#AND AND THAT ONE LINE IN ILLICIT AFFAIRS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

norrizzandpia · 6 months

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Longing Glances and Whispered Confessions (LN4)

Summary: In which, in the darkness of the night, Lando Norris loves Y/n Fewtrell, only for the pain of their secrecy to plague them in the daylight.

Warnings: language, a shit ton of really sad fights, the break up scene is unlike anything ive ever written, i feel so bad for y’all, this shit hurt my heart

Note: plz forgive me with the part 2 i am promising you

Note (part 2): also i think I’m going to start adding lyrics and pictures at the beginning of my longer, more heartbreaking imagines (so basically everything i write) that describe the situation in a nutshell. I just think it makes it more dramatic and poetic 🤭 also also this imagine wasn’t written along the lines of illicit affairs i just listened to it while i wrote and took inspiration from it but feel free to listen to it while you read! Thats why i linked it

UPDATE: i posted part 2 queens

“And that’s the thing about illicit affairs, and clandestine meetings, and longing stares, it’s born from just one single glance, but it dies and it dies and it dies a million little times” - Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs

“Y/n?” Lando’s voice traveled through the hallway, meeting her ears in the kitchen.

“Yeah?” She yelled back, eyes lingering on the wall in front of her in concentration of his next words.

“Can you come tell me if this skin on Halo is stylish?” He giggled, eliciting a giggle from her as she paddered softly into his gaming room, coming into view of his camera and allowing the chat to go wild with her presence.

She bent down, arm leaning on his shoulder as she inspected the animatronic, “I think it’s cool, yeah!”

Lando’s eyes twinkled up at her, “Really?! Your brother thinks it’s ugly.”

She reared around when Max came into the room, “Fewtrell! Don’t be mean!”

His hip popped out and he stared at her blankly, “Y/n, first of all, your last name is Fewtrell too, so I’m not sure why you’re calling me that. It doesn’t have the same effect. Second of all, it is ugly. I don’t care if that’s mean.”

Lando scoffed from behind her, but went quiet when her small hand squeezed his shoulder in a comforting manner, “Don’t be discouraged, Lan. If you think it’s cute, then that’s all that matters.”

Again, his eyes poured out love for her. His body buzzed and his cheeks warmed under her smile, something that visited him in his dreams at night. His head tilted, mind glazing over at the way she reassured him, supported him. He knew he was crazy for going this deep over her words on a gaming skin, but that was the way he was with her. Secretly obsessed.

Nevertheless, her touches were fleeting and she was exiting the room with her brother, the two in deep discussion about her calling him by their last name.

Lando, on the other hand, was left to address the chat’s exposing messages.

ln4andop81

He’s so in love with her when will anybody realize it

—

Lando couldn’t believe how wasted Y/n was. As she stumbled to his car, he got out quickly, not realizing how much she had drunk when he wasn’t there to stop her.

“LAN!” She yelled, arms wrapping around his neck when he got close enough.

He chuckled, dragging her body over to the passenger seat and gently lowering her into it. He leaned against the door, smiling at her dazed demeanor, “Fun night?”

She nodded, eyes wandering around, “Yeah, except I missed you.”

Even her drunk words made his heart beat faster than normal. He knew she was impaired, she didn’t understand what she was saying or what it meant, but he still took it and held on. He had admired her so heavily from afar that any inference of requited love had him in a death grip.

Nodding and walking back around to his side, he got in and started the engine again. From his turned around position, arm splayed against the back of her seat as he backed out, she giggled, “Anyone ever told you how hot you are?”

He choked on air, mind spinning out at the question she had blurted out so easily. His lungs seemingly constricted, loss of breath prevalent as he stopped the car.

With his trunk sticking out, Lando looked at her deeply, “What?”

“You’re hot. I’ve always thought that. That and about what it’d be like to be with you. Always wondered about that. Always wanted that.” She replied, laughter continuing as if she wasn’t destroying the reality Lando had built up in his head to protect himself from the feelings he held for his best friend’s little sister.

He shook his head, resuming his prior actions, “You’re drunk, Y/n.”

Her singsong voice replied, “Drunk words are sober thoughts!”

He drove her home, helping her into bed and making sure she was okay before turning out the lights and driving back to his apartment. Throughout it all though, he wondered if drunk words really were sober thoughts.

—

The morning after, Lando’s mind was eating at itself over Y/n’s comments the night before. He had been so agitated that he drove to her house, pounding on her door impatiently.

When she opened it, looking incredibly hungover, he stormed in and paced the space of her living room before turning around and coming to a stand still.

“Are you okay?” She questioned, eyebrows furrowed at his neurotic movements.

“No, you said things last night and I need to know if they’re true.” He tried, voice very clearly pleading.

She sat down on the couch, staring up at him confusedly, “What’d I say?”

“You said that you wondered what it’d be like to be with me. You said you’d always wanted that.” He said forcefully, pacing starting again as his nerves stopped his ability to look at her.

Her heart stopped, wishing that she hadn’t gotten drunk, called her brother’s best friend, and proceeded to spill everything she felt for him. Similarly, she couldn’t look at him either, too scared for the reaction he would have to her reply.

“Yes, that is true.” She heard his steps stop, however she didn’t see him or what he was doing until he came and sat down next to her.

She was on the verge of tears, ready for a calm rejection from him, but was surprised when his hands gently took her face and turned it to look up at him.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered, eyes searching hers, but only seeing astonishment.

“Yeah,” She said back, a smile breaking out when he leaned down and captured her lips with his.

It was slow, passionate as the two learned of the feelings the other had suppressed for just as long as they had. It was heartbreaking, the way they had missed time to be together out of the fear of losing the other, but they were kissing each other and things were finally fitting.

When he pulled back, hands still cradling her jaw, he smiled at her and she beamed back.

Whispers of how much they loved each other lingered in the air as he led her upstairs to her bedroom.

—

Max was always upfront about how against he was of the idea of Y/n and Lando. Promptly, Y/n and Lando decided it was best to keep everything a secret until time passed and they grew certain of their future together.

The only problem was that, from the start, they knew there would never be an end.

That complicated things. The uncertainty and confusion over when they would tell Max warranted an overwhelming amount of fights. Fights that took place in the small time they had to spend together.

“CAN’T YOU JUST SEE WHERE I’M COMING FROM?!” She yelled at him, hands flailing around with a face so disappointed in her boyfriend, it pained him to see.

“I DO! I DO SEE WHERE YOU’RE COMING FROM, BUT WE HAVE TO BE REALISTIC, Y/N! I MEAN, SHIT, AM I THE ONLY SANE ONE IN THIS RELATIONSHIP?” His words cut her soul, the man she loved judging her character after having told her how it was one of the things he loved most about her.

She scoffed, arms crossing over her chest in a physical plea for protection from his cruel, strategic insults, “FUCK YOU, LANDO.”

His hands flew out by his sides, an exacerbated sigh leaving his mouth, “GET OVER YOURSELF!”

She shook her head, it falling down exhaustedly, “I’m so fucking over this.”

He laughed dryly, “What? You want to break up now?”

She huffed, stomping her foot on the ground, “NO! I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME AND TELL ME WHEN YOU’LL DO IT UNASHAMED!”

He stared at her, eyes searching hers for answers that were reasonable, “Y/n, you know I love you and you know I can’t give you a timeline of when the public, especially your brother, will accept us.”

She turned away, wiping the tears that had fallen down her face, “I’m so fucking exhausted of this. It’s been six months, Lando. And I’ve loved you for so much longer. It’s been years of having to hide how I feel about you and now that I have it, I still can’t show it.”

His presence loomed behind her, hands falling onto her shoulders softly before his lips kissed the skin, “I know, baby, and I’m so sorry. I truly am. For everything, the fight and this feeling, I’m sorry.”

She turned back around, body being held by him, “I know you are. I know this isn’t what you want. I’m sorry for that too, but, Lan,” She trailed off, his nodding taking place.

“I know, I know.” He assured, signaling that he understood how sick she was of pretending like there wasn’t anything going on between them.

She laid her head on his chest, murmuring, “When will it change?”

Truthfully, neither of them were sure they would ever know.

—

Parties were the hardest. Seeing Lando flirt with these beautiful women had Y/n throwing back drinks so quickly, it could be designated as a sport. However, this time, her boyfriend was quick to stop her from continuing, only allotting for a tipsiness to take over.

With Deja Vu, Lando drove her back to her house, except this time, he stayed in her bed. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist in the darkness of the night, she spoke, “Why do you have to do it in front of me?”

He kissed the top of her head, “Do what?”

She separated herself from him, moving to sit up and let her legs dangle over the side of the bed. He followed her movements, “Flirt with other girls.”

He nodded, surprised at the topic. His words took a moment to form in his head, and even when they did, he dreaded saying them out loud, “You know, I have to keep up the image. I can’t start dodging women’s advances. It would look too suspicious.”

She exhaled a breath, getting up fully and walking over to the wall to turn the lights on, “So, what? You just eye fuck other people so obnoxiously right in my fucking face?”

He let his chin meet his chest, “I don’t have the energy to have another fight with you.”

She groaned, “I’m not asking you to have a fight with me, Lando. I’m asking you to explain to me why you have to shove this shit down my throat.”

Lando stood abruptly from the bed and yelled, “I JUST FUCKING DID!”

She shook her head, “NO, YOU FUCKING DIDN’T! YOU GAVE ME A SHIT EXCUSE FOR A SHITTY SITUATION. OWN UP TO ONE FUCKING MISTAKE IN YOUR LIFE, LANDO. FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

He rolled his eyes, “OH, GIVE ME A BREAK! YOU KNOW I OWN UP TO MY MISTAKES WHEN IT’S WARRANTED!”

Her eyes bulged, “SO, BORDERLINE CHEATING IN FRONT OF YOUR GIRLFRIEND ISN’T A MISTAKE TO YOU?! DOESN’T WARRANT AN APOLOGY?”

Lando scoffed loudly, heels of his hands coming to dig into his eyes, “I’m so fucking over it. You know I hate having to entertain them. You know I do.”

“Do I?” She challenged, staring right at him when he let his gaze wander to hers.

His mouth stood agape, “You think I want to cheat on you?”

She shook her head in return, “I don’t fucking know at this point, Lando. It’s awfully convenient that we have to stay private according to you just as all these women begin to throw themselves at you.”

“I’M NOT SOME MAN WHORE, JESUS CHRIST!” He yelled, pushing past her and walking toward her front door.

Clad in gray sweatpants and no shirt, he shoved on the hoodie he had left strewn across her couch when they first came in, “I’m leaving.”

She laughed, “Oh, what? I find out what the fuck you’re doing behind my back and you run away? Perfect!”

His hand on the door knob, keys in the other, he forcefully turned around and yelled, “NO! I’M NOT FUCKING RUNNING OUT WHEN YOU’VE CAUGHT ME. YOU HAVEN’T BECAUSE I’M NOT DOING THAT SHIT BEHIND YOUR BACK. YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. LEARN TO BELIEVE IN THAT AND THEN COME FUCKING TALK TO ME!”

He slammed the door shut on his way out, definitely waking up some neighbors in the process. Y/n stared at the white paint, it’s continuous chipping off the wood annoying her, and cried. Cried like she had lost him all over again and cried because he brought up an eye opening point.

She didn’t believe that he loved her.

And she never had.

—

Y/n’s persistent knocking had Lando opening his door aggravatedly.

“We need to talk.” She said authoritatively, walking through the threshold without any permission.

He scoffed at her behavior, eyes rolling as he watched her retreat further into his apartment.

“Alright, about what?” He asked, his arms coming to tangle against his chest.

She turned around, looking at him sympathetically, a look so contrasting to the fiery one she had shot him throughout their fight the night before that he was reminded of how much he cared for her. That look had started it all, the adoration and yearning in her eyes that had pulled him in and refused to let him go. His eyebrows knitted together, head tilting as he willed the tears in his eyes away.

“What are we doing?” She said, clearly shocked over the trajectory of their relationship.

His mind froze, “I… don’t understand.”

She mirrored the cocking of his head, “Lando, ever since we got together, all we’ve done is fought. The love we share doesn’t amount to anything when it comes to how this has worked out. It doesn’t make sense, it never did. We were never supposed to work together.”

Was she really doing what he thought she was doing?

He shook his head, “Y/n, what are you going on about? Baby, I lov-”

She interrupted him quickly and tearfully, “Don’t call me baby. Please. Because of you, I’m a mess and an idiotic fool. I’ve ruined myself over and over again for you, and it never seems to be enough. I give and I give and I give, and nothing ever ends up meaning something. I’m sick and tired of sneaking around, using a different perfume when I’m with you so that no one can smell me on you, taking different streets so the paparazzi doesn’t see me leave your place. I’m sick of taking small looks from you when other girls get your full attention. I’m over being second to everybody else when I know I deserve better. My love for you isn’t enough for the pile of lies and gaslighting I’ve put myself through.”

Lando’s eyes searched hers for any kind of hesitation or regret, but all he found was an unwanted amount of tears and looks of exhaustion. He couldn’t believe the woman he had fallen so deeply in love with had gone on like this for so long and he never knew. It was as if he was waking up now, realizing just how much he had pushed her with his fears and just how late he was to save it all.

When he didn’t respond, she took a deep breath, wiped away the tears that stained her cheeks, and continued, “I can’t do this with you anymore. I won’t give you the typical it’s not you, it’s me. You don’t deserve that. I can’t do this with you anymore because it’s not worth it anymore. All the pain I feel, I constantly feel, has outweighed whatever this was. For my own sanity, I can’t be with you any longer.”

When he spoke, Lando wasn’t expecting to find his voice so broken, wet with the beginning emotions of unrequited love, “But, it has to be, Y/n. Your love for me has to be enough. My love for you is enough. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

She shook her head, swallowing thickly as she looked down at her shoes, “No, Lan, because my actions never made you doubt the love I had for you. Yours did. The constant shutting down when I asked when we could tell Max, the flirting with other women, the ignoring me when I was around you in a room full of people. That was the gradual journey that I was forced to embark on because I wanted you so bad. But, last night, after you told me to come talk to you when I started believing how you felt toward me, I realized that that day would never come. I don’t even imagine myself understanding the feelings you have toward me. If anything, come to me when you learn how to love me publicly.”

Lando reached out for her, but it only pushed her closer to the door, “This can’t be it, Y/n. I didn’t wait years for this to happen, only it to end this way. Please, there has to be something I can do.”

His pleading increased the tears falling from both their eyes, a painful reminder of the deep scar forming on their hearts, “No, Lando. There isn’t. That’s why I’m here and telling you what I am. Trust me,” She took a step forward, hand rubbing the skin of his cheekbone while the other splayed across his jawline, “If there was a way for this to be fixed, I would tell you. Realizing we don’t work is one of the worst heartbreaks of my life, but it’s life, right?”

His eyes closed at her touch, “But, what’s life without you?”

His whispering broke any semblance of her soul as she whispered back, “That’s what we both need to find out.”

Torturously, at the end of her sentence, the warmth of her palms was disappearing from his face and the grave coldness was returning. When he opened his eyes, he found the love of his life lingering next to the door, ready to leave him and the life he thought they would build together.

“What happens if we both find out that life without each other isn’t something we can sustain? What if we miss each other?” He tried. Anything to keep her for a second longer. Anything to get her to stay.

She shrugged, wiping a hand over her face to dry it, “I don’t know, Lando, but I think we won’t have to find out. I think this is for the best.”

Again, she sent him that gaze he fell in love with all those years ago before she walked out.

So ironic that that would be the last thing he remembered from the conversation where she ended it all.

So ironic that the face that had brought him happiness for such a long time would be the face of the greatest pain he would ever feel.

A/N: how y’all feeling about that part 2?

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ohbo-ohno · 7 months

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Kinktober Day 8 - Breeding

John Price x Reader - 1k (on ao3)

summary: You worry that your boss sees your relationship as more long-term than you do. (Reader POV, second person)

cw: implied stealthing, under negotiated breeding kink, one-sided daddy kink

You tell yourself it’s just a kink.

You’re not ready to become a mother - you’d like to be married for at least a year before even trying for a baby, and you’d like to have an established career before even getting married. For you, the idea of a bun in the oven is so far down the line it’s not even visible on the horizon yet.

But you know it’s not the same for Price. He’s older than you, has lived a far wilder life and lost it what must be nearly a dozen times over. He’s a weathered man, with deep lines on his forehead and wrinkles around his eyes, just the tiniest hint of silver creeping into his beard.

You know it’s not smart to have a fling with him. Not only is he your boss and a controversially older man, but he’s also the exact opposite of a commitment-phobe like you. He’s always looking for more commitment in fact, something you hadn’t expected considering the illicitness of your relationship with him.

You'd assumed an affair with your boss would involve mostly quickies in closets, a refusal to be in the same room as one another during the workday, maybe even pretending to dislike each other around other coworkers. Instead, he talks to you more once you start sleeping together than he had before - he parks himself on your desk at any time he pleases, invites you to have lunch in his office with him (alone), and laughs when your co-workers call him your work-husband.

So you know that he wants more, that he wants you to really be with him (he hints at far more than just that, but doesn’t dare say it aloud, which you’re glad for) past just being his secretary and his fuckbuddy.

In fact, he’d nearly torn you into two when you’d giggled and called him a “bootycall” after he called you back into work hours after you’d gone home. His face had gone from eager and affectionate to what you can only call scolding, and he’d been rougher with you than normal. You enjoy a few smacks to your ass, but that night he’d spanked you hard enough to leave you squirming the next morning when you sat at your desk. You’d been pouty about it, had glared only half-playfully at him when he smirked, but the way he ate you out on his desk for lunch more than made up for the discomfort.

And he makes these… comments sometimes, while he’s buried inside you. Things that allude to a future you’re not ready for.

Gotta come after me, sweetheart, it takes better like that.

Hips up, don’t let any of me drip out.

Gonna make me a daddy, pretty thing? Huh? Gonna take my cum and grow me a baby?

My good fuckin’ girl, lettin’ me breed her pretty cunt.

Gonna look so pretty, all round for me. Gonna take such good care of you.

C’mon, honey, wanna make sure it sticks this time.

You tell yourself it’s just a kink. He plugs you up with a couple fingers once he’s finished, says “Just to make sure you don’t lose any of my cum, can’t be wastin’ it right now,” and licks your clit until your legs shake.

He hardly fucks you in any position that isn’t bent over his desk, no matter how much you whine and beg for me. He just smacks your ass, gives you an extra orgasm or two to keep you placated. More often than not he leaves you bent over the desk after he’s finished, tilts your hips up a little higher and gives you a kiss on the temple as he sits back in his seat to get back to work.

You’d told him to use a condom the first few times, even though you’ve been on birth control for years. You’ve always been responsible with flings, been more than willing to send a man packing at the first hint of whining if he didn’t want to wear protection. A baby has never once crossed your mind as an option, and it certainly doesn't now.

So it was instinct to tell Price to put on a condom before he fucked you the first time. And he had, without kicking up any fuss about it past a furrowed brow and a grumble or two.

But then the condom broke, and you were left with his cum dripping down your thighs. You’d had a moment of panic, but he’d given you money for Plan B, and you told yourself the odds of getting pregnant with Plan B and birth control were so low it wasn’t worth stressing out over.

The condom broke the second time. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. And every time after that you asked him to wear one.

At some point you stopped asking, and he never remembered himself. A few muttered questions about what brand he’d been using between fevered kisses, thick fingers at your cunt a distraction, and eventually you told yourself it wouldn’t matter as long as you kept taking the birth control pills.

It would be rude to demand Plan B after every round, right? Plus, asking for cash minutes after you'd both gotten off always made you feel a bit... dirty. When you feel him drip down your thighs, when you pull your panties up and feel the mixture of both of you gather there, you tell yourself that the birth control will surely do it's job, and you try not to worry.

Now, pulling open the drawer where you keep your pills, you wonder if maybe all his talk of babies and his cum taking is more than just heat-of-the-moment dirty talk.

You stare down at the empty drawer and every time he’s called himself Daddy echoes in your ear like a choir.

#this one is aggressively meh to me so sorry #reading through each kinktober before i post the day before and like. more than i expected have very little smut #bo writes #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #price x you #captain price x reader #captain price x you #how do people tag for him #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #kinktober day 8

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elia-the-bibliophile · 14 days

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Illicit Affairs (Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader)

Genre: Angst

Word count: 1,3k

Intro: In the world of Formula 1, where every turn holds the promise of glory or heartbreak, she was just another face in the crowd. Against all odds, they find themselves drawn into an illicit affair that defies the constraints of their world where every stolen moment could lead to their downfall.

“Make sure nobody sees you leave

Hood over your head, keep your eyes down

Tell your friends you're out for a run

You'll be flushed when you return”

She slipped away from the bustling paddock, a hood shrouding her features as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors of Monte Carlo with practiced stealth.

With every step, her heart raced in tandem with the revving engines outside, a symphony of anticipation echoing in her ears. She dared not raise her eyes, afraid they would give away the clandestine mission she is doing.

“Just out for some fresh air," she muttered to herself repeatedly.

Rehearsing the lie she would feed her unsuspecting friends upon her return. Yet beneath the veil of secrecy, her cheeks burned with a flush of excitement, the thrill of their forbidden rendezvous moves her forward into the waiting embrace of dusk.

“Take the road less traveled by

Tell yourself you can always stop

What started in beautiful rooms

Ends with meetings in parking lots”

There he is, determination evident in the focused lines of his face, that you can't help but admire. In your mind, you envision him telling himself he can always stop, but you know he never will—not until he's crossed the finish line.

What started as a harmless fascination between a driver and his race engineer swiftly turned into something dangerous, all consuming. Both of them never intended it to go this far.

A voice interrupts your reverie, pulling you back from the depths of your thoughts. "Lost in your mind again, are we?" The familiar timbre of Carlos's voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you turn to face him, unable to suppress the warmth that floods your cheeks.

"It's hard not to get caught up in you," you reply, a playful twinkle dancing in your eyes as you meet his gaze.

Carlos chuckles, a sound that resonates like music in your ears. "Care to share those brilliant thought of yours, cariño?” he says, his smile lighting up his features.

“For you? Always”, you replied while caressing the stubble on his jaw.

On the paddock, in front of all those people they were nothing but mere acquaintance. But right here in this deserted parking lot, she can pretend all she wants. They can be anything they would like to be, away from prying eyes.

“And that's the thing about illicit affairs

And clandestine meetings and longing stares

It's born from just one single glance

But it dies, and it dies, and it dies

A million little times”

In the dimly lit corner of the Ferrari garage, you find yourselves locked in a yet another tryst, the air thick with tension and anticipation.

“This... this can't keep going on," Carlos murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze fixed on yours with a longing that mirrors your own. "We both know it's risky." Yet his actions don’t mirror his words, as his hands keep on embracing you, his chin settled on top of your head as he towers a good few inches above you.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggle to find the right words. "I know… but I just can't help it," you confess, your voice tinged with regret.

Carlos reaches out, his fingers brushing against your lashes in a fleeting touch that sends a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins. "I feel it too," he admits, his voice heavy with resignation. "But we're playing with fire, tesoro, and sooner or later, someone’s going to get burned. I don’t want that to be you.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling like a stone in the pit of your stomach. "I understand," you whisper, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

For a moment, the world falls away, leaving only the two of you locked in a silent embrace, clinging to each other as if your lives depended on it.

But even as you cling to this fleeting moment of bliss, you both know that the flame of your affair is destined to flicker and fade, extinguished by the harsh reality of the world outside.

“And you wanna scream

Don't call me "kid"

Don't call me "baby"

Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me

You showed me colors

You know I can't see with anyone else”

“—Mi corazón…”

As the weight of reality threatens to crush the fragile sanctuary you've built, a surge of defiance rises within you, fueled by the intensity of your emotions.

"Don't…” you whisper fiercely, your voice trembling with determination. "Stop calling me that.”

Carlos's gaze softens, a hint of remorse flickering in his eyes as he realizes the extent of the turmoil he's brought upon you. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice filled with regret. "I never meant to hurt you. Please believe me, Y/N.”

You take a step back, the sting of his words slicing through the haze of emotion that clouds your mind. "Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me," you exclaim, gesturing to yourself, trying to hold back the emotions that threatens to consume you whole. "I don’t even recognize myself anymore, this pathetic woman who’s constantly begging for scraps.”

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air, punctuated only by the rapid beat of your heart. And then, with a sense of finality, you turn away, your resolve hardening with each step you take. "I can't do this anymore," you whisper, your voice barely a breath against the tumultuous winds of change. "Not like this."

“Amor please… I beg you,” Your resolve wavers seeing him like this. This magnificent man almost drop to his knees for someone so ordinary. His chocolate orbs glinting with unshed tears.

Yet you managed to walk away.

“And you know damn well

For you, I would ruin myself

A million little times”

With each step away from Carlos, the weight of his absence bears down on you, a heavy burden you carry willingly despite the pain it inflicts. "I am doing this for him," you murmur, your voice cracking with emotion, "He’ll understand someday."

From the sidelines, you watch as the crowd erupts in cheers, celebrating Carlos's first-place win. His smile shines like a beacon of victory, his arms wrapped around Rebecca, in a tender embrace.

They're a vision of happiness, their laughter mingling with the sounds of celebration that fill the air. As they bask in the glow of the spotlight, you can't help but marvel at the undeniable image that they project—a golden couple through and through. A star driver and his model girlfriend. It's a scene straight out of the front cover of a magazine. Headline worthy.

Carlos's gaze suddenly finds yours amidst the sea of faces. For a moment, time seems to stand still as your eyes lock in a silent exchange, a spark of recognition igniting in the depths of his gaze. It's as if the world falls away, leaving only the two of you suspended in a moment of shared understanding—a fleeting connection that transcends the chaos of the celebration unfolding around you.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the moment is shattered by the resumption of the festivities. Carlos turns back to Rebecca, he plastered on another wide smile as he pulls her close once more. But for you, the memory of that fleeting glance lingers like a bittersweet echo, a reminder of the love that once burned oh so brightly between you—a love that now exists only in the recesses of your heart, a distant memory of what could have been.

You can't help but feel a twinge of bittersweet longing—back to just mere weeks ago, when he held the same sweet look in his eyes for only you. Or so that’s what you’d like to tell yourself.

That’s the thing about illicit affairs.

#formula 1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #ferrari x reader #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz jr x you #carlos sainz jr imagine #carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x female reader

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macfrog · 7 months

Text

if i had a gun cowboy like me chapter 12.5 (joel's pov)

long-awaited, pain-packed, and sealed with a bow by yours truly. i love y'all. thank you for being so patient and kind with me on this one. this chapter is joel's experience of the end of illicit affairs and all of hits different. you might wanna check those chapters out before you indulge in the angst-fest that is this one. hope you enjoy 🧡

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: walk a mile in joel miller's shoes. see if you'd do anything different

warnings: more heartache, more angst, lois, alcohol + drug consumption, mention of reader being roofied, very brief mention of joel punching knox, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing

word count: 9.8k

terrible news! there is no more taglist! make sure you're following @macfroglets w notifs on if you wanna be buzzed when i post 🤍

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.” It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks – “Where is she?” “We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –” “’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

You’re still fast asleep when he lifts his head.

You’ve had this argument plenty before. I do not snore. Yes, baby, you do. I’ve heard you. I don’t! It’s alright, it’s okay that you do. It’s a cute snore. Joel, I don’t fucking –

Right now, he’s pretty certain you’re snoring. He just wishes you were awake to hear yourself.

He thinks about pulling his phone, taking a video so that once you’re up, you can hear the little bursts of air, the tiny rasps from your nostrils as you snooze. But if he ever did record anything like that – just like the Hillcrest pictures, until you’d found them last night – he’d keep it for himself. Wouldn’t offer it up so easily.

Just something for him to have, for all the time he spends without you.

Your hair’s still all over the place. Tangled in Joel’s right arm, still smelling of chlorine and sex. Your head rests softly on the crook of his elbow like it’s a pillow; your lips and eyes are puffy, tired. You have this ridiculously strong vice grip on his left arm; during the night he felt you wrap your wrists around it and pull it into your chest, tucking it gently under your chin until your entire upper half was drowned in his.

His chest snug against your back, his arms encasing you safely, and his hips…his hips lined with yours. His now semi-hard cock buried between your legs – he’d slept inside you last night, and it was like, after forty-eight years, someone finally took him by the shoulders and said: This is how you do it. This is how you rest.

He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow, soon as his eyes fell shut. He stirred only to feel you maneuvering his arm, and then fell straight back asleep.

He felt comfortable. He felt safe. Big, old, tough guy Joel Miller. Never let anybody in since Sarah’s mom left. Alone for almost seventeen years, and fine with it. His cheeks heat at the idea of needing – of wanting to feel that. Safe. But then you came along, and he realized he’d been waiting his whole life to feel it. Didn’t even notice he’d been missing it.

That’s how these things go, right? Can’t miss what you don’t have, and all that.

But now he has it. Now he has you.

And you make him feel things he’s never felt before, or if he has, it was so fucking long ago that he’s forgotten. You drive him fucking insane. Keep him up at night, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Make him do stuff that his reflection glares at him over. Are you being serious right now? Make him…different. New.

The night before last, when he’d picked you up from Frank’s after rodeo night, he promised to make you a big breakfast in the morning. Compensation for not swinging by McDonald’s on the way home. But then your dad called, and you had to take off before Joel had even properly woken up.

When he eventually rose from the bed, he went straight to the store. Stocked up on eggs, flour, sugar, bananas. He’d printed a recipe from his computer while you were gone. Marked the items off as he meandered through the store. Stood for ten minutes deliberating over which gluten-free flour would be best, before an assistant asked if he needed any help.

I’m good, he muttered, and then, as the kid wandered off, cleared his throat and said, Actually –

Greg – the kid assistant in question – had suggested the red bag. Said it’s corn flour, instead of wheat. Joel can’t pronounce the brand name. He just knows it’s tucked behind a box of cereal in the cupboard downstairs – he hid it there so you wouldn’t find it and snuff out his plan.

His plan, which he now has to put into action. Without waking you. He’d lie here forever just staring at you, if he hadn’t sworn to himself to make good on his promise and cook you some damn pancakes.

So he slowly pulls his left hand from between yours, loosening your death grip, and steals it back across your waist. He does the same for his right arm – more careful, though, so he doesn’t tug on your hair. Like some kind of wild cat creeping through the jungle, every moment calculated and careful.

He bunches the comforter up a little at your back, so that if you do stir, it might feel like he’s still there. Still a weight, curving around you. He takes a good five minutes just to travel the length of the room – the lightest he’s ever walked, dodging the spots on the carpet that he knows make the floorboards squeal.

When the door gently clicks back into place, he heads downstairs. Cracks out his frying pan – non-stick, obviously – and all his ingredients, pulls the printed recipe from its hiding place between two cookbooks and lays it out on the counter, flattening the creases and unfolding the corners. And gets to it.

His first egg cracks messily over the lip of the bowl. The yolk runs down the outside, and he curses before swiping it back up with his index finger. The second egg empties fully inside the bowl, but drags with it tiny fragments of shell. Joel spends five minutes focusing on picking every single piece out of the mixture. He crouches to make sure he’s poured the exact amount of milk, eyes level with the top of the liquid, and he double checks every step before he follows it.

This has to be perfect. Has to be. For you.

The entire time, all he can think about is you asking to sleep with his body inside yours. Wanting him closer than you’d ever wanted him before, as close as he could physically be. Your sleepy voice circles between his ears on loop – want somethin’ else. That safe feeling creeps up on him all over again.

He knows he shouldn’t. He can’t. He’s spent the last month purposefully pushing those feelings down, dampening them anytime they rose to the surface. Only allowing himself to feel them, to acknowledge them, when you’re around. Because he can’t fucking help but acknowledge them when you’re here – they stare him straight in the face.

So he’d been making peace with letting the floodgates open just a little bit at a time – one quick rush whenever you’d give him one of your meaningful glances, when your hot skin would brush against his, when your mouth would fall open at the feeling of his first deep thrust inside you.

And then he’d bolt them back up.

Except that, now…he’s not sure the dam can hold much longer. There are cracks he’s not repairing quickly enough. Unintended consequences hammering against the other side of the stone in the form of angry white waves.

He’s staring at the beige circle of batter in the pan, swept off with the waves into someplace far from his kitchen, when the sound of your voice draws him back.

“Joel? You down there?”

The floorboards at the top of his stairs creak. You’re leaning over the banister.

“Yeah, darlin’, I’m here.” He slips halfway out of the kitchen door, closing it over his body in hopes you won’t smell the pancakes. You ask what he’s doing, and he says, “Just makin’ a coffee. You want anything brought up?”

“I’m good,” you reply. “’m gonna take a shower.”

“Alright, baby. There’s probably some stuff in Sarah’s bathroom you can use.”

He listens closely as your footsteps recede, waiting to hear the hum of his shower before he relaxes again, flipping the pancake over. It sizzles away as he runs one thick finger along the inside of the bowl and tastes his handiwork. Pretty damn good, he thinks. He’s sucking his finger clean when his cell goes.

Joel swipes to answer, and before he can utter a Hello?, your dad’s voice is screaming down the line to him.

“Mornin’, pal! You in? You up?”

He figures this is the infamous speakerphone you rambled for ten minutes about last night. Like a fucking foghorn, man. I’m deaf in this ear now.

He doesn’t wait for Joel to respond. “I was just passin’ by, remembered you got that leakin’ pipe, or whatever it is. Under your sink, right? You good for me to drop in ‘n take a look?”

“Uh – uh, I’m –” Joel stammers his way through a sentence he doesn’t know the ending of, slotting the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and giving the pan a rattle against the stovetop. He slips the spatula under the mixture, and when he flips it over, the pancake is charcoal black. “Fuck.”

“What’s that?” you dad roars, deafening in Joel’s ear. Fuckin’ speakerphone.

“Nothin’, it’s…” He sighs, accepting his new-found position: backed into a fucking corner. What’s new these days?

“Yeah, I’m up. See you in a bit.”

He hangs up the phone midway through an Alright, buddy from your dad, and whacks the chargrilled pancake on top of the pile. His phone surfs across the counter in a blur of blind panic, before Joel’s taking the stairs two at a time to get to you.

The door’s ajar. He can hear you quietly singing to yourself. Same song you’re always fucking singing, always trying to coax Joel into singing along with you. You’re humming the guitar solo when he whips the door open.

“Hey, hey,” he’s panting, taking your towel in one hand and reaching for the shower door with the other, a blur of movement before his eyes like he’s not in control of his own body. “Out.”

“Huh?” you reply, blinded by the soap suds running down your forehead and into your eyes.

“Baby,” Joel whispers, desperate, “you gotta get out. He’s here. Your damn dad’s here.”

He drags you over to the first place he spots: his closet. He knows it’s no fucking good, but he can hear your dad’s car squealing to a halt in his drive, and he’s in a blink panic wondering what artefacts, what evidence of your being here lie dotted around his house. Your bikini’s hanging up out back, there’s probably a hoodie still strewn over the back of his couch.

He doesn’t have time to think, though, because in the midst of his mental scan of every room whilst explaining to you what’s going on, your dad’s heavy boots just thudded onto his doormat.

“Miller?” he calls up the stairs. And Joel closes the closet over.

----------

He stands by the front door watching your dad’s car purr off down the street, waiting until it turns left and disappears behind the Dawsons’ back fence to shut the door. When he turns back into his hallway, the house is uncomfortably silent. You’re still up in his room.

The weight of your phone pulls at the waistband of his jeans. He slips his hand into his back pocket, fishes it out, and takes one step toward the stairs. The screen lights in his palm.

There’s a cluster of notifications from some film class group chat, a couple Snapchats from Sarah. A reminder to take your birth control from some pink-icon app, and then –

I’m heading over to Joel’s to check something out for him. Wanna meet me there?

He stares at it until the text burns into his eyes. Blinks, and it’s seared into his lids. His breath leaves his chest in a heavy, burdened sigh. It trembles as it pushes from his lungs. He feels something burning under his skin. All over.

He’s angry. And he’s trying to keep it contained.

Keep it where it lies, keep it beneath the surface. Stop it from pooling right behind his lips, collecting in the light of his eyes. Keep it from revealing itself. But when his foot lifts to the first step, it’s like a deadweight in the air.

He’s angry. But he’s fucking exhausted.

The bedroom is empty when Joel pushes the door open. You’re still hidden in the closet. You don’t look up at him when he pulls on the shuttered door, letting light flood across your hands, still covering your face. There are flicks of dripping wet hair peeking out from under the towel on your head.

He wants to put his arms around you. Wants to kiss you all over. Tell you, It’s okay, it’s alright. He didn’t see nothin’.

But he can’t. Because neither of those things are true.

Your dad saw the cowgirl hat. Hell of a lot like a hat my daughter has. It sent a sharpened bolt of panic through Joel’s body the second the words came tumbling out. He might’ve seen your bag lying at the bottom of the stairs. Might’ve passed your car on his drive here. There are so many loose fucking ends.

And more than that – harder to accept: maybe this isn’t okay anymore. Maybe it hasn’t been the entire time. And maybe, despite all his good efforts and the fucking way you make him feel, despite it being weeks now of tiptoeing and lying and covering your tracks – maybe you finally crossed a line.

He can’t look at you a second longer. His heart’s in his throat. If he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll probably choke. Break down. So he walks away.

You follow him downstairs a few minutes later, fully dressed and silent. Your touch sweeps across his shoulder blades, and it takes everything in him not to turn to you then and there. Come here, kiss me. Pretend none of it’s happening, just for a moment.

He sets your plate down in front of you. He’s taken the burnt pancake. He follows a pattern: cuts into the food, glances out to the backyard, and back to the plate. It’s the only thing keeping the words from rolling out onto the table in front of him. The only thing stopping him from –

You kick his leg. So gently, he barely feels it.

“You gonna eat?” he asks in response, chewing on the smoky flavor of burnt batter. Your hands hesitate, and he feels his own flinch as if to take them, rub them, squeeze them. And then he watches as you drag your knife through your own breakfast.

He wants you to yell at him. He wants to give meaning to the guilt he feels. He knows what’s coming, and he isn’t so sure that you do.

This is…impossible. It has been, from the start. Always sneaking off, coming up with excuses. So many fucking excuses, he can’t even keep them straight in his head anymore. She’s here, droppin’ my flannel off. Now we’re upstairs, I’m showin’ her my guitar. Need her to help with decorations. Your TV’s broken, did you know that? Don’t mind us, just sat in this private corner of my backyard, out of view of fucking everyone. I’ll pick her up from her rodeo night, take her home. She’s at Anna’s all day today, right?

And your dad – kind and naïve, or maybe just so fucking gullible that every single one lands like the flour did in the egg mixture. Just gracefully floats down into his brain, absorbs itself and folds perfectly into place.

So, yell at him. Get mad. Make him feel like the fucking asshole he knows he is. Leading you on, and letting you get close to him, and then when it gets too hard – pushing you away. Doesn’t matter if that’s what he did or not; doesn’t matter whether he did or didn’t mean it. He wants you to be mad at him. To justify what he’s about to do.

He slides you your phone. Motions for you to read it.

“Fuck…” you whisper, and then he thinks you get it.

But then you say, “…he didn’t see me, though. Right?” and his heart sinks.

No. He didn’t see you. But he saw so many little pieces of you, that Joel finds it impossible to consider that he isn’t already seeing the entire picture. He’s picturing your dad at home in the living room, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair, adding two and two and two and two and –

You’re bickering. Actually arguing. He doesn’t know how to navigate it, save for letting the frustration take the wheel and drive the point home: you came too close to being caught.

You’re smarter than this, he knows you are. He knows that you can see plain as day, everything that he can. The bag, the hat, the fucking home-cooked breakfast sat on his kitchen counter. He’s watching you argue your point, hands dancing in the air animatedly, eyebrows lifting, eyes widening. Hear me out. Listen to me. Hear me out.

“I didn’t fucking mean to let him see the b–”

“That’s not the point,” Joel says, before he has time to stop himself.

“Then what’s your point?”

He feels his voice carry off into the air with the images racing around his head. Hank’s shadow under the door. The roar of voices downstairs as you climaxed. Your body pinned under Joel’s on your couch. The way the morning light screamed into the house as your front door burst open.

He doesn’t sound like he has much of a point, even to himself. He’s in it just as much as you are. He’s lied and he’s hidden just as much as you have, and made mistakes that are…worse, as far as he’s concerned.

And the worst one of all sits directly opposite him. Head low, eyes boring into the wood of his kitchen table. He can see the tears swelling across your waterline. Can feel the heat from here as it spreads across your face. Anger thrums through his chest again, and his teeth grit.

He murmurs, pushing himself up from the table and away from you. Tells you there’s some stuff he needs to see to. You’re mad about it, like he knew you would be. Like you should be. He promises he’ll be back in a couple hours; promises you’ll talk when he gets home.

And then he leaves.

----------

Clark’s is on the other side of town. It takes him nearly forty minutes to get there, and more than half of that time is spent staring at the tail lights of a Honda in front of him. Some accident up ahead. His eyes bore into the burning red strip of brake light until it’s singed into them, a blur of blue when he finally rips his glare away and stares up at the white sky.

He thinks about calling you. Saying, Hey, I’m stuck in traffic, talk to me, but he doesn’t. He just…doesn’t.

Instead, he wonders what you’re doing. Whether or not you’re still at his place. He wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But if you are – and he hopes you are – what are you doing?

He thinks: She’s on the couch. Bundled in blankets. Grey’s is on TV. She’s rewatchin’ her favorite episodes.

Least, that’s what he wants you to be doing. Wants you to be making yourself feel better, because he knows he was a complete ass earlier. You didn’t deserve any of it. Nothing that he didn’t deserve himself, just as much, anyway.

He thinks about coming home, and you hitting pause, pushing yourself off the couch and sauntering around to him. Wrapping him in the blanket until your bodies are pressed together under the woven red, and kissing him. Kiss me kiss me kiss me.

And the thought of you, standing on your tiptoes to press your soft lips to his, your fingers sifting through his hair, is like a cold pack on a searing wound. Dulls his anger, even if it’s just for a second.

His wide tires crawl silently across the smooth lot of the plant hire, parking right in front of the wire fence. The truck door slams shut when he gets out. He doesn’t mean it. Maybe he does. But he does it without thinking, and with a hot head, a temper sharper than nails, he strides over to the glass-paneled door and swings it open.

She’s sat behind the desk, same as always. Dark, deep auburn hair, groomed and set to perfection so that when she looks up, it doesn’t move an inch. Curls around the sweetheart shape of her face, smooth and shining. Her blue eyes twinkle in the glaring light from outside, and she stands.

She tugs lightly on the hem of her white blouse. You’d probably elbow him and say, That’s cream, not white. She smiles at him and it doesn’t look a thing like your smile. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw your smile. Fuck, he thinks, when did I last make her smile?

And he’s still wondering, when Lois says, “Hey, stranger,” and puts a gentle, pale, red-nailed hand down on the desk. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” Joel grumbles, clearing his throat and glancing at the man in a pair of thick, steel-toe boots, sat in a waiting area to his left. He thinks it’s probably polite to ask how she is. It’s been seven weeks since he blew off her hint for a date.

“Good, thanks,” she replies, cheeks swelling even more. They’re lightly shaded crimson, a soft shimmer to them against her snowy skin, dappled with light freckles. “You?”

He nods once. “Good,” he echoes, not sure what else to say. He’s lying, and she doesn’t seem to figure him out the way you would.

No. Instead, Lois steps back, straightens up, and twirls the pen in her fingers. “What can I do ya for?”

“Got some equipment I’m after,” he mutters, hand slipping into his back pocket for his phone. Lois’s eyes flit up and down his body as he taps his passcode in with his thumb.

She asks him something, but it sounds like she’s speaking through a closed door. He’s elsewhere.

The phone unlocks, screen lifting to reveal the last open app: his camera roll. His thumbs hover over the screen, tracing where yours would’ve tapped last night.

The video’s muted, she won’t hear it even if he let it play, but he swipes away the second he recognizes the tangled mess of your hair, his fist locked tight in it. His own hair, salt and pepper buried deep in the crook of your neck.

Something in his chest aches. Pulls tight, hurts his heart. He takes a deep breath and scares the feeling away. He’s staring at his camera roll. Staring at twelve little square thumbnails – couple of them work stuff, couple of them lists of supplies he has to remember to pick up – and then. Then.

You. At the Hillcrest. Dimples in your cheeks. That’s what made him take his phone out. The soft dips in your skin that appear anytime you smile, laugh, sometimes even just when you talk. He’d first noticed them when you had a mouth full of pizza, chatting animatedly about Meredith and Derek, and he’s noticed them every time since.

He’d seen them, as you posed with Sarah for a selfie at lunch. And his hand had slipped into his pocket before his brain even had the chance to finish the thought.

His quiet way of marking how he felt in that moment. How his chest seemed to fill as if with air, or something thicker. Sweeter. Like it was trying to push words up, a comment to tell you how beautiful you looked. Trying to make him move, run his thumb light as air across that tiny valley in your cheek and look at you with eyes that translated the words hammering behind his eyes.

But you had company. And all he managed to do was take two fucking photos.

Lois talks again, and this time, there’s no closed door.

“Huh?” Joel’s head snaps up, takes a few seconds to focus on the red hair in front of him. “Sorry, Lois, sorry.”

“’s alright. You okay?” She’s smiling so warmly, so sincerely. And there are no dimples in her cheeks.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “just checkin’ for the address.”

She holds out a pad, a stack of hire agreement forms hovering between her body and his, but he’s not looking. He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumbs searching your dad’s text thread for the information. Lois lowers the pad to the counter, places the pen on top. Fiddles with it until it’s lined up with the top of the form perfectly.

Then Joel looks up, and she smiles again.

“Not for you, then?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Just the messenger.”

“Got it. Well, you know what you’re doing. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lois takes a step back, eyes still on Joel, who smiles politely, then swipes the form from the desk and takes a seat between Steel-Toe Boots and some tall, leafy plant that he has to bat away when he sits down. He’s copying the site address, phone resting on his thigh, when the receptionist speaks again.

“How’s Sarah doin’? She home yet?”

“Yeah,” Joel replies, “been home a couple weeks now. She’s been in Nashville this weekend.”

Lois lifts her head, blinking slowly. “Nashville. Nice. So, you’ve had a weekend to yourself.”

He scoffs. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“And what does Joel Miller get up to when he has an empty house for a few days?”

His fingers squeeze around the pen, pushing deeper into the paper. His expression hardens. “Nothing excitin’ enough to share. Sat by the pool yesterday. Was nice out.”

She agrees. “Sure was. You have company?”

Joel shakes his head once. Blinks the image of you and your red bikini from his vision. Focuses on dragging the pen one digit at a time across the line labeled Phone Number. If he cared enough, he’d give the obvious hint a couple seconds’ consideration, even just to protect Lois’s pride a little.

But he doesn’t care. And right now, he ain’t interested in protecting anyone but you.

“Nope. Just me ‘n a few beers.”

“Better off that way,” a hoarse, forty-cigs-a-day voice rasps from his right. “Less fuckin’ problems.”

Joel’s jaw rotates a degree towards the work boots; notices the folds of dry, leathery skin piled atop the raised gray eyebrows of their owner, and then turns back silently.

Lois clears her throat awkwardly. “Well, I spent the day with my book. I’m readin’ a Colleen Hoover. Adam’s at camp, so – quiet house for me, too.”

Joel finds himself nodding. Autopilot. He’s pretending he’s listening.

You’re still in his sight, wandering over from the sliding kitchen doors, a bottle in each hand. He can hardly see you when he looks up, the sun’s so bright. You hold a beer out, condensation dripping down your fingers towards Joel’s when he takes it, and then you slump down in the sun lounger next to his.

His arm reaches across, and your small fingers wrap and then unwrap around his, running across his knuckles, nails lightly scratching his worked hands. And he’s smiling, and he doesn’t even notice it until his eyes meet yours and you laugh, and he asks, What? through a chuckle, and you say, Nothin’, you just look happy.

Your dimpled blush blurs back into checkboxes and scrawled handwriting. You’re gone again. He’s in a white office, and the gentle lapping of the water on the pool’s edge fades into the headache noise of a fan humming, and he feels the warmth of your gaze on his skin turn into the cold, harsh spotlight glare of Lois’s eyes on him.

He looks up. She’s still smiling. At this point, he finds it fucking unnerving.

He rises from his chair, swings a wandering leaf from that ugly green plant out of his way and paces back over to the desk, sliding the pad back across to her. Their hands brush as she takes it from his grip, and he pulls his wrist close to his body. Lois doesn’t seem to notice.

She’s running the pen down the form, checking everything he’s filled in. Her tongue moves around the inside of her cheek, sucking on a hard candy. “Delivery on Friday?” she double checks, and Joel nods. “Alright,” she says, tearing away his copy, “we’ll call ya.”

“’ppreciate it,” he mumbles, folding the paper into his back pocket.

She turns, reaching to slip the form into a blue tray, and Joel pauses. Thinks to say something – he hopes Adam has a fun time at camp, or that Lois enjoys the rest of her quiet week. But then he sees you sat opposite him, staring fixedly at the plate before you, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. He feels your hand laced in his, hears your laugh still ringing in his ears.

He misses you. He should never have left you. You matter more to him than some equipment for a site. Matter more to him than anything. He should’ve never fucking left.

Joel nods. Reaches for the handle of the door. Glances back to Lois. “There a florist anywhere near here?”

----------

He pulls the truck in alongside the florist. Teal window frames, a little pink door. He can hear you now. How fucking cute is that store? Give me your phone, I gotta get a picture. Mine’s is in my bag in the back. Look, the traffic’s movin’, Joel, give me your phone – quick!

His fingers hook around the silver door handle. He pats his jeans once – wallet’s right there – and goes to pull, when his cell vibrates from the center console. He can see himself in the glass screen, your dad’s name written across the reflection of his forehead.

He bites down on his lip. Hard. Glances up to the road ahead. Blinks. And decides to answer.

“Joel,” your dad chirps down the line. “Sorry, buddy, you’ll be sick a’ the sight ‘n sound of me today.”

Joel manages a convincing laugh. “What’s up?”

“Just makin’ sure you’re rememberin’ to put Friday’s date down for delivery on that order. We’re gonna need the stuff over the weekend, so.”

“Yep. Just been to do it right now. Friday’s date, Harvey’s site, your card details ‘n everything.”

“’attaboy. Good job. You’re all grown up.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks, pal. I appreciate it. There wasn’t no chance I was gettin’ time to do it myself,” he lowers his voice, “I’m still stuck here with Kelman.”

Joel’s fingers trace around his steering wheel. “Oh, yeah? He keepin’ you busy?”

“You bet. Had to haggle with ‘im just to get a lunch break. Speakin’ of – I swung by the house and that daughter of mine wasn’t home. Haven’t seen or heard from her since yesterday mornin’. I’m just checkin’ she ain’t stop by to see Sarah or som’?”

His fingers lock tight around the leather. “Sarah’s still in Nashville, she gets in tonight. Couldn’t tell you where yours is. I’m not home yet, so.”

It’s a half-truth. He could wager a pretty good guess, but he can’t be certain, can he?

Your dad chuckles down the line. “She spent the night at Anna’s. My house must be like prison to her – she’s never around anymore. I’ll hear from her soon, I’m sure. Alright. Thanks, again, Joel.”

He drops the phone back into the cupholder with a sigh, leaning back against the headrest to stare at the roof of the truck. He’s still picturing you in his living room, head turning to the street at every sound of a car door, or tires rolling by. And then the image is marred by your dad, peering in the window back at you, catching you wrapped up in a situation you shouldn’t be in.

He doesn’t want your dad to find out. For obvious reasons. Because it would mean the collapse of their friendship, the collapse of the world they built between them – for you, for Sarah, for themselves. Comfortability, and normalcy, and routine and order all thrown to the wind on account of some month-long fling.

But more important than all of that: it would mean dragging you into all of that, too. Fucking up your relationship with your dad. Making things weird between you and Sarah. Ruining whatever’s left of what you and Joel had, before you both took it too far.

And if he doesn’t want all that – if he doesn’t want your dad finding out – then something has to change. Something’s gotta stop.

His fingers wrap tight around the key and turn, and the truck jumps to life. He turns away from the teal-colored florist as he pulls off.

----------

You take it about as well as he reckoned you might. About as well as you should, given the circumstances. He isn’t surprised, and he doesn’t blame you. He’s probably on your side, when you argue back with him.

“You’re not serious, right? Joel. You’re not –”

“Kid, I…”

“No. What? Because of a fucking bag?”

He lifts his gaze and pleads with you. “Because of the lying.”

You’re right, with your response: it’s never been an issue until now. He’s been more than fucking happy to sneak off, take you as his own, and then return with a satisfied grin and a mouth full of excuses to feed your company. He almost agrees.

It’s just: this time, your dad’s at your heels like a bloodhound. A little less sharp, maybe. Blind as a fucking bat, sure. But he can smell something’s up. And he’s circling it, nose to the ground, drawing nearer and nearer to the pair of you with each step.

You ask if he wants to tell the truth. That thought scares him just as much. Knocks him back a few steps. No, he doesn’t want to come clean.

The words fly back and forth like a tennis match. Too fast for him to keep control of what he’s saying and how you’re hearing it. He wants to break it off – is there anything to break off? – but he doesn’t want to lose you – how can you lose something you never had? – and then: did he ever have you in the first place?

You’re standing over him, between his knees. “End it,” you tell him. “I’ll go.”

There’s a casualness in the loose shrug of your shoulders that scares him more than the prospect of you actually leaving. How easy it looks like it could be, for you to just wander out. Sling your bag over your shoulder and revert back to the start of the summer, when he was just a ride home after a rainy day at work.

Forget how to touch him the way he’s certain only you can, forget the secret language between you, forget every stolen glance and whispered word and every thought that ever translated from your brain to his as easy as they would pass between your lips.

“You don’t mean nothin’ to me? That what you think?” He’s laughing. Disbelief, fear, shock. Whichever one it is, it pulls across his cheeks painfully. Somehow, you’ve ended up at the foot of his bed.

“Well, what else am I supposed to take from this, asshole? That you’re fuckin’ in love with me?”

It’s cold water over an already-dying fire. The words smother into ash on his tongue. No more come to the front. He just stares at you. His phone starts to chitter out into the silence between you.

You take a step forward. Your voice is low. “You don’t get to do this, you know. You don’t get to pull me in and then drop me…once you’re done with me.”

“Don’t.”

It’s not much, but it soars from the pit of his stomach, through his throat and past his lips like a final arrow. All he can muster up.

“Don’t.”

There’s a weight where the words originate from. Something deep in his gut, an ache pulling its way upward, swelling across his chest. His ears are screaming.

Of all the things you might think – he’s an asshole, he’s a liar, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing – the worst one would be that he spent this entire time leading you on. Making you feel special. Making you think you were something to him.

You are something to him. You’re – you’re fucking everything to him. It’s why he’s doing this, right? Going against every instinct, every gut feeling. To protect you. To do what’s right by you. He’s not fucking done with you. He wonders if he’ll ever go another day in his life without thinking about you.

“I can’t read your mind anymore…” you whisper, and his lungs steal a breath. His lack of response flattens your expression.

Joel might not be done, but you are.

He can feel you slipping from his grasp like sand through his knuckles. Each grain rocking itself loose, choosing to throw itself to the depths below rather than spend another second wrapped in his clutch.

He’s trying so desperately to hold onto you. Listen to me, he thinks, and he knows you can’t hear him anymore. Because now you’re really going – you’re tripping out of his room. Your heel catches on the threshold, like one last-ditch attempt from fate to pull you back into him, but you stop yourself and spin, fleeing down the hallway.

He takes a loose grasp of your wrist, fingers barely meeting on the other side of your skin before you tear it away from him like he’s scalded you. The look on your face makes him think for a moment that he might actually have done it – burned you. Pained you. Raised the skin below your gentle palm in a furious, red glow.

He’s swapping words out like they’re tools, each one immediately breaking and being flung back into the box. He’s trying any combination, any useless, futile order of words to make you stop in your tracks. You know how much I care about you, ‘s why I’m doin’ it, baby, come back, we can talk about this.

And he opens his mouth to give voice to the only words he knows would stop you – the reason why he’s doing it in the first place, the only thought he’s had anytime he’s looked at you for the last couple weeks. He opens his mouth to say it, or say something like it, when the machine silences the ringtone and the pair of you, too.

Her voice is like ice down the back of his shirt. He stares at the machine, red light blinking like a rag to a bull. He could walk over to it and smash the ever-loving fuck out of it with his fists until it’s dust on his coffee table. Until it shuts the fuck up, stops interfering with his fucking business.

And then he thinks about Lois, and her cream blouse, and her red nails, and her big, blue eyes, and her soft drawl and everything about her that is so entirely opposite to everything about you.

And how much – despite how nice and friendly, or funny and good-natured she is – how much he hates her right now, and how much he fucking loves you.

But you’re gone, now. Washed away by the tide. No more sand in Joel’s palm.

He tries to stop it. Tries to wind back a little, tries to make the sea cough up what it just stole from him. Give her back, you fuck. His eyes are stinging like salt water. Why are they stinging? There’s a roaring in his ears – the waves laughing in his face. Sickly and deafening.

He’s doing his best to keep a hold on his trembling voice. He knows he sounds pathetic. But yours is louder, stronger, steadier. And when you talk, it’s with an air of finality. Like you’re turning over the horizon. The last time he’ll ever see you again.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Joel.”

----------

He doesn’t call or text you that night. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Doesn’t even know where he’d begin. You’re mad, and Joel figures you got every right to be. This entire thing – today, this weekend, the whole month you’ve been together – is one big fucking mess.

He spends the afternoon hunched over his kitchen table, trying to distract himself with work. Twirling a pencil between his fingers, reading three, four, sometimes five times over the same building plans before deciding that the words and numbers won’t fucking sink in. He leaves them strewn across the table, wanders aimlessly upstairs and takes a cold shower.

Sarah’s flight gets in at 8PM. Joel’s sat curbside, truck engine humming, scanning every single figure that walks out of the airport building. When he spots the gray hoodie, the brown hair tied back with a pink scrunchie, the much-too-big-for-four-days-away suitcase rolling at her heels, he gets out.

She hugs her friends, they nod in passing greeting to him, and she skips over.

“Hey,” he breathes as she wraps her arms around his waist. “How was your flight? Saw you comin’ in.”

She shrugs in response. “I’m hungry. Wanna go get McDonald’s?”

Joel grumbles, slotting her case in the back of the truck. “You don’t wanna get home? Take a shower first? You smell like plane.”

“Ha! No.”

She opens the passenger side door and hoists her foot up on the seat, retying her sneaker. Joel’s already in and buckled up, hands on the wheel, watching her blue nails loop the laces.

“There’s one, like, ten minutes away.”

He’s shaking his head. “We got food in the house.”

Her gaze lifts. Her foot drops. “Oh, c’mon, it’s on the way home. We’ll be, like, five minutes. I just got off a two-hour flight, dude, right through dinner. I’m starving, I –”

“Would you just get in the damn truck, Sarah?”

It’s shorter, snappier, angrier than he meant. But he’s parked in the middle of the packed pick-up area, and the rattling of suitcase wheels and the whistling of cab drivers and the fucking roaring of planes overhead are making the headache behind his eyes worse.

Sarah freezes, one arm still leaning on the doorframe. “Jesus. What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just – get in.”

“No need to be an asshole about it,” she murmurs, pulling herself up into the passenger seat.

Joel’s face is in his hands, elbows atop the steering wheel. “I’m not tryna be an asshole,” he says into his palms.

His daughter looks at him. Concerned. “Somethin’ happen? While I was gone?”

He shakes his head again.

Nothing happened.

He’s quiet the rest of the night. The rest of the week. Sarah notices, he knows she does, because she pries. In her own way. She’s smarter than he is. Less obvious.

She’s already up and in the kitchen when he rises on Tuesday morning. Spins around at the toaster, tells him the machine’s ready for his coffee. Asks if he wants her to make it. Asks if he wants any breakfast.

Thanks, kiddo. No, I’ll get it. No, you’re good, thanks.

They sit opposite one another in silence, save for the crunching of Sarah’s toast. He can feel her eyes on him, same way he felt Lois’s. Trying to burrow deep inside, take a look at his brain. Catch a glimpse of the words he’s thinking over and over and over.

There ain’t no words, though. It’s just images. Video replay of your back as you strode down his driveway, the way the wind caught your hair and brushed your cheek, the way your hand came up to wipe your tears. And the way he stood there, like a fucking idiot, and did nothing.

His chest hurts any time he thinks about you. Pulls in, knits itself together in knots. He’s good at pushing feelings down, good at turning them away from the sunlight like faded pebbles. But this is different. It’s a different kind of hurt.

It’s unresolved, it’s an open wound. It’s you. And it’s every time he hears REO Speedwagon, every time he pulls a flannel over his shoulders and catches the scent of your perfume on it, every time he’s flicking through the TV and catches a flash of a hospital setting, it’s a pair of hands deep inside the wound, pulling it a little wider.

It aches. It stings and it aches and it winds.

And then he turns the pebbles around. Back to the shade. Over and over and fucking over.

On Wednesday night, he caves. Asks Sarah if she’s spoken to you.

She’s chewing on a slice of pizza; licks the grease from her fingertips before she answers. “Not really. She’s been quieter than usual. Why?”

“She’s been quieter than usual?” he repeats, playing off the way his head shot up by looking straight back down at the pizza box.

Sarah narrows her eyes. “Yeah. I figure she’s working a lot.”

“Right. Right.”

“She gets tired of being in the house all the time, I think. Getting treated like a kid still. So I guess the more time she can spend outta there, the better.”

Joel nods slowly. He already knows that much.

Sarah studies him. Watches his hands as he dabs a pizza crust into the dip. When he tosses it in his mouth, he looks back up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You want the last slice?”

“You take it,” he mutters, sitting back and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m stuffed.”

She hums, reaching forward. “Whatever it is,” she says, pulling the dough apart, “that’s got you this down –”

“Ain’t nothin’ got me down, kiddo.”

“– whatever it is,” she continues, “I bet it works itself out.”

Sarah stands up, taking her water with her, and wanders out of the kitchen.

----------

Joel struggles through another sleepless night, Thursday through Friday. His eyes don’t close over once. He hauls himself out of bed early in the morning, forces a black coffee down his throat, and heads off to work.

He’s up at some new client in Waco. Andrew Curtis – or, well, Andrew Curtis’s father, but Joel’s been dealing primarily with the son, and the guy’s a fucking imbecile. Doesn’t know his head from his ass, probably. And he has a voice like nails on a damn chalkboard, and his shirt’s untucked around the back, but Joel ain’t got a tone kind enough, or half the wordsmanship, or an ounce of energy to tell him.

Anyway – he spends all day at this dusty site, trying to work and instead, thinking about whatever the fuck you’re doing. Wherever you are, whoever you’re with. It’s almost seven by the time he’s leaving, packing up his truck and watching Andrew Curtis across the yard. He’s spotted his own shadow; he’s twisting around to reach the ducktail poking out from above his belt loops.

Joel thinks to call you about it on the way home. Tell you all about the guy: his dry conversation, his flannel, the fact he kept calling Joel Joe all day. He figures it would make you laugh, least the way he’d tell it, and he reckons that’s exactly what you need right now. That’s exactly what he needs, right now.

When Clark’s call him, he dials your dad. Has his ear blown half to hell by the speakerphone. Learns midway through the conversation that you’re right there in the car, too, and bites back a stream of incoherent, senseless words. Settles for a quiet reminder: he’s right here if you need him.

He doesn’t expect you to take him up on it. Knows you got better things to do than deal with some asshole who’d rather break your heart than have a few difficult conversations. You’re probably having fun, probably finally feeling good again. You’re probably fine.

But still. He doesn’t sleep that night, either.

It’s just gone two when Anna calls. He’s lying in bed, some shopping network on loop on the TV. His tired eyes bore into the screen, defocusing over the pixels, not watching nor listening and barely fucking breathing until he picks up the phone. Her voice is panicked, shrill, and shaking so much he wonders if his own phone is trembling with it.

“Mr. Miller?” she asks, and Joel sits up. “Got your number from Yelp. ‘m sorry it’s so late, it’s…oh, fuck – it’s, like, 2AM.”

“Anna,” Joel says hoarsely. Get to the fuckin’ point.

“Right. Sorry. It’s just…we kinda have a…situation, here.”

It’s you. He fucking knows it’s you. His heart begins to hammer. He doesn’t give a fuck whether she puts two and two together or not when he asks –

“Where is she?”

“We’re still at Frank’s,” Anna says, sniffing. He can hear the booming bassline of music, muffled; the sharper chatter of voices. She’s on the street. In his head, he can see her shoulders hunched; her bare arms wrapped around her body for warmth. She goes to say it again. “We’re still at –”

“’n where is she?” Joel cuts, and she finally cracks.

In one long, drawn breath, she spills. “She was fucked from the second we walked in here; she drank too much too quick, Mr. Miller – Joel,” she says when he corrects her, “and then she just – I dunno, she just – fucking disappeared with these guys, me ‘n Kara never saw ‘em in our lives – and they went upstairs we think, and she came back smelling like weed, and then this guy – he just, like, scooped her off, Mr. M– I mean Joel, like, totally dragged her away, and then –”

“Who–? Anna – Anna, wait,” Joel says, shushing her between her rambling, trying to rein in what she’s saying. When she finally shuts up, he speaks slowly and calmly. “Who dragged her away?”

“We don’t fuckin’ know!” she almost shrieks down the line. It cuts out for a second and Joel’s heart stops dead.“– so we don’t know,” she says when her voice filters back through into his ear, “but Sam said he saw the dude drop something in her bottle when he turned away. A pill or something.”

Joel’s body tenses. Freezes solid, with the blood in his veins. His eyes fix on one spot on his dresser: the loose handle that sits a little squint. He stares at it until his peripheral starts to blur.

“He – say that again?”

“He roofied her, we think. But we can’t fucking find them. Sam and Kara are in there just now looking. The guy pulled her away, that’s what I’m tryna say!”

“Right,” whispers Joel, nodding. He drags a heavy hand over his eyes, tries to push the image of you in danger out of his head for one second so he can figure out what to do.

Anna doesn’t hear him. She keeps talking. “…and then Sam said she told him not to call her dad, but I had to call someone, y’know? You’re the only person I think she wouldn’t – I think she wouldn’t mind me callin’. Please.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, arms pushing through the sleeves of his shirt. He keeps the phone against his cheek when he bends to reach for his boots, ties them loose and grabs his keys.

“You call me as soon as you find her, you hear? I’m on my way,” he tells Anna, and hangs up.

He’s panicking. Fear, transferred between her cell and his, creeping over his shoulders, wrapping long, cold fingers around his throat. He’s panicking. He’s panicking. He never panics. Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you with?

There’s barely any traffic on the road, but the drive takes for-fucking-ever. The lights at the side of the road blur into long, thin streaks of orange. His hands are tight around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. Your name lies loose on his lips.

He pulls up right outside the bar. There are small clusters of people, congregated tight together under the streetlights; cigarettes hanging from lips, bottles loose in hands. He shoves by them on his way to the door. Some guy shuffles out of his way, looking up to cuss Joel out and quickly dipping his head again when he locks eyes with the grizzly expression.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and spots you instantly.

----------

His knuckles are throbbing. Skin stretching anytime he moves his hand, searing hot and sharply stinging across the bone. Your touch is the only thing soothing them right now.

He got two good punches in. Just two. Burst the guy’s nose. He would’ve kept going, had he not been in a bar full of people – people who knew who he was – and had you not been stood behind him, body liquid-like from how much you were swaying.

But he has you home now. Up in your room, settled in bed. You’re safe. You’re with him.

You’re fucking wasted. Like, can barely lift a glass of water to your lips unaided wasted. He spent the entire drive watching over you, stealing glances when your head turned or your eyes lulled closed, checking you were still awake, still talking, still fucking breathing.

Whatever that asshole gave you, you don’t seem to have had enough for it to do too much damage. The alcohol is the real culprit. Though you were cognitive enough to yell at him over Lois in the kitchen, which relieved him for a second before it fucking crushed him. He’s lying awake right now – listening to the sound of your snoring – replaying the argument in his head. Over and over.

You’re an asshole and a liar. Just stringing me along this whole time.

He’s some awful cocktail of angry and terrified and fucking heartbroken. You’re lying inches from him, your hand resting softly on top of his, and yet – you’re miles away. The space between you both – fragmented, treacherous.

In a perfect world, he’d have wrapped his arms around your shoulders. He’d have pulled you against his weight, against his strong, steady form. And he’d have walked you, as slow as you needed, out of the bar and to his truck. Maybe laughing. Maybe singing.

He’d have told you everything was fine, told you he loved you, told you he was gonna get you home, make you feel better. He’d hold you until the sun came up, and then hold you until it went back down.

He’d love you. And you’d let him.

Maybe that world doesn’t exist, Joel thinks. And maybe that’s for the better.

It fucking hurts, though. Stings like a hot blade through his chest. All this time, messing around, pretending there was nothing more to it. Letting his feelings through like water in a fucking dam. It was bound to break eventually.

And maybe he really thought, even just for a fleeting moment, there could be something here. Something worth holding onto. More than two idiots messing around, more than sex and secrecy.

He didn’t even realize. Didn’t notice the shift. When did he start feeling…more? When did it cross that line?

He’s staring at the end of your bed. Thinking about you under him, gripping onto his shirt, his hand between your legs. The very first time. And every other fucking time since then. Which one was the threshold? Who pushed who?

His ringtone bursts through the silence, making him jump. His arm swings to fish it from the nightstand, swiping to answer before he’s even read who’s calling, just to shut the thing up.

“Hello?” he murmurs.

“Hey, Joe? Uh, I mean, Joel? It’s Andrew Curtis here.”

He rolls his eyes. For fuck’s sake. “Mornin’, Andrew.”

“Hi. Sorry, I know it’s super early. I’m just checkin’ we’re still good to go. I got my guys ready, we’re rarin’ to get goin’ whenever you are.”

Joel clears his throat, pushing slowly off the plush mattress, resting your hand on the sheets. “Yeah, uh…” He slips out of your room, hopping over to the bathroom and closing the door over. “…I had a, uh…a family emergency durin’ the night. I’m gonna be a little late, but I’ll be there.”

“Oh, gee, I hope everything’s alright?”

He phrases it like he wants Joel to clue him in. He considers for a second actually saying, Yeah, my best friend’s daughter – who I’ve been sleeping with for the last month – got plastered at a bar – Frank’s, local place, you heard of it? – because I broke things off with her – but I didn’t want to, I was just tryna be fuckin’ noble – and I went and picked her up, punched a guy who was tryna hurt her, because guess what, Andrew – I’m in fuckin’ love with her.

He sums it up with: “Yeah. Everything’s fine now. Thanks.”

“Alright, well, great news! Call me when you’re twenty minutes out, I’ll have the guys here for you arrivin’. Safe journey, Joe!”

Joel breathes an Uhuh and hangs up, holding the bridge of his nose. He has a headache, like he’s the one who’s been drinking. It’s only going to get worse, too, heading off to go spend his Saturday with Andrew fucking Curtis and his loose flannel.

The sun’s rising slowly, lighting the hall in a warm glow. Joel pads quietly into your room and pulls the cover back over his side of the mattress. You stir; your head jerks only to move some hair from your face, and then you sigh, sleep pulling you back into its arms.

He watches you for a second. Wishes he could run a light hand down your cheek, kiss your head. Whisper a goodbye, the same way you did to him almost a week ago.

He shakes the thought, collecting his boots from the floor. His hand hovers over his shirt for a moment. And then he lifts it by the collar, lays it neatly on the pillow by your head, and leaves. You can keep it, trash it, burn it. But it’s yours. Everything about him is yours.

In the kitchen, he stands by the sink, nursing a cup of coffee. It’s a quarter to six. This early on a Saturday, he figures he’ll be in Waco by seven, seven-thirty latest. His eyes fix on the spot you two stood last night, yelling back and forth about Lois. She seems so far away, now. He can barely remember the shape of her face, the sound of her voice.

His grip tightens around the mug. He places it in the sink, and grabs his keys. As he passes the stairs, he pauses. Leans on one foot, head tilted to listen out for any sound of life. Any fucking sound – the creak of a floorboard, the squeak of a door handle. Anything to keep him here. Anything.

Nothing comes. No sound, no movement, no you.

He closes the front door gently on his way out.

----------

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mountymase · 13 days

Text

you don't get to tell me about sad

file two - lewis hamilton

a/n: i’m so unserious i cannot even- 🥲 i didn’t plan to post this today but i was on a mission. it’s my first lh44 fanfic and i’m actually proud of it. hope you like it! although it ends open to a part two, i truly don’t plan on writing, just so you know! 🤍

tw: angst, cheating, sort of toxic love/relationship, divorced parents, mentions of anxiety, twin pregnancy. a bit of “illicit affairs” inspiration.

1.449k words

Everything pointed towards one direction: you getting heartbroken in the end. Heavily heartbroken, to a point, it’d become hard to breathe and face the world as if he’d never been part of your life - how would you be able to forget him and the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled when he laughed, the way his hands instantly searched for your face to kiss you whenever you said something that’d make him laugh?

Lewis was drawn to you and your energetic personality the moment you met, at an FIA gala years ago, and everything about your relationship moved on so fast you were swept off your feet. Like a hurricane, Lewis Hamiton turned your life upside down in a way you’d never be able to explain - and that’s how it went for the next four years. You built a house, a life, a family.

When the twins were born, you thought life couldn’t be more complete, but then Lewis won his 7th World Championship the same year and you made a surprise appearance the moment he stood on the highest spot of the podium, where he belonged. You still remembered the way his eyes widened and jaw dropped, but his facial expression quickly switched to the happiest you’d ever seen him - the sparkle in his teary eyes and the way he never stopped looking at you. As soon as the champagne ceremony was over, Lewis rushed to find you, without even caring how all the cameras had their focus on the two of you as you kissed passionately.

“Where are they?” he breathed against your lips, asking for the twins. You motioned to the garage with your head, where your parents stood with each baby in their arms. Lewis sighed in relief, two weeks were too much time away from Daisy and Jude - the chubby tiny humans wiggled their feet seeing their papa coming closer and that’s how you were living the life that was meant for you.

Things got wonderfully overwhelming when, much to your and Lewis’ surprise, the two lines on five different pregnancy tests were as clear as the Spanish sun outside, as you enjoyed your summer vacation. The twins were just eight months and still needed all of your attention - with Lewis away most of the time and nowhere near thinking of retiring from F1, you had to count on with yours and his parents, so your constant absence during the new season was deeply missed by everyone.

You genuinely thought this new baby would add more joy to what was already a happy life - Lewis could barely contain his excitement and made sure the whole world knew about the family’s new and unexpected addiction, but by the time you were about to give birth again things had drastically changed.

He wasn’t your Lewis anymore, but you wouldn’t be the annoying wife, you wouldn’t pressure him so you’ve watched the love of your life slowly distancing himself from you as a husband. Lewis didn’t touch you anymore and the passionate kisses were no longer there. You knew very well how much it affected him seeing Red Bull’s and Max’s dominance on the sport that he, not long ago, was the absolute favourite - but something you two promised the day before you tied the knot, was to always seek each other whenever trouble approached and you felt like it could have an impact on your marriage.

Now, sitting on the expensive sofa of your Monaco luxurious penthouse, with your three children still asleep, you waited for the sun to rise as your eyes couldn’t move from the sparkling diamonds on your ring finger. The engagement ring, the wedding band, and the eternity ring Lewis gifted you when the twins were born. Each ring represented the most perfect memory and the life you had built with the man you loved.

When you hear your bedroom door open and slow, almost silent steps towards you, you can also feel anxiety bubbling up your stomach and making your head spin. It had to be now, or you wouldn’t have the guts to do it anymore.

“Good morning, Lew.” He stopped when he heard your voice, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. You never woke up this early whenever you were in Monaco. “Can you sit here with me?”

It wasn’t a surprise when Lewis sat on the opposite side, facing you as the first rays of sunshine found their way through the still closed curtains. His face was perfectly illuminated by the sun, and that’s when a wave of painful realisation hit you - there was no trace of love nor admiration he usually had in his eyes whenever he was looking at you. So this would have to go down the hard way.

“Why are you up so early?” The lack of emotion in his voice made you gulp. You desperately wanted to shake and punch him until he was back to normal.

“I don’t want to fight, especially under the same roof as the kids.” Lewis moved uncomfortably on the armchair, waiting for you to continue. “But I need you to know that I know.”

“K-know what?”

“That you’ve been cheating.”

Those four words put an end to your marriage and Lewis used the most pathetic excuse to justify his poor actions, saying how sad he was with how the season was going and that he didn’t feel good enough anymore - and on top of that, he also added to his lame speech how busy you’ve been with the kids. “You don’t get to tell me about sad,” was the only thing you could send back to him, so full of agonising anger that the thought of his hands touching another woman’s body while you were the dedicated wife and mother made you want to throw up.

Betrayed and shattered, you forced yourself to take one step closer to moving on each day the sun invaded your new bedroom - one recently acquired with years of hard work and not with divorce money. As you navigated through the painful aftermath of being exposed to the media, Lewis faced the consequence of his actions with most of the public turning his back on him once the cheating went public and you knew damn well how. The thick tan line on your ring finger and your children playing at the beach under the afternoon sun were the only things now that represented Lewis in your life.

You were never open to the possibility of reconciliation, and as you moved on the best you could, you had to deal with an insisting Lewis bringing you flowers each time he showed up to his father duties - one he performed incredibly well.

On a night out with Susie Wolff, you confessed how much you missed him in your life but also how you only thought about him touching another woman. Would you ever be able to let go, to allow yourself to be loved again and live a happy life? Lewis couldn’t be the only option.

“Toto cheated once,” Susie admitted, her cheeks blushing as your eyes widened. “I know you are already divorced, but it’s up to you to discover if you want to embark on a journey of healing and forgiveness. To confront your vulnerabilities, and insecurities, and acknowledge what caused the cracks in your marriage that led to the affair.”

Susie made it all sound so simple, but it was deeper than that.

You concluded that, despite having to see him in your children’s faces every day, it’d be easier to deal with it for a while as if Lewis Hamilton was gone forever - dead, even, as awful as it sounded to you. To be happy and healthy for your babies, you have to feel it for yourself first. So, that’s when you decided that you’d have to avoid him for as long as you could and that’s what you did. Your mother was responsible for meeting him now whenever he showed up to pick up the kids, and from a respectful distance, Lewis watched you moving on.

First, on your own.

Then, with someone new. Someone who was to you what he couldn’t be for eternity, as he promised the day he proposed.

He watched you look as gorgeous as the day you met at that gala, he watched his children accept the new man in your life, he watched you engaged again and your fiancé become the newest Formula 1 champion.

Lewis watched you living the life you deserved and openly hoped he’d have the chance to give you again, no matter what it’d cost, because for you he’d ruin himself a million little times.

And secretly, so would you.

#lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine

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wheelsup30 · 1 month

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Illicit Affairs (Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader)

[note: MORE ANGST UPON YE. also can u tell im on a tswift kick?]

cw: angst with a happy(?) ending, gn!reader, reader's gender isn't specified.

word count: 1k

Inspo: Illicit affairs - taylor swift & peace - taylor swift

“I have to go.”

It was like clockwork. You'd meet, spend a few hours together, then he'd go and the next morning you'd have to look him in the eye at work like this wasn't breaking your heart.

This time, you decided to push things.

“Why? Who's waiting?” You ask, obviously pointing out the fact he wasn't married anymore and hadn't been for quite some time. The divorce had happened months before the first time the two of you did this routine, so why exactly was it he had to leave so soon?

He’s silent for a moment, then deeply exhales. “No one. But I don't have my go-bag if we get called.”

A spark of irritation fizzles through you, so you push harder. “What, you can't go get it on the way?”. It's clear by his face he doesn't want to have this talk, and another sigh rolls out of his nose. It was typical really, he only ever wanted to have the good stuff with you, no discussions that might require actual use of his brain cells. To him, you were supposed to be easy, just a way to relax after work that he didn't have to stress over.

Of course, he was more than aware of how unfair that was- you were a human being with very real feelings, reciprocated ones, even. But after Haley he just wasn't ready to focus on anything but Jack and work…which was made difficult by the fact you were work. You were there every day, giving him that hurt puppy dog look that broke his heart a little every time he saw it. Those eyes only made him push you further away, though, so you'd resigned to only allowing them when you thought he wasn't looking (He could never take his eyes off you, though you had no idea that was the case.).

“Can we not do this tonight?” Aaron asks, and you’re startled by the weakness in his voice, by the tightness that was building to a crack. Looking up at him, you can see his eyes glisten in the lamp light, an even more startling reaction to your nagging questions.

“Are you-...are you crying?” You ask in a whisper, worry knitting your brow and bringing a frown to your lips. “Aaron, hey-”

He tries to shy away, but you don’t let him for once. You pull him close and wipe his cheeks, still concerned about how out of nowhere this reaction is from him. “I just want you to stay, what’s going on?”

It’s silent for a long while, you assume he’s collecting his thoughts and calming down, so you just keep one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm to ground him. Five minutes pass before he can look you in the eye, and when he does your heart shatters. The tears just won’t stop. As he falls into your arms, you rub his back and try to push through the confusion at how fast things changed emotionally. “What is it, Aaron…? Honey?” You ask softly, moving so he can sit next to you on the bed.

“I wanna stay-” It’s a little difficult to make out with the tears and the fact he has his face pressed against your shoulder, but you hear it. “I wanna stay,” He repeats “But that makes it real.”

Time slows, and the cogs start to turn in your head. Losing Haley twice over must’ve been the worst heartbreak he’d ever experienced, and she wasn’t in the field. You are. Sure, that means you’ve got each other’s backs, but it also meant your lives were on the line daily. Sure enough, he finishes your train of thought for you.

“I can’t lose you.”

You don’t even try to say he won’t, because you know he might. Every time you step out of the bullpen and into the field there’s a target on your back, and you’d be a fool if you tried to ignore that. But was that really a reason to break each other's hearts?

“You might.” You say stiffly, running your fingers through the longest parts of his hair. “But if you keep this up, you’ll lose me too.”

It was something you wanted to let hang, so you did. One hand still running through his hair as you watched him process it…he was tired, you both were, the case you were on right now was one of the worst and was only devolving more. What would usually have been an irritating question with snide comments had become the final straw. Unwittingly, you’d broken him. Eventually, he looked up at you from where he was leaning, and your heart broke. He didn’t have to speak for you to know how he felt.

“I know…I know it’s scary. I’m terrified.” His bottom lip trembles slightly, and you think about how you’d fight people tooth and nail to never have to see him so upset again, about how it gripped at your chest and stung your eyes every time you took in a breath. “But we can be scared together.”

There was no way to fix this, not alone, but therapy wasn’t something to bring up right now. Right now, the man in your arms clearly needed comfort and support, and that’s what you gave him. Hours pass with him half-cradled in your arms like a child, and eventually you wake up next to him, the pink light of a sunrise flushing his cheeks just like his own heartbreak had the night before. It was odd, seeing a man you knew to be so strong completely relying on you for stability, but at the same time it felt right. If Aaron needed a rock, that’s exactly what you’d be, there was no question he’d do the same for you in a heartbeat. This wasn’t going to be easy, you’d have a lot of explaining to do to the team and your families, but you’d do it together.

Afraid, but in love without denial.

#leowrites #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds x reader #angst #i've been feeling a little rusty so this may not be my best work just a prewarning

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vivvangel · 1 month

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a million little times | yang jungwon.

viv's note 💌: not proof read. love u all.

synopsis: he doesn't love you, what's so hard about understanding that? he doesn't love you. but for him, you'd break yourself a million little times, did he want that? no. did he want you? also, no?. › pairings & contents: situationship!jungwon x afab!reader, angst ✧ warnings: love bombing, situatioship breakup, blurred lines in a relationship, trauma, one sided love, commitment issues. ━━━━━━ tw.

wc:

what started in beautiful rooms, ends with meetings in parking lots and that's the thing about illicit affairs, and clandestine meetings and longing stares; It's born from just one single glance but it dies, and it dies, and it dies — a million little times.

"jungwon, let's not do this—"

"it's over, i'm sorry"

it's over & he's sorry. if only he cared to explain what we were in the first place.

let's rewind?

yang jungwon was the most perfect "boyfriend". only if he was your boyfriend. he got you flowers, he took care of you, but he wasn't your boyfriend — if you could turn back time, you would never agree to be in a "no-label" relationship, because oh boy, does it hurt.

the relationship existed in a perpetual state of limbo, neither fully committed nor entirely detached. you two clung to each other out of loneliness and desperation, your hearts yearning for something more, yet unable to break free from the suffocating grip of their situation.

you loved him. your desire for jungwon's love and affection was strong, like an endless thirst in the desert of your soul. you ached for his presence, touch, and reassuring whispers. you sought the stability and security that had always evaded you in him, believing that he would fill the emptiness in your heart. but he didn't, he made that empty gap bigger.

however, jungwon was just a man plagued by his own demons, haunted by the ghosts of his past. his heart was a fortress, walled by walls of dread and uncertainty, unable to truly embrace your love. he wanted, needed intimacy but resisted it, scared of the vulnerability & commitment it required.

a girl who loves hard and a guy who doesn't understand what to do with that love — a recipe for disaster. commitment was a daunting prospect, for jungwon atleast, it was like a leap into the unknown that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of his very own existence, something he didn't understand himself. he struggled to let go of the past, to trust in the promise of a future with you, even as you stood before him, offering your heart on a silver plate for him.

"why can't you just be honest with me?" you pleaded, your voice trembling with emotion.

jungwon's eyes narrowed, a coldness creeping into his voice. "honesty won't change anything," he retorted, his words laced with bitterness. "you're too naive to understand the truth."

tears welled up in your eyes as you reached out to him, your hand trembling. "I don't care, wonie," you pleaded, your voice choked with emotion. "I just want to be with you, no matter what."

jungwon pulled away from you, his heart heavy with guilt. "I wish it were that simple," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "but I can't promise you anything, not when I can barely hold myself together."

each word felt like a blow to your already bruised heart, your chest tightening with the weight of his indifference. "I thought you loved me," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the din of your crumbling relationship.

your heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces, realizing that the man you once loved had become nothing more than a cruel stranger. you couldn't help but wonder if you had ever truly known jungwon at all.

"jungwon, let's not do this—"

"it's over, i'm sorry"

it's over & he's sorry.

where's the rewind button?

@vivvangel, 2024.

#ㅤᵕ̈ vivster #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen angst #enhypen jugnwon #yang jungwon #yang jungwon x reader #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon angst #jungwon angst #enhypen jungwon #enha #jungwon #yang jungwon fanfic #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #jungwon icons #🩶 heartbreak weather

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hwaightme · 9 months

Text

Bonnie on the side

THIS IS 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI FOR STAR'S SAKE (nsfw tags under the cut)

(masterlist) (perma-taglist)

🏩 pairing: businessman!cheater!seonghwa x fem!reader 🏩 genre: smut, pwp, angst, slight fluff? ish? 🏩 summary: you could never escape park seonghwa, every business trip turning into an excuse to fall deeper, leading you to consider a role laden with sacrifice, lies and one that you never in a million years thought you would, nor could take. 🏩 wordcount: 4.7k 🏩 warnings/tags: language, edited? funny, explicit cheating, secret-keeping, grey line between lust and love, hwa has a female fiancée (she/her pronouns), rich businessman hwa with a black card, hotel manager!reader, lmk if anything 🏩 a/n: this in no way represents seonghwa <3 i just over-listened to the song 'sad girl'. i appreciate you all, any and all reblogs, notes, thoughts appreciated, much love! 🏩 playlist: sad girl by lana del rey, illicit affairs by taylor swift, fine line by harry styles, say yes to heaven by lana del rey, love is a bitch by two feet, salvatore by lana del rey, midnight love by girl in red

🏩 nsfw tags: soft dom!hwa, sub-leaning!reader, mention of multiple rounds, no protection (wrap before you tap), mention of the pill, hwa is rough but verbally loving, sweat (and other fluids), cumshot inside, overstim implied, intimate sex, needy as hell, mention of tears and begging, petnames (darling, love, good girl), praise, fucks the love into reader, implied cheating as a possible turn on

When you locked eyes with the owner of the black card, you knew that there was no easy way out. His eyes, fiery, sharp, alluring bore into your flesh and burned the man’s features into your brain. It was obvious that he would haunt you, be it in the waking world or as soon as you would succumb to a turbulent and short-lived slumber. He would be there. Always. Try as you might, there was no escaping him; in the end, even prey was honoured to be a sacrifice to the beast.

“All done, Mister Park Seonghwa, we hope you enjoy your stay with us at Hotel Horizon. My colleague here shall guide you to your room, and your bags will be following suit.”

You bowed, the angle and positioning of your shoulders and arms having been drilled into you after years of practice and execution. In the early days, the gesture would have given you strain; now it was not even second, but primary and central nature. And a method of avoiding his gaze, much to your fortune. Both hands outstretched and holding the card by its very edge so as to not make contact and maintain utmost respect, you waited for the businessman to retrieve it. It seemed that he was waiting for something, but you did not dare check. Not until you could rid yourself of the pesky item and move on to giving him the pass to his room. This was going to be a long morning. After what felt like minutes of motionlessness, you lifted your head slightly, only to see that he had not ceased his observations, still trained on you, though without a hint of malice nor lewdness. Merely more present than anyone else in the hall, or the city, for that matter. The scrutiny reminded you more of how one would study a painting or a statue in a museum, without much of an opinion nor goal in mind. Simply existing in the same space, convincing you that you were existing to be perceived by him. The thought sent a chill down your spine which you only just managed to suppress, though it appeared that the minute pursing of your lips was enough of a reaction for Seonghwa to take the cursed card from your now weak hold, and give you a dazzling, albeit slightly tired smile.

“Thank you, Miss… L/N Y/N. I really appreciate it,” the timbre of his voice caused the phrase to reverberate in your head, making your name sound much more important than it had ever been. Even on your own passport. You gave him a grin - one that was approved by your employer and by the common standards of high end hotels, and refused the gratitude. Just like you had to. Just like you wouldn’t behind closed doors.

The uniform shirt felt tight, the tie was transforming into a noose around your neck, and the air conditioning was doing nothing to help combat the rising heat. Hellfire surrounded you, and was beginning to consume you. Your fellow hotel staff were somewhere far away and ignorant of the inferno, though physically close. Like clockwork, they were little soldiers parading and doing exactly what had to be done. Nothing more, but most importantly, nothing less. Such was the standard at Hotel Horizon, and it was something that you had always been proud of when you were at your best and most professional. But now you were crumbling, and with every visit by the same temptation, you were losing yourself more and more. If only you could return to being that bright-eyed and bushy-tailed new joiner who still knew nothing about the world, building castles in the sky and making the hotel life your everything. It was easier then, without the harsh reality of wanting more, and wishing for the most beautiful bird flying close to the heavens, rather than holding your own little sparrow dear in your hands and nurturing it. You let go of your soul’s freedom so thoughtlessly, and sinfully loved every second of it. Would you do it again? Most certainly. You knew you were going to do it again. That same night.

You adjusted your vest discreetly, pulling on the bottom edges until you felt a light friction against your chest. In a fraction of a second, you were back to your removed self, dutifully completing your tasks until the pass, and the spare pass were both on their journey into the breast pocket of Seonghwa’s suit jacket. He tilted his head as he gazed into your orbs. It was not too challenging to read him, judging by the expectation written all over his features. He was rehearsing how he would ‘dispose of’ the spare key. Both of you had done this before, and the shared secret was another sweet taboo that you missed when Seonghwa was not around. After his visit to the rooftop bar where he would get his usual mocktail, it would be left in the large floral arrangement, in the statement vase down the corridor from Seonghwa’s room where the cameras did not reach - you had checked on multiple occasions, and never brought up the issue even though it was a security risk. It was a guarantee of safety for you and for him, and that made it more than worth it.

“Not a problem. If you require any assistance or room service, do not hesitate to call the numbers provided in the pamphlet,” it was a struggle to not chuckle at your choice of words - room service. Were you going to be room service? Have you always been?

Seonghwa, however, did not appear to find your approach comical, instead taking it literally, remaining immersed in his role. He had always been a brilliant actor, or so you were partial to believing. You had the chance to witness his mastery when his fiancée had called on a couple of occasions some time ago, normally when she was somewhere abroad, and had a total disregard for time zones. Most likely, should anyone ever ask her, Seonghwa had insomnia and incredible stress, and ‘had meetings early the next day so he had to hang up to catch at least a couple of hours of sleep’. According to you, it was when he was tangled in the sheets at Horizon that he was himself, and he could let go of at least a fraction of the dulling pressures of his otherwise daily catastrophe. And no, he did not have meetings. At least not until a much more reasonable hour. And if he did, he was perfectly fine tuning in from the comfort of the hotel. The rolling of the eyes, the tightening of his lower jaw right before he answered the phone call with a ‘sweetie’; it made you want to laugh hysterically, loudly, right in her face - one which was at the forefront of your mind ever since you finally figured out her full name.

“Thank you. Have a lovely evening, Miss Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you were practically shivering as he turned on his heels, following one of your colleagues towards the elevators. Though he was not directly inspecting you anymore, his glances still haunted you, littering your skin with burns.

All you could hear was how the rubber soles of his chunky dress shoes hit the marble floors, and all you could bear to witness was the swaying of his hips, the delicate curve that marked his phenomenal waistline that you were dying to grab, concealed only by the onyx jacket, along with a black shirt that was teasingly semi-translucent, with cutouts hinting at your favourite body, at the most angelic, yet downright sinful being who was a repeating graceful fall in your life. When Seonghwa turned to wait by the elevator doors for the familiar ‘ding’, making idle chat with the bellboy, he did not hesitate to look back at you and give you a nod, accompanied with the ghost of a smile - forever yours, Park Seonghwa. You pulled at your vest again, longing to be out of it, ablaze. Time was cruel, seconds trickling like lazy grains of sand in an hourglass, as many as there were buttons on your lover’s shirt, and yet it was still too long. So much for living in the now, when all you wanted was for the clocks to speed on ahead, and then freeze only when you commanded them. Mid-tryst, mid-secret. That way, there surely would no risk of anyone finding out why Seonghwa picked this hotel every time he visited, how by some mysterious coincidence, you were at front desk on the day he would register, and how, every time, you appeared to be pleasantly surprised, though not nearly enough to be total strangers.

With danger came a different kind of high, you had realised as you guided yourself back to your responsibilities, hiding behind a facade, and once you had gotten a taste of the concept of ‘getting away’ and not being caught, you were addicted to it just as much as you were to the one you blamed. When you got a moment to yourself, with another staff member who had been tasked with checking guests in bidding you farewell to have a quick break, you immediately shut your eyes and massaged your temples. It was going to be a long night. You tilted your head side to side, not exactly needing to stretch but making an appearance - for others except one you were void of ardent emotion; for others except one you did not think, operating exclusively by the work manual, impeccably executing every action down to the tiniest detail. Just like you would stealthily make your journey to take your place as his one and only for the night. Check in. Check out.

He liked to bear witness to the disaster he caused. That was how you found yourself pinned against the bed, with Seonghwa having intertwined his hands with yours, knuckles turning white, cotton fabric imprinting itself to decorate scalding hot skin. He set a languid, but lethal pace that made the chunky silver necklace he wore slap against his neck. Each thrust was deeper than the previous one, ruining what piece of dignity you had left. He muffled your whines and ecstasy-driven cries with his plush lips, kissing away the tiny traces of the waking day. With him, you were the night itself, biting into the forbidden fruit without hesitation. Seonghwa was the serpent, Seonghwa was the angel. In the throes of passion, the visions blended into one and all you were left with was the ability to stare back at his face, glistening with sweat, and even that was failing you. The world was a blur, and you wanted to be absorbed by it.

The beautiful, albeit troubled man could not get enough. He never could. Greedy, gluttonous, lustful, you spun threads out of his demons and made them all rise to the surface, possessing him for as long as you were around. Seonghwa could sense that you would be his undoing from the first time you had captured his attention - and he was not wrong. Before you, something like an affair was out of the question. Now, it felt as though it was you he was betraying every time he had to leave. A bead of moisture travelled down from his forehead, disappearing into his dark tresses that flew to and fro as he rolled his hips, guiding his throbbing member in and out of your wetness with practised mastery. When he leaned back to admire your tearful expression, entirely given up for him and only him, he could not help but leave a trail of feverish pecks across your jawline, to your ear, giving it a couple of nips before whispering:

“I missed you so much, darling.”

You could only mewl in response as he angled himself to directly hit your sweet spot, in turn making him groan when your walls clenched, begging for Seonghwa’s release. The rising stimulation made you even more vocal, and you were struggling to find support with how he pushed you into the sheets. He sensed your wriggling and let go of your hands, nudging you with his nose. The sweet aroma of sex and Black Opium filled your clouded mind, and you threw your arms around your lover, crying out his name. The action made him speed up, pistoning his cock into your dripping cunt as best as he could in the intimate position. In these moments he wondered how he possibly could ever look away from you, from your presence in his life, only to return to a palette of low contrast greys and a numbing dullness.

You bucked upwards when he thrusted into you with particularly satisfying aggression, prompted by a building anticipation of a carnal collapse. Sweet nothings blended with rage, filth with innocent musings as strained whines became your new, and his favourite language. A strand of hair, almost the length of his impeccable face stuck to his temple, the dampness, prompted by animalistic exertion turning into an accessory fitting of a divine performer, actor, demigod. While you could only just make out his shameless regard, the concealed emotionality consumed the last of your inhibitions. When you were connected, body and soul, he wanted to take this as a chance to reveal every inch, every thought that had ever passed by him. You read each one, praying for this exchange to last forever.

“Hwa-a-” you forced out, one hand falling to grasp the bedsheets while the finger dug into his flesh, careful not to turn inwards lest your nails leave a mark.

How you mumbled his name as though it was the only thing you knew for certain, the syllable transforming into a universe you two had constructed for yourselves in the walls of The Horizon, sent its owner into overdrive. He could never escape you, nor would he ever wish to. You were his Garden of Eden, his beginning. Initially, he had been attracted to your cold resolve, your reserved nature, your resistance. Now, he would give up the world, sell his assets, become no one for the opportunity to see you at your most free. He was lost in your glossy eyes, wanted to worship how your lashes fluttered as you took him so terrifically. After meeting you, he had no challenges in understanding what ‘being made for another’ meant.

Seonghwa’s pants were your favourite music, and as more and more began to escape his reddened lips, overwhelming heat rushed to your core, causing you to throw your head back onto the messy pillows. Because of how he was hovering close to you, motion a sensory bliss, every stroke brushed against your aching clit before fading into unparalleled pleasure that you were floating in. You were breathless, on the verge of giving out, and judging by Seonghwa’s carnal grunts, and a string of curses moaned low, barely audible, he was in the same state. Together, as you always wished.

The velocity at which his high was approaching turned him to ruin. Roughly, he lifted your lower half by hooking you under the thighs and pulled you impossibly close. You let out a choked yelp when his hips pressed flush against yours, his length swallowed up by your hole.

“Fuck, so perfect, baby, just for- ah, me-”

“Yes, yes, yes-” you chanted, voice high-pitched and airy as you accelerated towards your undoing.

“Wrap your legs around me, darling, I want to see you- shit yeah, just like that-”

You obeyed, shuffling to satisfy your lover. A hand landed on your lower abdomen as he began violently jackhammering into you, intoxicated from the feeling of the moving bulge. Lifting it, Seonghwa could not take his gaze off the sight, instead pulling you lower until he could sense his dick rubbing against your walls with even greater intensity. He moaned and doubled over, going faster, wishing nothing more than to permanently claim you. You could no longer make a sound, mouth opening and closing mutely, echoes of a name, unspoken worship caught in your throat.

“Sounds, darling, let me hear those pr- ah- pretty sounds,” he instructed, flying to hold onto your thighs as he relished in the squelching of your nectar leaking around him.

“Fu- I- I am-”

“About to?”

“Uh-huh-”

“Such a good girl, Y/N, that’s right, come for me-”

You did not need to be told twice; you shuddered, your body almost giving out and limbs turning into nothing more than a melted mass. The electricity that had been building within you crackled repeatedly, igniting your every muscle and leaving you a shaking mess, at the mercy of Seonghwa’s every gesture, every move. Suspended in oblivious bliss you listened to the lewd symphony of the bed’s swaying, Seonghwa’s balls slapping against you, and the sensation of your cunt pulsating around him, begging for more despite you being sure you could not take it. Arousal coated his cock and squirted out of you as the stunning man continued to chase his own orgasm, running down his toned thighs and onto the sheets below. You wailed, legs shaking with more vigour as he mercilessly pounded into you.

“Baby, I’m so close-”

“Inside,” you moaned, met with a particularly deep thrust and a searching expression. Using one hand Seonghwa cupped your chin, struggling to maintain a steady rhythm. Evidently, he was already holding back, rather than accumulating.

“W-what did you say?”

“I said, I wa-ant you to come inside me, Hwa,”

“Are you sure?”

“Y-yes I am on the pill,”

“Oh, darling-” he could not help but kiss you, his hair tickling your cheeks. When he moved back, letting you arch back into a more comfortable position, you could help but notice how much darker his orbs seemed to have gotten, “...fuck you so full with my cum you’ll be leaking until I can do this again, baby, is that what you want?”

“Y-ye-s-” you ignored the pang of melancholia that the phrase arose within your heart, biting hard on your lip when Seonghwa collided with you.

A guttural moan, more gorgeous than anything you had ever heard filled your ears, reverberated in your cranium. Hot, viscous fluid coated your inner walls, painting them a delicious white and mixing with your slick. After a few more stuttering drives of his softening length into your sopping pussy, Seonghwa threw his head back, a few tiny beads of sweat - like diamonds, launching themselves into the darkness. It was then and there that you were sure you had witnessed divinity.

Gently removing himself - the soothing nature of his actions so astonishingly far removed from his earlier treatment, he sighed in delight at how the ropes of cum leaked out of your used hole, coating your folds, claiming you as exclusively his for the night. Seonghwa ran two fingers over the masterpiece, watching how the sticky juices formed strings of translucent white as he spread them apart. He climbed over to you, gesturing for you to open your mouth and smiling when you did without question.

“This is us, darling, care to give it a taste?”

As he watched you take his digits and suck on them with an adorable diligence, he realised it was doing little to abate his lust and longing for you. More, he always needed more, he concluded, pushing his tip against your stimulated bud with a sigh.

“Stay.”

“You know I can’t,” as soon as the words left your mouth, you were taken aback by the comical nature of the exchange. How funny it was that the two simple phrases held so much gravity, and could be said by either of you. Rearrangement of the variables still brought the same result.

You continued to roll your tights up your legs which were tired after a spontaneous second round, careful to not tear at the material, while Seonghwa pierced your back with his searing stare. There was no need in turning to check on how he was positioned - the visage was intoxicating enough that you could draw it from memory. Hair, a hint of wave in otherwise impeccably smooth strands was styled by passion itself - a tousled fantasy. Glint of the necklace - a refined detail of the artwork that was he. Permanently sunkissed skin of his bare torso and toned arms was exposed to you, a last attempt of luring you back into the devil’s soothing grasp - one that you were sure that if you were to come back to, you would never leave. It would be a lapse of judgement to overstay your lack of welcome if you were hoping, at least partially, to see Seonghwa again. He was propping himself up, elbow digging into the mattress while the other rested on the waist that you adored to embrace, but could do only under the cover of the night that graciously chose to remain oblivious to your amorous ruses. His plush lips, still slightly reddened after the hungry kisses that made them all the more appealing. His nose - regal, elegant, that brushed against you sending electric shock after shock over your body. His eyes - deathly afraid to say goodbye, and yet never failed to contain the melancholy of parting. In these moments when you were tugging on your uniform, each article of clothing being a step closer to a mundane grayscale existence made from routines and systems in which you were nothing more than a pawn, you despised them, and had to mentally shake yourself and hurl yourself towards the life you were supposed to be leading.

“I think about you always,” he stated so casually that you almost paid it no mind, until a rustling preoccupied your senses. Seonghwa was moving, and from the dipping of the mattress, you could only conclude that he was stalking towards you. You needed to disappear, and fast.

This was a constant game between you and him, except a couple of ‘times’ ago, you stopped believing that there was to ever be a winner. It was clear as day that you were two broken hearted people, with your own paths, your own wounds, searching for an escape in whatever form you could encounter. You knew that Seonghwa was seeking a reciprocation, a ‘likewise’ or an ‘I think about you too’ spilling over the edge and into the intimate, illicit abyss. Who did not want to feel wanted? You smiled to yourself as you finally finished with the tights and took to buttoning up your shirt.

A hand rushed to grab yours, prying your fingers away and reducing your instructions to nil, while the other pulled at the closest shirt sleeve to expose your shoulder. With a sigh, Seonghwa peppered kisses over you, over every curve and edge, upwards towards your neck, paying special attention to the area that would let him earn his most wanted response from you. You bit your lower lip and froze, resisting the urge to turn around, grab a fistful of his hair and sink back into a forbidden paradise. He was not giving up, noticing that you were no longer dressing nor pushing him away, and snaked an arm around you, forcing you to lean back into him. His breath was hot against you, the only thing you could feel aside from the dizzying taste of his lips, his teeth, the tip of his tongue grazing supple and sensitive skin.

“Hwa…” you whispered, stifling a moan as your deviant lover sucked at the base of your neck, insatiable.

“Hm?” his hum was sweet, sweet music, and you tilted your head back only to fall into him.

“There’s no time,” you tried, and made an honest rock forwards, only for your motion to be blocked, and for Seonghwa’s fervour to climb. Trepidation and inklings of a craving sparked behind your ribs, and you gripped the bedsheets exposed between your legs to retain the last ounce of sanity.

“There’s always time,”

“Not for us,”

“Then this can be our forever,” he twisted you more, kissing away your retorts and anguish.

Cutting it close, you skillfully made an exit before early inspections and rounds, perfectly filling your role as manager once more and occupying the same spot by registrations thanks to convenient scheduling manipulations and falsified benevolence towards some colleagues who were not too fond of the task. Your goal was simple - you wanted to be the one to greet one particular guest.

It took longer than expected, and check in was almost over for the day when you saw the figure, and then the face of the person who you had been looking forward to meeting with a twisted, borderline disturbing excitement. She was all that you had assumed you would encounter based on the brief mentions and your less than brief perusal of social media and articles that described the financially prompted engagement, arranged to complete a function that was above any kind of love. You did not exist for her, just like Seonghwa ensured that she did not exist for you. It was comfortable, searching for her gaze which could not settle on any one place - unlike the man you had been making love to only a few hours ago. The fluttering wings of a seasonal butterfly, all yammer, no substance. It was impossible to discover an apology within your tainted inner world, let alone guilt. You added her name to the relevant number, issuing a pass and saying the same phrases with robotic politeness. She could not care less. Not for the strained smile, nor for the way in which you met Seonghwa’s look that hinted at an irritated desperation as he strode down the foyer towards the one who was supposed to be his beloved, and consequently, towards you. At least to one of you he was not lying. You had never seen a colder greeting, and that sent an arousing tinge of victory to your stomach. He held his stare over the woman’s shoulder while giving her a quick embrace with one arm. This time, you returned it in its entirety.

As the fiancée finally decided to resume her check in, accepting the pass and explaining that ‘even if Seonghwa dear was to leave early, she should not be disturbed until eleven in the morning with breakfast that had been specified in her booking’, you nonchalantly nodded along with a refreshing coolness. The boost of confidence that Seonghwa’s barely contained pride in your professionalism gave you was dizzying, and you were happy to bask in it and show off all your best sides. Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am. Always, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. It was easy. She was an easy one to read. Such was normally the case with the clients who were the most demanding. How simple it must be, you mused as you watched her spin around to find a bored Seonghwa, asking him something in a shrill tone. You had no right to despise, in fact, if there was anyone who should receive the label of a monster it should be you, and yet, a revelation was bestowed upon you. If your rewards consisted of Seonghwa’s devotion, you did not mind being the villain.

You knew more than she ever could, and that made things all the more easy. While it did hurt to be aware that the bed you had shared earlier would be occupied by another, the hope that in Seonghwa’s mind, it was always you was far too strong to remain pessimistic. And with that, you let them go. Enter their day as a couple, while you, as a passing face. Making sure to pay little attention to either of them, you returned to typing something on the computer, yourself not quite sure if anything appearing on the screen even made sense. He was due to check out in a couple of days. So close, but so, so far away. In a land called his own life, not meant to exist with yours. A mere couple of minutes later, your phone dinged, jolting you from your pondering.

> ps i cannot wait

You blinked multiple times to confirm that what you were seeing was indeed a message from none other than the man who had just raised his hand to point and was guiding his fiancée to the elevators. Park Seonghwa - ‘ps’, a little code you and he had devised for the rare occasions that he would need to notify you. You never knew his number, but you knew that whichever address the letters would come from, it was him, and could only be him. Lifting your head, you encountered a lingering regard, masked as a general study of the surroundings while she was trying to start an argument with one of the staff over their treatment of her suitcases. Baseless - but that was on brand.

> next time?

You typed out as quickly as your typing under the desk would allow you.

> is this ‘le chat noir’?

Silent at the mention of the high class restaurant, you could only respond with a curious agreement.

> yes.

> i’d like to make a booking for 8pm tonight.

Your hands were shaking. You could feel that gaze on you again, setting you alight. You had a second to decide, a lifetime to repent.

> booking at ‘le chat noir’ for 8pm tonight confirmed.

There was no way out. But at least you could enjoy the labyrinth that you were trapped in, and be his Bonnie on the side.

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