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ghoulpiled · 25 days

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ʟᴏꜱ ᴀɢᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ || Part One

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞? 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞? 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘?

❧𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Pre-War!Cooper Howard x fem!Reader

❧𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧g: E / MATURE! Minors, DO NOT interact!

❧ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: Smut with plot, virgin!reader, cheating, lowkey alcoholic reader, oral (female receiving), fingering, penetration

❧𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡: ~6k

❧𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: From costars to strangers, it’s like fate keeps bringing the two of you together.

❧ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Lots of switching from present to past tense as events happen. Also, added new parts from what the teaser had. Realized I wanted to make this a story with more than one part. If I kept just one part... it would be far too long.

You have been in the acting game for far too long. Originally you were advertising royalty. Your mom first put you into commercial gigs at the young age of five. Luckily for your mom, BlamCo Mac & Cheese was looking for the new poster child. Your face was plastered on billboards all around Hollywood. “Nothing says dinner like BlamCo Mac & Cheese. Bring the family together for a dish everyone will enjoy.” This phrase will forever be etched into the grooves of your brain. But as all gigs go, you outgrew BlamCo. Once you hit age ten, you couldn’t be the cutesy little kid telling families to eat the most disgusting mac and cheese known to man. Like many gigs will do, you were dropped from the gig. It paid well. Well, it paid your mom well.

She would go on lavish vacations without you. Only leaving you with a babysitter. This babysitter ended up raising you. Your mom would also buy herself expensive dresses and handbags. What would you get? Hand Me downs of whatever wardrobe on commercials could give you. This was a common theme early on in your career. The money you made was promised to you once you hit eighteen. Enough money to go to college and make a name for yourself professionally. After the BlamCo gig, you hit a dry spell. No one wanted a kid going through puberty as the face of their brand. With money getting tight, your mom signed you up for every and any background character role in a film and TV show she could. That’s where Nuka Cola noticed you.

Upon hitting sixteen, Nuka Cola representatives came up to your mom offering you a four year contract to be the face of Nuka Cola. It paid insanely well. So you did it. Another gig with your face plastered everywhere. From highway billboards to full body cut outs of you in Red Rockets across the country, you were back in the limelight. But those four years went by quickly. Once the contract ended, you were eighteen. You were excited to throw your acting career away. Child stardom was too damn much. College was going to be a fresh start for you! To no one’s surprise, you never got your money. To make it worse, your mom kicked you out of the house. She didn’t see you as profitable anymore. Mainly because you are old enough to go your own way.

Due to all these gigs, you never had time to make friends. So you took to crashing on random old co-star’s couches. You were back to background gigs. Which paid okay but not enough to help pay for college. Sadly, that was a dream you could never catch. It took three years for you to finally get your foot back in the door with big acting gigs. That gig being A Man and His Dog. A film in which you play the main female character who is supposed to seduce the main lead. It wasn’t really a film expected to go anywhere. The lead was a man straight out of the Sino-American War who had never acted a day in his life. This was also your first big gig, you’re not one to talk. Unknown to you, that man would become western movie royalty. A young and disgruntled Cooper Howard.

First day on set was odd. No one really talked to you. Not even the director. There was no way you were to know if you were doing the role justice. They had you in a wedding dress with white face paint. It was embarrassing. You stand near your trailer, lighting up a cigarette during lunch. Rent was due that night and you had no money to pay it. If this gig didn’t make a lot of money, you’re screwed. With a shaky breath, you look down at the ground. You’re getting cigarette ash all over this dress. Wardrobe is going to kill you.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?”

The southern voice takes you out of your thoughts as you look up. You rub your eyes, messing up the makeup you have on. Now your hand is stained white. Great. Cooper walks over to you before leaning against your trailer. He takes out a cigarette of his own and begins to smoke with you. This is the first person to speak with you and it's the lead of the film. You try to act natural but you’re smitten. There is some charm he holds. Maybe it’s the fact you’re playing weird lovers in the film or the fact you have never been in contact with such a gorgeous man before. This moment right now makes you realize you’ve never had your first kiss. Your life has been acting gig after acting gig. No time for personal relationships.

“Are ya just gon’ stare at me?” He chuckles, voice smooth like whiskey.

You clear your throat and shake your head.

“Sorry, I’m not used to small talk.” Is all you can truly muster.

He offers you a kind smile. One that feels like sickly sweet honey on a hot day. It makes your stomach flutter with butterflies. He already has you wrapped around his finger. Maybe it’s the southern drawl that burns like a good bourbon. He is one hell of a charmer.

“Ain’t small talk unless you want it to be.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette, licking his bottom lip.

“You’re killing it by the way. The director is- pardon my language- a dick.” Cooper scoffs, shaking his head. He flicks his cigarette onto the ground and stomps on it which causes you to do it to your own.

You can’t help but chuckle at that.

“You can say that again.” You turn to face him, leaning against your own trailer.

Maybe this set wouldn’t be as bad as you thought.

During set, you would crash at Cooper’s apartment. A tiny place near filming. You ended up getting evicted because you couldn’t afford rent. It was only logical you still find somewhere to crash. You’re lucky you became close with Cooper. He’s a gentleman. Made you feel at home. You opened up about your childhood and he opened up about war. War. It was a scary thing. His stories kept you on the edge of your seat. Here you were, thinking you had a tough past. Almost all of Cooper’s friends are dead because of the war. You could only comfort him.

It’s not like he didn’t have a support system. He had a beautiful fiancé who would stop by sometimes. You couldn’t help but feel a bit of jealousy when she came by. Of course you and Cooper were just friends but no one had shown you kindness the way he had. Maybe you fell for him out of convenience… or the feelings were real; Yet, the way he held her and the way she made him laugh was something you’ll never have with him.

There were late nights at Cooper’s apartment where he would be on the phone with his fiancé nonstop. But then there were nights just for you. All his attention on you after wrapping. The two of you would share a few drinks and shoot the shit about set. Make fun of the director or one of your costars. There was one night in particular where the both of you got overly excited about drinking.

It was a tough day after set and the two of you were sitting on his couch drinking the stress away. This was after filming an explicit scene with him. The way he was on top of you was burned into your brain. While there was no real sex that had happened, the performance was perfect. Hungry kisses were pressed to your neck and you fake biting his collarbone causing him to hiss in pain…

While sitting next to him, three rum and Nukas in, you were getting handsy. So was he. He laid a hand on your knee and you have a hand on his chest.

“Never acted out a sex scene before…” You slur, biting your lip.

“It was kind of obvious, darlin’” Cooper takes another sip, causing you to swat at his chest.

“Coop! C’mon. It wasn’t that bad was it?” You whine and lean back against the couch.

“Well… I mean, think of it as if it was real. That should help your performance.”

You look up at Cooper and your cheeks turn red. It took a moment for him to realize what you were getting at. When he did, his own cheeks heated up.

“You’re not sayin-”

“I am.” You say and he pulls his hand off of your knee. “Never kissed anyone either.”

Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was pent up lust from the set, but he leans in. Against your better judgment, you lean in too. You could taste the rum against his soft lips. Wrapping your arms around him, you don’t question this one bit. Running his tongue over your bottom lip, you invite him inside your mouth. You run your tongue over his, feeling the rough bumps. He bites your tongue softly, sucking on it. It was enough to make you moan. You curl your fingers in his hair, tugging at it. Cooper pushes himself against you where you could feel just how hard you were making him. He bites down on your tongue once more before you realize what is going on. That this wasn’t acting. That you were actually making out with Cooper Howard. The taken actor. One who’s fiancé, Barb, considered you family.

You pull away and only a trail of spit was what was connecting you. You were going to apologize but he got up, leaving the room. No words were shared for the rest of the night. You feel guilty. But you were too damn drunk for this. So was he.

After filming wrapped, you were thrust into the world of press. The both of you seemed to forget about the kiss. The one you shared with him while drunk. Thank god for that. The press tour with Cooper was something else. The director wanted you two to lean into a facade. He wanted the both of you to act like lovers. This was to sell the film, lean into that romance your two characters had. You couldn’t flirt for shit without a script. Cooper, however, was a complete natural.

You followed Cooper’s lead. You know it was all an act but you were falling for him. Hard. He was the first man to ever give you the time of day. You knew it was fake flirting but every blush that he caused was real. The film ended up being big enough to push both Cooper and you into the spotlight. Now you’re landing gigs like crazy as well as him.

One night you called his hotel room, drunk. You had gone to his bar after a press interview with your other cast mates. Cooper stayed in. At a payphone, you rang him. It was right after a man tried to hit on you and take you to his place. It was less romantic and more forceful. He was a balding older man who seemed to hug his cup of on tap beer. Ultimately, you punched the man in the face. He tried to grope you. You had the right to fight back. Maybe you had a tough relationship with alcohol. You’ll address that later in life. But while at that payphone, you whined and cried to Cooper. This night you barely remember other than the fact that he came and got you. He went out of his way to help you.

You both play lovers again in another western B-film. This one didn’t have the same success as the prior film but it was still another film you did with Cooper. You loved working with him. It was always such a delight. But mid-this film, he got married. That ruined the tabloid rumors of the both of you together that were thrusting you into stardom with him. Hollywood loved rumors. You weren’t even invited to the damn wedding. That had put a rift between the both of you. He never told you why you weren’t invited. He was supposed to be your closest friend. After getting married, things changed. He didn’t act as friendly towards you. Actually, he ignored you. Barb started showing up to set more and more. You did not know at the time it would be the last time you’d be acting with him.

After that film, you two were no longer casted together. He did a lot more solo cowboy films while you still got put into that innocent lover girl stereotype. But Hollywood really started to make you jaded. Any man who approached you only wanted sex. No one liked you for you. Your personal life was shit. You had no one. But Cooper? He seemed to have it all. A wife, a kid on the way, and a successful career.You only had a career. You yearned for love.

About three years later, you worked on a western film; one with no relation to Cooper. You were the star. Maybe people started to realize that you weren’t as innocent as films made you seem. You played a jaded mayor who took matters into her own hands when the town, mainly men, started to turn on your character. The director and writer were women which made the set far more comfortable than anything you have ever experienced.

Once that film wrapped, you were invited to an after party at the director’s home. Not just for your film but the other films that were filming in the lot. It was about time you had fun. For years you were on your own. No parties, just work. When you got there, the place was packed. It felt odd being dressed in a skin tight black dress, you were getting glares from older men and women. You shared hugs with a few cast and crew members before heading for the open bar. You get a vodka cranberry and find a secluded place away from most people. When you thought you were alone, you heard a familiar voice arguing.

“Did you have to invite all your coworkers?”

Cooper. His voice is as sweet as the first day you met him. You’d recognize it anywhere.

“If we want to settle that commercial deal, you might as well get friendly with them.”

His wife.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. Maybe she was nice. But it was almost like she knew you liked her husband. The awkward tension soured any companionship that could have happened. But that was for the best when you think about it in hindsight. You were under the influence at the moment, not exactly in the best state to talk to your ex-costar. Besides, his wife was a higher up at Vault-Tec, something a lot of actors and actresses seem to hate. There was a lot of drama going on with that. You better ignore those two like the plague, for your own sanity.

Looking from your hidden spot, you see his wife had walked away from him. She probably went to grab a drink. It made sense. He stood with a cigarette in between his fingers, still as pretty as the last time you saw him. Cooper’s eyes catch yours and you duck back to your secluded spot. You curse to yourself as you hear his footsteps come towards you.

“Ain’t no way that’s Y/N.” His southern accent is strong, causing you to swoon.

You step out of your hiding spot and sigh, offering him a friendly smile. He hugs you, acting like nothing happened. Like it hadn’t been years since you last saw him. He had a charming smile on his lips.

“Oh hey.” You shrug.

“Seen your latest picture, you killed it.”

“Thanks.”

You didn’t know what else to say to him.

“How have you been?” He asks. It was a question you’ve been dreading.

“Fine.” You shake your head.

“Fine?”

“Mhm.”

You down the rest of your drink, needing the liquid courage. You didn’t need to hear about how great his life was. How he had a beautiful wife and a child. Cooper seemed to take the hint, getting agitated himself.

“I can tell when I’m not wanted, darlin’.” He teases you. That nickname makes you want to vomit.

“You’re not wanted?” You scoff. You were being a bit of a dick but you’ll blame your actions on the alcohol. “Says the man who decided he couldn’t be my friend after getting married.”

“You think that was my choice?”

That shut you up. You look at him, confused. Then he continues, “She knew, you know.”

The kiss. He had to be talking about the kiss. It’s the only thing she could have known.

“How?”

“I told her.” He admitted, shrugging. “How could I not? She’s my partner.”

“Wow, what a gentleman.”

He shakes his head, sighing. “If you were in a relationship, you’d do the same. Like, if a guy came and kissed you, you’d tell your partner.”

“I didn’t kiss you.” You defend.

“But you kissed back. You could have stopped me.” Cooper shrugs.

You’re about to explode at him until Barb comes up to the two of you with drinks in her hands. She offers you a fake smile, passing a drink to him and wrapping her arm around his arm.

“Y/N! I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you?” She asks. You must keep things civil.

“Hi. I’ve been just fine, so busy.” You laugh awkwardly.

“I didn’t know you’d be here. Cooper and I actually have people to talk to but it’s been great seeing you.”

Just like that, she tears him away.

Good riddance.

You spend the rest of the night drinking. People try to talk with you and it's just useless networking. Networking is great until you have to do that for hours on end. You watch Cooper and Barb, seeing them exchange kisses. The living room becomes an impromptu dance floor for couples. He tries to get her to dance with him but it's fruitless. They leave the living room to go somewhere. You hope they leave for a moment until you look at the time.

You’re about to leave when a handsome man approaches you. Hollywood’s newest playboy. Tall, brown slickback hair just like James Dean, and a killer smile. He wears a designer suit, sliding up next to you.

“You come here all alone, pretty thing?” He asks.

Fuck it. You take his bait.

“Yes. It's been such a bore here all alone.” You pout, jutting your bottom lip out slightly.

He wraps an arm around your waist, smirking. “Share a dance with me. Promise I don’t bite, baby girl.”

You sway with him, hips pressed against his. His hands rest on your hips. You are far too drunk for this. All you can think about is Cooper. It’s wrong to think of Cooper when with another man. But when this man’s hand snakes up to cup your cheek and your lips connect, you think of your first kiss. The one you shared with Cooper. This doesn’t help one bit. But now you’re on the dancefloor, kissing this man as if he’s your reason for living. You moan against his lips, whining when he bites your bottom lip. He takes this as an invitation to squeeze your ass with his other hand. You open your eyes, making eye contact with Cooper. No Barb by him. Just him on his own.

Maybe it was evil to do this, you keep your eyes in focus with Cooper’s as you kiss this stranger. He looks angry. Why should he be angry? In his words, he’s a married man. You close your eyes again, letting your tongue slip into this stranger’s. Staying like this, you’re content. That is until someone pulls the man away from you. You open your eyes and see an angry Cooper standing in front of you. Whining, you cross your arms.

“Hey, listen, I have dibs.” The man says, rolling his eyes.

Cooper looks at you with a certain flame in his eyes you can’t place.

“Aren’t you gonna say anything?” He scoffs.

All he can do is drop mister heartthrob on the ground, grabbing your hand. “We are leaving.”

Before you can protest, Cooper has dragged you outside. It’s only the two of you.

“Why would you do that?” You whine, leaning against the nearest wall. Your head was pounding.

“I can’t watch you whore yourself out for some low-life’s attention. You’re better than that.” “Whore myself out? What the fuck is your problem, Howard? Don’t you have a wife to get back to?”

“She left.”

Before you can get any other word out, he hungrily presses a kiss against your lips. He tastes like cigarettes and expensive liquor. You don’t protest. His hands grip at your hair, tugging the strands harshly. He pulls your head back so his lips can attach to your neck.

You can’t deny the feelings you still hold for him. He’s the reason you haven’t been with anyone else since. The reason you’re in your late 20s and still a virgin. He bites down softly on your neck just to cause a reaction. You moan, tugging at his hair. Cooper finally pulls away, smirking. You look at him, face red. It’s easy to tell that the both of you are under the influence.

“How many men do you fuck when you go to parties?” He asks, moving a hand down to cradle the small of your back.

“None.”

That causes him to snap out of whatever haze he was under.

“None? Nice lie, darlin’.”

Would it be embarrassing to tell him you’re still a virgin?

“Not a lie, Coop.”

You look at him, eyes innocent in this moment. You’ve been waiting for him, as embarrassing as it may seem. Cooper looks you up and down, a sickly sweet smirk plastered on his face. Maybe his wife doesn’t touch him anymore. That’s the only logical thought on why he’d be acting like this. But nothing is ever logical with Cooper Howard.

“You’re hopeless.” He chuckles to himself before letting you go. Next thing you know, he’s turning to walk away.

You rest against the wall, not wanting this moment to end. You grab his wrist, pouting.

“Don’t leave me this time.” You beg.

“I gotta get home…”

“Fuck home.” You’re feeling gutsy.

“No. I have to go. If I stay, who knows what I’ll do, doll.” Cooper shakes his head, pulling away from your grip. He walks off to the end of the driveway, signaling a cab.

Just like that, he’s gone.

A week later and Cooper’s face is already plastered on billboards for Vault-Tec. He’s in a stupid blue and yellow suit. His signature colors. It didn’t matter where you went, Cooper was there. It’s a sick reminder of what you’ve been through. As more time passed, the more jaded you became. You lived in a shitty studio apartment in the hills. At night you’d drink away your sorrows. You had enough money to buy your own place but a big mansion would feel like you were overcompensating for something.

Roles started to stop coming in. No one wanted to hire you. You were this close to going back to ads. No offense to ads but you were over that. You were nearing your thirties. One evening your agent called, you thought he was going to drop you right then and there. Instead, he wanted to introduce you to someone. Being single this long and being in the spotlight makes rumors spread. A single woman? Label her a communist. That’s what started to happen.

You meet this man your agent wants you to meet. Low and behold, it’s mister James Dean look-alike. His eyes light up, pressing a kiss to your hand when you meet again. Just like that, you were dating him and getting roles. You played his lover in a film about greasers. You were the innocent good girl next door. Tabloids ate that up. You moved in with him in his mansion. A big beautiful place with a hot tub and inground pool. You were arm candy for him. For you, it was almost like you had never aged. The only thing about you that made it noticeable that time passed was that you became more and more jaded.

One night you have to head to your boyfriend’s premiere for a western he was in. You wear a long red dress that hugs your curves and shows off your breasts. From all directions paparazzi called for the both of you. Now your boyfriend never told you what this film was about but you damn near had a heart attack when you saw Cooper Howard on the carpet with his wife in his arms. He was wearing a black velvet suit with his hair slicked back. Just the sight of him made you nearly choke on air. When he catches a glimpse of you, he bites his bottom lip; however, he notices the man who is holding your waist. That smirk of his falls. Who is he one to judge?

You find a spot in the theater and sit down. Looking around, you see Cooper with his wife. They’re overly flirty together tonight. Something you have never seen throughout your whole time knowing him. Once the lights dim in the theater, you lean over to your boyfriend and whisper something about going to the bathroom. You make it out of the theater and you never realized how jealous you were. Your relationship now? All forced. You didn’t even like the guy. Hell, he kisses like a fish out of water.

Going to the family bathroom, you nearly kick the trash can in anger. In this moment you are hit by how fake your life is. How much shit you’ve been through and how love is not real. Well not real for you. You grab the sink and look at yourself in the mirror. You’re wearing more makeup than normal. It’s like you put makeup on a goddamn pig. Right now you have to play the role of a loving and loyal girlfriend. But is that you? Do you love him?

Before you could continue questioning everything, the bathroom door opens. You must have not locked it.

“My bad I-”

That fucking voice. Just hearing it right now is like the universe is taunting you.

“Darlin’.”

“Cooper.”

You face him, a frown on your face. He doesn’t look any better. It’s like he’s seen a ghost. He comes into the bathroom, locking the door. Why would he do that?

“Haven’t seen you in months… glad to see you’re doing well. I’m sorry about that party. What I did was wrong.” He begins to apologize. “If I knew you two were-”

“We weren’t.” You cut him off. “I should be going.”

You’re about to push past him and out of the bathroom until he grabs your wrist.

“Listen, I miss you. You were my best friend for a while an’ I just threw ya out like an old toy.”

You don’t answer.

“You look so pretty tonight. That dress… you look so good, sweetheart.”

“Don’t.”

“I-”

“I don’t get you, Cooper Howard. I don’t understand how you work the way you do. You’ll kiss me and then act like nothing ever happened. You make me feel insane! What is it with you? Do you do this with any woman you act with? If you do, I feel horrible for your wife.”

His soft expression sours. You know what’s to come next.

“You are not one to talk.” He starts, “You know it’s crazy, I used to like you.”

That makes you laugh. Of course he did. “Oh sure you did.” You roll your eyes.

“I did!” He defends.

A part of you wants to believe him but he has been nothing but in love with his wife since day one. What makes him think now it is okay to say this? Is it because you’re with a guy? That you’re not single? At this moment, the tension in the room is too tough. You couldn’t even cut it with a knife. For once, you kiss him. You’re the one pressing your lips against his. Both of you are sober at this moment. Kissing him sober is so much better than before. Your cherry red lipstick is smearing across his lips. Neither of you seem to care. He has you pushed up against the sink, you can feel his arousal in his pants. You push your hips into his, moaning as he bites down on your lip. This time feels different than any time before. It’s like you know you’re going to cross a line. He lifts up your dress, pressing a finger against your soaked panties. He nearly growls at the feeling.

“Can I?” He asks and you nod.

He instantly drops to his knees leaving you confused. In one swift motion, he pulls down your panties. Before you can look down, his tongue runs over your clit. You twirl your fingers in his hair, tugging at it softly. All the times you’ve almost had him have led up to this moment. Softly, he sucks on your clit. You’re about to moan his name but something else takes your attention. He’s shoving two fingers into you.

“Coop!” You hiss, grinding your cunt against his face.

He chuckles, swirling his tongue over your clit. You swear you’ve died and gone to heaven. No one has ever made you feel this good. There’s a fire in your core. He curls his fingers and starts to rock them in and out of you. This just started but you swear you’re going to cum soon. He nips at your clit, playing with it between his teeth.

“Close. Fuck, I’m close.” You moan out.

Without warning, he pulls his fingers out of you. Pressing a kiss to your thigh, he looks up at you. Without his fingers inside of you, you whine. Looking down at him, you meet his eyes.

“You’re going to cum on my cock, got it?”

He stands up, struggling with his belt. You try to help him take it off but he swats your hands away. Once the belt is off, he pulls his pants and boxers down in one swift motion. He’s big. You don’t know how he’s going to fit inside of you. It’s possible but it looks like he could split you in two. Who knew he was packing this whole time?

Cooper lifts you up onto the sink so you’re on display. He pulls your dress up around your waist before coating himself with your arousal.

“Beg for it.” He demands, “How badly do you want me?”

You’ve never begged before. But fuck it. “Badly.”

“How badly, darlin’? Use your words.”

He’s constantly rubbing himself up and down your slit. Everytime he brushes against your clit you lose it, a tiny moan slipping past your lips.

“I want you to fuck me, Cooper. Like all those times you’ve kissed me. I need you. I ache for you.” You whine.

He accepts that, slowly pushing into you. It hurts. It’s bigger than any toy you’ve used on yourself. You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, whimpering. Cooper doesn’t seem to pick up on the discomfort because he’s already starting to thrust in and out of you. He rests his forehead against yours so he could look into your eyes and he fucks you. His jaw is hanging slightly as it seems he’s thinking with his cock rather than his head. Every time he hits a certain spot inside of you, you moan louder.

“You’re tight, sweetheart. Bet your boyfriend doesn’t fuck you like this.” Cooper grunts, pressing a messy kiss to your lips.

“Bet he doesn’t know how to make you cum.” He taunts.

You’re already starting to moan again, head tilting back. Maybe once this is over you can tell him that he’s your first. That you’ve been waiting for this day. To avoid saying anything stupid, you press a desperate kiss to his lips. It’s mainly to shut the both of you up. You’d never let your boyfriend touch you like this. He’s not Cooper. He’ll never be him. You feel nothing but bliss right now as Cooper fucks you. His thrusts are getting faster, messier. Pulling away from the kiss, he rests his forehead back on yours. Using a free hand, he starts to play with your clit. You feel like you’re on fire.

“Gonna cum. Fuck, Coop.” You moan.

This seems to encourage him, he’s getting sloppier. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Make a mess all over my cock.” He nearly growls.

You feel a knot explode in your lower stomach as you hit your climax. You’re digging your nails into his suit as you scream his name. Anyone outside the bathroom could hear the both of you. This was a risky game the two of you were playing. You clench down on him as you orgasm. His cock twitches inside of you as he quickly pulls out. You’re trying to catch your breath and he’s jerking his cock off. It’s aimed right at your clit.

“Gonna cum all over your pretty pussy. Fuck.” He grunts, rambling to himself.

His head falls back as he cums. It’s a lot. Some of it lands on the sink, your pussy, and your dress. You’re covered in his cum. Still trying to catch your breath, you look at Cooper. His hair is no longer slicked back, it’s falling into his face. Not just that but he’s drenched in sweat. He’s made a mess of himself. Made a mess of you.

While the both of you catch your breath, you feel the urge to blurt something out.

“I was a virgin.”

He looks at you, confused and horrified. Confused because he could have sworn you’d have had sex by now and horrified because he took your virginity in the bathroom of a theater. Quickly, he pulls back up his pants.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he can muster. He’s ashamed that your first time was here. That it wasn’t special. To him, you deserve nothing but the best in life. That’s why he was always scared to hurt you.

His reaction is making you feel sick. This isn’t how it should be. It should be a cute moment shared between the both of you. You’re about to open your mouth but he quickly leaves the bathroom. Now you’re feeling ashamed.

You take a few minutes before getting up. You wipe whatever bit of his cum off of you that you can. Next thing you do is leave the bathroom and go back to the theater. Sitting next to your boyfriend, the only thing on your head is that you smell like sex.

You smell like Cooper Howard.

tag list: @djarinsgirl27 , @cupid-club

part two coming soon

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #pre war cooper howard #fallout #fallout series #x reader #fic: los ageless #ghoul x reader #the ghoul x reader

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pomefioredove · 30 days

Note

Just read the whole "Yuu gets sold off by Crowley" stories and OMLLL THEYRE SO GOOD XDDD Any chance you could do more on it like if Niege won or if the parents heard about it and also decided to adopt Yuu and Grim?? Maybe the other staff adopting her too or more on Crewel's adoption please???

requests for the crewel ending are in high demand I see...

summary: a crewel ending type of post: short fic, mostly speculation characters: crewel ft. other staff additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, definitely pre-book seven, parents being cringe

If Crewel were allowed to beat Crowley to death with one of his designer handbags, he would have.

...Unfortunately, with the adoption paperwork fees (...and a need for more designer handbags), he regrettably still needs this job.

And he'd like to keep an eye on you while you're still here, too.

The animosity between Crowley and the rest of the staff is unspoken, shared through passing glances and dry remarks at meetings, and though the matter is "settled", in Crowley's own words, no one seems keen on letting it go anytime soon.

The students who participated in the bidding war are subject to months worth of extra homework, harder exams, and worse studying hours from Crewel himself. To teach them a little responsibility, he says.

You, at least, are exempt from his radical new lesson plan. You have enough on your plate as it is.

After all, as soon as the legal proceedings are through and your identity as an autonomous human being in Twisted Wonderland is secured, the "fun" begins.

Your uniforms are tailored and rightly fit, you're given a proper meal plan, even Ramshackle is decorated with a few of Crewel's personal touches. A throw rug here and there, a fresh coat of paint, anything to cover up the rotting interior and turning it into something worthy of envy.

"...Given that Grim doesn't start shedding everywhere," Crewel had said. "Ugh, pets."

The rest of the staff are just as helpful, citing your recent experience with the bidding war as reason to take it easier on you for a while (or for the rest of the semester, really). Trein gives you less homework, Sam "accidentally" doesn't ring you up a few items...

It starts to feel more like the entirety of the staff has adopted you.

Not that you mind, of course. This is the closest thing you've had to family since... well, since coming here.

There's just the one thing, though.

"I don't know why you waste your time with those untrained pups. Honestly. The idea of their tacky shoes touching the rugs in here..." Crewel sighs. His eyes turn to you. "You know, I hear Vil Schoenheit has been looking for someone to take to his next shoot..."

Ashton chuffs. "Don't be ridiculous, they need someone who's strong enough to take care of them! Kingscholar is a real star once he gets motivated,"

"Please tell me I didn't just hear that," Crewel massages his temples. "And might I add, I'm their father, not you. I give the blessing. You're more like the unwelcome uncle crashing the family barbeque."

Grim nudges you with his elbow, muttering a quick yikes before darting out of the kitchen. You groan in embarrassment. "Guys..."

"I'm just thinking about what's best for them," Ashton says, puffing out his chest. "They're at an age where they're going to start thinking about dating, and we want them to make good choices."

"Guys,"

"Exactly. Schoenheit is a perfect gentleman, a master in my class, and has the style to back him up. Kingscholar can demonstrate occasional intelligence, but he's still another housecat," he shudders. "The shedding..."

A tired voice from the doorway interrupts their tense back-and-forth, much to your relief.

"Goodness, the two of you, at this again?" Trein scoffs, taking a seat at the table. "This conversation is highly inappropriate. You shouldn't be controlling the poor thing's romantic prospects, if they even have them. When the time comes, the choice will be theirs to make."

Crewel huffs, rolling his eyes and leaning against the table. Ashton kicks his feet. And neither utter another word.

"Good," Trein says, then clears his throat. "Ahem. But that's not to say that we can't offer our guidance. That Vanrouge did quite well on the last History of Magic exam..."

You groan.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #staff parents being EMBARRASSING and CRINGE compilation #queued

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leclsrc · 1 year

Text

see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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thesandsofelsweyr · 1 year

Text

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 1/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,809 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Yes this is a repost. My blog is still new so Tumblr didn't allow my original post to appear in the tags. (Shout out to the 10 of you who still managed to find & like the original 🥰)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You climb the last flight of steps up to the fourth floor of your apartment building, stomping each stair into submission as you go. You’re still fuming from the blind date you just escaped. That is the absolute last time you ever let Erin set you up with one of her stock broker bro coworkers. You don’t care how hot or rich they are; you are done. Done, done, stick a fork in you. You love your bestie but by God does the woman have terrible taste in men or what.

Both of the pricks she handpicked for you were narcissistic know-it-alls with egos the size of Texas; a pair of swine in designer suits (who, to Erin’s credit, were smoking hot but that’s beside the point.) Once the pig from tonight decided that you weren’t trophy wife material he became far more interested in his phone than he was in you. And the last pig coddled you like you were a delicate, empty-headed damsel in distress who was lucky to be granted the honor of his company and conversation. You should’ve learned your lesson after that first failed date with Dalton Rockefeller-Vanderbilt (or whatever old money asshole last name he had) but you’ve been feeling lonely lately, especially after Ash introduced you to the fab guy she’s dating (an accountant with a perfectly plebeian name of Abe).

You glare down the hallway as you ascend enough to peek over the top of the stairs. Oh great, you think sourly, pursing your lips, your face hardening into a study in once I step inside that door I’m downing a shot of whiskey before turning up an overflowing glass of wine. You stare molten daggers at the tall, brawny guy in your sights. It’s the hot asshole who lives beside you; the last person you want to see tonight. He’s standing, hunched as ever, in front of his door, key poised for the deadbolt, wearing that same teal baseball cap and red hoodie that he never seems to take off. Your jaw tightens. You’ve tried to be nice to the brute—flashing him a smile, saying hello—but all you’ve ever gotten in return was a scowl, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all. Well, you’re fresh out of smiles tonight, jerk.

A flutter of unease tickles your tummy as you step onto the landing, into the narrow hallway with him, your back turned to the only exit, a six foot tall sus man between you and your apartment. You stand up straighter, squaring your shoulders, trying to make yourself look and feel taller. It’s late, and your building is eerily quiet while the city is abuzz with incessant sirens. The usual ensemble of notorious nutjobs are fighting yet another battle in their never-ending war with their rival nutjob who dresses up like a Bat.

Nutjobs like this guy…

You reach into your handbag and grab your keys in your fist, sliding the sharp ends between your fingers, ready to stab at some eyeballs. (You regrettably didn’t have room for your taser or mace in this bag so you have to improvise.) It’s your own fault that you suspect the guy’s a sociopath lying in wait to jump you. You made up a serial killer backstory for him—the result of one too many true crime podcast binges—despite not even knowing the guy’s name. You can’t help it. He gives off serious Ted Bundy vibes. Well, maybe that’s unfair to Ted. Ted would’ve at least smiled at you before bludgeoning you with a crowbar. This guy though…

This guy doesn’t have a scowl for you tonight. Actually, he seems startled by your sudden appearance in the hallway, dropping his keyring to the floor with a clatter that shatters the uneasy silence, causing you to jump. He ducks his red-hooded head between his hunched shoulders as you pass by, warily eying him, ready to stab those icy blue eyeballs of his if he tries anything.

You arrive at your door and take out your keyring, sighing with likely unnecessary relief as you slide the key into the lock. The guy’s probably a harmless weirdo incel who never learned how to talk to a woman. You steal one last peek over your shoulder at him, and watch as he stabs at his deadbolt with his key, hitting everywhere but the keyhole because, you realize with surprise, his hand is shaking too much to hit the target. This dude’s a disaster, you say to yourself as you turn the key in your own deadbolt. Then, as he misses the keyhole yet again, you hear yourself ask, “Do you need help?” in an annoyed tone. You didn’t mean to sound so bitchy but whatever. He shouldn’t be such a bitch to you.

He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, and his keyring clatters to the scuffed wood floor again. You stare back at him incredulously. Is he wasted or something? You wonder as that unsettling feeling creeps back in, prickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your grip tightens around your doorknob as your pulse picks up speed.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles in response without sparing a glance in your direction.

“You don’t look fine,” you grumble back at him, the flames of irritation rekindled by his rudeness. Why should you care if the jerk’s too drunk or stoned to get in his apartment. Let his rude ass sleep on his doorstep. You shove open your door and take a stomped step across the threshold—you really need that glass of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bend down to pick up his keys, then hear him groan like he’s in pain. You poke your head back around the doorframe, curious, and notice he’s doubled over now, clutching at his heaving chest, breathing hard and fast like he just ran a 5k or—your heart leaps inside your own chest—like he’s having a fucking heart attack. You watch, mouth agape, brows furrowed, as he sinks to his knees, a handful of red fabric still clenched in his trembling fist, then falls forward onto his free hand while he struggles to get control of his labored breathing. Crumpled on the floor like this, fighting for a breath, makes him seem so small, vulnerable, and not the least bit threatening; more like a boy who needs your help and less like an NFL quarterback who murders women on the side for fun.

Just go into your apartment, pour that extra large glass of merlot you’ve been fantasizing about since John Preston Anderson III introduced himself with his full name. Curl up on the sofa with In Cold Blood or a horde of shirtless, oiled, bronzed, and heartily-muscled Dothraki in your Game of Thrones rewatch. Who cares if the hot asshole serial killer next door has a heart attack? But you care apparently because you rush over to him instead, ignoring The Stranger Beside Me audiobook narrator inside your head warning you that this is a textbook Ted Bundy ploy, you idiot. You bend to help him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when your fingertips brush against him his entire body jerks away from you, like you zapped him with your taser. He throws up an arm to warn you off. “Don’t,” he snaps breathlessly before gulping down a lungful of air, then rasps: “Please don’t touch me.”

You bristle at his harsh rebuff but keep your temper in check since the guy’s clearly in crisis mode. “Should I call an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

“It’s… it’s not a heart attack… it just… feels like one.” He bites off each word, every breath precious. The fingers of his free hand dig into the hardwood floor.

“At least let me unlock your door for you,” you suggest shortly, biting your tongue before you can add: since you weren’t able to manage that yourself, then feeling guilty for even thinking that. What had the poor guy done to you tonight except happen to be standing in your shared hallway after some other asshole pissed you off?

He gives you a small, grudging nod so you retrieve his fallen keyring, wondering why a man needs so many damn keys. “The bronze one,” he grunts, as if he read your mind.

You unlock his door with the bronze key then push the door open while he drags himself to his feet behind you, huffing and groaning. The dimly lit apartment that greets you is sterile, spartan; that doesn’t help the serial killer vibes at all. One of the furnished units, you presume, since the furniture looks like it was plucked from the lobby of your building. The walls are white and bare; no art or posters or photos of him scowling beside a lover. And the place is spotless—you’d assume it was vacant if you didn’t know otherwise. A vision suddenly fills your mind, a vision of him on his knees, bright yellow dishwashing gloves pulled halfway up his muscular arms, an uncapped bottle of industrial bleach at his side as he scrubs at a puddle of blood while the lifeless corpse of the last girl who wandered in here lies wrapped up in blood-stained plastic behind him. Oh God, you even smell the bleach. But then you notice the stacks of paperback books here and there, the open sketch pad on the sofa with pencil-scribbled notes and drawings, some charging AirPods beside an iPad, another red hoodie—one that zips up the front—hanging from the back of a dining room chair, a gym bag, and atop the kitchen island, a rather happy-looking houseplant which, you have to admit, is kinda cute.

Before you can take in the rest of his place he staggers past you, bumping into your shoulder with a bruising force that knocks you sideways and nearly off your feet. Then with one last little wheeze, he topples over like an uprooted oak tree in a windstorm, smacking face first into the hardwood with a meaty thud that rattles the floor beneath you.

“Oh my God!” You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands.

A shot of adrenaline pumps through your veins, spurring you into action. You snatch your phone from your bag with rubber fingers, nearly flinging it aside in your panic, and frantically dial 9-1-1, forgetting all about the emergency shortcuts created for just such an occasion. Your stomach dips at the sight of the bulky body lying prone at your feet, still and silent as the grave. As the phone rings—the long-familiar trilling sound now seemingly drawn out as if it will stretch into eternity—you kneel beside him to check his pulse and see if he’s still breathing, praying he isn’t a corpse, when you spot something that knocks the breath from your lungs and stops your heart dead in its tracks. With a cold, trembling hand you push up the tail of his hoodie…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks by rote, voice booming through your phone’s speaker, but you barely hear it over the alarm bells clanging inside your head. You’re gaping at the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, unable to form any sort of response around your heart lodged in your throat.

“Hello?” the operator asks irritably.

“Hi, uh,” you start with a squeak, eyes still fixed on the textured grip of that deadly weapon, but then smack your lips shut. What are the cops gonna think when they see that gun? And what if he’s wanted for a crime or something and you get him arrested? He said it wasn’t a heart attack, acted like this had happened to him before. You can always call back if he’s actually dead or dying…

Why the hell does it matter if he gets arrested?? Your brain shouts back at you. Why are you even here in the first place when there’s an unopened bottle of merlot waiting for you in the safety of your apartment only a few footsteps away, where there’s not an unresponsive armed man who’s built like a tank, who doesn’t even need the gun when he could snap your tiny neck with those massive hands of his? Could the universe give you any clearer signals that “you in danger, girl”? Have you learned absolutely nothing from hours upon hours of Karen and Georgia? “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered”—this guy isn’t even nice to you! Don’t you dare hang up that phone…

“Um, I’m so sorry. I thought my neighbor was having a heart attack but-but he’s fine actually. False alarm. Sorry to bother you!” Your words tumble out in a rush then you smash the “End Call” button before you can get questioned further or chewed out for wasting their time. In the back of your mind you hear the recording of this 9-1-1 call replaying on the My Favorite Murder episode starring you, before the hostess pair warns their listeners not to make the same foolish mistake you just made.

You sit back on your heels, clammy hands kneading your knees while that chunk of baleful metal glares back at you from his waistband, like a coiled rattlesnake peeking out from beneath a rock. Your mind is racing as fast as your heart through scenarios that all end with you getting shot. Then your hands are moving with minds of their own, fingers curling around the textured grip, getting your dainty fingerprints all over the murder weapon as you slip it free. It’s heavier than you expected, you note as you grip it tighter, careful not to get your finger anywhere near that trigger. Heavy, but not heavy enough for something that can end a life in an instant. The thought makes you shudder. You place the gun on the floor then give it a shove, eager to be rid of it, praying that the damn thing won’t go off automatically as it slides across the hardwood floor out of reach. You’ve never touched a gun before this moment and have zero interest in shooting yourself in the face.

Now your attention shifts back to the poor guy who's still out cold. You lay your hand on his back and feel its steady rise and fall. Still breathing, thank God. Then with a grunt of effort and a mighty heave you manage to flip him over on his back. Immediately your hand shoots back to cover your mouth and you suck in a horrified breath as his pale face, previously hidden beneath the shadow of his hat and hood, becomes visible in the lamplight.

You were expecting the weals on his chin and forehead, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip swelling from where it busted when he fell flat on his face. What you weren’t expecting to find was dried blood smeared across his cheek up to his ear, or the J-shaped scar beneath his eye that you’d noticed before (it’s unfortunately hard to miss, despite his best efforts to hide it) weeping beads of fresh blood from where someone traced over it with a knife you assume, carving deep into his skin. But it wasn’t the sight of the blood or the crimson J that pulled the gasp from your throat and made your stomach nosedive like you were on a rollercoaster. Nope, that was your reaction to the angry red furrows encircling his throat around his Adam's apple, deep indentations where someone wrapped rope or wire or cable around his neck so tight that it embedded in his skin; ligature marks from where someone fucking strangled him.

You grab your phone then pause, biting at your lip. Maybe you should call 9-1-1 again. What if his windpipe is crushed? What if that’s why he was breathing so hard, why he fainted? Those marks are so deep… he could be seriously injured. But if he was seriously injured, why had he returned to his apartment instead of going to the ER? It seems like he made the choice for you.

You open your phone’s browser and type: how to treat strangulation injuries, then quickly skim over the top result. Ice. That seems simple enough, you tell yourself, noting that you can clean his J cuts with soap and water, at least until he wakes up. And if he doesn’t wake up soon? Well, then you’ll call the cops. After all, he’s probably a law abiding citizen who’s licensed to carry that gun; a guy that you just pinned as another one of the nutjobs because you always get paranoid about every stranger you see after your true crime binges. In your defense, this is Gotham-fucking-City and you’re a young single lady who lives alone. You’d be a fool not to be paranoid.

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davosmymaster · 1 year

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TAGS AND WARNINGS - Hurt/comfort, panic attack, family issues, abusive family, racism (against Joel and Sarah), mentions of stalking (if you squint), Joel is definitely Latino, potentially triggering if you have suffered from an abusive household, self-degradation, “Mexican” as a slur, Christmas celebration and religion. Reader is 28. Because of the plot both reader and family are implied to be white/not black or latino.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader (Pre-outbreak! Joel)

WORD COUNT - 3.2k

SUMMARY - Coming back “home” to your family for Christmas is always a dangerous move. The goal was simple: survive through the night. Joel comes to the rescue when the mission becomes unbearable.

Home

There is a warmth in your chest as you close the door to your childhood room. Out of the bubble you have now created for yourself beyond those four walls, there's a dad sitting in front of the tv and a mom putting the finishing touches to Christmas dinner. Your brother is somewhere out there, too. And all you can think of is how the warmth in your chest becomes white lightning, a fire going up and down through your sternum; and your closed-up throat unwilling to welcome any more air into your lungs.

'What's wrong?' you ask yourself in your mind; as if you didn't already have the answer for that. All is fine, all is well. And yet the fire doesn't stop despite the lack of oxygen in your lungs, and the trembling in your hands becomes somehow more erratic.

'What's wrong?' The voice in your head is unforgiving. Sarcastic. Insulting, even. 'Nothing's wrong. You know damn well that's the problem.'

Your breathing comes out laboured. Somehow the autopilot has failed, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing; it seems that your body is no longer interested in keeping you alive. Let alone sane.

As if sent by God themselves, the flip phone in your handbag rings. The melody fills the room from where you left your things an hour ago and your knees crawl there, unable to hold your own weight. Back hits the mattress, and your form becomes a boneless bundle of anxiety against it, on the floor. Your shaky hands look for the phone inside your bag; and you pick it up on its last ring.

You hear a relieved breath on the other side, and yours immediately follows. His voice comes out low, a drop of worry staining it inevitably like blood on a white shirt.

"It's me," he says. And you want to respond 'Of course it's you, who else would call me at this hour on Christmas eve?' "Just wanted to check how everything is going."

Words don't come out of your mouth. You just bend into yourself a little more, feeling extremely cold all of a sudden. The trembling is gone. Although it has left remnants behind, a trail of weakness in your very soul, your breathing still in manual mode. Slow. Lungs aching.

"Darlin'..." Joel whispers.

You can almost picture him bent over his yellow kitchen counter. One hand is pressing the phone against his ear, his elbow supporting his weight. The other is against his chest as if trying to comfort himself with half a hug. The crease between his dropped eyebrows is deep. Concern flows from his voice like a river after it's rained. You want to massage the fine lines on his forehead, press your own hand against his patchy beard; and kiss the worry away.

The words you prepare yourself to say are comforting, dismissive of your current situation; but they never leave your lips.

"I shouldn't be here," it's what flows from your mouth instead.

He takes a deep breath followed by a sigh, and you can perfectly picture him shutting his eyes tightly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

He insists, but you don't have a different answer to offer. Truth is, nothing has happened; and that is something Joel Miller, your boyfriend, whose parents were always there for him both physically and emotionally when he and Tommy were growing up, will never understand.

He will never understand the silence in the room below, and how unsettling it is to patiently wait for the inevitable fight. He will never understand that the smell and sight of the house you grew up in bring memories deeply buried but burnt into your brain. He will never understand the unnerving rage that floods your nervous system whenever your family behaves like family; when they treat you nicely and kindly and it feels like they are mocking you somehow. Because you know how they are, and you know they are seconds away from dropping the masks and beginning the third world war as soon as you bring up the wrong topic; which seems to be any topic these days. But especially the fact that you're dating a divorced dad. And as if that wasn't enough, it bothers them, even more, knowing that said dad is of Latin descent, and his child, a black girl.

You don't understand why you're even there. Well, you know why you're there; because they drove three hours to pick you up even though you repeatedly told them that you could drive back home for Christmas. Because you had felt guilty —and sick— at the thought of one: saying no after that; and two: the anxiety a fight in front of Sarah's teacher would cause you.

How had they found out you were taking Sarah to school, or what school she attended? You had no idea.

"I'm sorry..." you whisper, suddenly guilty for being there; even though you know it's not your fault that they are manipulative and abusive and a complete fucking nightmare. It feels like you need to apologize to both of them, for still wanting and expecting your parents to change despite the awful things they think of Joel and Sarah.

"Hey... hey..." Joel speaks in a whisper, his heart pounding so hard it hurts. And you hear him walking somewhere; probably outside. He doesn't like Sarah listening to things she's not supposed to know about. "We both know it's not your fault they have their head so far up their asses."

There's no reason for you to break the way you do, but that doesn't stop your tears or your own shallow breath from making it to the other side of the line. A low grunt escapes your lips. The pain is raw, and feels new rather than just an uncomfortable scar. Your eyes scan the room and they find your purple walls, old notebooks, clothes in the open wardrobe and, suddenly, it feels like you're fifteen and so fucking helpless and exhausted and done.

"Darlin', come on..." he's begging. "Take deep breaths with me. C'mon..."

You close your eyes, so tightly that your very brain hurts, so tightly that you see bursts of fireworks behind your eyelids. That doesn't stop the tears from coming, but at least now there is a dark invisible barrier between you and that house that should be your home but isn't. And you take a deep breath with him, and let it out.

"Good. You're doing so good," he says, and it fills you with guilt that his voice sounds so scared. "One more... Yeah, there you go. One more baby girl... That's it," he keeps you from falling into the abyss of your mind, and you don't think you could ever repay the debt.

A comfortable silence settles between the both of you before he asks.

"Want me to go and pick you up?" he asks, with such a gentle voice you couldn't help but picture him as he talked to baby Sarah. He doesn't want to scare you or upset you in any way.

But you shake your head quickly and wipe your tears with the back of your hand.

"No," you respond. "It's so far away, and Christmas... and Sarah needs you."

"Sarah is perfectly fine here, and Christmas will last 'til morning. It's not even that late," he says. "...and you need me too," he insists. "It's not that far, anyway."

"It's a three-hour-long drive."

"For those old motherfuckers maybe. I can go back and forth in that same amount of time."

You sigh, loudly. The strength is leaving your body with any passing second, and you fear you will pass out on him while still on the call.

Almost as a threat, you hear your mother speaking in the living room.

"She's in her room?" she asks, and your heartbeat increases. It pounds heavily against your ribcage. The voice is muffled by the walls and stairs, but loud and clear as if she wanted you to hear. "Some things never change, do they? What a shame. A twenty-eight-year-old woman, hiding in her room from the parents that raised her... and put a roof over her head..."

Then, your brother laughs.

"Joel..." you say. With the tone that comes out of your shutting throat and your knees on the floor, his name in your mouth feels like a prayer. He winces on the other side of the line as if he could feel the stabbing pain in your heart. But that, you don't know. "Please hurry..."

"I will, baby," he says.

As soon as your words leave your mouth, you regret them. Almost screaming his name, he gets startled; asks what's wrong as if he feared the ceiling of your childhood bedroom collapsing on top of you. It certainly feels like it.

"Don't be so quick, though," you whisper, and immediately cringe at your own words. "I mean... Don't get yourself killed on the road. Please."

He blows a long sigh, directly into his phone.

"Je-sus... Christ," he could almost laugh at the relief. "I won't. Keep your phone at hand."

"Thank you, baby."

Before either of you has even hung up the phone, the door to your room bursts open. Your brother is standing there, with that sly grin that you wish you could beat out of him without him killing you first; but which, at the same time, terrifies you to the point of absurdity.

He leans his head, covered by a baseball cap, towards the hallway.

"She's talking to the Mexican!"

A different kind of rage fills your veins, but even before you have the chance to say or do anything; you're defeated by your own dread. You wait for him to say something else, to reveal your new plan for Christmas; but he just stands there squinting in your direction. He seems confused by your puffy red eyes and your sitting position on the floor; rather than concerned for your teary face as an actual brother should be.

Your mother speaks, then. A loud cry comes from the first floor. Exaggerated. Malicious.

"Oh dear lord," she sobs. "What did we do to deserve this? And on Christmas Eve. Can we not have one peaceful Christmas?"

"Dinner's ready," your brother says. And slams the door.

[***]

For almost two hours you eat up your father's complaints about hypothetical broken hinges and your mother's cries about being the worst possible mother ever. Your brother seems the only person eating dinner in peace, and you're almost jealous of how unbothered he appears to be.

At some point the conversation redirects towards Joel, you don't know exactly when or why, but your father says his name as if Joel had anything to do with whatever he was talking about. You try to defend him, but end up with both of them somehow offended because you called them racists and they-are-not-racist and Mexicans-take-our-jobs and no matter how many times you tell them he's not Mexican, they don't seem to care.

How you manage not to have another panic attack, that you don't know.

The doorbell rings throughout the house, as if announcing the apocalypse. Your brother stands with his fork halfway out of his mouth, and your heart races as you look toward both of your parents. You see their mind going a mile a second, wondering if their complaints have been loud enough for the neighbors to call the police. Until shaking like a leaf, you get up from the table without having eaten a single bite, get your handbag and head to the front door.

Everything else is a blur, even if nothing special happened, even if they just let you go without a single word. Somehow, silence is even worse than what you were expecting. Next thing you know, you're in Joel's truck heading back to Austin and he's holding your hand.

Just the sight of him calms your nerves enough to wake up from the trance. He's rubbing small circles on the back of your limp hand. He manages to drive with one single hand on the steering wheel, but he clenches his fist so much around it that you can see his knuckles turning white.

He turns for a split second to look at you, and his gaze softens. His fingers intertwined with yours, and he squeezes gently.

"There you are, gorgeous," he says, his voice being the only thing you can hear. He takes a deep breath, and you know he's trying very hard not to pull over and squeeze you against his chest until your atoms and his merge together. "We're going home now, baby. It's okay."

The sentence feels like a kick in the gut, but he's right; you're going home now. The force of the blow is so hard that you physically flinch, and fat round tears come back to your cheeks.

You wished it was different. You wished they were different. You wished you could call their house your home and those people your family, but they hardly have earned the title of acquaintances. It doesn't matter that you're their flesh and blood; they haven't treated you as such. Through the four of you flows the same blood, but what does that matter when they seem to break your own heart with every word they pronounce?

You don't even realize how or when, but the truck is standing on the side of the road. Joel gets out and walks to where you are, and your arms fling themselves over his broad shoulders as soon as he swings the door open. He buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your own presence and squeezing his fingers on your waist as if he could get your body any closer to his. When your touch falters, he takes his chance to grab your cheeks and kiss you.

The kiss tastes like salt from your own tears, but that doesn't stop him in the slightest. He wants to kiss you harder than his own body is capable of. He daydreams of becoming the prince in those Disney movies Sarah loved as a child. All so he can erase all your pain with a single kiss, wake you up from the terrible nightmare with just his presence, his love and care. He knows that's not possible, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

His tongue gently licks yours. He revels in the kiss, his knees almost buckling up as if he was a teenager all over again. Before he lets go, he nibbles at your lower lip. And it's not until then, when his hips accidentally brush your inner thigh, that he notices how hard he actually is.

You gasp, and your lips form a perfect 'oh" against his mouth. Your eyes are closed, and he holds his breath at how drugged up he feels. He breathes your exhale and now it is pooling at the bottom of his lungs, making a home there. Unmoving. Strange to his system but somehow still welcomed. He presses his lips against the pulse point on your neck, feels the swollen vein there and flattens his tongue against the warm skin. Just the soft moan coming from your lips makes his boring existence worth it.

And then he bites. Softly. So soft that he barely feels his own teeth against your flesh. It still makes you jump.

"Joel!" you whisper, and the following second he's smiling as he draws a path of kisses back to your cheek. "Ugh... stop"

The air he's been holding finally comes out of his system with a long sigh. Both his hands are hugging your cheeks as his lips approach your forehead and gift you a kiss there.

"I won't let anyone mistreat you this way again," he says. He's all eyes closed and heart on his sleeve. Even if he was usually affectionate, he had never once before been so open before. The ghost of his ex-wife still haunts his nightmares and threatens him to end the same way with you if he let himself go. "I wish I met you before... maybe I could've been there and..."

"Joel," you stop his ramblings. Those words he's saying are not even directed at you anymore. He's lost in his own thoughts, in his own pain. "Joel you couldn't have done anything. This had to happen sooner or later."

Finally, he lets go, but still keeps you close enough to bury your head in his chest if you need it.

"Look at you..." he says. "Comforting me when it is you who needs comfort now. I can't even begin to imagine what it was like to be there all those years. I would've lost my fucking mind."

With teary eyes, you look into those gentle brown eyes he carries. They look at you with so much pain already, such a heavy backpack full of sorrow for you on his back, that you feel bad to answer.

"I did. I did lose my fucking mind. Not having a home does that to a person."

Maybe it is because he doesn't want to cry in front of you, not now that you're so tender around the edges, at least; but he brings you back into his arms and a few tears well his eyes.

"Let me be your home," he finally whispers against your hair. "I will always be your home, somewhere you can always go to and depend on. Sarah and I will be your home. You don't have to keep looking anywhere else..."

The wound in your chest cannot be mended, that you already know. Yet Joel's words feel like a balm on the open wound. The promise sounds heaven-sent, too good to be true. It also feels threatening somehow. The breaking of that promise, if you agreed to it, would mean completely losing any hope remaining in your body, any strength to keep fighting. Trusting is so difficult and love so complicated when fate seems so random. Yet this is what living is like, isn't it? What is life if not a continuous gamble we play in the hope of achieving a little happiness?

His eyes are fixed on yours, trying to read the thoughts coming non-stop to your mind. But in the end, there's nothing left to consider. Before you could even make the conscious decision, your mind, even if broken and dazed, had already performed the biggest proof of care you were capable of. You had stood against your parents for Joel and Sarah, something you had never been able to do before. Not in all seriousness, at least; not as far as showing them that you were capable of walking out of their house without their permission.

You loved them, and they loved you the way a true family should love. Joel loved you in a way you had never thought possible, and Sarah considered you, in all aspects, her true mother. Their home was always open for you. Always welcome. The only scream anyone would hear could only come from the tv or the radio. The arms were always open, the coffee always boiling hot, and the favors didn't need to be asked for. Love wasn't traded, but simply given.

"You two have always been my true home," you finally conceded, right into his incredulous and love-struck eyes. "Will you forgive me for forgetting?"

"Oh, babygirl..." he whispers, a smile dancing on his lips as he presses his forehead against yours, and his hands slowly warm your cheeks. His nose gently brushes yours. "There's no need to apologize. I will never get tired of reminding you."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x fem!reader #tlou fanfic #the last of us x reader #joel miller x you

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