Jesus-” Bakugou rasped.

You spluttered as Kirishima pulled out of your mouth for a moment to allow you to gasp for air, gulping in mouthfuls as strings of your spit and his cum connected him to your lips as they snapped off against your chin. One of Kirishima’s large palms stroked the top of your head soothingly as he began to fist himself languidly, smearing your drool along his length.

“Sorry, babe.” He smiled a sharp-toothed grin as he tapped his cock against your lips, “Let’s try that again, yeah?”

He was far more delicate this time as he slid his cock back inside your mouth, Bakugou’s thumb pressed messy circles against your clit as he continued pumping his fingers in and out of your sloppy pussy.

Whining around Kirishima’s cock as you felt Bakugou pull his hand away from your cunt, the sound of him undoing his belt buckle and jeans filled the room as he tapped the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your soaked slit.

“So pretty,” Bakugou groaned as he pressed forward, watching as the tip of his cock slowly began to disappear inside your tight hole, “Good girl.”

Your thighs quivered as he pressed more of himself inside you, vermilion eyes focused on his cock disappearing inside you. Giving an experimental thrust as he canted his hips forward, your tits bouncing from the movement as he pushed deeper inside you.

“How does she feel?“ Kirishima looked back at his friend as Bakugou finally bottomed out inside you, the trimmed hairs at the base of his cock tickled your clit as he curled his forearms beneath your thighs to bend your body.

“Fuckin’ amazing.” He grunted, easing his hips back before snapping them forward as you moaned around Kirishima’s cock.

“It’s my turn after, yeah?” Kirishima turned back to watch Bakugou’s cock disappearing inside your tight walls.

You felt like you were being split in two, your jaw aching from the sheer size of Kirishima’s cock paired with Bakugou stretching you open had your insides swirling as you tried to ignore the ache throbbing through your veins. The sensation was overwhelming as both men set a steady pace, using your body for their own pleasure.

“S’too much.” You mumbled around the tip of Kirishima’s cock as he pulled his hips back, feeling the ache between your thighs as Bakugou’s length nudged your cervix. The motion had your back arching in a mixture of pain and pleasure as your silky walls throbbed around him.

“Aww, poor baby,” Kirishima feigned sympathy as he stroked the top of your head, “But you can take it for us, yeah?”

“Please,” You pleaded with them as you felt Kirishima tap the tip of his cock against your bottom lip before sliding back inside you. His pace became sloppier as he continued rutting his hips against you, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he danced on the edge of his climax.

The crude squelch of Bakugou’s cock sinking into your wet cunt and the sound of you gagging around Kirishima filled the room as you tried to ignore how lewd it sounded. Both men’s grunts left a swirl of heat inside your abdomen as they used your body for their own desire.

“I’m gonna cum,” Kirishima grunted, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the headboard, his balls slapping against your chin as he gave a few more messy ruts of his hips.

“Thought you wanted a go after me,” Bakugou scoffed, “Your shitty fuckin’ stamina.”

“I told you she feels good,” Kirishima groaned, ruby eyes focused on your lips wrapped around his cock as he came inside you with a grunt. His release was warm against your tongue as he leaned his body over you to cling to the headboard, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath after the intense orgasm. Pulling his softening cock from between your lips with a groan as he looked down at your debauched face.

“Holy shit,” Kirishima groaned as he caught sight of his cum inside your mouth, some of it dribbling down your chin, “Should take a picture. You look so pretty right now.”

“She really does,” Bakugou growled, Kirishima moving to the side gave him the perfect view of your body as he began to speed up, slipping his hand to where your bodies were connected to press messy circles against your clit.

“Fuck,” You cried out, Bakugou’s body curved over yours as he drove his hips harder against you, pounding into your wetness as he worked you towards your release.

“Come on, pretty girl.” Bakugou murmured, “I know you’re close- I can feel you clampin’ down on my dick.”

It was true, you wanted to. Your body betrayed your mind as you thought about Dynamight coming home and seeing you in such a precarious position, knowing he’d save you and apprehend the villains— if they even lived long enough to be captured. Wondering whether he’d be mad at you for not following his instructions on what to do during a situation like this.

“Fuck, that’s it- cum all over my cock.” Bakugou groaned as he felt you cum hard. Your walls clamped down around his fat cock as you shook beneath him, a loud cry leaving your lips as your body followed its bliss. He continued his harsh pace as he fucked you through your climax, beads of sweat clinging to his temples as messy blond spikes of hair stuck to his skin. Weaving his forearm beneath one of your thighs to angle your body so he could use you for his own pleasure.

“Gonna leave you full of my cum for when your boyfriend comes home.” Bakugou continued with a smirk.

“No, please.” You cried out, “Anywhere but inside–” You tried to argue but he was relentless. His thumb remained constant against your puffy clit as you continued to writhe beneath him, feeling yourself on the cusp of another climax. Your body felt overstimulated as you let out a high-pitched whine, your toes curling as you felt another harsh orgasm rip through you.

“She liked the idea of that,” Kirishima grinned as he leaned down to nip at your breast, “Think she wants to be fucked into the shape of our cocks.”

“Fuckin’ hell– Clampin’ down on my fuckin’ cock,” Bakugou groaned as he felt his own orgasm take over him, his balls tightening as he spilt hot, white ropes of cum inside your tight cunt, “Good fuckin’ girl.” Each word was enunciated with a sharp rut of his hips as he stilled inside you to cherish the way your walls trembled around him.

“This will be our little secret, yeah?” Bakugou groaned, still buried inside your abused hole. Feeling your walls continue to flutter around him in the aftershocks of your release as he kept you plugged full of his cum, “Every night you’re lying in this bed with Dynamight, you’re gonna be thinkin’ about how much better our cocks are, ain'tcha?”

Bakugou landed a playful smack to your slit which had you squealing in surprise, your clit overstimulated as you tried to clamp your thighs together to prevent him from touching you there as he grinned down at you. Warm palms stroked the inside of your thighs as he squeezed the supple skin softly, a stark contrast to his prior actions.

“And don’t even think about telling anyone or we’ll come back and it’ll be worse.” Kirishima glared down at you, but you couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” Kirishima whined as his lips curled into a pout, “Why’re you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, baby.” You laughed, “That just didn’t sound menacing at all.”

“Well, what did you want me to say?” Kirishima’s brows furrowed as he stared down at you in annoyance, the most obnoxious pout now gracing his lips as you had to stop yourself from leaning up to kiss them.

“She’s right, shitty hair,” Bakugou scoffed, “You broke character way too fuckin’ easy.”

“I did not,” He scoffed, “Blood Riot was real menacing.”

“It’s not my fault, she’s cute.” Kirishima pouted as you began to laugh at the bashful expression on his face.

“Oh shit, sweetheart.” Bakugou choked out as your walls clenched around him from your laughter, “You trying to make me cum again?”

“Sorry,” You hummed softly as Kirishima leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your lips.

“Thank you for indulging in my little fantasy,” You cooed up at Bakugou as you met his lips in a soft kiss.

“Whatever you want,” Bakugou grinned down at you as he teasingly rut his hips against you before moving back as his softening cock slipped out of your spent pussy. Your fluttering walls slowly pushed the mixture of your release out of your stretched cunt as both men stared at the sight in awe, following the trail as it began to leak down towards your ass.

“So pretty,” Kirishima cooed as he pressed his lips to yours, “I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock next time.”

“Next time?” Bakugou shot his best friend a glare, “Who said there’s even gonna be a next time?”

“But you both said you had fun, I thought—”

“You owe me a new fuckin’ door, asshole.” Bakugou snarled, “That definitely wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I’m sorry,” Kirishima whined, “I got too in character.”

“Are you joking? Your acting was fuckin’ terrible.”

And now here you were in between two bickering men as you felt Bakugou’s cum slowly seep out of you.

#trigger:noncon #tw:noncon #bakugou smut #Kirishima smut #bakugou x reader #Kirishima x reader #kinktober 2022 #flashing lights #Bakugou Katsuki x reader #Kirishima Eijirou x reader #Kirishima Eijirou smut #Bakugou Katsuki smut #Bnha smut #mha smut

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atinystraynstay · 4 months

Text

Angel Season - Jeong Yunho

Synopsis: Yunho first noticed you when you moved into the building. He was attracted not just by your physical beauty but the way your smile outshined the sun. He has spent the past year making little conversation, trying to be a good neighbor. However, he refused to go into the new year without making a move.

Pairing: neighbor!Jeong Yunho x reader

Genre: strangers to lovers, next door neighbors/cute boy next door, angst - heartache, jealousy

Contains: mentions alcohol consumption

Word Count: 8.9k

December 30, 2022

"Miss, what floor are you on?" "Third floor, apartment 3A," you called out.

The mover nodded his head before whistling for the other. "3A boys!"

One was lifting your bed out of the back of the moving truck, another person still in the truck for support. You stood on the curb of the sidewalk, watching. You were able to help with the smaller boxes, the ones filled with either trinkets or kitchen items. But for the longer furniture, you were more than happy to let the professionals handle it.

As people were carrying things into your new home, you took a moment to look around your surroundings. You've always been attracted to city living. For some people, you knew that they could get overwhelmed by the high-rises and busy streets. That was what attracted you to living here. You liked the idea that you could go about your day without being noticed, being able to blend into the crowds. Yet, you liked the endless possibilities of making this city whatever you want it to be.

Despite the rainy, chilly weather, there was no place you'd rather be.

Seeing as all your furniture had been taken out of the moving truck, you decided to lend a hand now. The faster the movers could drop off your stuff, the sooner you could start unpacking and decorating.

You stepped Ito the truck, going to retrieve one of the boxes you knew you could manage. "Do you need some help there?"

Caught off guard, you jumped at the sound of the new voice. You turned around to see who was talking to you. Much to your surprise, you were greeted by a tall, young man. He couldn't have been older than you.

Wow, he's absolutely stunning.

He wore a gentle smile, feeling a bit bad for giving you a scare. He stood with his hands in his pockets as he stood at the bottom of the truck. You felt a bit guilty at first contemplating taking up his offer. What if he had somewhere to be? What if he was just trying to be nice? However, you came to your senses because he wouldn't have offered if he was serious, right?

"If you don't mind!"

The young man nodded his hand, extending his arms out to take the box from you. You grinned at the gesture, quickly grabbing the box for him. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Lucky for you, the movers got all the heavy stuff, so we just have a few more boxes," you laughed. You quickly grabbed a box for yourself before joining him out of the truck and on the ground. "Hey, I am pretty strong," he said, pretending to be offended. "By the way, my name is Yunho." "I'm y/n. I should've asked before leading you up to my apartment."

You both shared a laugh. Carrying one of the boxes, you took the lead in showing the man to your new apartment. Your mother always told you not to talk to strangers, but there was no way you'd let this handsome stranger just walk past you. Not when he approached you first. "Wait, you're moving here?" He asked, shocked. "Oh no. Please don't tell me there is something wrong with the apartment," you whined. He quickly shook his head, wanting to ease any worries or concerns you may have. Yunho never thought that offering assistance, trying to be a good person would lead him to probably the best thing to happen to him all year.

Yunho was out on his usual routine on a Saturday morning. He went out for his usual coffee and bagel after running errands. It was a little reward for him for getting out of bed rather than staying in. The bigger reward was running into you. "No, I actually live here," he chuckled softly. Yunho was glad that you were in front of him, back turned as you guided him up the steps to your new unit. Because if you turned around, you would see him with the widest grin on his face. He was like a little boy on Christmas morning who opened up the one present he has been asking for all year. "Small world!" You giggled. "What unit are you?" "3B, what about you?" "Well hi neighbor," you teased. "I'm moving into 3A."

Correction, this was now the best present he could have received.

Valentine's Day - February 2023

Over the past month or so, Yunho and you have passed by each other. Sometimes it is when you are entering the building and he's leaving, which he'll open the door for you. Or sometimes it is when you are both returning after a night out.

He was starting to pick up on things that consisted in your daily life. For example, he knew that you liked a fresh bouquet of flowers for your apartment every 2 or 3 weeks. You always had one bad of groceries, presumably buying just for the week. Friday nights always included a bottle of red wine.

All of his friends were aware of the girl next door. They often tried to catch a glimpse of you when they were over to visit. Yunho certainly has developed a crush on the girl next door. How couldn't he? You radiated brighter than the lights atop the Empire State Building.

Tonight was Valentine's Day. Both of your respective jobs kept you out of the apartment most nights. You two had exchanged numbers, for the sake of knowing someone else in the building and for emergencies. Yunho hadn't brought himself to text you outside of those conditions as he was afraid of giving the wrong impression. He didn't even crack under the relentless teasing of his friends on his failure to make a move after a month and a half of knowing you.

He felt a stronger urge to text you today. Did she have a date for Valentine's Day? Did she even want one? Was she even single?

Yunho was on the unlucky side of not having a date for the evening. His work had consumed the better part of days, so he hadn't put much of his energy towards dating. He often came home, reheated dinner if he hadn't ordered takeout, and slept before doing it all again the next day.

Trudging up the steps, he was contemplating if tonight would be the night he finally texts you. However, he knew texting you was pointless. Not when you were practically standing in front of him.

His eyes widened, taking you in. You wore a black peacoat with the red dress you were wearing peaking out underneath. Silver heels were hugging your feet. He has never seen your hair done in curls, but it was becoming one of his favorite looks on you. You wore red lipstick to go with the dress. The one accessory he wasn't pleased to see was your hands gripping the plastic loops of a white takeout bag. Oh no, she did have a date tonight. Fuck, I missed my opportunity.

Seeing movement from your peripheral, you turned your head over. The light frown on your lips was soon replaced with a gentle smile. Yunho always brought joy into your life, even if the interactions were minimal. "Hi Yunho," you spoke, your voice softer than usual. It didn't carry its usual tone of happiness. He could tell that there was something wrong. He felt the urge to take care of anything that might be troubling you, but he didn't want to overstep his bounds. "Hey y/n. I'm surprised you're not out tonight. No suitors catch your attention?" You smiled wider at his compliment. Yunho always knew how to make you feel special. Any girl would be lucky to have him as their boyfriend. "Unfortunately no. I, uh, got stood up, so ended up picking up Chinese from the place around the corner on my way back." This time, Yunho frowned. You got stood up? How could anyone do that to anyone, but especially how could anyone do that to you? You were literal treasure in Yunho's eyes. He felt saddened for you, but angry at whoever made you upset.t

"Oh, y/n. I'm sorry to hear that. Are you ok? Is there anything I can do?" "You're too sweet. No, I'll be okay. I think I just want to be alone, if that's ok?"

Of course, whatever you felt like you needed. He nodded his head, offering a gentle smile. "I'll see you around?" He asked. You smiled back, a bit wider. Seeing Yunho was the favorite part of your day.

The two of you entered your respective apartments. Once the door was shut to his, he let out a soft sigh. He slipped off his winter jacket, hanging it by the door before slipping off his shoes. He trudged himself over further into his apartment, turning on the floor lamp in the living room. He claimed his seat on the couch before looking out the windows into the city.

His earlier dilemma seemed to resolve himself. Sitting up slightly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. His fingers made quick work at typing a text. A very important text to you.

"He's a loser, y/n. You deserve the whole world and I know there's someone out there ready to give it to you 🙂"

He set his phone on the arm of the chair. He wasn't sure if you would respond, or even read his text tonight. It tore him up inside knowing some jerk made you upset. He also felt some responsibility. Maybe if he had gotten the courage to confess to you, he could have saved you from the disappointment? I mean, he couldn't even dream of letting you down by any means.

Yunho was surprised to feel the vibration of his phone. He never acted so quickly to pick something up before. "You're the sweetest in the whole world. Thanks Yunho 🩷 to hell with him I guess"

He chuckled at your words before trying a response back. "To hell with him. You are an angel, don't settle for less."

Little did he know how wide you were smiling next door. You were at your kitchen countertop. The tears of frustration quickly forgotten the moment Yunho texted you. It was as if he answered your silent prayer.

April 2023

It was a rainy day in the city. Spring was in full swing, the green buds on the trees in the neighborhood beginning to peanut. People all around the city were beginning to put plants out on their balconies. You always loved rainy days. They always soothed your soul, loving to just curl up and watch rain run down the window.

"I can't believe they cancelled the game," Yunho sighed from outside the hallway. You've learned that he can be loud when he's excited or frustrated. This seems like it is the latter.

There were no other voices on the side of the door. He was probably on the phone. Maybe with Yeosang? You've met his friends here and there as they float in and out of his apartment. There were all friendly towards you. It was just a bigger testament to who Yunho is as a person.

You didn't hear much of the conversation before the door closed. Maybe this was your chance. You planned on having a lazy day anyways. Maybe read a book, watch a movie, but you know that it is always better with company.

Taking your phone from beside you, you unlocked it with ease. Your fingers eagerly typing a text message to the boy next door. Your speed of texting matched the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"Hey neighbor! Think I just heard you get home, wanna come over to watch a movie?"

Your heart was pounding both with excitement and anxiety. You weren't typically the person to make the first move. Since moving in, you were very grateful for your friendship with Yunho. He's treated you with nothing but kindness, really setting a standard on how your guy friends and even dates should be treating you.

At night, your mind often got curious about the topic. What would it be like to be with Yunho? Not once have you seen a woman enter his apartment. He never even mentioned going on dates. There potential was there, but you just weren't sure if he was just being a good friend, an exceptional neighbor, or if he was into you.

"Wow perfect timing, angel" You grinned seeing his nickname for you. "Plans got cancelled, so I'll be over in 5? I'll bring the popcorn!"

Springing up from the couch, you rushed over to your bathroom. You were wearing a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt. You were unsatisfied with your hair though. It was curled in a messy bun on the top of your head. You quickly pulled at the scrunchie, releasing your hair so it fell down to your shoulders. You began brushing it out. You didn't have much time.

This could solve every answer you've had over the past few weeks. This could easily just be two friends hanging out. What if it turned into something more?

Y/n, chill. You took a deep breath, trying to ease your racing mind. You didn't like building up expectations. While you would like it if Yunho made a move or gave some indicator he is attracted to you, you didn't want to set yourself up for disappointment.

Knock knock knock.

Here goes nothing. You took a deep breath in the reflection of your bathroom mirror. It is just two friends hanging out.

You turned off your bathroom light before attending to the front door of your apartment. Your heart beat matched the pace you were walking, trying your hardest not to be too fast. You were conscious maybe he would hear you racing to the door, even thought you were eager to have him over.

Opening the door, you smiled wide to be greeted by Yunho. He was standing on the other side, holding a bowl of freshly popped popcorn. The hallway beginning to smell of the delicious food. "Sorry, it took me so long! I just wanted to make sure I got the popcorn ready."

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The sun was hidden behind grey clouds, providing little light throughout your apartment. You insisted on lighting a few candles, to create a warm feel to your home compared to the cold weather outside. It also helped create a bit of a romantic ambiance to the afternoon.

You two were sat pretty close together on your three-seat grey couch. An emerald blanket was spread across your laps with the bowl of popcorn in between.

After hearing that you have not seen a single Spiderman movie, Yunho was determined to show you all the movies. Or at least the big 3 - Maguire, Garfield, and Holland. He tried insisting the two of you didn't have to watch all three movies today, but you had no other plans. You would be more than happy to spend the afternoon like this with Yunho.

Throughout the movie, you guys would balance light conversation and watching the movie. When you were focused on the film, Yunho would glance at you to see your reaction. He adored Spiderman, so seeing if you liked one of his favorite things captured his attention. He also would focus on how you smiled at certain parts of the film, particular the scenes between Peter Parker and Mary Jane.

When you weren't focusing on the film, you two would talk more. Sure, you've made light conversation when passing, and a bit more meaningful over text, but this was the perfect time to get to know each other. Yunho wanted to know about your dreams, your passions, your dislikes. He wanted to know all the little things that made you who you are.

It was about 5:18pm when you guys started the the first movie with Andrew Garfield. You felt your eyes getting a bit heavy. Yunho took notice, moving the bowl of popcorn out of the way for you. Noticing, you smiled appreciatively to him. He always had your best interests at heart.

Your eyes grew heavy, body sinking more into the couch. Before either of you knew it, your head fell on his shoulder. Without the bowl of popcorn in the way, your body curled into his. Yunho's eyes were wide and heart nearly stopped before speeding up.

Glancing down at you, your chest was resting against his shoulder. You looked adorable. Your eyelashes were resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted. Your hands were grazing the side of his body. There was no chance of him going anywhere now. Not that he would want to.

Very slowly, cautious as to not wake you up, his arm draped over you. He sunk slightly into the couch before resting his head on yours. Sleep began taking over his body. He was content.

May 2023

"What do you mean you're leaving?" You frowned.

Yunho suggested that the two of you hung out weekly. It started off with going to local bars to vent about the woes of work and life. Those quickly changed into dinner out, to get a change of scenery and explore the neighborhood. Tonight, Yunho suggested dinner at his place. You weren't sure why at first, but obviously excited to spend quality time with your best friend. But now you get why he opted for staying in.

"I'm not leaving forever," Yunho reassured. "I'm just going to Korea for a little bit. It's been a while since I visited my family, and I can finally afford a ticket after my promotion."

Of course, you knew that family was important. If you got the opportunity to visit your family more often, you'd easily say yes. You couldn't help though but feel a bit selfish in wanting Yunho to stay.

"How long am I going to be without seeing you around?" "3 months," he said sheepishly.

Dramatically, you let out a whine and threw your head back. Yunho couldn't help but chuckle at your antics. It made his heart swell seeing as that you were going to miss him.

He moved his hand over to place it gently on yours. The light touch, even though it was feather like, felt like electric shocks throughout your body. You always craved his touch. Ever since that day last month when you woke up to his arms wrapped around you on his couch.

"Angel, it'll go by quick, I promise." "Can you also promise me something?" "Anything." "Promise that you won't have a realization while you're away that you actually want to stay in Korea? Because the thought of you moving and actually having to say goodbye will kill me."

He chuckled again, a wide smile on his lips. "I promise."

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Turns out that all of Yunho's friends were traveling with him to Korea. All of the boys have apparently been speaking about it for months, but the idea was finally leaving the group chat.

Even though you wanted to accompany all the boys to the airport to see them off, you knew that it would be too painful. Even if he was going to be gone for 3 months, it felt like a part of you was leaving as well. At least with saying goodbye at the apartment, you could hurry back to your place and shed tears if you want to.

Going down the steps of the apartment building, you two headed out the front door. Yunho had called an Uber to take him to the airport, not wanting to pay the overnight prices for parking at the airport especially with how long he was going to be.

It felt very reminiscent to the day you two met. You even tried to offer carrying one of Yunho's bags, but he refused to let you help. You rolled your eyes at him. The least you could do was get in front of him to open the front door rather than watch him struggle to do it with a rolling suitcase, a duffle bag, and his backpack. "Thank you, angel," he chuckled. He could sense you were a bit annoyed for not being able to help. He loved the way your nose scrunched up like a bunny when you were annoyed.

He walked towards the edge of the sidewalk, on the lookout for the vehicle. You stood back slightly, smiling up at him. You were trying your best not to let your sadness ruin the moment. He has been excited about traveling home since he bought the ticket. Yunho described all his favorite places in Seoul, all the things he missed.

"You better still talk to me while you're in Seoul," you said teasingly.

With his bags on the concrete, he turned towards you. He wore that wide smile of his, that wide smile that caused your knees to get week. He opened his arms, inviting you into them. No way were you going to object.

Walking into his arms, he wrapped them around you. He pulled you in close to him by your waist. His lips pressed against your forehead, causing your eyes to flutter shut at the sensation. How am I going to survive 3 months without him?

"I'll talk to you as much as I can, take all the photos I can," he promised.

Satisfied with that answer, you nodded your head. Your arms had found a place around his torso, holding yourself go. Maybe if you held onto each other long enough, he would want to stay. If only.

You felt two taps on your lower back. Raising an eyebrow, you pulled back to lookout Yunho. He was already looking at you. It was as if time froze. He towered over you, but his face was so close to you. His eyes never leaving yours. You could melt into a puddle due to his gaze.

Keeping one hand around you, his other hand moved to cup your face. He tilted your head slightly to the side. His fingertips rested against your cheek. The whole time, he wore a smile on his lips. Regardless of what he had up his sleeves, you put your whole trust in him. You never doubted his intentions with you.

A shiver ran down your spine feeling the padding of his thumb run across your lower lip. Was this actually happening? He glanced at your lips before looking into your eyes. Yunho was looking for any hesitation from you, any sign that he should stop before getting to ahead of himself. Yet, you never looked away.

"Wait for me?"

You couldn't bring yourself to speak. You were frozen in place. Your mind had become fuzzy, all the sounds of the busy city around you faded. All that mattered was the man standing in front of you, the man who seemed to be saying everything you've been yearning to hear since you two met. Was this actually happening? Somehow, you got yourself to nod.

Yunho smiled wider before letting his desires take over. Not wanting to waste anymore time, he pressed his lips against yours.

HONK!

The kiss was rudely short after hearing the sound of a car horn. You two pulled away, both confused and upset at the interruption. Yunho looked over his shoulders before gasping softly. There was his Uber to whisk him away from you. "Shit," he sighed.

Looking back at you, he smiled apologetically. You smiled back before leaning up on his tiptoes. Sensing that Yunho was actually going to leave, the Uber driver got out of the car to grab Yunho's suitcases and place them in the trunk. Just enough time to do one last thing.

"Don't worry. I'll save all the kisses for you, I promise to wait for you."

You leaned up to press one last lingering kiss on his lips. One last kiss for now at least.

June 2023

Since Yunho left, you got pretty good at figuring out timezone differences.

You didn't want to interfere with Yunho's daily life. You were sure that he has plans to visit family, local places he hasn't been able to go to in years, and make meaningful memories with his best friends and loved ones. Yet, Yunho was insistent he will make time for you.

Every Wednesday night and Sunday morning, you two would FaceTime. Thank God for modern technology. "I wish you could be here," Yunho admitted one night.

You frowned and nodded. Ever since Yunho left, he was all you think about. You tried getting yourself involved more in your work, but it as summer. Work was a bit slow. You had friends in the city who tried to help you out of your conundrum, taking you out on the weekends. But you still thought about him, wanting to experience summer in the city with him.

It made you sick to your stomach when you saw couples in the park. You often thought about the kiss you two shared on the morning he left. You wondered where you guys would be, romantically, if he had stayed. You could easily envision dates in the park, nights out with friends, and everything in between. You were anxiously waiting for his return to know where things could go. "Y/n?"

You blinked a couple of times as he called out to you. A soft blush coated your cheeks, coming to realize you haven't spoken in a few minutes. "Sorry, Yunho. Just thinking about what it would be like when you get back here," you explained.

He seemed to smile at your response. It was good to know you missed him as much as he missed you. Though, if it was a competition, he could say that he missed you more. "Oh angel, I know. Just two more months, right?"

All you could do is nod, trying your best to smile along with him. He looked good, even with the low quality of FaceTime with a poor wifi connection. He glowed from being out in the sun, probably glowing also with happiness by being back at home. "I know what will make us feel better," he suddenly announced. You perked up with curiosity. Yunho always had some trick up his sleeve. That was what you loved about him. He always kept you on your toes, never settling for a routine. "Go check the front door."

"You better not be pulling a prank on me, Jeong Yunho!" "After you called me by my full name? Absolutely not."

You rolled your eyes playfully before pushing yourself away from the desk in your bedroom. Yunho watched with amusement as you disappeared from the frame. Following his request, you made your way to the front door of your apartment. What did he do?

There was no knock at the door to indicate someone was there. However, you trusted Yunho. You slowly opened the door, confirming there was nobody standing behind there. Instead, there was a bouquet of flowers on your doormat. You gasped softly to see it wa a rather large bouquet, much larger than the ones you pick up from Trader Joe's.

You bent over to take the glass vase into two hands. There was a yellow bow wrapped around it. You also noticed that there was a card sticking in between the flowers. With one arm securing the vase, you flipped the card over.

"Happy birthday, my angel. Hopefully these make up for me being away."

Your heart fluttered at the sentiment. How did you get so fortunate? Wanting to hurry back to Yunho, you returned to the inside of your apartment. Both of your hands held the vase, so you closed the door with your foot. You began to make your way back to your bedroom where he awaited for you.

"Yunho, I love-" but you froze. Instead of his face on the monitor, you were met with your laptop background. You frowned a bit, assuming that maybe the connection got disrupted.

He'll call you back. He always did when this happened.

For now, you walked over to your windowsill. You placed the vase there, so it could get the necessary sunlight. He knew just the ways to make you smile, even when he is thousands of miles away. You pulled your phone out to snap a photo of it, with the card showing.

August 2023

The conversations between you and Yunho began to become less frequent. It chipped away at your heart when you would go days, sometime a week without hearing from him. Yet, his friends reassured you that he was having a great time back at home.

All of Yunho's friends easily became yours, despite them being on the other side of the world. You then decided to throw a welcome back party for all the boys. You had your own friends enlisted to help with decorations - there were balloons, streamers, and even a cake. You were excited to have some of your favorite people back. But not more excited than you were to have Yunho back.

It was 7:40pm when the boys began to come to the party. Seonghwa and Hongjoong were the first to arrive. Your friends started to trickle in one at a time. After a whole summer without Yunho, you wanted to have a room full of positive energy. San, Yeosang, and Wooyoung arrived next. Then quickly came Jongho.

Each time the door opened, you looked over, hoping to see the man of the hour. Yet, you felt your smile flatten when it wasn't Yunho.

Your friends all giggled at your reactions. They were quick to reassure you that he was on his way. While Yunho's friends all were quick to take your mind off of Yunho's absence.

Mingi was the second to last person to arrive. Mingi was the first person in the friend group to meet. He's known Yunho the longest, so meeting him felt like you were meeting the president. While you and Yunho remained in undefined territory, you wanted to make a great impression. "Y/n!" "Mingi!"

You two approached each other, wrapping each other in a hug. You laughed as Mingi began rocking you back and forth. He definitely became like a big brother to you, often using your drastic height difference as a great point for laughter. "What's up, short stuff?" "Nothing much, Mingi. How's the weather up there?"

Before he could respond, there was knocking at the door. Your heart skipped a beat. Yunho. Mingi glanced at the door before looking at you. His hands were placed on your forearms, keeping you still rather than running towards the door like you wanted to rush to the door. "Wait, y/n. There's something I need to tell you." "Mingi, come on. Can't it wait?" Your best friend beat you from going to open the door. Your attention on Mingi was lost before you quickly looked over at the door.

You could feel your stomach drop at what was revealed behind the closed front door. There was Yunho. With a girl by his side. Her hand was on his chest which made you physically ill. Yunho was smiling from ear to ear, saying hello to his friends until his eyes landed on you. That's when your smile faded. He looked as if he was about to say something to you but you quickly looked away.

This can't be happening.

"I need to get out of here," you murmured. Getting the hint, Mingi stepped aside, blocking Yunho's view of you. Your eyes looked around your room until you eyed the fire escape by your kitchen window.

With your eyes on the target, you maneuvered yourself through the crowd to the fire escape. The majority of people at the party were in your living room, enjoying the food you laid out and making conversations amongst themselves. You just needed a chance to breathe before returning inside.

You propped open the window, slipping out to climb the steps. You at least climbed until you were out of sight from inside the room. Your eyes were burning slightly, your emotions catching up to you.

"Mingi, where is she?" "Where is who?"

You heard Yunho groan before there was more shuffling of footsteps throughout your apartment. You should have closed the window behind you, but it was too late. You put your hands on your forehead, trying your best to stop crying before the inevitable happened. It didn't take long anyways. "There you are," Yunho sighed. Fuck me for having a tiny apartment. You didn't pick your head up to hear Yunho climb out to join you. "What? You're not going to even look at me?"

Who does he think he is? "You made me promise," you murmured. "Y/n, angel, you gotta at least speak up."

You felt your blood begin to boil now. He doesn't get the right to call you that anymore. Not when he broke your heart. You did pick your head up, your jaw clenched. You stared at him.

He leaned against the iron railing of the fire escape. He looked guilty. He knows what he did. "You made me promise to wait for you. And I held up my end of the bargain." "Angel, I know-" "Don't you dare fucking call me that."

Yunho's eyes opened wide. He has never heard you shout before. Let alone he never thought you would shout at him. He was at a lost for words. "Is that why you stopped our FaceTime calls?"

You watched as he sighed, dropping his head. Your heart dropping and shattering along with him. "Get out." Y/n, please. Let me explain what happened." "I said get out, Yunho!"

Mingi quickly appeared at the sound of you screaming. You didn't even notice that there was a small watch party watching you experience heartbreak from the kitchen. "Come on, mate. Take Ara with you." Yunho glanced between the two of you, even more thrown off as to why Mingi was coming to your defense.

However, Yunho didn't want to make matters worse. He didn't want to further upset you in your own home, but the damage was done. You turned your face to focus on the skyline, not wanting to watch Yunho walk into the art of someone else.

When you noticed Yunho was gone, you groaned loudly before resting your head back in your hands. What were you going to do?

October 2023

You haven't spoken to Yunho in weeks. You constantly had music playing from the speakers in your living room or walked around your apartment with headphones to avoid hearing any and all interactions between Yunho and his girlfriend. You even were contemplating on moving to a new place in the new year, but your financial situation limited you on where you could go.

Since things went radio silent, your conversations with the other boys have also gone quiet. It pained you to lose them as friends, but you couldn't bring yourself to reach out there. Not when Yunho might be brought up.

At the moment, you were reading a book on your couch. You had the music playing in the background as you had connected your iPhone to your wireless speaker, drowning out any noise. At least someone gets a happily every after in the novel. You had a glass of red wine on the coffee table, getting lost in the pages.

You were about to flip the page to your book when the music cut out. Your eyes widened as you feared the worst. No no no. You couldn't afford your phone dying. You were sure you put it on the charger. There was no room for mishaps like this.

However, it wasn't the worst case you imagined. It might have been something worst, definitely unexpected to say the least. You weren't sure how to feel seeing the name flash on your phone screen.

Mingi.

Slowly, you reached over to pick up the phone. You stared at it for the time being. What could he want? Mingi was the last person you thought would reach out to you. Wasn't there a rule under bro code that said not to take your friend's exes, if you could even call yourself that? You weren't sure what you even were to Yunho.

Mingi's name vanished from your phone screen, the music restarting. You let out a sigh, about to sink into your couch to ease your racing heart when he started calling again.

It had to be serious if he was calling you twice. Hesitantly, your thumb hit the green accept button. You held the phone up to your ear.

"Hello? Mingi?" "Long time since I've heard from you," he said cheerfully. "Mind coming to open the door for me?"

What? You glanced the door before standing up. You walked over to the door slowly. Once you were at the peephole of your unit door. There he was, standing as he looked around the hallway with his hand up to his ear, holding the phone.

Slowly, you opened the door and gazed up at Mingi. He noticed the movement and finally looked ahead of him. His smile grew when he saw you for the first time in months. "Hi, y/n," he spoke softly. You could hear his voice from right in front of you and from the speaker. "Hi Mingi. What can I do for you?" You said, unhanging up the phone to address him properly.

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For the first time in weeks, you felt genuinely happy. You arm was linked with Mingi's as he guided you to your apartment unit.

While it's been weeks since contact with him, it felt like you guys were picking up right where you left off. Maybe that is why it was so easy to say yes to Mingi when he asked you out for dinner. There was also a special connection between you and Mingi. From the moment you met, the communication between you two has been strong.

Tonight, you got to explore that on a deeper level. Mingi waited patiently in your living room as you got ready. He took you to a restaurant around the corner, which was a bit more upscale than what you were anticipating. You put on a black body con dress, wearing a light leather jacket to go with it.

Mingi looked at you as if you were made our of the stars. You looked enchanting. And since the fallout, you felt just as amazing.

Being the absolute gentleman he is, Mingi walked you to your front door not just of your apartment building but to your unit. Part of you was contemplating about inviting him inside for a nigh cap, but you really appreciated where things were between the two of you. It felt like Mingi just walked back into your life, and you didn't want to risk losing him again. "Mingi, I cannot thank you enough for this evening," you smiled.

He looked over at you as he led you up the staircase. "It really was long overdue, sweet girl. I've been meaning to do this for a while, but I didn't want to overstep," he confessed. You felt your cheeks get hot at his confessional, looking down as you watched your feet move up the steps. Mingi laughed lightly in response, leaning over to kiss your cheek.

You two soon arrived at your front door. Biting your lip gently, you stood in front of him yet you couldn't bring yourself to detach yourself from him. And deep down, Mingi didn't want you to eat go either.

"So, I gotta ask," you began. "What was this? I mean, was this two friends getting reacquainted with each other or..?" "Or something more?"

Mingi wrapped one arm around you, pulling you in closer. You blushed even harder, a hand going to rest on his chest. Your heart was pounding even after. You were convinced that Mingi could feel it. He opened his mouth to speak but froze when he saw movement behind you. You raised an eyebrow and dared to look over your shoulder, wanting to see what stole your date's attention.

You felt your throat suddenly get dry.

There was Yunho. He was holding a bag of groceries, standing at the top of the steps that led to your respective units. He was staring at the two of you, eyes flickering back and forth. There was no way he just caught his best friend and his old crush together? It was the way you were dressed up for Mingi that rubbed Yunho the wrong way. Was this a date?

Mingi didn't say anything to Yunho. He quickly looked back down at you, offering a gentle smile. His hand on your lower back moved to your hip, squeezing it reassuringly. "How about I'll give you a call when I get home?" He whispered.

You simply nodded. You weren't sure how to even respond. Mingi kept a smile, an attempt to ease your worries. He murmured a goodnight before kissing your cheek lingeringly. Your fingertips grazed his body as he maneuvered around you to head home.

You turned around, to watch him leave. There was no Yunho. Did you imagine the whole thing? You stood there for a moment, trying to wrap your mind around what happened.

Yunho, on the other hand, was in his apartment. He stood with his back against the closed front door, staring ahead of himself. He too was trying to wrap his mind around what he just witnessed.

November 2023

The sound of a door slamming caused you to jolt. It shook your walls a bit. "What the hell?" You murmured. You heard the sound of another door, maybe the same, opening again, realizing it was coming from next door. Yunho.

"You haven't even told me you love me in the past 5 months that we've been dating," Ara screamed.

You shouldn't be eavesdropping, you know you really shouldn't. However, the events unfolding peaked your interest. With having blocked out Yunho pretty much from your life, you had no updates on the relationship or anything about him.

"Maybe because I don't! Have you ever thought about that? That maybe I've been trying to find ways to love you or get myself to love you but I can't be in love with you?!"

Your jaw fell open. Not the update you were expecting.

"This is because of y/n, isn't it?" Ara voice spoke, but you could tell it was shaky. She was scared of knowing the truth, and secretly, you were too. "Honestly? Yeah." "She's with Mingi now. You're with me, Yunho. Get over her." "I can't. I don't think I ever will because if I can't date you and forget about her, how can I date anyone?"

Before you know it, you heard the sound of the door slamming. This time, you recognized it to be the front door to Yunho's apartment. You were staring up at your ceiling.

Well, this makes things complicated again.

New Years Day - December 31, 2023

Mingi was hosting a New Years Eve party at his place. You were invited, seeing as you and Mingi had rekindled your friendship.

The two of you went on several dates before releasing that there were no feelings between the two of you. You cared deeply for one another, but were more like siblings than anything else. The attention he was giving you on those dates is something that you'll never forget. You were grateful for him helping you get back and your feet. And he was grateful that you passed along his number to your best friend.

"Hey, I'm going to go find Mingi," your best friend announced as you entered the party. "Trying to ensure you'll get your New Years Eve kiss from your new boyfriend?" You teased. She rolled her eyes playfully before giggling. She couldn't even deny herself as she nodded her head, confirming your suspicions. "Are you going to be okay if I go over for a little bit? I know he might show up.."

He. Yunho. Since you overheard their argument last month, you two haven't spoken. He hasn't texted you to meet up, but to be fair, you also haven't texted him. You weren't sure what to make out of the whole situation. While you think you want Yunho back, you remember the pain he caused.

You weren't even sure if him and Ara actually called it quits! The fight sounded ugly. And you knew if you heard those words from your significant other, you would have walked out as well. Yet, people constantly get back together even after the worst of storms. Looking at your best friend, you smiled reassuringly and nodded. "Yeah, I think I'm going to be okay. Just be quick? He can have you at midnight but you're still my date for the evening," you teased.

She laughed and nodded, thanking you and giving you a quick hug before rushing to locate Mingi. You shook your head playfully before going over towards the kitchen island. If there was a chance you were going to encounter Yunho, might as well boost your confidence. Seeing a bottle of white wine, you smiled. Mingi remembered. Bonus points for being a screw top.

"So you switched from red wine to white?"

It was almost as if the universe needed a laugh, a way to really close out your 2023. Setting the bottle down, you turned on your heels to see Yunho behind you. He smiled sheepishly, that smile that made you weak in the knees. For a while, you wanted to slap him for what he had done to you. But even after all this time, you wanted to melt in front of him.

Glancing at the bottle, you shrugged. "I guess I just wanted to try something new."

He was attractive as ever. It wasn't fair that after all this time, he could look at you with that soft gaze and you crumble. You wanted to make him jealous, make him regret not taking a chance on you. However, you were ready to gravel if given the chance.

His eyes remained on you. To him, you radiated brighter than before. It was as if you were made out of stars. You captivated everyone's attention with ease, but he wanted you all to himself. He wanted to make things more concrete, never making you doubt or worry again.

"So um," he said. "Ara and I broke up."

You frowned getting confirm of the news. Of course, this worked out in your benefit, but you still didn't like to hear the news. Any sort of heartache is tough.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Yunho. How have you been holding up?" "A lot better than you'd think," he chuckled. "How are things between you and Mingi? Are you guys dating officially now or?"

Your eyes widened slightly. That's right. Last time he saw you, you were about to kiss his best friend after a spontaneous date. You were a bit surprised to hear that Mingi hadn't mentioned anything to him. All you did was motion over to your left side, where Mingi and your best friend were giggling and kissing each other.

Yunho's jaw dropped. You could see his fists clenched but you quickly reached out to rest your hand on his bicep. He relaxed under your touch, gaze softening. He watched them for a moment before it clicked for him that you were touching him. His cheeks reddened, glancing at you before looking down at his feet. "We never got started. I think we were both going on dates because we were missing something," you explained. "Missing something like what?"

He looked at you surprisingly. Yunho's friends always said he was like a golden retriever, but you've never seen it until now. He looked at you like you were holding the golden key to the treasure chest. Literally, you could provide him with the entrance into your world one and for all.

"Missing you," you confessed. "Oh really? How should we fix that?" "Hey, you two, midnight is still 15 minutes away!"

Smack.

The sound of laughter filled the room as eyes went from you and Yunho to Mingi, who just got smacked upside the head by your best friend. It became painfully apparent where you two were. You were standing by all the alcohol at the party, a high traffic area.

"Wanna get out of here?"

You nodded your head, smiling at Yunho. He smiled back at you before grabbing the red wine, the bottle you genuinely liked. To assist, you grabbed two red solo cups. Mingi couldn't trust anyone or himself with glass. With Yunho's free hand, he grabbed your hand and began leading you out of Mingi's unit to the door to the rooftop.

"After you," Yunho gestured, as he pushed open the door with his shoulder.

You smiled appreciatively as you stepped out onto the ledge. A shiver, both from the chilly air of late December to the excitement of New Year's Day. It was always your favorite time of year. Your eyes moved around as you took in the sights of the city from this vantage point.

Yunho made sure you got to the rooftop safely. Setting down the wine bottle for a second, he grabbed one of the bricks to prop the door slightly, not wanting to get the two of you locked out. But boy, would it create a memory for the two of you. Picking up the bottle again, he rejoined you. "This is absolutely beautiful," you stated.

Watching you, he smiled. You wore a smile on your lips as your eyes, he swore, literally sparkled. He wasn't sure if it was from the decorative lights around the city or your pure excitement, but he liked to believe that he had something to do with it. The wind pushed your hair around, revealing your face. "Yeah, the best view," he whispered.

Slowly, he walked up to you. Noticing you were still holding the two solo cups, he took them for you. You watched, thinking he was going to pour a glass for you for midnight as a cheers.

Instead, he stacked the two cups before putting them down on the top of the wine bottle. Maybe he wanted to open the bottle right up at midnight?

Still full of surprises, Yunho took both of your hands in his instead. His thumbs ran over your knuckles. He took a step close to you, closing in on the space that divided you two.

"I think we've spent too much time apart, don't you think, angel?" That nickname. It stirred mixed emotions from you. The last time you heard that nickname, he was smashing your heart into a million pieces that you didn't think could be put back together. Yet, hearing him call you that was like hearing your favorite song from your childhood. He was the only one that called you that. He was the only one who will ever call you that. "I know I fucked up this year. I fucked up so bad," he began. "And I know we have a long road ahead where you could let me into your life again. I don't want to just be the boy next door anymore. I want to be yours. I want to show you that I can take care of your heart, your wellbeing like I should've done this entire time."

No way this was actually happening.

From instead the apartment and around the neighborhood outside, you heard people begin to count down.

"I can't go back in time and erase what I did."

"Y/n, I will do whatever it takes to win your trust back. We can take things are you pace," he vowed

All you could do was smile at Yunho. He was trying to get all the words out that he could. You could see the panic in his eyes that he might end up saying the wrong thing. He was too adorable

You took a step into him, dropping your hands so they were at your sides. Still holding his hand. Your fingers slipped in between his, which cut him off from speak. Your heart was racing as you gazed up into his eyes. Both of our faces moving towards each other.

You decided to step up on your tiptoes. He smirked lightly, always loving how much shorter you were than him.

A chorus of "Happy New Year!" echoed from inside the house. You could hear it from other people who gathered on their rooftops and from the street below. Fireworks went off around you, signaling the start of 2024.

"Happy New Year, Yunho," you whispered. Without wasting anymore time, you tilted your head up to fully press your lips against his. His hands left yours to hold onto your hips, keeping you stable. You weren't the type of person from traditions, but this was one you couldn't pass by.

You always learned from your past and took those life lessons into the new year. And it seemed like Yunho was ready to do the same.

He squeezed your hips affectionately, smiling against your lips. You couldn't fight off the smile on your lips as well. His lips chased after yours slowly, wanting to savor this moment but also to show you through his actions that his words carried weight with them. He wanted you to know everything was genuine.

2024 was a new year, a new chapter for you and Jeong Yunho.

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garoujo · 2 years

Text

・✶ ｡ﾟ[6:13am] — gojo satoru. waking up gojo satoru was never easy.

it’s 6:13am and gojo satoru’s alarm has been going off for 13 minutes.

you’re staring at the messy, snowy peaks of his hair as he lies face down on his pillow and you nudge him for what feels like the tenth time that morning, already giving up on what remains of your precious sleep when you hear him whine under his breath.

“satoru, wake up!” you groan, moving closer to pinch at his sides and you watch him jolt slightly, peeking up from his place between the pillows to blink at you a few times, before one of his arms wrap around you to pull you closer.

“you’re gonna be late satoru, c’mon.” you snort, and you let your fingers run through his hair just so you can see the way his eyes crease when his face breaks into his first smile of the day. “i hear you, getting up right now.” satoru murmurs, but you watch him inch closer to you before nuzzling into your neck, placing a few soft kisses against the skin between sleepy grumbles and obnoxiously loud kiss noises, while the low hum of his voice rumbles in his chest.

he was always warmer in the mornings, you realize. finding it almost too easy to melt back into his embrace even though the sound of his alarm is still ringing through the dimly lit room. he smells a little like your shampoo mixed with the faint smell of his cologne and you feel him yawn as his hands trace under your shirt, drawing shapes into the skin of your waist.

“‘satoru! you’re literally their teacher, you can’t be late.” you hum, scratching at his scalp before leaning back to nudge him again, and his eyes are still heavy lidded and cloudy with sleep when he finally pulls back to look at you. his cheeks flushed and puffy from his pillow and you roll your eyes at the pout on his lips when he blinks at you.

“can’t a man cuddle in peace? you’re gonna hurt my feelings by making me think you actually want me to leave.” satoru groans before burying his face back into the crook of your neck, and you grumble because you know his strength would easily win over yours as you admire the way his back muscles flex with each of his movements. “you’re such a man baby.” you sigh and you hear him groan before he pulls you closer and places a few messy kisses up your jawline.

“the strongest man baby.” he grumbles and you giggle before you soften, wrapping your arms around his neck.

because even as satoru’s alarm still rings, he’s still warm and you know the extra five minutes will turn to ten until your huge dope of a boyfriend is rushing out the door with a coffee that’s a little too sweet for you but just right for him, before having to run back because he forgot to give you a goodbye kiss with a breathless “whoops, almost forgot the most important thing!” pulling you in for a sloppier kind of kiss until you’re pulling his blindfold over his eyes for him and pushing him out the door with a giggle.

but it was those moments that were truly yours.

#݁ . ࿓ : sealed#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader

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babydollmarauders · 8 months

Text

IF THIS WAS A MOVIE — DAWSON MERCER

dawson mercer x fem!reader

part of the Speak Now Fic List

summary: in which y/n and Dawson fought before he left for New Jersey and now y/n has regrets.

notes: this takes place in March of 2023. i cried writing this, but that could just be me because i’m a sensitive and emotional baby. (4.6k words)

i was pathetic.

utterly pathetic.

i knew so, my friends said so, even my family said so.

it’s been six months and i still can’t bring myself to do anything besides regret everything that went down last September.

*** September 12th, 2022 ***

“why are you waiting until the day before i’m supposed to leave, to tell me this?” he fumes, glancing at me with glaring eyes as i sink back onto the mattress.

“i wasn’t sure how to tell you, Daws.” i reply meekly. my fingers fumble together, an anxious tick that’s plagued me since grade school.

“how are you just gonna leave me like this?” Dawson huffs, halting his packing in order to stare me down, and i know that no answer i give him will be good enough right now.

“i’m not leaving you, Dawson. i’m just-” i pause, mulling over the right words for a moment. “deferring the move for a couple of months.”

“right.” he nods. “and then you’ll defer it for a few more months, right? until finally i get back and you never had to move at all?”

“thats not what’s happening!”

i scare myself with my unnaturally raised voice. i’m not usually one to lose my temper, but the fact that he’s not understanding my reasoning and seeing where i’m coming from, instead accusing me of things i would never do, has me frustrated.

“when have i ever given you the impression that i wasn’t gonna move at all? there are just a few loose ends i have to tie up here before i can move to another country for you!”

“for me?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “this is for us!”

“it’s your dream Dawson, not mine. but i’m willing to make the sacrifice of leaving home, if you just give me the time!”

he lets out a hollow laugh, sending chills down my spine at the empty sound.

“how much time do you need? we already did long distance for my rookie year. the plan was always for you to join me this season! it’s not my fault that you didn’t time things out accordingly!”

“i never said it was your fault! you’re putting words in my mouth!” i shout, rising from the end of the bed in order to seem more confident. “i’m just saying that i have some things to do, and i’ll drive down, with all my stuff, in a couple months!”

“it’s not that easy! i can’t help you move in once the season is going!” he reminds me, as if i haven’t already thought about that.

“i know, and that’s fine! i can do it on my own!” i tell him. “i just can’t up and leave right now! i’ll move down in November!”

“that’s what you say now.” he rolls his eyes, zipping up the duffel bag that holds some of the clothes and gear that he keeps here in my apartment.

“why do you keep saying that?” i screech. i don’t understand these assumptions he’s making, that i’ll never join him in New Jersey.

“because that’s what’s gonna happen! you don’t love me enough to move, just say it! instead of putting the move off until we’ve grown apart and you don’t have to make it!”

“get out.” the words slip past my lips before i even have the time to think them through. his eyes widen in surprise, but i refuse to keep fighting with him about this. “if you think that lowly of me, then just leave. if we’re just gonna fight, then i don’t wanna talk to you.”

i stomp through the hallways, trailing behind him, and i watch him leave my first floor apartment, heading straight for his car. i slam the door shut behind him, twisting the lock and letting my forehead fall against the door with a thud.

i turn, pressing my back against the door and allowing my body to slide down until my butt rests against the floor. thinking over the entire fight, tears fill my eyes now that i’m alone.

what just happened?

he’ll come back. he has to.

right?

*** PRESENT ***

he never came back.

in fact he hasn’t contacted me since that fight. completely ghosting me. shunning me out of his bright new life.

i still wake up most mornings, reaching out towards the cold sheets of the right side of the bed, expecting him to be there. his bright smile and his infectious body temperature, like my own personal space heater. but i know he’s not there, and i’m not sure he’ll ever occupy that space again.

and now i lay confined to the left side of the bed, my body still unconsciously trained not to sprawl out.

the thin white sheet that covers my body doesn’t do much to protect me from the cold Newfoundland air that seeps in through my broken bedroom window, but i make no move to get up.

it’s long past noon on my day off, but i only woke an hour ago; having been up late into the night, thinking back what felt like a thousand memories of Dawson and i, trying to distract myself of the deafening silence that resulted to my own heartbeat in my ears.

back when we were together and happy.

in high school, when we met.

when i attended his QMJHL games, and when we would go out to eat afterwards, him listening to whatever mindless gossip i had learned through my friends, and me nodding along to his hockey talk and the stories of what stupid things his teammates did before that days game.

when he met my parents for the first time, and when i met his.

when he would get annoyed that we were persuaded to bring his siblings with us places, and i would lace our hands together while he drove, encouraging him to tune out his brother and sister arguing in the back seat over who got to control the music.

back when we had the kind of love that i only ever thought existed in movies.

i reach over to my nightstand, retrieving my phone. and despite knowing this would only hurt me more, i click into my camera roll, entering the still open photo album of our relationship.

i restart at the beginning, the very first photo we ever took together. when we were only fourteen and didn’t know where life would take us. we were strictly friends at the time, meeting through our other friends, who thought we would be cute together.

then i get to the photos when we were fifteen. when Dawson asked me to the 2017 valentine’s dance at school. when we finally started dating. when we were in that awkward stage of finding what our relationship was like now that we had taken the next step.

getting to the pictures of us when we were sixteen was like watching a romantic movie. most were taken after his games, some taken by friends while i kissed him in congratulations of a win or hugged him after a loss. the honeymoon year.

then came the videos. seventeen year old us thought we were the cutest. two years together meant we were a lot more comfortable around each other. videos of him doing face masks with me. of us dancing around his kitchen at two in the morning, nothing providing light besides the open refrigerator.

year three of our relationship was a little trickier. eighteen and we were graduating high school, with plenty of pictures in our caps and gowns to prove it. the year he got drafted by the Devils. that was the year that it really sunk in that he would eventually be leaving. that year, i spent most nights wrapped in his arms, no matter where we were. pictures of me on his lap, his arms holding me to him tight, our friends laughing around us, but we were only paying attention to each other. that was the same year that he held me as i cried and whispered promises in my ear that the future distance would do nothing to us. ‘nothing’s gonna change. not for me and you. we’re invincible. we love each other too much to let anything come between us.’ he had whispered, and i believed him.

year four, we spent every waking moment we could together, because we knew the inevitable would happen and he would have to leave in the fall for his NHL debut. photos of him fishing, with me by his side and reading a book. videos of us singing in the car, our hands gripped tightly together, as though we thought the tighter we held on, the more likely it would be that we get through the eventual distance. videos his sister took of me at his debut game, screaming and bursting with pride after he recorded his first NHL point. lots of facetime screenshots and photos from my trips down to visit him in New Jersey.

and finally, i reach year five. a multitude of pictures from when i visited him for our five year anniversary in Jersey. more facetime screenshots as we endured the last few months of long distance until he finally came home for the off-season. those are quickly followed up by early morning pictures i took of him asleep in my bed. i longed for the nights that he would sleepover, and whenever he did choose to stay the night rather than driving back home, my heart would burst with contentment.

the trip down memory lane ends there. we never reached year six, just shy of five months away from it when we had our final fight. it was a month ago now that we would’ve reached that milestone, and i guess that’s when it became all too real for me. when i fell back into the tight hold of regret and i started thinking about him more often than i didn’t. thinking about him being out there somewhere, possibly moving on from me; from us; it feels like a kick to the gut.

we may have had the kind of love from movies, but if this was a movie he would’ve come back by now.

why didn’t he come back?

the thought rattles in my brain as i finally get up from my bed, deeming four in the afternoon an acceptable time to finally start my day.

i run my hands down my face, slightly surprised to pull them away with tears coating my palms. i hadn’t even realized i was crying.

i run through my usual routine lazily; brush my teeth, wash my face, brush my hair, get changed, make something to eat.

i spend most of the next few hours lounged on the couch, binge watching netflix, and another hour eating a snack and mindlessly scrolling through tiktok. and when the clock strikes nine, i do the same thing i’ve been doing for the past six months. the exact thing that my friends and family have told me is probably the reason i can’t move on; i turn on the Devils game.

they play against Carolina tonight, and i’m eager to watch Dawson continue his point streak. last night he officially hit twelve games, with twenty points within those twelve, and i fully believe that he could beat Taylor Hall’s record of nineteen straight games with a point.

however, as the game stretches on, Dawson doesn’t make a point. in fact, his entire demeanor seems off tonight and i flood with worry.

is he feeling okay?

is he feeling burnt out?

what can i do to help?

nothing. i remember. i can’t do anything to help, because he’s not mine to help anymore.

not since six months ago today.

when the game ends —with Dawson’s point streak officially ended— i make myself a quick dinner before popping some sleeping pills, forcing myself to sleep in order to avoid any more thoughts of my ex; and in my sleep drug induced haze, i vaguely remember opening my camera roll before i fall asleep, phone still in hand.

i thought he’d come back by now.

the next two weeks go by uneventfully. my days dragging on, consisting only of work, family dinners, watching Dawson’s games, and lounging in my apartment.

it’s on the fifteenth day, that my friends are able to drag me out of my bubble. coaxing me out of my apartment with the promise of free drinks and taking my mind off of my ex-boyfriend.

but despite their well meant intentions, i’m still checking my phone for the Devils vs Islanders score every few minutes.

“y/n,” Taylor starts, holding out her hand and leveling me with a disappointed glare. “give me your phone.”

“what?” i stare at her in shock, my lips resting in a parted position. “no.”

“no?” she blinks, clearly surprised by the refusal. “babes, you gotta stop checking that score. give it here.”

i hesitate, my gaze fluttering between her outstretched hand and my iphone.

“gimme,” she urges. “i’ll keep it safe. promise.”

she crosses her finger over her heart before holding her hand out again, and this time, i finally hand over the prized possession.

“i want it back when you drop me off.” i remind her, just as Kenzie comes back with a tray of shots.

“and i will totally do that, i swear.” Taylor nods.

“what are we talking about?” Kenzie chimes, sliding a shot to each of us.

“she took my phone.”

“oh good!” she grins. “i thought i was gonna have to be the bad guy and do it.”

Taylor shakes her head before raising her shot glass, Kenzie and i following suit.

“to the first time in history that we’ve all been single at the same time.” Taylor chants, and technically she’s not wrong.

since our friendship started, at the age of thirteen, at least one of us has always had a boyfriend. and for five straight years, that someone was me. but the reminder doesn’t help cheer me up, nor does it distract me from the fact that he left.

Kenzie grimaces at our friends words, shaking her head.

“what? bad toast?” Taylor asks, her nose scrunching. “sorry, hun. my bad.”

i shrug, feigning nonchalance, and we all down our shots. the burn of the liquor provides a nice distraction, taking my mind away for a moment as i focus solely on taking a sip of soda to rid myself of the taste.

“oh god, tequila?” i shudder, my face contorting in disgust, but Kenzie just laughs.

“hey! i shelled out the money for the good shit! this is no in-the-trash tequila!” she defends.

‘in-the-trash’ being a term we’ve used since we could even start drinking at nineteen, just meaning an alcohol that makes us end the night with our head in a trash can.

“all tequila is in-the-trash tequila, Kenz.” i chuckle as she hands me another shot.

“c’mon, drink up.” she grins. “we have a whole night of wild debauchery ahead of us.”

“i’m gonna be nursing a wicked hangover tomorrow, aren’t i?”

it’s hours later, nearly two in the morning, when i’m dropped off at home by an uber. i’m heavily inebriated, my head spinning and my sense of judgment completely gone.

i slump against my front door, digging through my purse to retrieve my keys, before i let myself in. i’m barely into the apartment when i strip myself of my shoes, my keys being thrown on the entryway table along with my purse, which topples over on its side.

from the sideways purse slides my phone and my brows thread together in confusion.

when was the last time i had seen that?

did Taylor put that in there when i wasn’t looking?

or had she given it back to me and i just forgot?

at the sight of the device, the entire reason it got taken from me in the first place comes rushing back. i grab the phone from the table, turning it back on as i clumsily make my way to my bedroom, slumping onto my bed.

i squint, blinking a few times at the brightness that emerges from the screen within the pitch black room. clicking into the espn app, the heart plummets as i see the final score.

Devils lose, 1-5. and maybe it’s the alcohol in my system, heightening my emotions, but my heart breaks for my ex and his team and i want nothing more than to comfort him like i used to.

so with the confidence i could only have when drunk, and no one around to stop me, i pull up his contact, clicking the call button.

it rings, on and on until it finally chimes with his voicemail, and the sound of his voice makes my heart leap in my chest.

oh how i’ve missed his voice.

it beeps again, letting me know i can leave message, and instead of hanging up, like i would with anyone else, the words spill out of my mouth.

“hi, Daws. i’m so sorry about your loss tonight. and i’m sorry about your point streak too. i really thought you could beat the record.”

tears gather at my waterline, my voice beginning to shake as my throat grows thick. this is the first time i’ve called him since that night.

“but i’m- god i’m really so mad at you. you left me, and you didn’t come back. no calls, no texts. did five years mean nothing? i know people change, and these things happen; and i know i said i didn’t wanna talk to you but- this is me officially taking it all back now, okay?”

a sob wracks my chest, and i let my tears flow freely in the comfort of my darkened bedroom.

“i just— i love you so much. and i miss you. i thought you’d come back. you can still come back, if you’d just say you’re sorry. please, come back.”

my thumb smacks down on the red button, ending the call, and i power my phone down, chucking it beside me on the bed.

my cries grow louder and i feel as though i could drown in my own tears. rolling onto my side, my body curls into the fetal position and i wrap my arms around my legs. it feels like i lay like that forever until i’m cried out, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier until i can hold them open no longer, letting myself fall asleep.

i’m woken in the morning to the sun peeking through the curtains that i seemingly forgot to close last night in my drunken stupor.

when did i get home last night?

how many drinks did i have?

stretching out my body, i sit up in my bed, reaching over to my nightstand to retrieve my phone to check the time, but it’s not there. my hands pat through the sheets, finally discovering the device on the other side of the bed, and i power it on.

my head pounds, the room spinning and light nausea flooding over me from my hangover.

i’m never drinking again.

the time on my phone reads noon, and i’m not shocked by how long i slept. considering i can barely remember anything that happened after my seventh shot last night, i’m surprised i’m not still dead to the world.

i notice some notifications, but refuse to scroll through them, not ready to face the ‘how dead are we all feeling?’ texts from my friends yet. so rather than staying on my phone, i leave it on my bed as i get up and run through my routine.

i brush my teeth before hopping in for a quick shower, hoping that it’ll help rid me of my hangover, before i get dressed and go to the kitchen to retrieve a gatorade and make myself breakfast.

i stand in front of my living room window as i drink my gatorade, peering through the glass at the gray sky. it seems that the weather is matching my gloomy mood, as it begins to pour rain from the dark clouds.

sighing, i return to my couch, turning on the tv and flipping through the channels until i get distracted by the NHL Network, which replays last nights Devils game, and i can’t convince myself to change it.

the camera pans to Dawson’s face and he looks entirely disappointed by the low score of his team.

if only i could cheer him up.

how i would love to be able to hug him again.

how i would love to see him at my front door again, like i would’ve a few years ago after a QMJHL game. when he would show up after a lost game that i couldn’t attend, and my mother would just shake her head at his appearance but ultimately smile at the way he wrapped his arms around me.

but that was then, and this is now. in an alternate reality, maybe i’m in Jersey with him right now, his head on my chest as i talk him through the loss, but in this reality, we’re broken up, and that doesn’t seem to be changing any time soon. eventually, i’ll have to accept that our lives weren’t meant to intertwine forever. time wasn’t in our favor, and fate wasn’t in our cards.

it’s four in the afternoon when a knock sounds at my door, loud and obnoxious as i try to focus on the movie that now plays on my television. grumbling to myself as i stand up, i assume it’ll be Taylor or Kenzie stopping by to check in on me after i’ve avoided their texts.

but when i open the door, time seems to freeze, and i decide my eyes must be deceiving themselves. i slam the door shut again, blinking a few times before i open it once more, but my eyes are working fine.

standing in the rain, outside of my apartment door, is Dawson.

“i— what—” i stutter, unsure of what to do or say. my heart races in my chest and i can’t decide whether i’m more nervous or excited to see him. “what are you doing here? why aren’t you in Jersey?”

“you asked me to come back.” his voice is like melted butter, just as smooth as i remembered it. his eyes accentuated by dark circles from apparent lack of sleep, but they’re still that soft brown that i’ve always loved so much, his gaze soft as he stares back at me.

“what?” confusion drips from the single word, but then the memory comes flooding back to me. getting home last night, checking the game score, calling him. “you came back… because i asked you to?”

he steps forward, and with the light from inside reflecting against his eyes and lighting up his face amongst the gray clouded skies, my heart drops. i’ve missed him so much, and now that he’s back here in front of me, i’m questioning it?

“i would do anything if you asked me to.” he speaks hesitantly. “i’m sorry, y/n.

“i’m sorry i accused you of not wanting to move with me— of not loving me enough. i let my insecurities and my fears that you would get tired of barely seeing me and leave me, get the best of me. i’m sorry i left that night without fighting to stay. fighting for us. i’m sorry that i didn’t talk to you, i thought it was what you wanted, but i see how stupid i was for that now. i’m sorry that i made you wait so long for me to come back, but i’m here now. to apologize and to get you back, because i still love you so much and i don’t know if i can take another day of not having you anymore.”

tears roll slowly down my cheeks at his words and i open the door farther, ushering him inside before i speak. my hands come up to hold his face, my eyes gazing into his.

“i’ve been waiting for you every day since you’ve been gone.” i whisper, my voice shaky. “i thought you were gone forever, and i was still waiting. because deep down i’ve always known that you are it for me, Dawson Mercer. if i didn’t have you, i didn’t want anyone else.

“i didn’t think you wanted me anymore. and some part of me accepted that, but a larger part of me just kept hoping and praying that you would come back. Daws, i would much rather spend nine months only having some of you, than forever having none of you.”

his head dips down, lips meeting mine, not even minding the salty tears that have run over my lips. kissing him again is like breathing for the first time in six months. like a natural instinct that i finally gained access to again, and when he pulls away, i pull him back down, not ready to give it up again.

finally, i pull back just enough to breath in deep, replacing the lack of oxygen in my lungs.

“i love you.” he whispers, his lips still brushing against mine, and a smile breaks out upon my face, pecking a kiss on his own small smile.

“i love you too.” i tell him, retreating to look in his eyes. “i do have a question, though.”

“anything.” he nods, prepared to answer anything i throw at him.

“are you stupid?!” i lightly smack his arm and his brows furrow in confusion. “shouldn’t you be in Jersey, practicing so you can beat the Rangers on thursday?”

he laughs, pulling my body in closer against his.

“i should.” he nods. “but i took a maintenance day, so i could win back my biggest fan. i do have to be back for practice tomorrow, but, i was hoping maybe you’d come with me.”

my heartbeat picks up at his confession and the nervous expression painted across his face after he says it, but i nod and his face lights up.

“really?” he questions, and i’m overwhelmed with excitement, nodding again.

“yeah, Daws, i’ll go anywhere with you.”

“in that case, our flight leaves in a few hours…” he grimaces and my eyes widen as i step back.

“i gotta pack. i gotta go online and put in to use my paid time off.” i freeze, dread filling my senses. “i have to tell Taylor and Kenzie i won’t make girls night for a month.”

Dawson’s head drops back in laughter before he looks back at me again, sporting a smirk. “a bit longer than that, i think you’re forgetting, we’re going to the playoffs.”

“oh my god, two months.” i stare back at him in joking horror. “oh they’re gonna hate you.”

“me? you’re the one skipping out on girls night!” he calls out, following me into my bedroom as i begin throwing clothes into a suitcase.

“yeah, but they could never hate me. you? they’ve already disliked for six months.” he shrugs, nodding at my words.

“fair enough.” he replies, helping me grab shirts off of hangers and pack them away into my suitcase. “you think they’ll ever like me again?”

i hum in thought, “i don’t know, maybe once they hear about how you flew back for only a mere few hours to apologize to me in the rain.”

“and i’d do it again.” he grins, pulling my body to his, my back against his chest. he buries his face in my neck, nipping at my skin and making me laugh.

maybe our love is like the movies, we just had to suffer through the ‘third act breakup’ in order to get to our happy ending.

#speak now fic list #dawson mercer x reader #dawson mercer imagine #dawson mercer fic #dawson mercer blurb #dawson mercer #nj devils #nhl fic #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3

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beomiracles · 4 days

Text

「 CRIMINAL CONSCIENCE 」

SYNOPSIS moving rapidly through your career as one of the leading female investigators, you never once encountered a case you couldn't crack. though you never expected for your past mistakes to come back and haunt you in the form of an ex lover, accused of murder.

pairings criminal!beomgyu x investigator!reader warnings for tape 02 drinking, lightly hinted sexual themes, red flag beomgyu, mentions of drug dealing.

GENERAL WARNINGS ─ this story contains dark themes, portraying unhealthy and toxic relationships as well as substance abuse. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

✎ NOTE!, this story is partly told in flashbacks. beware of time stamps as present and past is mixed throughout the story.

#serene adds ✎... I've been doing a lot of thinking about how I want the dynamic between the reader and Beomgyu to play out. As the story progresses it will become a lot more evident, also gentle reminder that Beomgyu is a piece of shit with some morals (when it suits him).

the tape recordings

tape 02 ─ red lipstick stains

February 19th 2024 — present time

“Is everything alright?” Huening’s light voice easily parts the dark clouds fogging your mind and your eyes snap to him as you blink a couple of times. “You’ve barely touched your food”, he comments as he casts a glance toward your almost full plate.

Pushing said food around leisurely with your fork, you sigh, “I’m not feeling particularly hungry today I suppose”. Your colleague frowns as he sets his own fork down, “does it have anything to do with the case you were assigned this morning?”.

You look at him as you gnaw on your bottom lip, you don't want to lie, especially not to Huening. But was it such a good idea to tell him about who exactly you had been assigned. You figured it probably wasn’t.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Huening kai, but if word got around the office, well it certainly wouldn’t look good on either yours or Yeonjun’s part. Besides, you really didn’t feel like pulling the whole story for him, not when you had already promised Yeonjun that you would later that night.

“No, I’ve just been tired lately”, you shrug as you reach for your glass. Huening doesn’t seem convinced as he studies your expressionless face. “Sorry, I’m not exactly good company right now”, you mumble against the rim of the glass.

“You’re always great company, noona” he beams and you smile. “You’re great company too, Huening” you say and your younger colleague blushes furiously as he occupies himself with his food.

You liked spending time with Huening kai, he was so easygoing and the atmosphere would always feel light whenever he was around. The restaurant he had taken you to was a small family owned business, perfectly situated on the corner of the street in the most central part of your city.

From your table by the window you had a perfect view of the large park, though the flowers had yet to bloom and the tree branches remained naked you still found it to be a beautiful sight.

Beomgyu had rarely taken you out to restaurants. In fact he rarely took you out at all. Back then you didn’t see a problem with that, but then again, there were a lot of things you had disregarded in better judgment of Choi Beomgyu.

31st March 2022

It had been three long days since your first encounter with Beomgyu. And for those three days you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. On your way to class, in class, after class, on your way to work, during work, after work.

He was everywhere yet nowhere. After the night you had spent together you had woken up to an empty bed, no note left behind. Beomgyu had given you no way to contact him. Perhaps that should have been your first warning.

Had Kayla been right all along? Did he really never see the same woman twice? Yet his words remained engraved in your brain;

“I like you dollface, I’ll keep you”.

I’ll keep you. How did you keep someone you couldn’t even contact? Of course you had kept the whole encounter from your nosey friend. As Kayla pestered you about where you had gotten off to during the evening, without as much as a word to your bestest friend, you dismissed her, making up some bullshit lie about getting a cab home to not ruin her night.

Perhaps you should have just taken a cab home that night, perhaps things would’ve turned out different if you did. But there was no changing the past.

It was late at night when your usually dry phone chimed with a notification. Had you not still been up to finish your coursework you probably would have missed it. Grabbing the device, an unfamiliar number flashed on the screen. The text was short, only reading out one sentence.

“75-4, Seongbuk-gu, Seoul, 1.30am.”

You frown, an address? As you open the message you find that you can’t reply, how odd. Part of you knows better than to give the mysterious message more than another thought. But something about it felt familiar, was that strange to think?

The sender had left no signature, yet you were almost certain who had sent it.

What did you have to lose? With that thought in mind you swing your legs over the edge of your bed as you get up.

Typing in the address on your phone you find that it’s, “a nightclub?”. It was situated in a part of town that you were unfamiliar with. The large buildings looked slightly worn down and as you dwelled deeper into the narrow alleyways you started to question your decision.

But you couldn’t go back now, you had to find out if he was actually the one who sent the message. The night breeze causes shivers to ripple through your body and you pull your arms around yourself as you quicken your pace.

Soon a faint light comes into vision and the thumping of loud music can be heard. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or not, but you keep on walking. As you double check the address on your phone you throw a glance at the time, 1.28am.

You swallow hard, an attempt to cover the fast beating of your heart. When you approach the door a large man turns to look at you. He looked like your typical bouncer, absolutely fucking jacked and covered in tattoos.

The man raised an eyebrow as he took in the state of you. “You lost, little girl?” he asks in an amused tone. Your throat goes dry as you look up at him, “I…uh”.

He chuckles, “kindergarten is down the street and to your right”, he gestures with a large hand. The bouncer’s words cause a frown to cross your features, kindergarten? Sure you weren’t exactly your typical bimbo, but did you really look that out of place?

Oh who were you kidding, of course you did. What were you even thinking coming here, on your own too. There was no way you were going to be let inside this club. What a waste of time. Internally groaning, you prepare to leave when a figure suddenly appears in the doorway.

“Dollface, you made it”, Beomgyu’s dark eyes perfectly match the smirk playing on his lips. He pushes past the bouncer who immediately steps aside and gives him a quick bow.

A ring clad hand finds your waist as Beomgyu pulls you to his side. Your eyes widen in surprise as you stammer for words. When you pass the bouncer Beomgyu mutters something to the man that you can’t quite catch. You’re unable to give it much thought as you’re led inside the beating club.

The atmosphere of it all is no different from any other club you had been to, sweat, alcohol and sex filled the hot air. Yet there was something special about this place, it felt almost exquisite, and the people here seemed to be aware of it.

Instead of a bar, drinks were being served by the multiple waiters pacing around the outlines of the dancefloor. Several booths clad in purple velvet filled the walls, you expected Beomgyu to lead you to one of them,though his eyes seemed to be set on the large staircase leading to the second floor as he pushed through the dancefloor.

Immediately eyes were drawn to him as people stepped aside to make room for him to pass. What made him so special? You were barely spared a glance apart from an occasional glare sent by the many women surrounding you.

When you made it to the stairs, Beomgyu's hand traveled from your waist to your lower back as he guided you toward the large purple doors at the top. As the two of you approached, the bouncers stepped aside and gave Beomgyu a quick bow, he barely seemed to notice them.

“Isn’t this the VIP section?” you whisper under your breath as you survey the area. It was much quieter here and the air felt almost cleaner. “Clever girl”, Beomgyu smirks as he leads you to one of the few larger booths.

You quickly realized that the two of you weren’t going to be alone. A man in his late twenties sat by the booth as he swished a drink around in his hand. You didn’t recognize him and when Beomgyu called out to him, his name rang no bells.

“Duri!” he exclaims and the man looks up from his drink with a grin on his face. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up”, Duri says as he studies Beomgyu’s frame, gaze stopping at the way his hand rests on your lower back. “Though I now realize what kept me waiting”, his eyes shift to you as he gives you a wink.

“I, uh…hello”, you give him an awkward wave and the man bursts into laughter, Beomgyu however doesn’t seem to share his amusement. “Pretty little thing you got there”, Duri comments as he reaches for his drink once more, “what’s your name, love?”.

“Oh, it’s─”

“Dollface, this is my old friend, Duri”, Beomgyu interrupts as he gestures toward the man in front of you. “Duri, this is Dollface”. You glance up toward Beomgyu with a slight frown but he doesn’t seem to notice as he pulls you along to sit next to him.

Duri hums as he eyes you carefully, “nice to meet you”, he then says. “Uh, you too…”, you mumble, your words coming out as a squeak when Beomgyu’s hand finds your thigh, cold rings stinging your naked skin.

His free hand quickly calls over one of the many waiters and he turns to look at you, “what do you want, doll?”. “Oh anything is fine…I’ll just have what you’re having”, you tell him and Beomgyu smirks as he turns back to the waiter, “my usual, and make it two”. The waiter bows before quickly rushing off again.

You lean back against the smooth velvet as Beomgyu and Duri indulge in a conversation regarding topics that made little sense in your ears. You wondered why Beomgyu hadn’t introduced you, was he ashamed of you? But why bring you along if he was ashamed, it made little sense.

Suddenly you’re reminded of Kayla’s warnings, you realize what kind of people Beomgyu might have connections to. Was Duri one of those? Was that why he didn’t want you to give out your name?

Your mind spun with different scenarios, much so that you didn’t notice your drinks arriving. Not until Beomgyu brings the glass to your lips and mumbles a quiet, “open up”.

Doing as he says without hesitation, the warm liquor burns your throat. It was unlike anything you had ever tasted before and it was… “this is really good”, you murmur as you take the glass from Beomgyu’s hand. He smirks, “knew you’d like it, dollface”.

Raising an eyebrow, you sip on your drink, “why, you seem to know everything about me already”, you grin. Beomgyu’s eyes twinkle in an unexplainable way as he brings his own drink to his lips. “You’d be surprised”.

To Beomgyu’s right, Duri clears his throat, “well it seems my date for the night has arrived”. As he gets up he gives you a quick glance, “pleasure meeting you, ‘dollface’”, he says before making his way over to one of the many half naked girls crowding the rest of the booths.

Surprised at his sudden leave, your eyes follow the man before returning to the one next to you. “Who was he?” you ask and Beomgyu raises an eyebrow as he looks at you, “an old friend”.

You frown, there was no way he was telling the truth, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to question him further, reminding yourself that you barely knew the man. “If he’s an old friend, then why didn’t you introduce me?”

Beomgyu takes a sip of his drink before setting it down, his hand returning to your thigh once more, “I did”. Shaking your head you twist around on the spot to look at him fully, “why not my name?”.

“What’s it to him?” he mutters as his free hand runs through your hair before stopping to rest on your shoulder. Your frown deepens upon hearing his words, “he’s your friend”, you state. “Perhaps”, Beomgyu says as he casts a glance toward Duri whose hand was down the skirt of the girl he had just walked up to, “but not a friend you should be acquainted with”.

“Why?”

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth but doesn’t reply. “Did he do something bad?” you press but Beomgyu doesn’t budge. “Haven’t we all?” he says as he empties the last of his drink.

“Yes but─”

“Drop it, dollface”, Beomgyu’s voice is so cold that it could've easily brought back the ice age. Gulping you look down to your half empty glass, the drink seeming to have lost all its taste.

His answer however made you almost certain of one thing, that Duri was a dealer, he had to be. That’s how Beomgyu knew him, it had to be. Then that would mean that Beomgyu also… No, maybe he just bought from him every now and then. A small amount couldn’t be that bad right? As long as he had it under control, and he did, didn't he?

Back then you didn’t know it, but Beomgyu loved his control. More than a lot of things, more than a lot of people.

You glance up at him once more, a thousand questions prodding at your lips, you chose one. “How did you get my number?”

Beomgyu groans, “fuck dollface, you ask a lot of questions”. His hand on your shoulder moves to the nape of your neck as he pulls your lips flush against his in a hot kiss. Beomgyu was good at avoiding questions, perhaps a little too good.

That should have been your second warning.

19th February 2024 — present time

Beomgyu hadn’t changed a lot in the ten months you had gone without seeing him. There were only a few noticeable differences. His hair had gotten longer, the ends looked thinner and less well kept. Dark circles clad the area under his eyes, it was something you had never seen on him before.

His otherwise charismatic persona had yet to leave him as he cracked jokes at any given moment. Ah, and he was still a little too good at avoiding questions.

“What is your relationship to Park Baekhyun?” you ask. Beomgyu twists the rings on his fingers as he hums softly. As his eyes find yours a grin spreads across his lips, “what’s your relationship to that guy?”.

You frown, what guy? “I advise you to answer my questions instead of diverting to other─” “The guy in the doorway, from earlier”, Beomgyu interrupts you as his eyes scan your expression for answers, for insecurities.

“That was my colleague”, you say, mentally scolding yourself for letting Huening drop you off at the investigation rooms after your lunch together.

“Really?” Beomgyu’s eyebrows raise in a fake-surprise, “didn’t look like it to me”. You roll your eyes, “what you think does not matter, now if you would regain focus and answer my quest─” “He your boyfriend or something?”

Beomgyu’s expression holds no hint of amusement as he leans back in his chair, rocking on its back legs. You almost wanted to laugh. After everything, he still thought he had a say in anything regarding your life, regarding you.

“He might be”.

“Bullshit”. Beomgyu leans forward again, the front legs of his chair slamming down on the stone floor.

You don’t flinch at the sound, you don’t move from your position even when Beomgyu’s face comes so close to yours that you can feel his hot breath on your face.

Fighting the urge to smile, you tilt your head to the side. “Is it so hard to believe?” You watch as Beomgyu bites the inside of his cheek as he studies your face, when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he lets out a huff of air as he leans back again.

“He’s not your type”, he then says and it’s now your turn to fake surprise as you cross your arms, “who says?”. Beomgyu scoffs, “funny, dollface”. “You forget, I know everything about you”, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip and you find your eyes lingering.

“Knew”, you then say, “you knew everything about me”.

Beomgyu looks at you with an expression that could only be explained as rage filled. “Things change, Beomgyu”, you then say, putting pressure on his name, “people change, I changed”.

“It’s a shame you didn’t”, you give him a sympathetic look. Beomgyu’s fist slams down on the metal table, causing the cuffs around his wrists to rattle. You don’t flinch. It angers him even more.

“I think it’s best we end today’s session here”, you stand up and straighten your shirt. Beomgyu remains silent as he glares at you. It isn’t until you reach the door, one hand on the handle, that he finally speaks again.

“Is red his favorite color too?”

You freeze, “what?”. Beomgyu chuckles behind you, but his laugh holds no warmth. You turn to look at him, what had made him bring such a thing up. It isn't until his gaze travels to your lips that realization hits you.

You had meant to get rid of that lipstick months ago. You had simply forgotten to, right? It was a mere coincidence that it presented itself on your desk so prettily this morning, and you had been in a rush too, not looking to see which exact product you’d taken.

Beomgyu smirks, “you still look fucking irresistable in it”, he says as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

Quickly composing yourself, you pull your eyes from his lips. “My boyfriend thinks so too”, you say and before he has the chance to reply you’re out of the room, slamming the door shut behind you as you lean against it.

Fuck, he still made your heart almost beat out of your chest.

That night had been a restless one, spent going through the few pieces of Beomgyu you had left. The pieces you had clung onto, like your life depended on it. And maybe it did─maybe back then it did.

They were few but important, a necklace, a perfume, a shirt, polaroids and…the red lipstick. Turning the small shiny tube between your fingers, you admire it. It was the first gift Beomgyu had given to you.

It came in a small box, wrapped in gold with a red bow on top. Beomgyu had watched closely as your shaking fingers ripped the packaging apart. When you so carefully lifted the lid to reveal the small product inside your eyes had widened.

“I─ Beomgyu this is…” you had mumbled as your fingers grazed the outline of the lipstick. “Try it on”, he whispered as his fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You screwed the bottom of the tube, revealing its deep red color. With trembling hands you had applied it, it turned out to be rather difficult without a mirror. As you put the lid back onto the lipstick you turned to look to Beomgyu.

The smirk on his lips widened, exposing sharp teeth, his thumb grazed your bottom lip as it swept away any excess product. “Now you look like a real doll”, he mumbled as he caressed your flushed cheek.

“I’ll wear it”, you whispered as you leaned into his touch. Beomgyu hummed in approval as he pressed his lips against your freshly painted ones.

“Good, red is my favorite color”.

end of tape 02

✎...taglist @beomtasticc @beomies-world @leeminhosairfryer @baekberrie @fairyofyeongyu @lunathewritingcat @archoive @baemgyu @yunjinsbbg @velvetmoonlght @luvsyuqii @seokqt @soobiary @20-cms @moagyuu @ioveastera (if your tag is not working please check your settings to make sure that your blog is not hidden!)

#txt #txt fanfic #txt post #choi beomgyu #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu #criminal au #criminal conscience beomiracles #beomiracles ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

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dreamescapeswriting · 2 years

Text

BTS Reaction Mafia || You’re Pregnant And Disappear On Him

⤜MASTERLIST

An: I got a little carried away with a few of them ahh sorry!

SEOKJIN: 1.7K

Jin shook his head at you as he continued to walk around his home office in search of everything he was going to need for the night. You'd started fighting with one another the second you found out that he was going to be gone for the night.

"You don't even see a problem with it do you?" You yelled as you stared at your husband who was, once again, getting ready to leave you alone here all night long. Locked up inside of the safehouse as if you were some kind of fairytale princess that needed to be kept away from everything else in the world. Ever since you'd gotten here you'd not been outside unless it was for the baby and even then you were taken to the car door, escorted into the hospital and brought straight back here. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been able to go outside and stretch your legs for longer than two minutes. Even the balconies were off limits to you while you were here.

"No, I don't. I see me, protecting the love of my life from everything bad outside," You rolled your eyes at the statement. It was the same one he had used when he first bought you here. That was under the promise that nothing would be different and you would still have all of your freedom but all of that was a lie. Jin had practically locked you inside and threw away the key, even changing all of the combinations on the doors that lead to the outside.

"You're being insane! I just want to go out for a little while, god. Why is that so hard? Just a small walk around the Han River, what is so bad about that?" You threw your hands up in defeat and Jin turned to stare at you. He couldn't believe that you weren't able to see the possible dangers that would come along if you were seen outside in your state right now. Everyone knew of your pregnancy and it would be idiotic to let you out of the house while you were practically a walking and talking target.

"You could get kidnapped, you could get stabbed or someone could easily take you and keep you until you deliver my baby," He stated as he stared down at the bump, you looked as though you were about ready to pop which worried Jin even more. What if you go out and you go into labour while you're walking around the streets? No one but your guard would be with you and you'd be in trouble.

"Our baby! She's ours!" You grumbled, running your hands over the bump. You couldn't stand it when he referred to your baby as just "his" as if he was the only one who had a hand in creating the little bundle that was growing inside of you.

"You don't know it's a girl," He grumbled bitterly as you rolled your eyes. Not only had he called your child an "it" he'd been holding out hopes that it was going to be a boy. It wouldn't have bothered you that much but you knew that he only wanted a boy so he could take over Jin's empire without hassle. God forbid if a woman became the leader of his entire life's work.

"Will you stop calling our baby "it"? Don't you feel any kind of attachment to them? Or was it just another way to get higher up in the mafia life?!" It was a low blow and you knew that but right now you didn't care right now you were laying out all your feelings onto the table. It felt as though Jin had used you to get married and have an heir to his throne only to leave you when got exactly what he wanted from you. Everyone knew that the top dog had to have someone to pass his lifework down to and you weren't dumb. Your marriage had been an arrangement at first until the two of you truly fell in love with one another.

"You didn't just say that?" He grumbled, his voice sounded hurt but you stood your ground. It was about time he heard how he was making you feel.

"I did. Because that's what it feels like! You're never here! You're always out of the house, you miss appointments and I can't remember the last time you spoke to our child," Jin shook his head as he began to walk out of the office, you were hot on his trail following him into the main entrance of your home.

"Because it's a bump! There's no child to talk to yet," He harshly said as he turned to look at your guard. The man was around 6'3 and standing by the door to make sure you didn't try and run as soon as Jin left.

"But it doesn't mean they can't hear you," You were hurt by the whole thing. From everything, you'd read about other people and their babies the father had always been so attentive and caring toward the mother and bump. You wanted that with Jin, you knew he wasn't the big and scary man he made himself out to be since he'd always been soft with you.

"You're being ridicilous," Jin said as he shook his head at you, no longer wanting to have this discussion, he was going to be late.

"I'm being ridiculous?! I haven't spent a night with my husband in three months. You're never here!" You screamed out as he turned his back on you and began to put his keys into the door, unlocking it as you stared at the back of his head. Tears rushed to your eyes as you realised he was just going to walk out even after you expressed you didn't want him to.

"So you're just going to walk away?"

"There's nothing to talk about and I have to get to work." He murmured as he got the door unlocked and turned to look at you, his heart broke seeing you crying but he wasn't going to back down. There was no way he was going to risk you going outside and getting hurt and all of this overtime was for you. If he could get everything he needed to do done and out of the way he could spend more time with you when the baby came.

"Nothing to talk about? So you don't want to talk about how you haven't been to a single scan since the first one?" You questioned, folding your hands over your chest as he shook his head,

"No."

"Or that your wife feels as though you don't love her anymore all because she got pregnant?" The statement hit him harder than he was expecting it to do but all he did was walk out of the door, slamming it shut with brute force behind him.

[X]

When he got home he expected to find you in bed but you weren't there, then he frantically checked every other room in the house and began to yell for all of his men to find you. He'd come back a few hours later after leaving the house, he'd bought flowers and all of your favourite snacks as a form of apology. He'd not been able to concentrate on anything at the office and all he wanted was to come back to you but when he got home you were gone. Completely gone. Your guard was out cold on the sofa and the bedroom was empty, including every other room inside of the safehouse.

"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't fallen asleep!" Jin screamed as he walked around the Han River, all of his men covering every inch of it and walking in different directions in the hopes of finding you.

"Sir,"

"No. You're an imbecile! How could you let a pregnant woman drug you?!" He screamed as he thought about the sleeping tablets he'd found inside the kitchen. It was rather smart of you but Jin wasn't going to admit that,

"If even so much as a hair is hurt on her I'll end you. I will torture you with torture that hasn't even been invented yet," He warned before turning to look around for you, calling your name out over and over again.

"We found her," One of his men panted, pointing over to a bench that was overlooking the river. They'd all tried to get you to leave but it wasn't going to happen any time soon when you didn't want to go anywhere.

"I told you not to go out," Jin stated as he came and sat down beside you, you didn't even turn your head to look at him and it worried him. It wasn't like you to be this calm and he couldn't stand it.

"I needed fresh air," You mumbled, shivering a little as you stared down at the water. It was a beautiful night and you were glad you'd snuck out when you did. It'd been too long since you got to sit under the stars,

"Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" Jin quizzed as he slipped off his blazer and put it over your shoulders, staring at you as you didn't even react to him touching you.

"Don't worry. Your baby is fine." You were being frank with him and he couldn't stand it, he should have just stayed home and taken a walk with you then none of this would be happening.

"I was worried about the both of you," He told you, reaching his hand out and squeezing yours but you just move your hand away from him making him flinch.

"Don't lie. We both know you're only worried something might happen to your baby and you'll not have anyone to pass it down to." You stared at the water and Jin stood up and blocked your view.

"I came home to take you out, to go for a walk before the two of us would go home and watch sappy movies all night long," Your heart clenched as you stared up at Jin, it was obvious now that he'd been crying and you whimpered a little.

"I freaked out when I saw you were gone...Please...Don't take my protectiveness as not caring. I've been working overtime in hopes of being able to spend more time with you when the baby comes,"

"Jin..." Your voice trembled as you got up from the bench and stood in front of him, placing your hand on his chest as he looked down at you with tear-filled eyes.

"I assure you that I would never do something if I didn't think it was for the best," You smiled weakly at the statement before kissing his lips softly.

"Take me home," You begged as he nodded his head and took your hand in his, all of his men walking behind you and making sure you weren't being followed.

"Nice job on the sleeping tablets," Jin whispered as you finally made your way back into the safehouse. A smirk grew on your lips as you stared up at him,

"I'm a genius, are you ready for sappy movies?" You quizzed as you took your husband's hand in yours and began to pull him toward the bedroom.

YOONGI:1.3K

The doctor's office was cold with your bump exposed the way it was but you were just sitting on the bed while the nurse watched you nervously. Your guard was manned outside of the door to make sure no one would come in while you were in a vulnerable spot.

"You said you would be here," You grumbled down the phone to Yoongi who hadn't bothered to show up for your final baby scan. You were inside the doctor's office sitting on the bed refusing to let her touch you until your husband was here. But as it turned out he was going to be a no show,

"I know but I'm running late and I have a shipment to take care of because Jimin-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses. I wanted you here." It sounded childish but this was your child, the child that you and Yoongi had made together and he was treating this as if it was all some kind of joke to him.

"Yn, you know what this life is like." Yoongi sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he overlooked everything that was on the desk in front of him. He would have killed to be with you right now but some things just couldn't be helped, especially when he had dumb workers who weren't doing what they were supposed to be,

"I don't care. This is our child and you're supposed to be a part of all of this," You mumbled bitterly, glancing at the nurse who was doing everything she could to avoid looking in your direction. All of the hospital staff were under strict obligations not to mess with you or Yoongi and you knew that he'd gotten the best of the best inside of the hospital to take care of you.

"Babe," Yoongi sighed, getting up from his chair and going to grab his jacket. If it meant that much to you he was just going to put someone else in charge of the order and get there as quickly as possible.

"Don't babe me," You snapped, it was the same passive-aggressive tone he would use whenever he wanted to be condescending to you and you couldn't stand it. You'd done everything he'd told you to since getting pregnant.

You cut down on what food he wanted, you didn't go out as much because you knew you were a walking target and not to mention you'd even agreed to private health care when you were perfectly fine with your original health care.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I don't think I'll make it to the scan though," He stated as he looked down at his watch. The scan should have started five minutes ago but you'd refused to until you knew whether or not he was coming.

"Whatever." You grumbled before hanging up and staring at the nurse, waiting for her to begin the scan.

"Miss Yln, I don't think Mr Min would want you to do this." Your personal guard said as you walked straight past the car that you were supposed to be climbing inside of. Yoongi still hadn't shown up and you'd waited for well over an hour now, you refused to wait inside of a hospital any longer than you had done already.

"Mr Min can take it up with someone who cares," You mumbled as you slammed the door shut and continued to walk along the streets. Your guard stared at you anxiously as he didn't know whether to follow you or wait for Yoongi to drop by.

"You can come with me if you're worried," You smirked as the guard began to follow along with you.

[X]

"Where have you been?!" Yoongi yelled as you suddenly walked into the house, staring at him and all of the police that was inside your living room.

"I went shopping," You said as if it was the most casual thing in the world, dismissing the policemen as you walked right past them and stood in front of Yoongi who looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

"I got some cute baby onesies and then we went and got some toys," You told him with a giant smile, holding up all of the bags you were carrying - which weren't many since Hoseok told you he would carry everything for you.

"We?"

"Me and Hobi," You said as you pointed at the struggling guard, he was attempting to bring in all of the heavy boxes. Everything you had purchased was in his hands, it had taken multiple trips to get everything into the house.

"You went out?"

"Yeah, I knew we were in need of some toys and you weren't going to take me anytime soon," Yoongi sighed as he told the police to leave and sent most of his men with Hobi upstairs to the nursery to drop off everything you bought.

"Was it payback for me missing the appointment?" Yoongi sighed as he realised you had done this all out of retaliation. When he showed up at the hospital he completely freaked out about you not being there. He saw the car and instantly thought that something awful had happened to you. Then when Hoseok stopped answering his messages Yoongi felt so sick he called every police department in the district, there was no way he was going to let something happen to you.

"Hmm?" You asked, turning to look at him and feeling a pang of guilt as you saw the state of your husband. His hair was all over the place and it looked as though he had been crying for a while now. You never would have done it if you thought he was going to cry, you just needed to get out for a while and enjoy being out of the house.

"Making me sick with worry, getting Hoseok to ignore direct orders and ignoring all of my calls. Was it payback?" His voice cracked as he moved closer to you, taking your hands in his and giving them a tight squeeze as you bit down on your lip. Maybe you had gone a little overboard with making Hoseok promise not to text Yoongi, you just hoped he wouldn't get into trouble for something you had ordered him to do.

"Maybe," You admitted shyly and he let out a small chuckle, even if you had annoyed him by running away he still found you incredibly adorable with the way you were acting.

"Maybe?"

"Yeah, I was mad at you and I didn't want to come home right away," You licked your lips slowly and turned to look up at your husband. It was wrong and you knew that and it was petty but all you wanted was to have your husband by your side during a pregnancy scan. What was so hard about that?

"Yn, you know the dangers, something terrible could have happened to you." He looked at you and you smiled a little, looking down at the small onesie in your hand. It had all been worth it to you since you managed to get everything you wanted for the baby.

"I know but we needed to get stuff too..." You looked at him and he smiled down at you shaking his head slowly as he thought about it. If you'd asked he would have taken you in a heartbeat,

"I would have taken you, all you had to do was ask."

"Really?" Your eyes lit up and he felt bad that you hadn't thought about asking him in fear of him saying no.

"Yes, you know I can't say no to you." He chuckled and you let out a small giggle at the thought of it. It was true, you could still remember asking him for something embarrassing in front of all of his men and he did it without even thinking.

"Hmm it is a huge weakness of yours," You smirked as he pulled you close to him, smiling down at you as you let out a whine at the feeling of being moved. You were completely tired and didn't want to move for the foreseeable future.

"Which you happily exploit," He teased before you kissed him softly, slowly moving off the sofa to go and show off everything you had gotten for the baby.

HOSEOK:1.2K

The longer you went on about all of this the more Hoseok wanted to go to work, which was something he'd been dodging for the last month. With you being so close to your birth date Hoseok wanted to spend as much time with you at home as possible in case you went into labour but the longer he sat here the more he regretted that. Maybe he should have gone to work and got one of his men to message him when the moment was coming. At least that way he would have been able to avoid all of this happening.

"I was not looking at her," Hoseok grumbled as he followed you through the house and into the living room of your luxury home. The two of you had just gotten home from having some lunch outside when you decided to pick a fight on the way home. You claimed that Hoseok had been checking out the waitress that had been serving you but he really wasn't. In fact, the whole time at lunch he was on edge expecting someone to come over and spark a conversation with him when all he wanted was to be alone with you. It had been so long since the two of you actually had some time alone together and he had very much been looking forward to it.

"Sure, just like you didn't stare at her ass," You grumbled while taking off your shoes and sighing out at the comfort you got about not having to wear them. Pregnancy was no joke and you were pooped just from walking from the car into the house.

"I wasn't. In case you haven't noticed, I only have eyes for one woman in my life and she is standing right in front of me," Hoseok smiled at you as he pointed to the ring he had on his finger but you still weren't convinced. You know for a fact you'd seen him looking at her perky little ass and you hated that it wasn't yours that he was looking at.

"You haven't looked at me that way since we got pregnant," You mumbled annoyingly at him. Ever since you'd gotten pregnant you felt as though he had been ignoring you and looking for someone younger, someone better. Someone that didn't look as though they had swallowed a planet. But that was the joys when you were carrying twins.

"I look at you that way all of the time you just never notice," Hoseok sighed as he sat down on the sofa and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew that your hormones were going to be all over the place but he never would have imagined that they would get this bad.

"I only have eyes for you babe," He cooed while holding his arms open, expecting you to walk right into them and smile but you didn't. You walked past him and shook your head, there was no way he was going to sweet talk his way out of this one.

"You can look at whoever you want, you're Jung Hoseok, the most feared man in Seoul." You said dramatically while walking toward the bedroom, you wanted to change into a baggy shirt and eat your cravings, not having to worry about anything else right now.

"Yn, you're being a little childish, don't you think?" You froze as soon as you heard the words leave his mouth, your body turned slowly and it creeped Hoseok out a little. It was like one of the scary movies where the ghost slowly turns around and just stared at the camera.

"wow! So now I'm childish?!" Hoseok groaned rolling his head back against the back of the sofa, it was going to be a long night if you were going to sit and pick on everything he was going to say.

"Yn, come on! I didn't mean it, I was just-" He stopped speaking when you slammed the bedroom door and he groaned staring up at the ceiling.

"It's going to be a long night," He mumbled to himself before shutting his eyes in hopes of getting a little sleep.

[X]

When Hoseok finally woke up he checked the time and decided he needed to go and check on you. It was almost four in the morning and he was ready to kiss and make up with you - providing that you'd calmed down a little first.

"Hey, baby?" He whispered while walking into the bedroom only to find the bed completely empty and all of the lights were switched on.

"Yn?!" He cried out while running toward the balcony door that was wide open, the balcony gate wide open since it was on the ground floor and looked right out into the back garden.

"Babe! You out there?!" He yelled while walking into the back garden to find absolutely no sign of you anywhere in sight and he rushed back inside to grab his gun and phone in the hopes of finding you.

[X]

"Welcome to your new home," You giggled while walking into the house with a puppy by your feet, Hoseok looked up from the laptop in front of him and froze.

"Cancel that last order," He mumbled into the phone without taking his eyes off you, slamming his phone down as he got up from the sofa.

"Yn?! What the hell?!" He rushed toward you, holding your face in his hands and tilting it from side to side looking for any signs that you could have been hurt while you were out.

"You've been gone all morning!" He yelled as he finally realised that you were perfectly fine, you got down onto your knees and let the puppy go so he could walk around the house and get a good sense of everything.

"I bought a dog," You smiled as though there was nothing wrong with what you had done. You'd originally only gone out so that you could get some air but you'd ended up coming across an animal shelter and you couldn't just leave the little puppy alone.

"I can see that. What were you thinking?" Hoseok sighed as he followed you through the hallway and toward the kitchen so that you could give some food to the dog.

"I was thinking that the twins are going to want a dog eventually so why not get one now."

"No. I mean," Hoseok sighed as he tried to be as calm as possible about all of this so he didn't start another fight with you. All morning long he had felt unbelievably sick to his stomach, he thought someone had taken you hostage and he was seconds away from calling a raid on one of the other men's homes.

"I don't care that you got a dog, what were you thinking when you left without telling me?" You glanced at Hoseok and looked down at your hands, maybe it had been childish and immature of you but you'd been mad at him.

"I was mad at you and then I wasn't mad...I would have text but-"

"Your phone was here," He said as he held up the phone and you smiled weakly, quickly walking into his arms and hugging him tightly. "I'm sorry I was a mess yesterday, I know you didn't stare at her ass," You whispered as he rubbed your back softly, kissing the top of your head and smiling a little.

"I'm sorry I called you childish," He smiled before kissing the top of your head once more and getting you to introduce him to the new addition to the family.

NAMJON:1.4K

"I suppose you think it's funny? How funny would it be if I shot you right now?" You heard Namjoon yell followed by the cries of someone begging for their life. It wasn't something you weren't used to by any means but you were trying to sleep and the last thing you wanted was to hear your husband torturing someone in the basement of your home. Normally Namjoon wouldn't bring his work home with him but this was something different, something personal and he would be dammed if he was going to let this man get away with what he had done.

"Can you shut the fuck up?" You asked as you walked into the basement, staring down at the man that was being held onto a chair with a gag in his mouth. It looked as though the boys had just finished pouring water over a towel on his face and he looked terrified. Once again, it wasn't anything you hadn't seen before and it didn't scare you. Nothing seemed to scare you now that you were married to one of the most feared men in Seoul, no one messed with you. You were completely untouchable to everyone around you.

"Yn, go upstairs," Namjoon ordered not lifting his eyes from the man in front of you who seemed to be staring at you, smirking under the gag that was inside of his mouth. You eyed the man up before turning to look at Namjoon, you didn't care what Namjoon did as long as the man didn't wake you up anymore.

"Not until you get him to shut up, cut out his tongue if you have to. Some of us are trying to sleep and your baby appears to be trying to keep me awake." You grumbled at him. It had been two weeks of broken sleep for you and you were beginning to get driven up the wall. All you wanted was one decent night of peaceful sleep but it appeared as though it was never going to happen for you.

"Babe, please." There was a slight pleading tone to Namjoon's words and you stared at him confused, he'd never gotten like this with you before when you'd walked in on him doing something like this.

"Joonie?" You frowned before everything happened within a couple of seconds, the chair hit the floor and people scrambled to grab hold of the man that was now on the loose and running straight for you but he never made it to you. A loud gunshot sounded and the guy hit the floor right beside your feet, splattering your face with blood as you turned to look at your husband in shock. Your whole body was shaking as you realised the man had been attempting to grab you and if it hadn't been for Namjoon he probably would have succeeded and who knows what could have happened.

"I told you to fucking go upstairs!" He boomed out, his face turning red as he got angry with you. How could you not follow a simple instruction?

"Are you that dumb you don't know how to follow a fucking order?!" He yelled out without thinking about his words first, all he cared about right now was the fact that someone had just tried to attack him.

"You're saying this was my fault?! You're the idiot that didn't have him tied down!" You weren't going to let him get away with passing the blame onto you. It was simple if you were torturing someone you tied them down so they didn't have a chance to get free and leave.

"I gave you an order," Namjoon was seething with anger as he stared down at you, your eyes staring back into his with just the same amount of anger that he was giving to you.

"What did I tell you about you and your orders?!" You asked him while letting out a dry and sarcastic laugh. When you first started dating you had told him you weren't one of his men, nor were you a puppet to pull the strings of.

"Do you have any idea what he would have done to you?! What he could have done!?"

"He didn't though, I'm fine." You grumbled as you walked away from him, wanting to shower instead of standing there covered in some man's blood.

"Don't walk away from me!" Namjoon called out but you slammed and locked the bathroom door just to make a point of not following his orders and he began yelling at his men to clean everything up.

[X]

It had been two weeks. Two weeks and there were no signs of you anywhere, your phone had been turned off and left at the house so there was no way of tracking you. Namjoon knew he never should have taken the tracking device off your car and the one on your necklace, he should have known better.

"I want every house, shop, bakery and everywhere you can find searched!" Namjoon yelled at the man in front of him who appeared to be shaking. Ever since you'd walked away Namjoon had been worried sick, barely sleeping and had become more irritable than ever before. It was a miracle that most of the people he was working with weren't dead already with the way that they were acting in front of him.

"Boss," One of them mumbled as the front door opened to reveal you and your mother-in-law smiling at one another and carrying bags.

"Where the fuck have you been?!" Namjoon's voice was deep and loud as he got up from the sofa and stared over at you,

"Language," His mother scolded before taking the bags out of his hand and handing them off to one of Namjoon's many men, ordering him to take them straight up to the bedroom.

"I told you I was going to stay with your mum," You said as you watched his mother go to make some tea for everyone. The house was a complete mess and you wondered what had been going on for the last two weeks.

"No, you didn't." He mumbled trying to remember anything you might have said that would even hint as to where you might be but you had. You'd told him weeks ago that you were going to be spending some time with his mother.

"Yes, I did. Three weeks ago, I told you I'd be going to stay with her so I could get some peace and quiet." He shook his head at you, he was almost positive that he couldn't remember you saying anything.

"No."

"Namjoon! I even wrote it down on your many calendars and added sticky notes around the house." His mother could be heard laughing softly from the kitchen.

"What?" Namjoon hadn't seen any, mostly because he'd been too busy panicking to think about looking for sticky notes.

"I added one to the food in the fridge." You stared at him before realising that he probably hadn't been eating properly like he was supposed to.

"I've been...e-eating mostly take out while I was out looking for you,"

"Joonie." You sighed, walking over to him and then down at everything that was on your coffee table. A list of places that had all been ransacked as they had all been searching for you, and not to mention a list of serial killers all dead now since Namjoon thought they'd taken you.

"You could have called your mother,"

"You could have taken your phone," He countered your argument and you looked up at him, you were partly to blame for a lot of what had happened but you never would have expected any of this.

"I was mad at you," You admitted before sighing,

"Let's clean the house up, we should do that and get something- oh god," You groaned, suddenly holding your bump as you gripped onto Namjoon tightly.

"What? What is it?" He questioned repeatedly before his mother walked into the room,

"It's time," She said calmly, rushing over to you and holding your hand in hers as you began to breathe deeply through your nose trying to manage the pain as best as you could.

"Time?" Namjoon frowned staring at you as you both headed for the front door of the house,

"To have a baby," You yelled out at him as if it wasn't obvious enough what you were going through right now.

"B-But it's a month early!" Namjoon called out as he rushed to grab the "go" bag that you had waiting for you for months now, standing on the other side of you and holding your hand.

"Babies don't do schedules, son. Let's go!" His mother chuckled as she began to help you out of the house and in the direction of the car while Namjoon ordered his men to get the house prepared.

JIMIN:1.1k

The sunlight was blinding to Jimin and he groaned trying to fall back to sleep but the giant lightbulb in the sun was making it too hard for him to actually fall back to sleep.

"Fuck," Jimin grunted as he slowly rolled over in the bed to cuddle into you, only to find cold and empty sheets where you should have been sleeping. It wasn't right, he remembered going to sleep with you in his arms...or rather falling asleep in the same room as you but you weren't here now. It wasn't like you to wake up and not wake Jimin up at the same time.

"Babe?" He called out, slowly getting up from the bed and changing into some fresh clothes. Maybe you'd gotten up to make breakfast but he couldn't hear the usual music you would play while cooking. Nor could he smell the burning of the first pancake. He rushed to check the bathrooms, maybe you were having morning sickness but you were nowhere in sight.

"Yn?" He called out once again before walking into the living room to find it completely empty. The only sign of someone being there was the cleaner and his two guards who were all staring at him and waiting for instructions to do something. It was Sunday which mean Jimin had the entire day off just to spend with you, it was upsetting to him that you had just left without a word about it.

"Sir? Can we help with anything?" One of his guards asked when he noticed how distressed Jimin appeared to be getting when he couldn't find you.

"Have you seen Yn? She didn't mention anything about going out," Jimin explained as he rubbed the back of his neck, frowning as he tried to remember anything from the night before but most of it was a blur. He'd been drinking while out to dinner with you and he'd gone a little too hard on the drinks,

"Not since last night when the two of you came home," The guard explained while shaking his head. None of them had seen you since the previous night and it was no wonder you had walked off without explanation after what they had heard.

"She hasn't checked with you before going out?" Jimin frowned, it really wasn't like you to go out without telling anyone about it. Even if you and Jimin were fighting you would usually leave a note or take a guard out with you.

"No, sir." Both of them answered, an uneasy feeling began to settle inside of Jimin as he thought about what could have happened to you. If you'd gone out alone there was a possibility someone had taken you and Jimin wanted answers.

"Check the CCTV footage for me and find her. NOW!" Jimin boomed before looking to the cleaner who was staring back at him saying nothing but Jimin could tell by the look on her face that she knew something.

"Did you see her?" He asked harshly before she shook her head,

"Not since your fight last night,"

"Fight?" Jimin couldn't remember a fight with you, at least not a big one that would make you run away from him.

"The two of you came back late and you had been flirting with someone at the bar,"

"Oh...Right," It all rushed back to Jimin about what had happened. The two of you had gone out to dinner when he humped into an old friend. Someone he used to date and he began to talk with her a lot, catching up with her and your pregnancy brain instantly took it as him flirting with another woman. Blowing up into a huge fight as soon as you got home until he passed out on the bed from exhaustion.

"I want her found, now." He panicked turning around and heading back up to his office to try and go through the CCTV footage he had inside of the house to see if he could see you coming or doing anywhere.

[X]

There was no sign of you anywhere, the guards had checked all of the rooms that they could find but the place was huge. Not only that but most of the cameras inside of the house hadn't been working the night before thanks to the storm and Jimin was worried you were out in the streets. So he was going out with a team while another team stayed in in case someone called or you came back home.

"What are you doing?" You asked suddenly when you saw Jimin rushing toward the front door covered in a layer of sweat and looking ill. You figured he was hungover or something but as soon as he stared at you he let out a shaky breath, You'd just come out of the spare bedroom to see him and a bunch of the guards rushing around the house looking quite panicked,

"Where the fuck have you been?" Jimin snapped harshly making you stare at him in silence, you didn't just come out of the room to be insulted. You'd come out for food and some clothes not to have someone yell at you. You were over the fight from the night before and you realised you were probably being over dramatic about everything.

"Sorry...I- Where have you been? Why didn't you tell someone where you were going?" You frowned, it wasn't as though you'd gone far and you figured he and everyone else would have seen it on the footage where you were.

"I was in the guest room. I was staying away from your drunk ass after we fought," You mumbled before he kissed the top of your head softly, bringing you closer to him as he shook his head at you.

"I'm sorry about last night, I wasn't flirting...But I'm sorry we fought so badly you slept somewhere else," He told you as he walked you toward the kitchen, nodding to the cook to start making you both something to eat.

"I'm sorry too, I think the hormones were making me crazy jealous," You admitted shyly as he shook his head at you, promising it that it was all in the past now.

TAEHYUNG:1.5K

You threw your arms around the waist of your husband and smiled as you cuddled into him. He was supposed to be getting dressed but you had been distracting him with non-stop cuddles for most of the morning. But it was finally time for him to head out for the day and he couldn't keep putting it off because of you.

"I'm going out for tteokbokki today, do you need anything while I'm out?" You quizzed as Taehyung pulled on a tie and frowned at the thought of it. You hadn't mentioned anything about going out yesterday or this morning when you were discussing the day's events. He wracked his brain trying to remember if you'd said anything to him a couple of weeks ago but he couldn't remember you saying anything or even adding it to the calendar.

"What?" He turned to face you and you began doing his tie-up for him with a giant smile plastered across your face. You'd been looking forward to going out for lunch for the last week and it had completely slipt your mind to tell Taehyung before now.

"Tteokbokki...With the girls, we want to go out for lunch together. I forgot to say something when we first made plans. But I think we're also going out shopping to get a few bits for the baby," Taehyung nodded along, he saw nothing wrong with any of this as long as you took Jimin or Hoseok with you to keep watch on you while you were out. There was no way he was going to let you go out there alone, you were like a walking target for anyone that wanted to hurt Taehyung.

"The girls?" He questioned, just to be sure he knew who was going to be there and they were who he approved of. Not that he told you who you could and couldn't hang out with but there were some people you knew who he just didn't trust.

"Me, Jin's wife, Jimin's wife...Namjoon's girlfriend said she wants to come too," You shrugged your shoulders and patted his tie down as you finished doing it for him. As soon as he heard that Namjoon's girlfriend was going he knew you weren't going to like what he had to say,

"No."

"No?" You frowned, looking up at him. It wasn't as though you were asking his permission. You'd only asked if he wanted something brought back from the shopping trip.

"No."

"I think you're confused, I wasn't asking for permission. I'm not a child." You stated while standing your ground, putting your hand onto your hip as you stared up at your boyfriend. What part of him thought he could tell you what you could and couldn't do?

"But you happen to be carrying mine."

"So? That doesn't mean you get to dictate every little thing that I do." You mumbled while heading over to the wardrobe to look for something to wear but Taehyung wasn't letting this go. There was no way on this earth that you were going to go out with Namjoon's girlfriend.

"True but you're not going out with them,"

"Why?" You turned to face him. He'd never really had a problem with you going out before and it wasn't as though you were asking to fly to another country. It was a simple girls' date in the middle of the city for food and some light shopping, you'd take the guards with you since it was a mandatory thing for you these days.

"I don't trust Namjoon's girlfriend," He answered plainly, giving you no reasoning behind the statement.

"Why?"

"Because they're not married yet, who knows what she's up to." You frowned at this, what did that have to do with anything? She just didn't want to get married and there was nothing wrong with that.

"What are you talking about?"

"She's said no to marrying him three times, I don't trust her. She could be using him to get closer to you." You blinked at him, you could hardly believe that was what he truly believed Namjoon's girlfriend of five years could be doing. If he was right - which he wasn't - she was playing a very long game in order to get close to you.

"You're being paranoid, she's just not wanting to get married that's all. Please, I'm dying to get some tteokbokki," You groaned at the thought of it. It had been one of your pregnancy cravings lately and you were dying to get your hands on some at a specific restaurant in the city.

"No. I'm being smart. You can go for tteokbokki with Hoseok and Jimin later when they get back," He shrugged it off and you stared at him, you couldn't believe he was being this idiotic about something.

"But I don't want to go with them, I want to go with the girls so they can help me with pregnancy questions," You tried to play the pregnancy card but it wasn't going to work on him. He knew you knew everything there was since you'd read all of the pregnancy books you could possibly get your hands on and if - by some miracle - there was something else. You had the internet to ask for help.

"You have google for that,"

"Tae!" You yelled out but he was already at the bedroom door and ready to leave, he looked at you one last time before saying,

"I'm serious. You're not going and that's final." He slammed the bedroom door and you smirked to yourself, you'd just see about that.

[X]

Taehyung had done nothing but text and call you all afternoon but you were being petty and ignoring him. Decided to spend time with just Namjoon's girlfriend just to piss him off that little bit more and the two of you were finally heading home for the night. Only there were Police everywhere you turned and it was quite jarring to see them working so hard on something. You thought a child had gone missing at first but you hadn't seen any distressed parents walking around and there was no sign of a large group of people all looking for a child.

"What happened?" You asked as you moved closer to one of the officers that appeared to be hanging something up on the wall in front of him. Namjoon's girlfriend had headed to get the car while you walked to take a look at what was going on,

"We're looking for-" He turned to face you and he turned pale quickly before blushing and smiling proudly to himself,

"You."

"Me?" You frowned staring at the man,

"Yes. You!" He said as he began to point at the poser he had been hanging up. There it was in black and white, a photo of you with all of your specifications and you let out a deep groan. How could Taehyung do this? You'd gone out for a few hours and you even told him you'd be out, it wasn't your fault if he decided you weren't allowed to but went anyway.

"That reward is as good as mine," He smirked before taking your wrists and handcuffing you making you hiss out in pain, the cuffs were a little too tight and you could have sworn you felt them digging into your skin.

"Excuse me!" You cried out as he began to walk you to his patrol car,

"You're coming back to the station," He said to you as he helped you into the back of the car, you stared at him and struggled against the cuffs you were in.

"If you let me out of the handcuffs I'll come with you easily." You mumbled but he shut the door in your face and got into the front of the car.

"I'm not taking that chance, there's a million won on the line,"

[X]

"You're lucky I'm not firing you!" Taehyung yelled once he saw that your wrists were bleeding a little from how tight the officer had cuffed you.

"It hurts," You whined as he gently kissed the marks and got you out of the cell,

"Sir...About the reward," The officer said as he came closer to you and Taehyung, both of you staring down at the balding man as he had the nerve to ask for something after hurting you.

"I'll take that as a no," He said before leaving you both alone together. Taehyung shook his head and let out a small sigh,

"We'll go and see a doctor, I told you not to go out with Namjoon's girlfriend." He scolded but you ignored him, rolling your eyes a little.

"In case you aren't aware, this-" You held up your wrists for him to see,

"Was because of your dumb reward, Namjoon's girlfriend and I were having a nice day and talking about how she's planning on asking Namjoon to marry her this time," You grumbled, following Taehyung outside to his car as Taehyung stared at you, feeling bad for not trusting her enough to be alone with you.

"I just want to go home," You admitted as he kissed the top of your head, apologising to you as he helped you inside of his car.

JUNGKOOK:1.1K

That morning when Jungkook woke up to find you fast asleep he smiled to himself, he was going to be back before you even woke up if he was lucky and he would save on arguments between you both. Ever since you'd gotten pregnant the two of you seemed to be fighting a lot more but he put it down to all of the hormones within your body. So he didn't want to wake you up and tell you he was going to be gone if it meant he was going to be back soon.

Only it hadn't exactly gone to plan since he'd been at work for almost eight hours and now he wasn't able to get into contact with you. He'd been leaving voicemails all day with you and your personal guard but you must have been ignoring him for being gone.

"What do you mean she's not here?" Jungkook asked as he stared at your guard who appeared to be completely nonchalant about you not being anywhere in the house.

"She went for a walk, boss. She said you said it was okay for her to be alone," Jungkook couldn't believe what he was hearing, how could someone who worked for him be so dumb? Jungkook thought he had hired the best of the best, not some idiot who didn't think to double-check the facts that he was being given.

"And you believed her without checking with me? Are you stupid?!" He screamed making the man flinch in front of him before looking down at the floor bowing a little as he began to apologise over and over again.

"I'm sorry sir, I should have called."

"You better hope she's not dead or hurt because if she is, it'll be your life on the line!" He yelled before grabbing his keys and going on the hunt for you. You had to be somewhere, it wasn't like you to go very far when you were upset so Jungkook was going to stay calm as he checked all of the usual spots for you.

[X]

It had been hours since Jungkook left the house to come and look for you and he was starting to feel sick to his stomach. There was no call for a ransom though so he was holding out hope that you were perfectly safe and ignoring him somewhere comfortable. But he'd checked all of the usual spots he would find you when the two of you would fight. The cafe owner said he'd seen you that morning for breakfast but you'd left as soon as he had bought up Jungkook into the topic of discussion.

"I'm going to throw up," Jungkook told Jin - his right-hand man - as they walked into the house together. The police were on patrol for you trying to find you as quickly as possible and Jungkook was about half a second away from calling in outside forces if he needed to.

"She'll show up," Jin said as he noticed that your shoes were by the front door when they hadn't been earlier, it was the only sign that Jin knew you were home.

"When?! Huh?! Have you heard from her?!" Jungkook asked sarcastically before shaking his head at the man and groaning. You could have been anywhere in South Korea by now, all of that time wasted because some dumb guard - that was fired now - hadn't thought to check with Jungkook himself.

"No...But-" Jin tried to speak but Jungkook ignored him and cut him off too quickly,

"You don't understand it! Do you? She's pregnant and completely exposed when she's walking around the streets without protection! She could be killed! Someone could take her and then take the baby before killing her!"

"Sir, I don't think that's very likely." Jin once again tried to explain that you were walking toward them down the hall right behind Jungkook and you looked upset and you were. You knew it was wrong of you to run off the way that you did but you had been sick to death of your husband leaving you alone all day while you were stuck with guards. All you wanted was for him to take you out on a small walk since they were supposed to be good for the baby.

"Oh? Do you know something I don't?"

"Actually, I think-"

"You don't know anything," Jungkook said as he once again cut Jin off from what he was trying to say, you smirked a little at the sight before you felt a pang of pain radiate up and down your back before you bent over and whimpered. There was pooling in your pants from where your water had just broken.

"Sir," Jin said as he pointed behind him but Jungkook shook his head, still in a blind rage about the guard he had fired earlier that morning.

"I'm going to fucking kill that guard when I get my hands on him. How much of an idiot-"

"Junkook!" You screamed out as you stared at him, your body leaning against the wall as you panted heavily trying to catch your breath, the contractions were stronger than any of the birthing classes had ever prepared you for and you hated it.

"Baby?!"

"Jungkook...Please, we need to go." You groaned out, stepping closer to him as he wrapped his arms around your waist slowly walking with you toward the front door looking completely confused.

"Go?"

"Go! It's time to go!" You screamed before pointing down at your pants which were still wet and Jungkook's eyes widened as he realised what was going on. Panic hit him as he realised that it was finally happening and you were about to give birth to his son.

"Shit, shit! Shit!" Jungkook screamed out as he began to panic and run around looking for your "go bag" that you had packed in readiness for this moment. It was only a couple of weeks early but you were both more than ready to become parents to a beautiful baby boy, Jin smirked at you as he picked up the bag from the living room counter. It was close by the front door so that neither you nor Jungkook would forget it on the big day,

"Kookie...Lets go," You begged as you began to follow Jin out of the house, your hand getting taken by Jungkook as he mumbled everything he was going to do as soon as he got to the hospital,

"Private room, private doctors, got to call our parents and all of the men." He mumbled repeatedly as you smiled a little quickly kissing his cheek and apologising for running out on him that morning.

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