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matchpointfaist · 2 months ago

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super rich kids with nothing but loose ends

art donaldson x pr relationship! reader

tw for drinking, drug usage, smut, might split into two parts

art donaldson had a tiny image problem. okay, maybe tiny wasn’t the right word. according to his team, and grandmother, he was on a downward spiral headed nowhere. he was at the height of his career, fresh out of stanford and in with the pros, perpetually gearing up for his next tournament, always running on as little sleep as possible. he had more than he knew how to handle; more money, more alcohol, more parties, more people offering him coke and more of a reason to finally try it. when he was younger, 16 or 17, he’d preached about his body being a temple, he’d never have dreamed of putting anything harmful into it. but now? now, he was living in a free for all, and he just kept coming out on top.

you, on the other hand? the media loved you. you were riding a high from your US open win straight out of college, on a winning streak that was finally being recognized as more to do with skill than luck. your team was a tight ship, constantly keeping tags on you, making sure nothing undesirable slipped through. it wasn’t just about winning, for you. it was about being the best, and that meant every aspect of your life revolving around getting people to like you. behind closed doors, though? that was a whole different story.

you could, and often did, keep up with art and all of his friends. you weren’t close, really, but you ran in the same circles, always running into each other at parties, occasionally flirting. he’d run into you once at some magazine launch, making small talk, already half drunk. “how do you do it?” he’d let slip through, watching you with hazy eyes. “do what?” you’d laughed, brows knit. “keep it together. you’re always more fucked up than i am, but you go out and win the next day like nothing happened,” he’d sounded frustrated, like he was holding it against you. “i just do it,” you’d shrugged, knowing fully well it was a blatant lie. every moment of your life was choreographed and orchestrated- you never just did anything. “bullshit,” he’d said under his breath, turning away before you could ask him what he meant. he’d avoided you after that, watching from afar as you drank the other girls under the table, as you stayed out even later than he did despite having a 8am match. he didn’t need to know how you did it. he could figure it out himself.

six months later, he found himself sitting in his manager's glass office, getting scolded for what felt like hours, lectured endlessly about his problematic behavior. "we need to rehab your image," his manager told him, leaned over his desk, "you need a girlfriend, someone to soften your appearance, make you more favorable to brands," "i'm a tennis player," art sighed, sinking down in the crinkling plastic seat, "i didn't sign up for all this shit, honestly, and i'm certainly not gonna go date some random girl just so a brand will sponsor me," "you don't need a random girl," his manager smiled, paging his assistant, and before art could ask him to clarify, you were strolling through the door. "oh, fuck no," he shook his head, standing without hesitation, "no. i don't need tennis' golden girl to tidy up my image, okay? this is bullshit," "if you want to stay signed on here, you'll sit down,"

art sat back down with an agitated huff, crossing his legs, trying to keep his eyes off of you as you sat down in the chair just beside his. "you need to understand that the two of you are not just tennis players anymore, alright? you're celebrities. my firm represents both of you, and i have zero intention of letting my investment go to waste because you can't get a grip, donaldson. we've drawn up contracts-" the man slid two folders across his desk, rigid with tension, "the two of you will maintain a stable, healthy relationship for a minimum of six months, until the buzz about art's recent escapades dies down. if, for any reason, this relationship ends before the six month term, both of your contracts with this firm will be terminated. got it?" a handful of mumbled expletives and messy signatures later, you were following art out of the office, the tension palpable.

"i think this is all bullshit, for the record," he told you as the elevator doors closed behind the two of you, "i don't need this. i'm doing perfectly fine for myself," "you're an alcoholic who sleeps his way through whichever city he finds himself competing in, don't be stupid. i know you, art. or were you too fucked up to remember all the times you hit on me at parties?" "i'm not an alcoholic," he scoffed, running a hand through his hair, "and that's rich, coming from you. you drink more than half the guys there," "and yet i still show up and don't make an ass out of myself!" you laughed incredulously, "face it, art, really. you need this,"

the elevator dinged and he watched as you stepped off, hesitating before following after you. “we might as well make the best of it,” he finally sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, “we need to be seen out together,” “just call me when you set something up,” you told him, smoothing out your skirt, “see you around, art,” and then you were gone, slipped out the door and into the back of some dark suv, just casual enough to get under his skin. he waited a week before calling you, finally deciding just to take you to dinner, try to at least be friends if you were stuck together for 6 months. he picked the restaurant, insisting on picking you up himself- he had a new sports car he was itching to drive- and sent you the details. he pulled into your driveway 5 minutes late, debating if he should get out and come to the door before changing his mind. this wasn’t a real date, after all.

you walked out after a moment, a vision of long legs and a sleek dress, your hair falling in loose curls down your back. “rude to make a lady come to the car alone,” you told him as you slid into the passenger seat, “i’d prefer if you didn’t do it again,” “do forgive me,” he rolled his eyes, raising his hands in mock surrender before putting the car back in drive, pulling out of your driveway, “you look nice,” “hm, you do too,” you smiled just slightly, eyes raking over his blazer and slacks, the shining watch on his wrist. he reached over to turn the music up, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “we need to talk about how we want to come across," you said over the song, "like what do we want the public to think about our relationship?"

"i couldn't give a fuck less," he laughed, shrugging one shoulder, "as long as they think we're together, who cares about specifics?" "well you can't be seen with anyone else," you frowned slightly, irritated by his nonchalance, "you know that, right?" "getting jealous already?" he flashed you a grin, one hand coming to rest on your thigh. you jerked away immediately, glaring at him from the corner of your eye, but he just waved it off, pulling you back towards him. "relax, i'm just getting in character," he smiled, more like smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "you want it to come natural, don't you?" you tried to relax, ignoring the way his thumb rubbed circles on the skin of your thigh, the way his hand felt warm against you. it wasn't real, so it didn't matter that the simple touch had your heart racing.

the dinner went smoothly, the two of you falling into practiced touches easily, your hand lingering on his arm and his eyes lingering on your lips. by the end of the night, you had a near perfect rhythm. "you're good at this," he mumbled as he walked you down the crowded sidewalk back to his car, his hand on your low back, "guess you get used to that, being the golden girl of american tennis," "that's funny coming from you," you laughed slightly, "you're number one in the country, damn near in the world. you should be used to it by now," "never get used to having a beautiful woman on my arm," his voice was dangerously slow, suspiciously genuine. "bet you say that to all the girls," you rolled your eyes, attempting to brush off the way goosebumps dotted along your skin. "you're naive if you think i care about the other girls enough to flatter them," it sounds too easy to be a lie, "they throw themselves at me, i don't really have time to try and impress them,"

"you're an asshole," you laughed, shocked at his bluntness, "i thought you were nice, you're always so soft at parties," "soft?" he repeated, like he'd been scorned, "i am not soft, i just try not to be as aggressive as some of the other guys," "well i'm glad to discover you're actually exactly the same as they are," you rolled your eyes, "frat boys are all the same anyway, i'm not surprised," "i'm not a frat boy!" he argued, "i graduated last year, thank you very much," "once a frat boy, always a frat boy," you grinned, looking up at his flushed face. he looked down at you, the tension melting away as a boyish smile spread across his lips, "god, should've known you were just fucking with me," he laughed, nudging your shoulder. "i have no room to talk," you laughed, running a hand through your hair before letting it fall to his shoulder, looping your arm through his as you walked, "guess we're not too different,"

the drive home was quiet, his playlist playing idly in the background as he drove, your eyes glued to your phone so you wouldn't look at him for too long. he walked you to the door when you got there, smiling apologetically, "hopefully this makes up for earlier," "i guess so," you grinned, leaning against your doorway. "so we won't see anyone else," he said after a moment, "what about affection? i know we have to sell it, but are you okay with kissing in public? i don't want to take it too far," "wow, a frat boy who cares about consent," you teased, "why don't you come inside? we can sit down and talk about everything,"

you shouldn't have invited him in. you knew it as soon as you actually saw him in your space, sitting on your couch like he belonged there, his dress shoes by the door right next to your discarded heels. it made it all too real, his sobering presence casting a light on your home. "your place is so nice," he said, standing from the couch to run his fingers along the frame of a painting, "i'm surprised you don't have all your trophies out on display," "oh, they're out, just not in here," you assured him, "i have a room for that," "can i see?" he sounded genuinely curious, bordering on excited, and you cursed yourself for being so stupid before pushing it down and leading him through the house.

you opened a door along the main hallway, hesitating before letting him step inside after you, the only person you'd ever allowed inside besides your parents. "jesus," he said under his breath, glancing around. you knew you must look insane to a normal person- there were trophies and medals littering the shelves, plaques displayed, framed photos of winning shots or of you posing with coaches. there was a small tv against the wall, only used to watch back matches, and a loveseat for when you spent hours locked in the room, examining your every played back movement. you watched as he studied each trophy, his eyes lingering on the US Junior Open cup, the first one you'd ever won. "you were 15," he finally said, his fingers tracing the inscription in the copper, "weren't you?" "yeah, i was," you nodded, surprised that he even knew that, "why?" "that's fucking incredible," he continued on over the awards, "this is all fucking incredible,"

"i thought you'd think i was crazy," you admitted, "like this was some kinda shrine or something," "i think this is the hottest thing i've ever seen," his voice was hoarse, his eyes on the photo of you just after your most recent win, kissing your trophy. "what?" you almost laughed, to diffuse the tension if nothing else. "you're so fucking talented," he turned to face you, and your breath left you, your cheeks flushing. he looked undone, pupils dilated and cheeks tinged pink, "do you just sit in here and look at all you've done?" "i only come in here to watch matches," you felt suddenly embarrassed, like you were admitting some weakness, baring some part of your soul to him, "that's really all," "oh, god," he ran a hand through his hair, "you're so intense," "is that a bad thing?" you asked defensively, crossing your arms over your chest. "no, god no," he said quickly, shaking his head, "this whole thing is just- you're just insanely talented,"

a mental alarm goes off as he crosses the room, standing just in front of you, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “you make all those other girls look like a fucking joke,” he murmured, “you know that? wouldn’t even bother playing against you if i were them,” that does it- ignore the voice in your head telling you this is wrong, that this isn’t real- and kiss him, feverish and hot, rough and quick. he grabs hold of your hips, tight and greedy, with an intensity you’d only ever seen on the court. “we shouldn’t,” it comes out in a pant between kisses, your voice heady, “art, wait-“ “fuck waiting,” he mumbles, pulling you back to kiss you again, your back hitting the wall behind you. he tastes like vodka and redbull and mint gum, your lips tingling against his. a startled gasp leaves you as he halfway picks you up, your shoulder knocking a trophy from the wall with a clang. “shit, i’m sorry-“ “bedroom,” you cut him off, sliding out of his arms to pull him down the hallway, stumbling steps taken between messy kisses.

he laid you back on your bed, his kisses getting sloppier the needier he got, his hands anywhere he could reach. “these fucking legs,” he choked out, his hands grabbing at your thighs, lips trailing down your neck, “gonna be the death of me,” “shut up and fuck me,” you pulled his lips back to yours, eager for more. your body was taut with need by the time he finally rolled on a condom, ignoring your chastising remark when he pulled it from his wallet, and fucked into you, stretching you out more than you’d expected. “art, fuck,” you moaned against his lips, back arching. “oh,” he pulled away just enough that you could see the moment his eyes rolled back, his lips swollen and red, all blissed out as he rolled his hips. “oh, fuck me, that feels good,” his hands came to your thighs as his thrusts grew faster, his fingers leaving little marks across your skin, roaming pointlessly until he stretched your legs up, holding them above you, the new angle making you squeeze him even tighter. “oh, right there,” you were breathless, reaching between your parted thighs to circle your clit, desperate for your high. “you like that?” he panted, pressing a kiss to your calf, “tell me, baby,” in any other situation, you’d have rolled your eyes at his cockiness, but it only served to bring you closer. “yes, feels so fucking good,” you nodded, shameless and eager, “oh! oh, art, right fuckin there-“ he fucked you even harder, your muscles burning as he held your legs higher, a scream nearly leaving your throat as you came, trembling beneath him. “oh, jesus-“ he followed you almost immediately, filling the condom with a moan, his hips stilling slowly, “god, that was good,”

he slowly pulled your legs back down, pulling out of you and disposing of the condom as he caught his breath. your eyes were heavy with exhaustion, a serene feeling enveloping you as you curled up into bed, yawning quietly. “you can stay over,” you offered- something you never did- “if you want,” “yeah, okay,” he nodded, curling up behind you, his hands resting on your waist, “g’night, then,” “mm, night art,” you hummed, eyes closing.

you woke up only a couple of hours later, blinking into the darkness of your room, the spot beside you cold. your brows furrowed as you sat up, glancing around, only to find art gone, as well as the pile of clothes he’d shed earlier that evening. “what the fuck?” you mumbled to yourself, checking the time on your phone, rubbing your eyes. just under the 3:14am, there was a text from art. ‘sorry i dipped. don’t think we should do that again, wasn’t in the contract and all that. night!’ your face stung, anger and humiliation filling your veins. you slammed your phone down on the nightstand, pulling the pillow over your head and trying your best to get some sleep. he was right, you thought. it wasn’t real, so why pretend? only five months and 29 days to go, anyway.

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racew1nn3rs · 10 months ago

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─ 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘷. (𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺) 🍑

⤷ summary: austria. mclaren pr department can't read the room so shit officially hits the fan. at least y/n is getting paid for her troubles. lando thinks he can think his way out of this one 🤣

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"You want us to what?" Y/n asked incredulously.

There is no way. No. Fucking. Way.

"I know this may seem out of the blue, or even slightly unorthodox, however-" Michael started. Thirty-nine years old, head of the McLaren PR Department, her boss, and he thought this was only 'slightly' unorthodox. Right.

"I think we're a little past slightly, don't you think?" Lando muttered from the chair next to her. He wasn't looking at her directly anymore.

She had successfully ignored 127 messages, 53 phone calls, 3 emails, and a handful of indirect messages from Oscar, and he still didn't seem to get the hint. She shot him down once again when he tried to approach her before their meeting, after she had purposefully shown up as soon to the start time as possible to avoid him. Maybe that had been the final straw and he had understood she had no intention of speaking to him.

Lando's eyes met hers and Y/n swallowed down the guilt at his kicked puppy dog look. He was very good at looking pathetic, and she was starting to become skilled at ignoring it.

Not skilled enough.

"I'm well aware this is putting you both in a very precarious position, especially you Y/n considering your career," Michael continued, "but since you two have begun to interact on social media our numbers have nearly tripled. We've increased our social following across all platforms, we've increased engagement, Christ, we've even increased our merch sales. But if you two dated, a real, PR contract-based relationship, the results would be more than we could have hoped for at the start of the project."

"That was the point of hiring me," Y/n said sitting up. Yes, she was annoyed, but at this point who could blame her, "I knew my strategy of personalizing ourselves to the internet would work. I told you guys this would happen, and if we keep to it we could probably still reach these numbers you're looking for. What you're suggesting doesn't seem a bit far to you? A bit too risky?"

"Honestly, Y/n, the fact of the matter is this: we could increase what you've already started. If we go through with this project, we could see a skyrocket in our social media. This could do wonders for the team, especially given the results this season. No offense, Lando."

The Brit seemed to be dragged out of his thoughts at the comment and he simply shrugged and waved his hands impassively. Y/n intentionally ignored his disregard for the situation, because jumping across her seat and choking him would not solve any of her current problems- even if she really, really wanted to choke him.

"Do you understand what this can do to my career? This would look so unprofessional for me. The point of a PR relationship is that it doesn't really seem like a fake relationship. It would seriously decrease my options if or when I leave McLaren if it seems like I date my coworkers. You're basically condemning me to a life where I would never be hired again. I won't do it. I can't do this." Y/n said shakily, before standing up. It felt like she couldn't breathe, and it's not like she could turn to Lando for comfort in this because they weren't even friends. Not that he seemed all that bothered anyway. Lando seemed perfectly comfortable staring into space like the airhead he was.

Zak, who had been standing calmly in the corner of the room leaned toward her and squeezer her shoulder comfortingly. She had no doubt he knew how uncomfortable this situation must be for her. Unfortunately for her, he just didn't seem to care. Or at least not enough.

Michael sighed and stood up as well, walking around the desk he was sitting at so he was directly in front of her and Lando and sit on the desk itself.

"I hear your concerns Y/n, I really do, but you cannot truly expect that we wouldn't have some safety measures in place for your protection, can you? When I said this would be a contractual relationship, I meant it. There would be physical evidence that you were not violating any workplace policies, and were instead participating in a project that involved the relationship you would be a part of. We would provide any future employers with proof of this, given that they are willing to sign an NDA. You would not be left at risk in your future endeavors," Michael explained sympathetically. Y/n couldn't help but feel the insincerity of his words in comparison to his face.

They understood they were putting her in an uncomfortable position. They understood they were endangering her career no matter how many contracts she signed. And yet here they were, asking anyways.

"And if I just don't want to?" She asked and she heard Zak sigh from behind her. He took his hand off her shoulder.

Oh.

"Then I'm afraid we've reached a standstill here, haven't we?" Michael said. She inhaled sharply and looked down.

Oh. They were going to fire her. Of course.

"Are you serious?" Y/n finally turned to look at Lando. At some point in between when she had last looked at him and since she had begun to have her job dangled in front of her face he had stood up. He looked angry, not that he hadn't looked some variation of hurt, angry, and sad since he arrived.

"You can't seriously be threatening to fire her, right in front of me, over a project that no one in their right mind would agree to without any incentive. You do realize you haven't really offered her anything that would make her agree don't you? Do you do this to all of your employees or just the ones who carry nearly an entire department on their back?" Lando spit out angrily. He wasn't yelling, but he had sure as hell left the station of speaking calmly a while ago.

"Lando," Zak started through grit teeth, but Michael held up a hand.

"You're right Lando, I'm sorry, let me-"

"Why are you apologizing to me? I'm not the one whose job you were just threatening."

"You're right," Michael cleared his throat and returned back to his chair, "I'm sorry Y/n. Truly. I don't think we've approached the topic correctly at all. Let me start over. There is, of course, some incentive for you."

Y/n sighed, and looked over at Lando. Like usual, he was already looking at her. He was letting her take the reigns of the situation, he was letting her be in charge.

Because he respects you, a small part of her brain whispered and she closed her eyes and breathed in. She wasn't thinking about that anymore. She couldn't think about him anymore.

She sat down and stared at Michael. He could continue, but that didn't mean she would agree. Lando sat down as well, glaring at Zak over his shoulder until the older man walked away from behind Y/n's chair and back to the inconspicuous corner he had been in when they started.

"We had some extra money allotted in the budget," Michael started uncomfortably, pushing his glasses up his nose. His voice was wavering and uncertain, making his British accent even thicker. Y/n seemed to have an affinity for upsetting British men this week. Call it American reparations or whatever, but she was finding the prospect quite enjoyable.

"There would be a salary increase for you, should you choose to participate in the project." Michael stated, as he shifted some papers around on the desk. He uncapped a pen and wrote down a number on a piece of company branded legal pad paper. He folded the paper and slid it across the desk. Y/n, who had begun rubbing her temples irritatedly, closed her eyes as she sighed through her nose before reaching a hand out to look. Lando's hand slid in front of hers and grasped the paper before she could.

Her eyes widened in surprise and she looked at him incredulously as he unfolded the paper Michael had passed.

"Lando," Michael began and Lando cut the man off with a scoff. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.

"You're asking the girl to put her career on the line and that's the amount that you offer?" Lando scoffed. Michael continued to try to speak but Lando held his hand up.

"Let's break this down properly before we make anymore stupid offers," Lando said, voice dripping the arrogance that typically bothered Y/n the most.

"You're asking her to stick out her neck for a PR project that may not work the way you're hoping, you'll be expecting her to keep performing her current work functions while also appearing at additional McLaren events as my partner. On top of all of that, you'll probably also want us to be making public appearances on days and times where she wouldn't be working at all anyway," Y/n thought briefly that this might be the most serious she had ever heard him sound.

"You also can't expect anyone to believe any of this if she doesn't also behave like we're dating in public, and expecting physical affection with someone she isn't actually dating is a lot to ask of someone who isn't a robot, if you weren't already aware," Lando stated patronizingly.

"And that's not even acknowledging the multiple hostile workplace environment policies you've broken in this meeting alone. I really hope you're not expecting her to sign a contract right now without a lawyer on top of that, considering that's illegal." Lando finished, staring at Michael with more anger she had ever seen him show.

"So maybe we should try a much bigger number," Lando said, leaning forward in his chair, "might I recommend doubling it?"

Why was he doing this. She hadn't even heard him out since their argument, ignoring any attempts at conversation, and now he was fighting tooth and nail in a room where no one else was defending her. Including the CEO of the company, who quite literally held his job in his hands.

Maybe that's just his charm. That he never thinks things through. That he doesn't think at all, whether it hurts someone else or himself in the process or not. It's just in his nature to fight first and ask questions later. She couldn't decide whether that was something she could handle or not.

Michael cleared his throat and wrote a number down quickly, handing it to Lando this time instead of her. Lando looked at the number and turned to look at her, nodding and handing the paper over.

Y/n fumbled with the paper slightly before opening it and exhaling sharply through her nose. Right in front of her eyes was a one, a five, and 5 whopping zeroes.

One and a half million dollars. Lando had just gotten her one and a half million dollars.

"This," Y/n started with a shaking voice, before clearing it with a harsh swallow. This was more money than she had ever seen before in her life.

"This is what you're offering me instead of my current salary?" She asked uncertainly. She was getting a headache from the tension of the furrow of her brows.

"No of course not," Lando started, never looking away from Michael.

"This is a bonus they're offering in addition to your current salary, right?" He narrowed his eyes at Michael. Michael nodded aggressively.

"Yes of course. This would be a bonus for participating in the project. You would be receiving your current salary as well for the work you were already participating in," Michael assured and his shoulders slumped in relief when Lando looked away to finally look at her.

"You don't have to make any decisions now," Lando began gently, eyes visibly softening, but Y/n could hardly hear him.

Half a million dollars would be more than enough to pay off her student loans. One and a half million dollars was more money than she even knew what to do with.

"I'll do it," She agreed.

One and a half million dollars, she reassured herself as Lando smiled at her softly. She smiled back. She was only doing this for the money; the one and a half million dollars.

Lando ignored the fluttering in his stomach as she smiled at him for the first time all day. He cheered internally. Who cared about money, this would be perfect. He would make sure to be perfect.

Lando would be the best fake boyfriend she could ever ask for, starting now.

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liked by mclaren, lilyzneimer, and 38,890 others

ynusername austria views hit different this time of year 🥴

19,208 comments

user1 you need a bark cause i can dog real loud

user2 so close op, but not quite!

user1 ... i'm too embarrassed to try again atp

user3 A SOFT LAUNCH?? ON THIS FINE TUESDAY EVENING??

user4 i HATE happy couples, they ruin my mood fr

user5 no deadass, like i hope y'all find out you're cousins

user4 she's dating a m*n i feel so sick

user5 the white men got her 🧎‍♀️

user6 you know who else is in austria 👀

user7 i want to tell you to be fr... but lowkey that does look like lando

user8 BE SO FR YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE HIS FACE

user9 i can't believe i'm lany/n truthing in god's year of 2023, but i am

user10 maybe lany/n is the friends we made along the way

user9 don't patronize me bitch iT'S RIGHT THEREEEEE

landonorris what book are you reading 🤨

ynusername stop acting like you know how to read

landnorris i didn't want to know anyways 😀👍

user11 damn girl they pay you to do this 😫 i don't even get vacation days

ynusername hi i'm saul goodman. did you know that you have rights? the constitution says you do. and so do i ☝️

user12 going on a date on a work trip, are we? 🫣

ynusername let's just call it an employee outing (;

user12 WAHT DOES THAT MEAN Y/N???

user13 OH MY GOD???

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liked by oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell, and 40,103 others

mclaren lando norris p4? more likely than you think (ignore oscar, an intern let him out of his cage again) 😞

user14 he looks so happy, no one speak to me ever again

user15 it's that y/n effect

oscarpiastri quick question! WHAT THE FUCK.

oscarpiastri i am NOT an animal 😡 i don't need a cage

lilyzneimer DON'T YELL AT HER OSCAR 🫵 I'LL HAVE THE INTERN PUT YOU BACK.

mclaren yeah oscar 🤨 watch it

oscarpiastri this isn't a funny joke 😔 this isn't haha funny

user16 lando's best results after there are rumors they've started dating... hmmmm

user17 omg not y'all starting already

user16 what can i say the fanfics write themselves

user18 oscar fans can never catch a break, huh?

user19 i knew that last post was too good to be true

user20 @/oscarpiastri what happened to bribery??

oscarpiastri sorry guys, i pissed her off 😓

user21 ig since lando's off the shit list someone had to take his place

landonorris i got p4 for you admin 🤭

mclaren this is workplace harassment

landonorris ):

mclaren 🎻🤏 (it's the world's smallest violin playing the world's saddest song)

landonorris alright, fuck you ig

user23 lando flirting in the comments and then getting turned down in the most humiliating manner, what's new

landonorris ... it wasn't that humiliating

user23 🎻🤏

landonorris STOP OT NOW.

user24 i know y/n's boyfriend is reading these comments and weeping

user25 boy oh boy do i have news for you op

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liked by user26, landonorris, and 21,844 others

f1wags Various sources have reported seeing Y/n L/n, the current McLaren social media manager and McLaren F1 Driver Lando Norris together across Austria during the GP weekend, and celebrating after. Various kisses and intimate interactions were reported by our sources, including the ones pictured above. What do we think about this new workplace romance?

9,450 comments

user26 IS THIS REAL???? IS THIS REALLLLLL??????

user27 THE PICTURES ARE THERE BUT I STILL DON'T BELIEVE IT

user28 they're so cute, it almost makes me forget that this is the most insane thing i'll see all year

user29 bro beat the norizz allegations

user30 THE KISS?? THE BEACH PICTURES??? THE DINNER HUG??? OH THEY'RE IN LOVE IN LOVE

user31 they grow up so fast

user32 he's not hot enough for her, next question!

user33 be so serious 🙄

mclaren zoo wee mama

user34 THIS IS WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF????

mclaren hubba hubba

user35 from the team account is diabolical

user36 and they say bullying isn't a love language

user37 she hated on him so hard he fell in love with her

landonorris damn right she did

user38 lando try not to be down bad challenge *impossible* *never seen before*

user39 oh i know the twitter users that have been getting hate for weeks for saying the truth are MADDDD

user40 they couldn't have been more obvious, we've been in denial

user41 the eyes chico, they never lie

user42 oh i know zak brown is throwing up over this pr nightmare

user43 right like i think people are forgetting she's an employee 💀

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liked by carlossainz55, maxverstappen1, and 77,954 others

landonorris post-p4 cooldown 🧡

25,001 comments

oscarpiastri what's all this then 🧍‍♂️

oscarpiastri i really love how you're so good about telling me things 😮‍💨

user44 someone free oscar from lany/n bro

user45 this was NOT on my 2024 bingo card

user46 i don't think anyone could have predicted lando having rizz

ynusername so true

landonorris HEY.

danielricciardo i wasn't familiar with your game lando

landonorris STOP HITTIG ON HER SHES MINE

danielricciardo damn lil bro no one is taking her from you

user47 "she's mine" down horrendous once again

user48 bro was born down horrendous i fear

carlossainz55 i can't believe you didn't tell me lando! congratulations

landonorris it was a secret you muppet 🙄 but thank you

maxverstappen1 you too make a great couple! congrats mate 🤝

ynusername this was the most max verstappen way you could have said this

maxverstappen1 still bullying me i see 😔

lilyzneimer CUTIE PATOOTIES <3 oh and hi lando

landonorris can't even be mad cause they are too damn cute 😫

lilyzneimer good answer!

bsfuser1 congratulations i guess (she was mine first) 🙄

landnorris thanks! (we can share)

bsfuser2 hurt her and i kill you!!! so cute together tho <3

landonorris you lot are fucking terrifying!! appreciate it (:

zbrownceo Congratulations you two! Can't imagine a better pair 🧡💪

landonorris Thanks Zak!!!

ynusername you gave cali kisses so i guess you're alright <3

landonorris as many kisses as my girls want

user49 MY GIRLS KMSSSS

user50 cat dad cat dad cat dad ‼️

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that's the end of act 1!!! part 2 coming shortly <3 i'm moving into college and starting classes so if updates slow down a bit just know i'm getting things out as quickly as i can ((: hope you enjoyed and feel free to leave your thoughts!!

𝙩𝙖𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

@lemon-lav @slutforpopculture @m4rt10ne @urfavsgf @sadsierra2 @96jnie @sltwins @poppyflower-22 @alliumiae @livelovesports @liberty-barnes @the-holy-trinity-l @iliwyss @awritingtree @redpool @elliotts1one @velentine @chaoticmessneutralplease @5sospenguinqueen @charizznorizz @2pagenumb @mxdi0 @cwiphswmwasohmm @tremendousstarlighttragedy @lnspipedrm @itseightbeats @tinycoffeeroom @woozarts @personwhoisther @a-beaverhausen @love-simon @annabellelee @ravisinghs-wife @chezmardybum @greantii @weekendlusting @monserelates @sapphiccloud @halleest @deamus-liv @gigigreens @morenofilm @laneyspaulding19 @lanireadss @dear-fifi @moldyshorts1997 @oliviarodrigostan13 @eugene-emt-roe @ilivbullyingjeongin @im-a-ghost666

#f1 x female reader #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula 1 #f1 #f1 smut #f1 x you #formula one #f1 imagine #f1 smau #lando norris x y/n #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #racew1nn3rs #racew1nn3rs: fake it till you make it

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emmyrosee · 1 year ago

Note

So Urm just a thought u got any…. Deep non curse sukuna angst I think it’s a good day to cry.

-anon🥢

Sukuna is nothing if not self sabotaging.

Things with you have been good. Borderline perfect; you’re the missing piece to the life he’s cursed to live, where he’s always self aware of his weaknesses and takes them out on those around him. There is no blessing, not when all he does it hurt. It’s a miracle yuuji and choso deal with his shit enough, he knows they should’ve dropped him off the face of the earth with the pain he causes.

Now, it seems, it’s your turn.

Your turn to be on the receiving end of his fury, his rage and heartbreak, your only chance to escape being to leave him; maybe that’s all he wants: you to leave him.

He stopped calling you. Stopped answering texts. When his brothers and parents ask about you, he merely stays silent, opting against making you sound more divine than they know you are.

You’re perfect. You’re not for him.

Theres a pounding on the door that goes unanswered by everyone in the house, and he groans as he gets up to answer it, only to reveal your frame in the door.

You look distraught. You’re angry, he can see that in your eyes, there’s a betrayal buried deep in them. Your face holds a scowl and your breathing picks up at the sight of him.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes and walks away from the open door, knowing you’ll follow him no matter what. “So?”

“So?” You ask, offended. “You and I are supposed to be in love, supposed to be partners in crime-“

“Im hearing a lot of ‘supposed to be,’ and not a lot of ‘have to be’” he snaps. He hears you take a breath to say something, but you don’t. He screws his eyes shut. “Get over it. I didn’t sign a contract with my blood saying I have to come to your every beck and call.”

“Sukuna. Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being an asshole,” you say firmly. “Let me in. I’m here. What’s going on?”

“I’m sick of you.”

At his blunt words, you gasp, and sukuna feels the bile rise up his throat. He’ll do anything though. Anything to make you stop loving him. “What…?”

“I’m sick. Of you,” he echos. “You checking up on me, demanding we go out, flaunting me off to your friends like I’m some damn trophy-“

“Because I love you!” You hiss. “I want to show you off, make the world see how lucky I am to have you!”

“‘Show me off?’” He cackles, spinning on his heel to face you. “There’s nothing to show. I am nothing to you. You, are nothing to me.”

You reel back at his words, waterline swelling with tears as you are wounded by his words. “You think because I take you out on a few dates, we kissed a little and I held that little hand of yours, that you’re anything special to me?” He shakes his head with a cruel chuckle, “I’ve done that to every broad I’ve ever been with. You’re not special. Never were anything more than a body to me.”

You puff out your chest like an animal trying to protect itself, “then what about the nights we cuddled?” You demand. “What about our late night trips to McDonald’s or 7/11? What about the nights you cried in my chest about your miseries and hardships, and I carded your hair and cradled you close to my body?”

“What about them!” He yells, the cracks in his confidents breaking. Those moments mean the world to him, and for him to now force you to use them against him has his blood running cold. “Yeah, I let you see the softer bits of me. Who cares?”

“I do!” You wail. “Because it made me think, for one second, that we could be something special! Something we earned and worked for together!”

“I think you forget,” he snarls, “I lived a fine life without you in it. We can go right fucking back the minute you started thinking this bullshit.”

You flinch at the harshness of his words. It’s working. Sukuna feels it. The love you have for him dwindling, the connection being frayed and severed with every pass of his words-

“Then do it,” you whisper. “If your life was so great loveless, then go back. But just know, I’ll never stop loving you. Ever. You’ll never have the peace of the freedom of heartbreak when it comes to me.”

With that, you take a step back, followed by another, but your eyes never leave his. Your bottom lip wobbles and you grab your coat over the back of his chair. He watches as you cover your mouth with your hand before dashing out, slamming the door behind you and leaving a trail of tears. His eyes are fixed on the door that’s finally stopped shaking on its hinges from the slam, as if waiting for you to sweep back in and demand his love, demand him to care and want you back.

But it doesn’t come. You don’t come back.

He can’t fight the urge to swipe everything off the counter with his arms in a fury, plates and cups flying off and shattering under the force. He pants like a voracious beast, angry and predatory, but he’s grounded as he steps on a shard of crystal from his mom’s wine glass.

And now, rather than chase you down the street, begging for your forgiveness, he sits down, using his hands to pick up the bigger shards. There’s an unfamiliar trickling down his cheek of hot tears, one splatters to the floor, and that’s it. Sukuna, with the monster he worked so hard to keep at bay, ruins another paradise in his life.

He cries alone.

All alone.

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dreamersparacosm · 23 days ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part four)

part four ; prom: white house edition

warnings ; alcohol consumption, oc spiraling hard af, emma and paul ?? deserves its own warning

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; *comes out from behind corner, tucks hair shyly behind ear* heyyy.. how yall doing..?

pls no tomatoes thrown at me for how long this part took. mommy was unfortunately quite busy AND this story is taking a complete left turn in my brain. let’s unpack that real quick, shall we? initially, this story was supposed to be a clean ten part fic. however i got inspired by one of abby jiminez’s books and could not restrain myself from exploring a longer slowburn with these two because it fits them SO WELL. so, moral of the story, is you’ll be seeing more of them. how many parts you ask? idk, ask someone else fr

anyways! onto this part — there’s a lot going on here. this whole White House gala is just jungkook circling oc like a hawk and her slowly, sloooooowly softening at the edges (but not too damn much). forgive my girl for not immediately succumbing to him, she grew up in a poor family and doesn’t like to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders (lol see what i did there)

please enjoy to your heart’s content, and read slow (like it’s legit 12k words. what you in a rush for??!!) ALSOOOOSDKD MAJORRRRR MF shoutout to @httpsincity, one of my cutie little beta readers who listened to me spiral about being true to their characters for like an hour and struggled to use box.com😔

playlist here

series masterlist here

The red dress was a mistake of catastrophic proportions.

You’ll be paying the consequences of it until you’re 85 and muttering about shapewear in a retirement home with subpar pudding.

It pinches at your hips, digs into your ribs, and you’re walking like someone has a gun to your back. You’re also sweating in places you didn’t know you had sweat glands.

You had pitched every excuse to not attend the gala known to man for the past week. Claimed to have contracted a rare airborne virus (possibly made up), hinted at a tragic scalp burn from a curling iron incident, even floated the idea that you were morally opposed to large public gatherings.

Jenna wouldn’t budge.

“It’s good optics,” she called it, waving you off like an uncooperative wedding planner.

You could give two shits about optics. What you do care about is being home in your sweats with a charcoal face mask on and Season 4 of Suits playing in the background while you judge Meghan Markle’s legal ethics.

Now, you’re trapped beneath an arch of peonies and imported orchids that you're quite certain cost more than your entire salary. You’re lingering — loitering, really — by this floral monstrosity, heels already in mortal pain.

To add insult to injury, three interns glide past you, high on sparkling wine and great expectations. “Did you see the dessert table?” one of them squeals. “It’s shaped like the White House!”

Avoid the dessert table at all costs. Got it.

You stare after them, slack-jawed. There is simply no way on God’s green earth these interns are going to have a better time at this event than you. You skipped Suits for this.

Pushing off the floral arch, you roll your shoulders back, and decide that if you are stuck here, if you are doing this, then so be it.

If this is the hand life is going to deal you, then you might as well not bite it off.

Tentatively, you step into the Hay Adams ballroom like you’re being lowered into a trap. The lighting is spilling warm buttery hues across the room, strategically placed crystal fixtures drawing people under them like moths to a flame. The marble floors are polished so well that when you look down, you can make out every pore on your face.

There are waiters floating through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks you don’t recognize and appetizers that look too sophisticated to actually enjoy. Some band is playing near the front, but it’s jazz so it mostly just sounds like everyone forgot the melody at the same time.

You pause a few steps in, eyes scanning the room, instinct already kicking in: assess, categorize, survive. There’s a burn in your chest, a familiar swoop of anxiety that overtakes you.

You’re mid-gaze into the ballroom, performing what can only be described as an elite-level social avoidance, when something — or rather, someone incredibly clumsy — collides with your left side.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Emma’s voice accuses, latching onto your arm desperately, like she’s afraid you might jump out the nearest window. There’s still enough time that you might.

She smells like a perfume counter had a passionate affair with the open bar. Her lipstick has migrated slightly north of her mouth, body vibrating with the energy of someone who discovered the champagne fountain approximately four glasses ago.

“Good lord,” you mutter, finding your balance both literally and metaphorically. “How long have you been terrorizing this event?”

“Unclear,” she grins stupidly. “Time is fake. You look hot by the way.”

You blink at her, absorbing her physical assessment of your appearance. You can't say hot is what you were going for. Scary, maybe. Not hot. “I’ll take it.”

“You absolutely should,” she insists, squeezing your arm. “Wait, did you just get here?”

The way Emma’s looking at you tells you that you probably need to lie, need to tell her you got here precisely an hour ago and she just somehow missed you. However after years of working together, there’s nothing that gets past her. You whine, shoulders slumping, “C’mon, you know I hate this stupid fucking gala.”

She rolls her eyes, yanking your arm as if she’s dragging her reluctant cat to the vet. “You say that every year and still end up at the after afterparty at someone’s penthouse.”

Okay, it was one time. You were 24, way too drunk off Moet & Chandon, and the man you were with smelled like a mix of bergamot and cedar. It was nice. Sue you.

Your heels betray you on the slippery marble tiles, sending you forward. “Emma, I really don’t—”

“No, absolutely not,” she declares, voice dropping to a dangerous register that means she’s made an executive decision about your night. “The ‘silently judging everyone’ portion of tonight’s programming has been canceled. You’re not allowed to roll your eyes in corners until you get drunk enough to start socializing.”

You attempt to come up with a plausible defense, but she’s already steering you past the dessert table, which has become a feeding ground for the interns. One of them clutches what appears to be the Capitol dome covered in chocolate ganache. Your soul recoils instinctively.

“Have you tried the constitution-shaped cookies?” another squeals, eyes wide with wonder.

“Who the fuck let them in here?” you whisper mostly to yourself with narrowed eyes.

Emma catches it, laugh bellowing off the walls and above all the chatter as she guides you around the ballroom like her emotional support pet. “Be nice. They still believe journalism might save democracy. It’s adorable.”

You scan the room, heels skidding with each step Emma drags you. There’s the reporter who “borrowed” your framework for his feature, the communications director who used to hook up with Jenna before she remembered she had a Hinge+ subscription, and that insufferable New York Times correspondent who once corrected your pronunciation of ‘bipartisan’ so smugly you considered a career change.

Several other journalists you recognize make eye contact across the room. Paul also looks over at you, gives you The Nod, a universal signal that communicates professional acknowledgement but could also mean you look hot (based on Emma’s drunken opinion).

Emma navigates you closer to the bar, halting right in front of two barstools, “Okay. You need alcohol. I need you to have fun. Both seem fairly easy to accomplish with the help of the other.”

“Just so you’re aware, I despise everything about this,” you sneer, fixing the strap on your shoulder that threatens to fall loose.

“You say that like it’s breaking news.”

It isn’t. You hate the lighting designed to flatter the undeserving, the artificial laughter, the way everyone pretends to be off-duty while mentally writing Monday’s opinion piece. You hate the performative glamor and calculated smiles and the overwhelming pressure to network when all you want is to dematerialize through the nearest exit.

Emma’s already ordering you a vodka soda, draped halfway across the bartop, projecting her voice as if she’s sober enough to make decisions for either of you. You catch her saying “absolutely no lime—I can handle my liquor” and you log out of that conversation so fast before you can do something stupid like get involved. Emma gets hot-headed when she drinks, and although it’s not often, you’ve learned to turn a blind eye when the inevitable does occur.

You let your gaze perform a sweep of the room, mentally cataloguing emergency exits for once it hits midnight and all hell starts breaking loose.

Paul, three people over. Awkward eye contact, check. You both give the other a tight-lipped smile and move onto the next person in your line of sight.

Gavin’s talking to his wife enthusiastically, gesturing in a way that suggests he’s either four rum and cokes deep or recounting a professional tale where he singlehandledly saved journalism. His narrative reaches a dramatic pause as he catches your eye mid-sentence. Your internal alarm system flashes a bright, unambiguous absolutely not across your forehead.

Your eyes glide past the dessert station, beyond another towering floral display that looks like the florist had a meltdown, and land on Sana in the far corner. She’s laughing at something, body angled like she’s engaged fully in what the other person is saying. There’s a soft radiance about her tonight — not that she hasn’t always been stunning — and it reminds you that she’s one of those people who’s universally beloved with no effort. Hell, even you love her when she gives into your interrogations and spills Fox’s insight into certain current events. You take an imaginary sip from your yet-to-materialize drink and mentally file away a good for her with approximately sixty percent sincerity.

But then, a few strategic inches to her left, you discover exactly who Sana is honed in on.

Jungkook.

He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, head tipped towards Sana, listening intently. His shirt is white, crisp and fitted, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Enough that you can see his tattoo sleeve — bold that he would do that at White House prom but, whatever, to each their own.

His tie is loosened, a glass in his left hand, half-full with something dark and his watch catches the light when you look at it.

Which is not to say you’re looking.

You’re scanning. It’s a sweep. An environmental awareness thing. Nothing more.

Except then he nods at something Sana says and mid-turn, his eyes snag on you.

Those dark brown eyes flick up, mouth relaxing. His brows twitch upward slightly. You nearly step backwards from the intensity.

His gaze travels downward. A flicker of assessment so understated yet brazenly deliberate that your skin erupts into goosebumps under the fabric of your dress. Suddenly, it feels like your body is operating at a temperature that violates several laws of thermodynamics. There’s also a weird pit in your stomach that feels like you just went barreling 100 miles per hour down a rollercoaster.

His eyes snap up to meet yours again. Your skin prickles with a wave of awareness that starts at your nape and cascades downward.

If you’re not totally blind, you’re about ninety percent sure Jungkook just checked you out head to toe.

Are you drunk? Did Emma somehow magically slip you a roofie when she stumbled across the ballroom with you?

Jungkook, the same dude who got caught re-watching your press briefing, the one who’s been purposefully making your life hell since you were a freshman in college.

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your throat, suspended in the no-man’s-land of Things We Will Not Be Discussing. Those eyes of yours are getting you into more trouble than you’d like. You swivel your body away from him, redirect your attention back to Emma, who’s now negotiating with the poor bartender like she’s brokering Middle East peace talks, all for a drink you're not entirely sure you want anymore.

The last real interaction you had with Jungkook was Tuesday, when you discovered him perched on the steps of the west wing, watching your press pool briefing like he was some championship chess player contemplating their opponent’s queen.

Monroe came down with some vague “flu” that’s kept her out of meetings, which — to your luck — means you haven’t had a reason to step into the same room as him since then. Honestly it’s been a little peaceful. No hallway stalking, no press conferences, no internal panic about whether he’s going to pull the rug out from under you with another cheating tactic.

But still, seeing him here now, in that shirt, sends a weird ripple through your body. Like vertigo. Like nausea. Like—

No. It’s clearly too hot in here. It’s just the combination of societal oppression and your body’s sudden, urgent desire to evacuate itself from your consciousness.

Emma thrusts an overflowing vodka soda into your hand like she just negotiated a hostage release. “It’s a little strong. I tipped extra in cash so he gave me a pour that’s probably illegal in three states.”

You nod numbly. Sip, And then cough because, yeah, it’s mostly vodka. Apparently, Emma’s definition of “a little strong” means “practically moonshine with ice.”

You take another substantial sip — purely medicinal — and direct a silent, desperate prayer to whatever deity oversees your life that Jungkook has found something more interesting to look at than you. Sana, please, keep that man engaged.

“So, hear me out.”

Yes, Emma, that is exactly what you’ll do to keep your brain occupied from Sana and those tattoos and the glance that got thrown your way that feels dirty. Borderline explicit.

“Hm?” you hum, taking another massive gulp of your vodka with a splash of soda, trying to calm the storm of unwelcome feelings swirling inside you.

She leans against the bar, holding her own martini glass hostage. “We should go talk to those guys over there.”

You squint at the ominous tall figures her nail is pointing towards. She can’t possibly be serious. “What guys?!”

“Those ones!” She tilts her head so aggressively it’s a miracle her earrings don’t fall off. “You know, Paul, his friend in the blue tie.. He’s like, kinda hot.”

You guess, but refusal is your middle name right now.

“I do not want to do that.” You deadpan at her, bewildered, sharing a look reserved for work best friends who have clearly crossed several lines of judgement.

Emma’s basically vibrating with excitement as she studies the two men like she’s just discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet after a week of intermittent fasting. When you follow her gaze, sizing up the two men, you realize… you don’t really know that dude in the blue tie. Never seen him a day in your life. And you happen to know every correspondent that walks through those doors.

The first thing you notice is his height — six feet tall at the minimum. He has shaggy brown hair, clearly possessing fortunate genetics, and has a wholesome, eager energy about him that just screams “golden retriever.”

You could probably eat him for dinner.

Emma whines beside you, stomping her heel down, “Come on, what happened to the old [Y/N]? Remember… a few months ago… we went to that bar on 9th street…”

Now that she mentions it, you’ve been actively trying to scrub that entire night from your hard drive until Rosalie brought it up a few days ago.

“Some memories are meant to remain buried in the graveyard of my brain, Em,” You cut her off, desperately trying to prevent your most embarrassing memories from being aired in public.

“Just a little fun?” she nudges your shoulder.

“I don’t—”

But Emma, the hot-headed drunk she is, is already moving, your hand gripped tightly in hers. Your vodka soda tilts over the edge, spilling a little on the marble floor. There’s something admirable about her complete disregard for social conventions, the way she approaches interpersonal chaos.

She weaves you through the crowd, mumbling ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘pardon me’ at a rate that earns her a few crass side-glances. You find yourself apologizing for each shoe she accidentally steps on.

You’re trying — genuinely attempting to embrace the evening, live in the moment, take a page out of Emma’s book. But your dress has developed its own mind tonight, the air feels thick enough to bottle, and every time you perform a quick pass over the room, you feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest like a caterpillar escaping its cocoon.

The entire experience feels like standing in a glittery fishbowl where everyone’s pretending the water isn’t slowly reaching to a boil.

You begin after another few steps in what feels like the wrong direction. “You know, I really think—”

She barely looks at you over her shoulder, “Respectfully, shut up.”

Yes, sergeant Emma.

You attempt to reorganize your posture, rolling your shoulders back in a futile effort to project confidence. Trying to breathe without appearing like you’re still actively monitoring those emergency exits (although you did spot one in the far right corner). Trying not to look like you’re not cataloguing every face in the room while Emma drags you through the depths of this crowd, as if it’s some march to your final breaths.

All things considered, you’re not looking for anyone specific.

Obviously.

That would be ridiculous.

Except… your gaze does go rogue again.

Again, those basic survival instincts are just kicking in. But there is this inexplicable gravitational pull, this soft magnetic curiosity that keeps dragging your attention, past the florals, past the swarm of interns at the dessert table.

Before you can even think of moving your eyes to that far corner again, you take a sip of your drink forcibly. The vodka burns a straight line down your throat.

Emma parks you in front of Paul and his blue-tied buddy, releasing your hand almost immediately upon contact. “Heyyyy, Paul. How’s the night treating you?”

Her voice is sickly sweet, completely and totally unlike the Emma you see five days a week in the CNN press room.

He blinks heavily. “Pretty good, Emma. You doing alright?”

It’s endearing how he’s trying to act all cool, calm and collected while clearly having no idea what to do with Emma’s sudden attention. By all means, he really wouldn’t know how to handle all of her. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, tan skin glowing under the golden tone of the chandelier, eyes piercing into his own.

You think he might cream his pants.

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” Emma purrs, leaning in intimately. You want to disappear into the nearest floral arrangement. “You know, I was just thinking — we don’t really talk much around the office.”

Paul blinks again, looking genuinely confused. “Yeah, well, you did say I was weird for listening to NPR during my lunch break.”

“NPR, sh-menPR,” Emma waves dismissively, as if yesterday’s mockery was merely a charming misunderstanding rather than a full-on ten minute roast session about his “geriatric taste in current events.”

Somewhere in the distance, a male voice bellows with laughter. You wish there was something to laugh about at this exact moment.

You’re having trouble processing the fact that Emma — who literally just yesterday compared Paul’s open-toed office shoes to a cry for help in leather — is now batting her eyelashes like he’s the last available bachelor in the D.C area.

Meanwhile, Blue Tie Guy’s gaze has been ping-ponging back and forth between you and Emma. You can practically see the calculations happening behind his golden retriever eyes: Who’s her friend? What’s the dynamic here? Are we running a two-man?

No, Blue Tie Guy. You are not running a two-man.

You remain silent while Emma blabbers on, mouth super-glued to your vodka soda, which has become alarmingly depleted despite your memory of only taking a few sips.

Blue Tie shifts his weight, obviously debating whether to introduce himself to you or stare awkwardly into the distance. You take the final sip of your drink and pray that Emma’s sudden lust for Paul doesn’t require you to participate in whatever bizarre social experiment she’s conducting.

Paul’s now doing that thing that guys do where he tries to lean casually against something that isn’t there, catching himself before gravity betrays him. “So, uh, what changed your mind? About the whole… talking thing?”

He’s helpless.

Emma flashes a smile that could probably power a small grid. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises tonight.”

“Right…” Paul nods. He spares a passing glance at you, an afterthought to his attraction to Emma. “Surprises. That’s… good?”

You’re witnessing what can only be described as the world’s most awkward mating dance… if mating dances involved this much uncertainty about whether anyone wants to be actually participating.

Emma’s radiating pheromones. “I like your tie.” She reaches out, feeling the fabric beneath her fingers.

Paul’s entire face turns an embarrassing shade of red. “Thanks. It’s, uh… my grandpa’s.”

“Vintage,” Emma hums solemnly. “Very nice.”

You’re so absorbed in this exchange that you almost miss Blue Tie Guy’s approach, an expression of friendliness on his face that means he’s been psyching himself up for this interaction for the past five minutes you’ve stood there.

Why the fuck did you wear this red dress again?

“I’m Steve,” he says, extending his hand.

You accept his handshake against your better judgment. This wasn’t exactly penciled into tonight’s agenda, which had primarily consisted of avoid making eye contact with anyone who might expect conversation.

“[Y/N],” you respond, and Steve grins, teeth on full display. He definitely had braces in middle school. Professional teeth whitening too.

Theoretically, he seems charming. Steve (Rest in Peace, Blue Tie Guy) is objectively attractive. He definitely photographs well at family events.

But the problem is your brain has apparently decided that a pleasant conversation with an attractive stranger falls somewhere below a voluntary root canal on a list of things you want to do tonight.

“So what do you do for work?”

Oh sweet, sweet Steve.

Any man who’s gotten laid before knows no woman wants to talk about work. They want to talk about anything but deadlines, their coworkers, and their boss.

“Correspondent.”

That’ll be all for tonight, folks.

It’s pretty clear he’s Paul’s plus-one, and while you also were afforded the luxury of bringing one, you didn’t really have anyone. Rosalie left mid-week on another voyage with her Daddy, and you were honestly still a little weird with her after your last conversation.

“Oh, cool. I work in private equity not too far from here.” He tilts his body into you, body language sending you all the signals. Steve puffs out his chest a little, like that’s supposed to have you begging him to bend you over the dessert table.

“That’s nice,” you tightly smile. “How long you been in D.C?”

And then your mind drifts off to your cozy little apartment. He’s definitely making sounds, mouth moving with hand gestures involved but you’ve completely dissociated into the land of face masks and Netflix.

You catch fragments of it: best opportunities in private equity are where the politicians are, passionate about bridging the gap between financial institutions and government (yawn), all the ex-New Yorkers are moving out here (fake news).

You nod politely, ignoring how barren your glass seems now that you’re talking to someone who isn’t Emma.

“I just think your job is really cool, like, how politics is evolving. Like the digital landscape is changing everything, you know?”

He has the energy of a paper towel. Like the inside of a dentist’s office. Your brain has started playing elevator music.

He smiles, pleased with himself as if he thinks he just said something incredibly profound.

Glancing down at your glass, you stare at the melting ice. Still empty. Fantastic. “Yeah, totally.”

“Paul said you work with him at CNN?” Steve’s eyes light up.

You shake your head agreeably. You don’t really know when they exchanged information about you but you don’t really want to ask.

“That’s so cool,” he rushes to say, “I was actually talking to someone at Politico the other day about all this. It’s just like.. your work is so important.”

Damn you, Jenna. This is exactly what you had nightmares about.

If you’re running right on schedule, the Reuters editor should be appearing at any minute now to perform a drunken rendition of WAP, exclusively singing Cardi B’s verse.

You open your mouth to say something bitter but close it again. You’re almost certain he’s trying to sleep with you, which is fine, you guess, but you really just want to go home at an acceptable hour.

You offer a polite smile and nod again, and that encourages him to continue. You are now being held hostage by a man with the least amount of edge on this forsaken planet.

“Paul says you’re a killer in press briefings,” he lowers his voice, leaning in. “I’d love to see that sometime.”

“It’s… all on YouTube.”

This topic should be completely irrelevant to you. Who cares? Every press briefing has been filmed since the dawn of time.

And yet, a flash of a distant memory you tried to bury wanders to the forefront of your brain — Jungkook, planted on those West Wing steps, with a notebook splayed open, laptop playing your section of a press briefing.

The memory crawls up your spine, leaving behind a shiver that you immediately blame on the air conditioning.

“Right,” his cheeks flush a little. “No, yeah. I meant like.. In person.”

Please, Steve. We don’t have to do this.

“Hm,” you utter passively. “Maybe at the next briefing.”

Steve chuckles like you’ve made a joke, even though you absolutely have not. “That’d be so fun,” he says as if you just invited him to Disneyworld. “Do you get called on, or is it random?”

“It’s not a raffle.”

“Oh, obviously, I didn’t mean it like that,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant it’d be cool to see you in action. I bet it’s intense.”

It is. It’s cutthroat. You argue with men on the daily, fight to get your question in. But right now, none of those words are making it past the dull throb in your temple or the vodka-less self-awareness happening inside your head.

You glance down at your cup. It is, without a question, empty. A ghost of ice.

“Yeah, definitely that.”

Steve leans in, undeterred. “You ever get nervous?”

Is he really flirting via patronization?

You flash a tight smile. “Not really.”

He laughs loudly at that, beaming at you like he just successfully completed a meet-cute you’ll be telling your kids about.

It’s obvious to you he’s waiting for something. For what, you don’t know. More insight into the wonderful world of journalism? A Linkedin connection? You’re not sure, and you also don’t want to find out.

“Excuse me,” you say as nicely as you can manage. Most women have gathered this skill by the age of five; learning how to exit conversations with just the bat of their eyelashes to avoid harsh confrontation. “Gonna go grab a refill.”

You wave your empty cup in front of him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that suggests he’ll try and follow you to the bar, use this as some kind of excuse to get you nice and drunk.

But you’re turning around quicker than he can move, and all you hear behind you is “Cool! I’ll be here!”

Of course you will Steve.

You glance over your shoulder once you’re a safe distance away, ensuring Emma hasn’t been abducted or listening to NPR with Paul. But nope — there she is, giggling with him like they’ve known each other since birth. Her hand is resting on his bicep, and he looks like he might explode if she doesn't remove it soon.

This night is absolutely fucking bonkers.

A red dress is getting you in the worst situations, your coworker is flirting with a man she’s spent years publicly ridiculing, and somewhere in the midst of it all, you feel completely out of place.

You slam your elbows onto the mahogany and slightly damp surface of the bartop, chin dropping into your palms, social battery exploding in a shower of sparks.

“Vodka soda, please,” you tell the bartender the second you make eye contact with him. “And a shot. Dealer’s choice. Surprise me.”

You’re feeling dangerously open to possibilities.

The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods. You don’t particularly care if he serves you tequila or rum or battery acid, but at this point, if it burns going down, it’s doing exactly what you need it to do.

You let out a deep exhale through your nose. You’re fairly certain you came here with some kind of plan — something involving networking, the word ‘optics’ and liquidating the open bar. But the details have become frustratingly unclear after what feels like several hours trapped in a room with too many floral arrangements.

The bartender returns, sliding both drinks towards you sympathetically. You contemplate the shot — some yellow liquid, kind of fruity — and decide a sip of your vodka soda to cleanse the palate is probably the best way to go.

And then you feel it. An unfortunate warmth behind your body, the heat of a person near you. You swear to god, if Steve followed you, you’ll call security—

“Wow,” a voice begins, smooth like honey poured over a knife. “So we’re just letting civilians into press galas these days.”

The sigh that escapes you could probably be heard from space.

One of your hands, the one not clutching your drink, promptly facepalms.

“Please don’t start,” you mutter into your palm. “I’m one drink away from faking a fainting spell.”

But then your stomach does that thing again. That ridiculous little drop it did earlier in the night, followed by a flutter that feels suspiciously like anticipation wrapped in nausea. Your rational brain would very much like to blame this on Emma’s nuclear-strength vodka concoction rather than acknowledge it as anything resembling interest.

That would just be inconvenient, and absolutely not something you’ll process while you’re wearing a red dress that’s already testing your limits.

You don’t turn around. Some survival instinct within you is warning you that eye contact with the origin of that voice would be the equivalent of staring into a solar eclipse.

Hopefully, if you ignore him long enough, he might dissolve back into whatever corner of the ballroom he emerged from, taking with him the reminder that your body now apparently has formed opinions about him that your brain would like to shut off.

Apparently, peace was not something the universe promised for you tonight.

He moves around the bar to claim the space beside you, hips angled and shoulders brushing the air near yours. The dark brown liquid in his cup sloshes as he adjusts to the small centimeters of wiggle room.

The scent of him hits you in waves — first his drink, all expensive whiskey, followed by his cologne that always smells like bergamot and cedar. It’s familiar. Nice.

You stare down into your own drink and the untouched shot that’s sitting beside you, mocking you.

“Didn’t peg you for a vodka soda girl,” Jungkook observes. His rings catch the lighting as he raises his own glass. Your eyes stay locked on them. “Figured you were more of a dry martini, twist-of-lemon kinda girl.”

You refuse to grant him the satisfaction of eye contact. “I don’t want to be perceived tonight. Somehow I feel like ordering that kind of drink is asking for it.”

He laughs, and the pit in your stomach drops even further you’re certain it’s on the marble floors. “Ah. Hiding in plain sight during this event? Classic CIA. You sure you not a narc?”

You finally turn your head to look over at him. Naturally, he’s already intently looking back.

His chin is tilted, a little curve playing at the corners of his mouth. His hair is disheveled, top strands doing interesting things near his temples.

His lips —and wow, your observational skills have apparently decided to become deeply unprofessional tonight— are glossy, something that normally happens when someone’s spent the night drinking liquor. A flush washes over his cheekbones, and you take a peek at the scar you noticed the other day on his cheek.

You briefly wonder where he got it from.

“You’re staring.”

You blink. He is insane. You are not.

“I’m assessing,” you correct, taking what you can only hope looks like a casual sip of your drink.

“Assessing what, exactly?”

My escape route, you think, but instead say, “Whether you’re drunk enough for me to win an argument.”

His laugh is easier this time. “Not even close. You’ll have to rely on insults other than my appearance or work ethic tonight.”

“Damn,” you mumble, peering into your glass. Somehow, despite yourself, you barely notice you’re almost smiling. “There goes my strategy.”

“Ah, I’ve missed this,” he begins. “You, snapping at me. The thrill of not knowing if I’ll make it out of the room alive.”

You arch a brow. “You’re a masochist.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like watching you be better than everyone else in the room.”

That lands in your chest like a dropped weight. Just drops right into your ribcage and sits there. Did everyone in the room inhale laughing gas before you got here?

But he doesn’t let it sit there too long for you to overthink it. “I mean, not that the bar’s high,” he adds, “Half of any briefing room’s asleep on their feet.”

“Don’t.” you warn, lifting your drink to your lips. You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking him not to do. Don’t be nice? Don’t notice things?

He continues on, eyes twinkling, “With Monroe out, I haven’t even gotten a chance to try and give you a run for your money.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “She’s out sick, not dead.”

“Right. The flu.. Or the plague. Whatever it was.”

“She’ll be back by Monday.” You roll your eyes. “And if not, I’ve got about twenty pages of questions I’m emailing her way.”

“Mm.” The sound rumbles in his throat as he swirls his drink, and your eyes can’t help but flicker down to his rolled-up cufflinks, his tattoos peeking out underneath. “True.”

A pause unfurls between you two, and you want to crawl under the bar and die.

“You know..” he says casually. “I thought you'd been avoiding me this week. Which would be adorable, if you weren’t so obvious about it.”

Literally what on earth is he talking about? The only reason you haven’t run into him is because your only shared project is out on indefinite leave due to the plague.

You chuckle uninterestedly at that. “Avoiding you implies I think about you long enough to plan my schedule around you.”

“Right,” Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours, and you immediately fidget with the straw in your drink. “So, you not coming into the Fox room once this week to ask about any new updates to the student visa crisis..”

“Got my own intel.”

“Didn’t show up at happy hour on Thursday to make fun of my new piece?”

“Calendar management. I had better things to do.”

His smile unfolds slowly. “Of course. My bad.”

Your brows pinch before you can stop them. A soundless what leaves from your parted lips. There’s a lag in your brain, like someone forgot to hit play again, and you just… stand there, Processing.

What you thought was just fortunate coincidences was apparently strategic hiding tactics. You weren’t doing it on purpose, not one bit. It’s not like you sat down with your calendar and a red pen, plotting routes that would minimize Jungkook encounters. But now that he’s pointed it out, you’re forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that your body has been making decisions about your proximity to him before your brain can.

You do your best to puff your chest out. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he quips, but his eyes suggest otherwise. Suggest, unfortunately, that he’s been doing his own study on you and reached some conclusions he will indeed be sharing.

“Well, clearly, you have been.” You take another sip of your drink, hardly noticing you’re down to your final few sips.

“Every time I look around lately, I don’t see you or hear your little opinions. It’s hard to miss.” The smile on his face imprints deeper into his skin.

You snort, placing your drink down. “Congrats, you’ve finally scared me off.”

“Oh come on,” he leans in, far past your comfort zone, and now you’re inhaling too much of him and your head is slightly spinning. “You’re not that easy to scare. I’d know.”

“Really?” you scoff incredulously. “You’d know?”

“I would,” he tuts, bumping his shoulder with yours. You move your body an inch farther away.

“I guess it’s not all that weird you think that,” you agree, letting your gaze wander the overstuffed ballroom before landing back on him. “You are practically studying me.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and that pit in your stomach returns when you realize how big his biceps look from this angle. “Studying you?”

“Steps of the West Wing ring any bells? My voice echoing out into the universe, your notebook wide open..?”

The image burns into the crevices of your brain. And now that you’re rehashing it out loud, you’re admitting something incredibly mortifying. Him, sat upon the steps in the sunlight, has been haunting the halls of your mind like an uninvited guest.

He has the audacity to smile like this is some charming story you’ll share at the holiday party this year. “Ah,” he shifts his weight onto his other foot. “That.”

“Yes, that,” you echo drily. “Care to explain? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to copy me for the next press briefing.”

There’s a flicker of amusement that appears on his features — mixed in with surprise or appreciation for the directness of your words. Like he wasn’t expecting you to address it head-on, which makes you wonder what kind of avoidant people he usually deals with.

“You want the truth?” He ducks his head towards you, looking around like he’s about to impart the president’s nuclear codes.

“Is that even possible coming from you?” Your pointer finger jabs into his chest. Truthfully, both the alcohol and the way your head is reeling from the proximity of him have the move lacking any real punch, but it still leaves you a little bewildered.

His laugh comes softer this time. Beneath your finger, the muscles are hard and his heartbeat stable. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve put your palm over an open flame. “I was trying to figure out how you do it.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Make it look effortless.” He gestures vaguely into the open air. “You ask questions that make people tell you things they didn’t plan to reveal. It’s… intriguing.”

You tilt your head and shift your weight onto another heel. A quick glance over your shoulder like maybe someone else heard this too, because surely you didn’t hallucinate whatever the hell just came out of his mouth.

“So you thought the best approach was to… lurk my stuff? Like a stalker?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds significantly less charming than I thought it would be.” He takes a final swig of his drink.

“You’re a fucking freak, Jungkook.”

His eyes never linger from yours, almost daring you to keep going, like this is some sick, twisted game he enjoys playing every night.

It feels as if the room is closing in on you.

“Sounds like it left a bit of an impression on you,” he replies smoothly.

“Oh I’ve told my therapist allll about it,” you bite back. “Right after we finished unpacking how you got your little paws on Kara Devlin’s quote.”

He pauses for a second before chuckling under his breath. Something involuntary and deeply stupid happens in your chest cavity. You stare down into your melted drink and remind yourself that Jungkook has been unreasonably irritating and easy to look at since you met him eight years ago. None of this is breaking news.

“So you’re still mad, I’m assuming.” He shakes his head. “Come on, it was nothing. Name of the game. You liked arguing with me before we were paid to do it.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” you deadpan. “You know what really gets me going? Espionage.”

He grins at that, but not with a mean expression. “Same here.”

You side-eye him before turning back to the bartender who’s now juggling 45 drunk orders, “I’m going to need another drink if you’re gonna stand here all night.”

“Make it two,” He downs the rest of the liquid in his cup down his throat and you shift away from him when his elbow brushes against yours.

Emma’s favorite bartender is busy arguing with a New York Times correspondent, so you opt for the girl who seems more interested in texting someone back on her phone than taking your drink order.

Your mouth parts open to speak when she finally puts her phone down, sauntering over to you while fixing her hair as she spots Jungkook beside you. “Hi, can—”

“Can we get two vodka sodas please?”

He’s far closer than you’d like him to be, warmth radiating off him like a human furnace. Jungkook’s displaced himself behind you — just a smidge, with one hand pressed onto the bar, caging you in — enough for the girl bartender to notice, sigh and nod before pulling up two clean glasses. He’s in your nostrils with that smoky scent of whiskey, in your ears with the hoarseness of his voice.

God, why is he so close? Why is he standing like that? Why is your skin doing that thing where it feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical outlet?

Please, please let this bartender be the kind of professional who minds her own business. The last thing you need is someone else cataloguing the clear tension crackling between you two like a livewire.

You fixate on her bartending skills, terrified to acknowledge anything else. He moves behind you again, his other elbow brushing against your back as he puts it somewhere.

That stupid, treacherous flutter returns. A whole swarm of butterflies or something more like wasps that you immediately begin exterminating mentally. Get away, you absolute pests.

“Here you go,” she presses her lips in a tight smile as she slides the two drinks towards you both. She takes another moment to eye Jungkook before moving on to her next victim.

But he’s not looking at her.

When you turn around to hand him his drink dismissively, he’s staring down at you. “Thanks,” he whispers, taking the glass.

“Whatever.”

You whip back around, managing down a few colossal gulps that you’ll remember tomorrow morning as your last ones. A bit of it spills down your neck onto your chest, but all you care about is how it feels going down.

Setting the glass down, you wipe your mouth and some of the residue with the back of your hand.

When you whip around to make your way back to Emma (and potentially let another lethal comment fall from your lips), you realize Jungkook’s gone.

No comment lingering in the air like cigar smoke. Gone as if he’d never been there at all.

You know he was, though, because your whole body still feels like it’s recovering from it. Like standing next to him required physical exertion.

Somehow your mouth is dry even though you just chugged half a vodka soda.

You don’t even know why you notice it, or why those wasps in your stomach slowly replace themselves with something else. On the bartop next to you, is the citrusy shot you never ended up taking. It taunts you, condensation melting onto the surface.

Your eyes dart around, looking wildly. Searching for Emma, duh. But you’re also looking for a sleeve of tattoos that you just spent an abhorrent amount of time with.

Treason of the highest fucking order.

With that, you swivel back around, wrap your fingers around the shot glass, and down it in one go. It faintly tastes tart, going down like molasses. It’s heavy in your throat and you mash it down with saliva.

But even with the extra liquor in your body, his absence feels louder in your mind than his presence ever did.

Four. That’s how many it’s been.

Four lemon drop shots — because that’s how many Jenna, who has now appointed herself the Chief of Boosting Morale, decided was an appropriate amount. She stopped keeping tally after two.

After each shot, she says something stupid like “To journalistic integrity!” Declining her felt like admitting defeat in some endurance competition, so you’ve been silently suffering while each shot drags you further and further down the drunk rabbit hole.

Jenna’s husband is too polite to say no to a round so he’s been glued to her side the entire time, whereas Jenna’s arm has been threaded through yours, laughing at something her husband finally contributed to the conversation. Something about a senator using an emoji in a tweet.

It’s not even that funny, but you’ve reached that point of the night where everything feels a little like a sitcom.

“Oh my god,” Jenna wheezes, tightening her grip on your arm. “Do you remember when our editor tried to convince us to use ‘yeet’ in a headline?”

You snort into your fifth vodka soda (or is the sixth?), barely dodging a splash up the rim. “No. No. I blocked it out like a traumatic memory.”

“He said it meant to throw??”

“It does mean to throw!” Her husband interjects.

“Yeah, but the headline was about the debt ceiling,” you giggle.

Jenna’s husband chuckles politely while his eyes scan the room, probably wondering when it’s socially acceptable to go home and watch a movie.

Jenna is in a very rare form. She’s always put-together, but tonight her dress is perfectly tailored, makeup hasn’t budged an inch, and her nails are a crimson red to match her lipstick.

Tonight, you’re incredibly grateful for her. Grateful she came, grateful she’s kept you busy.

You swish what’s left in your glass and blink through the haze.

It’s starting to hit, that warm syrupy lag behind your thoughts. Liquid confidence that whispers lies about your ability to be graceful and sophisticated.

“You know, I don’t know how half those pieces fucking run,” Jenna sips her espresso martini.

“Don’t you just, like, put a stop to them?” You’ve seen her do it before.

“I physically intercept like a human firewall, yes,” she grins with all her teeth.

“We all owe you a medal.”

You both erupt into cackles, and her husband — poor, sweet Greg or Grant or whatever he said his name was — offers a little smile as if he has even the slightest clue of what’s going on.

Your gaze drifts across the ballroom, and Jenna follows your line of sight, brows lifting amusedly in recognition.

“Would you look at that,” she elbows you gently in the ribs. “They’re still talking.”

Emma and Paul. Paul is upright like a soldier, like he doesn’t fully trust his legs to hold up under the pressure of Emma’s approval, while Emma lounges against the dessert table you swore off.

“I give it twenty minutes before she asks something like ‘can I see your Spotify Wrapped?’” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“Ten,” Jenna counters. “And if she sees any NPR podcasts, she’s bolting.”

“He probably listens to Benson Boone. Gives me that vibe.”

“Maybe he has layers,” she shrugs, leaning her head lightly against your shoulder. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad you haven’t ditched me for a man.”

You turn your head slowly to meet her expression. “Ew. At this event? Literally not a soul worth my time.”

She breaks into laughter, lifting her head up, "Right, right. How dare I?”

“I would never do you like that,” you clutch your chest dramatically. “Who else am I going to split an uber with later while we trash every senator we saw leave with someone who isn’t their wife?”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “Wait, what?”

She gives you a sly smile over the rim of her glass, “I said what I said.”

It hits a second later, like a stone dropped into a still lake. A single splash, followed by a thousand ripples. Your chest tightens and there’s a flutter of pride making a home in your heart.

She hasn’t brought it up again since your one-on-one on Monday. Where she may or may not have hinted at you getting the promotion of your dreams. You’ve done an exemplary job of playing it cool ever since. No prying, no follow ups.

Hearing the word favorite, however, feels like someone pressed a thumb right into your sternum.

“I’m touched,” you exclaim. “Even if I know you tell that to everyone.”

She scoffs while looping her arm through her husband’s, “Please. You think I say that to Emma?”

“Fair.”

She takes a final swig of her caffeinated martini, a little tipsier than she was earlier. “Just promise you won’t forget me when you get to my role, okay?”

You snort. “Never. But we still gotta Uber together always.”

“Deal.”

Your eyes wander again around the ballroom. Like clockwork, they land where they always do. On that kaleidoscope of tattoos you can’t miss.

But you don’t look at him or who he’s talking to for too long. Maybe long enough to question your intoxication but as soon as the moment comes, it goes, and you’re back to Jenna, who’s now talking to her husband sweetly.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the two sharpest women in Washington.”

It’s like the universe has a vendetta against you. Did you accidentally trip over a time traveler or steal candy from a baby in a past life?

It’s an overconfident voice you hadn’t heard in a while that sets off an almost Pavlovian reaction in your brain.

You and Jenna turn in tandem like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Sure enough — and to your detriment — it’s Mike Montgomery.

Mike is one of the editors you work with, and has the face of someone who’s probably been told he looks like a young Richard Gere and has never once disagreed. He once unironically told you ‘let’s circle back.’

Last year at the gala, you allegedly had a thirty minute conversation with him near the end of the night where the phrase aesthetic fascism in political media kept getting tossed around freely. But who’s to say. Last year was also the year you had tequila sodas instead of vodka sodas so really, the whole universe was off course.

“Mike,” Jenna starts, tone flat. She doesn’t even fake a smile, which further proves your love for her. “You remember Greg.”

Greg. Right. Yes — her husband. You mentally file that away.

“Of course,” Mike sticks out his hand. “Man of the hour.”

Greg blinks back at him like he was plucked straight out of his daydream. “Hey.”

Raising your eyebrows, you tease. “Man of the hour?”

Mike shrugs, letting out a little chuckle, “Well anyone who can keep up with Jenna at one of these things deserves a prize right?”

“He’s had some drinks and a shrimp cocktail. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” She pats Greg’s chest lovingly, and that seems to bring him back to life.

Mike laughs loudly at that. He always laughs too loud, like he wants everyone’s attention in the room.

“So how’s the correspondent life?” he asks, glancing between you and Jenna like he’s forgotten which one of you he’s more afraid of. “Still dealing with the same old bullshit?”

You purse your lips, cross your arms over your chest. “Are you under the impression the bullshit ended?”

“Fair,” he tries to laugh but it comes out more like a cough, “Yeah, I’ve been currently working on a little passion project, something about profiles of influential parties in media. You two came up, obviously.”

A look is exchanged between you and Jenna. You don't remember agreeing to be profiled.

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah,” he shoves one of his hands into his pocket. “Just really trying to dig into the psyche of the rising class, you know? What drives you, who you look up to.”

Your arms squeeze tighter around your chest. “Sounds like a very healthy exercise.”

Mike smiles at that. You take an extra long sip of your drink and imagine throwing it directly in his face.

Greg, bless him, tries to nod along, although he has no idea who this man is or what series he’s referencing or why Jenna’s throwing daggers with her eyes.

Mike keeps going. “Anyway, just wanted to say hey. You know. Been a while since I edited your stuff.”

“Funny. I’m actually still waiting for the piece you were supposed to factcheck before publishing last May,” Jenna’s smile is poisonous. If looks could kill, he would be floating in a box down the river.

Mike clears his throat. “Technical error. I think there was a glitch last time..”

“Mmm,” Jenna nods slowly. “Happens to the best.”

Mike readjusts his tie, sensing perhaps this might not be the enthusiastic crowd he’d envisioned. His eyes flit towards you briefly like he’s about to pivot into a new strategy.

Please, god, let this man go flirt with an intern.

“So,” he draws out the word for like, four seconds. “I don’t think we ever got to talk. You and me.”

There’s two routes you can go down. Play dumb, which somehow feels like the smarter decision. Or play smart, which feels like the dumber decision.

“Yup. Tragic that we never spoke.”

Playing dumb it is.

He bellows out a laugh, like you’ve just made the world’s wittiest joke instead of insulting him.

“I always read your work,” he clarifies. “Your coverage during the midterm elections was really impressive.”

You glance over at Jenna, whose lips are now pressed together like she's trying to restrain herself from intervening. Meanwhile Greg (and you will not forget his name this time), has spotted someone he knows but is trying to find the courage to approach them.

“That’s… nice.” You’re unsure what else to offer up. You can’t tell if he’s flirting or awkwardly trying to send you journalistic admiration.

Mike’s lips stretch wider. “I get it, you know? Women like you don’t always get credit, but for what it’s worth, you’re one of the best out there.”

You nod, already looking past his shoulder at the crowd. Your drink is also damn near empty, and that simply won’t do. Time for drink six (or is it seven?). “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

He leans into you, “If you ever wanna talk shop.. Or, you know.. not shop.”

He’s so goddamn insufferable.

You frown, not because you’re offended but because you literally have no comprehension right now. “Not shop?”

“Yeah, like… not about work?”

“Oh. Uh..” you blink, glance down at your drink, and then look back into his eager eyes. “I think I’m good.”

A long pause fills the air. Long enough for Mike to register the rejection, though he recovers fast, snapping back into a cocky grin like nothing demoralizing happened.

“Open invite,” he says with a wink that makes your molars grind. “In case you change your mind.”

You hum noncommittally before angling back towards Jenna, who has a brow raised and a husband who’s gone from her sight.

Jenna inquires, “You didn’t clock that?”

“Clock what?” You shrug your shoulders, scrambling for nonchalance.

She shakes her head, smiling to herself, “Nothing. You’re still my favorite.”

And that makes you feel better than anything Mike could've said.

“Alright, I’ve gotta get a refill before I lose my mind.” You shake your drink at her like it’s going to magically refill itself.

"I've gotta go find Greg,” she sighs. “Text me when you’re down to leave?”

“Duh.” You flash her a salute, then pivot toward the bar, slipping back into the current of people. You nearly step in a puddle of what you hope is someone’s spilled gin and not a gastrointestinal emergency.

You snake your way forward, elbow grazing someone’s sequined bag, catching the edge of someone’s shoulder and finally land in a spot wedged between a man in a tux and a woman who shoveled a half-eaten shrimp into a napkin.

“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender when she makes brief eye contact, and you lean your forearms on the table. The bartop is sticky again.

You haven't checked your phone all night. Part of it was intentional. Nothing good happens on your phone at events like this. Nothing you want to deal with, anyway.

But you’ve got a few minutes while your drink’s being made and your feet kind of hurt and you’re incredibly tipsy and suddenly the soft glow of your phone screen feels too tempting to ignore.

So you dig into your purse. Pull out your device.

When your phone boots to life, you lazily scroll through the notifications. A few texts from your college group chat. Texts from Emma asking ‘where are you??’ even though you’re maybe 50 feet away from her. You snort under your breath.

And then, below that, a message from Rosalie.

Rosalie❤️: hey, did jungkook ever say anything abt me?? dmed him when i was drunk and never heard back :( lol

You stare at the screen like it’s displaying launch codes in a foreign language.

There’s this erratic rhythm tugging at your heart, like someone’s tapping impatiently against your ribcage.

It’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine. Who cares about Rosalie’s romantic DMs or her apparent inability to handle rejection with grace? You could have predicted this development from three miles away, honestly. Rosalie drunk texting someone tracks with her pattern of impulsive behavior.

But.. you are curious. That’s all. Curiosity is a natural human reflex.

Why would she message him despite your entirely fictional narrative about STDs? And why, more importantly, do you find yourself genuinely invested as to why he didn’t respond to her?

You lock your phone and shove it back into your purse.

“Vodka soda,” the bartender slides the drink towards you and you grip onto it like a life raft.

You barely get a full step away from the bar before that voice — his voice — is haunting your ears again.

“Careful. You keep showing up at my favorite spot in the room, people are gonna start talking.”

Mid-step, you pause and inhale once through your nose like you’re gathering patience from thin air.

Slowly, you swivel to meet his eyes. His tie is long gone, brown hair even more unkempt from when you last saw him. You lean back against the bar with all the theatrical grace of someone who’s had four, maybe five, lemon drop shots and has decided, for once in her life, not to flee when Jungkook starts speaking to you.

God will strike you down for this. You can feel the lightning forming. But whatever, you’ve had a long week. You’ll repent tomorrow.

“Are you gonna sneak up on me all night?” you ask flatly, raising your glass to your lips. You’re not even going to try and hide the exhaustion in your tone.

“Potentially,” he takes a step closer. “Everyone here’s boring.”

You cock a brow. “What? No one here worth your time?”

He tips his glass a little, watching the ice swirl. The liquid is clear. It looks unusually familiar… like a vodka soda. You wonder if it’s the same one from an hour ago or if he ordered one on his own merit. “Nah, you know I like to be intellectually stimulated.”

Your laugh comes out dry. “Oh, so I stimulate you?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. They’re darker despite the hue of the chandelier you’re standing under. “In more ways than one.”

“You’re fucking gross.”

“Mm,” he hums, and it’s definitely not an apology, but moreso an acknowledgement. Like he’s well aware of the filth he peddles and would sell it to you wholesale if you gave him the chance. “You set that one up.”

“Did not.”

He takes another step closer. The man that was beside you earlier has fled the scene, and Jungkook wedges himself into the open spot. When did it get so crowded in here?

“Did too.” His fingers tap lazily against his glass. “You know, you always act like conversation with me is a federal offense.”

You roll your eyes. “Because every conversation with you is like stepping into quicksand.”

“You haven’t left me yet, so am I winning?” His eyes are twinkling with amusement.

Scoffing, you deflect. Deny. “I’m tipsy. I make bad decisions when I’m tipsy.”

“Noted.” His gaze flickers down to your mouth for a millisecond. The gesture lands somewhere in your stomach, sending an embarrassing, vodka-amplified flutter cascading through your body.

God, you need a priest. Or someone to physically remove you from this ballroom.

“I saw you talking to Mike earlier,” Jungkook casually says, like he’s commenting on something trivial like the weather or whether or not vodka sodas are his new go-to drink.

You groan immediately. “God, don’t remind me.”

“That bad?” His lips twitch as he settles his glass on the bartop.

“He tried to flirt with me, I think. According to Jenna.” You want to mentally facepalm at the memory.

“Mike?”

You give him a look. “Yes, Mike.”

Jungkook whistles softly, shaking his head as if this is genuinely a tragedy. “Wow. I always thought his type was more fresh out of college and terrified.”

“It probably is,” you agree. “I thought maybe he was doing community service.”

“Hmm,” he looks deep in thought. Surveys the room for a beat. “What did you mean by according to Jenna?”

You shrug, lifting your glass to your lips to take a quick sip. “I don’t know. She caught onto the flirting before I did, I guess.”

“Oh.” His expression shifts a little, into one you can't make out. After knowing Jungkook for eight years, you’ve gotten familiar with the faces he has. But this one is unrecognizable. “You always that clueless?”

“I guess,” you concede. He looks like he wants to say something more to that but decides against it.

“So, what did he say?”

“Something about how we never really speak, which is just rich coming from him considering we had a long ass conversation at last year’s gala about fascism.”

Jungkook chokes on his spit. “No.”

“Oh yes,” you nod solemnly. “He also pronounces Kremlin as Krim-lin. I rest my case on him.”

You expect him to chuckle or at least fake one, but it doesn’t come. He looks at you for a second, drinking you in. It almost feels like you’re back on the steps of the West Wing, where he was seeing every part of yourself you bore to the world. Like he’s been listening this whole time, which is somehow worse.

“You’re funny when you’re off-duty,” He smiles into his glass.

“When am I ever off-duty?”

“Right now,” he gestures toward you with his cup. “Sort of.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think this is me relaxed?”

“I think this is you after a few shots,” he jokes. “And slightly less terrified of being seen with me in public.”

“Bold assumption, buddy,” you quip. You need to find your sanity and walk far away as hell from this conversation.

“Is it wrong?”

You hesitate long enough for that to be a confession, and the look on his face says I win.

“Exactly.” And there’s that smug tone you know so well. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You let something between a snort and laugh fall from your mouth. “Like a tumor.”

But the smile you’re biting back makes it a little harder to sell the insult.

You clear your throat and straighten up slightly, ignoring how the vodka seems to have settled in your bloodstream like a warm compress.

“Anyway,” you say, “How’s your coverage going for Monroe?”

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. “Pivoting? And to Monroe?”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk about how you think I’m growing on you.”

Jungkook’s smile could light up half of DC. “You started it.”

“Ending it right now.”

“You always think you’re the one ending things,” he counters.

You shoot him a look, then echo louder this time “How’s your coverage going?”

He leans an elbow onto the bar, glass resting loosely between his fingers. “Good. Bet you’re dying to talk to her again, though.”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending to scan the room like you’re searching for someone — Emma, Jenna, literally even Blue Tie Guy at this point — but all you really find are name tags you don’t care about and plates of passed shrimp.

“Not my fault she came down with that rare plague. But it is weird she came down with it just after we had our first session with her,” you mutter.

“You sound disappointed,” he points out. To be honest, you are. She has a hell of a story to tell and you want to write it.

You glance at him again. “What?”

“You miss her,” he coos at you playfully, “Now admit you miss me too. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

You roll your eyes, using the motion to buy yourself a few seconds of mental reorganization. “I miss being able to ask real questions.”

He nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the glass. “Yeah. You're good at those.”

You gape at him through your lashes. They’re just words that are perfectly arranged in an ordinary sequence that just so happens to reference your competence. But now it’s one time too many that he’s praised you for something, and you're running out of fingers and toes to count on.

It lands in your chest with a quiet thud, like he tossed a coin into a wishing well you didn't realize was inside you.

You shift your weight and conduct another sweep of the ballroom. Still no Emma, no Jenna.

“I really should find Emma..” you trail off, eyes darting across the room like a prisoner looking for a fire escape. “Before I start enjoying this conversation and lose all sense of who I am.”

Jungkook leans into your body. His cologne hits you again square in the face. “That would be tragic… if you forgot you hated me.”

You clench your jaw. “Please. I don’t hate you, that’s too much energy. I just think you’re—”

“Objectively infuriating?” he offers.

“Exhausting.”

“Better than forgettable,” he smirks.

You grip your near empty cup and wish you had something better to throw at him. Or honestly, something else to look at — something that doesn’t talk like him, look like him, smell like him.

And as you’re searching in your repertoire for that something, your brain decides to shove Rosalie into frame.

Her text. That stupid little ‘lol.’ The digital ghost of her face.

The alcohol in your body is doing that unfortunate thing where your filter stops working but your nerve hasn’t quite kicked in yet. And his cologne — Jesus, it’s warping your actual brain chemistry,

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt the words out. “Have you.. heard from Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” He cocks his head, scratches his jaw.

You shake your head up and down, suddenly extremely interested in the ice melting in your cup. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Slow furrow of his brows. “Rosalie from college?”

You aim to keep your expression cool but your stomach does something distinctly uncool. Like a fish flopping on the deck. “The one and only.”

Jungkook blinks at you. His body is still, but his face guards itself. He’s squinting as if he’s scanning you for the motive behind your question.

You hate how well he reads people. You hate that he’s doing it to you right now.

“Why?” he treads lightly.

You shake your head quickly, “Just tell me.”

He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to you both this isn’t a nothing question.

“Yeah,” he says finally, “She reached out to me.”

Your throat goes uncharacteristically dry.

The lightness from before — his little jabs, the crooked smile — it’s all taut now. Like he’s waiting to see what this really is. You also would like to know what this is.

You scramble for a reason, anything to make this make sense outloud.

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with one of the bracelets on your wrist. “She’s my best friend,” you shrug like it’s no big deal. “She tells me everything.”

He flinches subtly, a brief twitch in his jaw. “Well,” he utters finally. “I didn’t answer her. If that’s what you want to know.”

And that is when your chest does the thing again.

It’s an awful, disloyal twist. It heard the words and immediately reached for them, clutching at some fragile thread of relief you didn’t place there.

You inhale, trying to drown it back down. The thump thump of your heart, the tiny voice in your conscious going, good.

The wasps are back too. Buzzing and furious and unavoidable, even as you swipe at them with your mental fly swatter, one by one.

You feel regrettably stupid. Now you’re standing there, tipsy and humiliated and flinching at your own internal reaction like a girl in some cheap romance novel where the brooding rival turns out to be a chill dude and your panties fall off in chapter eight.

No thank you. Not today. You are a professional, a fully grown woman with access to two-factor authentication and press credentials.

You do not feel things when Jungkook says things like “I didn’t answer her.”

Though, clearly you’re having trouble leaving it alone. Clearly, that little skill of yours of asking the right questions — the one people applaud, the one Jungkook complimented an hour or two ago — has decided to clock in right now, under a chandelier and several ounces of vodka.

You meet his eyes even though your gut is screaming don’t, and say, “Why didn't you respond?”

Air leaves his lungs, barely. His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. One flicker of thought behind his eyes before he smoothes it all back out.

The silence looms over you two like an unsuspecting fog. Your stomach starts writing its own obituary.

You’re about to take it back, about to say never mind ha ha silly me asking about your DMs, when he finally responds with, “She’s not who I’m interested in.”

There’s a hiccup in your brain. Like someone pulled the emergency brake on the subway and your neurons are just stuck, powering down and firing blanks.

She’s not who I’m interested in.

You don’t dare blink, breathe, or even think, which is crazy because thinking is your whole personality. His pupils practically eat up his entire eye as he peers down at you,

A whole rolodex of faces spins through your head. Maybe someone new started at Fox? There was that blonde you passed in the cafeteria, maybe that’s his type. Or maybe… maybe he made a move on Sana tonight. He and her always had that weird click, right? They have matching resumes, wouldn’t that just be poetic? Full circle and all that.

Your voice is crawling up your throat again, forming something stupid like oh yeah? Who’s someone you’re interested in? Because apparently vodka and lemon drop shots have taken control of your frontal lobe and are now driving the bus.

But before the words can land, there’s a blur of movement from your left.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Emma materializes beside you in a cloud of perfume, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Your neck whips to her. “Jesus.”

She latches onto your arm immediately. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she’s breathless. “Did you die? Be honest.”

“I was just —” You flick a glance at Jungkook and regret it upon impact.

Emma doesn’t notice or care, undoubtedly in a bubble of her own. “Ugh, I have so much to tell you, I feel like I’ve been living a double life tonight.”

Right, and that’s cool and all. But your body is still humming, tingling under your skin as if someone left a speaker buzzing in your chest. She’s not who I’m interested in.

Your brain is dying to ask then who the fuck is?

Emma’s too busy blabbering away to care about any of it; your facial expression, Jungkook’s eyes that haven’t moved from you, the way your hands are slightly trembling as they hang loosely down at your side. “Okay, I know I’ve ignored him for the past few years but Paul is actually so funny. He told me this story earlier about his dog and I was crying. Literally crying. I’m just like, why have I never given this man the time of day—”

She pauses suddenly, looks over at Jungkook. Freezes mid-sentence like she just saw a coworker she drunkenly sexted.

“...Well.” Her voice drops multiple octaves. “Whatever.”

Words aren’t coming to you as easily as you’d like.

Emnma clears her throat, forcing her gaze back to you. “Anyway. You’ve been summoned.”

“For what?” you question, but your voice comes out thinner than when you practiced it in your head.

“Afterparty,” a sinister smile makes its way onto her lips. “Duh. Do you not realize what time it is?”

“No, Emma,” you bite back. “You don’t realize what time it is because you’ve spent the past few hours eye-fucking Paul.”

Emma shrugs. “Okay and? I told you, he’s kinda funny.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip.

“And he also knows about the current crisis in Venezuela,” she adds proudly, like that qualifies him for marriage. “Which is honestly more than I can say for half the men I’ve dated.”

You sigh. “I’m not going to an afterparty.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Emma—”

“You owe me. For that night.”

You do actually owe her. That night a few months ago, where you went home with that random guy, she went home alone and buried her face in a Dominos pizza while you had mediocre sex.

Your body is already 40% vodka and 60% bad decisions, and you’re hovering alarmingly close to making another one—

She turns to Jungkook. “You’re coming too, right?”

You whip your head toward her. You absolute fucking traitor, Emma.

Jungkook’s grin is so infuriatingly cheerful that you’re torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth or seeking refuge behind the bar, anything to avoid that smile.

“I mean…” he replies. “If she’s going..”

Why are you the deciding factor in all of this?

Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s going.”

“I really wasn’t—” you start, but then realize they’re making eye contact over your shoulder like they’ve coordinated to ruin your night.

“I’ll… see you there?” Jungkook asks, shooting Emma a look you don’t miss.

You can't help but daydream about what it’d be like to toss all your worries out the window, party like there’s no tomorrow, drown yourself in whatever booze is lying around the afterparty, and wake up to the faint memory of a random hookup who’s definitely ghosting you before you even finish your breakfast.

You, a tipsy bundle of bad decisions, look at Jungkook — his hair a windswept disaster, eyes twinkling like he's just heard the world's worst joke, and those tattoos dancing on his golden skin — and as tempting as it is, you remind yourself you really should just say no and sprint away from this mess, while dreaming of a life where the world isn’t dragging you down like an anchor in a swimming pool.

But… you have always been dangerously open to possibilities after a few shots.

You drain the rest of your drink and go, “I’ll see you there.”

masterlist + ask

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#jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jeon jeongguk #bts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jjk

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misctf · 8 months ago

Note

i don't get it, why are the jocks nice to me? No one else notices me, the socially outcasted and alone BC I don't fit in anywhere , I'm. Not smart, athletic or real hot, all I do I quietly draw

But the jocks, along with the cheerleaders come up to me and chat, they seem like really good ppl, a lot of the times they all show up in their football kits and cheer uniforms,

Idk how I got into this situation, how am I ? The so not special guy, hanging out with the most popular ppl in the school.

There all so hot, athletic and nice to me, if only I could play football to any extent, so I could play with them ��

“Dude, sick drawings. You an artist or somethin’?”

When Chet approached you in your college’s library, you were initially surprised. As someone not used to the attention, you were taken aback by the muscular hunk in front of you. His tank-top showing off his impressive arms. The shit-eating smirk plastered on his handsome face, conveying his confidence. You blush and meekly replied that you liked to draw. His dumb chuckle fills the room.

“Fuck bro, you’re talented.”

That was a few days ago. And ever since then, you couldn’t help but notice all the attention you were getting. A few of the other jocks on the football team approached you, all clamoring about your artwork. Even a few of the cheerleaders came up to you, gushing over your art and how cute you were. It didn’t make much sense to you, but you weren’t complaining. If anything, it made you want to get closer to them. Besides, it felt nice. And for the first time in a while, you felt special.

When Chet sent you a text asking if you wanted to hang out, you felt nervous. Even if they were nice to you, the idea of hanging out seemed like a huge next step. You initially declined, but he practically begged you to come by. Although somewhat anxious, you agreed. And before you knew it, you were standing outside his dorm room. When he opened the door, you were initially taken aback by the musky smell. And it became all too obvious that he hadn’t showered, or done laundry in weeks. But you were a bit more focused on his exposed torso. His meaty pecs and abs on full display. The outline of his cock shamelessly displayed in his grey sweatpants. That same smirk plastered on his face.

“Fuck yeah dude! So glad you could make it.”

You look around his relatively empty room. Besides the beer cans, dirty clothing, and gaming set-up, it was pretty plain. There were a few Chemistry textbooks messily scattered on his desk. Odd, you think, he didn’t really seem the type. But also on his desk were a few drawings. Or at least attempts. They weren’t nearly as good as yours, but it looked like he was trying.

“Yeah man, you inspired me.” He chuckles, “But I ain’t no artist.”

That much was evident. You reassure him that practice makes perfect and laugh awkwardly, but he just stares at you. His eyes glisten with a hint of mischief. And before you know it, he crushes his lips to yours. Your eyes widen as he passionately kisses you, and you can taste the beer and protein shakes on his breath. He breaks the kiss and smiles.

“Come on, let’s see what you’re packin’.” He says, helping you remove your shirt.

His hands roam your body. Compared to him, you lack muscle. And years of avoiding the gym and eating whatever you want has certainly given you some pudge. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He continues to feel your body, and you moan at his sensual touch. So caught up in the moment, you fail to realize the impact his touch is having on your unimpressive body. How your fat begins to dissolve away, leaving you thin and lean. But not for too long. You grunt as your muscles come alive. Contracting and relaxing rapidly. Building on themselves. You wince as your biceps pop into glorious existence. Your triceps follow quickly and you lean into him as he caresses your new arms.

“What’s happening...”

“Don’t worry.” He reassures.

He kisses you again, and this time you feel a heaviness in your chest. Your pecs expand rapidly, forming two bouncy muscle tits. He squeezes your hardened nipples, sending a wave of pleasure through your growing form, and you nearly pass out as he gives your pecs a firm squeeze. Abs pop into existence soon after. And you groan as your already hard cock expands further, adding at least an additional 5 inches.

“Almost there.” He continues.

And this time, when his lips collide with your new cock-suckers, you feel something is wrong. It’s as if he’s sucking something out of you. Draining you. But as your mind continues to dim, you don’t really seem to care. You lean into his kiss willingly. And when you do, your eyes glaze over and become half-lidded. Any intelligence you may have had is gone. But it’s so much more than that. Your skills as an artist are quickly stolen from you. Any potential you had, stolen by the handsome jock in front of you. And when he finally breaks the kiss, he can’t help but grin at the dumb, vacant look in your eyes.

“Fuck bro, that was great.” He says, wiping some drool from your lip, “Thanks for that. Who needs art lessons when you can just take it, right bro?”

You nod and chuckle, more drool falling from the side of your mouth. You look down and bounce your pecs, totally enamored by your hulking body.

“Huh, usually we’d let ya join the team.” Chet says. He snaps his fingers in front of you, without getting any reaction, “But, I doubt you have the brains to follow even the most basic instructions.” He smirks, “But I’m sure I can find another way for you to play.” He slaps your muscular ass, “What do ya say, waterboy?”

So maybe you don’t get to play football with the team how you wanted. But the team certainly enjoys playing with you. After every game, they’d find you in the locker room with your ass up. Ready to help them wind down after a tough game. Rest assured, they certainly still think you’re special. And they still give you plenty of attention. So have fun, bro.

#male tf #male transformation #dumber tf #jock tf

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absurdthirst · 1 year ago

Text

Contracted Fling {Joel Miller x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 14.8k

Warnings: Secret affair, rough sex, oral sex (male and female receiving), semi-public sex, mentions of loss, miscommunication, fight, Joel being sexily violent, make up sex, morning after

Comments: Hired to renovate your parents house, Joel finds you irresistible. Engaging in an affair that turns complicated and scratches beneath both of your pasts.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Joel Miller MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

It’s not a bad gig. Not all things considered. The house isn’t in terrible shape, it just needs updating and homeowners aren’t the type to squabble if Joel uncovers some problem that will take more time and money to fix, they just want it to be done right. A true rarity in construction.

Then there’s you. He’s old enough to know better and you’re young enough to have moved back into your parent’s house one week after demolition had started. You are a bonafide distraction and trouble all wrapped up in a pretty little package. Right now, he’s moving the little box of your bathroom shit into the hallway to continue to tear the tile out. Trying not to look down into it and see what you use when the smell of your shampoo drives him crazy.

When you moved back in with your parents, you felt like a failure. Your ex boyfriend had cheated on you and you were living in his place. You refused to stay in his apartment a moment longer so you packed your things and left. Moving back home, you plan to save enough money to get your own place but for now, you’re happy to be home.

Especially when you’re greeted with the sight of Joel laboring around the house. He’s older, beard salt and pepper with streaks of gray through his hair. He’s unbelievably hot in a DILF kind of way, and you want him. It’s been a while since you had sex. Your ex hadn’t touched you and you wondered why until you found him balls deep in the colleague he said was ‘just a good friend.’

Joel is working on removing the tile in your bathroom, his brother downstairs is working on the tile in the kitchen, and you walk past the bathroom, eager to catch a sight of him. The way his plaid shirt stretches over his shoulders makes your mouth drool.

“How’s it going?” You ask him when he pauses his demolition, leaning against the doorframe in the short shorts you’ve taken to wearing around the house since he arrived.

Joel glances at your legs and then straightens, groaning slightly and reaching for his handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face. “Should be done with the demo by tomorrow.” He tells you. “You can still use the bathroom tonight though.”

You cross your arms, biting your lip as you watch him roll his shoulders. “Cool. You and your brother seem to know what you’re doing. My parents made a good choice picking your company. You need some water? I’m heading downstairs to grab a coffee before I get back to work.” You’ve been working from your childhood bedroom, able to work remotely.

“Sure.” He won’t turn down water, especially enjoying the view when you turn around to walk to the stairs. “Thanks.” He calls after you, frowning slightly as he swears your ass shakes just a bit and his cock twitches. “She’s not interested in you.” He grunts to himself, listening to you bound down the stairs and call out a ‘hello’ to Tommy when you go into the kitchen.

You come back about five minutes later with your coffee cup and you hand him a bottle of water, your fingers brushing his as he takes it from you. You stand there, watching as he opens the bottle and tilts his head back to down half the bottle, his Adam’s apple moving. Your mouth falls open slightly and you swallow down the drool. God, he’s so hot and he doesn’t even know it. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything else.” You try to say as innocently as possible and you turn to walk out of the bathroom with your cup of coffee. You’ll keep pushing him, see if he breaks, and if he doesn’t, you know he doesn’t want you.

“Thanks.” He lifts the bottle and watches as you walk away again, hissing slightly under his breath. You have been prancing around the house in short shorts and tank tops with your tits on display, giving him a good fucking view of the body you have. It makes him want to bend you over the bathroom sink and fuck you, but it’s your house, you can wear what you want. He’s just a guest here.

****

It’s been two weeks since Joel and Tommy started working on your parent’s house and you have been frustrated by Joel’s presence. Every night, when the house is quiet, you rub your clit and imagine Joel taking you hard over the under construction kitchen counter. Today, his brother Tommy, is sick and it’s only Joel who is working on the kitchen floor. You work in your room until you decide to seek out a snack, making your way downstairs to the makeshift pantry. “Hey Joel. You want a snack?” You ask and you bend over to see what’s in the box your mom left in the corner.

Joel groans and grits his teeth together. “Yeah.” He grunts. “Whatcha got?” He knows what he wants to snack on. It’s right in front of him, bent over and all he has to do is just pull your shorts down and pull his cock out of his jeans. “Anything good?”

You rifle through the snacks and hold up a couple of options over your head. “Chips or cookies?” You offer and he says “chips.” You take the cookies and stand up, tossing the packet over to him. You lean against the dining table and watch him shove a chip into his mouth. “So…how’s the work coming along? Must be hard without your brother here to help today.”

Joel snorts, rolling his eyes playfully and shrugs. “Better, don’t have to listen to him whine about dealing with his pregnant wife.” He jokes. “Cravings and cramps and aches and pains.” He shoves his hand back into the bag. “Told him just to fuck her good when she’s complaining, but that might be why he’s expecting a kid.”

You wince slightly at the mention of his sister in-law being pregnant. A sensitive subject for you but Joel doesn’t know that. You chuckle after a second, fiddling with the bag in your hand. “Being a woman isn’t easy. Being pregnant, well that’s the hardest thing. Not that I- I don’t have kids. From what I’ve heard.” You explain, “you guys are doing a great job. My parents are already happy with your work. You’re good with your hands.” You compliment saucily, licking your lips of cookie crumbs after taking a bite.

Joel lifts a brow at your comment and stares at you for a moment. “I am good with my hands.” He agrees, staring at you in challenge, waiting to see what else will come out of that mouth of yours. Trying not to think about what he would like to put in that mouth. How you would react to that.

“What else are you good with?” You ask, biting your lip as you wait for his reply. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms and the chip packet is still in his hand.

“Lots of things.” Joel brags, smirking at you slightly. “What are you interested in?” He asks, setting the bag down on the counter and crossing one leg over the other at the ankles as he waits for you to answer.

You set the bag of cookies down on the kitchen table and brush off your hands, taking a step towards him. “Lots of things.” You hum, walking towards him, “not sure if you’re interested in using them on me but I sure have imagined it enough times.”

It’s an invitation, one that he hadn’t expected but he damn sure appreciated. He doesn’t move, just arching a brow at you as he licks his lips. “Take off your shirt.” He orders.

Your parents aren’t home. It’s only you and Joel. You can’t deny him when he looks at you with those dark brown eyes, his gaze burning into you. You reach down to grip the hem of your tank top and pull it over your head to expose your lace bra. You know he wants you to take that off too and you want to make the first move so you reach behind you to unclasp it, letting it drop down your arms to fall onto the floor he’s been working on.

He grunts, his cock twitching and hardening in his jeans. Finally uncrossing his ankles and standing straight as he steps closer to you. “You have pretty tits.” He compliments, palms itching to touch them. “Now I want to see your ass.”

How can you deny him? You reach down to unbutton your shorts, knowing he’s in total control. He could leave you high and dry and humiliated but the look in his eyes tells you he’s going to give you exactly what you want. You push your shorts down along with your panties and turn around as you kick them away. Looking over your shoulder at him, you smirk. “Like what you see, old man?”

You have a fucking gorgeous ass. He wants to slap it and he huffs as he pins you against the counter, newly installed by him. “Unbutton my pants and find out.” He orders.

Your stomach twists with anticipation and arousal and you reach down to unbutton his jeans, snaking your hand in to wrap your fingers around his cock. “Fucking hell.” You gasp in shock. He’s huge. Thick and throbbing in your hand. “Is that - I don’t know if that’s gonna fit, Miller.”

Joel chuckles quietly and smirks at you. “Don’t think it will, little girl?” You’re a grown ass woman, but your fingers tighten around his cock when he calls you that so he assumes you like it. “I think it will. I think you’ll take every inch and scream my name.”

You pull him out of his jeans and squeeze him, starting to slowly pump him as his hands cup your tits. “Big words. Big words I’m not sure you can fulfill.” You taunt him, licking your lips as you clench around nothing.

He huffs and reaches for your waist, pulling you up to shove you onto the counter and spread your thighs. “That right?” He grunts, squeezing your thigh before he slides his fingers to your core and finds you dripping wet. “I think it’ll be nice and slick.”

“Fuck.” You whimper when his fingers find your clit. “You wanna find out?” You ask breathlessly, grinding back against his hard cock. “Joel. I need- I want you to fuck me.”

The next moment, Joel’s too busy lining up and pushing inside your hot, tight cunt to even think about birth control. Groaning as he pushes deep, he doesn’t stop until he's bottomed out inside you and one hand slaps down on the new granite countertop.

Your gasp echoes in the kitchen, your eyes sliding shut as he stretches you out. “Holy shit.” You whisper, “oh my God. You’re - I think you’re in my guts.” You admit, unable to believe how he feels inside of you.

Joel growls, loving how tight you are squeezing him. “That’s the point, little girl.” He reminds you cockily. “To let you feel it.” He pulls back and then slams back into you.

Your head drops back, your mouth open in a silent moan as the delicious friction slams you into the counter. “I feel it. I - fuck - I feel it.” You pant, eyes opening as you turn your head to look at him, loving the way his dark eyes seem almost black with his desire for you.

He start to fuck you, quick hard thrusts that have you gasping his name while your hips bang against the counter. Reaching up to cup your tits and squeeze harshly before pinching your nipples.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” You hiss as he fucks you hard and fast. You cover his hands with yours as much as you can, making him squeeze your tits even harder. “Joel. Feels - better than I imagined.” You confess in a squeal when he kicks your ankle to spread you wider so he can push impossibly deeper.

“Gonna- fuck, gonna make you scream.” He huffs, nearly out of breath from how hard he’s fucking you but his hips don’t stutter and he doesn’t slow down. “Want to hear you scream.” He bites down on your ear and lets go of one of your tits to rub your clit.

Your hands slap down on the counter and when his calloused fingers find your clit. “Oh my - fuck!” You squeal, thighs starting to shake as he pounds into you, rubbing your bundle of nerves. You haven’t been fucked like this in - never. You’ve never been fucked like this. “Yes. Yes. Yes! I’m gonna - oh shit. You’re gonna make me cum.” You confess in a wheeze as he rasps in your ear, “that’s it, little girl. Want you to soak my cock.” You shudder and your palms slide on the counter, slick with sweat as he works your body higher. “I’m gonna - Joel!” You shriek as you cum, clamping down on his cock.

Joel growls again and the slap of his hips against your ass becomes even more frantic, fucking you through the high of your orgasm and chasing his own. Groaning filthily into your ear at how tight you grip him, making his hips stutter as you ride out the pleasure. “Gonna give me another?” He hisses in your ear, still rubbing your clit. “Gonna soak me again and scream. I know it, I can feel it.”

Most men would’ve already been pushing deep and spilling inside of you but Joel is still going. Your jaw is dropped and senseless moans of obedience fill the kitchen as you wordlessly promise him you’ll cum again. His hips press against your ass, no doubt leaving bruises from the brutal way your hips are hitting the quartz counter. His fingers rub your clit and he slaps it after a few seconds. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he continues to ruin you. “Gonna - yes. Again.” You gasp out, walls starting to flutter around his cock.

His back is killing him and his knees feel like they are turning to rubber, but he doesn’t stop. Addicted to the way your body splits open for his cock and your walls hug him close. “That’s it. Cum for me, you naughty little girl.” He groans. “Tightest little pussy I’ve ever fucked.”

His raspy words send you over the edge. “Oh fuck. Joel!” You sob his name out, loud enough for the neighbors to hear as he fucks you by the kitchen window. You clamp down on his cock, soaking him and your knees give out but he presses you against the counter while he frantically fucks into you. “Cum inside of me. It’s safe.” You promise breathlessly, slumping down to rest your upper body on the cool counter as he continues to ram into you.

Joel grunts, his body curling around you and he holds onto the counter as he pounds into you. Feeling his own orgasm getting closer with every thrust while you clench around him. “Fuck, fuck.” He growls into your ear. “Gonna fill you up.”

“Yes yes yes. Do it. Oh God. Fuck me. Fill me up.” You beg, wanting to hear him when he climaxes. You turn your head to look at him, his jaw clenched as he rocks into you. “Cum for me, baby.” You plead and that’s his undoing. He grunts as he cums, his cock twitching while he paints your walls with his hot seed.

Joel closes his eyes, his forehead pressed to the nap of your neck as he rocks his hips shallowly. Making sure every drop of his cum spurts inside of you until he is done. “Fuck.” He hisses, enjoying the wave of pure bliss that floods his body and he pants to catch his breath. “You good?” He asks after a moment.

You nod, trying to catch your own breath. “So good.” You confess, looking back at him when he lifts his head from your neck. “Didn’t expect that to happen today but I’m glad it did.” You giggle and caress his forearms as he clings to you.

He pulls out of you slowly, not wanting to hurt you. Rocking back and reluctantly letting you go so he can tuck himself back into his jeans. “Feel a lot lighter now.” He snorts, snagging a paper towel to wipe you up.

“Maybe you can focus on the floor instead of watching me walk around in these tiny shorts I had to dig out of my case to tempt you with.” You giggle, reaching for your panties after he tosses the paper towel. “Took you long enough to make a move, Miller.”

Joel snorts, “maybe, spent enough time thinking about bending you over the bathroom tub.”

You chuckle, grabbing your bra after pulling your tank top back on. “Mmm, now that sounds like a good time. You promise to do that?” You tease him, “but seriously, I want more sex if you want that. Nothing serious. Some fun and you’re - you’re the hottest man I’ve seen in a long time. I don’t want strings after what happened with my ex. I want to have fun. You up for that or is this a one time thing?” You gesture between you, wanting him to make a choice on if this happens again.

Joel contemplates your offer and shrugs. “Sounds like I would be a fucking idiot to turn down sex.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Especially with a woman as gorgeous as you are.” He’s not the best at paying compliments, but he likes the way you smile when he says that. You are gorgeous and you want him to fuck you, the least he can do is make you feel good.

You step closer to him, leaning in to kiss his jaw, “I gotta get back to work but I’ll see you later. This is gonna be fun.” You squeal as you step back and stride off to the stairs, making your way up to your room. Joel huffs, a smirk on his face as he shakes his head. You’re going to be trouble.

****

You bite your lip as Joel works on tiling your parent’s bathroom today. His shirt is off, leaving him in a tank top, a chain hanging from his neck, and you keep walking past to get a glimpse of him. “Stop starin’.” He orders and you lean against the door frame.

“Can’t help it when you’re teasing me all day with those arms of yours.” Your cross your arms, letting your eyes trail down his body as he stands to turn and face you. His brother is downstairs working on the half bath and you know he can’t hear you flirting with his older brother.

“You gonna let me fuck you on my lunch break?” Joel asks, smirking as he looks up from the mortar line he is laying. “Tommy’s running some errands so I’m gonna just stay here and eat my sandwich like a good boy.” He chuckles when your thighs press together on instinct.

You smirk, “yeah? You gonna have your cake and eat it too? You know Tommy won’t be gone for too long and I can’t be quiet so you gotta be quick to make me scream your name and cum before you finish your lunch.” You step into the bathroom and lean on the vanity, pushing your tits together so they meet his gaze when he looks up at you again. “You think you’re up for the challenge, old man?”

“I could make you cum on my tongue now, little girl.” He growls, eyes dropping to your tits. “Then just fill that little pussy with my cum while he’s gone.” Joel smirks at you with glee, “but I don’t know if you can be that quiet.”

You inhale sharply, “I could try. You could keep me quiet. Use your fingers or - or my panties.” You test him, wondering if he’s bold enough to do this while his brother is downstairs. “I can be good.”

Joel chuckles quietly and drops his trowel into the bucket and groans slightly as he climbs to his feet. “Hand me your panties then get up on the counter.” He orders, grabbing his rag to wipe his face. “And spread your legs.”

You giggle, glad you are wearing a dress today while pushing your panties down, handing them to him, and you shift to sit on the vanity he installed the other day, spreading your legs. He’s so hot, his muscles moving while he wears that tank top and his jeans tight around his thighs. He shifts to stand between your legs and you tilt your head to kiss his chin.

Joel pushes your dress up even more, pleased that you are so eager to give him what he wants. He tilts his head down to press his lips to yours briefly, not really kissing you a lot but you haven’t chased kisses either so he wonders if you dont really like it. Balling up your panties, he smirks as he holds them to your lips. “Open up, little girl. You can’t make too many noises while I eat your pussy.”

You eagerly open your mouth for him, wiggling on the cool surface as you impatiently wait for his next move after he pushes the lace into your mouth. It’s dry and you swallow around them, cheeks full of the material and your eyes meet his as his hands trail along your inner thighs, a whine of need is muffled by your underwear.

“So impatient.” He chides, pinching the inside of your thigh slightly and then soothing it with a small rub. “Now-“ he grunts as he kneels back down. “You need to be quiet.”

You watch him, eyes dark with lust as he leans in, his hot breath washing over your wet pussy. You’re always so turned on around him. You’ve never experienced this kind of attraction to someone before. You’re like a magnet to him. You whimper around the material when his tongue slides through your folds.

Joel doesn’t hesitate to lavish attention on your cunt, spreading your thighs apart with his hands you seem so obsessed with. Groaning at the first and second whimpers that you give him. You haven’t asked him for this, but he wants to, wants to have you cum for him. Loves making you cum and your thighs shake around his ears.

Your head tilts back to hit the wall where he hasn't installed the mirror yet. Your eyes closing as you arch your back so he can access more of you. You moan around the panties, his thumbs spreading your lips to suck on your clit.

Your thighs press his head and you roll your hips down, making Joel groan into your folds. You aren’t screaming yet, your moans are muffled by your panties and it’s thrilling. The door into the bathroom is still opened and your parents could come or Tommy could walk in at any moment. His eyes flicker up to watch your face as he sucks.

You couldn’t care less if someone sees you right now. His tongue is magic against your clit. Harsh but perfect as he sucks and licks. His fingers slide along your thighs, pushing your thighs back out to give him room to make you fall apart on his tongue.

He doesn’t rush you, keeping the rhythm of his tongue steady and he flicks his tongue against your hole before sucking on your clit again. Groaning quietly as he devours you.

You pant around the pace, your chest heaving as he works you higher. His tongue flicking and lapping then he sucks on your clit and your thighs start to shake around his head. His name is muffled as you moan it as you get closer and closer. When he pushes his tongue deep, curling it and his nose presses against your clit, you fall apart. Your cry is silenced but he knows you’ve fallen over the edge by the way your thighs squeeze his head.

He can feel the rapid pulse of your heart pumping blood through your veins and he loves it. Keeping his tongue curled up inside you, his curved nose pressed against your clit as he feels your arousal flood his tongue. Your thighs squeeze his head and he huffs slightly when your fingers grip his hair, not letting you push him away just yet.

You whine around your panties when it becomes too much, his tongue languidly swiping over your clit but you're too sensitive. Your hands finally succeed in pushing his head away and he smirks up at you, cocky because he made you fall apart under his tongue.

“Joel!” Joel can move fast when he needs to, lurching to his feed and out the door while you are still sprawled on the counter. Tommy pauses at the door to the master bedroom.

“Yeah?” He grumbles slightly. “Damn near thought you cut a finger off. What’re you yellin’ for?” Tommy snorts at the grumpy attitude of his older brother and shakes his head.

“I’m headed out, you sure you don’t wanna grab a burger?” He offers, making Joel shake his head.

“Nah, packed a lunch.” He smirks. “Even have dessert, ate that already though.”

You scramble off of the vanity, shoving your dress down and spitting out your panties to shove them in your bra. Your face is burning from nearly getting caught but your pussy is throbbing from arousal at the fact that his brother nearly caught you. Tommy stares at his brother, eyebrows raised at his shiny chin, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to when his older brother stares at him as if to say 'don't you dare.'

Tommy holds up his hands and smirks slightly. “Alright..uh, you should finish up the tile in there today?” He asks, nodding to the bathroom.

“Yeah.” Joel nods and shoots daggers at his brother, wanting him to leave. “Have a good lunch.” He tells him pointedly.

Tommy shakes his head, a small chuckle escaping his lips. He isn't dumb. He's seen the way you and Joel look at each other and he doesn't care so long as your parents don't get pissed and blame the company for Joel fucking their daughter while doing the renovations. He's happy that Joel is finally getting some. It's been a couple of years since Tess died and he deserves some happiness after so long. Tommy leaves, purposefully slamming the door shut and you come out of the bathroom, "oh God. He knows, doesn't he?" You ask Joel, slightly mortified.

“Tommy’s not stupid.” Joel answers. “He won’t say anything.” He wonders if you would want to stop now, ashamed that someone other than you and him might know. He grins at you and glances down at the slight bulge under your shirt. “Still not wearing any panties?” He asks lecherously. “Do you want me to fuck you in the bathroom or bend you over mommy and daddy’s bed?” He’s half joking, but he would do it if you wanted.

You smirk, loving that he isn't put off by his brother knowing. "Oh God. I want - the bed. Want you inside of me. Want you to fill me up." You confess, knowing how wrong this is but your pussy is dripping as you stare at him, chest heaving.

“Lay down at the end of the bed.” Joel orders, reaching down to unbuckle his belt to unbutton his jeans. “Gonna put your legs up on my shoulders and fill your pussy with my cum right there on your parents bed like we’re fucking rebellious teenagers.” The fact that Joel’s not too much younger than your parents doesn’t matter, you make him feel younger.

You obey immediately, laying down on the bed and you shove your dress up to your waist. You watch him unbuckle his belt, his cock hard and aching as he pulls it out. You never get over the size of his length. “Fuck me, daddy.” You tease, spreading your legs for him.

“Fuck, do you want me to stay hard?” He huffs, pumping his cock in his hand and rolling his eyes at you. You giggle, not remorseful in the least and he shuffles forward. “I’m going to make you scream now that we are alone.” He warns with a smirk.

You moan when he slides his cock through your folds. “Please.” You whimper, your stomach clenching as you look up at him. “Want you to make me scream.” You demand, your hands caressing his forearms. He notches his cock at your entrance and grabs your wrists, lifting them over your head to press them into the mattress as he pushes into you.

“So goddamn tight.” He hisses. “Best little pussy I’ve ever fucked.”

You love his compliments. He’s not a man of many words but fuck, he’s so sexy. Your feet are behind his head as he lifts your calves onto his shoulders, practically folding you in two as you take his cock. “Oh my God. I think you’re in my throat this time.” You pant, closing your eyes.

“Good.” He huffs, rocking his hips forward sharply as he moves your legs up from his waist to his shoulders. Leaning forward, he braces his hands on the bed, flashing a smirk before he starts to destroy your pussy.

You moan when he starts to move, pushing deep and hard. “Yes yes yes!” You squeal, your head tilting back and you close your eyes.

“Look at me.” He demands, “fucking - keep your eyes open.” Your eyes flutter open and you look at him above you, his jaw clenched as he rocks into you. He stares down at you, his jaw clenched as he fucks you hard enough to shake the bed, the headboard starting to bang against the wall. “Fuck, dirty little slut.” He grunts. “So desperate for my cock you’re letting me fuck you on your parents bed.”

“Yes. Your - your slut. Oh God. Your cock. Only your cock drives me to do this.” You cry out, “so good. You - you fill me up so well.” You moan as he grinds deep into you. “Joel. So - so fucking good.” You cry as he fucks you hard and fast.

He can feel how close you are, bending down even more so he can press his lips to yours and the short hair above his cock grinds against your clit. “Cum.” He demands breathlessly. “Want you to cum.”

You practically wail, your eyes closing as you fall apart. “Oh my - Joel! Joel! Joel!” You squeal as you clamp down on his cock, soaking him with your cum.

Joel groans, eyes rolling back as you pack down around him. Having to really thrust his hips to move as he tries to work you through. “Fuck!” He yells, grabbing your thighs and straightening up as he continues to drill into you.

You watch him, your body pushed up the bed. “Come on. Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you spill inside of me. Come on.” You egg him on, clenching around him as he drills into you until he stutters, his cock throbbing as he fills you up. “That’s it. Oh shit. Never gets old. Love watching you cum.”

Joel grunts and groans as he finally stops cumming. Panting and his work rough hands caress your legs. “Fucking love cumming in you.” He watches as he pulls out, spreading your thighs to watch his cum start to push out of your cunt. “That is a pretty sight.”

You giggle as he watches your pussy for a moment until he lets your legs down from his shoulders. “You wanna have your lunch?” You ask, knowing he’s gotta be hungry after that and he does need a lunch break. He nods and you gingerly shift off of the bed, “I’ll tidy up. Go eat.” You demand, rubbing his shoulder.

Joel tucks himself away and goes downstairs to where his lunch box is sitting in the kitchen. He really had packed a lunch because of Tommy and he opens it quickly. He knows that Tommy won’t say a word, but he will give him shit for taking too long on the lunch break.

****

You bite your lip as you watch Joel work, his shoulders moving with each motion of the brush while he paints the wall. He senses your presence and turns to look at you. Tommy is on a coffee run and your parents are out. "Hey trouble." He smirks at you and you step closer to him.

"Hey handsome." You don't mess around, knowing you don't have a lot of time so you squeeze him through his pants.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, glancing around the room as if someone could walk in at any second. You laugh, making him glare at you and you squeeze him again.

“I want to suck your cock.” You tell him, making him hiss again, this time his hardening cock jump against your palm. You smirk as he twitches under your touch. “No one is here. Just us.” You reassure him, your fingers sliding up to unbuckle his belt. Your nimble fingers unbutton his jeans and you reach in to pull out his half hard cock. “Wanna taste you.” You murmur as you shift to kneel down in front of him, paint splattered on his pants.

“Fuck.” Joel groans, looking down to find you watching him under your lashes while your tongue slides along the growing length of his cock. He’s never had someone blow him in their parents kitchen, and he’s not going to turn you down when you are so eager for it.

You kiss along his length as you feel him harden against your lips. His hands gripping the kitchen counter as he watches you. You moan when you wrap your lips around the head, loving the spurt of pre-cum hitting your tongue. Salty and all Joel. You can’t seem to get enough of him.

It’s fucking incredible, your mouth is hot and wet, tongue eagerly sliding against his shaft. You fucking take him deeper and the first groan bubbles out of his throat. Making you smirk, stretching your lips around him.

He hisses your name and you brace your hands on his thighs. The denim is rough under your palms and you keep your eyes on him. Your moan vibrates up his cock as you take him even deeper, your pussy throbbing at the groan that escapes his lips.

His hips push forward sharply, during his cock even deeper into your mouth. Making you gag as he grabs the back of your head and takes over. Holding you still while he thrusts into your mouth, loving how your hands grab at his hips and your throat contracts around him.

You let him use your mouth, the groans escaping his mouth combined with the grunts make you slide your hand into your shorts to rub your clit. Letting him hold your head and your eyes water as you allow him to use you.

“So fucking good.” He groans. “Don’t know what’s better, your pussy or your mouth.” He catches sight of your hand in your shorts and moans. “That’s right, play with your pussy while I fuck your throat, little girl.”

You moan around him again, choking a second later when he pushes deeper, the curls at the base of his cock brushing your nose, and you rub your clit a little faster. His hands still grip your head, using you and rocking his hips a little faster.

Even as often as Joel is getting sex, he’s still working himself close to cumming quickly. Your mouth is perfect, the pressure around his length too much for him to be able to stand for too long. “Gonna cum down your throat.” He promises. “Fill- fuck- you up.” His hips stutter and his stomach lurches. “Fuck- gonna-“ he chokes out a groan as his cock pushed deep down your throat and starts to throb.

Joel grunts as you swallow around him one more time, spent now the last spurts have been swallowed. His hand softens on your cheek and he stops rocking his hips, eyes looking at your own watery ones.

You let his softening cock drop from your mouth as he caresses your cheek and you offer him a soft smile, enjoying how relaxed he looks right now. “Fuck baby. So- you look so good.” You murmur, throat a little sore, “not stressed.”

He chuckles softly, smirking at you slightly. “Hard to be stressed when I just came.” He rubs his thumb over your lips. “How are you, little girl? You need to cum? Want me to rub your little clit?”

You nod, shifting to stand on shaky legs. He helps you up after tucking his cock away and spins you to press your against the counter where he was standing. “Joel.” You whimper when his hands squeeze your tits. “I want to cum.”

His hand slides down from your shoulder to your tit, squeezing it and then gliding down to your stomach. Hitting your shorts and diving under the elastic waistband, and groaning when he finds you’re not wearing any underwear. “Fuck baby.” He groans. “You’re always ready to take me. Ain’t ya?”

You nod, mouth falling open as his fingers find your clit. He’s been the best part of returning home. Working from your childhood bedroom has allowed you to run riot with Joel over your parents’ house and it’s been amazing.

“Thaaaat’s it.” He coos, smirking smugly at the way your body jerks and pulls taunt as he rubs. Knowing that he’s touching you exactly like you need to be touched. “Such a good girl for me. Doing so good. I know you want to cum.”

“Need to - God. Need to cum.” You pant, head tilting back as his calloused fingertips rub your clit expertly. He knows your body inside out by now. “Joel, baby. Shit. Know just what I need.”

He knows that you are just praising him because he’s giving you pleasure. He hums and presses his lips to the bottom of your ear. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You moan, “need - fingers inside of me.” You plead and he nods, shifting his hand further into your shorts so he can push two thick digits inside of your dripping pussy. “Yesss.” You cry, gripping his shirt as he pushes you into the counter.

He doesn’t stop, curling and pumping his fingers deep inside your cunt. Pressing you close and pushing his thigh between your legs to keep them splayed open. “Come on baby, soak my fingers.”

You pant, fingers curling in his shirt as he pushes you higher and higher. “Oh God. I -fuck Joel. Joel baby. I’m gonna - shit. Shit. Shit.” You cry out, clamping down on his digits as he sends you over the edge. His thumb pressed against your clit and you slump against him while your thighs shake against his knee.

Joel watched you closely, enjoying the way your entire body reacts to your pleasure and he hums softly. “That’s it. You just melt against me.”

You inhale deeply, leaning in to breathe him in. Your lips press against his neck, “so good.” You murmur as he withdraws his hand from your shorts just as the front door opens. Joel steps away from you immediately and your parents walk in. “Hey Joel. How’s it going?” Your dad asks and you exhale shakily, stepping over to the fridge Joel installed the day before.

“It’s going good.” Joel acknowledges, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning back like he just hadn’t had his fingers buried in the other man’s daughter. “We should be finished up right on schedule. Just finishing the tile and trim and she’ll be done.” He glances around and the completely redone kitchen.

You are disappointed that Joel will be done sooner rather than later. You’ve had weeks of sex and you’re not sure what you’re going to do when he’s done. Luckily, he still has the bathrooms to finish along with the laundry room and the flooring in the bedrooms. “He’s done a good job so far.” You comment and your mom smiles, agreeing. “We are having a BBQ tomorrow with the neighbors. Weather is perfect and we wondered if you and Tommy wanna join us?” Your dad asks the older Miller brother.

“I- uh, yeah, sure.” Joel doesn’t often socialize with his clients, but he also doesn’t normally bang their daughters either. He bites his lip and shrugs. “What can I bring? I don’t know if I would trust something I cooked, but I can bring cups, beer, whatever you need.”

Your dad nods, “beer would be awesome. Just bring you and Tommy can bring Maria. Want to thank you guys for doing such an amazing job so far.” He says and reaches out to slap Joel on his upper arm. Your lover nods, his dark eyes glancing at you and you offer him a soft smile, wanting to let him know you want him to come to the cookout.

****

You see Joel across the lawn, sipping a beer and talking to Tommy and his wife, Maria. The entire street is here for the cookout and you sip your vodka seltzer while Darlene from two doors down talks to you about her lawyer son who would be ‘just perfect for you.’ “He sounds perfect for Sally’s daughter.” You point to the other woman who is talking to your mom and you make your way across the lawn to the Miller family. “Hey guys. Everyone is amazed by the kitchen and half bath. My parents have given your number out to nearly everyone here so you should be busy for the rest of the year.” You grin, shifting in your short sundress.

“Good.” Tommy looks very pleased by the prospect and rubs Maria’s back. “This is my wife, Maria.” He boasts. “And soon to be the next Miller.”

Joel’s lips press together but he relaxes his jaw so it’s not obvious he’s uncomfortable. “That’s good.” He nods, holding up a case of beer in each hand. He has splurged on the good stuff since he didn’t think your dad drank PBR. “Where do you want these?”

You greet Maria, “I’ve heard a lot about you. All good things.” You promise, offering her a smile and she says “I’ve heard a lot about you too.” Her eyes look at Joel and he avoids his sister in law. “You can put them on the bar.” You tell Joel, escorting him over to the table full of buckets of ice and various drinks.

“Thanks.” He puts the beers down on the bar and turns towards you. “So…what now?” He asks. “I talk to all his friends about remodeling their bathrooms?” He chuckles quietly.

“That or…we could find somewhere private and you could show me how you manage to get your grout lines so straight?” You smirk, biting your lip and you glance around to make sure no one is watching you. “Unless you’d prefer I leave you with the neighborhood watch mom group over there?” You flick your eyes over to the gaggle of middle aged women who are not so discreetly eying Joel.

“Fuck no.” Joel snorts, looking over at the group of women and then shooting you an annoyed look. He doesn’t want to be fending off those vultures all night. “Where do you want to go?” He asks, wiping his hands on his jeans and feeling a little out of place even though he had showered and even trimmed up his facial hair for tonight. His jeans aren’t ripped or paint stained and his flannel shirt is practically new.

You trail your eyes along his figure, stomach twisting at how good he looks tonight. He smells good too. “I have a treehouse. Used to go in it when I was a kid. You want to join me in there? I might want to upgrade the flooring.” You tease, grabbing your drink and spinning around, you glance over your shoulder at him as you make your way through the yard to the treehouse.

Joel grabs a beer, ignoring the women who are staring after him and follows you outside. There’s enough people here that most of them are talking and not paying any attention when you disappear around the back of a tree and Joel reaches the base just in time to catch a glimpse of your bare ass as you climb. “Fuckin’ too old for this shit.” He grunts quietly, shoving his beer into his pocket and climbing up after you.

You giggle as he climbs up, “come on Miller. Where’s your sense of adventure?” You ask him as you step up onto the treehouse your grandfather built years ago. He was like Joel. Handy and an excellent craftsman. Your dad didn’t inherit the gift. “Gone when I turned 50.” He groans as he steps into the treehouse. It’s not creaking when he shifts his weight and he hums, impressed with the structure. You sit down on the beanbag, holding your drink up. “You look good for your age.” You hum, taking a sip.

He rolls his eyes and huffs as he sits down, knees creaking slightly. “For my age, huh?” He pulls the beer out of his pocket and opens the can. “To aging gracefully.” He toasts, holding the can up and then taking a sip of the cold brew.

You smile, watching him in your childhood treehouse is a bizarre experience but you love it. “You do look really good tonight.” You compliment him, “I like the clean look a lot. I do think I like the dirty look more, though. Rugged, sexy, capable.” You flirt, “and you can still get it up.” You tease, “most of the time.” You joke about the time he was about to fuck you and your parents’ old fashioned house phone voice sounded out their voicemail. Your dad telling you to take the chicken out of the freezer. He went soft as soon as he heard your dad.

“Can’t believe you still hold that against me.” He snorts. “Been thirty fuckin’ years since I’ve been worried about somebody’s daddy walkin’ in.” He grunts, staring at the way your thighs spread teasingly. His cock twitches in his jeans and like every time he’s around you, he starts to harden. “So did you bring me up here to fuck?” He asks. “Or just get away from everyone?”

“Both.” You tilt your head, “I don’t - I have to confess, I’ve never been so sexually attracted to anyone. I want you. All the time. Like I even touch myself thinking about you at night.” You know you’re giving him all the cards but you mean what you say. “So…we can talk since I saved you from the neighborhood ladies flirting with you and the husbands asking for your advice on their latest DIY project…or we can fuck and you gotta keep me quiet since they could definitely hear us up here.”

“How wet are you?” Joel asks, eyeing the exposed skin as your thighs spread again. You’ve talked between flirting and fucking, but the idea of you walking around the party dripping his cum is one he really likes.

You bite your lip and lift your dress higher, spreading your legs to expose your wet folds to his dark gaze. “Soaking wet for you. Ever since you walked into the party.” You confess, sliding your hand down to rub your clit.

“Spread your lips apart.” Joel orders quietly. “Rub slower.” He twitches in his jeans and reaches down to palm himself as he watches you touch yourself. You’ve not really had time for more than frantically rushed fucking, so now he can watch you. See what you like to do to yourself when you’re thinking about him.

You set your drink down and reach down with your other hand, spreading your lips to show him your puffy clit. Your eyes on him as you slowly rub the bundle of nerves and he squeezes his cock through his jeans. You like the way he’s ordering you.

“That’s good, just like that.” He grunts. “Slide your fingers through your slick and then rub your clit again. Gotta make sure you’re nice and wet. But you’re always so fucking wet.” He unbuttons his jeans and reveals that he’s not wearing any underwear, pulling out his cock and then spitting in his hand to wrap around it and pump slowly.

You whimper, mouth almost watering when you see this thick cock in his hand. You follow his order, sliding your fingers down to gather up your slick and you bring it back to your clit, rubbing it a little faster. “Always wet around you. Just looking at you gets me wet. Especially - shit - especially when you strip your shirt off or wear your tank top.”

“Like that, huh?” He grunts and rocks his hips up, working himself into his fist. “You enjoy being fucked. That pretty pussy needs to be fucked as often as possible.”

You whine slightly as he pumps his cock a little faster. “Joel. Please. Let me - let me sit on your cock. Wanna feel you inside of me. Want you to cum inside of me.” You beg pathetically, pulling your hand away from your clit.

“What are you waiting for?” He demands, still pumping himself. “You want to ride, you have to come to me.” You’ve never ridden him before but he wants to see your tits bounce in his face. “Pull out your other tit and come sit on my cock.”

You pull down the straps of your dress, exposing your tits and you shift out of the bean bag, straddling his thighs and he holds his cock up so you can sink down on him. “Fuckkk.” You whimper, eyes fluttering closed as he stretches you out.

“Shhhh shhhh.” He covers your mouth with his hand, the other behind your neck to hold you firm while he bottoms out in your aching pussy. “Silent.” He whispers, knowing that no one at the party can hear, but you will get loud if he doesn’t warn you. Breathing against his fingers, he groans quietly when your pussy flutters. “You like that, huh?” He grunts. “Holding your mouth closed while you ride my cock? Is that how to keep you quiet?”

Your hands grip his wrist, eyes wide as you nod. You want him to keep you quiet. His cock twitches inside of you and you whimper against his palm. “Shhhh.” He coos, “ride me.” He demands softly and you nod, lifting your thighs to pull up off of his cock nearly all the way. You sink back down onto him.

He watches you, feeling the shuddered breaths against his palm, warming it. Thinking that you are fucking gorgeous and too good for him as you grind back down into his lap. Wanting him as deep as possible while you lean back to find the perfect angle for his cock inside you. “Good girl.” He praises, voice low. “Make yourself cum.”

You love his voice. Deep and gruff. His orders have you fluttering around his cock already. Knowing that anyone at the party could figure out that you are together, up here, having sex. Your nails dig into his forearm slightly and you rock a little faster, your thighs aching but you don’t care. You want to cum and you want him to follow you.

Joel’s hips stay down, letting you have complete control of the ride, although he pulls you up straighter by your head. Just enough for him to duck down and wrap his lips around one of your nipples. Biting it before sucking it onto his mouth and lavishing attention on it.

You cry into his palm, muffled as he bites down on your nipple and you tangle your fingers in his hair as you ride him a little faster. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you find the right angle for the head of his cock to rub against your g-spot.

Joel grunts, sucking and biting on your breast while you gallop on his cock. Loving how your moans are muffled by his hand and his cock twitches. He loves how you demand pleasure and are willing to take it for yourself.

You moan into his palm, so close to your orgasm. He switches to your other nipple and it sends you over the edge. You clamp down on his cock, soaking him and your cry threatens to bubble past his palm but he presses his hand harder against your mouth to smother your cry. His groan is soft against your breast as you grip him and you shake above him.

Your hands slide down from his hair to his shoulders, caressing his upper back as he paints your walls with his cum. His hand drops from your mouth as he grips your waist and you rest your head on top of his. “So good, baby. So fucking good.” You gasp, “can’t get enough of you.”

Joel chuckles quietly as you both ride out your orgasms, panting softly. “I can tell.” He teases quietly, running his hand down your spine. “Good baby?”

You nod against his head, “so good. Fuck, Joel. Wish you could stay inside of me alllll the time.” You tease, running your fingers through his salt and pepper locks. “I am gonna be dripping your cum at this party.”

“I know.” He smirks at you and waggles his brows. “I’ve thought about that before you ever even climbed in my lap.” He pats your hip lightly, leaning back and sighing, relaxed and loose now. He picks up his beer and takes a swallow, his cock softening inside you.

You watch him, your gaze softening until you clear your throat and shift off of his lap. You grab your own drink after you pull your dress into place, sitting down in the bean bag. Joel is quiet as he sips his beer and you shift in the bean bag. “I’m gonna head down, clean up. Come down whenever you’re ready. It’s better that we are seen separately.” You murmur, groaning as you stand up and his cum starts to drip down your thigh. You wink at him as you climb down the ladder and make your way into the house to clean up. When you come out of the bathroom, you are grabbing a snack in the kitchen when your mom approaches you. “Sweetheart, we - your dad and I wanted to talk to you. We noticed you and Joel go up to your treehouse and we - we’ve seen the way you look at him. You’re an adult and after what that asshole did to you, you deserve to have some fun but honey…Joel is complicated.” You open your mouth to respond but she shakes her head, “you don’t know his past. You’ve been away from home for a long time and we - your dad knew Joel from his coworkers. Joel lost his daughter. She was thirteen. He lost her and his wife - she left him when his daughter was two. He’s got a lot of baggage and I’m worried that he will hurt you because he doesn’t want to - he’s not the dating kind.” She explains and your jaw clenches.

“Mom, I don’t want to date him. We are having fun. Please…I know I have kept this for you. Been doing this under your roof and I’m sorry for that but I’m not sorry about Joel. He’s fun and I- I deserve to have some fun. I’m not marrying the guy.” You scoff, crossing your arms. She nods and grabs her wine glass, neither of you aware that Tommy was lingering in the hallway.

Tommy finds Joel nursing a beer and listening to one of your father’s neighbors talk about the bathroom that he wanted to remodel. Obviously wanting a quote, sight unseen. “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Tommy asks Joel, nodding in apology to the potential customer. Once he gets him alone, Tommy shuffles nervously. “So I heard something…..”

Joel clenches his jaw as Tommy relays the conversation that he had heard between you and your mother. “Right.” He spits after a moment, glancing over at you and then back at his brother. “Think I’m going to call it a night.” He decides.

You frown when you don’t see Joel anymore and you ask Tommy where he went. The younger Miller brother is a little cold towards you and tells you his brother went home, decided to call it a night. You nod and thank him and Maria for coming when he tells you they are leaving. You’re confused Joel didn’t say goodbye but you suppose that’s his MO.

****

The next day, Joel is back working in the house and you glance around to see where Tommy is before you waltz over to him, a smile on your face. “Hey handsome. Working in my bedroom today?” You ask, “I need some help moving the bed.”

Joel looks up at you for a brief moment and then back down at his tools. “Tommy and I will move it. I’d prefer it if you weren’t in the room.” He tells you. “Liability.” He doesn’t look back up and doesn’t say another word while you are standing there waiting for him to take you up on your obvious overture.

Your smile falls, his gaze turning back to his tools and you deflate. “Oh, uh, okay. Sure. I can take my work to the living room.” You step back, wondering if he’s had a bad morning. You leave the hallway without another word and grab your laptop, heading downstairs to work. Later that afternoon, Tommy is out getting their lunch and you walk into your bedroom to find Joel working on ripping up the old carpet. “You need a drink?” You hold out the bottle of water, “figured you could use a break while you wait for Tommy to get back.” You bend over so he can look down your shirt at your tits.

“I’m good.” He doesn’t look up, not wanting to see your tits or your legs on display. “Have a bottle over there.” He doesn’t even stop working and just nods his head towards his tool bag. “Be finished by tomorrow.” His words are short and clipped.

There’s definitely something wrong. You frown and huff, standing up straight and you don’t leave right away. You uncap the bottle and tilt your head back, chugging half the water. With a dramatic sigh of satisfaction, you spin on your heel and leave the room.

Joel continues working but he sighs, hating that he had ever thought that you would want him. He was stupid, he had started to care about you. Way too much, it was better to just keep things professional between you. He was the contractor, nothing more.

****

A couple of days pass by and you ignore Joel and Tommy’s presence in the house, deciding to work at some coffee shops instead, but today is a gorgeous day. The sun is shining, you don’t need to work, so you decide to sit in the sun and have a drink. You walk into the kitchen where Joel is sitting, looking over his materials, and you open the fridge to grab a drink while dressed in the smallest bikini you own. Just because he’s ignoring you doesn’t mean he won’t notice you. Maybe he’s in a bad mood. You’d forgive him if he touched you again.

The muscles in Joel’s jaws have been getting a workout. Clenching every time you walk into a room half naked and primping around. He knows what you are doing and it’s starting to piss him off. He's ached for days, having to go home and jerk off after work every night like he’s a teenager again. “Need to put some fucking clothes on.” He grumbles under his breath.

You turn your head to look at him, “did you say something?” He shakes his head and you hum, taking your drink outside to the sun loungers your parents had bought for the summer. You sigh as you lay down in view on the kitchen window. Taking off your top to sunbathe.

It takes him about fifteen minutes to notice you. Hissing in anger when he sees your tits on display. He grabs one of his work rags and stalks outside angrily. “Cover yourself up.” He growls, tossing the rag over your chest. “My fucking brother doesn’t want to see your tits and his wife certainly doesn’t want him to.”

You glare at him from behind your sunglasses. “Your brother isn’t here, asshole.” You toss the rag back at him. “It’s my day off. I wanted to relax and you are interrupting that.” You hiss at him, “and it’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.”

“Fuck this.” He growls. “I’m done for the day.” He’s pissed off and needs to get away from you.

You huff, grabbing the rag back. “You don’t need to leave. I’ll go inside. If you leave, you’ll need more time to finish your work and I don’t want you staying longer than necessary. You might as well stay and I’ll go inside. Give you a break from my tits.” You growl, shifting to stand up from the lounger.

“I’m just the help, right?” He scoffs. “Someone to use and have fun with?” Hearing what you had said hurt because Tommy had said you had seemed appalled that your mother figured it out. “So I think it’s best that I keep things professional. So there’s no confusion. Not like you’d want people to know you were getting fucked by the carpenter.” He shakes his head. “I’ll have Tommy finish up this job.”

“I- I didn’t - you heard my conversation with my mom? I was - I was trying to save your ass. It’s not exactly professional to sleep with your client's daughter. I- it was fun. Until you decided to be an asshole. I figured you wanted to keep it casual and I want to know more about you but we don’t exactly have time to sit down and tell our life story.”

“Tommy heard you.” He corrects, wondering if you’re just trying to cover your ass or if you were trying to protect him. He waits for a moment, biting his lip. “If you want to know about me, I’ll be at Bill & Frank’s tonight.” He tells you, planning on going to the dive bar that Frank has tried to make a little more classy. “Up to you.”

You nod, knowing it’s best to not push him anymore right now. You grab your bikini top and head inside, deciding to leave him be and meet him later. You head back inside and you don’t look back, figuring that he’d want to be left alone.

****

You brush your dress down, looking up at the crooked sign for Bill and Frank’s and you inhale deeply. Reaching for the door, you head inside and it’s a weird mix of old fashioned saloon and an afternoon tea shop. Lace doilies on the tables with small lamps and worn coasters. The artwork on the wall says “eighty year old woman” while the floor is sticky.

“Well that doesn’t walk in here often.” Bill grunts, looking at the door with an almost annoyed glare, which was normal for the cantankerous bar owner. “Trouble if I’ve ever seen.”

Joel looks over his shoulder to see you and snorts. “Surprised you noticed.” He huffs at the other man, smirking slightly when the bearded man shifts his glare to him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Frank.” He’s sort of friends with Bill and Frank, the proprietors of the little bar. Or it’s better to say, Tess was really good friends with Frank, so Bill and Joel had tolerated each other. After Tess had died, Joel had found himself still coming back.

You spot Joel at the bar and make your way over. He turns to look at you, “hey.” He grunts and you offer him a soft smile as he pulls the bar stool out next to him for you to sit down. He slides the shot he had sitting in front of him over to you and you don’t hesitate to tilt your head back as you down it. Bill snorts, wiping down the counter, “what can I get you?” He asks and you order a beer. “I didn’t know if you’d be here. You didn’t give me a time.”

“Sorry.” He grunts, lifting his beer to his lips and takes a sip. “Figured you’d come and I’d be here.” Bill chuckles as he wipes down the bar with a rag, smirking slightly at the sight of Joel and another woman. “You on a date, Miller?” He cackles.

“Joel is working on my parents’ house.” You explain and Bill snorts, “this is the hussy that’s got you running around in circles?” He asks and your eyebrows raise. Joel shakes his head, “go get her drink and get Frank out here if you can’t be nice.” He orders and you huff, “been talking me up, huh?” Joel shrugs and you sigh, “I suppose I deserve that. I haven’t exactly treated you fairly. It wasn’t just fun for me. I wanted more.” You admit softly, looking down at the counter.

Joel snorts as Bill walks away and cuts you a look before he takes another sip of his beer. “I’m old, little girl.” He reminds you. “You’re a hell of a lot younger, wanting things I can’t give you. Like kids and shit.”

You tap your fingers on the counter, closing your eyes for a second. “We never had a discussion about birth control other than me telling you it was taken care of. The truth is…my ex cheated on me.” You take a deep breath, “he cheated on me because I found out I’m infertile. We tried for a year. Figured we would do the tests when we discovered that I can’t - I have PCOS and it was bad. They did some tests and scans and I had to have my ovaries removed then he - he cheated on me. She’s pregnant. That’s why I moved home. I was in his house and I was sure he was going to propose since he seemed to accept that we wouldn’t have biological kids but he - he cheated and I moved home. So to answer your question, I can’t have kids.”

“What a fucker.” He growls, angry on your behalf. “That’s a shit thing to do.” He will never understand someone’s need to cheat. Those people are complete scumbags in his eyes and he’s done a lot of shit he’s regretted. “I’m sorry, you deserve better than that douche bag. It doesn’t matter if you can’t give him kids.”

You nod, “it did to him. I’m glad I found out what he’s really like. Better to happen like that instead of when we have had adopted two kids and I’m stuck with him.” You confess just as another man comes over to set your beer down along with another for Joel. The man, you assume he is Frank, says your name. “Right? The pretty girl you’ve been telling us about. She’s as beautiful as you described, Joel.” Frank says and you fluster, looking at Joel who is busy studying the grain of wood on the counter. “There’s a condom machine in the bathroom.” Frank winks as he walks off to serve another patron.

“Jesus Christ.” Joel hisses under his breath, squirming slightly in his seat in embarrassment. “Gonna stop fucking coming here.” He gripes even as he picks up his new beer.

You giggle softly, “he heard all the details, huh?” You tease and you nudge him gently. “It’s fine. I didn’t know you cared so much, Miller.” You take a sip of your beer and glance around the bar, feeling someone’s eyes on you. A man, younger than Joel but shorter, is staring at you and you offer him a nod before you turn back to the counter.

Joel glances around and doesn’t really think anything of the people in the bar. Plenty of people are flirting and having a good time. Frank is down the bar waiting on another couple and he wonders if you want to get some food.

Frank sets another round of drinks down in front of you after he serves the couple down the bar. “On the house. It’s been a while since I saw Joel smile. Especially not since Tess died.” He says and you frown, turning to look at Joel.

He owes you an explanation. “Tess was my- we were-“ he fumbles for the proper way to describe his relationship with Tess. The ache was still there, deep inside him just like when he lost Sarah. “She was mine.” He finally settled on just that. “She died. Two years ago.”

You can see the pain in his eyes, losing someone else that he loved. Your dad told you more about Joel losing his daughter, Sarah, to a gunman in a gas station robbery that went wrong. Your heart aches for him. You reach for his hand, “I’m so sorry, Joel.” You murmur, knowing that there’s nothing else you could say.

Sorries always make Joel uncomfortable. It can’t change the past or bring back Sarah, or Tess. “Thanks.” He mumbles and drains the rest of his first beer. “I need to piss.” He tells you as he stands. “Be right back.”

You nod, watching him go. You take a sip of your beer and sense a presence beside you as soon as Joel disappears. “Hey baby. You done babysitting the old man? Wanna have some real fun?” He asks and you scoff, “he’s not old.”

The guy leans against the counter next to you. “Bet he needs viagra to get it up.” He scoffs and you snort, “that ‘old man’ can make my legs shake and make me moan his name more than anyone I’ve ever met.” You say and he says, “until you met me.” He smirks, leaning in and you jerk back.

“Please fuck off.” You order, hating how he won’t take the hint. “Come on baby, don’t be mean. Gimme a chance to make you cum.” He coos, reaching for your wrist.

“Get the fuck off of me.” You hiss, trying to jerk your wrist out of his grip but he doesn’t let go.

Joel comes out of the bathroom, walking into the bar and the first thing he sees is you trying to pull your arm out of some asshole’s grip. The fucker not letting you go and Joel’s jaw clenches and his fists bunch together. “Oh shit.” Frank hisses, knowing what that look means. “Joel! Joel! Don’t do it! Joel!” Joel doesn’t even hear him as he crosses the bar in less than ten seconds and is dragging the asshole off of you. Whirling him around and punching him down to the ground before climbing on top of him and whaling away in an angry haze.

Your eyes widen and a shocked gasp escapes your lips as Joel continues to punch the asshole. “Joel. Joel. Stop!” You demand, knowing he’s going to kill the guy if you let him continue. You reach for his shoulder as he pulls his fist back again but he shrugs you off, his vision going red. Bill rushes around the bar, grabbing Joel’s waist to pull him off of the guy before he punches his face in. “Come on, man.” Bill grunts, dragging Joel off just enough for Frank to get in front of him. “Go. You gotta go.” Frank tells you when he hears someone calling 911. “Take Joel. Go.” Frank urges, knowing Joel can’t afford another arrest. “Motherfucker.” Joel growls, trying to get out of Bill’s grip.

“Stop it,” Bill growls, spinning him to drag him out of the bar. You nod, grabbing your purse and Bill escorts Joel to his truck. “Drive him home.” He orders, shoving Joel into his truck, his fists bloody and skin broken. Your hands shake, taking the key from Bill that he pulled out of Joel’s pocket. You get into the driver’s seat, adjusting the seat, and you barely manage to start the engine. “You- you gotta tell me where you live.”

Joel doesn’t answer you right away, staring down and his hand and flexing it to make sure nothings too broken. Just a few hairline fractures from what he can tell with the adrenaline still running through his system. “Joel!” You snap, making him look up at you, his eyes dark and focused, causing you to nearly shrink back from him. “Where do you live?” You repeat and he knows he’s in no condition to drive. He murmurs his address and then looks back down at his hand, sirens wailing in the distance.

You drive a little faster when you see the flashing lights on the horizon, wanting Joel to get home safe and sound. Your heart is still pounding but you manage to figure out his street and pull onto it, squinting to see the numbers in the dark. Finally, you pull onto his drive and put the truck in park, killing the engine. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” You murmur, getting out of his truck and rounding it to open the door for him.

Joel follows your instructions, getting out of the truck and following behind you as you climb the steps to the front door of his house. The old craftsman cottage has been a project for him, one that he needed after Tess, but now it is done and it is a beauty.

You unlock his door with the key on his truck key ring and you admire the workmanship that went into the home. Signs of Joel’s hard work are everywhere. You shut the door behind him when he walks in. “Do you have a first aid kit?” You ask and he nods, “laundry room.” He jerks his chin towards the door across the hall and you nod, “go sit” you order before you go find the kit.

He should tell you to go, but he just sits down at the dining room table and sighs. His hand hurts, but he’s fucking still amped up. His leg bouncing slightly as his pulse just jumps around.

You come into the dining room to sit down, opening the kit. Your stomach twists as you look at Joel, the dark look from earlier still not receding from his eyes. You’re silent as you work on cleaning the blood to assess the damage to his knuckles.

He wants you. The way his cock is twitching and throbbing as you work on him, it should scare him. Scare you. Your thumb brushes over his knuckle and he grabs your hand, making you look at him. “You should go.” He growls.

Your eyes meet his and you realize he doesn’t want you to go. You stare at him for a few moments, trying to figure him out until you say “no.” You won’t go. Not when he needs you and you need him. Sometime between the messing around and having sex, it became serious.

“I’m not going to be gentle.” He warns, wanting to be honest. “I can’t be. Not now, not when my fucking-“ he cuts himself off. “Last chance.”

You take a moment to wrap his knuckles. “I don’t want gentle.” You tell him, your eyes meeting his after you finish wrapping his knuckles with the bandage. “I want you. No matter what. I want you.” You promise, your gaze firm, showing him that you’re not running away.

Joel shoots out of his chair and grabs your shoulders, kissing you roughly, his lips bruising. He wants to destroy you, completely break you apart in a completely different way from how he would have handled that bastard. Wanting to banish the thought of him touching you from his mind and replace it with you.

You gasp into his mouth, his hands lifting you up onto the table and you grip his shirt, wanting to keep him close. Your legs wrapping around his waist and his cock is hard in his pants, pushing into your core. His tongue slides into your mouth and your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, tugging as you react to his rough touch.

Joel growls, biting your bottom lip and it’s like he’s lost all reason on control. He wants nothing more to break you down. His hands are rough and demanding, nearly ripping your dress off your body.

You reach out, fumbling to unbutton his shirt. Every time you’ve had sex, he’s been dressed. Tonight, you want to see all of him. You grow impatient and rip his shirt, buttons flying as you shove it down his shoulders to access his skin. Your hands explore his chest when the shirt hits the floor and you lean in, biting down on his peck.

He grunts, cock twitching and he squeezes your hands before he rips your panties off of you. Willing to sacrifice them to his needs.

“Oh my God!” You squeal at the ripping of your underwear. “Joel!” You gasp, moaning a second later when his fingers push inside of your dripping wet cunt. You slide your hands down to his belt, unbuckling it and you rip it out of the loops, working fast to unbutton his jeans and pull his hard cock out.

Joel pushes your hands away but you press your thighs together when he tries to step between them. “Strip.” You demand and he growls, needing to be inside you.

Joel kicks his boots off, his jeans hitting the floor and he shoves them across the floor. Naked in front of you for the first time, you lean back to admire his form. His arms are strong, freckled from being in the sun, and he has a slight belly but it’s so sexy. He’s not overly hairy and your hand lets go of his cock so you can caress his skin. “So gorgeous.” You murmur, lost in your own thoughts as you admire him.

Joel huffs, shaking his head. “I’m old, you’re gorgeous.” It’s the small bit of tenderness he can manage right now, but when he grabs you, his hands are harsh. “You’re not letting that fucker touch you.” He hisses, pushing your thighs apart. “He couldn’t fuck you like I do.” He grabs your leg and pulls it up on his hip, lining up and slamming his cock into your warm and giving cunt in one thrust.

“Joel!” You squeal as he stretches you out. You’re wet enough to take him but it pinches slightly. You don’t care. You grip his arms, lifting your thigh higher so he can push deeper inside of you. “Fuck baby.” You pant, tilting your head back as he starts to fuck you.

The table rocks, shaking and scrapping over the floor as he fucks you. Brutally slamming into you before quickly pulling back out to do it again. Savage and feral, his mouth bites and sucks at your tilted throat, needing to possess and mark you as his.

He’s possessing you with every thrust, bite, mark, and kiss. You’re surrounded by him. His woodsy smell from the lumber he works with in your nose and you moan, fumbling to cross your ankles behind his back to get him even closer.

He might break the fucking table, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way you take him. Your pussy giving way to the harsh thrusts of his cock and squeezing tight around him. He growls and groans, making noises that sound inhuman as he fucks you.

“Joel. Oh my God.” You cry out, your hands scrambling to grip him, needing an anchor as he fucks you hard and fast. It’s harder than anything you’ve ever experienced. Feral and dominating but your cunt is absolutely gushing around him, your stomach clenched with arousal as he rocks into you. “Shit. You’re gonna make me cum.” You pant, reaching down to rub your clit, knowing he’s focused on thrusting into you.

He knows he should ease up, that you deserve tenderness but he doesn’t have it in him right now. The rage, the fury, all being taken out on your pussy. “Cum.” He grunts, the sound nearly demonic from how raspy he sounds. “Cum.”

How can you deny him when he asks you like that? He pounds into you two more times and you’re sent over the edge. Clamping down on him, your scream echoes in his house and your hand falls away from your clit to slam onto the table to keep yourself upright.

Joel hisses your name, so fucking close to cumming himself. It’s so sexy how easily you cum for him. Hips stuttering, he only manages another few thrusts before he is cumming, painting your walls with his cum as he moans your name again, softly this time.

You slump against him when he cums, his cock twitching inside of you, and you moan softly when he rests his head on top of yours. “Joel.” You murmur, throat closing slightly with emotions that you can’t give voice to.

Panting, he closes his eyes, his hands slowly relaxing and he sighs. “Are you- did I hurt you?” He asks softly. He hadn’t wanted to actually hurt you, despite being rough.

You shake your head, “no. No you didn’t, baby.” You promise, leaning in to kiss his chin and he sighs, turning his head to press his lips to yours. It’s surprisingly tender after how rough he fucked you. You cup his cheeks, caressing the gray stubble there to show him how much you care for him without actually telling him.

“Do you want to stay?” He nuzzles his nose against yours, realizing you must have left your car at the bar. He hasn’t even pulled out of you, but he doesn’t really want to. Suddenly tired and ready for bed after the evening.

“Yes.” You nod, knowing it’s too late to head home. He pulls out of you, slow enough to not hurt you, and you shift off of his table that has scraped along the floor. “Can I borrow a shirt?” You ask, watching him bend down to grab his jeans, pulling them on.

“Yeah, come on baby.” He uses his shirt to wipe up his cum and grabs you a bottle of water out of the fridge. “I’ll get you a shirt you can sleep in. Or you can sleep naked beside me.” He jokes, smirking at your wobbly footing when you stand up.

You’re soon dressed in his shirt, sliding under his sheets that smell just like him, and you’re exhausted. The events of the day hit you hard and you curl around him when he slides in beside you, water bottle placed on your nightstand.

Joel doesn’t like sleep, he dreams too much. Of Sarah, Tess and all the mistakes he has made over the years. Haunting him and weighing him down. Tonight, wrapped around you, Joel doesn’t dream.

The next morning, you wake up and groan against the sunlight peeking in through the blinds. “Joel?” You call out softly, voice raspy. The smell of bacon and eggs hits your nose and you get out of bed, peeing before you head downstairs to the kitchen. Your eyes widen when you find Joel cooking and sitting at the counter is a teenage girl.

“Holy shit, Joel! You had a sleepover.” Ellie pipes up, making Joel turn around from the stove. “Ellie! Language!” He hisses before he catches sight of you. “Hey! Uh, good morning. I’m making breakfast.” He explains, as if it weren’t obvious. Ellie snaps her fingers and says your name. “That’s you, right? Joel’s been talking about you.”

You are trying to figure out who Ellie is. You haven’t heard a word about her from Joel. “Oh, uh, yeah. Hi Ellie.” You greet her as you come over to Joel who is cooking. “Coffee is in the pot.” He says and you nod, grabbing the mug he left on the side and you pour yourself a cup. You feel awkward in his shirt, your hair all over the place, and you can feel Ellie watching you.

“Joel, Joel, Joel.” Ellie tsks and shakes her head before leveling a mockingly serious look at him when he slides her eggs onto her plate. “Do we need to have the talk, young man?” She snickers. “Are you engaging in safe sex?” She lowers her voice to a pitch that matches the old sex Ed videos. “Jesus Christ.” He hisses. “Don’t you have school?”

You smirk, finding it refreshing that the teenager is prodding at an otherwise always cool headed Joel. “Safe sex. I’ve looked after him.” You promise her as you lean against the counter and she chuckles, “he was practically soppy when I came in this morning. I slept over at my friend Riley’s house.” She explains and you nod, a little relieved she didn’t hear you and Joel last night. “I’m leaving for school after I’ve had my breakfast.” She adds, looking over at you. “I'm his foster kid, in case this dumbass didn’t tell you.” Ellie says, guessing from your look that you didn’t know about her. “I, uh, I’m sorry. Joel hasn’t really told me much.”

“Got lunch money, kid?” He asks, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some money. “It’s pizza day right?” He asks, smirking when she nods and snatches the money out of his hand before she shoves the eggs into her mouth and pops off the stool. “Well, see ya!”

“Bye!” You call out as she rushes off and you turn to look at Joel. “Another secret you’ve been keeping.” You tease softly and he snorts, “not a secret. Just didn’t want to drag you into my bullshit.” You shake your head, “that’s not bullshit. You- she seems like a good kid and you’re looking after her. You’re a good man, Joel. One I want to know more about. One I could easily fall for…maybe have been already.” You confess, reaching out to touch his arm.

“You….” Joel frowns slightly, setting a plate in front of you. “You like the fact that I’m an asshole?” He asks it like a question, one that he never considered before.

“I love the fact that you’re an asshole. You’re not an asshole to me…most of the time. I’ve never felt so wanted. I want - I want all of you, Miller. Even the asshole.” You joke, slightly flustered at your confession.

Joel shuffles uneasily and sighs. “I’m not good with words.” He admits, looking around the kitchen that he had once shared with Tess. “I didn’t- I don’t really share emotions.” He had realized that when she had thought he hadn’t felt the same way about her. That he hadn’t loved her. He had been raw about that for a long time, although the kid didn’t deserve to blame herself for Tess getting bit. Who the fuck would have ever thought a woman would die of rabies during this day and age? He looks back at you. “I can fuck you until you scream, protect you. Cook you breakfast. But that might not be enough for you.”

You reach up to cup his cheeks, bringing his eyes to yours. “That is enough. You are enough. I’m damaged too. Let’s not put pressure on this. We aren’t first loves. We aren’t teenagers. We are grown ass adults who can communicate. I don’t want a fairytale, I’ve been hurt before by silly dreams and fake promises. I want real. You’re real. I want you.” You assure him, your eyes burning into his.

Joel watches you for a moment and then gives a small nod. Agreeing with you. After last night, he’s not giving you up. You’re his. “I don’t break promises.” Joel tells you. “Not if I can help it.”

You nod, leaning in closer to kiss him softly. “I know, baby.” You murmur and he nudges his nose against yours. “I’m here to stay, baby. Especially with the way you cook bacon.” You grin, taking a slice off of the paper towel and biting into it. “You might want to stay at your parent’s house all the time when we are finished with it.” He jokes and you snort, shifting to sit down at the counter while he plates up the food. “I don’t think so, baby. Might have to convince my parents to add an extension. Keep you working for them.” You tease and Joel snorts, “you can have my cock for free.” He promises and you wink at him, swallowing the bacon. “Now that sounds like a good deal.” You smile and Joel chuckles, knowing that this job might’ve turned into the best one of his career. Not only did he get paid, he got a bonus: you.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction

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meadowfics · 5 months ago

Text

movie setting

thanos x f!exactress!reader

you run into your ex boyfriend during the squid games

warnings: death (not thanos, its his bestie instead sorry), some changes in the original plot, angst, reader is a blacklisted actress, one use of "bro" towards reader, even though reader is intended to be female.

you were once one of the most promising actresses in korea, starring in a hit drama that still lingers in people's hearts.

your career was supposed to skyrocket, but a scandal ruined everything.

the scandal wasn’t even your fault. the media twisted the story, painting you as the villain.

companies cut ties, contracts were ripped apart, and soon, you found yourself blacklisted from the industry.

millions of won in debt piled up before you could recover.

with no way to earn money, since you did not need to go to college because of your acting career..your world crumbled around you.

to make things worse, you and your longtime boyfriend, thanos, broke up right before everything went to hell.

you loved him.

maybe you still do.

however, you couldn’t drag him down with you, not when his rap career was still holding on by a thread.

he wanted to fight for you, but you wouldn’t let him.

“i’m not going to be the reason you sink too.”

after that, you disappeared from his life.

thano's drug addiction got worse when you left, but that is something that you did not know about until later.

just three months after suffering, you sat at the subway station after missing the last train of the night.

someone finds you..

the salesman.

he offers you the game. an escape. a chance at redemption.

you hesitate, but when you see the money, you know you don’t have a choice.

that’s how you end up on the colorful, dystopian stairs, walking toward your first game just five days later...

you don’t see thanos first. he sees you.

his breath catches when he spots you a few steps below, dressed in the same green tracksuit, looking just as lost and desperate as the rest.

he almost doesn’t believe it.

his ex, the woman he once held at night, the woman he let go of but never truly moved on from, is here.

“no fucking way,” he mutters under his breath, eyes burning into your back.

you feel it...

the weight of someone staring

when you finally turn, your stomach drops.

thanos.

your ex-boyfriend, the man you broke your own heart over, is right there running up the stairs towards you.

for a second, you do not move, holding up the line.

when he comes closer, you turn away, gripping the railing tightly as you climb the stairs faster.

he’s not stupid. he knows you’re avoiding him.

outside on the field..people notice you.

“wait… is that—?”

“holy shit, it’s her! from (drama series)!”

players start murmuring, pointing, whispering excitedly.

some of them grew up watching you on tv, still nostalgic over your most famous role.

“i can’t believe it! i had the biggest crush on her when i was younger!”

you try to ignore the attention, but it’s hard when people are outright gawking at you.

some are obsessed, borderline unsettling.

“you’re even prettier in person…”

you feel their stares, their fascination.

it makes your skin crawl.

thanos notices too.

his jaw clenches as people circle around you like vultures, bombarding you with questions.

usually, this is outside of his personality quirks.

however, he does not like people messing with his girl.

“so, is the scandal real?”

“did you really do it?”

you keep your head down.

you don’t owe them an answer.

thanos watches, expression unreadable as he stands next to namgyu.

he doesn’t step in. not yet.

when the first gunshot goes off, everything changes.

you’re frozen in place, watching blood splatter as bodies drop like flies.

people scream, run, beg for help, but it’s useless.

panic surges inside you, but you force yourself to keep it together.

“green light.”

you move.

you don’t think, don’t breathe,

just follow the rules and survive.

somewhere behind you, thanos does the same.

he sees you up ahead, your body tense, hands trembling at your sides.

he wants to call your name. tell you to focus.

he doesn’t.

he keeps jumping around like a joke..

its the drugs.

he kind of has a feeling that you will be fine.

thanos watches you as he jumps around in joy, pushing people down as if their lives wouldn't be taken too.

“red light.”

after surviving the massacre, you’re still shaken.

everyone is.

you sit in a corner of the room, trying to calm your breathing, when a shadow falls over you.

you don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“señorita,” thanos says, voice lower than you remember.

“you’re really here.”

you keep your eyes on the ground.

“leave me alone.”

he scoffs.

“yeah? and how’s that been working out for you?”

you don’t answer.

“you should’ve told me,”

he mutters after a beat.

“it’s not like that,” you whisper.

he tilts his head.

“really? really bro? ‘cause it sure seems like you wanna be near me again.”

he’s smug. a little too smug.

his ego inflates when you don’t deny it.

you glare at him.

“i’d rather be near you than anyone else in this fucking place, su-bong.”

thano's smirk fades slightly.

nam gyu watches the whole thing unfold.

he sees the way you and thanos look at each other..

the tension, the unfinished business.

it makes him sick.

“you two have history,” nam gyu states one night, arms crossed.

you shrug.

“so?”

“so,” he huffs,

“it’s fucking annoying.”

you raise a brow.

“why do you care?”

he doesn’t answer.

thanos, overhearing, just smirks.

“someone jealous?”

nam gyu scowls.

“shut up.”

despite your best efforts, you start gravitating toward your ex again.

you tell yourself it’s survival.

safety.

being where you are most familiar with..

deep down, you know it’s more than that.

every time you look at him, you remember what it felt like to love him.

you also remember why you left.

he notices the way you linger near him, even if you don’t say much.

“you’re not good at pretending for an actress señorita,” he says one night.

you glance at him.

“pretending what?”

“that you don’t want me back.”

your throat tightens.

you shake your head.

“it’s not like that.”

“sure,” he mutters. but he doesn’t look convinced.

the games are brutal. relentless.

you don’t know if you’ll make it out alive.

one thing is clear:

no matter how much you try to fight it, thanos is a part of you.

and in a place like this, maybe he’s the only thing keeping you sane.

when all of the men went to the bathroom, the dorms were eerily quiet. until the sound of chaos started coming from outside the doors. sounds of metal banding, fists colliding with flesh, grunts of pain, bodies slamming against the walls.

it was impossible to ignore. every player still in the dorm room heard it, heads turning toward the source of the violence, but no one dared to move.

you sat on your bed, your hands clenched into fists against your lap. your whole body was tense, your mind racing.

thanos was in there. so was nam-gyu. you didn’t know what the fights were about, but you knew it wasn’t good.

honestly, you would not have been surprised if your out-of-pocket ex started it all with his bestfriend.

se-mi sat beside you, watching the entrance anxiously. the minutes stretched on like hours, and with every second that passed, the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

one by one, men began filtering back into the dorms, beaten and bloodied. some limped, some had swollen faces, and some had fresh bruises forming under their eyes.

you scanned every face, searching for him.

no thanos.

you exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the fabric of your pants. se-mi shifted beside you, glancing over with hesitation before asking,

"do you still love thanos?"

the question caught you off guard. your head snapped toward her, eyes wide in panic.

"do i love thanos?" you repeated, almost scoffing. then, without thinking, you blurted out, "no shit, se-mi!"

se-mi flinched at your sharp tone, and the realization hit you instantly. your expression softened as guilt settled in your chest.

"i'm sorry," you muttered, shaking your head.

"that was mean, you're one of my friends here and I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. I'm just stressed."

se-mi shrugged, offering a small, dismissive smile.

"it's fine." she glanced toward the entrance again before sighing.

"i wouldn’t care if something happened to nam-gyu though."

you huffed a quiet, amused breath.

despite the tension, you silently agreed.

then, finally, movement at the entrance.

your breath caught when you saw him...thanos, limping back into the dorms, looking bruised but very much alive.

"su-bong," you breathed, already on your feet before you could process it.

you didn’t care who was watching. didn’t care about the whispers, the eyes on you.

you ran straight to him, wrapping your arms tightly around his body, holding onto him like he might disappear if you let go.

the rapper's arms came around you just as fast, his grip firm, as if reassuring himself that you were real.

somewhere in the distance, you heard someone murmur, "that actress and the rapper are dating?" but it didn’t matter.

you buried your face against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, letting yourself feel the relief washing over you.

he is okay.

thanos pulled back slightly, just enough to press a lingering, warm kiss to your forehead.

you closed your eyes, savoring it.

"see," he mumbled against your forehead, his voice teasing but laced with something deeper, something more tender.

"i know you wanted me back, baby."

you giggled, shaking your head.

"shut up and go sit down."

you slipped an arm under his to help him walk back to the beds, your focus entirely on him...so much so that you didn’t process the absence of a certain someone.

not until the speakers crackled to life, and the robotic voice echoed through the dorms:

"player 124, eliminated."

silence fell over the room.

your body stiffened.

nam-gyu never came back with thanos.

masterlist

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soukokuforthesoul · 5 months ago

Text

married!soukoku aus where they always get married/engaged in somewhat unconventional ways every time

- just saying “ok we’re married now” and that’s that

- buying rings together and calling it a day

- writing their own marriage papers because they do not need any records of them, even marital ones

- saying their vows in bed a moment before they go to sleep

- ^ or whilst killing people together

- ^^ and being enemies

- ^^^ or marrying before becoming enemies, then treating dazai’s betrayal to the mafia as a divorce contract… at first, seriously, then just joking about it and getting ‘remarried’

- drawing a line on each other’s ring finger

- chuuya accidentally cutting dazai’s finger exactly where the ring would go, and dazai saying that it means chuuya had proposed… so they’re married now

- ^ trying to carve a ‘ring’ into chuuya’s finger but he says no and just gets his own ring

- “let’s marry” “ok, when?” “now” “ok” and so they were bound through life and death, and vowed to hate (love) each other till death did them part

- eloping from the mafia?? (so chuuya leaves, too)

- high school au and they marry on the rooftop of the school just for fun

- marrying before dating

- marrying on the verge of death (both of them are about to die)

- getting caught (or kidnapped) together, and the worst decision their captors made was to put them in the same room. so they make one of the captors the priest and the ring is taken from a grenade as they run away and let the explosions behind them be the symphony to the newly wedded couple—

- ‘marrying’ as children (elementary school, probably) and one of them takes it seriously and to heart, so the other feels bad to say it hadn’t been literal… and then they actually do marry

- ^ OD: “i can’t wait till i find a beautiful woman to marry and die with ><!!” CN: “…i thought we were married, dazai?” *insert the most pathetic expression ever* OD: “w…we were?”

- “chuuya, you have to say ‘‘till death do us part.’” “why? death ain’t got shit on us!” “i don’t wanna be stuck with you even when we’re dead.” “asshole.”

- dazai breaking into the mafia after years, kneeling before chuuya whilst simultaneously avoiding the guards + other pm members who surround him, taking chuuya’s hand, taking the glove off, and sliding a ring onto his finger then just. leaving. 100% to confuse chuuya and give him shit in the pm so they start questioning him until he manages to talk his way out of it (and later confront dazai about it)

- marrying whilst drunk and not remembering anything about it the next day

- marrying as an ‘act’ under enemy territory to catch them off guard, then attack

- ^ later being like “can it just have been real so we don’t have to deal with the cheesy shit again?” “bet.”

- lmao dazai proposing to corruption!chuuya only for the ring to be utterly crushed under his fingers before dazai turns him back… and dazai being upset about it so he doesn’t talk to chuuya for a week

- a ring… made of bandages? just tying a strip on and being like “there! now we’re married <3” “you idiot—“

- putting a ring in chuuya’s food but chuuya nearly ends up choking on it

- putting a ring on the other’s hand when they sleep so there’s no room for rejection… and when they wake up they’re all confused like “did… i just miss a couple years of my life?”

- “truth or dare?” “dare.” “i dare you to marry me.” “…okay?”

- ‘arranged marriage’ but it’s actually dazai manipulating mori/or his parents into wanting to make him marry chuuya—so that chuuya has no choice (he did have a choice bc dazai consulted him about it before, but dazai announced to their families that there had been no choice) and so they can do it technically with the parents/mori’s consent (they didn’t want to ask like normal people)

- marrying through letters… penpals? “dearest chuuya, will you marry me? (enclosed is a ring, if you say yes. if not, send it back without an answer). sincerely, osamu.” “to osamu— fuck yeah?? also this looks expensive as shit… its mine now!! — chuuya.”

- bribery that wasn’t necessary

- ^ “i’ll give you (thing) if you marry me.” “…i would’ve said yes, regardless, but now that that’s on the table—yes please:3”

- pop star/singer au and popping in a “slug/mackerel, marry me!!!” whilst on live… knowing the other is watching

- long distance au and marrying on call, but they were both already prepared so they say their vows and present rings that they’d had sent in mail to each other and put them on themselves

- ^ doing it late at night just for the fun of it and falling asleep amidst giggling and hushed promises to see each other soon

- college au and proposing at graduation !

- fanfic writers au and they slip in a “btw if u see this, pls marry me chibi/idiot (depending on who it is)” in the notes, and later the other frantically texts them asking if they were being serious

- adopting a kid together and then, years later, realizing they never married

- forbidden lovers au but they marry publicly

- ^ that but royalty au and they propose in front of the entire kingdom/broadcast it to the world

- thinking they’re gonna die: “fuck it, marry me, dazai!” “wha—okay!!”

#i ranted a little too much here #might actually write one of these bc i didnt realize i had so many ideas #bsd #bungou stray dogs #osamu dazai #chuuya nakahara #dazai x chuuya #chuuya x dazai #soukoku #skk #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #bsd skk #chuuzai #dachuu #bsd drabbles #bsd soukoku #bsd aus

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krystal-kade · 1 year ago

Text

Charlie's a bad person

I know it's a bit of a bold statement, but I think Charlie's a pretty bad person

Not in the way Alastor, Angel, or Val are bad people. They are hateful and purposely harm others. She's a bad person because she enables bad people

Imagine finding out your friend is a literal sex slave who's soul is owned by his abusive boss. He knows his life's a mess, but he blames himself for everything that's happening to him. He uses sex and drugs to cope and forget everything that's going on in his life. He desperately wants to be free, but feels like he doesn't have the power to leave.

Imagine knowing your dad is your #1 enemy. He allowed the exterminations and continues to allow them because he thinks your people deserve death. He is encouraging the same things you're fighting against

Imagine your father figure (who is "supporting" your goal of redemption and good deeds) is a sadistic serial killer cannibal who owns the souls of thousands

Imagine being able to stop the suffering of millions around you, and you just ... don't.

That's Charlie. She is the daughter of a fallen angel. She's the daughter of an overlord. She's the princess of Hell. She's one of the most powerful beings in Heaven and Hell (less powerful than God, Jesus, Lucifer, and maybe the other sins?). She could free Angel Dust with the snap of her fingers. She could end their contract, kill Valentino, SOMETHING. Yet she does nothing. FOR 6 MONTHS her friend has been a tortured sex slave, and she does absolutely jack shit about it.

Her dad advocates for the slaughtering of her people, and is the entire reason she has to have her hotel, yet she's more worried about their father-daughter bonding. If he went to Sera and told her to stop the exterminations, I'm sure she'd oblige. If she didn't, just say "I'll tell all of Heaven about the exterminations if you don't stop" and she would. Exterminations could end so quick if Charlie or Lucifer used any ounce of their power.

She could fight Alastor and get him to stop killing people. Get him to stop being so evil and murderous, but she doesn't.

She has the power to fight essentially every demon in Hell and win, yet she doesn't. She's a pacifist who REFUSES to use violence or authority unless it's for her benefit (fighting Katie Killjoy, screaming at Susan, fighting Adam, etc). While using non-violent tactics are great when they work, they don't always work. You're in Hell, and saying "don't do that, it's mean :(" isn't going to work. You're not a good person for avoiding violence and not using your authority, you're a spineless jackass for never using violence or authority to help your friends or your people

#anti hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel critical #anti vivziepop #anti Charlie morningstar #vivziepop critical

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storiumemporium · 1 month ago

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Terminal

Chapter 2 - How to Make Friends: For Dummies

Word Count: 10.9k | Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Reader | Chapter Tags: Secondhand Embarrassment To The Extreme, Gore, Mild Horror?, The Reader Is Just Going Thru It Yall, Meet Cute KINDA???, that's all I can think of woops |

Things go really, really bad. Things go kinda okay. And... you make a new friend, maybe..?

Air cutting over bandaged knuckles, down a rigid pale forearm. Lungs burn around timed expansion and contraction, sending hot moisture in bursts that warm the air. Bone to muscle meets sand packed in leather and vinyl, kinetic force from wrist, to elbow, to shoulder. Good form, good mark. Bad form, fractured bone.

This was bullshit.

Bandaged feet dig against a foam crash mat, muscles constrict as hips pivot one over the other. Leaving the ground, impacting hard, force meeting resistance quaking the body.

The gym is entirely empty at this early hour, vacated of all other forms of life and sublimated by some sort of hazy and ill defined quality that Yelena could mistake for dreamlike if she weren’t acutely aware of the reality her days soon faced.

When Manhattan had happened, and the consequent rebrand into an Avenger. Yelena had thought that maybe she’d finally gained some iota of control over what direction in life she was headed and what was done to or around her. That from now on, she had the means to call the shots or influence someone else’s. And for the most part that had been true, no one on the team was inclined to do things that directly violated the wishes of another when it came to this place and this work. That was why they, in spite of everything leaning to the contrary, melded so well.

Then, as always, Valentina happened.

Absolute bullshit.

Yelena put her fists behind her feelings because alcohol was an outlet she was attempting to avoid these days, and with each brutal strike exhausting her arms she fantasizes about Valentina being in place of the swinging bag in front of her. Of reducing her to a pulp and dropping her off at some shitty clinic where they’ll botch the reconstruction. She didn’t deserve less with the shit she’s pulled. On all of them, on the general public. Who was she to decide who they’d have to deal with when they go into life or death missions? Why does she think she understands what they need when she’d done nothing up to this point but be glorified PR or a threat to them?

Maybe it was a testament to her comfort in this place, or perhaps to his skill, that she is unaware Bucky is leaning against the boxing ring when she turns.

He fills up the space in his own sort of way, not anything like she’d have expected once. The Winter Soldier was a name you inevitably heard if you toiled in the world of paid violence and espionage, and Bucky Barnes was a name you heard if you were a child in the USA that paid attention during history class. She only half did, so she knew the gist. But Bucky wasn’t this eerie menace that brought a frigid gale with each step or a five degree drop with his gaze, nor was he this boisterous and charming young man who incited a desire to do better or be an upstanding citizen just because he’d smiled at you.

He was a little tired around the edges, Bucky. His smile was well worn, like aged leather or brandy in a barrel. He was… sturdy more than imposing. And Yelena knew that this was a trained image, rather than an innate one. It was the one he consciously chose to have, rather than was given to him. She liked it. It showed more of who Bucky was than he even realized, she thinks.

“What are we going to do about this, Bucky?” She foregoes greetings and knows Bucky expects nothing less, slipping around him as her fingers fetch against gauze bandages that braced her knuckles. Plucking, plucking, then snagging up on the scratchy corner and beginning to unwind with a practiced efficiency. “I don’t care that we have super traffickers or scientists mad enough to make HYDRA blush up against us, she doesn’t get to just decide who invades our team and our home—”

His touch on her shoulder is brief, light. It doesn’t presume anything more than a nicer way of getting her to stop talking.

“I don’t like it either, you know that. But I don’t know that we have much choice,” he’s squinting off into the distance as he moves up alongside her. Bucky didn’t need to adjust his stride much with over half a foot on her in height, feet overtaking hers even as he moved more slowly than he normally would. She watches his jaw work as if he’s chewing on a thought, the threads of it rattling around behind his eyes as he deliberated on whether to spit it out. “If Valentina is right about what they’re looking for, this is outside the scope of discomfort.”

A very nice way of saying, suck it up and play nice so the world doesn’t end- again.

Bucky had a lot of expertise in these sorts of changes, she knew. He’d changed so much as a man and changed the crowds he ran in just as many times. A Howling Commando where every person he worked beside was his best friend, someone he’d seen war with. Lost them, lost himself, been entirely solo for decades, found himself listlessly and poorly matching every color he’d ever tried to blend into, until finally finding himself with the New Avengers. After enough times it likely smeared together. This addition was just another adjustment and he’d take it the way he had every time before, with pinched lips and a deep sigh.

Yelena was less tempered than that.

“No! This isn’t fair, nor is it right. You’ve seen just as much as I have what’s already beginning to happen.”

She knew he had to, because Bucky paid as much attention as she did when it came to the rest of the team.

They’d regressed. Not hugely, but the differences were noticeable where one knew to look. The rest of them had begun to build up walls and crawl into themselves again, with the only noted exception being Alexei as he lived by a simplistic policy of the bigger the better. But John? Ava? Herself? Even Bob who never had anything explicitly negative to say about the decision hadn’t been acting the same, following that introduction with the girl in their ceiling.

He seemed more hesitant to say what came to mind again, his easy cadence eroded slightly by the concept of being perceived without control. And, maybe, more so the realization that Valentina was watching and that meant that his illusory distance from her was dashed against the rocks.

In all, no one was really taking it well.

Bucky didn’t try to deny it, either. “I know. But in the end, this is what we do. Right? And that doesn’t always mean playing it by what suits us. At the very least it doesn’t seem like Valentina is moving her new addition in with us, we just have to handle an uninvited extra on assignments.”

It did nothing to unburden Yelena from the anger, but he wasn’t necessarily wrong. Or at least, she didn’t think so. Even Valentina wasn’t reckless enough to try and introduce a new member to the team and force them into the shared living space that had become something south of sacred for the six of them, especially with as fragile as the peace was. But in truth, combat was just as important as the Tower. When you were out there, no matter where ‘there’ was, you needed to be able to depend on every single soul you brought with. No matter how she clashed with John like a child, Alexei’s penchant for going off script, Ava’s tendency to run solo, or Bob’s total inexperience; they had each other’s backs. There was no world in which she didn’t believe at a dire moment that they could pull together for each other.

This girl, Terminal, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Yelena had found maybe a handful of documents, they started at most three years back, and they were sparse in what they offered. The most clear information provided was that Valentina had been the one to find her, rather than vice versa. Beyond that? Her name dropped into a few post-assignment reports where she’d done a little more than bare minimum to help, offhand mentioned by other units as a possible avenue to circumvent research needed to be done…

It was the kind of sparse that meant this person either only just came into existence a few years ago, or did ample work to disappear entirely. It wasn’t that Yelena didn’t understand the need, her entire team is laced with bad decisions and deep regrets- but Valentina had something to do with this. Which meant there was no reason for Yelena to believe the sincerity of what was being played at.

She didn’t buy it in the least.

“There has to be another angle,” she knew she sounded obstinate. Unwilling to entirely relent to Bucky’s practicality on the matter. But this- this was important, she wouldn’t allow it to be rendered into something unimportant when it was the first purely good thing they’d all had in quite some time. “I don’t trust it, any of it.”

“Then don’t,” pragmatic and blunt. He didn’t sound judgmental, even frustrated as he turned and made sure Yelena met his eye. “I’m not asking you to discount yourself, I won’t even say you’re wrong. Keep an eye out, watch the way things play, see if you can catch Terminal out on whatever she might doing.

Just… we have to play along regardless.”

She would have with or without Bucky, but the affirmation that this wasn’t dividing them against each other - admittedly - made Yelena’s spirit feel the tiniest bit lighter.

Truly, if you had a gun right now you’d probably put it in your mouth and just pull the trigger. Not even quitting this assignment would be able to recover the damage done to your mind at this point. It simply couldn’t be going worse.

The first two days were utterly frigid. They didn’t acknowledge you even as you were brought into the fold to begin work on Enmis, treating you like a ghost or some sort of afterthought that occasionally buzzed it’s way back into their minds. The only time they really did want to address you was to use you the way they did the AI attached to the Tower.

Basically, you were Google.

And honestly, you’d already found that incredibly painful to deal with. Not necessarily that their dislike or their impersonality was hurtful in some immense way- but that it was a steady low frequency of embarrassment bordering on humiliation to be forced to seventh wheel a group of misfit heroes. At least in the prior jobs that you’d done, when you were forced briefly to cooperate with others they’d acknowledged you and been thankful for what you did. This group didn’t seem inclined to even try, easier to handle it themselves without your addition.

And the thing is, you couldn’t even blame them.

If you didn’t simply back your way out of the situation as quickly as possible to avoid stepping on toes, then it was because Valentina was there. Always there. She acted like the worlds strongest anti-acquaintance barrier you’d ever seen, her utter incapability to let a comment go without some harsh retort, or to snap at you like a dog to do whatever errand she needed. It just couldn’t look good, their opinion of you likely whittled down further with every passing minute.

You didn’t know how you were going to do it, and what occurred a matter of days ago was truly just- just the most lovely cherry on top of this shitcake you’d been served.

You accidentally ousted yourself as having been their creepy fucking peeping tom in the corner.

It was just a reflex, you were already in the overhead with them - though they weren’t particularly addressing you - as they milled about in the communal center of the Tower. This place was casual enough to discuss Enmis, what few leads were had and where they might want to investigate, or have you investigate first. But it also connected directly to one of the overzealously numbered kitchens in the entire building, a place that up until that point they hadn’t known you’d been watching for weeks. So when Bob went looking for misplaced nutmeg, eagerness to be useful for once had thoroughly stomped on your rationale. Directing him accurately to the top left cabinet.

The silence… you weren’t going to forget it.

Even Alexei who had been at that point the most consistently accepting of your presence, even approving, had twisted his brows down with an unpleasant curl of his mouth to match.

“And how is it… that you knew that..?” Yelena, scathing, her eyes had picked just one off any of the cameras in the building, and that cloister of feeling in your nape had the screens filtering with obedience so that you could look at her with the same level of shame as she was looking at you with disdain.

“I- …I-”

“Unbelievable, Valentina has been spying on us then, hasn’t she? That’s why you’re here? Her little pet to see what we’re doing at all times.” A finger had been pointed accusingly, and you’d attempted to sputter out defenses that meant nothing to their ears. Instead curving into a casual onslaught of Russian you were suddenly thankful you had zero fluency in, for the open disdain in which it was spoken left little to the imagination regardless.

“Some sneak you are, hm? Can’t even last the week before fucking it all up. Valentina! Next time, pick someone who knows what they’re doing if you’re going to try to spy on spies.”

The deafening quiet had remained, not long after everyone had lost reason to stay and promptly vacated the room, and somehow worse than being caught out on your sheer stupidity was the shame of driving them from somewhere they felt comfortable in.

There wasn’t much worse in the world to you, than depriving someone of their space.

Valentina, of course, had followed up that night to absolutely chew you to pieces on the matter. Useless, incompetent, pathetic, worthless. She’d spewed on and on in that tone that was utterly degrading and somehow never particularly angry, like you weren’t even worth that amount of emotion out of her. In that corporate tirade, you’d cut your mic and allowed yourself to cry- hiccupping and blotchy with a level of humiliation you hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

Even following that: once she’d cut the call without awaiting your response, you’d slunk your way through the bunker into your bedroom like you were afraid of being seen even all the way down here. In it you’d crawled, curling fetal at the very center and let all manner of ugliness spew out. Staining your sheets and sleeves as you wished above all else that the cotton fiber would split open and let you pass unobstructed into it, that white strands would digest you into a reverie so deep that only bones would be found some day in the far future. Even they quailed inside of you, their noises at your nape turned mournful and scratchy.

What use were you, really?

Why couldn’t you just be left alone?

It was for this reason that you didn’t return for several days, you assumed that maybe Valentina would find someone more competent for the task to replace you. Maybe she’d even drop you and let you finally rot in piece in the tomb you chose, and no longer have to suffer the endless agonies of the one thing you didn’t want to do. Talk to people, or let them realize that you exist.

Instead, you’d been given five days until she was calling on you.

“Where have you been?” She had the audacity to sound annoyed with you, that you’d somehow slighted her again in your absence. It baffled you to the point of absurdity, leaving you only able to respond completely sincerely.

“I… I just didn’t think you wanted me anymore..?” You could hear the mystification in your own voice, watching the gain wheel jump as it picked out your voice into your microphone. Green to yellow to green as you emphasized your tone in places. “I just… I fucked it all up, so I’m done, right?”

“Ohhh no no, you don’t get out of this that easily. What you get to do is get back in there, fix this and get me results on Enmis. None of us needs another Robert Reynolds in the world, or anything close to it.”

You didn’t particularly enjoy the way she spoke about a human being, but swallowed that for the mirror later.

“I don’t… I don’t know how…”

Even without being able to see her, the pause was enough for you to know she was battling some sort of reaction or expression.

“It’s not my problem to figure out how to fix it for you. Apologize? Grovel if you have to! Buy them all gift baskets! Think of something. Now, I’m sending more information to you and to them. Join. That’s an order.”

You were left with the static hum of fluorescents and screens and towers. Buzzing around in a way that made your head throb angrily. You were frustrated, and lost, and being set up for further humiliation. How do you apologize for being a freak? How do you fix the fact that nobody wants you around? You don’t. You take the loss and you walk away, or at least you should if you had any amount of self preservation. But Valentina doesn’t care about things like that, you could grind yourself into sand and she’d only be disappointed if no high quality glass came of it.

So instead, they flick the screens over to the Tower… and you do the one thing you aren’t supposed to be.

You watch.

They look peaceful, like this. They seemed to have unwound since your absence, you were sure of it. Yelena and Ava you find on the monitor to your far left, Yelena’s feet have been tucked under her, while Ava is sat cross-legged. Between the two are a number of different card games, and the pixels twitch slightly as the colors across their faces and the couch periodically change to reflect whatever they were watching at this point. You can see Ava say something, and the moment where Yelena’s face lights up. The recognition of the comment, and the rewarding laugh. Ava just grins back, but you can see in the faint pinch around her eyes that she’s more pleased by this than she lets on.

Alexei you cannot find, and presume he must be in his room at this point. It was the one place you’d refused to invade, much like your odd compulsion against peoples’ indoor cameras. You didn’t lack the curiosity, but whatever tatters of moral conviction kept you at bay. That was a place for them and them alone. Even if… realistically, this was all for them and no less a violation.

Bucky and John are sparring, and by the looks of it it might be teetering something towards more friendly than hostile this time. Though they aren’t pulling punches - even with the audio cut you can see the way their bodies shudder and jolt under each impact - there’s a sort of brevity when they back off from each other. Sorting each other out before colliding once more at the center. John has a lot of brute force behind his movements, and you can see years of military service carved into his shoulders and arms, legs- even in the stockier shape of his torso. Bucky isn’t far off, but he doesn’t move like a military man. He’s almost never on the heels of his feet, sticking to the pads as he nearly glides around his opponent. It’s an odd dichotomy, that he moves in sharp and aggressive bursts at the upper half, but he almost has the lower body control of a ballerina.

For a moment you struggle to find the final element of this chemical slurry you’ve been forcefully injected into, eyes scrolling listlessly over dozens of screens until something mite and sticky electric tingles just beneath your right ear- this way- and your eyes dart to row four, column five. Bob.

He’s outside.

Or rather, he’s in the private garden on the roof.

You’d found him here a few times during your bouts of watching. He did the least of anyone and yet was the most captivating for you, all at once. A strange contradiction you found yourself unwilling to decipher in case you disliked what you found in it.

He’s sitting with one leg pulled in and the other stretched, resting in the grass with his back against a newly supplanted tree. From what you can tell, his eyes are closed, the wind pushing against his clothes and curled hair. He looks at peace like this, enjoying the space and the feeling of sky and weather without dealing with the people or possibly even the noise that often inhabited it as well. You wonder if that’s why color came back to his skin, since those photos and videos from the year prior? An uninhabited little corner of world for him to experience the outside with, and zero shame or mental toll to come with it. The only people who would ever bother him are the ones he’d want bothering him. You can see his throat bob as he swallows, shifting to sink that little bit lower into his contentment.

You switch away, leaving the Tower entirely.

It wasn’t your place to be, and you didn’t belong.

Two days later and you tune in again, and you watch them again like they’ve become some weird obsession.

They’re having a movie night, you think. Snacks are laid out, pillows and blankets strewn freely. Yelena is resting against Alexei, Bucky and John have taken the furthest corners of the couch with their legs stretched out. Ava is on the floor. Bob is in his recliner - one no one else uses and seems to be dedicated solely to him. One which cost enough that your stomach did ugly things when you finally got around to figuring out where it was from.

They’re laughing, smiling. Bob seems happy to watch them, his face a little flushed and rosy. He’s got a sandwich on the table, some sort of orange soda fizzing away.

You watch a few moments longer, and once again switch away. The bunker is dark, and very empty. Your back to nothing, and no one.

It’s another several days of this, before things start to move for you. Or maybe without you?

You watch them, you try to parse out how to talk to them, Valentina has her assistant send increasingly more distressed emails urging you to do something, and you stir about in your shame and your misery at how terribly suited for this you are. That speaking and being were just not your forte. You fiddle about on the internet, invest in retail therapy, pace around the entire bunker enough times that you end up kicking a wall and jamming your pinkie toe, retire to your chair because walking no longer seemed fun.

You’re browsing around on the internet, swapping nauseatingly fast between platforms to see what the goings-on of aquarium owners, birders, tailors and crocheters and knitters, cat owners, reptile keepers and the like were doing at this moment in time. It was the thing that occupied you best, peeking into other lives as they willingly divulged them- and sometimes getting into overly heated debates about whether or not that cry was a warbler until three in the morning.

It’s what you have to do for the evening, too paralyzed by the fact that this is work hours for you to indulge in anything more recreational. Odd, considering your job was to sit there uselessly anyways.

Theretheretherelookthereit’stherethey’retherelooklookingaskinglook—

They’re more active, restless, and it makes your head throb with the warning signs of a potential migraine if you don’t abate them well enough today. You know why they get this way, it doesn’t make it easier to handle when they do. So instead you let them take the reigns, thrown forward into flipping switches and pressing keys until—

“Yo!” The voice crackles through sharp enough to startle you in your seat. The sliding joints thunking quietly when you don’t put enough force in to adjust it to reclining mode, just pushing it until the bones meet. “Uh- what’s your name- what’s her name- computer chick!”

Cutting over the raucous voice of one John Walker, Ava: “It’s Terminal, dumbass. Are you there?”

You gape for a moment, feeling like a hook should be in your lip. Then you remember you have to answer for them to know, and slap the mic live.

“H-Hello? Yes. I’m here.”

“Oh, good. We need your help-” your heart shrinks just that little more at the groan that sounds in the background, a murmuration like some of them were hoping that you truly were gone. That felt a little bit mean. “-for real this time. And not whatever shit Valentina sent you for.

You actually know your way around computers, right?”

Indignancy rises, and is quelled just as fast by the recognition that you’ve done nothing to earn their trust thus far. Just been ousted as a freak on Valentina’s payroll.

“Yes Miss Starr, nothing that was said about me or why I’m here is a lie—” your chin trembles as you work your mouth, seeing the casual disbelief tossed out there the moment you tried to defend yourself.

“—I would be happy to help, what did you need?” They’re in the background, but speaking softly enough that the mics aren’t entirely picking it up. Just hisses of almost vowels.

“Ava, first of all… Unfortunately Enmis seems to actually be ****something, so we’ve still been looking. We think we might have a hit, but the kind of information we need is above our paygrade and our location. Valentina told us that you’re something like a global database, wherever you are. So, think you can break into a facility in Myanmar?”

You practically surge with a potential victory on your breath. They’re giving you a chance to do something, finally. You might, just might have the slightest chance of getting your foot in the door if you don’t catastrophically fuck this up.

“Yes! Uhm- yes. Yes, I can do that. What information do you have already? Otherwise I’ll need to start searching databases and that might take time on account of not knowing—”

“We’re sending it,” comes Yelena, whose voice is not strained but certainly dull and clipped. Whatever happened just before being called here, it seems Yelena was against the decision. Fair enough. “It should give you a general area, and an idea of what they were poking around in when we were flagged for it. We need you to figure out locations, objectives, if it’s worth it for us to touch down there and raid.”

You knew the implications of that. It needed to be big, because if it wasn’t then they’d just be showing their hand with nothing to pay them back for it. Jumping the shark, as it were.

“Okay, leave it to me.” Your stomach and heart are now the ones crocheting together. They feel like they’ve been hard tacked to your intestines. “I promise, I’ll have it to you soon.

And- and I’m sorry about the things that happened before- the uh-”

The thought went nowhere, their faces closing off into patterns of annoyance or coldness. Still, fair enough. Though that one stung just the tiniest bit more.

“We’re not looking to be friends,” comes John again, trying hard to sound tougher than he is. “We just want help getting this job done, then we go our separate ways.”

“…I understand… I’ll do my best.”

You don’t feel much like saying anything else, and they don’t much mind. So contact is cut as you rapidly pull up a dozen different browsers on a dozen different screens to begin the dive.

You don’t notice the solemn look on Bob’s face as the screen he occupied vanishes, replaced with CCTV footage.

Two weeks are spent on this, giving regular updates to your team.

While it’s true that Myanmar appears to be the base of operations, they’ve been passing between Thailand and Laos regularly. Everything you’ve checked indicates that they’re hauling large quantities of some unknown substance along the way, tens of thousands of gallons of it, at that. Flight logs, movement patterns, certificates, and rentals are flooded to their tablets alongside seemingly relevant snippets of conversation over military, police, and local radio stations. It’d made you vomit more than once, migraines that led to nosebleeds and painfully ringing ears, but you managed to digest enough information to learn the gist of Burmese, Thai and Lao- and the word Enmis stood out plainly. You’d seen their bafflement over it, but it was just as they said.

Just a job, right? Doesn’t matter how you’re doing it.

You’re blinking blearily at the your ocean of screens in the dark, each with their segmented priority playing out at you. Some are still relaying footage in the areas you most frequently see what you believe to be their convoys pass through, others are reading off border registry. In your hand is a mug of instant hot chocolate, snug as you are under your blanket and trying your best not to be caught by sleep.

In the meantime, a letter goes out to Valentina. They’re talking to you - somewhat. You’re helping them - kind of.

It’s a half step to progress, you just hope that it counts well enough. This is what you were brought onto this team to do, right? You’re helping.

Enough tasks have been delegated to you that instead of murmuring and unrest, you’ve been given a pleasant lull to sink into. They almost purr with content, their trillions of little sparkles reduced down to something like stars instead of the flashes of cameras or muzzle fire. All of them churn over each other, the interaction slithering up and along your brain placidly. You don’t hurt tonight, and that’s a relief.

Sipping at the chocolate, your hands curl into the warmth and you begin to trawl your eyes over screens. Something about a local festival is beginning to kick up around the area Enmis were last spotted, and you don’t need super genius to assume that they’ll likely capitalize on the movement to exploit vulnerabilities for personal gain. You know realistically it’d be smart to inform your team of this and let them proceed how they like, but there’s this odd slither down your spine, chilly between your shoulder-blades that sing songs at you to stay and observe. You just might accrue something more valuable from inaction, in this scenario.

Still, that’s a matter of days out, so instead you people watch.

All those bodies passing through, short and tall, wiry and plump. Most look absent of much thought beyond their next task that day. Some are visibly annoyed, many smiling and laughing- whether it’s with someone on the phone, or the person next to them.

It’s strange to see all those colors and lives playing out on a screen. They don’t know they’re being seen by an extra interloper, nor do you think they particularly care. It doesn’t matter, it’s just a tiny snapshot in an entire life. Some of these people have been alive several times longer than you, you or your parents. They knew the world before your infinitesimally miniscule intrusion upon it, and there’s no guarantee they won’t live to see the world after you leave it. A few incredibly young and bundled into adoring arms, faces blank and wondering, are near guaranteed to know what that world is like.

Another gulp, a little bigger and it burns on the way down. The cup sets gently against laminate, and you continue to watch that screen with all those little passing faces until your eyes grow dry and your capacity for consciousness entirely depletes.

The festival arrives, and your suspicions are confirmed.

All the CCTV around the city provides you with ample angles with which to watch the world vacate, droves of people going to enjoy their impromptu holiday and the rest electing to remain at home. Streets were more sparse than usual, and it left you with an uncanny image to mull on.

You didn’t particularly enjoy existing, or - at least not in the vicinity of others. But in the same breath, you didn’t like other people not existing. It was more that you were diametrically opposed to the existence of society, not in mind but in body. A virus pushed out by the white blood cell of social etiquette and cultural consciousness. It’s why you observed, really. It was the only way you could learn how to be like that, like people are.

This was without reference, barely even signs of life. All the fingerprints that humanity existed here and yet none of the little creatures you wanted to be just like. Quiet, and still.

It takes a few hours, the time inching over to four in the morning in Manhattan when things finally begin to move in ways that actually mean something.

Initially the sight of cars passing by wouldn’t invoke any sort of notice, you’ve got your eyes on all the major highways through the city and people pass by constantly. But the normalcy of it has been interrupted by volume and the unnatural timing of it, they’re consecutive as if marching and almost entirely all the same color.

It was a convoy, but larger than you’d seen up until that point, and moving in all different directions.

They writhe about in your nape, excited and chattering as you sit up, and all monitors blink away from their assigned individual and group tasks to focus on this. The big moment you’ve been waiting for, what were they doing?

In all, it takes a complete total of twenty-five minutes nearly on the dot.

Five locations are targeted, two are labs, one is a hospital, a military post, and the major grid for over half of the entire city. The outpost goes first while also taking you the longest to get into, their somewhat rudimentary defense is paired by abysmal camera placement, swatting at your nerve endings annoyingly- and then you watch it all, given the live front row view as a steel door crumples like paper.

You still collect the footage from the other locations, because it’s important to know what they want out of labs and hospitals and a power grid of all things- but you don’t watch it. Because you don’t really need to.

The CCTV footage flickers and buzzes- desaturated as a heavily armored vehicle rams through the wall of one of the barracks on site, clouds of dust and bricks spray across and the tiled floor cracks under thousands of pounds of rubber and metal. You can see the structural integrity of the building wane, the wall slouching and the ceiling bowing down. The ceiling lights fall further into view of the camera now off kilter, the wiring come loose under force and now swinging uneasily from side to side while it’s motion is jittered by further rumbles. Shouting, indistinct and grainy, presses through your speakers and grows louder as the people they belong to draw closer. Then the back doors slam open and gunfire follows. But it does little to deter the thing that comes out.

Between each blinding flash that whites out the lens and your CRT as a result, a close interpretation of a human is seen.

It’s warped, whatever it is. This mass of overdeveloped flesh bound by skin colored like a bruise, it’s ears are small and knotted, eyes beady and sunken, but it’s teeth are massive and you can see holes in the cheeks where it’d cut through the soft skin and fat. It’s arms look grotesquely swollen, the arteries filled to bursting and the joints of it’s fingers bending too far as it dives forward, between one flicker and the next there’s new red painting the collapsing hall. And then it’s climbing the stairwell.

The thing you note, is that it is injured- and doesn’t seem to care.

You can’t really make out what shade it is, with how dark it is and how poor the cameras are, but something is sluggishly beginning to mat down the tatters of the civilian clothes this thing is wearing. It presses on, blind and ravenous and seeking the next moving object to destroy- a rolling cart gets caught in the crossfire of it’s motion aggression, and then it descends on an entire group of young soldiers whose faces are crested with legitimate terror before ending. Sharply, violently, and quickly.

Still, that blood-approximate moves more like molasses as it begins to drop onto the ground, holding shape for a moment before pooling like a liquid should between the grout. And on it goes, hateful and destroying everything.

You’re cold all over, and captivated by it’s graceless barbarity when one of them tugs at you to look away- look away and see something else. Something important enough to not bear witness to the absolute destruction of many.

On the opposite end of the site, a group of what appear to be entirely ordinary citizens are flanked by rows of men clad head to toe in armor and lined to the teeth with weapons. They seem impassive, utterly bored by the goings-on a thousand yards away. None of them look like they’re native to the area, either. Two of which you are almost entirely certain you know the identity of, considering what you’re hearing happen elsewhere in the outpost.

Doyenko and Haikali.

The man you assume to be Doyenko has taken on more practical attire for the occasion. The man looks like a sheet of paper against the tropical climate of Myanmar, with an olive colored kevlar vest sat overtop his expensive looking white button up, a pistol strapped to his thigh over his slacks and a knife in one of his boots. His hands and wrist adorned in a watch and rings, lifting it to light a cigarette hanging from his mouth. You can’t hear it but he’s speaking, your ears are still ringing with the sound of gunfire, of people screaming for their lives, an ungodly inhuman shriek drowning them out.

Haikali surprises you entirely. You suppose that when you heard mad scientist your mind made the easy leap to white lab coat and weaselly, palpably insane demeanor. But Haikali is distinctly absent of any armor and clad head to toe in aubergine and coal and gold. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings. His hair is done in thick, black locs decorated by jewel encrusted golden beads. Gold rimmed glasses, painted nails, even what looked to be color on his lips. The man was lavish by all intents and purposes, and carried himself like he knew it.

You can see his head turn, the blinding smile as he replies.

A godawful crunch, pitiful gurgling is all that makes it to your ears.

They aren’t particularly happy to be woken up.

You’d been too flustered and disturbed by what you saw to keep it to yourself until a more reasonable hour of the day arrived- so that at four forty-eight in the morning you had the entire half dazed and deeply groggy New Avengers nestled around their coffee table ready to look at whatever it is you had in store for them.

“I uh- I’m sorry to have woken all of you up, but this can’t wait.”

And then you dive into a brief recount of your suspicions regarding the opening the festival had provided Enmis, your decision to not say anything and keep watch. And the unprecedented series of events that had followed.

Showing them the footage, the screams, and the men you believed to be Doyenko and Hakali had thoroughly sapped all sense of exhaustion from their bones. Their posture rigid and their eyes alert and disturbed. You knew it was one thing to see violence of any sort, because that was par for the course in their careers. But this…

“…What the hell was that thing..?” Ava is the one to break the silence first, speaking what came to mind for the rest of the group.

They’d all seen their fair share of atrocities and horrors, they’d seen crazier and scarier things than just superpowered people (Bucky above all else, with hordes of alien creatures descending like locusts on Wakanda) but this was… Disturbing. The blurred eyes of that thing as it’d stared into one of the cameras remains burnt into their minds. The way it dove off walls and even the ceiling, goring soldiers on the ends of it’s elongated and too flexible digits. The sight of it being progressively further and further torn to pieces by bullets and yet refusing to stop. As if numb or unregistering of the damage and pain being done to it. Even as metal shredded across it’s skull, took it’s eye, shattered teeth-

Only once that viscous fluid that comprised it’s blood finally stopped pouring, did it drop. Unceremonious, without retaliation or fear or anger. Crumpling to the dirt and gurgling something awful as it twitched, spasmed, then ceased altogether.

“What we are going against,” was Alexei’s reply. He sounded almost grim, unwilling to look away from the still shots displayed for them. “We were told this was serious, Valentina did not lie.”

There was a moment you had, as you watched this thing bite through the barrel of a gun where you wondered, if they have this why would they need anything near the serum Bob had been given? This could destroy a country, easily.

And then, that thought brewing like coffee and coming out darker and ever more bitter with consideration. What could they create with the serum that had made him?

Bob was lucky out of the lineup that had been given his serum, the only one who had survived. And from it - a highly clinical, very sterile serum made by people with interest in little else other than steady employment and money - came a three-headed pseudo-deity that could submerge the entire world into whatever mind game he so desired just based upon his mental state at the time. If that was what had come from this, then what could a man who made the bloated, gnarled cadaver on the screen do with it?

Bob seemed to have had the same thought, if the way he was curled on a ball on the couch unspeaking and unmoving were anything to go by. He seemed a little frightened, even if it didn’t have anything directly to do with him.

“I’ve patched through every bit of information I gained from the event, and though I’d recommend getting samples off that creature it’s- a bit above my means to send in assets to grab material,” you threaded your fingers together, nodding to yourself as you spoke. “But I have reason to believe that whatever they’re trying to do involves a great deal of power, as they stole something out of the grid that wasn’t named on any official documents.

They’re gearing up for something large, but I don’t know what. I’m sorry that’s all I could glean from this.”

“Good job.”

What?

A laugh, shit- did you say that out loud? “I said, good job.”

It was Bucky, his face a little tight still. He didn’t seem to be in great spirits, though not necessarily dragged down by what you had all witnessed either. It was that sort of resignation before a fight you knew was going to get ugly, like he’d begun to steel himself for the rollercoaster that they were approaching at speed.

“Th- Thank you. I appreciate that. A lot.” And with that you squeezed your eyes shut, only mildly embarrassed by the emphasis on the end. If Bucky had found it strange, he didn’t find any reason to comment. Instead standing from his position on the couch. The other’s leaned back to watch, brows lifted.

“We now know the size of the threat- which is frankly larger than any of us had anticipated,” Bucky sounded almost a little embarrassed by the admission. “Valentina did a poor job of conveying the scale of the situation…”

There was a beat, a thought crossing through his mind- you had no idea what. His mouth opened, then closed again, his eyes darting to the camera mounted above the tv, functionally making eye contact with you.

“Keep up the good work, we’re counting on you. For now we need to be prepared for whatever comes our way, because we still don’t really know what that is. The advantage on our side being that Enmis doesn’t know we’re watching or that we’re a problem in their future, so countermeasures shouldn’t be in place.”

Following that, Bucky had promptly begun to move toward the bar. You saw a deeply overfilled glass of whiskey in his extremely near future.

The rest for their part had stalled longer than Bucky on the information, still looking at the screen and then between each other. Eventually sitting up to nudge against each other, some either beginning to murmur about potential plans or what threats they needed to think of- ways to counteract a monstrous human that doesn’t feel pain. The others bitched about being awake, and were already beginning to move back to their floors to rest for the few remaining hours before sunlight rudely came knocking at full force.

Bob didn’t move from the spot, not until long after the others had slithered away. And even then, he crossed the world the way a ghost would. Silent, and disinclined to have a recognizable presence.

Another week passes almost uneventfully.

More so, the events that did happen utterly paled in comparison to the explosive intro you’d been rocketed through. There’d been more movements, and then Enmis had simply vanished. Myanmar, Thailand, Laos— gone. They barely even left traces. The New Avengers hadn’t yet decided to try and put feet to soil to confront them, and no one had anticipated that by the time a conclusion would have been made, they’d already be gone to the wind.

It’d left you, Valentina, and the others in a scramble trying to pick up some sort of tracks that could hint to their whereabouts. But it was like they’d never existed at all, something that further unsettled Bucky and Yelena as the two with the most experience in the act of vanishing.

So, Valentina cast the widest net she possibly could, and you sorted through it like one of those little filter shrimp. Discarding and keeping pieces almost as quickly as she brought them to you.

And while you did that, you went back to watching.

It wasn’t as aggressive as before. You were starting to develop… non-animus amongst these people you would be working with for an unknown amount of time, and as a result you were disinclined to ruin that by being a total freak yet again. Instead you had arbitrarily limited yourself to a handful of areas, the outside gardens, the rooms you’d already been heard inside of, as well as the lobby and exterior cameras. You left things like personal floors, the gym, even the area that they most often congregated to them— a pseudo peace offering and an absolute apology.

Weirdly enough… it was kind of working?

They were still tense around the edges with you, things were cordial. You weren’t given friendly comments and remarks, you weren’t in on the jokes- nor did you feel comfortable trying to be. But you’d noticed that the abrasion and the need to look over their shoulder had almost entirely vanished. You didn’t know if it was a subconscious thing, or if they’d realized you had permanently vacated a majority of the Tower and kept yourself contained.

Regardless, you were talking to them. That was a victory you’d gladly take.

Tonight you’re looking out into the garden again, it was interesting to see the little slivers of the city the camera offered with it’s million and one glittering lights. The grass and the trees well maintained in spite of absurd altitude and the concrete that they were incased atop of. It was a nice view, not just a nice enough one… and it made you feel a little less lonely somehow.

Something exacerbated when the glass door hisses open, and Bob steps out into the grass.

He looks cozy, done up in his layers of incredibly baggy pajamas and no shoes or socks, allowing the blades of grass to curl around his bare feet. His hair is more messy, like he’d been toying with it a great deal, and though his eyes are tired, he looks content.

He’s quick to find his chosen spot, the same one you’d found him in before those weeks prior and you assume has been to many times since. His back to the wood while he stretches himself out and lets his eyes fall closed. It’s windier today, and where most would be ducking their heads and trying to use something to buffet the annoyance as they get around- Bob seems to bask in the sensation. His hair, already mussed, becoming frizzier and more undefined as threads of the gale cut through it.

It’s nice to watch, he’s nice to watch. It wasn’t like the others who were always either loud or busy- something on the agenda, someone to talk to. Bob had a sort of stillness around him, a tendency to exist in the moment and not obligated to action. It was this, or cooking himself something, or reading a book. Sometimes it was just finding him curled up in front of one of the massive bay windows, watching the rain blanket Manhattan with it’s sodden fingers.

It goes on like this for a little bit, maybe five… ten minutes? Your attention dissolved from all other things just to look at the same skyline as him, to appreciate the silhouette of him in the comfort of his element. It was like your own organic little break time, instead of just deciding you wanted to stop for a moment to wander without cause around the bunker.

And then, you see it-

A subtle twitch of his brow, the way he scratches the back of his neck and scrunches his nose for a second. Then attempts to return to stasis, only that-

“Hello?” His voice breaks through your speakers, wobbly with uncertainty and yet still so sudden that you bounce aggressively in your seat. The movement is met by a lyrical chorus of ‘oooh-’ sliding down the back of your head, before returning to silence.

His eyes flutter open, and then he’s looking dead at the camera, at you.

“Are— …are you there?”

Once more you feel caught out - starting to get annoyed by that particular feeling - and remember after a beat that he can’t actually see or hear you if you don’t respond. And besides, you’re trying not to be a creep anymore.

Your microphone clicks live, and you stammer immediately upon opening your fat mouth, “Hi- hi, um… Yeah, sorry. I didn’t- I was just enjoying the view.”

You wait for it, the reprimand, the disdain that the others held when you fumbled over an interaction or did something off-putting that warranted a side eye.

Instead, you see a little curl of his mouth before he looks away.

“You think it’s nice out here, too? I like the- the city. I get overwhelmed when I’m actually down there but… up here’s… s’nice.”

He’s holding conversation with you.

He’s talking to you. And it sounds natural, and he doesn’t seem upset by it, and-

“Yeah… Yeah! It’s beautiful. Sometimes when I’m parsing through reports I just like to flick over here to look at the city while I go. Most other footage is closer to the street, still nice but more for- for people watching…”

Embarrassment blooms in your chest as you taper off your sentence. You’d barely been talking but maybe it was too much? And maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned that you like to watch people? It was mortifyingly relevant to what you’d been caught out doing before, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it reminded him of that.

“Other footage?” His voice has remained soft, and you think he might be utterly oblivious to your internal panic. You hope so. “Do you watch other places than just the Tower? I guess that makes sense, but—”

God, him mentioning that made you want to bite your own fingers off, maybe your tongue.

“Yeah… I uh- I promise I’m not just some creep staring at you guys all the time,” you say with a timid laugh. You feel cowed and maybe even a tiny bit ashamed of yourself. Once again confronted with the image you presented to them, the abysmal introduction thus far. “I’m sorry about that, by the way…

I know I come off- god I must come off so fucking weird but it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t stalking- or- or spying! I just…”

And then you cut off, defeated, sighing. What do you even say? How do you explain in a way that isn’t somehow fundamentally disturbing or deterring for the one person who has bothered to acknowledge you of their own volition? Who is striking up conversation in the middle of the night, out with the earthborn stars and grass and life?

But Bob is staring off into a direction now, his head tilted consideringly. His hands working into his pants subconsciously as he processes your words, considers what you aren’t saying and what you’re trying to say to him.

“I don’t think you’re weird.”

“Really?”

“…Yeah. I mean— don’t get me wrong, I have no idea how you thought that was a good idea,” he laughs softly, more just an amused expulsion of breath with this wry little smile. It manages to not feel like it was at your expense, and you hum in return. “But I- I mean. I can’t really judge… I’ve done some uh… some pretty weird things too, and these guys seem to like me anyways.”

“I was just nervous.” You blurt it out blindly. The notion of forgiveness or understanding has you immediately diving off the deep end, ready to vomit your entire heart out just for someone to be on your side for once. Or at least, not think ill of you. “I um… I’m not good with people. It’s why I don’t understand Miss— I don’t understand Valentina deciding to do this. All my work before was solo, or with maybe two people talking to me? Quiet things, very background.”

Where you belonged.

“She didn’t give me much preparation for this, just told me this was where I was going and when I was going there. Everything else was on my own terms and I— I’ve never really done this sort of thing before so I tried to figure out how to handle it? And like, I went all over advice forums and those stupid therapy websites and things like that but none of it seemed tangible for what I was about to do, so…

So I tried to study, so to speak.”

You can see even through the distant footage of his face, the less than stellar quality the way some sort of comprehension drapes it’s arm over his shoulder. He almost seems to light up as you speak, like he’s following a mystery novel and finally getting the conclusion.

“Oh! Oh… Okay. Yeah I- I think I get it now. You thought that if you watched what we were doing, it’d be easier to get along with us, right?”

Face finding it’s way to your hands, you thank every god that genuinely may or may not exist out there that he can’t see you. You’re so deeply red, so humiliated and so relieved, and it’s a fight to keep the thickness out of your throat. You don’t want to cry immediately like this, don’t want to ruin the moment so quickly.

“Yeah… That’s exactly it. That’s all. I know that doesn’t justify breaking into your home and- and watching you live without realizing I’m there but… I just-

This is all really scary to me? And it’s the only idea I had. It blew up in my face, obviously. But…”

But thank you, for understanding.

He didn’t need to hear you say it, you could see the way he nodded. Not aggressive, but with his brows lifted slightly and something close to a smile on his face.

“Yeah that was a terrible idea,” and you can’t help but interrupt him by groaning, his voice growing louder and his smile more prominent as he continued over the sounds of your anguish. “I mean literally all of us have insane trust issues, half of us are assassins or spies. You really couldn’t have picked a worse way of going about it. I think Yelena would have preferred if you were just weird.”

“Thanks, thank you. That’s incredibly useful information now. After the fact. So unbelievably far after the fact.”

And then he’s laughing, and you’re giggling at yourself. And you watch him shrug a shoulder loosely, his gaze turning back out to the city and away from the security camera that makes up your eye.

“I get it, though. And- if it makes you feel better? I put everyone in Manhattan in their personal mental torture chambers and they forgave me. So… Give it time, and I think they’ll come around.”

“I… don’t know that that matters, really.” And you pick at your nails, unwilling to look at the screen as you tell him the truth. “I don’t think Valentina is intending to keep me around, and John made it clear he wants me out the moment Enmis is dealt with.

So uh… This might be the first and only pleasant interaction I get before none of us sees each other again.”

It goes quiet long enough for you to look up, to see him staring into the lens and at you. You don’t know what he’s looking at, or what he’s seeing. There’s miles of difference, mountains of dirt and stone and concrete and metal dividing the two of you- and yet you feel somehow very exposed under that gaze.

“You think this is a pleasant interaction?”

“I mean… Yeah..? Was I- Am I misreading—?”

“No… But uh- do you want it to be the last one?”

“…No.” The admission is a small shock even to yourself. “It’s been kinda lonely, if I’m honest. So this is… this is nice.”

And once again Bob returns to silence, droning on for several moments as he listens to the breeze and watches traffic inch through Manhattan. From up here you can’t really hear anything- and certainly not through the subpar microphones, but there’s a sort of disconnect that comes with the intersection of total quiet in the heart of a megacity.

It’s all magnified by the man you watch, by that stillness you’d taken note of before. Something you suspect is both the gentle quietness native to his personality, and that something more that lurks underneath. Regardless, he takes his time with what you’ve said and you’re not inclined to force him to hurry. He as always, doesn’t seem like he’s been constrained by the clock. Maybe that was one of the things he was learning to give up.

“You can come talk to me, then.”

You don’t know why but the words land physically for you. It’s such a small consideration, an incredibly casual offer on his part. But he barely knows you and again- again- you’ve done nothing but be an astronomical fuck up and an embarrassing oddity your entire time here. It would be so easy for him to give you a ‘that’s rough, buddy’ and keep it moving.

You blink away the blotchiness, and smile though you know he can’t see it.

“I’d really like that, Bob. I- I think I’ll take you up on that, if you don’t mind.”

His smile again, head dipping slightly so his hair falls further.

“I don’t. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise, y’know? If I’m honest… it’ll be nice to talk to someone different, for once. I love them, don’t get me wrong. It’s just-

The same people all the time. I should probably be working on handling more than that.”

You think that if anyone else had told you that the way Bob did, it would have come off horrifyingly insulting. Instead it’s just earnest, sweet. He wants someone to talk to, and you want someone who doesn’t think you’re awful.

“Well then… You can expect to hear me around. I’d say see but-” and from where you sit, you gesture at the arsenal of tech both old and new that allows you to exist in his space without being there.

“Yeah… I’ll hear you around.”

The two of you linger in the silence with each other for a bit longer, Bob returning to enjoying the scenery he’s planted himself into. And you enjoying being allowed to freely observe without judgement or, worse, feeling like an intruder upon his space. It’s a sort of camaraderie that builds in the breaths between as you begin to switch monitors to your work, the only ones whose faces are left unaltered being those that Bob occupies off in the corner. You wonder if he feels you the same way you feel him, like this. Though maybe he did, if he had somehow come to realize he was being watched earlier without your conscious input.

The night smears into a soft haze, the world gone a bit golden warm. Your patterns of function slowing down, their symphonic chimes in your head reduced to a croon, gaze turned bleary and unfocused. It’s been a long few weeks, and today feels like more of a victory than the festival did- just a personal one this time.

“Hey, Bob?”

You hear him hum, see from your periphery how his head lifts from the book he’d grabbed at some point during your shared silence. He’s looking at the camera again, looking for you.

“I think I’m gonna call it here, tonight… It’s- it’s been really nice sitting with you.” You offer it with a stammering cadence, tripping on your sincerity and landing face first into a wet puddle of sheer nerves. But he just smiles back, small and sweet.

“Okay, I understand. Goodnight, Terminal.”

You smile wide, eyes crinkling at the edges, and think he might hear it in your voice.

“Goodnight, Bob.”

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