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#in my next life i will be an incredible artist

thedevillionaire · 2 years

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whaaaat the.....

is your new avatar cerberus??? asdfghjklkjhgfdssdfghjk FUCK

😅 Uh, yes. As rendered by Artbreeder, at least. I did it some time back, and the original post is in my masterlist. It took a lot of persnickety fiddling by me to get the pic as close as possible to what I see in my head, because damned if I could ever draw something like that, and I would VERY much love to make a snz version but my skills are pretty damn limited, I'm afraid, but yes. The short answer to your question is yes.

#in my next life i will be an incredible artist #or - and i haven't entirely given up hope on this - technology will evolve to such a point #that limited talents such as myself #will be able to render perfect images of my internal movies as required #on demand #halp pls bring it to me #But yes he looks very much like this yes yes #💘thank you

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2kiran · 1 month

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FRANCIS MOSSES 交易 ── `` DARK CONTENT﹕monsterfucking. top amab reader. doppelgänger francis. handjob. no protection + preparation. overstimulation. ✶ IN WHICH you unknowingly let the wrong francis inside.

the prospect of you being fired—or worse, being put in a cell—was incredibly likely. enthusiasm of the milkman’s arrival being your final entry request for the day lead to your upcoming demise.

it shouldn’t be on you, both the blame and responsibility. the given identity document had indistinguishable information, merely an artist’s mistake as you finally realize that his eyebrows were just a tad thicker. his eyes were a bit too lively for the real francis.

realization dawned on you a second too late as you feel cold, but strangely simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar hands grab you from behind. before you could reach the rotary phone to contact the D.D.D., he grabbed your wrist and spun your chair around to face him.

francis, or so you thought, had a gentle smile plastered on his face but you knew better to tell that his intentions were far from truly kind. “don’t tell me you were actually going to let them kill me,” your jaw tightened, gaze hardening into a glare. he chuckled, hands landing on the armrests, so dangerously close to yours that were balled in fists to prevent yourself from punching his face.

when you didn’t respond, he continued. leaning in as he shook his head with a scoff, “aw, c’mon. . .we both know that you’re too much of a good sweetheart, yeah? please don’t try that again.” his saccharine voice was improbable, a subtle take of a threat behind his tone.

“you’re gullible enough to think i’d do that for you.” the tension between you was palpable, a thin thread that threatened to break at the tip of his finger. his lips pouted, sadness in his untrue eyes. “me? but you’re the one who let me in here,” he laughed, tone rather arrogant, “and i should thank you for that.”

if he were the real francis, you probably would have been making out with him by now. this doppelgänger was awfully confident, you wish you could break him. see tears fall down to his round cheeks, lips trembling as pleas tumbled out of his pretty lips.

these thoughts were idiotic. but fuck, he was near enough to the milkman, the clueless neighbor who could care less about it all. “want me to spare you? or—” you cut him off, lips connecting with his. francis was surprised, but welcomed it nonetheless. his hand came up to your neck, sliding towards your hair. groaning as he gently, almost experimentally, tugged at it. tongue met tongue, a clash of saliva and mess. you bit onto his bottom lip, eliciting a soft moan.

“mmph, and here i thought you hated me.” he grinned, panting, “what gave you that idea?” you place a kiss on his chin, “because you tried to get rid of me, and the fact that. . .i’m not him.” grabbing his hips, he let out a yelp. he scrambled to hold onto your shoulders for dear life, gasping when he felt your teeth graze against his neck. “seems like i’ve struck a nerve, hu—haah, fuck!”

a lewd moan had escaped him, your teeth sinking into his flesh. it was far from gentle, biting him like you wanted to see him bleed. he was simply a doppelgänger that you stupidly let in, after all.

the pink muscle settled in your mouth lapped at the bite, cueing francis to whimper at the sensation. he moved closer on your lap, grinding against your crotch. the action could’ve been mistaken for something relating to a dog; for he seemed like a bitch in heat. quite uncharacteristic for his kind. “you’re pathetic, mosses.”

francis, beyond belief, was affected by the use of the stolen surname more than you anticipated. his hips trembled, “that’s, haah, not my fault. you made me like this. fucking a– ah! doppelgänger, really? they’d surely co– come for you next.” his cock twitched, spilling pre-cum that formed a wet patch on his boxers. you were a lowly human, another one to get rid of, so why does he feel this way?

silence was met with his words. not until you pull down his pants, taking off what was left until his lower half was bare to you. “oh yeah? you’re letting me fuck you,” your fingers wrapped around the base of his dick, giving a single stroke, “you’re not even trying to fight back against me, honey.”

he whined, beginning to selfishly rut into your palm. “what were you going to say?” francis doesn’t respond and you twist your wrist, a cry slipping from him. you asked on a whim, wishing to hear what he planned besides allowing you to carry on with your life. “i-i don’t know!” your thumb presses down on his slit, causing him to wrack his brain to remember. “ah, ah, i meant to ask if you wa- want me to kill you right he— hmmng!” his voice wobbled as if he was fearful, tears in his eyes and he’s suddenly ethereal.

“do you still want to do that? to end my life?”

“no, no, please, i didn’t mean it.”

you tease the vein that ran on his shaft, never failing to witness the face he makes when he’s within the depths of pleasure; of that high he never dared to reach. oh, if only if it was francis mosses. the real one, the one you’re so curious about, the one who your eyes like to linger on a bit too long for comfort. your pace picks up, palm slick with his pre-cum and the room’s sinful with his sobs and arousal.

francis moans under his breath, “i’m cumming-!” he warns a second too late, hips bucking as the familiar fluid splatters across your fingers. the doppelgänger was your very own legendary mona lisa with how his face is painted with all shades of red.

when you swipe your thumb over his tip, he swore he had a glimpse of the deity he didn’t have the conscience to worship.

beliefs were foolish; it was his opinion. with that, he thought you were the one insane. doppelgängers aren’t flawed with such imperfections like humans are. he didn’t need to be prepared for situations similar to this, and you used his inhumanity for your pleasure.

“ughm, agh!” you had wordlessly given your cock a few pumps, no more than that before slipping inside of his tight hole. the tiniest beginning of guilt threatened to engulf you with shame, but why should you allow it? his mere purpose and intention was to murder.

his hole spasmed around you, freely welcoming the intrusion. maybe they were quite useful after all. he whined, his insides tingling with the stretch. the doppelgänger has never felt so full, or genuinely anything, for that matter. “please—fuck, move already, damnit.” he, himself, was breathless.

how could you deny him?

your hands grasped his hips tightly, like you wanted to indent a marking into his flesh. cold emanated from your palms, contrasting to the heat licking at his cheeks. he’s lighter than you’d expect, hole gripping you as if he was a fleshlight. lifting him up, your tip was held onto. heavenly; as the way he wrapped around you was undeniably heavenly.

sensing his apparent impatience, you let him crash down on you. a broken gasp-of-a-moan occupied the air, globs of pre-cum building on his slit. “yeah, fuck me like that,” he breathed, instructions hazily clear to your sex-deprived brain. his ass slapped, slapped, slapped against you. shit, the D.D.D. surely ought to give you a punishment worse than death for this.

he clung onto you, both with his arms and entrance. you don’t think you could really get enough—as vague as this memory could get. your tip brushes against his prostate with each harsh thrust, slick sounds adding onto the cotton pressed into his little head, forming static and nothing else to focus on besides your cock pounding into him. “you’re liking this- ahngm! right? like how good i feel? haa, needed your dick in me s’ bad. . .”

he pushed his hips forward, grinding on your cock as he purposely clenched. “thaaaat’s it, sweetheart. think ‘m gonna keep you.”

yeah, let’s hope your neighbors forgive you for indulging in him.

masterlist﹒divider﹒artist kaworinx

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vivwritesfics · 20 days

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Mrs Doctor Reid

Nobody knew Spencer had a wife. But they found out. Nobody knew she was pregnant, not until she walks into the BAU sporting a sizeable bump.

1.2K

Season 4 Reid

Nobody on the team knew that Spencer Reid had a wife. Spencer Reid, the youngest member of the team, the resident genuis. He had a wife. And nobody knew. (Well, JJ knew, but she wasn't about to spill his secrets).

Before he had joined the BAU, Spencer had been engaged. They'd gotten married after his first year with the team, but neither of them wore a ring on their finger. She wore it around her neck and he carried it with him, fingerings it in the privacy of his hotel room.

Spencer told JJ. He had to tell somebody, just in case something happened to him. JJ was more than happy to keep her a secret for him. And, once she met Will, she understood why he wanted to keep her secret, keep her to himself.

Morgan was the first to find out. The case was a pickup artist, an unsub that was patrolling clubs to pick up women and murder them.

Morgan and Reid had been in the clubs, handing out flyers to give to the potentially vulnerable women. When Spencer teased Morgan for getting a lack of phone numbers, he challenged him. So, Spencer used magic to impress the girl at the bar. "Well, if you see anything, call me," he'd said with his usual awkward smile.

The awkward smile his wife loved.

"And, if I don't see anything?" She asked, obviously flirting with him. "Can I still call you?"

Again, Spencer wore that smile. "Uh, my wife would prefer it if you only called if you saw anything."

When Spencer turned around, he saw the expression drop from Morgan's face. "Reid, you're married?" He asked, and Spencer nodded. "I'm so sorry, man. I didn't know."

"Nobody did," Spencer replied.

When the team found out, they felt incredibly guilty. They couldn't help but think back to Tobias Hankel and when Reid got kidnapped. She had no idea. His wife must have been sat in their apartment, alone and worried.

But JJ smoothed things out, assured them that Reid's wife was kept updated while Spencer was kidnapped. JJ told her what she needed to know and kept her calm.

But now they'd been married for four years. Spencer started wearing his ring after the team found out. He called her in front of the others while they were working on a case.

The team was so happy their resident genius was in love.

They knew about his wife, about the love of his life, but they didn't know about the baby.

Kids was always on the cards, but they had waited. Spencer's career was taking off when they got married and, with how often he was away, it didn't feel right.

But they weren't careful. It wasn't like Doctor Reid to not be careful like that. She was on birth control and there was always condoms in top drawer next to their bed.

But they slipped up just once. She'd forgotten to take her pill and hadn't noticed (Spencer was good with gently reminding her when he could. This hadn't been one of those times), and Spencer hadn't reached for a condom.

Neither of them quite realised they weren't being safe. Not until she realised there was an odd number of pills in the packet at the end of the day. She'd taken both pills, the number should have been even.

But she didn't panic. Didn't mention anything to Spencer. What was the chance she was actually pregnant? She kept things quiet until the morning sickness started. Until she took a test, and then another, and then another. When they all came back positive, she called Spencer.

She didn't normally call Spencer while he was on a case. He was busy, she waited for him to call her in the evenings, when he was in the hotel room and he wanted to hear about her day. Spencer couldn't help but assume that something was wrong.

Far from it. Everything was perfect. The minute Spencer got home he pulled her into his arms, his face in her hair. "I love you," he whispered again and again and again.

Spencer didn't tell the team. Didn't want them to worry while he was on cases.

She became, admittedly, a little clingy when she began showing. Not to the extreme of stopping him from going on cases, but, whenever he was home, she was attached to him.

And Spencer couldn't say no to his wife. She was craving pizza? He was getting pizza. She wanted him to read to her? He was bringing in a selection of books, sitting her on the sofa and rubbing her swollen feet with one hand while he read.

If she wanted to bring him something to eat, he'd text her when they were landing to do paperwork.

It didn't matter the time. Mrs Doctor Reid made two sandwiches and set off for her husbands place of work.

She had met the team a couple of times before. It wasn't many, but it was enough for her to be friendly with them. With a science museum tote bag over her shoulder, she stepped out of the elevator and walked into the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit.

Morgan spotted her first. "Hey, Mrs Reid," he called, gaining the attention of the rest of the BAU. But then Morgans eyes widened. "Holy shit," he couldn't stop himself from saying.

Emily let out a gasp as she walked over. "Congratulations, Mrs Boy Wonder," she said as she hugged her. Mrs Reid hugged her back.

Hotch shouted his Congratulations through his office doorway to the happy couple. As he did so, Morgan walked over and placed his hands on Spencers' shoulders. "My man," he said quietly and let go.

With a fond smile, Spencer pushed his hair back. He grabbed his chair and wheeled it over to her. "Hi Honey," he said softly, sitting her down on the chair.

Her bag was in her lap as Spencer wheeled her over to his desk. "I missed you," she said, pushing her own fingers through his hair.

Spencer softly smiled at her. "I missed you too," he whispered as she grabbed his hand. Public displays of affection weren't Spencers thing but, for his pregnant wife, he'd do anything.

She quickly let go of him and opened her bag. "I brought sandwiches," she said as she pulled one out and passed it to Spencer. He leaned against the desk as he unwrapped it, keeping hold of it as she unwrapped the second. Once they were open, they swapped. She took the sandwich from him and he took the sandwich from her.

As they ate, they spoke. She didn't ask about the case, she never did. No, she asked about the city and whether he'd been eating well.

Spencer assured her that he had been eating well. The conversation they had was the one they normally had in the evenings, when he was on a case.

He pressed his hand to her bump for a quick second as he finished his sandwich. "I've got paperwork to finish up," he said and rested his hand on her shoulder. "Wanna sit with me while I get it done?"

She nodded her head and Spencer grabbed another chair. As he worked she kept one hand to her bump, the other holding Spencers.

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut

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starkwlkr · 1 month

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silver springs | mark webber

thanks to everyone who voted! like my seb fic, this will only have three parts

part 2

warning: cheating

requests are closed

INSTRAGRAM

liked by sebastianvettel, landonorris and 563,377 others

yourusername congratulations oscarpiastri on your incredible sprint race win! first win in f1, but it won’t be the last!

oscarpiastri ❤️

papayafans481 DESERVED

teampiastri did anyone see the interview with david coulthard and mark webber?😭

leclerctears what happened??

teampiastri david kept bringing up y/n and mark couldn’t even say her name 🥲 he said mclaren team principal when referring to her

lewis8wdc what the fuck happened between them?🤨 i know they dated I’m guessing they ended on bad terms

op81xx girl they were gonna get married 😭 mark had the ring and even asked y/n’s family for their blessing there’s a thread on twitter about them

aussiegrit ❤️

multi21bitch you ain’t slick old man 🤨

view all 34,366 comments

UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX

Lando had scored a podium finish while Oscar had unfortunately suffered a DNF. After the podium ceremony, you were on your way back to the Mclaren garage when you heard a familiar voice. Mark was speaking with Fernando when you had walked by them. It had been years since you were that close to Mark. Of course he was in the Mclaren garage since he was Oscar’s manager, but you were a pro at avoiding Mark Webber.

You kept walking and finally made it to the garage where you congratulated the team for their effort.

“When was the last time she spoke to you?” Fernando questioned the Aussie. He was great friends with both you and Mark. He was one of many that thought you two would end up getting married. He was utterly shocked when Mark had told him that you were no longer together.

“March twenty fifth twenty thirteen. She blocked my number, she told me I couldn’t contact any of her family members either.” He explained. “I fucked up my life, Fernando.”

No one apart from Mark and you knew the reason for the break up.

“What did you do?”

“I hurt her. After Malaysia happened, y/n tried to comfort me, but I pushed her away. I stayed in the paddock late while y/n was already in our hotel room waiting for me, i told her to just go to sleep but she never listens. I was on my way back and I decided to go to a bar and I met a woman there. . . ”

It didn’t take a genius to know what would happen next.

“Shit, Mark.” Fernando mumbled.

“That’s not even the worst part, mate. I came back to our hotel room in the morning and she had her suitcase packed. She was going back home. The woman I was with had texted her from my phone and told her everything.” Mark remembered that night all too well. “She told me she never wanted to see me again . . .”

“Funny how that turned out.”

“But she also told me something else. Her doctor had called her a few days ago and told her she was pregnant. I fucked up my life all because I got mad at the result of a stupid race!”

Like everything else in the paddock, Mark’s words didn’t stay a secret for long. A rumor confirmed true traveled fast.

PRIVATE INSTAGRAM

liked by susie_wolff, clairewilliams_official and 143 others

yourprivate happy birthday, my darling 🎀✨ i look forward to your sidewalk chalk artwork everyday ❤️

susie_wolff she’s getting so big! happy birthday!

yourprivate i’m not ready for her to grow anymore🥹

clairewilliams_official what an artist!❤️

yourprivate my own little picasso ❤️

zbrownceo happy birthday 🎂 i hope she enjoyed all the gifts the team and i sent

yourprivate she loved every single one, thank you!

#formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 #mark webber x reader #mark webber one shot #mark webber imagine #mark webber fanfic #mark webber #mclaren team principal!reader

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ahundredtimesover · 3 months

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I Want You to Stay (07) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; eventual explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 15.4k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: One of my fave chapters! I hope you like this one! And just a heads up that intervals between posting days will be longer as the chapters get longer, too. And bc u know, life... HAHA but again, thank you so much for all the love for this like??? HOW. PLS you've all been so nice so thank you! 🥰 Also… JK in that SNTY suit.

And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight 🥰

PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!

Mr. Ri loads the luggages in the trunk and you double check that all bags - which you helped pack yesterday - are complete. You enter the car right after and head to the airport where Jungkook will fly to Singapore for a few meetings and to attend Seokjin’s alcohol launch party.

It’s been over a month since the Arts Center event and so much has happened since then. Jungkook went to Jeju to meet an artist and then to Japan over a weekend to meet another two. He’s been on calls with a few more with plans to meet in their country of residence in the next months, and he’s gone around different local towns to meet with craftspeople for souvenirs and future exhibitions. He’s also touched base with various national and international Korean arts and culture organizations for promotion and joint projects. The event opened doors for a new network that he hoped for. There are now proposals for other collaborations and side engagements that’s doing a lot for the company’s brand and expansion.

To say that Jungkook and the team have been busy is an understatement. You went back to work after those few days of recovering with everyone overwhelmed by all the things they had to do but like you expected, you all managed and got things organized. There are still multiple things to handle all at once, but everyone’s just been on top of everything and showing how competent you all are as individuals and as a team.

Within that period, Jungkook has stopped by the team’s office and the pantry more times than those first months. He also managed to laugh at Do-hyun’s unfiltered remarks a few times and even slipped his own that got the team giggling. He’s seemed a lot more relaxed and so has the team. Lunch meetings have been regular given all the work you all have to do. Yohan and Chin-sun even say that they’ve gotten to know Jungkook a little better through their visits to the Arts Center. And while they do think he’s still a bit detached and catch him in his own world sometimes, he’s a lot more engaged and is actually way smarter than they’d initially thought.

Jungkook checks his phone and sighs, prompting you to turn to him.

“Seokjin says the party is an intimate event but there’s gonna be over two-fifty guests so I don’t know about that,” he shakes his head, showing you the restaurant bar where his friend will be launching his alcohol brand. “For some reason, he expects me and Tae to entertain guests on his behalf.”

This was another development you hadn’t expected. Since that morning when Jungkook sent you food when you were unwell, your relationship changed. It’s still professional but there’s more openness now, as if that prompted both of you to be comfortable around each other.

There’s more trust and honesty, too - he lets you make decisions, lets you handle the team when he’s away, and asks you for your unfiltered opinion. You feel like all the time you spend together has allowed you to learn how he sees and understands things; you even finish his sentences sometimes.

He’s also loosened up a bit and allows himself to laugh and smile more. They’re still rare occurrences but you never point them out, not wanting him to feel awkward and then stop. They often catch you off guard so you haven’t been able to fully appreciate them but at least he feels comfortable around you, enough to even talk about non-work stuff and things that fill his mind, like random questions or small concerns.

You’re unsure if he notices how uninhibited he’s become but you don’t point it out either. He still has his moments of living in his head, his faraway thoughts rendering him quiet and observant, and his perfectionist attitude means he’s still critical sometimes. But he doesn’t take anything out on you - not his frustrations nor his fears. He’d usually keep to himself and talk to you once he’s cooled down and you’d take that any day, so long as you keep your sanity and are able to do your tasks as instructed.

In return, you let yourself be the same. You’ve fully restored your confidence and that’s allowed you to show just how capable you are. You’ve been more vocal with your thoughts, too, and don’t take it personally when he doesn’t agree. You smile a lot more, joke with him even, and have been more generous with words of encouragement and affirmation. They come more naturally than you expected, and you appreciate that he doesn’t turn you away whenever it happens.

He’s actually okay to be around when he’s not being grumpy or difficult. You suppose that the situations he was put in - and how you responded with patience and understanding - allowed him to see that you’re truly on his side and that let him put his guard down a little. You’re past trying to please him for the sake of making your job bearable; there’s actual joy in it now, and while the search for who you are outside of all this continues to ring in your head, you think that sticking around for now isn’t so bad either.

“Perhaps Seokjin has seen how good you are with entertaining guests now and deems you worthy of being an extension of him,” you respond to Jungkook’s earlier musings. “And he wouldn’t be wrong. You’ve become really good at it.”

“You know, I think you oversell me sometimes,” he chuckles.

“Hmm, I think I don’t,” you counter. “If I may say so, Mr. Jeon, it's just that the bar was pretty low so the improvements are quite striking.”

“Fair enough,” he laughs, not taking offense.

“You can still do better at charming people. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from Seokjin and Taehyung,” you push.

“Those two flirt, they don’t charm,” he playfully rolls his eyes.

“Well, I completely disagree, sir. I mean, I’ve seen it firsthand. And I’m not one who’s easily charmed.”

“Fine, I’ll see what I can pick from them, then,” he concedes.

“Kidding aside, I think you’ll be fine, Mr. Jeon. Plus, it’s unrelated to work so there’s no need to impress anyone,” you state.

“True,” he hums. “But just thinking about these next few days is already making me tired. Tae rented a yacht for tonight. We have Seokjin’s launch tomorrow, and to celebrate, he’s throwing another party the day after.”

“Hmm, must be that you’re getting old,” you tease, earning you a hum in agreement. “But you’re used to that though, right? They always said that was your life back in Singapore.”

“It was. I had less responsibilities and people to manage but back then, everything seemed too much,” he shares. “I took the weekends seriously and really just did whatever I wanted. I haven’t done much of that these past weeks because I’ve been so tired and I feel like I’m under the microscope when I’m here. So yeah, I’ll probably just take advantage of being back there and just enjoy it.”

“As you should,” you say. “You’ve worked hard and you deserve to spend your weekend however you wish. Just, uh…”

“What?”

“Probably give Lucas a heads-up in case a half-naked woman greets him in the kitchen on Monday morning.”

The silence is deafening and you think you’ve crossed a line with this one. You turn towards him and he looks stunned at your unfiltered remark.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jeon,” you bow in apology. “That was too personal.”

“It’s okay,” he responds after a beat of silence. “I guess I deserve that. I mean, I never apologized for the morning when you experienced exactly that. And for when you found that underwear on the floor, which I forgot to clean up. So, uh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, too. I got over it,” you assure him. “And if anything, I’m pretty sure she left that on purpose so she’ll have a reason to come back.”

“That’s exactly it,” he groans. “She saw me again and wanted to go to my apartment so she could get it. I told her I threw it away.”

“How brutal,” you tease again.

“Not my finest moment but yeah, I’m sorry to put you in that position. Must’ve been tough seeing proof of all the washroom gossip.”

“You know about those?” You gasp.

“I’ve heard about them,” he sighs. “Mr. Ri’s got eyes and ears in the office.”

“It’s hard to defend so I just don’t try,” the older man shakes his head. “Not like you deny it anyway.”

“Not like I really care,” Jungkook shrugs. “But even then, I guess it wasn’t the best start for us,” he tells you.

“Perhaps not, but I’m not one to judge, Mr. Jeon. That’s all in the past now, and that feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It does,” he hums.

It’s during these casual exchanges when you get to see a bit more of Jungkook as the person that he is, beyond the perfectionist executive who still harbors fears and worries about his new role. He’s still a human being who finds ways to deal with the stresses of life, someone who needs time to step away from his burdensome responsibilities, someone who seeks intimacy and connection and finds ways to attain them in his own ways. The doubts and worries are still there, but the foundation has stabled a bit. Somehow you think that you’ve created a space safe enough for him to talk about them, to apologize, and to try to be better. You hope he gets to create that for himself, too, and if that’s what you’ll leave him with by the time you decide to step away from this job, you think you’d be satisfied.

Silence engulfs you both and like he often is after being vulnerable with you, he keeps to himself once again. You wait a while before running through his meetings for today and next week and inform him of what the team will be working on while he’s away. Jungkook responds with a few last-minute instructions, especially about the tasks he needs done in time for your team meeting on Monday. You’re both back to professional talk and you don’t really mind; there’s something about being honest and open that could be a bit disarming.

The car stops and Mr. Ri exits to retrieve the luggage from the trunk. Jungkook, in his navy blue suit, gathers his things and says goodbye. Before he can close the door, you call out his name.

“Yeah?” He asks, his one hand carrying his bag and the other, on the roof of the car as he bends to look at you.

“Happy birthday,” you say. “I know you think it’s just an ordinary day but I hope you celebrate well.”

“Thank you,” he says after a few seconds, basking in the softness of your smile for the short moment that he can.

Jungkook steps away then closes the door. He heads to the airport lounge before taking the 6-hour flight to Singapore, spending it on reviewing reports and design proposals. He goes straight to the office when he lands, settling down in his room where he responds to emails. He munches on some dumplings for lunch, thinking he’s missed the ones from the restaurant across the street, but then Lucas enters and sets down a bowl of seaweed soup.

“Ms. Cho asked me to get this for you, Mr. Jeon.”

Jungkook is caught off guard but manages to dismiss Lucas and tastes the dish. It’s nothing like his mother’s, but then again, he hasn’t had it in years. When Jungkook moved here, there were no celebrations apart from getting drunk at a club, which is also why he’d stopped thinking of his birthday as anything special. There were no traditional meals or well wishes or birthday cakes.

He’s here again. There’s that yacht party tonight but it won’t feel like a celebration. Somehow, with this bowl of soup, this does. You’re a thousand miles away but even then, he still feels your presence. Even then, he feels more cared for than he has these past several years combined.

Jungkook wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache. His neck feels a bit strained, given that he’d slept in an awkward position wearing his clothes from last night. He also barely remembers much. One minute he was drinking with a woman around his arm and the next he’s… here.

He shifts and lays flat on his back, groaning as last night’s happenings manifest in the soreness of his entire body. The yacht was fancy, as he’d expected from his best friends. There was overflowing food and drinks, the music was great, and the guests were honestly too many for his liking. There were familiar faces and new ones, but he mostly stuck around with those he knew. What he also remembers is not being able to taste his cake. He’s definitely calling Seokjin to complain.

Suddenly hit with the thought of not knowing how he’d gotten home last night - or with whom - Jungkook sits up and groans once more, the incoming call adding to the ringing sound in his head.

“Mr. Jeon,” Lucas answers on the other end. “How are you feeling today?”

“Terrible,” Jungkook says, now finding the strength to get off the bed. “Did you take me home?”

“Yes, sir. You wanted to leave so Mr. Ri and I took you to your penthouse,” Lucas answers. “Your valuables are on the table.”

Jungkook sighs, knowing it was one of those nights. Removing his clothes, he sees the fresh marks on his chest. Wanting to prepare himself before finding some stranger in the other room, he asks his assistant if he’d brought someone home with him.

“No, sir. It was just you. She, uh, she asked to come but you told her you were too tired so she stayed behind.”

“Oh, good,” Jungkook exhales in relief, not wanting to deal with any of that this morning, which is one reason why he always asks them to leave. “How long do I have until I have to get ready for tonight?”

“About five hours,” the younger man replies. “You have a scheduled dinner with your friends at 5:30 and then the event at 8. I’ll be there before that to help you get ready.”

“Alright, thanks. I’ll just workout to deal with this hangover.”

“Medicines are in the cupboard, sir. Please just let me know if there’s anything more you need.”

“I will.”

Jungkook hangs up and presses on his temples as if that’ll do anything. He retrieves the medicine as advised and thinks of something else he needs - a cup of lemon ginger tea. Ever since you’d prepared one for him that one morning, he’s been having it after every night out. He calls the butler to have it prepared for him, given that he doesn’t have the energy to do so himself.

It arrives, and coupled with the aspirin, he’s starting to somehow feel better. He knows that heading to the gym will do the trick, as it always does, but it still makes him think that he shouldn’t have drank as much as he did last night.

For someone who’s not particularly fond of people, even Jungkook sometimes wonders why he goes out and parties as much as he does.

He wasn’t always like this though. His weekends used to be spent on food trips and travels, but after the breakup with Chaerin, those days became free, and he’d stay out late so he could sleep the rest of the next day. The women were to make up for the loneliness; the alcohol was to forget why he needed them in the first place. He hates loud and unnecessary sounds, but the music and the chatter started to become white noise for him; they’d become a companion to help deal with the noise in his own head, or the lack of it.

Years later, the remaining thoughts in his mind were just all about work, and he’d revert to the same habit for relief - the women became his thrill; the alcohol was so he wouldn’t remember them.

And it works. The ecstasy lasts only through the night. It’s fleeting as his desire for them is. He doesn’t recall names, just that they made him feel good and that they felt the same; they often try to hook up with him again after all, seeking him in the clubs they know he frequents. But he rarely entertains them; a second time leads to a third, and he can’t be assured that they won’t ask the same tiring questions he hates hearing - why doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Why doesn’t he want to commit to anyone? Does he see himself settling down and having a family? What’ll make him want that?

It’s happened a few times, during the rare instances that there’s a lull in between and they take advantage of his brief period of vulnerability to make him open up. He never does, and it’s not because he thinks it’s a weakness to do so, but he just never really let the moment linger to find out.

After a light meal, Jungkook heads to the gym and spends three hours expending his energy so he could get it back.

This is his other means of dealing with his stress. Working out makes him focus on something else and it helps in releasing all his anger and frustration. As he stares at his bare body in the mirror right after - the marks from last night still visible - he scoffs at himself.

He’s so stereotypical, it makes him sick. He’s allowed himself to let his life revolve around the shallow and fleeting sensations of pleasure to counter the permanence and inevitability of his job. This is his world and he made it this way. And while he drowns in the nothingness inside the walls that he created, he still thinks it’s better than being outside; somehow he thinks it’s lonelier and more burdensome out there. At least in here, he’s all he has to deal with; he’s all he can disappoint.

But there are still moments when he wonders what it could be like if he just dared to live differently. Like when he watches Seokjin animatedly explain the history and creation process of Korean traditional alcohol during the product launch that evening and how his passion is moving and infectious. Or when he observes how Taehyung freely moves around the club and makes connections with others as deep as his smile.

Jungkook thinks about all this as he glances at the woman next to him later that night, bare under the covers like he is, her body curled into a cocoon as she takes a break.

She’d caught his eye earlier because she wasn’t trying to get his attention like the others were. She spoke less and screamed more, let him do what he wanted but touched him softly as she pleased.

“You’re a good lover. Why do you waste yourself with something temporary like me?” She’d asked.

It left him speechless and he shrugged - a change from his usual dismissal - but there’s really nothing to say.

Why does he? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to.

But it’s at this moment that he tries to imagine what it would be like if it were the same face he saw next to him every morning, if it were the same hand he held everyday, if it were the same warm body he curled into every night. His mind wanders too far, into the depths of a place it can’t go to, beyond boundaries he can’t cross, and the sight is both terrifying and calming.

It’s safer where he is.

So when she wakes up from a short nap, she looks up at him, her soft eyes wishing for something she knows she shouldn’t.

“You should go,” he says, the softest he’s ever uttered the words.

“Okay,” she whispers in submission.

She gets up from the bed, finds her stray clothes on the floor, and puts them on. Jungkook follows her to the door, a first for him. Maybe it’s her gentleness, or the unspoken understanding between them, or maybe because she doesn’t ask for more even if she seems to want to.

But though he contemplates pulling her back to try to feel what that’s like - seeing her in the morning, holding her hand, curling into her embrace - he doesn’t. He knows even that desire would end; it’s fleeting just as everything around him is.

He holds open the door. She turns around with a smile.

“I hope someday you find someone you’ll ask to stay,” she says, surprising him again. “I’m sure they would.”

You walk around the store in awe of the luscious plants displayed on the shelves, your eyes as bright as the lights that shine over them. There are so many to choose from, and though you have an idea of what you want to have, it’s tough deciding which ones to get right now. The money tree is a must, so is the Chinese evergreen. But do you go for the orchid or the peace lily? Can you keep up with a spider plant? How many of the asparagus ferns should you get?

Your eyes flit from one plant to the next, eventually deciding on getting everything on your list then placing them on the cart for payment.

Jimin chuckles next to you. “Since when were you a plant mom?”

“Since she got that aloe vera from Yoongi and she was convinced that she has a green thumb after it didn’t die,” Soomin deadpans next to you as you frown at her sarcasm. “That’s also after my weekly reminders to water the plant because ‘no care’ doesn’t actually mean it’s going to survive on its own.”

“Oh, shush,” you scoff at her. “You told me I was doing a good job.”

“You’d send a photo every few days, hun,” she laughs. “What else was I supposed to say?”

“True. I needed the encouragement,” you shrug, paying for your haul. “But also, I’m a plant newbie. Yoongi said that I probably need some of them at home and in the office for positive energy and he’s not wrong. All the frustration from months ago just accumulated in my apartment and I need a change.”

“So… Is Yoongi a plant dad, too?” Soomin wonders.

“No. He just knows about a lot of things,” you reply. “Plus, he’s an architect and a designer. He knows a thing or two about plant decor.”

“Why isn’t he here with you, then?” She arches an eyebrow.

“Because I’m with both of you, duh,” you roll your eyes. “And before you say anything more, I don’t really like mixing my work friends with my personal friends. It’s different.”

“Well, I’m glad we could join you on this new phase of your life,” Jimin tries to be encouraging. “It’s like turning over a new leaf.”

You scold him over his terrible pun but laugh anyway, enjoying the comfort and playfulness that only your best friends could bring. They picked you up from work last Friday then you all headed to a club after dinner. You spent yesterday at a beach at their insistence then stayed in during the evening. It’s now Sunday and you’re dragging them around as you run errands before saying goodbye to them again, and it’s not a normal day without Soomin mentioning Yoongi. Perhaps it’s because of all the guys you’ve mentioned that have taken interest in you, he’s the only true green flag; he’s also the only one you didn’t entertain at all. You suppose that’s something she’ll not really get over.

The three of you head to a nearby cafe. Jimin excitedly talks about the latest menu item in their chain of restaurants while Soomin groans about the stuff she has to deal with as she manages her family-owned shipping company that’s the biggest in the port city of Busan. They turn to you and ask how the rest of your week is going to go, with slightly surprised looks when you don’t talk about work with as much disdain as you used to. There’s excitement, even, something that Soomin points out, and when you mention that Jungkook is on an overseas trip, she assumes that’s the reason why.

“Not really,” you clarify. “He arrives tomorrow evening, but the week’s packed - we’re visiting the Arts Center for inspection and then I’m doing an ocular with Chin-sun for the VP events we’re holding in the next few months. I mean, I won’t be buried in files nor will I be in meetings all week. So yeah, it’s not bad.”

“That’s good,” Jimin beams. “At least it’s nothing like how it used to be. Right?”

“It’s a lot better, I told you guys,” you say, reminding them of a similar talk you had the last time they were here, which was a week after you’d gotten sick. “Jungkook is… rational, less grumpy and impulsive; he also listens to me and trusts me. He’s even smiled a few times.”

“Wow, he really set the bar low for you, huh,” Jimin chuckles, earning him a nod.

“Does that also mean that he’s now completely bearable and no longer your type because he’s not an asshole anymore?” Soomin chimes in, being the blunt and bold one among the three of you.

“He never was my type in the first place,” you scowl. “Plus, he’s literally my boss, Soo. That’s like, not some flag, it’s a whole ass brick wall that shall not be crossed.”

“Right. That’s why Mr. Min didn’t make the cut,” she points out. “Told you you should’ve just quit your job so you could date him.”

“And I also told you that wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t want to,” you remind her. “Yoongi’s exactly the type of person I need in my life, and being more than friends is the surefire way of making sure that doesn’t happen. Like, why would I risk a good friendship for something that may not work out? Whether I break his heart or he breaks mine, it’s pain I can’t handle. There’s just no going back from there.”

“Right, that is your biggest fear,” Soomin replies softly, the sympathetic tone in her voice telling you that she does understand where you’re coming from. “I mean, it’s still possible that you wouldn’t hurt each other but I get it. It just sucks, I guess. The good ones often start as your friends.”

“I know. And I’d rather have them and be single than none at all,” you sigh.

The thought is simpler than it seems. You won’t deny that you’ve thought of how things would’ve been if you gave Yoongi a chance, but the fear of what you’d lose always trumped that type of possibility.

There’s a kind of pain you don’t want to experience, one of a broken heart caused by losing someone you’ve given your all to. It’s how you think you love, after all; you can’t give any less. But it’s also why you’ve never done it. No one’s inspired that kind of devotion for you.

Soomin has pointed out before that it’s probably also because you don’t open yourself up to the possibilities as you should. Maybe you’ve just been too focused on other things. But maybe you also just haven’t felt the kind of all-consuming desire for someone who would be worth it, one you’d want so much that you’d willingly face the fear of paralyzing heartbreak just to be with them.

You suppose that’s the difference. That’s the irony, too. You’re scared to love because you’re scared of the pain, so you keep your distance to keep yourself safe but it’s also why you haven’t found someone you’re willing to crawl out of your walls for.

There’s not much you feel passionate about in life. Maybe it’s love. But you’re too cautious to feel it, to look for it, so you don’t really know. Maybe it’s something else completely, and working in the environment that you do hinders you from discovering it. You’ve kept your distance from a lot of things over the past years and the thought that one day, you’ll be able to feel free from all the burden you carry because of a past you couldn’t control, makes you look forward to the day when you get to walk away from all those and hopefully, find whatever it is you’re looking for.

Jimin nudges you after you zone out, and you switch the subject and ask about the latest gossip in their hometown. You enjoy living vicariously through their social life back in Busan. They not only come out here to Seoul to see you but also to take a break from all the drama that they can’t really escape from, given the type of people in their circle of friends. You always thank the heavens you got lucky that at 10 years old and making a new life in a new city, you found Soomin and Jimin, perhaps the only other people aside from your mother who make you feel safe and protected, a feeling you don’t take for granted.

They indulge you and share some stories, but when Soomin goes through her social media feed to show you something, she gasps instead when she realizes that the men in her friend’s Instagram post include Jungkook.

“Did your boss just go there to party?” She asks, showing you the photo.

“Partly,” you reply. “His best friend hosted the launch of his alcohol line there but there are a couple more parties because it’s his birthday weekend. Your friends went?”

“Yeah, some of them are Kim Seokjin’s friends, apparently,” Soomin says. “Small world. But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Seoul and Busan socialites attract each other.”

“Why aren’t you there, then?” You chuckle.

“We’re choosy socialites,” Jimin clarifies. “Or like, pretentious. We just act like we are but we really aren’t, just to say that the Park and Cheon kids are interesting and sociable like the rest of them.”

“Who says they’re interesting and sociable?” Soomin states incredulously. “My eyes roll to the back of my head every time I’m in those shitty events. The lack of self-awareness of rich people repulses me. And I obviously don’t count us in.”

“And you shouldn’t,” you confirm. “I attract good people, I guess. I’m glad you’re not like them.”

“Well, what about Jungkook’s friends?” Jimin asks. “How are they like?”

“What I can say about the Kim brothers is that they’re nice people,” you say. “Very charming, ridiculously good-looking... And they sound like good friends, too. I can’t say much else. Their dating game is pretty strong though.”

“I’d assume. I mean, when you look like that, how could you not be?” Soomin states. “I mean, even Jungkook’s on point. That’s some hot girl he’s got.”

She shows you a couple of Instagram stories from her friends posting about the launch party. It turns out, there were a lot of Korea-based personalities who were invited. You spot Jungkook immediately, wearing the all-white ensemble that you packed for him the other day. His hair is a bit curled and the knitted top underneath the simple coat highlights his taut physique. There’s also that gorgeous woman around his arms, and if what you know about him is enough, you’d guess she’s probably one of those he seeks for a good time.

The sight of him loosening up a bit and enjoying himself is something you appreciate. He’s always stressed when he’s here and you’re glad he could spend a few days partying elsewhere without having to think about work, especially during the week of his birthday. You don’t know how much of this aspect of his life he enjoys, but he does seem a bit free yet still somehow detached. You suppose that’s something he’ll always be - a man trying to live his life while separating himself from the meaning of it. You’re unsure of how he does it but perhaps it’s not that different from how you are, too.

After lunch, Soomin and Jimin do a few more of your errands with you before dropping you home and then heading back to theirs. You spend the rest of the evening arranging your plants in your tiny apartment and feeling like more life is breathed into it with every one of them finding their home in a corner or on a shelf. Oddly enough, you feel a bit less lonely. That’s how you think you’ve been doing things, after all - finding substitutes for the kind of company you’re yearning for, for the kind of relationship you’re so afraid to have.

Jungkook wakes up that Monday morning feeling a lot better than he did the days before. For one, there’s no ringing in his head nor the feeling of dehydration. Bare under his soft covers, there also aren’t any fresh marks on his chest that signify the kind of night he usually has. In fact, he remembers most of it - he stayed by the bar and briefly chatted with the women who’d approached him.

Suzy was there last night, too, the only one he’s hooked up with more than once, and probably the only one he’s had proper conversations with, given that she’s a landscape designer. She’s been away on business trips and had just gone back, her bluntness about going back to his apartment that she’s too familiar with being met with a rejection that she didn't take personally.

“Has Seoul changed you?” She asked, her eyebrow arched in anticipation of his reply.

“Do you think a place would do that to me?” He laughed.

“No, but a person would,” she shrugged.

“None of that,” he shook his head. “There’s no one. I’m too busy, too tired.”

“But not too lonely?” she asked. “It’s the only reason why you would call me.”

There was no bitterness in her words but still, he asked. “And why did you always come, then?”

“To see if each time would be good enough for you to not make me leave.”

The conversation took a turn that he didn’t expect, the usual honesty in her words being too honest for him. He fumbled for something to say but she shook him off, claiming that she knew what she was getting into every time he took her home and that constantly hoping for something doesn’t guarantee that she’d get it one day.

He drank a couple of glasses of whiskey after she left but managed to call his butler for a sandwich and lemon ginger tea in time for his arrival at his penthouse. The meal did the trick, as he’d slept soundly after a warm bath without a splitting headache and regrets the next day.

It’s Monday, after all, and it’s back to work as usual. He has a few meetings to attend before flying back to Seoul, one of which is with the team. He gathers the energy to get off the bed for a half-hour exercise before getting ready. He eats the breakfast that the butler orders for him then heads to the office where he briefly meets with Lucas.

Settled on his desk, he proceeds to virtually meet with the team, who all promptly greet him from the conference room. He asks how their weekend was, with most of them looking surprised because he rarely asks them about it, but they answer anyway. That’s when he notices that you’re not around, prompting him to look for you.

“I’m here, Mr. Jeon,” you answer off camera before appearing on screen with a candle-lit cake in your hands.

He’s surprised when the team sings him a happy birthday, your eyes fixed on him as you mouth the words with a soft smile on your face. Do-hyun giggles at his silence, saying that he probably forgot it was his birthday or he maybe didn’t expect that they’d prepare something for him.

“We like you now, Mr. Jeon,” she teases, earning him a nudge from Chin-sun but she doesn’t seem to mind and neither does he.

It’s what makes him laugh, hoping that the pink on his cheeks aren’t visible on screen. He hadn’t expected this. He also knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he’d bet that you had everything to do with this.

“You’ve probably been too busy to celebrate but we haven’t forgotten. More like, Ms. Cho made sure we remembered,” Manager Lee chuckles. “We hope you enjoy this little something we prepared.”

“It’s an ice cream cake so it’ll just be in your refrigerator and you can have some when you return,” you say.

“Thank you,” he finally manages to say. “You didn’t have to but I appreciate it. I’m looking forward to having some when I get back. Ms. Cho should also buy another one big enough for the team to share.”

You nod in acknowledgment of his instruction before starting with the meeting. There’s a lot to talk about, given the Arts Center construction and activities, as well as the upcoming year-end events that they have to organize and coordinate. It goes on for over two hours and it ends with your gentle smile after he says goodbye.

The rest of the day feels too long for Jungkook, especially during the late afternoon flight and eventual ride home. He stares at the photo you sent of the cake, making sure he sees the greeting on it.

“Get home safely, Mr. Jeon,” you text him after he says thanks. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With the reminders of the impermanence of things and people this weekend, Jungkook finds comfort in the stability that you provide. It’s in your smile, in your reminders and organization of his life, in your thoughtfulness and patience. It’s in the assurance that tomorrow is another day, one in which he gets to see you once again.

The cake is simple but sophisticated. The mint chocolate flavor is exactly how he likes it and in ice cream cake form, it’s really delicious. He’s glad he gets to have this all for himself, as the team was able to enjoy one yesterday as per his instruction, and you’d sent a group photo of everyone enjoying it to him, the small smile that formed on his face no longer surprising him.

For one, the comfort is there. He’s seen just how much better the team is working together because of it - they’re more open to giving him feedback and receiving his, any moment of frustration is easily mended with laughter, and his encouragement and affirmation have been motivating them as well. In the midst of it is you who makes sure that communication flows smoothly and that everything is on track, acting as the glue that keeps everyone together.

He sees firsthand just how good you are at handling things, and how despite all the stress, you manage to get him seaweed soup and a cake for his birthday. It’s more than just the details regarding work that you’re on top of; it’s also details about his life, and how he’s responding to it tells him that maybe, whatever change there is like what Suzy observed, a big part of it is because of you.

“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Jeon,” your voice cuts through his thoughts.

He looks up and sees you with a portfolio in hand, motioning towards the cake that’s now one fourth eaten.

“Ah, yeah,” he says, not denying it. “I feel like I haven’t had sweets in a while. Where did you buy this?”

“Oh, uh, I asked the baker who made desserts for the Arts Center event if she could make a customized ice cream cake,” you explain. “Fortunately she could. And thankfully it’s delicious. She enjoyed working with us so she gave us a discount.”

“You… had this made for me?”

He’d expected it to be store-bought, but learning you made the effort to reach out to someone reminds him once more of your thoughtfulness, of your care.

“Yes, I, uh, I just assumed you’d receive a few and I thought to give you something a little different.”

“It’s the only one I got actually,” he says, catching you off guard. Your face falls a little so he follows it up. “Like I told you, I don’t celebrate my birthday so I don’t let people know about it. And the ones who do also know that I don’t make a big deal out of it so they don’t really give me anything.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling a little sad.

You’re not one to have big celebrations but you do have a bit of it. For your 30th birthday at the start of the year, Jimin and Soomin threw you a little party in your humble home in Daegu where they performed some of your favorite songs and enacted your favorite drama scenes to make you happy. There was no need for anything fancy - just your loved ones and your mom’s and Min-woo’s amazing cooking.

But even before that milestone, your friends always made sure to at least get you seaweed soup and a birthday cake; they want you to remember that there are lives impacted because you were born. You can’t really say that Jungkook’s impacted your life the same way but you still value his existence; a small cake is just a little something to celebrate that. But the idea that his family and friends pass up on the cake - and perhaps the gifts, too - makes you think that there’s really not much in Jungkook’s life he feels he could share with others, that there’s not much he could give and receive in return.

“I hope I didn’t cross a line if it’s something you don’t like people knowing,” you continue. “I just thought… it would be nice to receive something from us.”

“It actually was,” he admits, his voice soft and low. Turning away, he says, “it’s been a while since I actually thought about my birthday as anything other than ordinary. It’s nice to be reminded sometimes. So thank you, Ms. Cho. For the soup, too. I appreciate it.”

Perhaps it’s his honesty that does it, but you can’t help the smile that forms on your face. If learning how to express gratitude is something you could teach him, you already feel accomplished.

It’s the next day when you find yourself back in Jungkook’s office, staring at the potted plant in your hands. You’ve gone from debating on whether to leave it on his desk or the coffee table, to even giving it at all. You won’t lie and say you didn’t know what you were thinking when you passed by the plant store after work last night to get this specifically for him. You did - you wanted him to feel that joy of receiving a gift, which you suppose doesn’t happen, especially for someone who can literally buy anything he wants.

But still, it doesn’t mean that your good intention will be received well. You’ve given Hoseok a small gift every year for his birthday, partly because he likes receiving them and also because it’s your way of saying thanks.

You want to give this to Jungkook as a form of gratitude, too. Despite how you both started, the amount of things you’ve learned from him and continue to have somehow made up for it, and you also know that he’s learning from you as well. He’s given you agency to make decisions. He’s also given you events and small projects to manage, making you realize it’s what you really enjoy doing. Seeing things come together the way you envisioned it is so satisfying. Perhaps without intending it, Jungkook’s showed you a way out, a path that you want to explore so much that you’re willing to let go of all that you know in this company for something new, for something that feels more like you.

Your thoughts have completely digressed and with the time you took debating and reflecting, you hadn’t heard his footsteps, and so you jerk a little when he calls out your name.

Turning around, you bow in greeting, remembering at the same time that you have something that you’re not 100% sure yet you want to give right now. But as always, he calls you out on it.

“Is that a snake plant?” He asks, walking towards his seat.

“Yes.”

“Is that the one on your desk?”

“Uh, no, actually,” you laugh dryly, knowing you can’t turn back from it now. “I… I meant to give it to you, sir. I just thought that, uh, the money tree on the shelf might be too lonely so I got you a desk plant. I heard it’s good for positive energy and to filter the air.”

“It is,” he hums. “Is that why you got yourself one?”

“I suppose. I figured it could help improve my mood. Yoongi suggested it before but I just kept pushing it back. I finally got some for my apartment last weekend,” you explain, just so he knows it didn’t come out of nowhere.

“And you think this will improve my mood?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” you shrug. “We’ll probably need a dozen of them here but we could start with one.”

He matches your soft laughter with his own, which you’re thankful for. He reaches out for the plant, nonchalant like you when your fingers brush against each other.

“Hopefully this will work,” he says as he places the small, white pot next to his desktop.

You leave him so he could prepare for a conference call while you’re set to meet with the marketing team. Jungkook gazes at the plant and notices the little note attached to the string around the stem.

Happy birthday, it reads.

This wasn’t just something to match the money tree that Hoseok left for him that he hasn’t been caring for much. This was a gift for him. You probably assume that if he doesn’t receive birthday cakes, he wouldn’t be receiving gifts, either. And you’d be right. His best friends just throw him parties. And once he left Seoul to obtain his MBA in Singapore and stayed to work in their Southeast Asian headquarters, the distance between him and his parents grew. They’d reach out but he didn’t bother much, so he’d stopped expecting anything. After he broke up with Chaerin, he stopped receiving anything at all. This is the first time he’s gotten something from someone after a long time.

It’s simple in its meaning and honest in its intention, and he doesn’t hold back the smile that forms on his face.

You watch the realization dawn on Jungkook from outside. You’d remembered the silly note you left right as you sat down and didn’t have time to take it back, which really wasn’t much, but you suppose it’s enough to tell him that the plant indeed is a gift. You don’t know if someone like him even receives them, or would even appreciate something so cheap and humble, but the gentle smile he has on tells you that he probably doesn’t get much, but that this is something he welcomes.

Your smile follows soon after but it feels different this time. There’s pride somehow that your little gift could elicit something so rare out of him. There’s also a bit of awe; this is the softest he’s ever looked, with that tinge of gratitude and yearning, a complete contrast to what you know of him, to how you’ve always seen him. It’s… it’s actually beautiful.

And this is when things start to get confusing, especially as your phone beeps with that SMS from him.

[From: The Boss] Thank you, ___.

It’s the non-work message. It’s the use of your name. This is personal for him and you acknowledge that it’s the same for you. Perhaps there’s a reason why you made the effort to get the gift last night, why it mattered to you that he received something to celebrate his birthday, and why seeing him appreciate it the way he does is making you giddy and satisfied at the same time.

Maybe it’s the care you’re starting to feel for him that’s beyond just wanting to make your job bearable. You’ll dissect what that truly means later on, but right now it’s just you, him, and the glass wall in between the both of you. There’s distance, there’s a boundary, but there’s a transparent barrier that allows you to see what’s on the other side, one which allows you to know who he is behind the man you’ve come to know. And you admit, he’s not so bad after all.

The construction of the Arts Center is going better than expected. Given some of the delays due to the wrong materials delivered and some permits that took a while to get, the workers were able to make up some ground, largely due to Jungkook’s supervision. When you both visited a few weeks ago, there were many things to work on, and he managed to identify the priorities and find ways to get the project back on track.

It was during those few days of constantly being on site that you saw how efficient and effective he really works. You admired his precision and attention to detail, how he instructed the team leads and project managers and laborers, how he put together the design of one of the rooms just as he’d envisioned it.

He was commanding and decisive, and you appreciated his thorough and simple explanations that allowed you to keep up with him. He’s said that he wants you to understand what’s happening so that you’re well-informed should you need to communicate to others on his behalf, and what initially intimidated you turned into something you became interested in. Since then, you’ve been watching design shows to help you further. The challenge was welcomed, and now you feel like everyday, you’re learning something new on the job.

His instructions from that time were followed, and you’re back today to inspect the rest of the spaces. Everything is so massive, and with one half of the wall of the performance hall already done, you can clearly see the upgrade. The details are impressive, and the way that the traditional designs merge with modern elements is a feature itself.

You’re immersed in the intricacies of the ceiling, walking towards the wall to get a closer look that you don’t immediately notice the workers walking past you with a massive slab of marble. The moment that you do, you step back too quickly, tripping on your heels, and just as you brace yourself to hit the ground, you instead feel your back against a firm chest, with hands on your elbows breaking your fall.

You sigh in relief, even leaning your head back because nothing could be more embarrassing than falling on your ass in front of many people, including your boss. That is, until the familiar scent of jasmine and bergamot wafts through your nose and you realize that what you just did is debatably more embarrassing than what could’ve happened.

The familiar clearing of the throat is what finally does it for you, and with wide eyes, you turn around and face him to apologize.

“I’m sorry, sir. I—”

“Was so much in awe that you didn’t notice the workers passing by,” he finishes, his slightly teasing smile calming you down.

“Ah, well of course. The details are too pretty,” you reason, stepping back only a little. You look at him shyly. “But thank you. I was about to fall.”

“I know. And I was about to lose it if my assistant got injured on the job.”

“True. It’s bad publicity, I guess,” you shrug. “And distractions could cause delays. And that’s bad, too.”

“Or you know, I simply just can’t have you injured, simple as that,” he says with a little frown on his face.

“Imagine if I didn’t see them? They could’ve dropped the marble and I would’ve completely lost it!”

“Why?” He arches an eyebrow.

“That slab is like, two months’ worth of salary, Mr. Jeon.”

“It’s actually more but that’s not the point,” he fully frowns now. “If you didn’t see them, then they could’ve hit you, and then you would be whining in pain right now. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt, ___.”

His voice is firm and low, and you nod in acknowledgment because you also know he’s right. The workers’ vision was limited but yours wasn’t; you were just too distracted and if you hadn’t pulled early enough, that marble really could’ve done damage to you. And if it wasn’t for Jungkook catching your fall, then something bad still would’ve happened to you.

“But are you okay? You didn’t twist your ankle or anything?” He asks.

“No. Uh, the heel’s just a bit loose but I’m fine,” you reply, still trying to wrap your head around how he’d said your name - informally, in this setting, as he told you that you could’ve gotten hurt. Maybe you weren’t imagining the worried tone of his voice earlier.

“Okay,” he sighs. “You have to be careful next time.”

“I will, sir,” you reply.

You step aside and Jungkook sees you from his peripheral vision as he returns to assessing, staying put and only glancing at the ceiling unlike earlier. He’d seen you marvel at the design of the hall earlier, and while he was initially doing the same, seeing you wide-eyed and impressed caught his attention more.

Many times, he’s seen you look dejected, frustrated, angry. He’s seen your moments of focus and joy, too, but this is the first time he’s seen you be in awe. There was this softness on your face that was still filled with emotion, and he’d been drawn to you enough to see that you were about to fall. He’s glad he has quick reflexes and was able to get to you in time, the worry he felt at the thought of you getting hurt in any way was quite overwhelming for him. And while it’s partly because you’re his responsibility in this case, he also knows it’s more than that.

He gestures moving to another room and you follow him outside, and just as you try to stay close to him, Jungkook also makes sure you’re away from any kind of danger. He moves to your side when there are workers nearby with their heavy equipment and large materials. He shields you from the drilling. He glances at you as you both walk towards the other performance hall. And when you get there, you see the ceiling installation is ongoing, and Jungkook immediately calls for hard hats for the both of you.

He hands you one and you put it on, fumbling with the strap underneath your chin. You groan in frustration when you’re unable to lock it, and that’s when you see him move towards you.

“Let me,” he says.

You stop your movements and shyly nod in agreement, and he waits for you to let go before he fixes it himself.

It’s a little odd being on the other side, since it’s always you who fixes his tie or his coat. But you’re the one watching him now, with his furrowed brows and seriousness in securing this safety gear on you making you feel warm inside.

He steps back then looks at you, trying hard to control his laughter.

“Are you laughing at me, sir?” You pout.

“No. I don’t make fun of people,” he says, turning serious now, but you don’t miss the grin on his face.

It’s unfair that he looks good even with a hard hat on.

One of the project managers calls him and he goes around, with you staying close by. This performance hall is bigger and boasts of a more traditional design, which would hold the cultural performances that the Culture Minister is very excited about. You watch Jungkook inspect the space with thoroughness, checking each wall panel and each seat.

It’s amazing to you just how involved he is with this project even with the project managers handling things relatively well. He wants to be on top of everything, he’s said; it matters too much for him to not know what’s going on.

You see Yoongi enter the room and approach him. Once he sees you, he laughs as well.

“Do I look that bad?” You groan. “Mr. Jeon was laughing at me, too.”

“It’s a little big, and I guess I’m just not used to seeing you in one,” Yoongi shrugs.

“Why don’t you have one?”

“I don’t need it. I’m here all the time and nothing happens.”

“Well, I’ve been here a few times and I almost fell earlier,” you say, recalling the almost-embarrassment.

“I know, I saw it,” he chuckles.

“You were there?!” You gasp.

“No, I was totally in the other room that’s why I witnessed you almost get hit by the marble then trip on yourself,” he deadpans.

“I didn’t see you, that’s all,” you shrug.

“I was by the doors. I checked these spaces yesterday and I just wanted to be around in case Jungkook had new instructions,” he explains. “But I gotta say, you guys were kinda cute earlier.”

“Almost falling on my ass isn’t cute, Min Yoongi,” you scowl. “I could’ve either ruined the marble slab or hurt my bum. Either way, it would’ve been embarrassing.”

“I didn’t mean just you. I meant you guys,” he gestures towards Jungkook. “He caught you, didn’t he?”

“Yes… That was embarrassing, too,” you frown. “What’s cute about that?”

“He looked worried. It’s just not something I’ve seen him be towards other people, that’s all.”

“It’s because an injured employee on site isn’t good, okay? Plus, if I’m incapable, then no one’s gonna be around to make his life easier,” you reason.

Yoongi stares at you for a while before shaking his head. “Wow, you really are dense.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you cross your arms in frustration.

“Forget about it,” Yoongi shakes his head, deciding not to push it.

He’ll tell you another time that he’s glad you’re becoming more of yourself again, that the light has somehow come back, that there’s now comfort you exude around the man you’d once despised. Yoongi feels assured now that there’s someone else who seems to be looking out for you, and that it’s something you don’t seem to mind at all.

“Yah! You’re being all mysterious again!” You pout, something he chuckles about.

“Me? Mysterious? Come on. I’ve always been an open book,” he teases.

You’re just about to nag him again when you hear Jungkook clear his throat, and you turn towards him and ask if he’s already done inspecting.

“There are still a few things I want to run by my design lead before leaving,” Jungkook says. “Please move my meeting to 3PM.”

“That’s noted, sir. I’ll give Mr. Hong’s assistant a call.”

You excuse yourself and step outside, leaving both men alone.

“Angering my assistant, are you?” Jungkook asks Yoongi, the curious yet playful tone in his voice evident.

“Nah, just teasing. That a problem?” Yoongi answers back.

“No. It’s good she has someone she’s comfortable with at work.”

“Could be you, you know? That isn’t so bad,” Yoongi remarks, surprising him. “And it doesn’t cross whatever boundary you’re trying so hard to stay behind.”

“We’re not… on that level. I mean, I don’t know how to be someone other people are comfortable being around,” Jungkook admits.

“I don’t know about that. Seems like you’re already that for her,” Yoongi says. “I was just teasing her about how you guys looked cute earlier, when you broke her fall.”

“You were there?”

“Both of you really don’t notice other people when it’s just both of you, huh,” Yoongi laughs. “But yeah, I was. I saw her relief. And I saw you worry.”

Jungkook merely shrugs, not wanting to confirm. Even if he denies it, Yoongi will still believe what he wants to believe. But the older man knows you well just as much as he knows him.

“You care about her, don’t you?” Yoongi responds to the silence. “And I mean not in a superficial way, or a good boss caring for his employee type of way. Like, you worry when she’s sick or overworking, when she’s hurt or in danger. You want her to always be safe, to get rest. You like having her near. You wanna know that she’s happy.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Jungkook finally answers. “I can’t think of her that way.”

“I know. That’s why you were the way you were,” Yoongi says. “How else do you respond to things you can’t control than through anger and detachment? But just because you shouldn’t, it doesn’t change the fact that you do.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s wrong,” Jungkook counters.

“Well, irrationally calling her out and being angry were wrong, too, and you did those because you weren’t being honest with yourself,” Yoongi argues. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, the least you can do is be true to yourself about how you feel. Because the more you deny, then the more you resist, and when you do that, you end up hurting her. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.”

“Then just… accept things - what you feel, what you both are, what you can or can’t be.”

Jungkook looks at his friend as if some epiphany had just transpired. It’s been difficult for him to make sense of what he feels around you. There’s always that air of familiarity, but the warmth and comfort are new. There’s the reality that you come from different worlds, but that you both somehow feel and experience and maybe desire the same things. There’s that sense of fear over change and of what he can’t control, yet you somehow provide the calm and stability that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

It’s all these contradictions that have been messing with him, and Yoongi’s right - because of all the times that Jungkook had wanted to create that distance, all it did was hurt you. That’s the last thing he wants, he realizes now. He’s seen you struggle, and even if that’s just a fraction of what you normally go through, it’s enough to tell him that he doesn’t want you to experience that again, especially not because of him. It’s too early to say the extent of his care towards you, and it’s not something he’s willing or ready to explore right now. But just as Jungkook’s about to comfort himself that it’s fine, and that he shouldn’t dwell on it anyway so as not to further nurture it, Yoongi speaks again.

“Just… just a heads up, though,” he adds. “The care that I felt, that’s how it started for me.”

“What started?”

“Me, liking her.”

It’s at that moment when you come back from your call, and you inform Jungkook that the meeting’s been moved and that he has a scheduled one with some of the directors on Monday.

“Alright,” he says, directing you and Yoongi towards the souvenir shop, temporarily disregarding what he was warned about.

“You two looked so serious. Everything okay?” You whisper to your friend.

“Yeah,” Yoongi hums, giving you the most genuine smile he could give.

There’s that sparkle and softness in your eyes that had captured him all those years ago. They dimmed throughout the years and they’ve just been sporadic, illuminating only during specific moments. He’d seen them again a lot more regularly, and even today, as you looked around the halls and admired the designs of the space.

Yoongi doesn’t know if a certain person is the reason for that. He knows you enough that you wouldn’t even notice it, so you definitely wouldn’t know what caused the change. But as your friend, he hopes one day you will, so that if you’re brave enough, too, you’d try to make sure that the light stays.

The inspection ends and you get back to the office at 4. You return to piles of documents you have to sift through and encode, and your original plan of leaving on time changes.

Jungkook spends over an hour talking with Yoongi and the construction lead about the Arts Center, and once that’s over, you see just how exhausted he is. He’s massaging his temples and sighing deeply, and you know that whatever just transpired, he’s going to be thinking about it all throughout the weekend, which he doesn’t really have time for. The gala that one of the Board members throws annually is tomorrow night, an event you’ll be attending with him as well.

You enter his room to remind him about it and to give some forms for his signature. He signs them off, and when you say you’ve got a few more requests that you’ll leave on his desk for Monday, he tells you to just wait until then.

“Go home, Ms. Cho,” he says. “It’s been a long week. And it won’t end until after tomorrow night.”

“What about you, Mr. Jeon?”

“I’ve got some stuff to sort through after inspection. I’ll probably leave in an hour or so.”

You frown, a mannerism of yours that he’s gotten used to seeing. It’s mixed with a pout that often makes him internally laugh because it seems unlike you. It also always means there’s something you want to say that you’re holding back.

“Should I not?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Hmm. Just thinking that it might be better for you to take a rest tonight, too,” you advise. “The gala could be quite draining and it would be good to save your energy for that.”

“I’ll think about it,” he hums.

“Then I’ll think about going home, too,” you answer back.

Jungkook chuckles, knowing you’re always going to counter him in some way. And he’s glad that you do.

“You may go. And get a good rest, too.”

You nod and bid him goodbye, exiting the room to start packing your things. It’s five minutes later when the door opens and you see him with his bag, ready to head home as well.

You smile at his tender doe-eyes as he admits through them that you were right - he doesn’t have a reason to stay behind, so he’ll call it a night and get as much rest as he can.

He pauses by the entryway, and you pick up that he’s waiting for you, perhaps to make sure that you’re indeed going home. You quicken your pace and walk next to him, steps in pace as you both go to the elevator and down to the lobby.

“Mr. Ri can bring you home after me,” Jungkook says. “It’s late already.”

“Not late enough,” you reply. “I’m okay, Mr. Jeon. It’s not necessary.”

He concedes, and you wait for the car to arrive and say goodbye to him again.

There’s a softness on his face as he lingers before he enters. A small smile forms, and it’s what you see until you fall asleep that night. It’s the same one that’s oddly been giving you comfort lately - it’s a little restrained but somehow it still looks vulnerable. Perhaps it represents how Jungkook’s been to you - there are some contradictions, but beyond all that, there’s care.

Mr. Ri happily greets you as you enter the car that late Saturday afternoon to head to Jungkook’s penthouse. He compliments your dress, saying it’s nice to see you in something formal that fits your style - it’s simple yet elegant, and you tell him that your mother wouldn’t stop gushing over you through the screen, nagging you to send full-body photos so she could appreciate you more.

Jimin and Soomin surprised you in the morning to help you fix up, insisting that they wanted to make sure you spoiled yourself for the event. If you wouldn’t, they would, so they treated you to the hair salon and had your nails done. They’re the ones who took so many photos like some formal dance, and Jimin commented that the only downside was that they were sending you off to pick up Jungkook.

Defending your boss the way you did surprised you a little; it surprised them a lot more. You’d said that he bought you the dress, that he’s been nothing but kind, and that whatever negative feelings you had towards him are all in the past. Your friends understood, deciding not to ruin your night and then letting you go so they could eat out and meet you back at your apartment once you’re done.

You chat with Mr. Ri about how things have been at work, your friends, and your family. You also talk about the gala and how it feels a little nerve-racking attending this time, given your experience with Jungkook.

It’s a grand event that the company’s executives attend, and guests are asked to refrain from going solo. For such requests, it’s not unusual for them to bring their assistants. You’re expected to attend anyway, and assistants usually partner up with each other and it always worked. You went with Hoseok last year because A-yeong had a work event, and while you expected that Jungkook wouldn’t care for such request and maintain that he’d go by himself, you also didn’t think that CEO Jeon would insist that his son take you as his date so he wouldn’t be alone.

The elder Jeon had reasoned that business discussions usually take place during the gala, and it would be good for you to be around and be familiar with the new people on the scene. Hoseok had said that they’re expected to stay through the whole thing, and it’s much better for his cousin to have a companion so he could survive the night. That was months ago when things were still a little shaky for you both. You still remember Jungkook’s displeased look when it seemed like he had no choice in the matter, especially since he probably thought that his father just wanted to make sure he’d act accordingly. It feels like a lifetime ago, really, as you think about his soft smile from last night.

You don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, why his gestures or mannerisms suddenly mean something to you, or why there’s excitement when you think about seeing him outside of work. You’re unsure why the curve of his lips when he grins or the deep huff that follows his laugh makes you a little giddy, or why his eyes lingering on you makes your heart beat a little faster than usual.

Just like right now, as they gaze at you while you seemingly do the same.

“You look, uh—” he starts, unable to find the accurate but appropriate term to describe how you look.

“Nice?” You finish, recalling the term he’d used when you tried this gown for the first time.

“Something like that,” he chuckles, earning him a giggle from you.

He playfully shakes his head, perhaps knowing that you’re used to him not making grand compliments or anything. But he does smile after, and there goes that blissful feeling again.

Maybe it’s because for the first time, you’re being appreciated. Maybe just like how it’s been recently, he likes being around you, prefers it, even. And given how you felt so unwanted during his first few weeks here, this is a blessing, as if in his appreciation of you, you’re liking yourself as well.

“Well, in my opinion, you look quite dashing, Mr. Jeon,” you say bravely. “Except your waistcoat seems to be uneven.”

“Exactly what I thought,” he sighs. “I can’t quite align it properly.”

And as you always do, you approach him, your hands immediately going towards his shoulders to flatten the vest, then his sides to pull it down. You adjust it a little bit more then fix his collar after, and suddenly this feels so natural - being close to him, taking in his scent, and smiling as he glances at you.

“Do you need help with your coat?” You ask once you finish.

He nods and you follow him to his walk-in closet where you take the last piece of clothing and assist him in wearing it. He adjusts the lapels while you assess if all wrinkles have been flattened. You watch him look at himself in the mirror and you can’t help but admire him as well. He exudes confidence, which you can say now is strikingly different from the Appointment Dinner where he still looked a bit unsure. But now, he commands respect. The deep black color of his striped three-piece ensemble with his slick hair parted in the middle makes him even more handsome, and you manage to hold in the gasp you were about to release as he faces you for a final look.

“All good?” He asks.

“All good,” you smile, turning around and walking back to the living room.

He follows, and he takes this time to bask in your beauty before he has to act like it doesn’t affect him again.

There’s a reason why he was rendered speechless the first time he saw you in this gown at the tailor shop, so much so that he had to step out to get some air. You look even more stunning now, with your classic but natural-looking makeup and your styled hair. You exude a certain kind of glow that sucks him in, that makes his heart race yet soothes him just the same.

It’s a little dangerous for him, given that he’ll be spending this entire evening with you as his date, looking the way you do while he has to act disinterested, as if his attraction isn’t slapping him in the face and his internal alarm bells aren’t ringing.

But he has to act professional. He has to stay behind the lines even if his mind is yelling all the words about your beauty that he has to ignore. So he gives himself this short moment where he gets to admire you, and when you make it to the elevator and become confined in a small space, he holds his breath as you smile at him shyly, hoping that he doesn’t give himself away.

He’ll get himself together, he orders to himself, and he’ll make sure he doesn’t scare you off.

You make it to the lobby and enter the car. The drive to the venue is quiet at the beginning. It’s technically not a work day so there’s no reason to discuss work. You and Jungkook may have started talking about non-work matters but it doesn’t mean you readily talk about actual personal things. They’re occasional, as it’s not something he seems to do much and you’re often guarded about yours. It took a while for you to open up to Yoongi and even then, there are many things he doesn’t know. You’re comfortable around him, there’s no denying that, but there are still parts of you that you don’t like to share with others, and you suppose that Jungkook is the same.

But still, you ask how his evening was and how his day went, expecting he’d give a basic answer.

“I just stayed home last night and watched soccer over drinks,” he says. “Then I did my workout and went for a swim this morning. I did a bit of work in the afternoon and then got ready.”

“Ah, no party last night and then recovering from it in the morning?” You tease, knowing that’s a usual occurrence for him. Lucas did mention about the Singapore trip and how he’d taken home a passed out Jungkook on the night of his birthday.

“Well, there was a party,” he responds. “There always is, but I passed up on it. I didn’t want to feel out of sorts tonight. There’ll be a lot of new faces and I don’t wanna mess up.”

“Oh, you won’t. You’ve been doing really well, Mr. Jeon. And that’s me being honest.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” He arches an eyebrow. “Would you tell me otherwise?”

“Well, the me of now, would. The me of a few months ago would want to but wouldn’t.”

Jungkook dwells on your answer. “Hmm. What changed, then?”

“I got used to you.”

He meets your gaze and somehow it feels too long. You don’t really know what prompted you to say it but you felt a little bold, a little too honest.

“In what sense?” he wonders, turning away now.

“I’d say I got used to the mood swings but then again, they haven’t been intense compared to those first few weeks,” you admit. “But surprisingly, it’s the calmness I’ve become accustomed to. And the seriousness and occasional zoning out, but also, the…”

Care, you want to say. Or the thoughtfulness.

“Consideration,” you say instead.

Jungkook’s throat dries up as he finds the words to say. He’s now afraid to look at you because he might give in and say something he’ll regret. He’s been praised before for his work and his designs, but he supposes that no one’s really complimented him for something he does for other people, specifically for you. Maybe that’s why he thinks he doesn’t deserve it; he’s unsure if he’s really considerate by nature or if he just is towards you. It’s why he brushes it off, insisting he just has his moments.

“But those moments could mean a lot to the one it’s shared with or directed to,” you counter. “Even if it was just once. Or even if it was so trivial that you probably forgot already. But the other person doesn’t. Or they would, but something about that moment stays.”

Jungkook thinks about the moments you’d shown him consideration. Or even care or thoughtfulness, but he wouldn’t word it that way to you. There are the big ones - when you showed your support of the Arts Center to his father, when you calmed him down during that first Board meeting, when you gave him the noodles when he was sick, when you stayed with him during his interview with the magazine publications.

When you stood up to him. When you didn’t quit after that first week.

There are also the small moments - the ginger and lemon tea on Monday mornings when he looks like he’d drank too much the night before, the biscuits you serve with his coffee, the affirming looks during team meetings, the comforting smiles from outside his office when he’s stressed.

There’s a lot of those you show him, and he realizes now that he remembers each one.

The silence returns soon after, as you both seem to prefer basking in the soft music that Mr. Ri plays.

It’s 15 minutes later when you arrive at the venue. You get out of the car and meet Jungkook by his door, surprised when he offers his arm that you take.

“This is how they do it, right?” He looks at you questioningly.

“Yes,” you chuckle. “It’s a little over-the-top but the hosts treat this like it’s some red carpet event and I just follow what the others do. Bitna says it’s the one time we could feel like proper ladies or something, whatever that means.”

“Hmm, makes sense. I guess I’ll be a proper gentleman, then. Whatever that means.”

You hold onto him lightly as you both make your way inside. You try to disregard the firmness of his arm and the way it feels under your touch, so you gently let go not long after and clutch onto your purse instead, not wanting to give off the idea that you’re anything more than each other’s dates. You greet the guests and establish your position to those who are unaware in an effort to show that this social event is a work function as well.

Jungkook talks about the Arts Center when he can, and you mentally take note of certain projects, sites, events, artists, and patrons that are mentioned, quickly typing them on your phone for future reference. He talks to you about them in between flutes of champagne and canapes that are some of the most delicious you’ve ever had.

Jungkook laughs as you down another brie and cranberry bruschetta.

“What? I like fancy food,” you pout.

“Yes, your normal people’s taste buds like fancy food,” he teases.

It’s a statement you make often and you smile that he now uses it against you.

Your moments of casual ignorance of what’s going on around you are ones you find yourself enjoying too much. You internally sigh every time a guest approaches him, and even more so when you find yourself with a few others and someone stands a little too close, or has his hand linger on your elbow, or whispers something in your ear as if you’re at a bar and the music is too loud, which it isn’t, so there’s really no reason for this son of some business tycoon to be asking you to head outside “to talk.”

“Don’t you have a date?” You ask after he insists.

“Yeah, some girl,” he shrugs. “She’s kinda boring. Lucky I found you.”

You awkwardly smile, knowing it’s not your place to reject him and make a scene. He looks to be the type who always gets his way and if he doesn’t this time, you’re afraid of how he might take it.

You don’t budge and call for another flute of champagne instead, finishing it in one gulp that has the man releasing a deep breath in front of you.

“So you’ve been working for the Jeon’s for 8 years, you say?” He speaks again.

You nod, looking around to avoid his eyes.

“That’s quite a long time, yeah? I’m sure I can get you a spot at my company,” he brags. “I mean, we sell luxury cars. That’s way more interesting than buildings and shit.”

“I don’t drive,” you say too quickly. “I mean, I don’t know how to.”

“Perfect. I can teach you then,” he smirks.

It’s the look that heightens your level of discomfort, and just as you’re about to make some excuse and run away, Jungkook calls your name that has you immediately turning towards him.

“Yes, Mr. Jeon?”

He’s not too far away; he comes closer yet still maintains a bit of a distance.

“Hoseok’s asking for me but I want to speak to Mr. Saito before he leaves. Can you go to my cousin on my behalf?”

“Of course,” you say, excusing yourself and scurrying away from the scene, sighing in relief at the sight of a familiar pair of faces.

A-yeong gives you a hug and you return it, then you turn to Hoseok and ask what he needs Jungkook for.

“Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t call for him.”

“Oh, okay. Well, he said you did.”

“I haven’t spoken to him since we got here,” Hoseok replies. “You know how this gala goes. So many people to meet. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just… uh. Well, I just met Mr. Kwon’s son. And let’s just say, I don’t want that to happen again.”

“Oh, ___,” A-yeong sighs, knowing exactly what you mean. “Just stay with us. Or don’t leave Jungkook’s side.” Turning towards the man who’d just arrived, she adds, “stay close to her, okay?”

Jungkook looks at you, his eyes asking a question that you know the answer to but neither of you says anything.

“I will,” he nods.

Both of you stay where you are for a while before heading back to your seats for the sit-down dinner. You converse with those at your table, thankful that they’re all decent and entertaining. After that, Jungkook doesn’t leave your side. It almost seems like he’s your date rather than the other way around, but you appreciate his presence, especially when he calls your attention once you start looking uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I just… I just get a little uneasy when people I don’t know get too close.”

“I understand. I’m the same,” he says, prompting you to look at him. “But I just feel uncomfortable, not unsafe. There’s a difference. And it’s not okay if that’s how they make you feel.”

He knew without you saying the words. It takes you back to that night at the restaurant with Hajoon and how Jungkook had looked the most guilty he’d ever been when you said that his staring made you feel uncomfortable. You supposed then that it was mostly because he thought he was causing a rift between you and Hajoon but you realize now that it was more than that. For all that Jungkook is, you’ve come to see that there are things he can’t stand himself doing; deliberately making you feel unsafe is definitely one of them. Perhaps it’s why at this moment, you feel the exact opposite being around him.

And that’s how the rest of the night goes. He stays close but when he’s caught up in a conversation he can’t get out of, he gives you that look to remind you that it’s okay to step away, that you have the ability to remove yourself from a situation you don’t feel good being in. And you do, and the worry you used to have about being a mere assistant fades away. You never thought that one Jeon Jungkook would give you the permission to do that.

You’re seated on a chair some time later, the hours of walking in your high heels taking its toll on you. You wave to Hoseok and A-yeong, no longer having the energy to walk up to them for a proper goodbye. You sigh to yourself, feeling the tiredness slowly overtake you. It was still a good night, but it took a lot of energy from you, too.

“Hey,” you hear Jungkook call out.

You turn to him, still looking handsome as he stands nearby, his hands in his pockets as he mirrors your exhaustion.

“Ready to head home?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say too quickly, earning you a laugh.

You stand up, limping only a tiny bit, but you think Jungkook notices, as he offers his arm just like he did at the start of the night.

“This is what a proper gentleman does, right?” He asks.

“I suppose. Although I might say, Mr. Jeon, that’s what you were the entire time. So thank you.”

Jungkook nods in response, unsure how to receive your gratitude. He knows what you mean, as the first sign of your discomfort had him looking at you constantly. He was worried all night but he supposes there’s no reason to feel that way now, as your faint smile just signifies that you’re tired more than anything.

For the short moment it takes for you to walk closer to him, he basks in your beauty once more. The night will be over soon, and he’s glad he could give you some reprieve this time. He tries not to lose it when you tighten your grip on his arm for support though, but that’s something he can think about later on.

The walk to the car isn’t that long and you let go of him eventually. You head towards the other door then enter, the space in between reminding him of where you both belong - on either side of a line, one that he shouldn’t think of crossing.

You sink into your seat, fighting the urge to curl your body and take a nap, so you sit up straight and hold yourself together after once again feeling Jungkook’s arm under your touch. Most of the alcohol has left your system but perhaps not enough, as you boldly look at him and smile in appreciation. He returns it, perhaps knowing why you are.

You look out the window, appreciating Seoul’s night sky, until the vision starts getting unclear, as the rain falls steadily on the window. The tapping of the droplets on the glass is a sound you’ve come to appreciate, among other things that you used to be terrified of.

There’s just this calmness, as if the rain is greeting you, accompanying you in your thoughts. But the sound of the radio getting louder disrupts that a little bit, and in looking at Mr. Ri in question only to find him glancing at the rearview mirror to see the man next to you, do you realize why he’s doing so.

Jungkook’s demeanor has changed, a complete 180 to how he looked not long ago when he seemed satisfied, fulfilled, almost proud of himself for surviving the night. He’s now cross-legged and cross-armed, with his eyes closed and jaws clenched, as if he’s trying to hold himself together. Or trying his best to drown out the sound of the rain, the way Mr. Ri is trying to do for him.

Your face falls at the sight. You’ve seen Jungkook stressed and angry and disappointed; you’ve seen him anxious, too, but this is different. There’s a bit of fear in there, and with the way he flinches and how he’s clutching onto his arms, you know this comes from somewhere and this was caused by something. If it’s anything similar to what you know, then this was because of something painful.

You want to reach out to him but you know you shouldn’t. You helplessly look back on the road then glance at Jungkook every few seconds as the rain continues. It doesn’t seem like it will be a terrible downpour but it’s stronger than usual.

You try to remember instances in the past where he’d acted this way. A few come to mind, and you think now there’s a reason why he becomes uneasy when it starts to drizzle. That happened the other week while you were on a site visit with him for a small project, but you hadn’t thought much of it, given that he was on his fourth cup of coffee on the way there.

But right now, you wish there was something more you could do; anything is better than nothing. But you feel constrained - by the distance, by your position, by his boundaries that seem to always be there.

By some miracle, the rain weakens, and it’s stopped by the time you arrive at Jungkook’s apartment building. The car halts and with him still in the same position, you think he probably doesn’t realize he’s home.

“Mr. Jeon,” you say softly, gently tapping his arm to get his attention. “We’ve reached your place. And the rain has stopped. It’s… it’s okay to open your eyes now.”

It takes a few seconds but he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, then looks around. It’s just droplets frozen in time on his window and he sighs in relief. Somehow the assurance that he’s okay means something to you this time; you hate to think of what burden he carries that he hides away.

He opens the door, and there’s a bit of disappointment you feel when he closes it and leaves without a goodbye. You suppose he just wants to get to his place immediately and rush to safety. But you don’t want to intrude, not if distance is what he needs, so you settle with just watching him walk away.

But then he turns around, and with that bit of boldness left in your body, you open the window and give him another smile. You wish he feels the tenderness in it; you wish somehow it’s enough to let him know that you understand, and that he’s not alone.

“Good night,” you manage to say, and he hears it despite the distance.

“Good night, ___. And thank you.”

It’s the use of your name. It’s the softness of his smile and the words of gratitude. It’s the way he lingers as the car starts to drive away and you’re left watching him even from afar.

It lets you know that he knows. And it’s the reason why you sleep soundly that night and why for the first time since you’ve met him, you can’t wait to see him again.

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kiwisbell · 3 months

Text

helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw.

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage.

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call.

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him.

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail.

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain.

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand.

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all.

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs.

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous.

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move.

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms.

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close.

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe.

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours.

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back.

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours.

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car.

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back.

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips.

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism.

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases.

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself.

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks.

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears.

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm.

“Tell me about your show.”

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine.

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh.

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?”

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms.

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin.

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit.

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette.

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield.

“How much?” he asks Joel.

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?”

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction.

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply.

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks.

“Picked it up in the Marines.”

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has.

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car.

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel.

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only.

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly.

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading.

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr.

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass.

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety.

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell.

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy.

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side.

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll.

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric.

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.”

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time.

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart.

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you.

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down.

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God.

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies.

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat.

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name.

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him.

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises.

“Tell me what you need,” you say.

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit.

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you.

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.”

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin.

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his.

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name.

I’m yours.

Yours.

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps.

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun.

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged.

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall.

Footsteps.

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat.

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem.

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand.

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening.

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Under the bed,” he whispers.

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away.

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail.

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone.

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face.

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you.

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings.

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards.

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long.

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot.

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull.

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping.

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known.

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye.

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory.

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better.

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light.

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love.

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp.

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while.

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot.

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids.

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back.

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall.

He’s rusty.

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall.

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job.

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t.

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden.

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you.

It seems the rules have been bent.

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car.

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch.

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek.

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you.

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands.

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you.

“Baby,” he says.

Trancelike, you shake your head.

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours.

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him.

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t.

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked.

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps.

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked.

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator.

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant.

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose.

The wound is his purpose.

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling.

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.”

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next.

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

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fruitmins · 9 months

Text

Agust Dad—Prologue

➭ summary: Your a producer from another company that he happened to be collaborating with on his 2nd album D-2. At the release party— one drunk action leads to another, you do the worst thing you can do in the industry and change your fate forever.

➭genre: short series, pregnancy au, idol au, angst, dad au

➭warnings: smut that includes unprotected s*x (don’t do that), cuss words, mention of alcohol and drinking, kinda rough s*x, a little dirty talk

<<next part>>

➭note: yoongi is leaving for the military so let’s make him a dad to patch up my grief☺️ Have to give credit where credit is due; this was inspired by a writer named sopebubbles. And ik it’s not clear but he is still in BTS. ⚠︎ this is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. yoongi is used solely as a face and a name for the story. this is not a representation of real-life scenarios.

“I think, we should make a toast, to Mr Agust D himself of course.” The head producer said over the chatter in the lobby, noticeably drunk but it just so happened that everyone else was also. Even you.

But that was the point of the pre-release party. It was to celebrate how rich everyone were about to be and that everyone could relax after several hard months.

Even though you were only at the album camp for a week, only working on one song and from a entirety different company, somehow you found yourself at the rented hotel partying like the rest of the producers.

The infamous artist groans in embarrassment and this eggs everyone on further, raising their glasses towards him and applauding. “We are never doing this again.” Yoongi slurs, a little tipsy himself as he chuckles, the alcohol starting to loosen him up a bit.

It wasn’t like Yoongi always had his guard up, at least not around his colleagues anyways. He was just incredibly professional and slightly uptight. The two of you had spoken a handful of times while at the camp, mostly focusing on the song and the two of you worked well together.

You were from a more smaller company and when the two of you first met, he said he looked up some of the other collaborations that you did and was fond of your work. It was incredibly easy working with him and his team. No one could deny that the two of you had chemistry when it came to music. If you had a thought or suggestion Yoongi would practically finish your sentence. And if he wanted to change something you would already be on it.

Most of his other producers were amazed at how fast the two of you were working and how smooth it was going, which was half of the reason they wanted you to attend the party in the first place. The first producer to make the Agust D smile while working on a song instead of being tense.

But despite everything, you two hadn’t spoken much since then, so it was a surprise to you when he had stepped up to you when you alone in the kitchen, getting yourself another drink.

The first bottle of whiskey was already run dry, so you were to busy stumbling as you stood on your tippy toes to reach the other bottle in the cabinet to notice he had walked in the kitchen and was watching you from afar.

You hadn’t realized that he stood only a couple steps away from you, watching and analyzing your every move. His eyes wandering your body and curves as you struggled to reach the desired item. He couldn’t help but stare at your ass that was covered by your tight black skirt and watched as your breasts jiggled the more you stumbled and reached for the drink.

With his own new desire in mind, Yoongi finally advanced towards you. Making his movements slow and menacing, not stopping until he was behind you and his back was almost pressed against you.

Feeling the sudden body heat you spun around, your eyes widening even further when they meet his dark brown ones. You back away slightly, trying to create some distance but move hip first into the counter behind you causing you to wince in pain.

“You should be more careful, Y/N-ah.” He spoke in a soothing low tone, suppressing a small smirk when he saw how flustered you got, your cheeks even more red now and not just from the alcohol.

“Sorry, Min Yoongi-ssi.” You mumble with a nervous chuckle trying to stay professional and not get sucked in by his expensive perfume and deep gaze. It had already been heard enough to ignore his beauty during camp.

He lets out a deep chuckle, cracking a small friendly smile that hides his true intentions. “No need to be so formal Y/N.” He says, tilting his head slightly to take in more of your features.

He had spent almost a full week with you, and of course he noticed how pretty you were but he paid no mind to it. After all, he was focused on his work and he had seen better woman before. But now he had gotten a good full look at you with more of an (hazy) open mind.

“Ah, Y/N-ah don't you know? You shouldn't apologize to me when you're in no wrong. You shouldn't lower yourself to me so much." He said his smile turning more into a smirk.

“And plus, I’d say we have gotten quite close,” he spoke, his voice getting more quiet as he leaned more into you, pinning you between the counter and his body. “Don’t you think?” He asked with a smile smirk, having gotten you right where he wanted you.

“Wow,” You breathed out, glancing around the empty kitchen as if you were imagining everything that was happening. Guiltily, you had already had some inappropriate thoughts about him before thanks to his song lyrics but you knew better not to act on them.

“I guess so...” Your voice trailed out and you think you’re being discreet about finding an exit but Yoongi notices.

He leans more against you body so that by now they are touching. He continues to focus his eyes on you before effortlessly reaching an arm above your head as he grabs the drink for you.

Your eyes light up at the drink, even though it’s clear you don’t really need any more. “Thank you Yoongi-ah~” you slur while reaching for it but he pulls his arm back and takes the bottle out of your reach much to your confusion.

He chuckles with a soft smile at the cute expression, this one being more genuine than the last. “I don’t think you need anymore of this.” He says with a smug smile as he looks down at you. Yoongi moved one of his arms down and placed his hand on your hip that bumped into the counter earlier. The other hand still on the drink. He smirked once again as he moved his face closer to yours. "I wouldn't like for you to get hurt again."

Your throat hitches as you feel his warm hand on your hip, drawing small circles into it as he spoke in a soft tone. You finally see the hint of lust in his eyes that you failed to notice before and your heart thumps.

“You’re right. I think I’ll just go back to the party.” You say with a nervous chuckle, trying to somehow squeeze past him to get to the lobby while still being trapped between him and the counter behind you.

"I wouldn't advise you to go to the party. It's noisy and loud, there'll be too many people." Yoongi subtly brought his other arm with the bottle down and placed it on the counter, blocking all of your exits.

Now knowing where this was going you lean back more into the counter. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” You whisper looking down and away from his face so you’re not tempted to do anything that could possibly put your job in jeopardy.

“Why?” He said in a confident deep tone. “You know company’s have loosened up, and we’re grown adults.” Yoongi said with a soft chuckle as he leans closer to where you could feel his breath on your shoulder, trying to sound as gentle as possible.

“We’re from different companies.” You whisper, breathing getting heavy as the tension in the room starts to get hotter. Three drinks ago you wouldn’t even be considering about this, and maybe he wouldn’t even be either. But here you were.

“That's the best part." Yoongi said in a low voice as he took two fingers to move your chin so you were looking directly at him. He brushed your hair out of your eyes before tucking it behind your ear.

"No one from your company is even here and no one of my company knows you." He states calmly, giving you his signature smile for reassurance but the look of passion in his eyes tells a different story.

Your breathing becomes hitched as the hand on your hip begins to move to caress your side. He takes a swig of the alcohol as if to say ‘fuck it’ before quickly planting a hungry kiss on your exposed neck.

You bite your bottom lip to hold in a gasp as his wet soft lips hit your skin. His grip tightens on your hip as he kisses a trail down your neck "You're so beautiful," he breathes against your skin, whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

Your mind is hazy from the alcohol and his touch and suddenly all logical thinking begins to dissolve. All you can think about is how touch deprived you’ve been for years. How one of the most richest and famous person alive were telling you how beautiful you were. You can’t remember the last time you’ve let yourself let loose and release some steam.

He leans in close and presses his lips against yours, his tongue moving against them in a slow glide before pulling away. "No one has to know. Except for you and me." He says in a husky voice.

Now that he has you in his grasp, he gently takes your hand in his and leads you both out of the kitchen and upstairs to a one of the many empty hotel rooms that would soon be filled with drunk coworkers.

As soon as you step inside the room, he shuts the door behind him and locks it securely. He moves towards you again, placing a sloppy but firm kiss so you can taste the mix of alcohol on his lips while holding onto your waist tightly.

This time you return the kiss, now with your own hunger. “So pretty..” he praises again when he pulls away to catch his breath.

He starts kissing down your neck, his hand quickly moving to reach down to your blouse and unbutton it. You can feel the heat rising between you two, your breaths become shorter and quicker, your hearts racing in sync as he successfully gets your shirt off and on the ground.

You don’t have time to think as his hands move up to your breasts, feeling their weight and massaging them as he kisses you deeper. As he reaches your cleavage, he begins to undo your bra, letting go of your breasts so he could remove it completely. He holds the kiss as he does so causing your breathing to become faster and heavier at his touch. It was like an addiction, that you couldn’t get enough of.

He steps back, taking in your beautiful breasts for a moment before concluding that you needed all of your clothes off. He moves down and starts kissing all around your neck, chin, and jawline, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses and uses this as an opportunity to push you towards a nearby couch.

He kicks off his shoes as you collapse on the couch and he does the honors of taking off your heels for you as you quickly get off his shirt. He leans forward, and presses another passionate kiss against yours. “I’ve waited months for this..” he mumbles into the kiss, lying right out of his teeth.

His hands start to roam again, this time he takes the waistband of your skirt and pulls it down to your legs. “Let’s make sure you’re nice and wet for me..” he says in a deep husky voice as he slips his hand through your underwear feeling your wet fabric first.

You shiver when his fingers brush against your slit and as soon as he feels how soaked you are, he smiles widely leaning in to kiss you again. “So wet..” he hums before pulling his warm fingers away to pull down your underwear completely.

So having seen and felt enough, Yoongi unbuckles his pants and lets them fall to his knees. You can see the outline of his hard cock tugging at his boxers. He finally removes his boxers and his cock springs out, precum already leaking in anticipation. If being completely sober you would be more embarrassed of the situation, but your mind is to clouded by lust and warmth that you can take in his body completely.

He moves closer towards you once more, pressing himself firmly against you so that you're able to see every inch of him pressed against your stomach. "Mmmh...you like what you see?" he asks softly, as he wraps his hand around his cock.

You nod, a little to quickly as you watch him with pleading eyes. He smirks at your needy gaze, his hips moving into his hand involuntarily as he rubs his hand over your thigh.

Feeling your heat, he leans forward and kisses you, deepening the kiss as he slides his hands up your thighs to your hips. He squeezes them tightly, holding you in place as he slowly rubs himself against your entrance. He places one hand behind your neck while the other holds your hip firmly, gently pushing his cock inside you. You gasp loudly from the sudden pressure, but Yoongi only grins widely as he begins thrusting his hips slowly.

He lets out a grunt as he slowly pushes his painfully hard cock inside you, “So tight.. So wet..” he practically growls at the feeling of your warmth.

Your eyes shut tightly as he continues to slam his cock against your walls as he grips your hip tightly with both hands. “Look at me when I fuck you, Y/N..” he says in a demanding tone making you moan loudly in response your eyes fluttering open to look at him and you can admit it’s a beautiful sight. Never had you thought you’d be getting fucked by a famous idol like this, but now that it was happening you might as well take in all the sights.

“Fuck..that’s right..” he mumbles in a rough voice as he grips your hips tightly, his muscles tensing with every thrust he makes. It doesn’t take long after that till you’re clenching around him, moaning loudly as he drives you to a much needed orgasm that fills you with ecstasy.

His breathing becomes heavy too, sweat dripping off his forehead as he continues pounding. "Good girl..." He whispers huskily before kissing you passionately again.

In one swift motion he takes both hands and grips your hips tightly, lifting you up and off of the couch so he can sit down instead and places you on top of his lap still keeping himself buried deep within you.

Once comfortable sat up against the couch, he starts to move inside of you once again, starting off slow before speeding up. His thrusts are rougher than before, his hips slamming into yours as he holds your tightly to keep you in upright on his lap.

His thrusts become more needy and sloppy, causing you to bounce back and forth across his lap as he grunts softly as he feels himself getting close. He leans forward, holding onto your waist for support as he begins moving faster and harder, driving his cock deeper and deeper inside you until he finally releasing all of his hot cum inside of you.

The two of you stay like that a for a little, his warm cock buried deep inside of you as you try to steady your breathing.

Once Yoongi sees your breathing start to slow and you begin to come down from your high, he shifts his position so his laid down on the couch and you’re on top of his chest.

Your eyes flutter close shortly after, and when they finally open back up in the morning, Yoongi is gone.

Leaving you alone with the gruesome realization of how big of a mistake you’ve made.

#bts fanfic #bts x female reader #bts x reader #bts one shot #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts reactions #bts x you #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #suga x you #suga x y/n #bts stranger to lovers #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic recs #bts dad au #bts pregnancy

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vanteguccir · 3 months

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Can you sing for me? | Chris Sturniolo

Chris Sturniolo x reader

Summary: Where Y/N is a worldwide famous singer, but her favorite thing in the world is hearing Chris singing just for her.

Warning: None.

Requested?: No.

Author's note: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

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When you are a world-famous singer who performs at least once a month, tours every year, models, acts, does interviews, is looked at everywhere by papparazzi and scouts, has articles published about you - often with false information -, it was safe to say that Y/N needed a place to rest, and hers was next to Chris.

Her resting with him was many things: spending hours marathoning mindless movies on the couch wrapped in a fluffy blanket and her boyfriend's arms, or when she could lay on Chris's lap and sink into a new book; sometimes it was when her house shared with the triplets smelled like her favorite cake, or when she spent the day making a new DIY that she found on tiktok...

Y/N was a girl with simple tastes, she didn't need much to be impressed, just a few minutes next to Chris were enough for her to feel like the luckiest girl in the world and finally be able to relax her body completely, getting rid of the adrenaline of having a life as an artist.

Don't get me wrong, Y/N loved her profession, since she was little her biggest dream was to be able to perform in front of a crowd and show her talent, and her fans provided that for her; seeing a sea of people in front of her singing along to a song she composed made her see stars, the adrenaline that coursed through her veins when she picked up her pink microphone and could walk, dance, run and jump around the stage freely while singing the lyrics that referred to important moments in her life was incredible.

But nothing compared to waking up next to Chris in the morning and finding the sleepy face she loved so much along with his husky morning voice, or cooking homemade food for them and receiving a hug from behind that was always accompanied by "I love you so much". No moment in front of interviewers with overpriced magazines compared to when Chris won a round of one of his video games and got up from his chair with an excited scream, running over to where Y/N was and showering her with kisses.

Don't even remind me of the thousands of butterflies that flew together in Y/N's stomach when Chris wrote one of his love letters to her, delivering it along with several sweets and chocolates that she was addicted to - a weekly event in their lives.

Y/N's professional life was hectic and tiring, when she wasn't on a plane going from one country to another, she was in a studio recording a new song, or on a famous program answering very controversial questions.

So, when her busy day's were over and she could simply be Y/N, she would go straight into Chris's arms, where she knew she would receive comfort and security.

And that's exactly what she did today. After a turbulent day in the studio recording her new songs, making wrong high notes and having to redo them, crossing out written verses and rewriting them, the girl just wanted to get home and dive into her boyfriend's arms.

Y/N slowly closed the door to her shared room with Chris, her eyes wandering to the low lights and the almost imperceptible sound coming from the television, which was turned on in a random series.

Chris was already in bed dressed in his pajamas, the fluffy gray blanket covering his body up to his shoulders. He had his eyes almost closed from the intense tiredness, but he seemed to fight against it.

That was another thing that Y/N loved about Chris, regardless of what time she came home, he would always be waiting for her awake - more or less.

The girl walked with light steps to the nightstand on her side of the bed, taking the remote control and turning off the television, complete silence settling in the room.

"Hey, I didn't hear you coming." The brunette's sleepy voice caught Y/N's attention, who turned her face towards him, seeing him still lying in the same position, but with his blue eyes now very much open and looking at her. Probably having "woken up" due to the lack of the background sound.

"Hi my love, I just arrived. I'm just going to take a shower and come to bed with you." Y/N responded in a whisper.

"Okay." He said softly, looking at her from below with doe eyes.

Y/N leaned over the bed momentarily, sealing her lips over Chris' soft ones for a few seconds before getting up again and walking to the bathroom.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Y/N opened the bathroom door, the steam from the hot shower escaping momentarily as she crossed to the bedroom, already in her pajamas, before closing it again.

She walked slowly to the bed, seeing Chris lying on his side and holding his phone with one of his hands, looking more awake than before - or trying to -, the screen brightness turned to a minimum as his thumb scrolled through his Instagram feed.

Chris lifted his head slightly when he heard her approaching, a lazy smile stretching across his face as he stretched slowly, locking the screen of his phone and briefly placing it on top of his bedside table. He opened his arms, waiting for his girlfriend to lay there.

Y/N returned the smile, lifting the gray blanket and laying down on her side of the bed, snuggling in before burying herself in Chris's arms. She ran her nose down his neck, breathing in the fresh scent of soap on his skin, caressing the sensitive spot with her lips.

His hands circled her shoulders, a sigh of pleasure escaping his lips at the comfort that the warmth post-bath of Y/N's body provided. The girl lifted her left hand, running it through Chris' hair, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

"How was your day?" Chris asked softly a few seconds later, his blue eyes taking in his girl's tired features.

The deep sigh that escaped her mouth was answer enough for him: tiring.

"Did you eat anything? Are you hungry?" He continued, lifting his right hand - which was previously on Y/N's waist - and taking her left hand from his own hair, bringing it to his lips and sealing the soft skin for a few seconds, keeping his attention on her face.

"I had lunch, honey, I'm not hungry." She replied, a tired smile appearing on her lips at his affectionate gesture.

"Don't you want me to get you a snack? Lunch was many hours ago, kitten." Chris intertwined their fingers, only receiving a shake of her head.

"Can you sing f'me?" Y/N asked in a low, weak tone, her words barely noticeable.

A goofy smile grew on Chris's face, his eyes shining with excitement and love. He adored it when his singer girlfriend asked him to sing for her, it seemed too ironic to be true, but that was exactly what Y/N adored most.

"What do you want today? Rap, pop or rock?" He teased, a soft chuckle escaping Y/N's lips as she rolled her eyes, intertwining their legs together and scooting closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder, placing a little kiss on the region.

"Anything is fine, I just want to hear you sing." She asked, eager to listen her boy's soft voice against her ear.

"Y/N baby, I dedicate this one for you." He joked, a smile on his voice before he started to sing a song that he knew that was one of his girl's favorite. "Stay bugging out, days on end..." Chris began slowly, resting his chin on his girlfriend's head, his voice now sounding hoarse and low, intensifying Y/N's drowsiness. "Days on end."

Her eyes began to flutter closed, her heartbeat calming down as the weight of her shoulders seemed to drain down her body, her limbs relaxing completely.

"Play this often, don't take this shit too seriously." He continued gently, stroking Y/N's back in circles with his left hand, feeling the area lose its previous tension. "Know you get insecure, wish I had more wisdom for you..."

Y/N took a deep breath lightly, allowing her mind to drift off into the world of dreams, Chris's voice becoming muffled and almost null against her ears, but her brain seemed to still register it, using it as a personal tranquilizer.

"Sleep, babe." Chris whispered after singing some more lines, noticing her closed eyes and slightly open mouth.

He pressed his lips to the top of his girlfriend's head, before snuggling closer against her body, allowing himself to sleep, Y/N's slow breathing serving as his favorite lullaby.

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My asks are always open. Feel free to send requests or anything at all 🩷💋

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f1version · 3 months

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DATES WITH YOU ♥︎ F1 HEADCANONS

includes: charles, carlos, max, daniel, lando, oscar, lewis, george, alex, logan, pierre, yuki, lance, mick, and sebastian.

summary: f1 drivers’ and their favorite themed dates!

author’s note: happy valentine’s day my loves!! this is incredibly late (almost 15th where i am) but here it is <3

love on top, a vday special ♥︎ general masterlist

now playing ♫₊⊹ until i found you by stephen sanchez

★ CHARLES LECLERC ( 16 ) — Charles has a bucket list with dates. Enjoys planning them curled up in bed, talks about how you shouldn’t repeat one until the list is done—unless you are a Drive-in theater date, he loves them. When they're arranged in Monaco, it's usually for old romcoms and coming-of-age movies, which is perfect in both of your eyes. Charles makes sure to bring snacks, blankets and pillows, everything so you can be comfortable while cuddling him. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear as the movie plays, dusk falling over you, looking as beautiful as ever. He loves this type of dates… it even gives him a chance to show off his magnificent car, but hey! that's off-topic.

★ CARLOS SAINZ JR. ( 55 ) — You and Carlos have a passion for trying new recipes, so sometimes, when you have everything you need, you decide to put on matching aprons, as well as toques, and start working on your next masterpiece. Usually, old Spanish songs play in the background, Carlos singing, grabbing you by the waist to distract you and dance a little. He loves days like these, your focused face and little scoldings are all he needs, especially because one way or another, you will end up laughing and dancing with him, sometimes full of flour and seasonings, the kitchen wearing its best perfume.

★ MAX VERSTAPPEN ( 1 ) — Max is always looking for ways to impress you, to catch you off guard and surprise you, he loves how you tease him about it. So that's why, when you go to one of your favorite places ever —the planetarium— as a date, he recollects as many details about the celestial objects as he can, waiting for your surprise when he drops a fact you didn't know he knew, starting a long, beautiful conversation about it. You know a lot more than him, but he's eager to learn, loves the way you explain every single thing to him, loves the way places like this brings you closer.

★ DANIEL RICCIARDO ( 3 ) — Daniel loves music, he spends hours on end with his headphones on, discovering new artists every day, sharing his songs, albums, and artists of the month with you, adding to his playlists your recommendations. So it's no surprise you find yourself going to multiple concerts. Dancing and singing, hugging and fangirling. Sometimes artists know Daniel and that's when you laugh the most because there's always a chance of him ending up on stage, singing to you (or trying to).

★ LANDO NORRIS ( 4 ) — Lando loves your creativity, he’s a fan of getting to know what's on your pretty mind and seeing your ideas come to life, he also loves sharing his own ideas with you, feels free doing so. His favorite dates with you consist of this: having a canvas, paper, or even pottery to paint on, gossiping and laughing for hours, having picnics and enjoying food. Lando would buy hundreds of utensils, wanting to try everything with you, forever. PD: He would have you paint him and his car, probably.

★ OSCAR PIASTRI ( 81 ) — It didn't start as a date per se, Oscar just couldn't sleep one night and you suggested building the Lego Star Wars ship in your closet, so you stayed up until 6 in the morning building it. He loves the tranquility it brings, how you can go from discussing the deepest topics to a comfortable silence. Focuses on the little things, like when your fingers brush his while reaching for a piece or that little celebration when you find another. In his apartment, he has a shelf dedicated to the Legos you've built together and photos to go with it. So, in Oscar's humble opinion, these are the best dates in the world.

★ LEWIS HAMILTON ( 44 ) — You and Lewis can live off two things: Roscoe and the beach. Surfing is something you have always bonded over, that's why you love heading to the beach early morning, going for a run with Roscoe, and then jumping to surf (taking Roscoe back inside first). You can stay out there for hours, challenging each other, improving your skills, and lying on your boards, talking about everything and nothing, loving every second of it.

★ GEORGE RUSSELL ( 63 ) — While experimenting with extreme sports would be a lovely date for George, he chooses to call his favorite something more domestic: comfy clothes, a good bottle of wine, and a long puzzle night ahead of you. He enjoys the challenging but relaxing parts of the activity, loves to strategize alongside you, and loses his focus when looking at you, falling deeper in love.

★ ALEX ALBON ( 23 ) — Playing Mario Kart as if your life depended on winning has always been part of your relationship — "It's our love language," Alex says— That's why you love to spend a large amount of time (and money) in arcades. You play against each other, with and without; also spend forty minutes trying to catch that one stuffed animal from the claw machine, cheering (and almost getting kicked out) when you get it. Alex loves it as much as he loves you.

★ LOGAN SARGEANT ( 2 ) — Logan fully believes that the best date in the history of dating are theme and amusement park dates. Whether it's a local funfair or the (in)famous Florida parks, Logan loves walking hand in hand, map and snacks in the other, trying to go on as many attractions as possible, calming the nerves of each other when necessary, laughing at the photos quickly taken on the rollercoasters (and going again to attempt looking good), and many other things that make this type of date his favorite.

★ PIERRE GASLY ( 10 ) — Pierre loves chaos and what's more chaotic than doing karaoke? Your catalog goes from High School Musical's "Gotta Go My Own Way" to Gaye and Terrell's "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." Sometimes they end up drunk enough (from adrenaline, from love, or both) to sing French songs and attempt Celine Dion's highest notes. You can spend hours teasing each other, dancing to the rhythm, and sneaking kisses in between songs.

★ YUKI TSUNODA ( 22 ) — Contrary to popular belief, Yuki's favorite type of date isn't taking you to a restaurant or cooking together, because even though he does love doing those things with you, your trips to farmers markets are his favorite. When the season is right, you visit them hand-in-hand, no matter the country since there is nothing better than discovering new foods with your favorite person. And hey! If there is something to eat, why not mix dates?

★ LANCE STROLL ( 18 ) — No matter the weather or season, you and Lance will always be up for an ice cream date. You're on a quest to find the best flavors, and the fact that some dates end in small big disasters is enough to keep you searching together, chins full of ice cream and all.

★ MICK SCHUMACHER ( 47 ) — Two things about Mick: he really enjoys ice skating and he loves you. If you put them together, he's guaranteed to have the time of his life, so he's lucky you like ice skating as much as he does. You both spend hours on the rink, being careful not to fall while holding hands, yet most of the time it's Mick who ends up in the floor as you drown in laughter. He loves that sound. He loves making you laugh and smile, it's his favorite pastime, and seeing you shine on the ice rink makes him realize how much he adores this place.

★ SEBASTIAN VETTEL ( 5 ) — Seb’s favorite is going hiking and then camping with you in the beautiful Swiss mountains, away from the a much hectic side of life. Just you and him giving new meaning to the known, sharing not only the beauty of life but also the comfort of one another, wrapped around small info-dumps and timeless laughter. It’s therapeutic being so close to each other, so pure and loving. If you ask him, he would repeat this date a thousand times over.

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kodamaghost00 · 2 months

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30 Angel Dust Headcanons

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[Disclaimer!!]

This post will contain: NSFW,Sfw,Fluff,Smut.

It’s also Genderless for the girls,gays and theys!You’re a new resident at the Hotel in this scenario.

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Let’s begin!

He calls you “Sugar” and “Cutie” for sure. He loves seeing you flustered. It always gets him a good laugh.

When you first arrived at the hotel he flirted with you instantly since you’re his type. He got exited when you mirrored his demeanor.

He listens to music to calm himself down. Especially after a long shoot with Valentino.

You and him immediately start off on good terms. You casually flirt together too.

He trusts you very much. He told you about his experience with Val and you comfort him when he cries.

He’s the biggest bottom you could ever find but if you are a bottom/switch he’s willing to top you.

He asks you to review his porn and give your honest opinion.

Fat nuggets is your child now. You both are proud parents.

One night Angel,Fat nuggets and you slept in one bed together after watching a horror movie as a family… how adorable…

Angel isn’t the type to wake up early. You mostly have to wake him up. “Not now Sugar, daddy needs his beauty sleep.” You just laughed and shook your head after hearing that.

You help him on set often too. You hate Val but admire Angels dedication for his job. You mostly help with the make-up application.

He takes good care of you when you guys go out. It can be a handful if cherry is going to a bar with y’all.

After a long day he just wants to rest and cuddle with you. He warps his arms around you and lightly snores.

He wakes up in the middle of the night often due to nightmares… he wakes up with sweat all over him. “Huh… just a dream… it was just a dream…”

When he looks at you he has this one specific look of “I love you but I can’t tell you directly” . And it’s adorable…

You both definitely planned to rob a bank together.

Angel often says “If I would’ve known you during my living days, I think we would’ve get together perfectly.”

He will fuck the living shit out of you. He loves to sweet talk but also to degrade you.

Valentino even suggested if you two would like to do a porn together and angel was tempted to say yes. But for your sake he declined Val’s offer.

Sometimes angel gets knocked out at the bar so you and husk have to drag him to his room.

He’s actually also a talented artist. He drew you a potrait once and it looked incredible realistic. He never rlly explored this side of him though.

Often says “pspspspspspsps” to husk just to piss him off…

He basically has no type. He’ll just fuck what he likes.

He sees Niffty like a little sister that he has to babysit often.

He would go into a poly relationship with you and Husk.

Fat nuggets sleeps next to him every single day. No exeptions.

He likes interacting with his normal fans who don’t sexualize him and actually like his talent.

He often needs reassurance and calls with Cherry a lot for it.

Him and Cherry shit talk for literal HOURS. Especially about Valentino. “He’s the last one to criticize my hair… GET YOURSELF YOUR OWN FIRST AND THEN WE CAN TALK.”

The only thing he actually is grateful for is fat nuggets… he dresses him up often.

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Thank you so much for reading my silly headcanons once again. I know I’ve been gone for quite some time but life’s though rn… so we’ll see each other next post!!

- Your Ghost ༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ

#angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #angel dust headcanons #angel dust angst #angel dust fluff #angel dust my beloved #angel dust smut #angel dust x reader #angel dust x you #angel dust x y/n #hazbin hotel #hazbin angel dust #hellaverse #vivzieverse #vivziepop

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lovelytsunoda · 6 months

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954 // logan sargeant

summary: florida man fucks shy college girl. or, back home in fort lauderdale y/n’s welcome home party is sabotaged by her race winner brother, and it gives her a bit of a complex. at least her brothers best friend is there to make her feel better about it.

pairing: logan sargeant x female kirkwood! reader

warnings: straight up smut, kyle kirkwood is a lot to handle in large doses (but we love him anyways), feelings of anxiety, minor sibling rivalry, body image issues. i am going to hell, littered with spelling mistakes because of how fast I was typing and pure laziness to go back and fix it

author's note: 954 is the area code for fort lauderdale. and technically kyle kirkwood lives in jupiter, but for the sake of the story let's pretend he's also from lauderdale.

she sat at the edge of the pier, jeans rolled up past her shins as she started off into the horizon, watching the sun dip below the ocean line.

“it’s your party, what are you doing out here alone?”

she rolled her eyes, pulling her feet out of the water before following the voice. “why do you think? kyle hijacked it. I’m back home for less than a day and he’s already stealing the spotlight again.”

that was the way it always went in the kirkwood household: y/n came home from school, and everything was great, and then kyle waltzes in and suddenly everything is about him again.

logan shook his head, settling onto the pier next to her, a gentle hand resting on her thigh. she shrugged it off, anxiously twisting one of the rings on her hand.

“you know he doesn’t do it on purpose, right?” logan soothed “he loves you, and he hates that you feel like this.”

“i know. the inferiority complex is all me.”

“it’s not a complex, and your feelings are valid.”

she shook her head. “everyone tells me i shouldn’t have quit karting. even when it made me hate myself.”

she sighed, laying down on the pier, worn wood scratching at her skin, but not splintering against her baby pink tank top. “what am I doing with my life, logan?”

“hey, look at me.” logan encouraged, fingertips against her chin to angle her face towards him. “you are doing great things. deans list every semester, you’re a great artist and I’d be shocked if firms weren’t lining up to hire you as a litigator.”

“you’re just saying that.” she refused to meet his eyes. logan was kyles best friend, for god sakes. she’d crumble under his stare, his touch.

“but I’m not.” logan insisted, gripping her face now, making her look at him. she needed to know how wonderful she was, and he was going to be the one to tel her. “you are smart and funny and all kinds of wonderful, kirkwood. any guy would be lucky to have you, and anyone else should consider themselves blessed to have you as a friend.”

“you really mean that?”

“why would I lie to you, y/n?”

she barely had time to respond before logans lips were on hers. she was hesitant at first, unsure if logan really knew what he was doing. unsure if he was really kissing her because he wanted to or because he pitied her.

the intrusive thoughts didn’t stay long, however, as she snapped to attention and moved her lips against his, wrapping her body around his.

“jesus.” logan breathed. “those jeans make your ass look incredible. well, your ass always looks incredible, but these jeans are really doing it for me.”

she laughed at how red logan's face was, a shade that looked more salmon under the sunset. the pier was digging into her skin, and she was starting to get uncomfortable, logan's lips along her neck not quite enough to distract from the discomfort of what she was sure would become a splinter if their activities were not relocated.

somehow they made it to her bedroom without being discovered by the partygoers, much less kyle. the fairy lights tacked to her dusty pink walls were the only light in the room as logan backed her up against her bookshelf, securely caging her body against his.

she felt safe in logan's arms. protected.

"i've been crazy about you for years now." logan growled in between kisses. "every night i came over to watch panthers games with your brother, and you were there in those tight little jean shorts, laughing and giggling with your friends. or when i'd stay the night and you'd walk past his bedroom door to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night, your skimpy silk top falling down your shoulder just enough to give me a taste of your gorgeous body. do you know how many times i've jerked off to the thought of you in kyle's bathroom? you're stunning, y/n. don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

her mind was reeling, and she couldn't find the proper words as she tugged at the collar of logan's button down shirt, pressing her lips back to his. logan sargeant was interested in her.

logan saw her for her, not just as kyle kirkwood's baby sister.

clothes were shed, buttons ripped off shirts. her head was spinning, elated and giddy and she couldn't find the words to tell logan how incredible she felt as his large hands squeezed her breasts over the mesh padding of her bralette.

she gasped, logan taking that chance to slip his tongue into her mouth, his fingers grappling for the clasp on her bra.

all at once, reality came crashing back down on her. she pulled away, hands flying up to cover her exposed breasts as the pale fabric tumbled to the hardwood floor.

she wouldn't meet logan's eyes, scared to know what he thought of her naked body. scared to see him stare at her and not know what he was thinking.

his eyes softened, the lust drawing back as concern seeped in to his irises. "y/n, pretty girl, you don't need to hide yourself around me. who made you think that you weren't sexy as all hell? i never want you feel like you have to be shy around me."

he gently gripped her arms, guiding her towards the wall length mirror hanging on the back of the ensuite door. logan stood behind her, lifting her chin so that she would meet his eyes in the mirror. placing his hands over hers, he gently pulled her palms off her breasts, exposing her bare torso to the soft lighting in the room.

"look at you beautiful you are, y/n. i'm serious."

"you're just saying that so you can get your dick wet." even as she said it, she knew it didn't sound like she meant it.

but even still, staring at herself in the mirror, all she could focus on was the way that she looked: the stretch marks on her breasts, the smattering of freckles up her arms (or were they moles, like the two on her back?).

"what will it take to show you how sexy you are, y/n?" logan rasped, undoing the button on her jeans. "should i make you watch yourself as i touch you?"

"yeah." her voice was shaky. "i think you should show me how sexy i am. clearly, i need reminding." where was this sudden boldness coming from?

"that;s my sexy, shy girl." logan cooed, tugging her jeans down her legs, kissing over her ass and down her leg before coming back up, eyes hungry at the sight of the young woman in front of him, panties hiked high on her hips and fairly see through as he slipped a hand over teh fabric and between her legs, teasing at the dampness beginning to form.

she gasped as logan slicked up his fingers, slipping them inside of her in one swift movement, working around the fabric of her cheeky panties. she was breathing hard, biting her bottom lip as she took in the sight in the mirror: logan's fingers flexing in and out of her, arousal running over his pale skin, his face contorted in concentration as he growled down her ear, telling her how tight she felt, and how good she was for him.

her own skin was rosy and flushed, a sheen of sweat beginning ro form as she felt her body heating up. there was something sinful about watching herself in the mirror, finally allowing herself to let loose a moan.

"that's my girl. don't get shy on me now, i want to know that you feel as good as i do." logan groaned, sucking on her neck. "touch me, baby. i know you want to. feel how fucking hard i am for you."

she loosened her grip on logan's wrist, internally grinning at the nail marks that she left behind in his skin before slipping an arm behind her, cupping his bulge in her hand.

she was floored. she knew logan was big (she could always see the outline in his swim shorts, forcing herself to stop staring before he noticed) but knowing that she had this effect on him?

it was a powerful thing.

"jesus, logan." she whined. "i need it inside of me."

logan's eyes sparkled. "what do you need inside of you, sweetheart? i need you to say it for me." he started pumping his fingers faster, his other hand moving to fondle her left breast, tweaking the rosy bud of her nipple between his fingers.

she sighed heavily, feeling her legs turn mushy as she leaned back against logan. "need your cock." she mumbled, unsure if she could speak any louder.

"what was that, darling? don't be shy now, i can't give you what you need if you don't tell me, love."

fuck you, she thought, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. she was clenching around his fingers now, unsure of hoe much longer she'd be able to last. but she needed him inside of her, felt like she might die if he wasn't.

"your cock!" she shouted. "please, logan, i need your big cock inside me, please, god, i need it."

why did she say that? she should never have said that. it made her sound desperate. but in a way, she was desperate, wasn't she?

logans fingers stopped their ministrations, pulling out of her and taking a trail of her juices with them. she thought her eyes were going to roll back in her head before logan laid her down on her queen bed, her hair fanning out behind her as he started to undo his jeans, resort shirt still hanging off his frame, face flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat as he licked her arousal off his fingers.

"do you have condoms, kirkwood? because i really don't want to have to go digging for them in kyle's room."

"please don't talk about my brother when i want you to fuck my brains out."

logan smirked. "not so shy now, are we, my sexy girl."

"shut up! go the ensuite, top vanity drawer on the left. you literally cannot miss the box."

she could have laughed, lying back on the bed and kicking off her panties as logan ran, half naked and dropping his resort shirt behind him, to the ensuite.

he stumbled back, tripping over discarded clothes and the fluffy carpet, triumphantly holding the box above his head.

"the whole box? how much do you think you're getting tonight, sarge?"

logan raised an eyebrow. "call me that, and i'm going to make you forget how shy you are and have you scream my name all night long."

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