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hwajin · 2 months

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☆°. — ғɪғᴛᴇᴇɴ ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇs ᴘᴀsᴛ ғᴏᴜʀ | hhj

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, fluff

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: hyunjin x afab!reader

𝐰𝐜: 3.4k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, cumming inside

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is barely proof read AND inspired by the bathrobe look in paris but also hyunjin in milan 🫶 hope you like it <333

You could feel his gaze on you. On your figure, your body. On your whole. The clear sound of his 2B pencil dancing along the cheap, store-bought paper echoed quietly in contrast to the music playing somewhere in the back, from the radio, or one of your phones, or from outside your hotel room altogether — it didn’t much matter to you, for his gaze on your body, on your figure, on your whole was all that did.

You weren’t sure if he was aware that you were aware — his eyes on you, the pencil scratching against the paper; you knew you were the object for his current spurt of creativity. The object of his inspiration. The object of his works — his very own and personal muse. You knew, and the knowledge, the very thought alone, made you dizzy, made you lose track of the sentence you were reading in the tour guide provided by the hotel.

Milan was beautiful. You were working your way through page after page, taking in museums and cathedrals, art galleries you knew Hyunjin would die to see. One page, his gaze on you, long, intimate, longing. Another page, eyeing the ‘Pinacoteca di Brera’, putting in a bookmark to later show him, and you felt his eyes on you again. Unbudging. Persistent. He either was unsure of your anatomy, or simply enjoyed to stare.

“I can feel you staring, you know.”

You looked up, and your eyes momentarily locked with his own, dark ones. Sparking. Speaking, without words. His hair had dried a good bit ever since he’d stepped out the shower, the white bathrobe snug loosely around his naked body leaving only so much to imagination. You looked at him, smiling, teasing, and he stared back — aware, and smug. His eyes wandered down to his art again — faint strokes of your face adorning the page and you wondered what had moved Hyunjin to capture you in this very moment — it was mundane, the moment, and you didn’t look any bit different – or, better, for that matter – than you did any other day. You were reading a tour guide, lazy, tired, solemn — you wondered where he saw the beauty in that.

“I know. I don’t mind that you can feel it.”

A pang to your heart, and he looked up from his page again, after adding lines here and there which as though magically transformed into plasticity, into your eyes and nose and mouth. You were fascinated by his art. You grew bashful at his words. And you were enamored by his eyes, his face. His whole; the way he looked. Milan was beautiful — but suddenly you forgot all about the tour guide, about the trip here you had bought for his birthday. You forgot all about the sights and museums and art galleries, for he sat across from you, sight enough, creating the only art you ever wished to look at.

You were sure you blushed, your skin acquainting the same colour of the roses blooming on the table in a vase. You could smell them, their scent spreading all around and luring you into depths so captivating you wanted to exist in them for eternity.

Only now you noticed the red paint by your lover’s side, only after thorough inspection of him. He parted his eyes from your own with a grin and continued on his drawing — on your drawing, ultimately, because you knew he’d gift it to you after finishing touches —; his hands reached after the brush laying beside his paper, and with a dip into beforehand-prepared water he activated the red colour, and let it swim across white paper. You couldn't take your eyes off him. You couldn’t take your eyes off the way his hands controlled the paint on his canvas, how the pigment drowned and spread and melted against the grey lines of pencil. Taking everything in, swallowing details, yet enhancing the object of the art, enhancing features of your face. Your cheeks suddenly shone red now on the white paper — and maybe it had been his aim after all, to make you shy, to make you bashful. Reality materialised onto paper, into art. Love did, for every brushstroke, every further pigment of red paint on white canvas meant love, for every further gaze of his, for reference or his own enjoyment you weren’t sure, meant adoration.

It took Hyunjin far longer to finish the painting than he had intended it to. Not because he was struggling with it — drawing you in all shapes and forms was a second nature to him by now —, and not because of exterior reasons altogether. Yet he sat and painted, away and away, adding a line here, colour there, watching you go back to the tour guide; he was sure that it could not possibly take you so long to finish it. That you were spending far too much time on each page, that you were eyeing Hyunjin far too often after every other sentence you read. That it wouldn’t possibly take you so long to inspect sights and places — but that you and him were set on the same mission, seemingly, on the same, interior goal. Finishing the tour guide, completing the painting — meant ending the moment. Ending the tranquility, discarding, ultimately, from admiring the other in the golden light of the slowly setting sun, shadows of trees and buildings casting paintings on your faces. The moment would end, the sun would set, would stop drowning the ebony furniture in your hotel room in golden showers, snow-white bed sheets in warm rays.

You looked up; Hyunjin looked at you, inspecting, one second, another, before he went back to his painting, as concentrated as he had stared at you. You let your eyes wander to somewhere behind him — you looked out the western window, which blind’s didn't do well in saving you from the blinding sun, though you wouldn't have wanted them to, admired the sunset, the city that laid in it, the foreign neighbourhood, the white sky. Maybe Hyunjin caught beauty there — the rich sun on your face. Your sparking eyes, your gleaming expression. Almost sacred, solemn. Meant for only the two of you.

You caught glimpse of the broken clock on the wall behind him, showing fifteen minutes past four — it had been showing fifteen minutes past four for the past two hours now. Or for the past three? How much later was it now, ever since you had settled into the hotel room? The sun had long started to set behind the horizon, though it had stood at its highest spot when you had first entered the single bedroom for two; yet maybe no time had passed at all. Maybe in his presence love was eternal, unending.

You stood up. You had been looking at Hyunjin for far too long; had been only looking at him, inspected his every move, reciprocated his every long, fixed stare, shuddering beneath it simply. You had studied his ever-drying dark hair, his ever-parting bathrobe, his naked collarbones, his paint-laced fingers. The way he stared you down, the way he left you vulnerable and naked with as much as a gaze – and you felt touch starved. His eyes burned on your skin, though it wasn’t sensation enough to satisfy you – you needed more of him. You would always need more of him.

Hyunjin’s eyes followed your figure as you made your way over to him. Without a rush, walking slowly; you bore all the time the world had to offer in your palms, it felt. You walked slowly, yet the scent of the red roses you passed filled Hyunjin’s senses in the breeze your movements created. The floral sensation all around him, your nearing body, your leisure attire, your hazy eyes – he was convinced this moment alone, the sight of you, the golden sun as though casting a halo above your figure, drowning you in warmth and beauty and love, this moment alone was entirely enough to eradicate each and every of his needs, any wish he’s ever wished and any promise he’s ever made; for this moment alone, and your heaven-sent presence was enough to fulfill all. Needs, wishes, promises. If it was you he could look at for eternities, if it was your body he’d have the privilege of holding close for the end of times he would never dare to ask of anything else.

The red paint on Hyunjin’s paper slowly dried out as you finally stood before him. It wasn’t, Hyunjin thought, the roses on the table in a vase which sent their scent across the room, after all – it was you. You smelt of roses. You smelt of vanilla, of red paint, of smoke, of Milan, now that you stood before him, now that he looked up at you, from beneath glasern eyes. You smelt like you, and you smelt like him; traces of his scent and his touch and his promise on your skin, and Hyunjin basked in it.

You didn’t waste much time before you made moves to take a seat on his lap; and not only did Hyunjin realize your attempts momentarily, he also embraced you without as much as hesitation. He found himself drowning in the feeling of your weight on him, allowing you to swallow him whole, allowing you to let your eyes explore. You let them wander from his face to his neck, from his protruding collarbones to his pointy shoulders – the white bathrobe was almost mocking now, doing so little in covering the man that it was nothing but ironic.

And you felt his hands on you, your body. Secure, sure of their position on your hips. Tall fingers, spacey palms; you felt their entirety on your body, and your red heart picked up its’ speed at that.

And you touched him, too. Your hands, cool and soft, found home on his face, each palming a cheek, closing him in. Your thumbs caressed his flush skin, tickled near his eyes, reached towards his parted lips, his hungry lips. Hyunjin looked at you, let you touch him, his face. Let you look at him. Let you make him wait on the kiss he so badly needed, let you bask in him, for he enjoyed nothing more than that.

Your eyes met, and you weren’t sure who granted the first smile, but both your mouths turned upwards, curling into softening features. Roses, red paint, Milan outside the window; though this moment contained of only you and him, and the broken clock, fifteen minutes past four, timelessness. You showed your teeth, your eyes squinting with your smile, and Hyunjin’s were the same.

“Hi.”

A whisper against quiet music and honking cars, angry passengers outside, and Hyunjin reciprocated with a chuckle. Then, a whisper as soft as the prior one, “Hi.”; and he pulled you in. Or maybe he reached for you, longed for you. Or maybe you both moved only enough for your lips to connect, finally, in soft passion. Vigorously, though not in haste, not in roughness. Forcefully, rather, impatiently forceful as you let your tongue dart out of your mouth so it could explore his, and it didn’t take the man as much as a minute to welcome you in, to invite you into himself. And you let your tongue dance with his own, in a waltz, or something faster than that, something less rhythmic – something freer. Your hands stood ground on his body, fingers digging into his shoulder as his dug into your flesh, in covered flesh by your aching hips. Your mouths moved against one another sloppily, and teeth dragging across lips, tongues easing off the sting right after, wet, loud, swallowing any sound which slipped past your throats. Quiet, still timid, breathy sighs which tasted of chocolate and shaky moans which were barely audible against exterior noise. You saw stars behind your eyelids – if because you squeezed them shut so tight it hurt, or because Hyunjin’s touch on your body, the bite he had just placed on your lower lip, and the way he pulled away right after, only for a second, less than that, to admire you with a smile before diving back into you, you weren’t sure, but there were stars all the same. Stars, and Hyunjin, darkening Milan behind the hotel room windows. Fifteen minutes past four. Timelessness.

Hyunjin pulled you closer. Impatience, or simply the need to have you nearer, more flushed against his body than you already were. His hands lay strong on your body, and he pulled you in, your cores coming in contact, hot, ignited, searching for more than this. Than clothed touches, more than the faint feeling of his erection against your sex. More than his hands in your hair, entangling long, warm fingers there, more than his teeth bruising your lips. You’d always want more – and you were glad that Hyunjin was no different. For his hands wandered, and his lips with them, kissing and nibbling where his fingers danced upon – your neck, your shoulders, then, your chest, unbuttoning your shirt one by one, not without a kiss to your skin with every further act of undressing. One button, a kiss, a gaze up to you beneath his lashes, a faint smile, a smug grin at your scrunched brows and staggered breath. Another button, another kiss, and his gaze fell back to your chest, watching your ever-exposing body, so impatient in his seat yet so unrushed. Taking his time. Feeling your bosom rise and fall against his lips, hearing your breath, your sighs, your heartbeat. Feeling hot – your skin was burning, your body was, and Hyunjin with it.

Your shirt was discarded onto the floor. Long forgotten, along with your shorts; Hyunjin’s bathrobe lay leisurely around him, half-opened, only carelessly shoved off his body yet not having borne enough patience to fully free him from it. Though neither of you cared. You let the fabric hang off the chair you were sitting on, the softness of it the only thing touching your skins besides each other's skin. You were closer now, much closer than before, though you barely deemed it possible. You sat right atop Hyunjin’s erection, his right hand resting against your inner thigh – he wasn’t touching yet, only teasing to, and your body grew hotter yet, needier. Your hips searched for friction, your fingers dug into Hyunjin’s scalp with a force which made the man groan out in deep satisfaction, and you kissed him with a fervor enough to move oceans – and he drowned in it, gave into you, kissed you back as feverishly, as messily.

He touched you, too. Finally, eventually, and you muffled a loud moan at the unexpectedness of it. Two fingers against your clit as Hyunjin’s tongue entered your mouth, as he forced your tongue to push against his own – to which you obliged, gladly. You moaned into him as you reciprocated his kiss, grinded your hips into his touch, into his hand. He answered with a sigh, with fingers which increased their speed, with a bite against your lower lip. It ought to hurt by now, your lower lip, with the way he was nibbling at it, though you believed that your body was immune to feel pain in relation to your lover. So, he bit away, nibbled on the sweet spot of your neck, on the lobe of your ear only to moan right into it, to send shivers down the entirety of your body, and you let him. And there was no better feeling, you believed.

You disconnected your lips from his. There was a second where his mouth searched for yours, where his body hadn’t yet registered the emptiness your parting left, but then he looked at you, leaned back in his chair, eyes glassy, fingers circling around your clit slowly, mindlessly. As though it was a bodily reaction, an instinct. As though he wasn’t actively aware of his movements at all. His breath hitched in his throat, and he looked a mess – pupils blown out, eyes dark as night, hair disheveled, mouth red and puffed and bruising. There were faint love bites blooming on his neck already, ones that would turn a deep red, or a deep purple by the next morning. The sun had almost set behind the horizon, was casting its’ last, weak rays upon the planet – and those last, weak rays of golden light seemed all to land on the man beneath you. He shone, almost golden himself, chest and cheeks flushed red, and he was glowing. Glowing in the way he looked at you, glowing the smile he granted you, genuine, true. He waited on you, waited on a kiss, or on something else, something more, maybe. Yet he let you stare at him, let you admire him in the last, weak rays of sunshine that seemed to have been saved up for him, solely – and then you kissed him, unable to resist wide eyes and longing mouth, and he kissed you back. Touched you, and you let your hands wander down his body, not missing a single line on it, not missing an inch before your hand palmed his crotch. You could sit and kiss him forever, could bask in him and his body for eternity – but you were impatient, too, especially when it came to him, to your lover. When it was him, you lost control of yourself, of your body, of your soul. It belonged to him entirely, all of it.

He let you sink onto him. Hyunjin let you bury your face in the sweatiness of his neck, in its’ sensitivity, let you groan out into his ear as you felt him bottom out entirely. He let you adjust to him, and you let him hold you, against him, against his body, your heart against his own, chest to chest. You let him whisper sweet nothings, promises, and confessions, and entire worlds. You loved his never tiring tongue in moments of intimacy – he talked and talked and talked, words sweeter than honey could ever be, and sounds more sinful than anything you’d ever known.

You screamed out when he moved. Thrusting his hips into your own, up and deeper inside of you, and you struggled to keep your composure. Your arms snug tightly around his body, around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer – you melted into one as he kept moving into you, both hands keeping a steady position on your hips, to hold you in place, or to grant you stability, or to grant himself some. And the room erupted into a symphony of your voices, of your moans and grunts and sighs, whispers and whines of each other’s names. Your senses filled with everything that was him – his voice, deep and longing and loud in your ear, his hand bruising your flesh, groping at you so harshly you saw stars, his scent, his golden body, his mouth on your skin. Everything was him, his erection so very deep within you that it almost hurt, though not quite, his right hand which suddenly found its’ way to your clit again. Drawing figures eight there impatiently as his hips grew frantic, slowly losing rhythm.

Your body ignited. It was hot, it was wet and a mess, and it was fifteen minutes past four. The broken clock on the wall behind Hyunjin capturing you two in its’ timelessness, in its infinity. It had stopped solely for you, for your love, for your souls. Your eyes closed shut when Hyunjin bit against your neck, when his teeth grazed your skin just deep enough to not break it, to not draw blood, and you came against his body in shaking waves, with a broken moan which was swallowed by the man in an instant. You felt him fill you up as he groaned into the kiss, as he let his tongue enter your mouth in lazy manner, careless now of sloppiness, of the lack of coordination. He held you close, he thrusted into you tiredly, he let you hold him. He let you kiss him, just as tired, just as lazy, basking in him, in his taste, in his scent.

Milan was beautiful. Night began to drown the city in darkness, buildings and trees, cars and people and the world losing color, quieting down. But it was still fifteen minutes past four – and you sat in Hyunjin’s hold for an eternity longer, in hushed giggles and shy confessions, and loved each other throughout the entirety of the night.

@es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @bintificreads @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus @junebug032 @noellllslut @wolfennracha @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife

#hyunjin smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #hyunjin imagines #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz scenarios #hwang hyunjin smut #stray kids hyunjin smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #stray kids scenarios

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iciclesses · 5 months

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141 x super fem reader <33

Price loooves that you love all those tooth rottingly sweet pet names. Pet, puppy, honey, angel, baby, sweetheart, good girl, sweet girl, princess, darling, honeybee, starlight, sunshine; you name it, Price has called you it. A thrill running down his spine at how he can call you a simple name and make you squirm and blush and smile. The prettiest, sweetest smile in the world and Price can never resist kissing it off of you.

Soap who loves to take care of your hair for you. Dyeing it, brushing it, straightening it, braiding it, washing it, conditioning it. All of it. He's got strong hands that love to carefully tangle themselves in your hair to massage oils directly into your scalp. Drags a brush through your hair with gentle attention until the brush combs through without a single hitch or knot. Buys you sweet smelling perfumes that you purposefully spray into your hair. You can see him swoon each time you spin your head around, your flowery lovely perfume instantly filling his senses.

Gaz who loves giving you the full princess treatment. You have to bully him into leaving his wallet at home after one too many times of you going shopping together and each thing you look at for a little too long Gaz is pulling his card out to purchase. Opens every door for you, from buildings to his car to your bedroom. Puts careful time and attention into every date- he surprises you with how skilled his cooking is. When you ask when and why he learned it, you see him turn away bashfully. His smile blinding when he looks back to you and says, "Well, I just learned it for you..."

Ghost who finds the little soft things around him and brings them to you. Like a crow collecting shiny trinkets, he goes to Paris? Comes home with a replica of a fine painting he saw in a museum there in his off time. A soft, satiny ribbon he finds overseas finds its way home to be your favorite hair accessory. That time he spent in Greece, the dress he brought you home was so soft and dainty you could weep- handmade, too. An absolute heirloom gem you felt you couldn't wear but he insists you wear it, spins you around in it to get a full view. Slow dancing together and he's so overcome with emotion he has to whisper: "You're so beautiful, love."

#noel.txt #is this 141 x reader? or is it one idea per guy separately? up to u #i am always on my 141 x reader bs tho so thats how i wrote it lol #141 x reader

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theyluvkarolina · 23 days

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could you pls write a smau about a gymnast and lando

𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄

· . ୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑ ` ` it’s papaya not orange ` ` ⊹ ‧₊˚

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ୨୧ y/n and lando hate each other. at least that’s what they want people to think. actually, they are in a relationship with each other

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ୨୧ lando norris x gymnast!fem!reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ୨୧ none!

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌: Sunisa Lee

𝐀/𝐍 ୨୧ a lot of lando love on my account lately! might make that change 😊😊 also, ik sunisa is team usa but for the sake of the story pretend she is for britain 🥹

Instagram

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by simonebiles, olympics, nike, and others

y/n_l/n So excited to represent Britain for Paris 2024! 🇬🇧 the new leo smacks 😵‍💫😵‍💫

2,346 comments

username1 SHE’S BACK!!

username2 i keep forgetting she is british and not from the usa 😭

→ username3 SHE’S NOT?? → username4 nope! she goes to college in the usa for the gymnastics program but she is a british citizen :) → username5 my life has been a lie

landonorris ✔︎ it’s not your colour tbh 🫤 🫤

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ neither is orange but here we are 🤷‍♀️ → oscarpiastri ✔︎ oh god here we go → landonorris ✔︎ @ y/n_l/n it’s papaya actually → y/n_l/n ✔︎ “it’s papaya actually “ 🤓 ☝️ → landonorris ✔︎ your not funny → y/n_l/n ✔︎ *you’re → oscarpiastri @ mclaren media train this man. i'm at my limit. → username6 can anyone explain why they hate each other so much?? 😭 → username7 nvm that, someone send oscar help that hes screaming for

iMessages

Instagram

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by lilyzniemer, oscarpiastri, livvydunne, and others

y/n_l/n olympics are underway 👀

1,985 comments

landonorris ✔︎ i hope you fall

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ what a supportive companion 😍 love you lan 😘 → landonorris ✔︎ i hate you too 😘 😘 → username8 these guys have no chill bro 😭

lilyzniemer the heart 🫶

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ for my best girl ❤️ → oscarpiastri ✔︎ excuse you? → y/n_l/n ✔︎ you are excused.

username10 seriously, does anyone know why lando and y/n don’t like each other?? they are from such polar opposite sports 😭

username11 i heard from somewhere that they were friends in school but had a falling out for some reason… might be due to their respective sports.

iMessages

Instagram

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by lando.jpeg, jadecarey, lindsay horan, and others

y/n_l/n rest and relaxation 😴

3,001 comments

username12 UHMMM…

username13 Miss Y/N L/N. Who the fuck is that man?

landonorris did you save croissant for me?

→ y/n_l/n ✔︎ i did actually → landonorris then where is it 🤨 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ ready to be shoved up your fucking ass → mclaren ✔︎ i’m tired. → username14 HELP NOT THE MCLAREN ADMIN BEING OVER THEM. → landonorris ✔︎ :( → username15 THE SAD FACE 😭😭 → username16 anyone else find it strange lando isn’t commenting about the guy in the photos? i mean he teases her all the time and to just have nothing now is so strange → username17 stay delusional!!

username16 lando.jpeg like??? 🤨📸

Twitter

Instagram

landonorris ✔︎

liked by mclaren, carlosainz55, maxfewtrell, and others

landonorris J'adore Paris 🥐

3,670 comments

username17 i think lando is loving something else other than paris…

→ landonorris ✔︎ no

username18 THE MUSEUM DATE?? 🙁🙁

username19 idk who that girl is but i wish i was her 😕

y/n_l/n ✔︎ the bucket hats need to be retired.

→ landonorris ✔︎ uhhhmm??? no?? some guy said i look handsome. → y/n_l/n ✔︎ was the man a figment of your imagination? → landonorris ✔︎ rude 😒

maxfewtrell ✔︎ upset i don’t get any picture credits. i was the third wheel for nothing.

username20 WHO IS THAT GIRL??

username21 i’m telling you guys it’s y/n and when they reval it they will be laughing in our faces.

Twitter

Instagram

y/n_l/n ✔︎

liked by landonorris, lauriehernandez, alyraisman, and others

y/n_l/n better than gold 🩷🥇

tagged ; landonorris

2,560 comments

username22 WHAT ON EARTH

→ username23 IS GOING ON → username24 IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS

oscarpiastri ✔︎ what in the world.

→ username25 HELPP → username26 i think oscar finally lost it 😭😭

carlosainz55 ✔︎ put a jumpscare warning next time 😢

→ landonorris ✔︎ sorry mate, if you’re on her account you’ll be seeing her quite a lot → carlosainz55 ✔︎ yeah! i totally meant Y/N! → landonorris ✔︎ 🤨 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ HAHA POINT AND LAUGH EVERYONE!

landonorris ✔︎

liked by y/n_l/n, charles_leclerc, f1, and others

landonorris she’s a little weird and kind of mean to me but i love her 🙃

tagged ; y/n_l/n

3,734 comments

username27 IT’S CONFIRMED GUYS!!

username28 more y/nlando content ??? it really is the best day ever.

y/n_l/n ✔︎ i’m not mean 🙁🙁

→ landonorris you literally made me choke on my spaghetti. → y/n_l/n ✔︎ because you were outstanded by my beauty 😍 → landonorris ✔︎ maybe i was 🫶 → y/n_l/n ✔︎ stop i’m blushing 🫣🩷 → osarpiastri ✔︎ i missed it when you two together was a secret. → landonorris ✔︎ someone is grumpy. @ y/n_l/n get lily to call him so he stops being a baby → maxverstappen1 ✔︎ didn’t you cry when she got the first place medal? → landonorris ✔︎ didn’t you retire from the australian gp? → username29 SHOTS FIRED 😭 → username30 sassy lando is back → y/n_l/n ✔︎ oh sweetheart, he sadly never left. → landonorris ✔︎ sadly??

883 notes · View notes

lufyuu · 22 days

Text

,, One more picture ''

Idol! male reader x Photographer OC

Tw/s: quite vanilla, not sure to put any. Reader goes from being dominant to submissive.

Not too long ago, you were asked to be an ambassador of Louis Vuitton. The moment Louis Vuitton had announced you became an ambassador of their brand, your fans, and group members were so excited, it went all over the news globally. You flew all the way to Paris for a photoshoot. They would have you model for them wearing their bags, jewelries, etc while also attending events wearing them. The moment you stepped out of the car, you were swarmed with fans, they were all trying to get your attention. Whether that'd be by screaming your name or having their hands out with gifts for you. Fortunately, you had very good security guards, they managed to keep the fans from touching you or getting too close. The first day you were seen wearing the outfit Louis Vuitton had provided you with, it sold out in the matter of hours.

Due to this opportunity, you had many scheduled photoshoots for Louis Vuitton. The first thing that caught your eye was Eun Hyunwoo. Eun Hyunwoo was the photographer in your first photoshoot. He was absolutely breathtaking. He had the kind of look that would make people turn around to stare. A kind of look that belonged to the museum. It was both gentle and dashing. It was such a shame he didn't want to be an idol or anything like an idol. He finds photography to be much more interesting. He finds joy in taking pictures. "Photography captures life's beauty" is his reason to want to pursue it.

You found him to be quite an interesting man. A life of fame and money stared at him all day long and yet he never even once looked its way. The more you saw him, the more you saw his charms. It wasn't just his looks that charmed you. It was the way he would talk, describe things. "[Name]-nim, I will never be able to describe you in a word...", was what he said when you told him to. He said he's not good with describing people, especially you. That made your heart flutter. It felt as if butterflies were eating you from the inside out. Eventually, you even developed sexual thoughts about him at work. When you'd be backstage and have random thoughts of being fucked by him. Something about a gentle man being rough with you made your legs turn into jelly. You'd have to excuse yourself to the bathroom because of these thought. This man had you going crazy.

Click Click Click, the sound of a camera clicking accompanied by bright light aimed at you. "That shot was gorgeous as always," the photographer commented. The staff all agreed with him, "as expected from [Name]," they would say. Others only nodded in agreement. "Thank you, everyone, for your hard work!"you said, bowing to everyone in the room as a sign of respect as a few people removed the props. The photographer looked through the camera roll, the pictures he had captured of you were flawless, you looked elegant, your aura radiating through the small screen. Just as he was admiring your beauty, you approach him. "Eun Hyunwoo-shi," you tap his hand, which startles him a bit. "Ah..! [Name]-nim, what's the matter?"He looks a bit down to face you. Though he doesn't really make eye contact, how could he when you're quite literally the number one most sought out idol at the moment? He didn't feel worthy. "Could you perhaps send those pictures to me? I want to take a look", a smile spreads across your face, a gentle smile that convinces him even if he's been told not to. "Oh.. Of course, should I send it through your work email?", he scrambles to find his phone, which is in his right pocket. You shake your head, indicating he's wrong about that assumption. You stretch out your right hand to take the phone, and he hesitantly gives it to you. You typed out your number on his phone, "Just text me them here." He takes back his phone as you walk away, looking down at his phone and then looking back to the direction you were walking towards until your figure disappears behind the door. His face turned a bit red as the other staff members asked him to help with dismantling the set.

After an hour, you finally returned back to your hotel. Your phone lights up with a ding!, it was the「Lum¡n☆ry」group chat.

➤Woohoooo: @[Name] we miss uuuuu

➤4Sp☆rks: Are you done with the photoshoot?

➤Cho_Sangwoo: You guys are disturbing him. He's probably still at the photoshoot.

Looking at the group chat, you couldn't help but let a smile spread across your face. Texting them back quickly, you informed them that you're now at the hotel. Though, no matter how much you had been distracted, a certain person was at the back of your mind. A man with short and messy black hair. The way his soft blue eyes looked at you was unforgettable. Your heart thumped at the thought of him, the thought of being on your knees, unzipping his.. ding! a sudden ding snapped you out of it. You went to open the dm, it was from an unknown number.

➤+82 XX XXXX YYYY: [photo] +10 more

They were your photoshoot photos. You immediately connected the dots and realized it's not a random stalker. It's Eun Hyunwoo. Taking a good look at the pictures, they are definitely breathtaking, but you spot something. The third picture he had sent was odd. The angle was wrong. As the professional man you are, you point it out.

➤+82 XX XXXX YYYY:

-Ah...

-I'm sorry for the trouble [Name]-nim, should we retake the picture?

You thought of it for a moment, it sure would be an inconvenience for you. It'd totally mess up your schedule, too. Plus, there's other pictures to make up for it. You'll only be missing a singular picture, what harm could that do? Honestly, it would be better for everyone, including yourself, if you just said no.

➤You: Sure!

You sure are thinking with your dick right now.

➤You: Are you still at the photoshoot place? I can go there right away while I still have my outfit and make up on

➤+82 XX XXXX YYYY: I'm not sure if that's a good idea, [Name]-nim...The other staff members have already gone home, it'd be a complete mess, wouldn't it?

➤You: We can make it work. Besides, you're the best photographer I know

➤+82 XX XXXX YYYY: If you say so [Name]-nim, I'll be waiting.

And with that confirmation, you got up from the sofa, grabbing your bag and sprinting to the place. Not literally of course, you took a taxi there.

When you get to the place, the lights are almost all off. There's a person waving at you with a camera around their neck. "[Name]-nim!", as you get closer, you see a gentle smile on his face. "Eun Hyunwoo-shi," you said his name in return, "let's get back in now", you put your hand behind his back, urging him back in. Eun Hyunwoo turns on all the switches, revealing the already tidied up room. The lights were moved to one side while the decorations were put in a box. "Shall we set it up once more?", he asks, looking at you and expecting you to nod or say yes. "No, let's take a photo right here, it'll turn out great," he seemed very skeptical. The area you are in at the moment is quite dark. Of course, it could turn out artistic, but considering your other pictures, it wouldn't fit at all. "[Name]-nim, I don't think that's a good-", "come here!", you pull his hand to the area, making sure he won't be able to disagree further. Without a word, you push yourself up on the table, sitting on it with your legs crossed, posing for the camera. He gets the message and puts the camera up to his eye, aiming it at you.

Click click , you get off the table and look at the pictures on the small screen. "Hm...these won't do," "o-oh, why's that..?", he asks, looking at you as if expecting you to say his camera work is terrible. "Oh, it's not you, I think I know what's missing here," you go back to your position and beckon him to come closer. He complies, wondering if you knew how to make the pictures better. You then grab his tie, his head is now leaned down to face you, "[Name]-nim...?-", you look up at him, wanting him to get the message, "Hyunwoo shi..."he gulped, his face visibly red, especially his ears. His eyes widened a bit, now knowing what you want him to do. Immediately, he leans down to meet your lips, putting his camera beside you, grabbing your chin, and kissing you deeply. "Mmm..ah..", he moans into the kiss. It's obvious he hasn't done much kissing in his life before. The two of you finally let go after a while. The kiss was intense.

Looking at his hard cock straining in his pants, you hop off the table, getting on your knees infront of him, infront of his boner. You unzip his pants using your teeth, you could hear his breath hitch. Even through the boxer, his pre-cum was already leaking through. "All it took was a kiss for you to get hard?", you tease him, "w-well I-I...!", he couldn't make up an excuse for himself, he did get super worked up from a single kiss. "You're really adorable", before he could answer, you took out his cock out of it's restraints, "holy shit..", your eyes widened at the sight. His cock was long and girthy, "Hyunwoo-shi...I didn't expect you to have such a big thing down here", "is it really that big...?", he looks with his face being covered partly by his hand due to the embarrassment. You took his cock in your hand, you couldn't even wrap your hand around it, "mmm, very", was what you said before putting the tip into your mouth, licking and sucking on it. "[Name]-nim..!-", you released his cock from your mouth, "it's [Name], no need for formalities", he coughs and corrects himself, "[Name]...It's dirty down there", you chuckle at this response and continue to suck on his tip, "a-ah..", he tries to keep in his moans but with you sucking him like that, how could he do it for long? His moans were muffled by his hand, you aren't satisfied with this, why would he contain his moans?

You took his cock in deeper, now half of his length is in your mouth. "A-ah...agh...!", he finally lets his moans out, no longer covering his mouth with his hand. You smile, "eunjwoin thwis?", you try to say while his cock is reaching your throat, the vibrations from your mouth making him even weaker. He could only nod weakly in response.

Sounds of sucking accompanied by Eun Hyunwoo's moans were music to your ears. Unconsciously, due to pleasure, he grabs your face and pushes you down on his cock, taking it even further in, you begin to choke on his length, trying to adjust as best you can. Eun Hyunwoo then proceeds to grab the camera on the table with his other hand, pointing it down at you yet again, "you look so pretty...", he mumbles, taking a picture of you sucking him so good. Click

His face is practically as red as it can be by this point, he would never admit it but you've always had an effect on him, everytime he looks at you, he feels butterflies in his stomach, flying around. The way your lips wrap around his cock makes him even hornier, grabbing your hair and face-fucking you. His cock goes all the way to your throat. You try and contain your tears but they ultimately come out, your eyes glossy, looking up at his lustful face. The once gentle look on his face is now gone. He only has lust in those eyes. He continues to facefuck you, making sure it hits the back of your throat everytime. The pleasure he felt was unreal. "God...[Name], your mouth's so warm..", he praises. You wanted him to cum and so you sucked him more but, he suddenly pulls you off of his still hard cock leaking with pre-cum. You look up at him with a confused and disappointed look on your face. Before you could protest, he lifts you up onto the table, letting you sit up. He pulls down your pants and boxers, discarding them to the side.

Without any lube, he was hesitant to continue but with a little reassurance, he went on with what he wanted to do all along. He uses spit as a substitute for lube, "bare with me here...", he says as he pushes himself into you. Taking it slow. The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt, you're too precious to him.

You were trying to adjust to his size when he suddenly asked for forgiveness, "[Name]...I'm sorry but I can't handle it anymore..", it looked as if he was a beast, ready to ravage his prey. Then, he pushes all the way into you, making you take all of him. This makes your back arch from the sudden plunge. His cock is definitely too big for your little hole. Tears were now rolling down your cheeks, you couldn't help it from falling. "Please don't cry...", he says while wiping your tears away with his finger. The feeling of his cock inside of you unmoving was torturing, you wanted him to move. He lets out a surprised yelp as you start moving. "Move...goddamnit", you said with an almost begging tone, leaving him no choice but to grab your hips and thrust his cock in and out of you. He would pull out until only his tip was in before thrusting it all back into you.

All you could do was moan and mumble incoherent sentences. "You're so adorable like this, [Name]", he says while you're in that state. Anything and everything you do is adorable to him. You could feel yourself getting close too. When you looked down, there was a visible bulge on your lower stomach. "I'm so close..!", he says while still thrusting in and out of you like there's no tomorrow. You could feel yourself reaching your limit aswell. "Aagh..!", you let out a moan as you reach your climax, your cum splurting all over your lower body. But your photographer had not yet reached his. He desperately chased his climax, thrusting harsher and rougher until more tears ran down your cheeks. "I'm...cumming..! Take all of my cum", he finally cums into you. It felt like a decade as he released all of it inside you. His cum was dripping out your hole even with his cock still inside.

With such an adorable and tired expression on your face, Eun Hyunwoo couldn't help but reach over for his camera. He aimed the camera at your cum-filled and panting figure, making sure the camera captured his cock deep inside you, "you're so perfect like this, such a slut for my cock", he said shamelessly which was unexpected, it made you shudder a little. Being with you awakened something in him that he never knew he had. He went to caress your cheek with his free hand, smiling softly at you as he says, "[Name]-nim, I want to take more pictures of you..."

♡♡♡

Hello everyone, this is the first fic I'm writing for this blog. It's not really good but I promise to improve♡

Borders by : @/cafekitsune

#oc x reader #oc x male reader #male reader #amab reader #lgbtq #x male reader #「 by the hands of xin 」#smut #oc smut #bottom male reader #top male character #Xin's Eun Hyunwoo ☆

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omgthatdress · 10 months

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To get into the first looks that were made for Barbie, we need to understand the beauty and fashion of 1959.

1950s fashion existed under that shadow of World War II. Women of the war era were hardy, hard-working, and practical. Fashion was also extremely practical, using as little rationed material as possible. The silhouette was boxy, masculine and almost military, with big broad shoulders and knee-length skirts. Rationing and austerity continued in the years immediately following the war, but then in 1947, something miraculous happened:

(The Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Christian Dior created “The New Look.” Now okay, fashion in general had been leaning into this new silhouette and Dior was far from the only designer to be working with it, but his was the most copied and most iconic.

“The New Look” was a call back to the sumptuous femininity of the mid-Victorian era, bringing back tiny waists held in place by impossibly tight corsets and big, full skirts with crinolines and hoops.

The silhouette was a return to classic femininity, but the materials garments themselves were pure modernity: a practical ensemble for a wealthy woman-on-the-go who was lunching with her friends in Paris.

Looking back at Barbie’s 1959 looks, Christian Dior’s fingerprints are all over them, but I see plenty of other designers in the mix, as well. It’s actually very easy to find near-matches of almost all of Barbie’s 1959 looks with a cover of Vogue from the 1950s. Barbie from the get-go was an idealized woman who existed in a world that was separate from the middle-class American suburbs that the little girls who played with her lived in.

Looking at classic first-run Barbie, there’s honestly not a whole lot to say about the bathing suit look. I mean, yeah, that’s what fashionable women wore to the beach in the 1950s. Her buxom curvy body fit the idealized standards epitomized by Marilyn Monroe.

Her face has the heavy makeup that was worn by French fashion models of the time.

Arched, heavily-styled brows, eyeshadow, slightly winged eyeliner, mascara, and of course perfect red lips with matching mani and pedi. One of my pet peeves about vintage style is when people wear winged eyeliner as “50s housewife glam.” NO. Your average middle class American Mrs. Homemaker was not wearing that kind of makeup. Winged eyeliner in the 50s only had a small wing that accentuated the eyelashes, and was generally only worn by the high-fashion crowd. Maybe on a special extra glamorous date with Mr. Husband, but not to a church potluck. Anyway, end of rant, but you see that’s what Barbie is trying to emulate.

Her hair, however is different: the poodle hairstyle was one favored by teenage girls. Seen here on the squeaky-clean America’s sweetheart, Debbie Reynolds:

The playful, youthful hair pulls her back and keeps her from being *too* grown-up. It’s the first step in the balancing act that Barbie has always pulled off with aplomb: to represent adulthood without being too far out of reach of children’s imaginations.

#Barbie #1950s

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minhosimthings · 4 months

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Angels in Tibet

Symphony Smut Series Day 13: Amaarae's Angels in Tibet

Lyric: Louvre and Armani I like how you say it

Pairings: fiance!Jay × fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+, implied use of pheromone, bathroom sex, semi public sex, fingering, p in v sex, overstimulation, missionary, unprotected sex (not for you baby), mention of breeding, rough sex and I'm talking ROUGH, dom!Jay, sub!reader, fluffy in the beginning

A/N: Day 13 baby! 5 more oneshots to go and we'll be over. I just had to do a Paris fic with Jay cause IT'S JAY. @yunabi436 a gift for you darling

THE SYMPHONY SMUT SERIES MASTERLIST

Jay was a 'date to marry' guy. Which was very evident from the fact that he bought you your favourite flowers on your first date which he had asked you about the day before.

The ring on your finger never shone brighter than now, when Jay had proposed a pre-wedding holiday to Paris, even though you had begged him not to spend more money on you.

"What kind of a husband would I be if I didn't?" He reasoned, blocking your attempts to put in your credit card to chip in for the trip, "Plus you've always wanted to see the Louvre so we're going, no buts."

"Not even my butt?"

Paris was beautiful. Paris was amazing. Paris was amazing. But most of all, Paris had The Louvre.

A place you had been wanting to visit since you saw it in a magazine when you were seven. You had always hada knack for art history, which, due to parental pressure, you hadn't taken as a major in college. Jay knew that. And that's why he took you to see the triangular polycarbon (or atleast he guessed it was polycarbon) structure, where treasures beheld your eyes.

"You know the interesting thing about this painting-" you stared at all the beautiful swirls of colours on the frame in front of you, "is that even though it is more harder to paint than the painting opposite of it-" you glances at the crowd of people behind you, "It is still largely ignored."

"So you'd much rather analyse The Wedding Feast at Cana rather than The Mona Lisa herself?" Jay rested his chin on your shoulder, reading the brief introduction of the painter carved at the pedestal.

"Mona Lisa is a masterpiece I will admit. But this!" You gestured dramatically towards the painting with your hands, "This is magnificent."

"Darling as much as I would love to stand here and watch you talk about this painting, didn't you want to get a look at Psyche by Antonio Canova? And isn't that in the next room with the sculptures?"

"Oh yeah." You responded. Seeing all the artworks of the Louvre would take approximately 20 days and you were only here for a week. So you obliged and took Jay's hand casually strolling off to the next room.

Though you hadn't mentioned it, your nostrils had had a sense of misdirection throughout the entire time Jay strolled close to you. You had brushed it off as a thing of the atmosphere, continuing with your tour.

Unbeknownst to you however, earlier that day, Jay had rubbed some of his 'special' cologne onto his wrists and neck. You were a generally freaky person, and he knew that. So your everlasting wish to fuck in the bathroom of a museum was about to be fulfilled today.

"Jay ah-ah fuck."

Jay's got you pinned against him, back to chest, feet balanced atop the muscle of his thighs. Spread wide open, bare and exposed, helpless in the way he traps your throat between bicep and forearm.

“This what you had in mind for the bathroom of The Louvre?” he asks, circles a wet finger over your clit, a ghosting touch that leaves your hips canting upward. Almost frantic, a silent pleading, but he traps you steadfast.

It started as a small kiss. A peck. A brush of the lips so gentle you barely felt it until he pressed his mouth to yours fully. There was no tongue, nor any breathlessness when he pulled away and looked at you again. But you could feel the shift in the air. The drop in your stomach and sudden stillness in the room while a white noise clouded your head.

You’re a little light-headed, blistered beneath the skin, needy and fidgeting. Maybe you want him to hold you still, to fit you tight against him, to fight against your struggle—something carnal deep down that gets off on his strength, the power you know he can wield over you.

Your vision begins to speckle and fizz, and pleasure coils blinding hot in the pit of your stomach. At his mercy, desperate for anything he’ll give you—the helplessness breaks you apart, soaks you between the legs. The sound of his pumping fingers is filthy and slick, and your cunt sucks him in. Begs more than your mouth ever could.

You meet each thrust of his fingers with a tilt of your hips, exhale a stuttering moan when he begins to grind the bulge of his cock against the curve of your ass. When he pulls you hard against his chest and whispers a string of praise into your ear.

His name is the last coherent word you get out before it’s only feral moans of bliss. You’re so close it’s like a fire burning in your limbs, every muscle tensing as you try to withhold it a little longer to prolong this moment where all you cared about was him and the way he could send you into the stars. When the tip of his finger pinpoints and stiffens to flick teasingly before he latches once again, that’s all it takes to have the elastic snaps, sending a shockwave from your core all the way to the tips of your fingers, your muffled scream echoing off the mirrors. He’s satisfied with himself, smiling as he stands and lets your legs fall limply from his grasp, his hands catching your boneless body from slinking down onto the floor.

This man was beautiful, so godsdamned beautiful.

And he was all yours.

"Can you take more darling?" Jay questioned, clutching your hips to keep you steady, admiring your naked back in the mirror behind you, "I can do it all night if you want."

Without warning, he shoved his cock into your pussy, hearing your muffled whimper as he'd done so. "quiet, don't wanna wake up the sculptures do we?" His own voice was strained as he scolded you, beginning to set his own pace. Unforgiving and harsh, making you lightheaded and dizzy.

You felt him right at your womb again and again and fucking again. You felt any semblance of your very sanity begin to melt away as he fucked you, so roughly that it almost had you begging for him to go easy on you.

He was fucking you like a thing void of a soul, like a rag doll. Every single time you felt him back inside, he pushed you deeper and deeper onto the marble. Your hands had felt useless, not even able to support your own weight. You offered them to him, feeling his lone hand take both of yours, anchoring himself to you without his pace even faltering. It was a reminder to you both that he's fucking huge, so strong and capable of easily overpowering you. It had you nearly sobbing, your insides squeezing him snugly.

Jay holds your stomach down and goes deeper. You squeal as you cum on his dick. He keeps going until eventually he slows down and cums, the warm feeling enveloping your pussy like a cocoon.

Jay looks up at your almost passed out figure and lets you rest your head on his shoulder as he pulls out.

"You doing okay baby?" Jay asks uncertainly, noticing how hard you were breathing.

"Park Jongsoeng how is our wedding day sex gonna beat this?" You joke, leaning against the cold marble. Thank heavens that the museum wasn't too busy today.

"Oh don't worry about that." Jay growls in your ear, squeezing your waist,

"I'll make sure to fuck a baby into you on that day."

Taglist: @ramenoil @mynameisniya150 @demigodmahash + whoever wants to be tagged, send an ask my way!

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astroboots · 10 months

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EVERY YOU EVERY ME #9

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You get a new mysterious co-worker.

Word count: 8,100

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

August 1st

Nearly pancaked by grand piano falling from the 8th floor outside of favorite cafe. No casualties (except the piano).

August 5th

Freak blizzard out of nowhere during lunch. Nearly crushed by large icicle dropping directly outside the exit of the Chrysler building. No other known casualty.

August 6th

An escaped hippopotamus from the Bronx zoo ran 11.3 miles, nearly got stampeded when exiting hotel for work. No casualties.

August 12th

Tornado appeared inside the Guggenheim museum, nearly squashed by large falling statue. Nobody nearby was seriously injured.

It's already mid-August now. You've used up more than a month of your allotted three. It means you don't have much more time to waste, but that knowledge does nothing to help you in figuring things out.

You’ve compiled a comprehensive list of the Universe's ongoing murder attempts, determined to keep track of them all. All in all, there are 37 incidents and counting that you’re aware of… and they’re all different.

They differ in severity. They differ in scale and they differ in frequency. Sometimes it can take weeks, sometimes days, sometimes within hours of each other. If there’s any sort of pattern to them—anything that might help you predict what will happen next or how to stop it—you can’t see it. There’s nothing that gives you any hint or clue as to where you can start to make progress with solving this mystery.

The one thing you have been able to observe from cataloging these incidents is that Miguel was right about what he told you that day at Starbucks: the universe is ramping up. Each attempt is becoming more and more bizarre, defying the very laws of physics and nature in its attempts to snuff you out. Before this, in all of your years in New York, you’ve never heard of a blizzard in July or a tornado indoors.

With the escalating dangers, Miguel is more on guard than ever. Sticking close to you at all times like a particularly insistent herding dog that’s always a few inches from nipping at your heels. Even when he’s seemingly preoccupied by something else—reading a book, folding clothes, eating a crate of kit kats in one sitting—you can always tell that he’s keenly aware of and attuned to your every minute move.

Practically, the only time he lets you out of his sight is for bathroom visits.

Work is still a point of contention between you two. He hates that he can't enter the building to monitor you at work and make sure you're safe, and after that incident when you caught a co-worker trying to take a surreptitious selfie with Spiderman while Miguel was loitering around in the windows, you’d banned him from climbing and scuttering around the exterior of the building like some deranged squirrel.

It’s made him even less pleased about your whole work situation, something he’s not shy about sharing with you. Every morning when you are about to leave for work, Miguel will stand by the door with that ever present frown and ask you:

“Why are you still going into a job you hate when there’s only two months left?”

This morning, you sigh as you reach for your jacket and messenger bag.

Part of you completely understands and even agrees with his logic. If the end of the world is only two months away, why go back to that shithole everyday? You could go to Disneyland. Eat fancy croissants in Paris for breakfast. Have Lyla fake a reservation at an all-inclusive yoga retreat in Bali. You could be living your life like every moment is your last.

The thing is though, as delusional as it may be, you’re not ready to bet on the world ending just yet.

“Miguel, I fully intend for the universe to still be around in two months. And I don’t want to be unemployed when that day comes. I’m not some trust fund baby. Once we figure this thing out, you’re gonna be free to go, and if you take Lyla with you, then what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets? Rent in the city is ridiculous, and my rent-controlled apartment got blown into a million pieces.”

For once Miguel doesn’t seem to have anything smart to say back. He tilts his head, quietly studying your face. Then after a long pause, he gives you a curt nod, as if something clicked into place.

"Fine."

You stop mid-way through zipping up one of your boots to eye him suspiciously.

Okay, that’s… different.

In all the mornings you’ve repeated this argument, this is the first time he’s simply accepted your explanation without sassing you back. He just gazes right back, apparently unperturbed, and holds the door of your hotel room open for you, ready to walk you to work.

There is definitely something going on inside his head, because this stubborn dummy never lets anything go without a fight. You just don’t know what it is yet.

By mid-morning, you've forgotten all about your suspicions, too busy dealing with the aftermath of your coworker's incompetence. You're not entirely sure how they managed to corrupt the Excel formula you’d painstakingly inserted to make sure all the numbers add up correctly, but two hours later, you're still trying to get the data to compute properly.

It’s the kind of mind numbing task that lets your mind wander, and you spend most of that morning wondering what Miguel is up to. He’s probably lingering near the building, eating mini donuts by the dozens from that food truck that is always parked around the corner.

There’s a pointed series of knocks on your cubicle wall. The noise is grating, and it makes the whole of your back seize up because you recognize that signature knock from sound alone. It’s your boss, probably here to ask if you have capacity to take on more case evaluations.

And sure enough, as you reluctantly turn to look, you see her, toothy smile and all, looking down at you in that hammy and strained way of hers.

“Are you busy?” she asks. “I just wanted to introduce you to the newest member of the team.”

She gestures to the person standing beside her. Your gaze goes up over their insanely long legs, up and over the narrow and tapered waist and torso, up over the wide chest and broad, broad shoulders, and even before you get to the familiar face, you already know who you are looking at, because no one else is that tall.

Your mouth gapes open wide in shock.

This stupid motherf-

“This is Mickey O’Hara,” your boss introduces, simpering up at him. (You didn’t even know she knew how to simper.)

Has Miguel gone insane?

What is he playing at?!

He didn’t even bother to change his name properly!

And the man looks unfairly good in office casual! He’s dressed in a white, well-fitted button down shirt and dress pants. Wearing ridiculous thick-rimmed glasses that would belong on Gregory Peck. Riotous curls are as messy and wild as ever, not having even bothered to comb it back. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, the subdued get-up only makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

“Mickey is our newest hire,” your boss continues, batting her eyes at him. “He's interning with our team as a junior insurance claims adjuster and will be shadowing you for the next two months.”

After that, Miguel truly is with you everywhere you go.

He spends most of each workday sitting on a spare chair in your small cubicle, the two of you squeezed into 6'x6', shoulder touching shoulder in that tiny, cramped space.

A superhero he may be, but Miguel is a terrible office worker. He seems completely bamboozled by the copier, and you quickly learn not to ask him to do any copying or scanning or even pick your printouts from the printer, because he always manages to mangle the process, coming back with crumpled up prints or half-shredded paper that looks like budget confetti.

Before the week is over, he’s gained a reputation with the rest of the team as the handsome-but-useless junior that can’t even make coffee for shit.

Most of the time, he doesn't even make an effort to look like he’s doing any actual work, just sits right next to you, and reads books all day long. When you scold him and ask him to at least pretend like he's doing busy work, or he'll get fired, Miguel will just shrug and quietly hum back at you, engrossed in whatever latest sci-fi book his nose is buried in.

"If they fire me, I'll just have Lyla hack into their HR system and rehire me."

Then there’s the way his sleeves are always rolled up halfway up his arm, hugging tight around the firm muscles of his forearm. The peep show of gorgeously tanned skin that is always on display for all to see. It's obscene.

He’s maddening and distracting.

Still, you can’t be too mad about his presence. The office is a much more treacherous place than you’d initially thought. It’s a danger zone of death traps.

One morning when you’re in the supply room, getting a new pad of post-its from one of the massive industrial shelves—the ones that are supposed to be bolted to the wall for safety—suddenly crumpled, taking half the wall with it and nearly flattening you. That was almost game over for you. Squashed like a bug and entombed under a pile of archived TPS reports.

Then there’s that time with the runaway elevator when the supposedly secure and unbreakable industrial cables snaps, with you in it, falling through 40 floors. And you still shudder everytime you walk past the copy machine because of that time it tried to electrocute you. If Miguel hadn’t been there for all of these incidents, you’d be a goner.

Another upside is that it’s also nice to have a cubicle buddy. On slow days, the two of you kill time watching YouTube origami tutorials and practicing with post-its stolen from the temporarily-relocated office supplies.

Despite having hands the size of a giant, Miguel is surprisingly good at it. Delicately folding paper cranes, butterflies and flowers that sit in the place of pride atop of your computer screen, compared to your questionable attempts that usually wind up in a crumpled ball in the trash.

With Miguel there, your days at the office are never boring or predictable in the way they used to be. It no longer feels like you are just going through motions. It's almost… fun.

If there wasn’t a cosmic executioner’s ax looming over your neck, you don’t think you would mind spending every day with him like this.

You take it back. You do mind spending days with him like this. Miguel is the worst.

You've been doing data entry all morning, and the man will not shut up about how primitive Excel is.

“Malo! I don’t understand how your company relies on this software. There are so many data consistency issues! It completely lacks data validation and integrity checks, and it’s too prone to human error when entering crucial data, which results in–”

You take deep calming breaths as you continue to type, trying to pretend his rant is white noise.

The previous day's near death experience—an electrical surge from the printer, trying to finish what the copy machine started—also wiped out one of the file servers, and now you and half your department are stuck manually re-entering three years worth of data.

Two hours in, your fingers are aching, and you're about ready to start banging your head on the keyboard out of frustration. (Or banging the keyboard on Miguel’s head if he doesn’t shut up.)

Like he can hear your thoughts, the man in question obligingly stops talking, and there’s a moment of blessed silence before your chair glides smoothly and suddenly to the left as Miguel rolls you out from in front of your computer. Your first instinct is to wonder what new danger he’s saving you from, but no… He’s just moving you out of the way to make space for him to drag his own chair in front of the screen. “Enough,” he says firmly, already typing out some unintelligibly complex code at a speed that far outstrips your own personal best of 67 words per minute, “I can’t watch you keep doing this when it’s so simple to automate.”

You sometimes forget just how smart Miguel is.

True, he can’t seem to work the office printer, but he’s a genius scientist who single-handedly built an A.I. sophisticated enough to hack into financial institutions and topple governments. He successfully invented a machine that travels between dimensions. Every other sentence coming out of his mouth sounds like something that would confound Stephen Hawking. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s able to automate Excel spreadsheets.

It doesn’t take him very long at all.

Within minutes, he’s finished, hitting enter one final time, and then you can see all of the cells rectify themselves one by one. Errors disappear and new corrected information appears, data populating blank cells and aligning itself in tidy rows.

You lean in closer to get a better look. Your elbow snags the edge of your coffee cup and the cup topples over, splashing runaway hot coffee across your hand.

Before you have a chance to react, there’s a strong pull backwards. Miguel is already grabbing you and pulling you sideways into his lap and out of the firing range.

The cup clatters off the edge of the desk and onto the floor. The rest of the burning liquid never had the time to land on you.

Then you’re sitting on top of him, confined in the much too small seat of the office chair that can barely fit him and his broad backside, and much less the both of you. But if it’s uncomfortable, Miguel doesn’t show it. He takes your hand in his to inspect it carefully.

The patch of skin burns and stings, but you can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or his burning touch that makes you feel like there’s liquid fire simmering in your veins.

“You okay?” he says, his voice right in your ear.

He is so close. Surrounding you. Broad arms locked around your waist and the firm muscles of his thick thighs under yours.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding slowly. Your tongue feels heavy and dry in your mouth.

He quietly drags your hand closer to his face, then blows on the back of your burnt knuckles to soothe the sting.

“Better?”

Those stunning eyes are staring into yours from inches away, cut cheeks right there, nose barely brushing against yours, and – god, is he close. Too close.

Miguel is always in close proximity to you these days. Never more than a couple yards away, but save for life or death situations, the two of you do not find yourself like this. He only ever holds you when you’re crashing through the skies or about to collide with a runaway vehicle. This is different somehow.

Your heart feels like a trapped bird in your chest, fluttering so fast and panicky it might burst from inside out at the proximity.

“I– um– ah…” You’re not saying any words, just making strange noises in your throat like a squawking bird.

Your eyes flicker away from his face avoidantly and from the corner of your eye, you spot Matt from accounting spying on you from the cubicle across.

Oh god. This probably doesn’t look great, does it?

You’re sitting on a co-worker’s lap in the middle of an open plan office. Compromising does not even begin to describe the position you two are in.

Jumping off his lap, you quickly stand up and turn away, trying to ignore the flustered heat in your cheeks.

You walk back over to your chair, about to sit yourself back down, but there’s spilled coffee everywhere. The dark brown liquid quickly sinking into the already stained fabric of the seat. You need to clean this up or else your chair is going to smell like expired coffee for the rest of time. Grabbing for your bag, you start digging for some tissues so you don't have to walk up to the supply closet.

You pull out item after item. Tampons. Sunglasses. A half-eaten chocolate bar. More tampons. New wallet with new ID, (expedited, all courtesy of Lyla). A handful of pennies. A random pamphlet. Still no tissues though, so you upend your bag onto your desk, wincing at the clatter.

How on Earth have you accumulated this much stuff in the few short weeks since your apartment was destroyed? And how on Earth do you not have any kleenex or napkins or anything in your handbag??

You paw through the mess, hoping for something useful, then swear as some of it spills over onto the floor. Ducking down, you crawl half under your desk, collecting wayward tampons and receipts, until your eyes pause on the pamphlet.

Not just any pamphlet. It’s yellow and bright with Whoopie Goldberg's face in the corner. It's the map you received from the fortune teller lady. One of your many misfires.

Now that you look closely at it, there are faint lines that seem to glow faintly in the dimness under your desk that weren't there when you were looking at it in plain daylight.

You pick it up and unfold it, laying it out on the floor. It looks like it’s been written on with some kind of a glow-in-the-dark marker, but it’s not dark enough for you to see clearly. You need to get somewhere darker to test your theory.

Backing out from under your desk, you get to your feet and head briskly off down the hall. You barely make it three steps before Miguel’s on your tail, his towering height blocking out the bright LED lamps above as he follows after you like the world’s biggest duckling.

“Cielo, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur curtly under your breath. The heat from before is still riding persistently on your face, and you quicken your steps, hoping it doesn’t show.

You half run to the end of the hall until you reach the small supply closet. When you open the door to step inside, Miguel is right behind you, apparently trying to squeeze himself in after you.

"We won't both fit in here!" you scold as you close the door after you. His unhappy expression is the last thing you see as darkness envelops you in the pitch black.

There’s a niggling feeling of guilt that wiggles down into your skin. But you remind yourself that you can always steal cupcakes meant for clients from the conference room to make it up to him. All will be forgiven if you appease his sweet tooth.

Ducking your head to stare down at the map clutched in your hands, you squint your eyes in the dark to study it closely. There's a small star glowing bright in the middle of the map.

It's a literal star map.

She gave you a location.

You're standing in front of an old stone building at 177A Bleecker Street, smack in the middle of Greenwich village with its picturesque ivy covered old brownstone houses.

Then there's this monstrosity: Sanctum Sanctorum. The infamous residence of Dr. Strange.

The mansion is built in a mix of a Victorian and Gothic style as if the architect couldn't make up their mind and just decided 'why not both?' Throughout the rooftop, there are ornate carvings and intricate stonework that you suspect was meant to lend it a mysterious air, but instead the place reminds you of Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride attraction.

You bring up your hand to the old knocker, gripping it firmly. Your lungs tighten, breath constricting in your chest as you hesitate, unable to bring yourself to pull the brass down to make contact with the wooden front door. Instead you’re holding it still in the air.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. How are you going to explain this?

‘The universe is out to get me, please send Avengers to help.’

Isn’t he just going to think you’re nuts? One of those delusional Supes-fan with munchausen syndrome?

"We can still leave," Miguel says.

The man's been protesting every step of the way here, buzzing in your head about how much of a bad idea this is.

You frown, turning around to him. "I want to do this,” you answer.

His continued opposition is the final push you need. You bring down the knocker against the front door and tap it repeatedly.

There's no answer.

Part of you has to fight the urge to turn your feet and flee, saving yourself the embarrassment. But before you do, there’s a loud creak and a heavy scraping noise against the entrance as the double door swings inwards and slowly opens.

No one greets you by the door. The entryway before you is empty, revealing a grand imperial staircase leading to the second floor, curving upward into a majestic spiral on each side of the room.

It looks deserted. It’d be impolite to just step inside without someone to greet you and explicitly invite you in. But the doors did open to let you in.

You look at Miguel, unsure of what to do, but the man does not have the same compunction for politeness that you do, he’s already walked in, shoes and all, straight into the main hall.

“Can we just get this over with without you making your usual stupid grand dramatic entrance?” Miguel says into the empty room seemingly to no one in particular and you don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to.

A ring of ember and fire sparks into existence out of nothingness in the center of the room. The ring grows wider, and you can see hints of another room inside of the circle: one decorated in a different decoration style than the current room you’re in: moroccan seats and plush cushions with oriental wooden carved furniture.

A man steps out from within that room to stand in front of you both. The ring of light closes behind him once he’s made it through. Clad in a rich purple tunic and dark robes that is monk-like in appearance. Miguel steps in front of you, tucking you safely behind him.

"You're not Strange," Miguel sneers, and you want to smack him. Why does he always have to be this rude?

"Oh, I'm quite strange. But I am not the Doctor. I am Wong. I’m the Sorcerer Supreme and guardian of this place." The man’s voice is calm and formal, and he holds himself with a stately manner as he speaks.

You pop out your head from behind Miguel’s side. "We’re here to see Doctor Strange."

At the repeated mention of Strange, the man’s formality seems to fall away, an expression of irritation bleeding into his features.

"Let me know when you find him. Because he is not here."

"Where is he?" Miguel asks, and there’s that contempt rumbling in his voice again.

"I do not know. Probably playing hooky again. The man comes and goes as he likes." Wong makes a muttering noise under his breath as he continues. "Treats this sacred place like a summer gig at McDonalds."

Your chest deflates. How are you supposed to get Dr. Strange to help you if he’s not even here?

"I need help,” you plead with Mr. Wong. Maybe he can help you if Dr Strange can’t, he is the Sorcerer Supreme after all, supreme is the highest level, right? This might even be an upgrade from Strange. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think the universe is out to get me."

Wong just looks at you, expression unchanging, and okay, yeah, that was maybe not the best place to start. You take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to make yourself sound less paranoid.

"I've almost died 40 times since the beginning of the summer. I just want to know why this keeps happening and how to make it stop."

You dig into your bag, pulling out the folded map.

"We talked to a fortune teller in Chinatown, and she gave me this map. It led us here, and I'm really, really hoping you can help me."

Wong dips his head down to the map, "This is a celebrity home star map," he says, with a straight face and a neutral voice that only slightly betrays that he thinks you're batshit crazy.

“I know it sounds crazy, but-”

“Sanctum Sanctorum opened its doors for you, which means it wanted me to meet with you. I believe what you’re telling me.”

Oh thank god.

You tell him everything, rambling on as you try to explain what’s been happening and what little you know about it as best you can. The near death experiences, Miguel being a Spiderman from another dimension, the destruction of your apartment, the unnatural phenomena and the universe’s escalating attempts on your life.

Wong is quiet throughout, studying your face with grave concentration as you speak.

When you’re finally done, he sighs with deep weariness that emanates from the core of his soul. He looks down on his feet, tapping them in deep consideration.

"I have an idea,” Wong says cautiously, “I could perform a Multiversal Divination on you, that might give us a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with,”

“What does that mean?” Miguel asks, anger vibrating off his skin and boiling in his tone.

This man needs to calm down. You clearly need to take him to anger management, because since the moment he’s stepped into this place he’s been on the edge (even more so than usual).

“What does a ‘Multiversal Divination’ entail?” he continues, “Is that some magical mumbo jumbo that’s going to hurt her? Because if so we’re not–”

“I’ll do it,” you say, interrupting his objections, and you sidestep Miguel who is scowling, mouth already parted in yet another protest, to stand in front of Wong.

Wong looks to you and then Miguel, then back at you again, caught in the awkward stalemate, before you interrupt.

“Please, I need answers. Whatever it is, if it might help, I want to do it.”

Wong nods, stepping closer to you. "This will feel a little bit strange," he warns with the bedside manner of a patient doctor.

His hand comes to your collarbone and he places his palm there with a gentle push. There is barely any effort put into it, but you feel the force of it as if you had been slammed with the full force of a six ton truck. Your body wants to leap out of its skin. It is the sensation of being dumped in cold water from head to toe. A shock runs through your entire nervous system.

Images flash before your eyes, flickering by too fast for you to process. They’re vivid and bright. Glimpses of a scene: your apartment, your work, your commute home. Each of them expiring in a fraction of a moment before you have a chance to latch on and make sense of any of them individually.

You see yourself in picture after picture. Except slightly different in each. Short hair. Long locks. Curly.

In some you're wearing glasses instead of the contact lenses that you usually use. In others, you’re sporting the piercing you wanted to get at 16 but never did. Sometimes you have tattoos, sometimes not; occasionally you’re covered in them. Dyed hair, in every color of the spectrum: pink, blue, purple. A myriad of versions of you, of every variation of the decisions you could have possibly taken in your life.

There are pictures of memories you have had and not had. They rush in and flee before you're able to grab hold of one.

Captured moments of lifetimes you have never lived.

It's overwhelming. You don't understand what you're seeing. There’s pandemonium inside your head.

Then everything slows to a crawl.

The scene unfolding before you is one that you immediately recognize. An image that you'll never forget.

Window after window after window flashing you by. You know this view. Have seen it twice before. The same view of the Chrysler building as you were falling. But it's different this time.

The sky isn’t blue, nor is it gray. It’s a pink and an abnormal purple, a color you’ve never seen on it before and it looks both beautiful and completely wrong. There’s an angry tear in the sky, cracking at the edges with static. The whole of the sky looks like it is going to cleave in two and bring the whole world with it. Is this the future? Is it the past?

There's no pain, but somehow tears run down your cheeks uncontrollably.

In the distance you hear Miguel's voice, muted even though you know from that tone that he's furious and must be bellowing loud enough that it echoes through the walls. It sounds like you are underwater, and you have to strain to make out what he is saying.

"Why is she crying?" He's definitely shouting, voice raw and growling. Is this part of your memory or is it happening in the now? "You're hurting her."

The ground approaches.

"Stop! Stop!" Miguel's voice is shouting, but there's no way to stop this. Everything is going too fast this time around.

Miguel is here, tearing through the sky towards you. But you know it's too late. He's too far away. He can't save you this time.

Then everything does stop.

No images in your head. No noise in your ears.

Everything goes black, like the ending of a movie.

Then you hear a thud.

It's loud and close and real.

You snap yourself out of your fugue state, to see Miguel towering over Wong's body where the Sorcerer Supreme lies, limp and lifeless on the ground.

“What did you do!? Are you out of your mind?" you shout, running up to them.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Wong isn’t moving, not even blinking!

"He was hurting you!" Miguel roars.

"He wasn't hurting me, you big doofus!" you shout back, and it’s only then that the fury in Miguel’s eyes seem to abate.

"What's wrong with him?” you ask, bending down Wong’s limp body on the ground. “Is he dead!? Did you kill him?” There's a rising panic pushing inside your throat.

"He's just paralyzed."

"He’s para– What do you mean paralyzed? What did you do to him?"

"I just... I bit him," he uses a finger to part his lips slightly, pushing the upper one up just enough to reveal the sharp edges of his fangs. "There's toxins in them that can have a paralyzing effect."

You glance back at Wong. He’s still worryingly still.

“Is there some kind of way to un-paralyze him!?"

"It was just a small bite," Miguel says, ducking his head down sheepishly to stare at the floor, like a scolded boy. "I didn’t use that much venom... It’ll wear off. He shouldn't be out long. Maybe half an hour or so."

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” you tell Wong fervently, hovering over him. You can see his eyes tracking yours and the rise and fall of his chest, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the proof that he’s still alive. “Do you, um… Do you want me to help you up?”

“He’s not gonna want to move for a few more minutes,” Miguel interjects from behind you. “Moving will be incredibly painful until the venom wears off the rest of the way”.

What the actual fuck!?

You throw a glare at Miguel, as you loop an arm under Wong’s waist, “Well help me move him so he can be more comfortable.”

At your command, Miguel helps you prop the man up against the wall in what is (hopefully) a more comfortable position, and then you sit next to each other and wait.

"I can't believe you bit the Sorcerer Supreme," you mutter under your breath. “Miguel, you can’t just–” you cut yourself off, too frustrated to find the proper words.

"I'm sorry,” he says, grimacing at your scolding, looking regretful for once as he ducks down his gaze. “You looked like you were in pain".

Your anger subsides, if only slightly at his repentance.

“It still doesn’t make it okay. You can’t just attack someone like that! He was trying to help us.”

He doesn’t say anything more to that, just stares down at his feet in contrition.

The two of you sit in the silence.

Your mind goes back to the surreal experience you just had. The myriad of thousands if not millions of images that were flashing through your mind at the speed of light.

The warped shape of your world, the jarring images of it distorted and wrong, as it started to collapse.

Miguel had said that didn’t he? That the universe was going to ramp up its game and if it didn’t succeed, it would eventually self-destruct in its mission to get you.

It takes 26 minutes. The first sign that the toxins are wearing off is that Wong is able to wiggle his toes. His recovery accelerates after that, he's able to move his fingers, then the muscles in his face until he's able to form a grimace. He doesn't look happy, and you don't blame him.

After another five minutes or so, he's able to speak again.

"Strange way of expressing gratitude, literally biting the hand that helps you."

You get up on your feet to help Wong, and Miguel moves next to you.

“No, you stay there! Don’t move,” you order, and even though he scowls, Miguel complies.

You hunch over next to Wong, and help him sit fully upright. He stays seated, but dusts his robe off from the caked soot and fine layers of dirt.

“This has happened in other dimensions,” Wong tells you. “And if we don’t stop it, our universe will be destroyed.”

“How do we stop it?” you ask.

“The universe wants you dead. It won’t stop until it achieves its goal.”

Your stomach drops.

“So in order for this to stop… I need to die?”

There’s a look of barely contained fury burning in Miguel’s red eyes that seems to vibrate out of his skin and pounce. But he doesn't, this time he remains in place, visibly restraining himself, still following your orders.

“There is that option, or you will need to find the reason for why it wants to kill you. And you need to find it soon, because you don’t have a lot of time left. You will have even less time once the people of this world realize the threat you present to the continued integrity of this universe.”

“Are you threatening her!?” Miguel demands, and somehow even though you didn’t hear him move, he’s right behind you, red eyes glowing, shoulders rising, looming over Wong, ready to cut him down at any further hints that the man might be a threat to your safety.

Wong doesn't seem deterred in the slightest.

You have to give it to the Sorcerer Supreme. He's a brave one. It took you weeks before you stopped being intimidated by the man, and Miguel’s never bitten you.

“I am only telling you what the universe tells me. And it tells me that you do not belong here at all. The universe thinks neither of you belong here.”

You think back on fortune teller's drawing of the poorly drawn circle and stickfigure of you that’s speared with arrows.

"What if we went… somewhere else?" Miguel asks.

For the first time since he entered this house, his tone is no longer dripping with anger. “What if we left this universe and dimension?”

The image of white blankness enters your mind at his words. You shudder at the reminder. The cold numbness of the void and the sensation of nothingness. Dread fills your veins. A cold clammy sweat flashes hot and cold against your skin at the memory.

Wong tilts his head up in deep consideration. “That might work. This universe would slowly return to equilibrium with her gone. But… This will just start again in any new Universe. Most likely she wouldn’t be able to stay. She might have to leave every dimension she's in for the rest of her natural lifespan. A life spent always on the run.”

Wong pauses as he glances over to you with sympathy and concern in his gaze. “Is that something you would want?”

What is the alternative here? To lie down and die?

“Yes.”

“One month’s time, you need to find a way to leave this dimension before then.”

Back at your hotel that evening, you wake up to the sound of distress. Muffled whimpers and quiet moans.

By habit, your eyes roam the room, seeking out Miguel in the dark. He’s lying on the sofa from across the room and even in this distance you can make out that his body is writhing beneath the covers. But you’re groggy and too sleep-drunk to make sense of what you’re hearing or seeing.

There’s murmured noises from him, and it takes you far too long to understand what’s going on.

He’s having a nightmare.

Tugging off the blanket on top of you, you get up and scoot over to the end of the bed over to him. Miguel looks like he’s in pain. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tosses and turns, face pinched in pain and distress. Now that you’re closer, you can make out words in the sounds he’s making.

“Quiero quedarme contigo. No te vayas, no te vayas,” he keeps murmuring.

He looks exhausted. Which, of course he is. He's been on constant alert trying to protect you. Fighting off supernatural weather phenomena, blocking hazardous furniture and fighting off charging hippos out of nowhere. Of course he's worn out.

“Shhhh, It’s alright.” you whisper to him, reaching out to gently stroke his arm, attempting to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

He groans unhappily in his sleep, burying his head into the cushion.

“Quiero quedarme conti–”

"Hey, hey, Miguel,” you tap insistently at his shoulder now. If you can’t soothe the nightmare away, then maybe you can at least wake him up out of it, “It's okay. Wake up."

This time his eyes slam open, wide with adrenaline and shock, and he shoots upright, head whipping from side to side as he scans the room. Every inch of him prepared to leap into a fight.

“What’s wrong? What’s–”

“You were having a nightmare,” you explain to him.

He stiffens at that, dropping his eyes to stare down at his lap unhappily.

“Shit, did I wake you?” he runs a hand over his face, then lays back down, “Sorry.”

Silence blankets the two of you, and you don’t know what else to say to him. Except just that you want him to be able to rest–truly rest–after the day, week and month you’ve both had. You don’t want him to have to go back to snatching moments of troubled, uncomfortable sleep on that stupid, too-small couch.

“You could come sleep on the bed with me,” you offer, “That couch is nowhere near big enough for you.”

"It's fine," he mutters, "It's been fine the last month, and it's fine now."

"It's not though. You're clearly not sleeping well. I should have asked you before. I'm surprised your back isn't already killing you—that sleeping position looked painful."

His head darts down, eyeing his own spread legs that are sticking out into the empty air from the bottom of the couch. But he doesn't concede the point.

"Please?" you try again, "It will make me feel better."

Apparently all you needed to do was ask, because Miguel immediately complies like your request was a decree. He gets up, pulling the quilt with him, his mop of curls in adorable disarray as he drags his feet over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a loud thump that makes the whole mattress bounce underneath you.

You can feel the pull of the sheets where his legs threaten to brush up against your bent knees, and you're beginning to realize you didn't think this through. Even in the big bed, there's only so much space, and he seems to be taking up most of it.

He's close, and you can't seem to peel your eyes away from the strong line of his throat. Can't help the way your body reacts. Your pulse starts to race, heart kicking up hard and fast against your ribs.

Miguel turns around to observe you with narrowed eyes. “You okay?”

Shit! Did he hear you? That timing was too on the nose. You nod at him a little bit too frantically and you sound high-pitched and skittish even to your own ears.

“Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

Fuck. He could hear you. Of course he can, he has super hearing powers doesn’t he?

“I’m just tired,” you stammer out, wrapping the blanket close to your chest for layers as a shield from his super hearing.

Miguel doesn’t push it. He turns back around, letting his head drop down the pillow.

The distance between you has been growing smaller and smaller with each passing day together and you think you have been crossing an invisible line that you shouldn’t be crossing as of late.

You think of the closeness of him in the office, the weight of his arms on your waist as he held you in his lap. His eyes on you. The bare skin of his broad back casually revealed to you when he was changing. The same back that you find yourself staring up at in this moment.

“Go to sleep,” Miguel rasps from your side, and you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise.

You close your eyes, but somehow in the dark you become even more keenly aware of his presence in the bed with you. Your heart seems to skip a little bit faster as the seconds pass, each beat a little bit harder.

There's a quiet sigh, then a much louder exhale, as he turns back towards you in bed.

"What's wrong?" His voice is still gruff with sleep.

"I can’t fall asleep,” you say, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. “Can you talk? It might help me sleep."

He snorts with a laugh. The sound of it makes something pleasant skitter up the length of your spine. He's got a nice laugh. It's a shame he doesn't laugh often.

"What's so funny?"

"No, nothing. Just... some things never change." Even in the dim of the unlit room, you can see the smile on his lips.

"What do you want me to talk to you about?" he asks.

You tilt your head, considering it. Miguel rarely gives you a carte blanche to ask him for information. Logically, you should use this moment to seize a tactical advantage and ask him for all the salacious details that you know he’s been keeping from you. But as you wrack your brain for questions, the only ones that come to mind are disappointingly ordinary. You just want to know more about him. Small, silly, personal details, the way he seems to know everything about you.

"Tell me about where you're from," you request, "Your dimension. Your hometown."

He shifts on the bed, lying flat on his back until he’s staring up at the ceiling with you as he reminisces.

"It's called Nueva York. It's significantly more technologically advanced than this dimension. Definitely cleaner. People aren't as big of assholes as they are here. Public hygiene is way better, everything doesn’t reek of piss. Oh, and there’s not a rat epidemic in the public transportation system there."

His head turns to his side to look at your face, and he gives you a small mischievous grin as he continues. "Food is healthier. You don't get junk food there."

The words should be complimentary, but from his tone of voice and what you know of his eating habits, you think it’s probably a win for your dirty, rat-infested dimension.

"Lots of skyscrapers and neon-lights everywhere. It's colorful."

He pauses, as if he's struggling to find anything more to say about the place. Then his head tips to the side, meeting your eyes, and his gaze is soft.

“I'll take you there," he promises, voice quiet and warm and it makes something sweet and honeyed trickle inside your veins pleasantly.

“How?” you wonder.

His smile drops, replaced by an unhappy frown. “Not sure yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t we just open up a portal like last time?”

He shakes his head.

"The last time I took you through the portal, it was meant to take us back to my dimension. But I built the parallel universe traversal device to transport me—and only me—through the multiverse."

He reaches out to you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. The contact makes your skin tingle, but you don’t pull away.

"I wasn't thinking last time. We can’t take the risk of winding up back in the void.”

He’s mumbling now, nearly asleep. His eyes half-shut as he blinks slowly, struggling to keep them open as he slowly blinks.

"Someone that disappears in the void, they'll be erased from existence and out of every timeline. No one will ever remember you or know you existed. It's as if you've never existed at all."

You eye the watch on your wrist. The slight sheen of the bed light reflecting against the shiny glass.

"Can we modify the watch?"

"Firstly, not a watch", he reminds you by rote as he fluffs up his pillow with his arm.

"And second..." he pauses, eyes drifting up to study the ceiling before he shakes his head, "I've tried. It doesn’t work. The power source isn’t powerful and your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed. It’s how we ended up in the void.”

Worry burrows into your chest, and your gaze drops down from his face. It always feels like you’re taking one step forward and ending up two steps back. Futile and hopeless but that’s what you get for trying to fight against the will of the universe.

"Go to sleep," he says again, his hand coming to rest gently on top of your head, "I'll figure it out, don't worry.”

You smile, warmed by the comforting gesture and his reassurance.

“I won't let you get hurt this time."

…‘this time.’

The promise cuts through you like glass. Sharp and jagged and clawing its way into your chest until it hurts you to breathe.

Miguel is talking to you, but you don’t think it’s you he’s thinking of when he says the words.

He attacked Wong without a second of hesitation when he thought you were hurt. He's exhausting himself half to death to protect you. But you know that he’s not really doing any of this for you.

It’s not your comfort he was thinking of when he cradled your burnt hand and gently blew on your fingers. It’s not your love of egg tarts that makes him save the flaky pastries for you when the two of you go out for dinner. It’s not you—has never been you—that he’s seeing whenever his eyes linger on your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

You're riding on the emotional coattails of the other you. The unwavering loyalty that he had for her has transferred to you now that she's gone.

He must have really loved her.

There’s a sharp fissure in your chest, and you try to swallow down the thistle of needles that’s found its way into your throat, only to discover that your saliva tastes sour and bitter.

Closing your eyes, you can see an image of yourself smiling with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. Except it’s not you.

It’s her.

Other-you, with the wedding band and the happy life and– And somehow better hair too, the lucky bitch!

Except… she wasn't lucky, was she? She's dead.

She’s dead, and you still resent her for what she had with Miguel. It's such an ugly feeling.

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, but the image doesn’t go away. Nor does that acrid taste in your mouth. You can't help it. This irrational and childish madness is eating into the edges of your mind. You're envious of your other self.

God that’s fucked up.

Does someone like you even deserve to be saved at all?

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss for all the rubberducking we do together on this silly little story. Thank you so much for sitting with me and making this fun! I love you 234238472938492374923 x infinity and back again.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu

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tearskillstardust · 5 months

Text

; WHAT ARE THESE GENSHIN MEN SO UPSET ABOUT?

— gender-neutral reader. no trigger warning, except well, relationship disappointments?

— GENSHIN MEN WHO GET JEALOUS SO EASILY. men who don't like it when your kindness is directed towards someone who isn't them; when your eyes twinkle at someone else; when you're singing praises for someone in front of them for a little bit too long. who get a bit sad and insecure and frown and give you a shy, yet demanding look as though asking for praises. who turn red when you laugh and hug them and sing their praises, holding them close. who kiss your jaw from their position and smile serenely as they listen to your lovely voice.

— men who like being appreciated from time to time. who would gladly worship you but feel a bit inadequate at times and need verbal reassurance. who also love it when you rub their back through their thin t-shirt. who end up cuddling on the divan and hug you close and end up listening to your mellow heartbeat instead. who want to cuddle you endlessly and then when you are done, start their own poem of everything about you that they have ever loved.

al haitham, wriothesley, tighnari, wanderer, dottore

— GENSHIN MEN WHO WANT TO SPEND ALL THEIR TIME WITH YOU but they have just too much work and responsibilities on their shoulders when the festival season comes. who complete all the work with eagerness only to have another pile dumped right back. who get upset about the increasing lack of time you both have for each other nowadays and how you two are growing more distant physically. who want to take you to the market and boy you jewels and dresses and pamper you but simply can't. who want to run to you midway while working but can't, knowing that you too, would encourage them to do their duties properly.

— men who immediately take a day off as soon as festival season is over. who spend the whole day with you in the much-desired solitude and show you all the love they have. who kiss you all over and take you to your favourite date spots. who buy you all your favourite sweets and blush so hard when you pull out a designer ring for them out of nowhere, giggling about how much it would suit them!

albedo, baizhu, kaeya, capitano

— GENSHIN MEN WHO FEEL THAT YOU'RE LOSING PASSION because you don't even look twice at them after returning from work nowadays. who feel that you aren't that aroused by their soft neck kisses anymore, or by their love-drunk kisses at night. who feel you're losing interest in them. who think that you're moving apart from them, getting too caught up in your own life and cutting them off. who feel so sad when you deny another date night that they don't even want to come back home tonight. who almost cry when they talk to you about it, because they love you so much still.

— and you're so shocked that you take a whole month's break from work, just for them, and go to almost all their favourite places on vacation. paris, london, rome— you name it. and do every activity they've wanted to do with you, whether it be building sandcastles, striding through the serene beach at night, trying your hands at pottery, learning traditional calligraphy or going to art museums. you kiss them passionately under the moonlight, over and over again until it is engraved in their heart and mind that you have only their name carved in your heart.

diluc, kaveh, kazuha, venti

— GENSHIN MEN WHO OVERTHINK WHEN YOU GET ANGRY and say something harsh to them, albeit unintentionally. they try not to let it affect them too much, but the way you are giving them a cold shoulder and not paying them any attention is really making them believe that you meant all that. who feel guilty for having upset you and think of every way to try to get your spirits up, but then simply give up when you won't even look their way.

— men who you hear sobbing once, all alone in the bathroom. they thought that you were away and wouldn't return anytime soon and they really needed to let it all out, really, they never meant to burden you because of their overwhelmed selves and get so sad when they find you getting teary-eyed over their crying. who immediately accept your apology, hell they didn't even need it— they just needed you to talk to them. who talk to you in a frail voice about their doubts, as you absorb every single word, making sure that next time, no matter what happens, you aren't going to block communication however angry you may be.

aether, gorou, neuvillette, thoma, xiao

— GENSHIN MEN WHO LOST THEIR FAVOURITE RING that you had specially got custom-made for them, months ago when they first proposed to you and you wanted to confess everything you thought of them. who turn the whole house upside down to find it despite your protests, telling them that you can always have a duplicate copy made. who notice the slightly disappointed tinge in your gaze and feel so guilty. who cherished that ring so much, kissed it before falling asleep every night and felt so upset over having lost it, the ring you had custom-made for them with so much love and care.

— men who take at least a week to fully accept that the ring is lost and they are apologizing over and over again for hurting your feelings. who don't know how to thank you when you get them another copy. who hold themselves back from saying that the affection, the memory they had connected with the previous ring would never really return. money could buy another ring, not the memories. don't fret though— they'll spend the next few months pleasing you head to toe so much, that you'll end up forgetting that it ever even happened.

itto, cyno, xingqiu, zhongli

— GENSHIN MEN WHO LITERALLY JUST WANT SOME PRIVACY. who are sick and tired of both of your jobs that require you two to always stay in the limelight and always meet and greet someone. who genuinely don't care where they find this privacy— at this rate, even an office room would be fine, but even that is full of clients the whole day long. who just want to press a kiss against your neck and jaw and cleavage but then realize there are other people around and curse under their breath.

— men who lay their claim on you and express their desire as soon as you both are alone, climbing all over you and blushing when you laugh at their eagerness. who cherish every single moment of peace they have with you, even if it is spent just quietly being alone with each other, or idly drinking beverage. whose deepest desire is to take you out to a festival someday, where no one recognizes you two and they can do everything together with you, and kiss you under the fireworks, but even as they're imagining this scenario, another knock comes from the door as it startles them and they are left cursing under their breath.

ayato, childe, heizou, pantalone

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fashionsfromhistory · 14 days

Photo

Custom Dress worn by Elaine Roebuck to her Bat Mitzvah

Christian Dior

Spring 1957

“It all started when I was twelve years old and I wanted a bat mitzvah. My father said absolutely not — girls didn’t have bat mitzvahs in those days,” Roebuck tells me. “My mother rallied for me and finally my father said OK. The next thing I knew, we were on the train to Montreal to look at my dress.”

The dress in question is a silk organdy masterpiece custom designed by Monsieur Christian Dior himself. Dior did not design for children back in ‘57, but he made an exception. “Not just anyone could go in and say ‘whip me up a dress for my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah’ – that wasn’t their business,” says Dr. Alexandra Palmer, the museum’s senior fashion curator. But that’s just what Elaine’s mother, the late Molly Roebuck, did. “She had a motto: If you’re going to do something, you better do it right,” says her daughter. “And in her mind, Dior was just right.” Likely, the exception was made on account of Dior’s relationship with Holt Renfrew, the prestigious high-end retailer with exclusive rights to his collection in Canada back when it launched.

So, with the help of her friend, buyer Betty Macpherson, Roebuck commissioned the dress in Paris. It was to be modest, but fantastical enough for such a special night. After a few months of trading sketches with Dior himself, the muslin models arrived in Montreal, where Dior’s pieces were made-to-measure for the Canadian market. “The dress was dreamlike and it made me think, or maybe even feel, like a princess,” says Roebuck. The end result was a full-skirted silk organdy cocktail dress with daffodil embroidery. As it was a one off, the fabric never appeared in Dior’s collections. “I knew the dress was special, but at the same time, I didn’t think I was different from any of my friends,” she says. (Teen Vogue)

Royal Ontario Museum (Object number: 2013.68.14.1-2)

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quinnlarrabee · 4 days

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Macron's fiery Sorbonne speech targets summering American Millennials

It’s no coincidence that Emmanuel Macron gave a fiery speech about the threats facing Europe the same week that American Millennials in New York, LA, and Miami began talking about booking their one-way flights to the continent. "There is a risk our Europe could die - we are not equipped to face the risks," Macron said, referring to the dietary allergies, alternative milk needs, and tedious conversations of trust-funded, unemployed young adults who will begin their summer in Paris to attend a museum benefit that spills into a large dinner party with several professional photographers before traveling to Puglia, Comporta, or Ibiza where they will subsist on ‘beautiful tomatoes,’ flat whites, and MDMA.

Europe has struggled with illegal immigration for decades, and there is no more pressing illegal immigration threat than American Millennials who have decided that being unemployed in Europe is less distressing for their parents than being unemployed in Williamsburg. Google searches for ‘how long can I stay in EU without passport’ spiked in late-April among Americans who have not yet bought a Portuguese passport from a guy who used to run a turnkey Burning Man camp who is now running a Golden Visa scheme in Lisbon. “Our Europe today is mortal,” Macron said. “It can die and that depends solely on our choices,” the choices being whether or not to search and detain for ketamine at customs and how to clearly define tipping protocol in restaurants.

“It used to be enough to spend a couple weeks in Italy in July,” observes Coco, a 34-year-old retired gallery founder who is on the board of several art-related non-profits that she instructed her unpaid interns to start. “But now it gets so hot in Europe in July that everyone is going in June and even like, May.” Coco has several weddings and dinner parties in various coastal destinations in Europe in June, but she has not yet RSVP’d nor has she booked any travel. “I know I’m going to go, but I’ve just been too busy to look at the dates or book anything,” she says, absently picking some kind of beige matter from the left eye of her toy goldendoodle. Macron at one point asserts in his speech that Europe is “too slow and lacks ambition,” referring directly to Coco’s ambivalent European travel plans.

Uncertainty permeates the vibe in Europe right now, not because of a military threat posed by a giant, angry country with cocked nukes driven by a weak-minded Cold War relic, but because every Millennial in New York, Miami and Los Angeles has expressed their intention to occupy Europe without declaring the targets.

“Is very stressful,” says Aldo Melpignano, the proprietor of Borgo Egnazia, a trendy boutique hotel in Puglia that for Europeans costs €120 a night and charges 30something Americans visiting from coastal zipcodes $970. “I see the hashtags on the Instagram, like, I’m coming for your @borgoegnazia,” he says. “Va bene, Allison, when you gonna come for us, and are you gonna come with that stupid capello?” says Aldo while making a pinched-fingers emoji with one hand and pointing to his head with the other. Hotel, coffee shop, organic market, and narcotics purveyors all over Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal have echoed this desire for more resolute planning and fewer hats from the demographic that funds the less productive but more desirable EU countries.

"We must produce more, we must produce faster, and we must produce as Europeans," Macron said, a rallying cry to European DJs to sample only vocals that were recorded in native European languages.

“Europe must show that it is never a vassal of the United States and that it also knows how to talk to all the other regions of the world," Macron said, refuting the irrefutable fact that Europe has become a summer camp for unproductive younger Americans and suggesting that they be immediately deported to Bodrum or Izmir upon landing at CDG, MXP, and LIS.

“This is a betrayal of our values that ultimately leads us to dependency on other counties,” Macron said, making an observation about Europe’s frustration with having to work between May and August in order to show American Millennials how to correctly tap their credit card on puzzling European payment terminals.

“Europe must become capable of defending its interests, with its allies by our side whenever they are willing, and alone if necessary,” said Macron, in defense of French baristas who do not like working with oat milk. Taking a hands-on approach to ensuring the EU’s “ability to ensure our security” Macron and his wife will begin their Summer at a wedding in the Aeolian Islands in early June, float around Sicily or Puglia the following week, head to Bonjuk Bay for an appearance of prominent LA-based DJ, RICHE, and then couch-surf in Santa Gertrudis de Fruitera the rest of the summer.

#satire #culture #dark humor #social commentary #jokes

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macfrog · 9 months

Text

faire l'amour sex on fire chapter five

alright babies. grab the nearest museum tour guide, don your finest gumball machine jewelry, strap into your lifejackets and get ready to fall in love in paris - we go again one last time. i could've written about these two in france forever; i kinda want them to retire together and just move to europe and live out their days drinking good wine and baking in the sun. anyways hope u enjoy love u bye!!! 💘

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: it’s your last day away with joel. impulses are getting harder to control, feelings are getting harder to hide, and secrets are threatening to spill over…

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, sugardaddy!joel, cursing, mention of oral (m receiving), ostentatious displays of wealth, probably inaccurate french language, jean-marc makes reader feel uncomfortable, some objectification, alcohol consumption, protective!joel, lil bit of fluff, teasing and excessive flirting obv, a Totally Not Romantic boat trip, reader (nervously) shares personal stuff with joel, themes of heartbreak and guilt, reader sort of panics/spirals a little again, daddy kink, facesitting (f receiving), assplay/fingering, softdom!joel, unprotected piv sex, creampie, angst?? kinda??

word count: 9.4k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Come – here,” he says, sterner. Eyes dark, flitting up and down your skin, settling between your legs. You obey him, shuffling further up the mattress until you’re hovering over his face, knees digging into the cushion by his ears. “Sit,” he instructs. You stare blankly at him. Your body doesn’t move. “Wanna taste you again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on your wet core just inches from his lips. “Gonna make you feel better.”

The suite is drowned a milky blue in the morning light. The sky is white – cloud cover as far as you can see. You tug your robe tighter around your body and turn from the window, rounding the bed to join Joel in the bathroom. He’s in the shower, humming some song you’re distantly sure played that night in the dive bar.

You’re meeting Jean-Marc in an hour, in the penthouse of his hotel. He owns four across the city. Joel has told you three things so far: he’s pretentious, he’s a little in your face, and he’s always wearing a blue velvet robe.

He hasn’t told you much more than that.

You click your toothbrush on, and it whirs around your jaw for all of ten seconds before cutting out. Your thumb presses the button twice more, pulling it out of your mouth to find the red light at the base of the handle blinking. Like it’s snickering at you.

“Fuck,” you moan, head tilting back.

“’s wrong?” Joel asks, stepping out of the shower and reaching for his towel.

“My toothbrush just died. Do you have a charger with you?”

He shakes his head, wrapping the towel low over his hips.

“You didn’t bring a toothbrush charger?”

Joel walks around you, eyes never leaving yours in the steamy-edged reflection of the mirror until he’s by your side, when you watch him glance down to you. “Is my toothbrush the one that’s dead, baby?”

You sigh, sliding the brush across the marble countertop.

“Here,” Joel says, chuckling, “just use mine.”

“Uh,” you hold a hand up, grimacing, “no, thanks. Gross.”

“What?”

“You want me to use your toothbrush? That you’ve already used? In my mouth?”

“Same mouth you had wrapped around my dick half an hour ago?”

You stare him down in the mirror, jaw slack with shock, eyes thin. Trying to form words, but he’s smiling so cockily, so amused by the look on your face. He’s proud of that one, ain’t he?

You slap his arm away but snatch the toothbrush from his hand without a word, loading it with toothpaste and flicking the button.

Joel laughs again, nose nudging into your hair as he hooks around you, dappling kisses up your neck, still sticky from the shower. “You look hot when you’re pissed.”

Your words, though muffled by the white, minty foam, are clear enough that they make him laugh even harder. “Fuck off.”

Finding an outfit you think appropriate for breakfast with one of Joel’s rich friends – is Jean-Marc a friend? You don’t know enough about him to call it – whilst also staying in the realm of professional work trip is tough. You want to look nice, look…Parisian, but also look personal assistant. And definitely, definitely avoid looking I’m-sleeping-with-my-boss, by the way.

You settle for a deep red floral dress, split hem running just above your knees, and a pair of white heels that wrap around your ankles. Joel approves, judging by the placement of his hands when he appears behind you in the mirror. You lean back into him as he lifts your skirt, running a light touch up the inside of your thigh, a low growl passing his lips when his fingers meet your lace –

The suite phone jolts you back to reality. Joel sighs, shifting off to answer it.

“Yep?” he says into the receiver. Car’s here, he mouths to you. “Alright, thank you, ma’am.”

He nods toward the door and you follow after him, swinging a clutch under your arm and giving your hair one last toss in the mirror.

“What’s he like?”

“Huh?”

You lean back against the elevator wall, watching the rustic arrow arch across the floors of the hotel. “Jean-Marc. Aside from the blue robe and pretentiousness, what should I expect?”

He clears his throat. Sniffs. “Uh,” he scratches the bridge of his nose, “he’s fine. He’s…You’ll do fine. Don’t overthink it.”

Alright.

But Joel’s being weird. He’s silent when he ushers you into the back of the car, he forgets to put his hand on your thigh until you take his wrist and guide it there, and he doesn’t even hear you when you gasp and point out two white poodles on the street. He barely says a word until you’re being welcomed through a huge golden doorway into a regal penthouse suite, gleaming floors and decorative walls.

Very in-your-face. Very Jean-Marc, going by the little you know.

“Joelie!” he sings, coming over to meet you both with his hands out, shaking Joel’s and patting him roughly on his bicep.

He’s a small man – smaller than Joel, anyway. Hair more salt than pepper. Clean-shaven, pointed chin. And no blue robe, disappointingly. He’s just in a white shirt, unbuttoned far lower than you would’ve left it, had it been up to you, and smart blue trousers. A pair of patterned loafers, too, a huge gold buckle on the top of them.

Joel turns, robotically, to introduce you, and places a hand on the small of your back. You step forward into Jean-Marc’s open arms. He leans in, places a kiss to each cheek, and leans back out, almost like he’s surveying you. Up and down, and back up again. Joel’s hand doesn’t leave your back.

“You are the assistant,” Jean-Marc remarks, clapping his hands. “How beautiful! You are much too beautiful to be in such a boring job. Blegh.”

You laugh, not entirely sure why. Probably nerves. Sometimes it’s easier to laugh uncomfortable moments off, makes them pass quicker, though it pisses you off. Joel’s hand presses a little into your skin, you feel his fingers grip around the material of your dress.

“We are eating on the terrace.” Jean-Marc steps away, fingers snapping to beckon you both forward. “It has a fantastic view of the city, doesn’t it, Joel?”

Joel smiles, but doesn’t say anything. You fucking wish he would. Why is he so quiet?

You both follow Jean-Marc outside, sun peeking weakly through the clouds onto the paved patio, fenced by an intricate wrought iron railing, and covered in what looks like a jungle of vibrant green plants. He leads you over to a huge glass table, set with spotless white crockery and shining silver cutlery, wine glasses at each setting.

“Please,” he holds his hands out, “sit.”

Joel pulls one of the chairs out and looks to you, waiting for you to slide into it. When you do, you watch as he sits silently next to you. And then he finally fucking does it.

His hand slips onto your thigh under the table. Gives the top of your knee a gentle squeeze. The relief washes over you like waves of cold water on a scorching day. Your lungs fill with air and your shoulders relax.

“So, you have worked for Joel for…how long?” Jean-Marc asks, pouring his first glass of wine. He holds the bottle up to you and Joel and you both hold your palms up in unison, opting for the freshly squeezed orange juice instead.

You answer politely – you answer all of his questions politely, with a tight smile on your lips that hurts when you hold it for too long. He asks what you do for Joel, whether you like it much, how you’re finding your trip to Paris. All the while, Joel sits beside you, feeling more stone than human, observing, listening and grunting in answer anytime Jean-Marc makes reference to him.

On your host’s second glass of wine, a flurry of waiters in all white spawn from the penthouse and lay dishes of extravagant food before you. Eggs benedict is about the only thing you recognize, aside from the toast in the rack in the middle of the table, and a bowl of fresh cut fruit beside it.

A tall, black-haired assistant swings over to Jean-Marc when he clicks his fingers, craning around the old man like a raven perched on his shoulder.

“Ce serait bien d’avoir un joli visage comme celui-ci travailler avec nous, non?” Jean-Marc utters in the man’s ear, and they laugh. A little too hard. Laughter that hits your ear like a foul ball.

You decide to break your porcelain polite smile, laughing with the two men. The tall man straightens and glides off behind the table, and Jean-Marc wipes the corners of his mouth before turning to you.

“So,” he says again, another question approaching, “what did you study? At university?”

“Business management,” you reply neatly, lifting your glass.

Jean-Marc’s head wobbles in a nod as he cuts into his meal.

“And French.”

Joel chokes into his glass of orange juice. “Sorry,” he sputters, coughing into his fist, covering a laugh. “Sorry.”

You mask your own smile behind your drink, the sound of Joel choking on his juice making your shoulders shudder with a giggle which escapes in short bursts through your nose.

Jean-Marc’s eyebrows rise, amused and…fascinated. “Even better, hm?”

Joel’s still clearing the orange juice from his airway. Patting his lips with his own napkin. He pauses and his hands fall to his lap when Jean-Marc asks, “Where have you been hiding her, Joel?”

You wince. It’s a gross question, it is. And you know Joel thinks so, too, maybe even worse by his reaction. He sucks in a deep, sudden breath, eyes narrowing toward Jean-Marc. His chest rises and falls abruptly, jaw clenches tight. And then his hand is back on your leg, and you quickly lay yours atop, softly squeezing it. It’s fine. It’s fine.

His thumb strokes your fingers lightly, but he doesn’t react more than that. He doesn’t say much for the remainder of the meal, either. Just cuts pieces of egg and bacon roughly and – though this might just be you knowing him well enough – pretty aggressively, dragging them off of his fork with gritted teeth.

You keep up lighthearted conversation with Jean-Marc; the weather, your flight (at least the PG parts of it), how much of Paris you’ve seen since you landed. You study him when he’s not staring you down, watch the way his delicate fingers slice through his food, throwing it into his mouth in tiny pieces and humming to himself as he looks around at the skyline.

He’s like a mouse. Like some small creature with enough brains and quick wit to keep you on your toes. Everything is like a dance – you find yourself picking up on nuances in his conversation, words which point one way and yet, a shift in tone which points in the complete opposite.

It’s always when that tone shifts, and your eyebrows pull together, polite façade slipping some, that you find yourself leaning more into Joel. And he’s there each time. Steady as a rock, quiet, watchful and protective. A scent that comforts you, grounds you anytime you begin to feel yourself floating off with one of Jean-Marc’s stories.

“Madame,” a voice murmurs behind you, and you turn to find the raven man stood over you like a shadow. He hooks his fingers, nodding over to the edge of the terrace.

“Ah, yes,” Jean-Marc nods, “go, please. My assistant will be happy to show you the view. It is a panoramic view of Paris.”

You nervously stand, letting go of Joel’s hand. He watches you follow the tall figure over to the black railing, where he points to landmarks you’ve already seen from your own terrace. When his ghostly finger points out the Arc de Triomphe, you sneak a glance over your shoulder back to Joel.

Jean-Marc is now sat in your chair, leaning into Joel and talking at him. Chittering, like a bird in his ear. Joel’s face is flat, he looks thoroughly unimpressed at whatever the hell Jean-Marc’s saying. Looks pissed, if you’re honest.

Suddenly Jean-Marc leaps from the seat and claps his hands, announcing that he’d like to take you and Joel on a drive. But as soon as he’s finished the sentence, Joel’s broad figure is standing up to height beside him, towering over him.

“Actually, we, uh…we have other plans today. Maybe some other time.”

He nods quickly to you and you almost throw yourself to him in response. You collect your bag from the table and line yourself beside Joel, nodding graciously to Jean-Marc and thanking his assistant for showing you the view.

“Anytime,” Jean-Marc says, taking your free hand. “It was wonderful to meet you. I hope that we will again soon.”

Before you can respond, Joel’s dragging you off the terrace and through the penthouse, muttering, “Thanks,” as you pass more servers into the elevator again.

“What’s wr–?”

“Nothing,” he cuts in, exhaling when the doors close over. His stare won’t lift from the floor. “Nothing.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. It’s nothing.”

“Ooookay,” you reply, lifting your eyebrows. The elevator plummets; you both fall into silence with it. Joel’s shifting between feet, arms crossed, hands tightly squeezing into his upper arms.

“What’s next, then?” you ask, trying to crack him.

His shoulders rise with the breath he takes. “Nothing, baby.”

“Stop that. Answer me, Miller.”

A smile pulls at his lips. “I am answerin’. I got nothin’ for the rest of the day. I’m all yours.”

The elevator stops and slides open. Joel leads you out through the lobby, toward the front door through which you can see Denis’s car waiting.

“Then, why aren’t we flying home today? Why wait until tomorrow? I thought you had big work stuff all weekend.”

“Because. I didn’t wanna come here just to work. Why’d you think I brought you here, if I was just gonna work the entire time?”

You toss him a look and he laughs.

“Alright, no,” he says, opening the car door for you. “I wanted to spend time with you, darlin’.”

You scoff, settling in the backseat. “Hi, Denis!”

Denis nods in the mirror to you, cheeks plump with his warm smile, then looks to Joel. “Where to?”

Joel turns to you. Lifts his eyebrows, opens his hands.

“Wh–? Me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “where d’you wanna go, pretty girl? We’ll do whatever you want.”

You stare at him, a little dumbfounded. But then he smiles again, so sincere, so gentle, and you fold.

Since you were a kid, old enough to hold a pencil, you drew. Crayon doodles of you and your mom stuck to the refrigerator turned to being hunched over a sketchbook in art class, wrist aching by the end of the day when you’d rush home with it between your fingers to show her what you’d drawn. And that turned to tiny sketchbooks you’d carry in your purse for when college became too boring, sneaking them out to draw the face of the professor, stern lines in black ink as she detailed the components of a business model. And that turned to an entire corner in your apartment dedicated to canvases and paints, sketching pencils and watercolor inks – your very own little studio for whenever you had the time.

It'd been on your bucket list probably since that first crayon made its way into your little hands. You imagined wandering around for the day, drinking in all the art, marveling at the size of some of the paintings, walking two, three times around the sculptures. Seeing the Mona Lisa.

“The Louvre?” you ask Joel, tilting your head.

“The Louvre, Denis,” he says, and takes your hand in his.

----------

It’s like a dream. You’re sure you’ve looped the same rooms twice, maybe three times over. And it still doesn’t feel real.

Joel’s been following you the whole time, his fingers intertwined with yours – watching as you lean as close as possible to each painting, eyes studying the detail intently, and then back again, taking it in in its entirety; pointing to the tiny plaques with the information on each piece, reading them to you as you muse over each one.

Your neck aches from turning all over the place as you walk around, looking from wall to wall, up to the ceiling panels, ornate in gold and bursting with colorful, dreamy paintings of the skies.

When you reach the Mona Lisa, you queue for twenty minutes. Joel stands by your side the entire time, one arm comfortably slung around your back as you meander across the wooden floor toward the glass case. He asks you which piece has been your favorite so far; you tell him the one right after he almost got hit on the head by some kid with a selfie stick. He lowers his brows and shakes his head at the memory, and you hit his chest playfully, trying to conceal your laughter from his grumpy face.

When you reach the center of the painting, the enigmatic face staring straight back at yours, Joel taps your shoulder.

You spin around.

He’s holding his phone up, leaning back to get both you and the soft-smiling face behind you in shot.

“Joel,” you laugh, and he waves his hand.

“Smile,” he tells you.

And you do. You prop one elbow on the wooden barrier, lean in to the frame like you’re snapping a pic with a best friend, and push your cheeks up. The camera shutter sound echoes from his phone, and he brings it down, checking over the picture.

“Cheesy,” you mutter, leaning in to get a better look at your upside-down face.

“She’s beautiful,” he replies with a smirk, scooping you off to round the room toward the exit.

You glance back at the Mona Lisa, arm linking with Joel’s. “She is, right?”

He doesn’t respond. When you turn back, he’s smiling to himself, eyes on the floor.

You click alongside him in your heels, weaving between tourists taking photos and guides showing groups of wide eyes and slack jaws around. As you pass them, Joel leans in close to you.

“I don’t wanna take you away from all this,” he utters, “but I got somethin’ booked for us.”

“Somethin’ booked?”

He nods. Hands you a guilty look, and asks, “Mind if we call it a day?”

You shake your head, a little more enthusiastically than you meant to, but you’re trying to tell him you don’t mind. At all. Whatsoever. He’s paid for this entire trip, and apparently has more instore. What you feel right now is the complete opposite of minding.

You let him take you back up the escalators and out of the museum.

Denis sits by the curb, waiting for you both like he always is. He drives you, hand in hand, around the city to the edge of the Seine, where Joel leads you out of the car and begins strolling down the riverside.

The early evening sun bounces along the water, reflecting ochre and amber in gentle ripples. Your arms cross over one another, hands rubbing the cold skin above your elbows, and without a word, Joel pulls his jacket off and sits it loose over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you whisper, as he wanders along beside you. “So, where we goin’?”

“You’ll see,” he says, smiling. “You really loved it in there, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nod, nudging into him, “thank you for taking me.”

“Didn’t know you were artsy. You knew your stuff.”

“You don’t know a lot about me, do you?”

There’s something in his eyes when he looks back at you. Words behind them that he thinks twice about letting slip. Instead, he says, “You keep surprisin’ me.”

You’re walking under the shade of a line of trees, benches sat in between each trunk holding couples enjoying the view, families snapping photos. You turn to watch a couple of kids run by, hoping that by the time you turn back, your cheeks are a little less red.

“Hm,” you muse, “I always wanted to be an artist. A painter. Wanted to sell my stuff, make money turning people into portraits. It was my stupid little pipedream.”

“’s not stupid. Not a pipedream, either.”

“You haven’t seen my stuff.”

“Alright, then show it to me.”

You scoff, tightening your grip around your body. “Maybe. Maybe when we’re back home.”

“Holdin’ you to it.”

You smirk, brushing the hair out of your face. “What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Your pipedream. You wanted to be a businessman your whole life?”

Joel’s eyes are fixed on the pathway in front, widening a little as he nervously laughs. “I, uh…Not my whole life, no.”

“What was it before, then?”

He seems to stiffen. Runs his fingers through his hair, unglues his eyes from the ground and looks across the water. “Me ‘n my…my brother, we had this idea to buy a ranch. Raise sheep, cattle, few horses maybe. Out in the country, y’know? Looked into a few places, but…I guess life got in the way.”

Joel Miller, a farmer. Moreover, Joel Miller, a brother. How come, in three years of knowing him better than most, you never knew he had a brother?

He answers awkwardly when you ask. “Just don’t see ‘im much, is all. He lives out west.”

His gaze falls again and you know that’s as much as you’re going to be able to draw from him. Know he’s keeping that particular card close to his chest.

You turn back to the view ahead, eyes flitting from bench to bench as you pass, catching on something in the distance. Something small, red, tucked behind one of the uniform trees. The glass sphere atop it shines in the wilting sunlight.

“Hey.” You take Joel’s elbow, dragging him over to it.

“A gumball machine? What are you, ten?”

“’s not gumballs. It’s a lucky draw. Like, toys ‘n stuff.”

“Alright, what are you, five? C’mon.”

You stay where you’re standing, crouched to look inside the glass dome at the small multicolored balls, each one filled with a tiny prize. “Joooel,” you groan, and he turns back.

“Baby, we’re gonna be–”

“You said we do whatever I want. I want a fuckin’ toy outta the French gumball machine.”

His lips widen, ready to say something back, and then he thinks better of it. You know him, and, equally, he knows you. You won’t walk away from this damn machine, no matter what he says.

“You know what…?” He steps forward, fishing in his pocket for change. “I notice I’m payin’ again, by the way. First the jukebox, now this.”

You clear your throat, lower your voice, and mimic his Southern drawl, repeating what he said in the Gucci store yesterday. “All expenses paid, baby.”

Joel lifts a finger, pointing at you. His voice is short. A warning. “Cut that.”

He slots a euro in the silver contraption and steps back, holding a hand out for you to do the heavy lifting. You leap forward, twist the lever, and a small red ball rolls down the chute, falling into your open hands.

For a man who wasn’t interested in the machine ten seconds ago, Joel leans in pretty quick to watch you pop open the plastic ball.

“A ring!” you exclaim, slipping the ruby ring from its globe and holding it up in the light.

“It’s plastic. It’s a plastic kids ring.”

You slap his chest. “I like it.”

Joel shakes his head and takes your wrist, pulling you further along the river’s edge as you survey the newest addition to your jewelry collection. It’s tiny – he’s not wrong about that – and it only just fits on your pinkie finger, but you wear it proudly as you follow him along the cobbled pathway to…

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Joel turns, smug grin on his face. “Nope!” he calls, stepping down onto the bank to a private fucking boat.

“You have a jet and a boat? Tryna kill the planet one form of transportation at a time, aren’t you, Miller?”

He snorts, helping you down alongside him. “I rented it, and you’re fuckin’ welcome. Thought it’d be a nice way to end the trip.”

“It is nice,” you concede, feeling a little embarrassed. “It is. I’m just…You said I keep surprising you.”

He holds his arm out as you step over the edge of the varnished wooden boat, wobbling a little when you land. A man in a navy button up greets you, shows you down a couple steps where there’s a white leather couch and a table, bucket of champagne sat on top.

“Damn…” you whisper, feeling Joel’s weight behind you.

“We can get back off, though, if you wanna go play some more with the gumball machine.”

You roll your head back to look at him and he smiles. Gleeful. Like a little kid.

Probably like you did, when you uncovered your ruby ring.

Different strokes for different folks.

Joel settles back against the leather couch and you stand, looking down at him for a second before he’s gesturing you to join. The boat sets off as you shuffle in beside him, leaning back until your body’s encased in his, his arm wrapped around your waist, hands interlinked at your tummy.

You lean your head back against his shoulder, watching Paris sail by, feeling the cool breeze as it whips across the surface of the river and lands gently on your face, and smelling Joel all over you. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet, and it’s still, and it’s…totally not romantic at all.

None of this should be romantic. None of it should have your heart skipping beats, praying Joel can’t feel them through his fucking coat still on your shoulders.

So why does your breath catch when he leans down and quietly asks if you’re okay?

“Yeah,” you say in a choked voice, feeling his beard scratching your ear. “I’m g–I’m good.”

You’re thankful when he gives you something else to think about, in the form of a question: “You like the view from Jean-Marc’s terrace?”

Your shoulders jerk with a laugh. “Ha. It’s not as nice as ours.”

“Nah. That assistant guy say much to ya?”

“No. Why would he?”

Joel shrugs. “No reason.”

He says it like there is a reason, though. Like your answer caught him off guard. He was expecting you to say something else.

You draw shapes in the palm of his hand. “You gonna tell me what Jean-Marc said to you yet?”

“Nope. None of your business, pretty girl.”

You smile. “He was alright, you know. Bit on the nose, but he had a cool outfit. Cool plants, too.”

You feel the rumble of Joel’s response on your back – the way his chest vibrates with the noise he makes. A typical Joel grumble, a Yeah, but also no. There’s a tension between you two, some sort of roadblock with the name Jean-Marc scrawled into it. It feels awkward, and sticky, and those are things you’ve never felt before with Joel.

His fingers are twirling the ruby ring on your finger, round and round. Your eyes fix on the way the sun lights the plastic gem, burning it into your corneas before your brain finally forces something out in attempt to break that weird wall down.

“Bet Martha hangs me out to dry for this when we get back,” you snort, “I can hear her now: Two different rings off a’ two different men!”

Joel’s fingers stop. You feel his cheek turn, his jaw brushing against the side of your head.

“Two rings?” he asks.

Fuck. Wrong thing to say. Fuck.

“I, uh…You know. That was just a joke.”

“What d’you mean two different men?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

“I meant, like…I meant…”

You sigh and sit up straight. You meant what you said before: there’s a lot Joel doesn’t know about you. One huge thing in particular, that you only happened to share with Martha one night after Joel had left the office – the two of you working late, checking off a to-do list the length of your arm and relying on caffeine to stay awake. Sharing stories and secrets in the dark office, freeing skeletons you figured you’d never have the guts to let roam in daylight.

Well, you just hammered the whole closet down. Accidentally.

“If I tell you this, it’s between us, okay?”

Joel clasps his hands. Nods once. “And Martha.”

“…Yeah, and Martha. Whatever. She doesn’t know very much about it, anyways. But no one else. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“’cause I don’t like to talk about it much.”

“Baby. I got it.”

The words are drawn from your lips like blood from a stone. They’re heavy, come tumbling out of your mouth like they’re made of lead.

“I…I was…engaged. Years ago.”

“Right.” Joel points to your ruby ring. “I got that much from the rings part.”

You sigh again. Why is this so fucking hard? It’s only Joel.

But then: it’s Joel.

“Not for long, or anything. It was a kind of high school sweetheart thing. We were together for, like, six years – all through senior year and college. Blake Carter. He studied, um, computer science. And on the night we graduated, he proposed. Right on campus, right on the quad. Had this big diamond ring, I think it was his grandma’s, or something.”

“And you said yes?”

“Well, I– Yeah, I said yes.”

Somewhere in the conversation, you’ve leaned back down, back against Joel’s body. Head turned into him, eyes scanning the riverbank, watching the buildings and the trees and the people pass by. You barely even notice until he shifts, clears his throat, and asks:

“’n then…it ended?”

“I ended it. Two days later, I…ended it,” you repeat, with a certain nod. A definite nod, like you’re still trying to convince yourself that yeah, you ended it, and yeah, it was the right thing to do. All these years later.

“Why?” he asks, earnestly. There’s no judgement in his voice, no prying. He just wonders.

“Um…” You shift now, tossing answers over in your head before you land on one that makes you think fuck it. “Just…realized I was more turned on by the degree in my hand than I was by the man on one knee in front of me.”

It draws a laugh from Joel’s lips. A laugh that vibrates through his chest, through your back, and pulls a smile across your lips.

“I was,” you say, holding back a nervous giggle, “I know that’s bad, but I was.”

“And you said yes to ‘im anyway?”

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Said yes in the moment ‘cause I didn’t wanna look like an asshole, but…well, you’re an asshole either way, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Joel mumbles, and you almost slap him playfully. But then he says, “You’re an asshole,” with a sarcastic dryness, and you realize he’s not teasing, he’s disagreeing. Genuinely disagreeing.

You sit up again and turn to face him. “I’m not an asshole if I say no to someone asking me to marry them?”

He’s just as defensive as you are. “Not if you don’t want to. What’s asshole about that?”

“Joel, he was on his knees with a ring in his hand.”

“And you didn’t want to marry him. Big deal. I’m sure he found some other girl who wanted that ring on her finger instead, didn’t he?”

You scoff, turning away to look out over the water. He’s being blunt about it, a little uncalled for, but he’s not wrong. You tell him as much.

“He married some girl I don’t know. All I know is she works at some firm, and now they have a son. I check his Facebook every now and then. They just got back from Hawaii with his parents. He cut his foot on something at the beach.”

Joel keeps up the sarcasm. “Sounds like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun there.”

There are a million thoughts racing through your head. More you want to tell him; more you feel the need to confess. More to justify what you did, more to explain yourself and convince him that, sure, you broke Blake’s heart, but now he has a wife and a kid, and he seems happier. And you’re happier, too, so it wasn’t that bad after all.

But Joel doesn’t expect it of you. None of it. He doesn’t make any snide remarks, doesn’t ask questions that frame it as if it were all just one big bout of insane impulsivity. Just accepts what you’ve told him, takes it in with a nod of his head, and then stops talking about it.

He’s so fucking nonchalant it drives you crazy. Everything just is what it is.

Defeated, tired, and quite frankly stunned by how little anything you say seems to bother him, you quietly stare at the water, the yellow orbs of light from the street above bobbing in the black reflection.

Then Joel takes a deep breath, squeezes your knee and asks, “Wanna go get some dinner?”

“Yeah,” you nod gratefully, “that’d be nice.”

It’s a short walk back to the hotel once you’re off the boat – back along the riverside and down a couple of small, quiet streets. Joel holds your hand the entire time and, when you complain about them hurting, carries your heels for you.

Your eyes stay glued to the sidewalk, watching your shadow as you pass under orange streetlights. Your figure, barefoot, skirt swaying as you walk, hand linked to Joel’s, his frame taller and wider, a pair of heels dangling from his right hand.

He orders room service. You vote for pizza, and within twenty minutes, Joel’s bringing it through to where you lay on the bed, already stripped down, makeup wiped off, wrapped in your bathrobe. He made you put the Bart Simpson socks back on. Said they were the comfiest ones you own, baby, he’d chuckled. They’re rolled halfway up your leg, his impish grin on full display.

You pick up a slice of pizza as Joel scrolls through the channels on the TV, eventually settling for American Pie before he lays back alongside you. You blow on the piping hot cheese and take a bite.

“Nice?” Joel asks.

“Mhm,” you reply, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “’s hot.”

He leans over and hits a switch on the wall above the bed, drowning you both in the dull dusk seeping in from outside – aside from the screen which lights Joel’s face in a pale white, like moonlight. There’s a wash of warm light creeping in from the hallway, futilely clawing its way across the walls by the bedroom door but dying on the beige surface when it meets the glow of the TV. Like the sun and the moon blending together. Like day and night mixing right in front of you.

When you’ve had enough pizza, Joel shifts the golden tray from the bed onto the floor, flopping back down on the springy mattress with a sigh. You lay back, upper arm brushing against his, cheek leaning on the tip of his shoulder. It jumps every now and then whenever something funny happens onscreen and Joel snickers. You’d be laughing, too, if you were paying attention, but Joel’s voice is still echoing around your ears.

Sounds like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun there.

Sure. A lot of fun. Slipping that diamond ring onto your finger, and waiting for his grass-stained knees to lift him back up to you to kiss him on the mouth and say Yes over and over, and then run back to your friends and show off the ring and clink champagne glasses, and then go pick a huge, obnoxiously white dress that makes your mother cry and girls you haven’t spoken to since middle school comment on your Facebook posts –

Joel murmurs something with a laugh and your eyes find the screen again; Stifler just walked in on his mom and Finch. It holds your attention for all of three seconds, before you’re back to picturing maple trees swaying and his suit trousers stained green and thumbs on your knuckles and –

– and then meet him at the end of a ridiculously long aisle covered in rose petals, and swell with his kid inside you and raise it and convince yourself that you love it despite the puke and the piss and then stand bouncing it on your hip in an emergency room while it screams the fucking roof down, all the while your boring, bland husband has the sole of his foot sewn up after two weeks playing card games with his even more boring, bland parents and hearing about their neighbor’s new Prius and why it’s not actually any better for the environment, that’s just what the companies tell you to get their claws into you and –

“Baby, you–”

A whole lot of fucking fun.

“–okay?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

Joel’s sitting up. The film’s paused. He’s staring at you, eyebrows arched, hand on your arm.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

He tugs on your arm and pulls you up to him, hand cupping your face as he studies you intently.

The sun’s setting outside, washing the sky a faded pink which dies out as it climbs higher. The city’s lights blink at you, like a million eyes peering in from a distance.

“Where’d you go?” he asks.

“Nowhere,” you lie.

“Went somewhere. You were starin’ off into space.”

“I didn’t go anywhere. I’m watchin’ the movie.”

But he’s looking from your lips to your eyes, passing across the bridge of your nose as he goes. And you can feel the heat from his body even through two layers of terrycloth, can practically feel his pulse through the huge, steady hands he has resting along your jaw. And there’s a feeling brewing in your stomach – like pain and hurt that mixes up and confuses itself for longing – which drifts further down until it’s an ache between your legs. And that feels easier to deal with, simpler to untangle. Especially when Joel’s right fucking here.

“Just…c’mere,” you breathe, pushing his shoulders back down onto the bed and leaning over him, legs parted.

You want him to fix it. Fix you. Use his hands, and his lips, and his body to make you better. Kiss away any memories of Blake, and that fucking ring, and the way his face twisted when you told him you were leaving. Do more than just kiss them away – tear them from your mind with his teeth on your skin, each mark he leaves just more evidence of your belonging to someone else, someone new.

Someone you wouldn’t recognize if you met her five years ago.

“Baby,” Joel whispers into your mouth, kissing you back as roughly as you’re kissing him. His hands come up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as you fumble with the belt of his robe and tug it open.

His lip still on yours, he hauls the shoulders of your robe down, the curve of your breasts spilling out over the white fabric. You sit up and untie the belt, shaking it off yourself properly before you’re back on him, pulling his arms free from his sleeves and pinning them down on the mattress.

“Let me – fuck you,” you breathe, grinding your core down on his already bricked length.

Joel’s hands rest on your hips; he’s looking up at you almost awestruck. Words stopping short in his throat.

“Need to fuck you,” you repeat, cunt slipping around him. “Need it, daddy.”

“Alright, babygirl,” he says finally, hips moving in time with yours. There’s a look in his eye that makes you think he knows what you’re doing, understands every one of your thoughts and worries without need to voice them. “I got you. I’m all yours. Just – come here.”

His hands scoop under your ass, lifting you from his waist, and he tilts his chin up. Pushes on the back of your thighs, nudging you further up his body.

“Joel,” you breathe, and his fingers squeeze into your skin.

“Come – here,” he says, sterner. Eyes dark, flitting up and down your skin, settling between your legs.

You obey him, shuffling further up the mattress until you’re hovering over his face, knees digging into the cushion by his ears.

“Sit,” he instructs.

You stare blankly at him. Your body doesn’t move.

“Wanna taste you again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on your wet core just inches from his lips. “Gonna make you feel better.”

He angles his jaw up again, almost like he’s desperately reaching out for your body, and this time, you meet him halfway. Widen your legs, lower your hips until his lips are on you, and you fold forward with a gasp.

Your left hand hits the mattress above his head, right lowers to grip his hair. Joel’s arms wrap around your thighs, a tight, inescapable hold as his mouth opens wider, tasting more and more of you with each stroke of his tongue.

His tongue which dips inside of you, collecting your slick and fucking you gently, soft and wet and warm. He’s groaning as he tastes you, a low moan which vibrates against your cunt and elicits a similar sound from the bottom of your throat.

You need this. You fucking need this. Need the distraction, need the attention. Need to push every thought out of your brain for five minutes, replace them with pure pleasure. Replace them with Joel.

You’re grinding, rutting against his mouth as your knees slacken, all of your weight held up by your one palm splayed out on the bed, fingers curling around the sheets as you’re edged closer and closer to your high by Joel’s lips.

His hands become rougher, moving up to hold your ass, squeezing the soft skin until he’s running his hands between your cheeks, fingers pushing on that same sensitive muscle as last night.

“Fuck–” You jolt with a gasp, head rolling back in pleasure, core rocking hard against his lips.

Joel mutters a, “’s okay, babygirl,” and cups his mouth around your clit. He nudges one finger against your tight hole, pushing in slowly, and that feeling overcomes you all over again – your body pulling him in, throbbing around him, cutting your breath short and shocking you motionless until he removes his finger.

You whine, opening your eyes and catching a hazy glimpse of the ceiling for one second before he’s inserting two fingers, tight together, drawing a loud cry from your lips.

“’attagirl,” he mumbles against your cunt, only coming up for air long enough to utter that one word before his lips are back on your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue across the sensitive bud as his fingers push deeper.

You pant, whimper a weak, “Daddy…” while Joel moves faster. “’m gonna cum,” you whisper, and you feel him nod under your vice grip, encouraging you to fall.

Your hips move in time with your chest, heaving with the breaths escaping your lips as he pulls you down harder, heavier on his mouth. He’s fucking covered – beard soaked in your arousal, swollen lips pressed against yours, moving, kissing, fucking you so good you start to feel lightheaded.

“Keep – going – daddy, fuck, yeah…”

The feeling starts between your shoulder blades. A sparkling, tickling feeling, creeping up your neck and wrapping around your body, warm and snug. Running across your bare chest, focusing on your hard nipples, and then plummeting down between your legs like a bullet, coming to a climax right where Joel’s lips are.

You scream out, your right hand forced from his dark hair to hold yourself up as your orgasm bears down on you. Your hips grind against his mouth, rocking back and forth as your body is overcome with sensation, with pleasure, with him.

Joel moans beneath you, your soaking cunt all over his tongue, giving you both what you each should’ve had yesterday, before he cut it short.

You figure he’ll never do that again. Never deprive you of it again, never deprive himself of it again. The sounds he’s making, the way his jaw shudders around you, it’s like he’ll never again be able to go a day in his life without tasting you, without feeling you contract on top of him, your sweet release washing over him like an oasis.

And you figure you won’t, either. Won’t ever stop thinking about this feeling, replaying it over and over in your mind. Your legs draped over his shoulders, his face beneath you. His hand massaging your ass, fingers curving somewhere deep inside you. Dragging your hips across his open mouth, his nose bumping gently on your clit as you come down.

Your orgasm fading into gentle ripples of pleasure, Joel slips his fingers out of you and you push yourself off of him, sliding back down until you’re straddling his naked waist again. His hard cock brushes against the curve of your ass when you settle.

“That better?” he asks, voice rough and strained. “You get what you needed?”

“Mhm,” you moan, flicking your hips and running your sensitive folds up and down his shaft.

In an instant, he’s got you in his arms, flipping you over and throwing you down on your back, bouncing on the soft mattress beneath you.

With a squeal, you take hold of his shoulders, smiling as he lowers his jaw and trails wet kisses along your neck, stopping when his lips line with your ear.

“Gonna let me do my job now, pretty girl?”

“Yeah, daddy,” you purr as he lines up. He’s so fucking turned on, so hard that you’ll be surprised if he lasts two minutes.

But then he pushes in, slow, and you realize he’s not looking just to cum. He’s not chasing any kind of high. He wants to feel you, wants you to feel him, too. He wants to really fuck you. Properly. If you were reading into it any deeper than just sex, you’d swear he wanted to answer your silent request. You’d swear he wanted to fuck the pain away.

You both groan, your wet soaking him, his thickness already pushing you open before he’s even halfway inside. He holds you steady by the hips, filling you up inch by inch, your back curling more and more the further he goes until you’re chest to chest and full of him.

You’re so tight, and he’s so fucking big, that feeling him inside you at this angle steals the air straight from your lungs. Your mouth lies open in a silent moan, your brows knitted together.

“Take it, baby,” he groans, arms scooping around your shoulders as he starts to slowly pump in and out. His expression mirrors yours. “Know you can take it all.”

“Joel – fuck – daddy – right there,” you’re whimpering, forehead stuck to Joel’s, eyes flitting from his lips to his dark lashes.

“Yeah?” he pants.

“Yeah,” you repeat, “keep doing that.”

His hips drive deeper, still hitting the same spot, same pace, only harder, with more weight behind it, sending you into a dizzy blur of pleasure and pain. He takes one of your hands in his, lifting it to pin it down on the sheets above your head; your free arm wrapping around his shoulder, pulling him closer.

Something digs into the skin around your little finger, something sharp. You hiss, craning your head up – noticing Joel doing the same – and your eyes land on your little ruby ring, still wrapped tight around your pinkie, digging marks into yours and Joel’s hands with each movement.

When your chin lowers again, face to face, he presses his lips to yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue – you and Joel, your bodies and your wet, mixing as one between breaths and whines and whispers of one another’s name. You moan into his mouth, his hips smacking into you quicker now.

It’s working – whatever the fuck he’s doing. He’s driving every thought straight out of your mind before it’s even settled. Scaring them all away, sending them back to the shadows. You’re overcome by him – the sound of him, the feel of him, the smell and sight and taste of him.

And he’s sent spiraling by you – every sound which passes your lips is echoed by Joel; your gasps filter into growls from behind clenched teeth, your whimpers translate into groans from the bottom of his throat.

His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time; whispers of praise make the short journey between your lips – ‘atta fuckin’ girl, my good girl, look so pretty like this, feels good, doesn’t it? They pass your own desperate mutterings on their way – all the places you need him, all the ways you want him to do it. Harder, daddy, faster, fuckin’ me so good.

And then you’re pulling him in in more ways than one, clenching around him, feeling him twitch deep inside you. You’re both right there, right on the other side of that thin glass pane.

“Want – to,” you pant, “to cum – together.”

Joel nods, glancing down to watch where your bodies connect, where his hips push into yours, his cock burying deep between your legs.

“You ready, babygirl?” he asks, eyes still glued to your sex.

“Uhuh,” you moan, head falling back.

“Show me,” he whispers, lifting his head and taking your neck in his teeth. “Show me how good it feels.”

The glass pane shatters. Joel takes you in his arms and sends the two of you hurtling through it.

You scream out, knees pull together around his waist, pussy clenches tight around his cock which throbs, shooting cum somewhere deep inside you.

His head falls limp in the crook of your shoulder, the moan which escapes his mouth vibrating off of your body – your name laced through a whine driving into your hot skin.

And he stays there, for what feels like hours, just lying on top of you, chest meeting yours when your lungs fill, and unsticking when you exhale. His length relaxing, still deep inside you; face still buried in your soft skin, glistening with sweat, lips pressing barely-there kisses in the curves of your collarbone whenever he musters the energy.

He’s still panting. Shoulders rising almost violently, jumping when you ghost your fingers over them. You run your nails through his hair, soaked with sweat, and massage his head, pulling another whimper from Joel’s lips. His head turns, lips against your ear, glazed eyes fluttering open to stare at the city view.

“You okay?” you ask the quiet dark.

There’s nothing between you. No clothes, no sheets, no air, nothing. The room feels huge; you and Joel feel tiny. Lost in your own little world, lying in the blue hue of the still image on the flatscreen. Feeling your hearts thrumming against one another, like they’re communicating through the walls of your chests. Like they’re exchanging words you two haven’t heard of yet. Haven’t learned the meanings of.

“Yeah,” Joel eventually whispers, voice muffled by the way his lips press against your skin. “Never been better.”

----------

Late in the morning, Joel passes you his toothbrush without a word. Without some dumb joke to go with it. Likewise, you take it silently. Rinse it once, load it with toothpaste, and flick the button. He kisses the crown of your head and leaves you alone in the bathroom.

You feel split open. Like you’re walking around with a huge, gaping wound in your chest, your heart on full display. And not just flesh and blood, but the secrets that live in there, too. Secrets that now, Joel knows. He’s heard them pass your lips. Filled in the blanks himself, the parts you held back.

You feel scared. Small. As if every head turns to look at you when you walk into every room.

The only thing that helps is…well, him.

Joel.

And that scares you just as much.

The way he leads you out of the suite and into the elevator, always first, always in front. The way his body is big enough to hide yours behind it, wide enough that you can pull yourself as close to his back as possible and sneak by anyone as though you’re one person.

He only breaks apart from you twice: the first time is outside the hotel, to help Denis lift the cases into the trunk. You linger by the open car door, staring up at the hotel building, the lion heads cast in stone watching over the avenue below. Joel calls over to you and asks if you’re ready to go, and you slip into the backseat alongside him.

The second time is at the airport, where he does the same thing. Gives your hand a squeeze and then jumps out to help his driver hoist the luggage from the car over to the jet. You slowly follow them, this time staring at the white plane in front of you and feeling yourself being slowly dragged back to real life, claw marks in your Parisian dreamscape as it’s pulled from your clutches.

Denis’s smart suit struts toward you and you feel a light hand on your shoulder.

“I hope you enjoyed your trip,” he says, as softly as he can over the rumble of the plane’s engine.

“I did,” you reply, though the nod of your head probably does better to communicate than the pathetic whisper of your voice. “I don’t wanna go home.”

He smiles warmly. His gray eyebrows lift, blue eyes twinkle beneath them. “You are welcome anytime. You will have my email address, please let me know if you are ever back in Paris.”

You return his grin, mouthing Thank you, and he taps your back once more, sending you off in the direction of Joel, who’s waiting for you at the bottom of the steps.

“You good?” he asks, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder.

“Mhm.” You nod, and glance over your shoulder as Denis’s Maybach rolls away back toward the airport and, with it, takes every last drop of the last couple of days.

The plane cabin feels smaller, somehow. Less spectacular than it was when you were flying over here. The pristine walls feel plain, almost boring. And claustrophobic, like you’re in a padded cell or something.

You sit in the same seat by the window, Joel takes his place opposite you, and you fasten your seatbelts for takeoff. You watch through blurry eyes as Paris shrinks to nothing but shapes from the sky – roads like scratch marks in the surface of the land, the Seine you were sailing down less than twenty-four hours ago now like a tiny, winding snake.

Joel’s watching you. You know it, can see him from your peripheral. You’re deliberately ignoring the look on his face.

He leans forward and rests a hand on your knee. “You wanna go lie down?”

You shake your head, wrapping your fingers around his. “Wanna stay with you.”

“I’ll come,” he mumbles, thumb rubbing across your fingers. “I’ll come, darlin’.”

You lift your head and look him in the eye, finally seeing his expression. And it’s not one you usually spot on lighthearted, borderline-blithe, kinda-cocky-about-it Joel Miller. He looks…he looks concerned. Looks imploring, trying to work out what’s gotten you so quiet all of a sudden.

You offer him a weak smile, an attempt to convince him you’re okay that doesn’t land with him at all, and you know it. So instead, you take a deep breath and nod, and Joel instantly stands up, folds his laptop under his arm and lowers his hand to you.

You take it, letting him lead you back to the bedroom, where he pulls back the sheets and lets you climb in.

“Get some sleep, baby,” Joel whispers, and then slots in beside you, settling the laptop back on his knees and leaning over to shut the window shade. He’s mid-reply to some email from Ken. Another painful reminder of the normalcy you’re hours away from returning to.

You hook your elbow around his, press your cheek into the soft fabric of his t-shirt sleeve. Watch his wide knuckles as they move across the keyboard, typing about buyouts and dividends and other corporate words that all fade into a blur of black strokes on a white screen as your eyes start to roll closed.

The last things you remember are these: the light feeling of Joel’s shoulder moving as he types, the smell of his cologne, and the sound of your voice mumbling something to him. And then you pass out.

----------

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oddinary4bts · 8 months

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When the End Comes | ch 1 (jjk)

☆summary: Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook?

☆pairing: photographer!Jungkook x lawyer!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, there is mature content in every chapter)

☆genre: breakup!au, slice of life!au, angst with a big A, smut

☆warnings: angst, like. Just angst. Curse words, Jungkook's car, mentions of Jungkook's accident, mention of reader getting kicked out in TFS, explicit content: breast/nipple play, hickey, oral sex (female and male receiving), fingering, hair pulling, jerking off, squirting, praise, pain kink (Jungkook), balls squeezing (lmao), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

☆word count: 9.4k

☆series masterpost

☆a/n: First chapter is here and it's time to CRY (I apologize in advance for the therapy bills) :') Thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing this, you are the best <3 and thank you to @jessikahathaway for supporting me with this project, you are amazinnng

☆Read The Forgotten Spaces here, the prequel to When the End Comes! It does not need to be read to understand When the End Comes, but I think it still should be read first to have a better understanding of the characters in general!

☆Add yourself to the taglist here (if you were on the taglist for The Forgotten Spaces, you're already on the taglist for When the End Comes!)

☆☆☆☆☆

But love never leaves a heart, where it found it, found it You found it Someday, I'll fall into you That's where I'll be now when the end comes

When the End Comes, Andrew Belle

☆☆☆☆☆

Wednesday, April 19th

The setting sun turns the living room into liquid gold, bathing you in golden warmth that traces your features delicately from where you sit on the couch. Spring is upon you – outside, you can hear birds singing, and the gentle wind of spring carries the smell of melted snow, of wet soil and of early leaves.

You sigh. Your phone has been dead silent all day, as it’s been for weeks now, and the loneliness of it keeps the winter cold close. Always.

Jungkook said he would call. He often says it, often promises he wants to go to sleep with your voice at his ear, since he can’t sleep with you in his arms. Years ago, when he first started his job in Europe, he did, calling you every night when you got home from work and he went to sleep in a European city too far from you.

He usually leaves for a few months at a time. Never more than three, and he usually stays for a month after that before leaving again. He’s been photographing for museums all over Europe, and his latest job at the Louvres in Paris seems to have been keeping him more occupied than the others.

You’d think it’d make sense – the Louvres is the Louvres. But you miss Jungkook. Miss the early years of your relationship, when you spent almost every day together. When he moved in with you in your first apartment, the one he had found for you while you weren’t even dating yet.

A deep ache has settled inside of you this time around. Because, even if he says he’ll try, even if he promised it wouldn’t be like the last time he was away, this time is worse. Far worse. You’ve only spoken to him on the phone once since he left half a month ago, and he texts you sparingly throughout the week.

You never thought there would come a day when your relationship with Jungkook wouldn’t be what it was at the beginning. Hell, the honeymoon phase lasted for almost three years, and then you had another year before he started working overseas. The first months he had spent away had rekindled the flame, passion and desire burning through you the moment you laid your eyes on him again the day he had come back.

But distance is difficult. Distance can tame even the wildest flame, and you’re starting to believe it has tamed the flame between you and Jungkook. You hate it – every night for a week you’ve fallen asleep with a heart so heavy it felt as if you weren’t going to wake up. And every day you’ve woken up feeling even worse, and you don’t know what’s going to help anymore.

You turn your head, catching sight of the frames on the shelves by the window. They too bathe in setting sunlight, shining like the glass is made of gold. From where you’re sitting, you can’t really see the pictures, but you know them by heart.

There are the pictures from his first photo exhibit, when you were still in college. Pictures of you, of him falling in love with you and you falling in love with him. Then there are pictures of that first Christmas, and of the first time you celebrated your birthday with him. Pictures of you, of him holding you, and of his hand in yours. Pictures from when Jiho gave birth to her first child Lisa, and then a picture with you two on a camping trip with Lisa and her younger brother Charles. That trip happened two summers ago, replacing your usual annual visit to a cabin in the woods, the year after the dance crew retired. Because as much as you and your friends loved that cabin in the woods, loved the dance crew, you eventually grew out of it.

There are pictures from Heather and Bridget’s wedding last fall, pictures of your story with Jungkook as it unfolded through the years.

No new pictures have been added since that last picture in the fall, because nothing worth taking pictures of happened since then. Jungkook has been gone most of the time, and when he’s here he’s too tired to do anything, preferring staying in and cuddling on the couch as you watch hours of Netflix without ever speaking.

You see the doom. It’s been coming for you, tightening around you like a scourge. Nothing you’ve been trying to do has helped – not even the nice lingerie pictures you sent him two nights ago. Not even the letter you wrote for him, though he did have flowers delivered to you at the firm.

Your coworker Harrison made fun of you for the flowers, teasing you like he’s taken to teasing you whenever something related to Jungkook happens. Which, as much as you hate admitting, is not much anymore.

Sometimes, when he’s away, you think he’s a ghost in your life. You wish you could turn back time and go back to the night where it all started between you. The July night of years ago, or perhaps the night of the hotel roof in Chicago. You struggle to pinpoint where you’d go back, but you do believe that anything would be better than the now.

You blink away the blurriness in your eyes, taking a deep breath to steady the aching beats of your heart. You glance at your phone – your empty notification screen stares back at you, a reminder that for all he says, he’s stopped trying this time around.

You figure you could call him. Could make the effort, but you’re tired. Tired of trying when it seems like it doesn’t work anymore. And so your aching heart keeps beating in your chest, and you put your phone away to cook dinner when it’s become clear that he won’t call.

And when you go to bed, after having taken the dog out one last time, your phone still lies empty, the picture of you and him that you have as a background taunting you, haunting you until troubled sleep finds you in its hold.

Friday, May 5th

Jungkook hates himself. Hates how every time he says he’ll call you, he ends up falling asleep. He doesn’t know why; it’s like his heart fights against his body. But tonight, he’s determined to call. He’s been meaning to show you the lights of the Eiffel tower, when the clock strikes midnight, and he promised he will tonight.

You haven’t replied to his text. He’s been feeling you slipping through his fingers for a few weeks. You barely reply when he talks to you anymore, sending one-worded answers most of the time. Maybe that is the reason why he’s been struggling to call – there’s an impending doom lingering around your relationship, and he wants to avoid it for as long as he can.

He’s been replaying your fight earlier last week on repeat since it happened. You, screaming that he said he was going to change, was going to try to call more and make more effort before he went to Paris. Him, telling you that you should be understanding, that he’s doing his best and that most nights he goes to bed before you’ve even finished work. You’d told him sometimes you wished you could hate him, as it’d be easier than loving him from afar. The words struck harder than a physical blow could have, and since then the doom has been clearer in the distance, as if it’s getting closer.

Just thinking about it hurts too much. He can’t wait for his contract with the Louvres to be done. Can’t wait to be home, and to tell you in person just how much he loves you.

He thinks his love has just been growing stronger. Through all the years, it’s just been growing inside of him, making him into a better person with every beat of his heart. The thought brings a smile to his lips, strangely enough, even though there’s still pain in his heart.

He still remembers when you first got Bam. He thinks that day is the one that made his love grow the most, until he thought his heart was going to burst in his chest. It fortunately never did, and he looks at his phone’s background quickly, needing to see you.

There you are, in all your glory. Hair a mess as you hold a tiny puppy in your arm, with your eyes sparkling like they’re holding the light of the universe. Of his universe, and it hasn’t changed. Still, today he knows if he were to see you, you still would hold the light of his universe.

After all, it started a July night seven years ago, and it’s never going to go away.

Thirteen days until he’s going to be home. And he decided to take a longer break this time around – he doesn’t have another contract yet. He’s been approached by the Victoria and Albert museum in London, but he’s told them that he likely won’t be able to go until late October.

They said they’ll be happy to have him whenever his schedule allows.

He’s yet to tell you – it’s a surprise, and he reckons your relationship terribly needs it. And he’s excited, as it means months that he’ll get to spend with you.

He’s going to take some small photography jobs back home until then, and spend the rest of his time with you, whenever you’re not at the firm. He reckons he can always meet you there for lunch – he used to do that when you first got the job at the firm where your father used to work.

Jungkook sighs, and he glances at the time on his phone. It’s almost time to call, and he’s proud he’s been able to stay up, sitting on the balcony of his Airbnb, watching the Eiffel tower in the distance.

The Louvres is paying for the Airbnb, and they really chose one of the best in the city. The view of the tower is beautiful, night and day, the architecture of it satisfying in ways he can barely comprehend. He took pictures of it through the different weathers, and he’s excited to show you when he’ll be back.

Five minutes before the clock strikes midnight, Jungkook lets out a long yawn as he goes to your profile, hitting the Facetime button. He’s told you he would call, up to the very minute, and he doesn’t want to disappoint this time around.

He watches his face on the screen as it rings. It rings and rings, and yet you don’t pick up. Something unsettling grows in his gut, and he pulls at his lip piercing in worry as he calls again when the call claims it failed to connect.

He tries four times more, until the Eiffel tower is sparkling in the distance, and your form still has yet to appear. So he looks up, watches the show and then heads to bed, each of his step feeling heavier than the last.

The next morning, he wakes up to some texts of yours.

[04:21 am] bby <3: sorry, i was out for dinner with friends from work [04:22 am] bby <3: I assume u’re asleep now? [04:41 am] bby <3: good night

For some reason, he can’t bring himself to reply.

Thursday, May 18th

It’s been raining all week. The world, crying as if it’s coming to an end. It’s unsettling, and you miss the sunrays. Miss the warmth that they carry, because now the world seems void of any.

You’re not looking forward to going home. It’s the first time that the thought of seeing Jungkook is scaring you – you have a feeling the distance between you is more than just physical, and you’re afraid to see him.

Afraid to be faced with the fact that everything changed irreparably.

You’ve slept in his clothes every night of May. It hasn’t made you feel closer to him, has only made you feel like he’s drifting further away, like a piece of wood lost at sea, pulled away by the current. And as much as you long for his return, you fear he’s crossed a threshold now.

You fear you’re not into it anymore.

The thought has made you cry countless times. You never thought you’d get to a moment in life when splitting with Jungkook seemed to be an option. You thought you were made of forever, of an eternity built just for you. You thought he’d always be enough for you, and that you’d always be enough for him too. But when Taehyung and Jo got engaged and said that they’d marry the first weekend of September, you realized that you want that for yourself too.

You want to start growing with your partner, you want them to be around. And Jungkook just isn’t.

You’ve spoken to Jiho about it. A haunting conversation, that you’ve been replaying in your mind constantly since it happened a week and a half ago.

She came over, only to find you cradling the picture of the July night sky, the one Jungkook had given you after his exposition. She sat next to you, tired eyes surveying your profile. When you started crying, she pulled you in a hug, and held you against her chest as you sobbed.

When you calmed down, she ran a soothing hand on your back. She waited for you to patiently find your words, and when you had, they spilled from your mouth, with no dam to stop them anymore.

“I think I’m going to break up with him,” you told her. It had you chasing more tears away, hating the weakness of your heart as it broke in your chest. “I can’t do the distance anymore. I want something like you and Hobi have, like Jo and Taehyung have. I want someone to wake up to every day and… I don’t… I don’t think loving him is enough anymore.”

She offered you a sad smile, her features sober as she nodded once. “Will you regret it?”

A lone tear spilled on your cheek, holding all the answers she needed. You let it roll down your cheek, let it fall in your lap. Jiho nodded once again, understanding, and added, “I’ll be there for you.”

Your decision was made that day. You don’t think you’ll change your mind, but you’re afraid to see him. Afraid to be faced with the reality of it.

The worst part is, you think you already started getting adjusted to living without him. Hell, the distance has been a good training, so you think you’ll be okay after. It’s just the during that scares you, because you know that when he breaks, you break too.

You know how much you broke for him once. You know you’ll break again, know the first days are going to be hell, but you know that in the long term, it’s the right decision.

At least you hope so.

Jungkook texted you that he got home in the middle of the afternoon, and that he was going to take a nap. He said he couldn’t wait to see you, and you’ve had to swallow countless lumps in your throat whenever you’ve thought of the words.

You take a deep steadying breath as your shift ends, leaving you with no choice but to head home. Harrison notices your fallen features, and he offers you a kind smile.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promises.

You want to tell him he’s a liar, but all you do is offer him a tight-lipped smile in return.

*****

The apartment in soundless when you finally reach home. Outside, the wind plays in the leaves, splashing water against the windows. It makes for a relaxing sound, yet it does nothing to relax you.

You take off your shoes by the door and drop your purse on the small table just a few steps in as Bam comes to greet you. You pet the dog mindlessly, scanning your surroundings to see if Jungkook is coming too, but it seems he fell asleep. You stop by the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water as you survey the world outside the window, hoping it holds any kind of solace. It doesn’t – the world is crying, and you think by the end of the night there’s a high chance you will be crying too.

You sigh, try to swallow around the lump in your throat but it doesn’t work. You choke on a sip of water, and startle when Jungkook asks if you’re okay.

You didn’t hear him sneaking up on you.

You turn around, the sense of impending doom growing tenfold at the thought that he’s going to be right there, in the flesh, when you set your eyes on him. And he is – a sleepy Jungkook is standing in the door of the kitchen, leaning against the frame as he offers you a small, tired smile.

You’re not sure what to do at first, and when he opens up his arms for you you rush towards him, leaving the glass of water on the counter.

His embrace is familiar, warm. If he wasn’t gone for so long, you think it’d be enough to keep you here, forever. You both remain silent, and your heart beats achingly in your chest as you try to hold him closer, as if you can be one.

As if that’ll make him stay.

“Hey,” he says, voice choked with emotion.

You only hold him tighter, and tears burn behind your closed eyelids as you hide your face in his neck. He smells familiar, like home. He smells like the clothes you’ve been wearing in an attempt to gather the courage to break up with him.

You hate yourself deeply, then. You think about the years, and aren’t they enough? Isn’t the love enough?

He grabs your shoulders, delicately, to push you away. And then his hands move to your cheeks, and he’s tilting your head back to press his soft, pink lips against yours. It’s barely just a peck, and it hurts so much you think you’ll die.

“How was work?” he asks when he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours.

You breathe in slowly, and then out, your breath mingling with his in the space between you. “Long,” you answer, because it’s the truth.

“I’ll cook you dinner,” he says.

If he notices you holding your breath as your heart keeps on breaking, he doesn’t say. Instead, he pulls away, leaves you standing by the door as he moves in the room proper. You’re not sure you’ll survive a dinner with him, not when the inevitability of what you’re going to do is looming over you, like a sword of Damocles ready to cut the link between you and him.

“Okay,” you breathe out.

You sit at the table as he fishes ingredients out of the fridge – stuff you clearly didn’t buy. Which means he went grocery shopping, and you just ache so fiercely the air turns to poison in your lungs.

“Do you want to chop the vegetables?” he asks.

You gulp before nodding curtly. “Sure.”

You move closer to him as he puts said vegetables on the counter, and you grab a knife as he hands you a cutting board. It’s familiar, domestic, and it helps lessen the pain somehow. To have this moment, with him, even though your decision is made.

“You’re silent,” Jungkook comments as you finish dicing an onion.

You purse your lips, head hanging low as you reply, “I’m tired, sorry.”

He turns on the stove, placing a pan on top of it. As he’s putting oil in it, he glances at you. You barely notice from the corner of your eyes, but you still can tell he’s trying to figure how to reach you, in the dark place where your mind has gone.

“Something happened?”

No. Nothing happened. Nothing happened when it should have. Was distance really enough to kill your relationship with him?

Needing the conversation to move away from the current subject, you reply, “Not really.” Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you add, “How was Paris?”

“It sucked,” Jungkook is quick to answer. “It was a lot of work and I barely had time to explore the city.”

“Mmh,” you hum, nodding your head.

You freeze as he moves closer, taking the knife out of your hands. He forces you to turn towards him, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I took some pictures of the Eiffel tower for you,” he admits. “It was pretty at night. Made me think of you.”

You shut your eyes tight, and for once you win against the tears that were threatening to spill. “You did?” you let out when your eyelids finally flutter open again. “You can show me over dinner.”

“I’d rather just spend time with you for now,” he says, softly, and you hate that his big, doe eyes feel like heaven. “I… I missed you.”

You think he knows. You both know what’s coming. But you want this last moment with him, so you say, “I missed you too. Way too much.”

“You’ve been sleeping in my clothes,” he teases, but it’s lacking the usual lilt to his voice that makes you roll your eyes playfully.

“Yeah.”

He pulls at his piercing, and you focus on that because his eyes are going to read every little treacherous thought in your head, and you don’t think you’d survive that.

He doesn’t say anything else before he busies himself with putting the onion you diced in the pan. You lean on the counter to watch him cook, handing him the ingredients that you know he’ll need.

You’ve cooked together a thousand times before, and never you would have thought that there’d be a last time. You clench your jaw against the pain, and though you don’t feel hungry, you sit at the kitchen table with him to eat.

You manage to get some food down. Jungkook is an amazing cook, and you’ve always loved his food. It’s something you know you’re likely to miss, when he won’t be around anymore.

Fuck.

After dinner, you do the dishes while Jungkook brings Bam outside, as he usually does when he’s here. He’s back before you’re done, and you focus on finishing to clean the dishes, trying to ignore him.

He’s been silent through the meal, and you’ve avoided the glances he’s sent your way. But when he grabs your wrist, gently, you meet his gaze.

His eyes shine. It takes you a few seconds to register that it’s because tears are welling up in his innocent gaze, and you wish you’d die right on the spot.

“Why is it awkward?” he asks.

You purse your lips and then bite the tip of your tongue, as if it’ll help. “Can we go to bed early?”

You don’t know why you asked that question. You convinced yourself to break up right away, but then again you think you need a last time.

You need a goodbye.

He nods, blinking the tears away. His hand moves until it’s wrapped around yours, and he pulls you to the bathroom. He turns on the shower, but before he’s taken his shirt off you step in front of him, fist closing around a handful of fabric so you can pull him close.

There’s urgency in the kiss, along with yearning. It’s quick, it’s heated and desperate. You wonder if he can taste the goodbye on your tongue – does it taste bitter for him too?

Though he seemed startled from the sudden kiss, he’s quick to kiss you back, to grab your waist and pull you closer, as if that’ll make you stay. And while you kiss your mind runs with the memories – the first time you’d kissed, in that hot tub. The kiss on the hotel roof, the kiss after he’d helped you move in your first apartment.

More than that, it’s a memory from four years ago that resurfaces the most. It takes the centerpiece of the stage of your mind, and you find yourself back in your old apartment, the first one you’d ever had. The day wasn’t a special one – just a random Sunday, one Jungkook convinced you to spend in bed. He’d held you all morning, littering small kisses on the top of your head. At some point, you’d made love, slowly, lazily, as if you had all the time in the world. Halfway through it, Jungkook had stopped, resting his forehead on yours. Against your lips, he’d whispered, “Will you still love me when I’m old and grey and grumpy?”

Back then you’d laughed, before wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a kiss. After, you’d replied, “You know I’ll never stop loving you.”

And as you’re kissing him right now, you hope he knows that you’ll never stop loving him.

His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, seeking to deepen the kiss, and you let him in. Taste the dinner in his mouth, like he’s sure to taste it in yours too. It eases the bitterness somehow, and when his large hands move to your ass, you let out a breathy sound.

He swallows it as if it’s the ambrosia of the gods, and then he pushes you back towards the counter next to the sink. The shower runs in the background as he pulls you on the counter, large hands guiding you. You instinctively spread your thighs to allow him to step closer, and then you wrap your legs around him. His hands find your cheeks again, and he kisses you fervently, hungrily, yet his touch remains gentle on your cheeks, thumbs swiping back and forth.

When oxygen becomes needed, both for you and him, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You think we can wait after the shower?” he teases, and this time it has a little bit of the usual bite.

It only hurts, because now you’re not so sure he’s aware of what’s to come. He probably only thought that it was awkward because of the distance – physical. Not because the end is coming. So you let him believe it, agree to take a shower.

You let him wash your hair, a thing he’s taken to doing six years ago whenever you take a shower together. Something about him liking the scent of your shampoo. After that, you let him wash your back, but you can’t bring yourself to do it for him. To your relief, he admits he took a shower before he napped, to wash away the airplane vibes off him. So it mostly goes unnoticed, and then you’re getting out of the shower. You barely have time to dry yourself before he’s pulling you to your room, to your shared bed.

To the bed where you’ve cried yourself to sleep every night since you’ve made your decision.

He sits you on the bed, thumbs swiping on your cheeks gently when he bends down to peck your lips once.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

You watch him leave, thinking you should find it funny that he’s butt-naked, as you are. Yet you don’t laugh, just put a hand over your aching heart as you wait for him to come back. It hurts even more when he comes back with your heating pad, a tentative smile on his lips.

“I thought this might help,” he says as he walks over to you, offering it to you.

You look at it, not knowing what to do. “Why?”

“Aren’t you…” he trails off, motioning towards you. “I don’t know, you’ve been weird. Thought you might be on your period, or having cramps?”

He’s too sweet. Too caring. Why can’t he be like this when he’s away too?

“Oh,” you let out. “I’m not.”

He looks puzzled, and his eyes drop to the heating pad in his hands. “Oh. Do you…” He gestures with the heating pad, but you shake your head no. He looks disappointed, and he puts it on the dresser before coming to sit next to you.

There’s a moment of silence, and you glance at the TV on the wall. The black screen reflects the grey light from the rainy world outside, and you turn to look out the window next. The rain is still relentless, and the trees outside look greener, darker, though that might be because the sun set behind the clouds, and night is slowly taking over the world.

Being with Jungkook has never been awkward before, and you hate that it is right now. You’d wish for one last moment, for a memory to treasure, but now you think you might have just been selfish.

He glances at you, pulling at his piercing. “Did something happen with your mother?”

He’s trying. So hard. Doesn’t he feel the distance between you and him?

“No,” you reply.

As a matter of fact, you only talk to your mother three times a year now. Without fault, she calls on Christmas and your birthday, and five years ago you’ve started calling on hers too. Other than that, you barely even text.

“Then…” he trails off before shrugging. “Whatever. Do you want to sleep or should we watch something?”

“Can we watch a studio Ghibli movie?”

Jungkook glances at the Totoro plushie, nestled in the pillows at the head of the bed right next to Appa. “My neighbor Totoro?” You nod once. He offers you a smile, nodding his head too. “Sure. As long as I get to hold you.”

You worry at your lip, though you still say, “Yes.”

A minute later you’re nestled in his embrace, and he’s starting the movie on the TV. You barely can focus though, mind zeroing in on his naked skin against yours. You want to ask him to stop with his overseas job, to come home permanently, to build a future with you here, without distance between you and him. You want to tell him you love him so much it hurts, want to tell him the months away from him are killing you.

All you do is watch the movie as if in a daze, and halfway through it, you tilt your head to look up at him. He sees you looking, and his tongue darts to his piercing as he glances down.

Your eyes go to his lips, and you reach to steal a kiss on them. This time, it’s incredibly slow, painfully so, and his arm tightens around you as his breath gets caught up in his throat.

You rest a hand on his cheek, before sliding it to the nape of his neck to keep him as close as you possibly can. He turns his head to deepen the kiss, and you turn the other way as you push your tongue in his mouth. You gently tug at the hair on the back of his neck, appreciating its silky softness.

Committing it to memory. Remembering when it was so long he could tie it back in a small ponytail, remembering when he cut it shorter for the first time. You’d teased him saying that he was a stranger, and you reckon you’d take that stranger back again.

You’d take the sweet innocence of the third year of your relationship again over what it now is.

Once, you thought you’d always want to see the end. To be able to glance back on the past, to swim in the nostalgia of the memories that it holds. Today, as the end comes, you realize you were wrong.

There’s no beauty in the ending.

Jungkook moves until he’s hovering over you, between your legs. You wrap them around his dainty waist, and you pull him inevitably closer as your hands run in his hair, while his hold him up on each side of your face. It takes him a few seconds, but soon he leans on his elbow, and one of his hands lands on the top of your head while the other moves to cup your breast.

He squeezes gently, fingers expertly pinching your nipple the way he knows that you like it. You moan softly, desperately, and he does it harder as his tongue meets yours.

“Fuck, I missed you so much,” he says as he pulls away, and then he’s littering hot kisses on your jaw, and on your neck. He sucks a hickey on the spot that connects your shoulder to your neck, and then laps at it to ease the sting. He’s still pinching your nipple, and though it hurts you just want more.

He doesn’t disappoint. His kisses move lower, until he’s sucking on your other breast, tongue circling your nipple as it hardens in his mouth. He flicks it once, make sure it’s perched nicely on your chest before he moves to the other one, repeating the action.

Your core heats up with need, but even this demonstration of the passion between you and him doesn’t do anything against the ache of your heart. The pain wins, and you shut your eyes tightly in an attempt to focus on the sensations. To focus on him as he moves lower, slowly, pressing wet kisses on your stomach, down to your pelvis, and then on the inside of your thigh as he pushes your leg on his shoulder.

“I want you,” he murmurs between your legs, as if he’s speaking the words directly to your pussy.

“I want you too.”

That much isn’t a lie. You do want him, all of him, even though you’re aware it’s going to be the last time. So you try to disconnect mind and body, and the moment he sucks on your clit you think you succeed.

You lose your hand in the strands of his hair, tugging as his tongue starts a hellish rhythm on your clit, never once faltering as you squirm under the ministrations. When your juice is coating his chin – which you reckon doesn’t take long – he moves lower, dipping his tongue inside of you.

“So sweet,” he praises once he pulls away, just enough for you to feel his lips moving as he speaks.

“Kook…”

The nickname barely crosses the threshold of your lips, yet the grip he has on your waist, where his hands have found a home, tightens. The only indication that somewhere behind his lustful gaze, Jungkook is aching too.

“Baby…” he says back, and then he returns to press figure-eight on your clit, though this time he pushes a finger inside of you.

It curls to hit the right spot inside of you, and he slowly rubs against it, before he decides better and starts to finger you, slowly. Digit moving in and out, keeping that right arch to make you see stars in no time.

When he adds a second finger, you tug on his hair, hard. Mostly by reflex, but when he meets your gaze as you look down at him, you pull harder. His fingers remain deep inside of you as he meets your lips for a heated kiss that tastes like you, and your hand blindly aims for his dick.

He’s rock hard, as he always is when you fuck for the first time after he’s been away. You sigh in satisfaction, thumb collecting precum on his tip that you spread on his dick. Instinctively, he bucks his hips as you start jerking him off, with the tight grip you know he likes, and you make sure to flick your wrist when you go back up.

He grunts against your lips, and his fingers start to move inside of you again. You don’t know when they stopped, but you know that he’s grown impatient now, and he’s unforgiving. When he pushes his thumb against your clit so that he can rub it at the same time, you moan unashamedly loud, another sound that he swallows like a man starved while his lips move against yours.

You time your ministration on his dick to those of his fingers on you, and soon enough a knot forms at the pit of your stomach. It grows impossibly tight impossibly quickly, and when Jungkook moans in your mouth you lose it, the knot uncoiling as your orgasm finds you.

He fucks you with his fingers through the high, through every wave of your orgasm, your legs shaking as he keeps going until you squirt.

“Good girl,” he praises as you cry out his name, your grip on his dick growing tighter. It has to hurt, but obviously Jungkook likes pain, so he only bucks his hips, seeking for friction.

It brings you back to the present, to this bed, and you return to jerking him off as his fingers leave you empty. He brings them to your mouth, makes you lick them clean until he’s satisfied and pulls them away. He kisses you, languidly, and your tongue dance with his as he grunts from a particularly skilled flick of your wrist.

“I want to suck you,” you say in between kisses, and he doesn’t let you do it for a time.

He’s too focused on your mouth, and you reckon you want him to keep going at it. To trap you in this moment with him, so that it may never end.

So that you may never have to break up with him.

“Can I fuck you first?” he asks, bucking his hips once more. “I want to feel your tight pussy swallowing my cock.”

“I want to suck you,” you insist as he’s sucking a new hickey on your neck.

He pulls away, meets your gaze with a lazy smile on his lips. “Well then of course.”

In another world his comment would have made you laugh, but the only thing it does is make you push him until he’s lying on his back and you’re kneeling next to him.

You look down at his dick. It’s just as pretty as you’ve always thought it was, with the brownish base to the tip that’s currently flushed red with arousal. Precum makes it glisten in the dim light from the world outside, and you let a blob of spit fall on it to add some lubrication to your jerking off.

When you feel ready, you bend down to lick a stripe along his dick, from base to top, following the thick vein. He groans, and he puts your hair in a makeshift ponytail so he can watch as you swirl your tongue around his tip.

The taste of his salty precum fills your mouth, and you hum in contentment. You wrap your lips around his tip, sucking hard once before teasing his frenulum with your tongue. Your free hand moves between his legs, and you grab his balls, massaging them gently.

They’re already tight, and you know he’ll come if you suck him for too long. You still can’t resist, and you take him as far as you can, swallowing around him so he can feel your throat constricting on him. It makes him moan out your name, which in turns makes you moan against him.

“Fuck, baby,” he lets out.

You move up until almost just his tip is in your mouth, before going all the way in once more. And then you start bobbing you head up and down in a quicker fashion as you drool on your chin, your spit coating his dick.

You squeeze his balls once, not daring to do it for longer than a few seconds. You don’t want him to come, so you let go soon after, hand moving to his thigh. You find the hard knot of his scar, and you lightly trace it with your fingers, almost instinctively.

Another part of him that you want to commit to memory. His scars – they made him into the person that was right for you. You hate that distance undid it, wish you could turn back time but alas it’s impossible.

So you focus on his dick, moving your hand away from the scars. He doesn’t let you suck him for a lot longer. Soon, he pulls you away by the hair, bringing you to his mouth instead. You kiss him as you climb on top of him, and right as he pushes his tongue in your mouth, you grab his dick to align it with your entrance.

Even though he fingered you before, he still stretches you as you sink on him, and you let out a broken moan as you dig your nails in his shoulder, where your other hand has been holding you up since you climbed on him.

You sink down until he’s fully imbedded inside of you, and then you rest your hands flatly on his chest, feeling the muscles of his pecs under your palms. You meet his gaze, hating how he’s looking at you carefully. For a moment, you both don’t move, taking the other in, and you’re struck with the realization that maybe he does know. Because his eyes are infinitely sad, infinitely pained, but when he blinks you think you might have imagined it.

You’re going crazy. You used to be able to read him like the back of your hand, but it seems the pain in your heart is keeping you from doing so, from picking up the book where you left off. Perhaps because you’ve gone blind, or maybe you forgot how to read altogether.

Jungkook feels like a stranger.

“Baby,” he lets out.

“Jungkook…”

He wets his lips, and then brings you closer. Forces you to bend down until he’s wrapped his arms around your waist. He starts moving, incredibly slow, and says, “I just want you close.”

It hurts too bad, and you hide your face in his neck. He tightens his grip around you, and after that all that can be heard in the room is your heavy breathing, mingling with the sound of the TV.

He feels healing, as much as he’s breaking you. Or you’re breaking yourself, you don’t know anymore. You wish to stop time, to interrupt the chronology of it, until all that’s left is this moment in time.

You know you can’t.

Jungkook doesn’t stop moving for a long time, as you let out breathy sounds against his neck. He’s not grunting anymore – you don’t think you or he are enjoying this, right now.

“I really want to suck your dick,” you murmur against his neck, lips tickling him.

“You’re not into this.”

Of course he’d sense it. You wrap your arms around his neck as he slips out of you, and you refuse to move for a little eternity.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

“Stop saying that you are,” Jungkook answers, and his voice has taken a cold tone. Maybe because he’s freezing – you don’t think he’d purposefully speak to you like that. “I know you aren’t.”

“Kook…”

He says your name, a loving plea that could have changed the ending, if the months hadn’t passed.

“We need to talk,” you breathe against his neck.

You think you hear his heart breaking. Like a car wreck: it’s so loud you don’t think you’ll make it out of the crash. Only, he did get out of it once – you can only hope he’ll get out again.

He runs his hand on your back, loses it in your hair. He’s gentle, infinitely so, tracing your body to remember you by when you’re gone. At least that’s what you think it is.

“Yeah?” he lets out with a small, quivering voice.

A tear spills from your eye, falling onto the soft skin of his neck.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He holds you tighter, turning his face so that he can press a kiss to the side of your head. It’s a desperate move – it holds the weight of the universe.

“I…”

He never finishes the sentence. His words are lost to him, and you steel yourself for the glimpse you’ll give him. And when you do, you see his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I can’t do the distance anymore,” you tell him.

He nods once. “I’m staying until November.”

He blurs behind your tears, and they roll down your cheeks freely. You don’t try to dry them, and neither does he.

“But then you’ll go again.”

He doesn’t need to say anything to that, because you both know it to be the truth. His reply is physical: his arms let go of you, falling on the bed on each side of him.

You move to sit next to him, instinctively grabbing a blanket to hide yourself. Jungkook shuts his eyes before pressing the heel of his palms against his eyelids. As if that’ll stop him from crying, from shattering into thousands of little shards that will go by the wind.

The end has come. It’s upon you, it’s right this instant in time. You think you’ll forever hate this moment – will you ever recover?

“It’s just better for both of us,” you say, your voice breaking into a sob on the last words. You wish you could be stronger, but you break too hard for him. “It’s been so hard and… we both don’t try anymore.”

“I’m staying until November,” he repeats. He sounds choked, and when he pushes himself up, allowing you a glimpse of his face again, you see that he too is crying. “Please.”

“Kook…”

“No but…” he stops, laughs a laugh that turns into a sob. “I tried.”

“You didn’t.”

Maybe he did. Maybe to him he did, but it wasn’t what you needed.

“You don’t get to tell me I didn’t,” he says and he scoffs, pain laced with his next words. “When I tried, you were the one that was unavailable.”

Because you were already done then, you realize. It’s a startling realization, and you wish it wasn’t real. But it is, as real as the rain lashing at the window, as the agony in Jungkook’s gaze.

His doe eyes are pained, tormented, and you wish you could ease it. Comfort him, but you’re the source of the torture now.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to say.

He looks at you for a time, holds your crying eyes, and then he loses it, hiding his face in his hands as sobs rock through him. You’re shaking like a leaf where you’re sitting, and you feel like you’re going to be sick.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out.

“We can make it work,” he tries.

You’re shaking your head no, sobs racking through you too, when he glances at you. “We can’t. We tried, Kook. We tried and it didn’t work.”

“It’s the distance,” he says. He dries his cheeks, sniffles hard. “What if I drop the job?”

“It’s your dream,” you remind him. “Don’t.”

“I don’t give a shit about this dream if it means losing you,” he insists.

Your expression is apologetic, and suddenly your eyes clear up. Too much – the clarity in your mind feels dizzying.

“It’s too late.”

The words fall like a meteorite – you think they hit harder than the one that killed the dinosaurs, millions of years ago. They hit him so hard you think they disperse the pieces of his heart to the four corners of the Earth.

You want to be selfish, you want to keep a piece of him for yourself, to remember him by, but you let him go. You have to, if you want to make it out alive.

“Come on,” he pleads. “We’ve been through so much…”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

There’s finality in your voice, and he hears it just as well as you do. You think he’ll fight more – Jungkook never backs down from a challenge – but to your surprise he goes incredibly still.

“Nothing I can do or say will make you stay, huh?”

You shut your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He goes cold then – like hell. Empty, freezing over, and he steps out of bed to grab some clothes in his luggage that he’s yet to unpack. You watch him, watch the last tears on his cheeks falling as he bends down. No new ones join them – he’s retracted somewhere inside of himself, probably in an attempt to protect himself. You’re not sure he’s aware of the coping mechanism, but you can recognize it.

He was in that same place when you met him again the year after his accident, before you started dating. Once, he told you that you were the one to rescue him from it.

Who will rescue him now?

You start crying again, and you force yourself to get out of bed. To grab some clothes as he’s zipping his luggage after getting dressed.

“Stop,” you tell him. “I already have plans to go stay with Bridget and Heather.”

He stops moving, and then slowly gets up. He glances at the door of the bedroom. Bam is looking through the small gap, and he gently pushes on the door to open it wider.

“What about the dog?” Jungkook asks, sounding so detached you can barely recognize him.

It breaks you even more. You’re selfish – you wish he’d fight more. You wish he’d convince you to stay, but now he looks like he doesn’t even care anymore.

You probably deserve it.

“You can keep him,” you say, as you struggle to put your clothes on, hands trembling so much it makes you lose your fine motricity. “When you-“ A sob breaks the sentence. “When you leave again I can take him in.”

Jungkook nods, and then he glances towards the television. The movie is still playing, yet it’s nearing the end now.

Everything comes to an end.

“Fuck,” Jungkook curses loudly, and he moves to the bed, grabbing the remote so he can turn the TV off. He then looks at the bed. “You’re leaving with those?”

“Jungkook…”

“You’re fucking leaving with them?”

He’s motioning to Totoro and Appa, and you cry some more as you nod. “Okay. Yes. I’ll come back later for the rest.”

“Okay.”

There’s an immense silence then, as you finish putting your clothes on. As you go to the closet, where you’ve already packed a duffel bag with stuff for a week. Jungkook scoffs when he sees it, and it almost makes your legs give out under you.

“You weren’t going to give me a chance, were you?” he asks bitterly, reproachfully.

“My decision was made,” you answer with a small voice. “I just… it’s too hard.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

You know Jungkook often hurts others when he himself is in pain. It’s something he said he didn’t want to do anymore, a side of him he told you he hates. You’re not surprised to see it come to the surface right now – you don’t think he’s ever gotten his heart broken like this before.

So you’re not surprised when he adds, “We should have broken up when we fought on the phone. Because why was I so fucking stupid to think you still loved me?”

Your heart breaks. It’s been breaking, but now it’s different. Burning, throbbing pain takes over the beating organ, and you struggle to breathe. The air is boiling in your lungs, and it’s so fierce you feel it in every inch of your body.

“I do,” you tell him. “It’s not because I don’t love you…”

He laughs. He bursts out laughing, and it’s a little crazed, a little scary. “Right. Yeah. Tell that to yourself.”

In that instant, you remember when you’d told him you loved him for the first time. At his art exhibit, choked on emotions you thought you’d always know. You don’t know them anymore, but he’s wrong.

You’ll always love him.

“Kook…”

“Will you fucking stop calling me that?” he asks, and he finally meets your gaze again.

“Sorry…”

He sighs loudly, tongue poking at his cheek. “Are you leaving now?”

It’s weird – the way he says it reminds you of your mother when she kicked you out years ago. It reminds you of the early days with Jungkook and you don’t think you can move. You’re stuck in the spot where you’re standing, watching him as he watches you.

When his gaze breaks and he lets out, “Please”, you finally start moving.

First to the bed, to grab Appa and Totoro, and then towards the door.

You push the door open, and Bam wags his tail as you walk out. You’re crying again – you’re not sure you ever stopped – but the sight of the dog makes everything worse. Because it’s not only Jungkook you’re losing, it’s Bam too.

It’s your life. You’re losing everything that matters to you, in an attempt to save yourself. In an attempt to find something better for yourself, something that won’t ache for months at a time like being with Jungkook now does.

“Hey, Bamie,” you say, and you hold the plush toys away as he tries to bite into Appa’s paw. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You bend, and you let the dog lap at your cheek, as if he can dry your tears. When he stops to look at you curiously, head tilted to the side, you press a kiss to the top of his head. You can’t move for a time and, as if sensing it, Bam remains entirely still too.

He only moves when you stretch, and it’s to press his body against your legs, as if trying to stop you from leaving. Tears cascade down your face, and you tell him you’re sorry, too. You repeat that you’ll see him soon again, hoping that it’ll help, and then you’re walking around him. Walking towards the door, walking towards the crying world outside.

Jungkook follows behind, silent as ever, hands lost in the pockets of his sweatpants, eyes lost in the void. You put down your stuff by the door, put on a light coat and grab your keys. You store them in your coat pocket, and then head to the door, to put on your shoes.

Every step feels like lead, like death, and you just keep crying. It only stops when you meet Jungkook’s gaze, when you’re ready to leave.

Or as ready as you’ll ever be.

“So that’s it?” he asks.

“That’s it,” you agree, and you wish you didn’t. Wish those weren’t the words you said.

He nods once, looking like he’s burdened with a great fatigue. “Alright.”

You want to scream at him to say more, but he doesn’t. Only stays silent as he looks at you, doe eyes so big. His waterline is wet again, and he’s got red splotches all over his face. He’s fighting the tears this time around and you wish you’d give him a reprieve, wish you’d be able to leave but, once again, you’re rooted in your spot.

Maybe because you still have more to say.

“Thank you for…” You pause, take a deep, shaking breath in. “Thank you for the years. I had a lot of fun with you.”

“Please go.”

You nod once, and then you turn around. It occurs to you that your hands are full, and you look at the doorknob as if it’s foreign. Jungkook must have noticed, because he steps forward, his hand reaching for it.

He stills halfway there, with his arm right next to you. And then you hear him choke on a sob, and you drop what you’re holding to face him, to pull him into a hug.

You don’t know how long you cry, holding onto each other like this. Because the moment you’ve wrapped your arms around his waist, Jungkook wrapped his around your shoulders, and he hid his face in your hair.

You cry and cry, together. The last thing you’ll ever do together, you reckon. You wish it wasn’t the case, wish the ending was still at the end a very long road, but it’s come short tonight and it’s too late to stop now.

You break against him, holding him. He’s shaking in your arms, as much as you’re shaking in his. Both of you trembling leaves in the wake of your end. And then you fall to your demise, carried away by the wind.

You don’t know when you let go of him. Only come to your senses when you’re in bed, sometime between dusk and dawn, away from him.

You’re never going to hold him again.

Teaser | Next

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Pain. I'm crying again from rereading one last time before posting. Please don't hate me oop- let me know what you think of the fic! Did we like it, even though it hurts? All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2023. Do not copy, repost or translate.

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