Hi there, I am a tea over coffee girl (who thinks coffee is a bit more aesthetically pleasing), a student, a language lover and an obsessive Pedro Pascal fic reader. Pleased to meet y'all!
are we too late? are we too far? // jack abbot pt. 1
At nineteen, you told Jack Abbot that you’d marry him someday. He laughed it off and disappeared from your life for eleven years. Now, you’re months away from marrying a safe, stable man. Until you lock eyes with Jack across a bar, and your perfectly curated life completely shatters.
genre: dad's ex-best friend!jack x reader, age gap, forbidden romance, mutual pining, eventual smut nsfw mdni
word count: 2700+
(a/n: i've had this one in the drafts for far too long. oooooohhhweeee i love this concept. has me giggling and kicking my feet whilst writing it. there will be a second and final part don't you worry.)
Then
"You're glaring." Jack said. He didn’t look up from the bed of his truck, his massive, infuriatingly broad shoulders working as he hauled a heavy plastic bin toward the tailgate. "It feels very vengeful gremlin. Stop it."
"I am not glaring." you lied, crossing your arms over your chest to keep the chill from the wind out and from the sinking feeling opening up in your stomach. "I am observing. There’s a difference."
"Right. And the term for burning a hole through the back of my flannel with your eyes is what, exactly?" He finally turned around, wiping grease off his palms with a tattered red rag.
He looked entirely out of place in the gravel driveway of your father’s crumbling, overgrown house. But then, Jack had always looked out of place here. He was the only functional adult who had ever walked through that front door.
And now, he was walking away for good.
"I’m documenting the exact moment my favorite person decides to abandon me to the wolves." you murmured, your throat suddenly tight.
Jack’s teasing expression faltered. He dropped the rag onto the tailgate and took two slow steps toward you, effectively obliterating your personal space. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back just to keep eye contact, a fact that you resented on a daily basis.
"I’m not abandoning you." he said, his voice dropping. "We talked about this, kid. Your dad...I can’t do it anymore. If I stay around, if I keep letting him drag me into his disasters, I'm going to end up throwing him through a wall. And that helps exactly no one."
Especially not me, you thought. You knew what your dad was. A master class in parental negligence, a man who viewed his daughter as an inconvenience until he needed a loan or a designated driver.
Jack had spent the last year playing shield. Fixing the plumbing your dad ignored, buying groceries when the fridge was empty, stepping between your father’s alcohol fueled rages and your quiet bedroom.
"I know." you whispered, hating how small you sounded. Hating that you were nineteen and yet entirely unequipped to handle the reality of him leaving. "I get it. He's a parasite. You should leave."
"But?" Jack prompted softly, tilting his head.
"But it sucks."
A corner of his mouth tugged upward, a faint, bittersweet smile. He reached out, his large hand coming down on top of your head, affectionately rustling your hair the way he always did when he thought you were being dramatic. "You’re going to college in the spring. You’re getting out of here. You just have to hold down the fort for a few more months, okay? If you need anything, you call me. I’m cutting ties with him, not you."
It was a safe promise.
And suddenly the suffocating reality of how much you loved him, how much you had loved him since he first showed up to drag your dad out of a bar, boiled over.
"I’m going to marry you someday." you said.
Jack froze. His hand stayed resting on your head before he slowly lowered it, his dark eyes blinking in confusion. "What?"
"You heard me." You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I'm going to marry you someday. Plan accordingly."
The confusion on his face morphed into a booming laugh that rattled right through your ribs. He shook his head. "Jesus, kid." he chuckled, leaning his hip against the truck tailgate. "You really are losing it. I think the stress is finally liquefying your brain."
"I am entirely lucid." you insisted, your heart hammering against your sternum.
"Sure you are. Look, I know I'm a catch." he teased, his eyes glittering with amusement as he pointed a finger at you. "But I'm twelve years older than you, I have a bad knee, and my current retirement plan is hoping the lottery works out. You're nineteen. Go find some college kid who thinks a romantic evening is sharing a box of cheap pizza, and leave the old men out of it."
"You're not old."
"I'm ancient by your standards. Now get inside before you freeze." He waved a dismissive hand, turning back to his truck to close the tailgate.
You turned and walked toward the porch, the gravel crunching beneath you. You didn't look back.
As you reached for the doorknob of the house you hated, the lighthearted mask you’d worn slid completely away. Your chest felt tight, a wild, terrifying spark of certainty settling deep into your bones.
He thought you were joking. He thought it was a silly, dramatic crush from a teenage girl who had a bad dad and a soft spot for the guy who saved her.
But as you pulled the door open and stepped into the dim hallway, you knew with absolute clarity that you had never been more serious about anything in your entire life.
It was unfortunate then that you wouldn’t see Jack Abbot for another eleven years.
…
Now
"I think we should go with the eggshell white for the table linens." Meg said, waving a heavy, binder in front of your face. "Standard white is too aggressive. It screams hospital cafeteria, and we want understated elegance. Thoughts?"
You blinked, pulling yourself out of the haze that had taken over your brain three months ago when wedding planning officially began. "Is there a difference between eggshell and ivory?"
Meg looked at you with the pity of a maid of honor who was single handedly dragging a reluctant bride across the finish line. "One has warm undertones, one has cool undertones. Do you want your guests to feel cozy or intellectually stimulated while they eat their prime rib?"
"I want them to be fed and silent." you muttered, resting your chin in your hand.
You were sitting in your apartment, the coffee table entirely buried under fabric swatches, floral arrangement lookbooks, and a seating chart that confused the hell out of you.
From the bedroom, the sound of typing drifted through the cracked door. David. Your fiancé. A man who possessed a master’s degree in data analytics, an impeccably organized sock drawer, and a temperament so blindingly stable it felt like a weighted blanket for your chaotic soul. David didn't yell. David didn't forget to pay the electric bill. David didn't bring volatile drama into your life.
He was safe. He was exactly what a girl who grew up with a father like yours was supposed to want.
"You're doing that thing again." Meg observed, tapping her pen against the binder.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look at your engagement ring like it’s a tiny handcuff instead of a three carat symbol of eternal devotion."
You instinctively dropped your hand into your lap, the platinum band suddenly feeling incredibly heavy on your finger. "I am not. I love the ring. I love David. I am just tired. Decision fatigue is a real medical phenomenon, Meg."
"Right. Well, the good news is David already approved the catering invoice." she said, flipping a page. "He made a spreadsheet comparing the price per head of four different vendors against their Yelp reviews. He’s very efficient."
"He is." you agreed, forcing a smile. "He's incredibly efficient."
When David asked you to marry him six months ago after a perfectly pleasant dinner, it had made total, logical sense. Your twenties had been a blur of trying to stabilize your life, working a steady job, and actively untangling the emotional wreckage your father had left behind.
David was peace. He was the quiet harbor.
So why, as you looked at the eggshell fabric swatch in your hand, did you feel like you were suffocating?
"I need a drink." you announced suddenly, pushing yourself up from the couch. The walls of the apartment felt like they were closing in.
Meg raised an eyebrow. "It's a Thursday night."
"Exactly. The perfect night for a gin and tonic. Want to come?"
She looked longingly at the mountain of swatches, then at her watch. "I can't, babe. I promised my mom I’d call her by eight. But go. Escape. Command David to join you for a celebratory beverage."
You glanced back toward the bedroom door. The typing hadn't stopped.
"No." you said quietly, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. "David’s working. I'll just slip down to the bar on the corner for an hour. A little solo decompression."
…
You pushed the heavy wooden door to the bar open, the overhead bell chime was immediately swallowed by the hum of a Thursday night crowd. The air inside was warm with the low murmur of conversations and clinking of pint glasses.
You threaded your way through the standing crowd toward the far end of the bar, finding a rare, empty leather stool near the service well. You sat down, sliding your purse onto the counter, your fingers instinctively finding the band on your ring finger. You began to rotate it. A nervous habit.
The bartender wiped down the wood in front of you. "What can I get you?"
"Gin and tonic, please. Lime if you have it."
He nodded and vanished. You let out a long breath, closing your eyes for a fraction of a second to let the frantic pacing of wedding checklists drain out of your head.
"I’m telling you, if the CT scan shows a retroperitoneal hematoma, you don't wait for the labs." a voice echoed from across the room, slicing through the noise of the bar. "You call trauma surgery immediately. If his pressure drops in the middle of the night, a spreadsheet of his blood counts isn't going to save him."
Your entire nervous system seemed to short circuited.
The sound of the bartender dropping ice into your glass faded. Your breath hitched, freezing right in the middle of your chest. You didn't move. You couldn't. Because your brain, despite eleven years of therapeutic distance and deliberate forgetting, recognized that voice with instantaneous accuracy.
Slowly, you turned your head.
You looked past the crowded center of the bar, your eyes tracking the sound toward a large, dimly lit booth in the far back corner. There was a group of four or five people sitting there but your brain entirely bypassed them.
It locked directly onto Jack Abbot.
Eleven years had done things to him. Unfair, frustrating things.
He was sitting with his back partially against the wood paneling, one massive arm stretched out across the top of the booth’s leather cushion. The boyish edge to his jawline was entirely gone, replaced by a rugged permanence that only came with time and the unimaginable stress of running an emergency room.
His hair was mostly silver now, but he still had those curls that you used to love so much.
You just stared. You took him in like a person dying of thirst who had unexpectedly stumbled into an ocean. You watched the way his fingers loosely gripped a lowball glass of amber liquid, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as a resident across the table nodded rapidly, absorbing everything he said.
Then, one of the residents cracked a self deprecating joke and Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was that uninhibited sound you used to listen for through the floorboards of your childhood bedroom. The sound that meant the storm had passed and you were safe for the night.
But as the laugh faded, Jack’s head came back down. His gaze drifted casually across the crowded bar, tracking the room with a lazy, relaxed familiarity.
Until his eyes hit your face. And stopped.
The change in him was instantaneous. The easy, relaxed posture vanished. Jack was frozen, his entire frame locking up as his eyes widened, just a fraction, in shock.
His glass stayed suspended halfway to his mouth. The lazy amusement in his face was entirely wiped clean, replaced by a stunned, piercing gaze that was pressing against your chest from across the room.
He stared at you as if he were looking at a ghost. As if he couldn't quite determine if the alcohol or the dim lighting was playing a cruel trick on him.
Panic taking over, you abruptly tore your eyes away. You spun your stool back around to face the bar, your hands trembling so hard you had to clasp them together in your lap.
"Here you go. Gin and tonic." the bartender said, sliding the glass in front of you.
"Thank you." you breathed, your voice sounding thin and reedy even to your own ears.
You grabbed the glass, your knuckles white, and brought it to your lips. You took a long sip, the sharp bite of the gin doing absolutely nothing to calm the wildfire currently roaring through your veins. You kept your eyes glued to the rows of liquor bottles on the wall, staring intensely at a bottle of cheap vodka as if it held the secrets to the universe.
Just leave, your internal monologue screamed. Pay for the drink, stand up, and walk out the door.
But you didn't move. You sat there, sipping nervously, your ears hyper tuned to the noise behind you, waiting for the inevitable.
You didn’t hear his footsteps over the chatter of the bar, but you felt him. The pressure shifted, the light dimming as a towering shadow fell over your left shoulder. The scent of rain and something deeply, inherently Jack invaded your senses.
He stopped right beside your stool, not saying a word at first. He just stood there waiting until you finally found the courage to look up.
When you did, he was looking down at you, his jaw tight, his eyes searching your face.
"I’d know the back of that head anywhere." Jack murmured. "Even if you did finally change your hair."
…
Your vocal cords felt like they’d been sutured together. You just stared up at him, your fingers around your gin and tonic, desperately hoping the dim bar lighting didn't betray the frantic pulse at the base of your throat.
"Jack." you finally managed.
A grin broke across his face. Without asking, he slid into the empty leather stool next to yours, his shoulder brushing against your arm. The casual dominance of his presence immediately erased the rest of the crowded room. He flagged down the bartender. "Bourbon. Neat. And whatever she’s having, put it on my tab."
"I can pay for my own drink, actually," you shot back, the old defensive reflex kicking in before your brain could stop it. You anchored your heels onto the brass rung of the stool, trying to match his height as best you could. "I have a big girl job now. I’m a fully functioning member of the tax paying public."
Jack tilted his head, his face doing that infuriating amusement you remembered all too well. "A big girl job? Is that right? I know you're an adult. I just heard you order a cocktail that tastes like pine needles and regret. Nineteen year old you would have demanded something neon green and loaded with sugar."
"It’s a sophisticated palate." you sniffed, taking a defiant sip. "And I overheard your little performance back there. 'You call trauma surgery immediately.' Honestly, do you ever stop playing god, or do you just like terrifying your underlings in public so they know you're the smartest guy in the room?" You couldn’t help being a brat. The feelings of him leaving you bubbling up, making you pissed off all over again.
"They’re interns." Jack corrected smoothly, leaning an elbow on the bar, shifting his torso so he was completely facing you. The scent of him was overwhelming. "And they need to be terrified. If they lose their heads because a patient's blood pressure drops, they don't belong in my ER. It's called guidance, kid."
"It's called being bossy.”
Jack let out a chuckle, a sound that rattled right through your ribs, agonizingly familiar. He shook his head, his eyes darkening as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer. "God, I missed your mouth." he murmured.
The words hung in the air between you. The banter evaporated, leaving a silence. Jack’s gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before lifting back to your eyes, searching them.
Genre: Romance • Angst • Healing • Slice of Life • Slow Burn • Strangers to Lovers • Smut
Sypnosis: At thirty-two, your wedding ends before it begins when your fiancé disappears without explanation. Still holding the honeymoon tickets, you leave Seoul alone and travel across Europe to escape the life that just collapsed. An unplanned journey brings two broken souls together, and in learning to heal as they move through unfamiliar places, they quietly find love in each other along the way.
A/N: Hi lovelies! Here’s another commissioned fic from one of my wonderful readers. I’ve been working on this for almost a month, and she’s been incredibly sweet throughout the whole process, so I’m really happy I can finally share it here for everyone to read. The story is now fully finished, and I’ll be posting everything here on Tumblr.
I’m also still open for commissions, so if you ever have a story idea in mind, feel free to reach out. You can also support me through Ko-fi if you’d like. Thank you so much for all your support, it truly means a lot.💗
Chapter 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Epilogue
By eight in the morning, your wedding was already circulating across Instagram stories before the ceremony had even begun.
Weddings in Seoul had simply become another kind of spectacle, beautifully staged proof that people in their thirties were still willing to gamble their hearts on forever.
The florist uploaded a reel with soft piano music and captions that read winter elegance meets timeless romance. Your makeup artist posted a blurry candid of you smiling in your silk robe with the caption:
“our gorgeous bride today 😭🤍”
Your cousins were filming TikToks in the hotel hallway. Somebody’s boyfriend had brought a drone. Your aunt from Busan was already asking the photographer if he could “make her look ten kilos thinner in editing.”
Everything looked beautiful online.
The bridal suite smelled like hairspray, coffee, and peonies expensive enough to cover two months of your rent. Garment bags hung from every chair. Half-open makeup palettes cluttered the vanity. Somebody had left a half-eaten egg sandwich beside a Dior lipstick worth more than your electric bill.
Outside the tall windows, snow drifted softly over Seoul.
Your mother stood behind you while the stylist adjusted your veil for the fifth time, both hands pressed over her chest as if she might faint from happiness at any second.
“My daughter is finally getting married,” she kept saying to anyone who walked into the room. “I thought this day would never come.”
You laughed every time she said it because what else were you supposed to do.
At thirty-two, marriage stopped being treated like a milestone and started feeling like a countdown people monitored publicly.
Coworkers stopped asking if you wanted kids and started asking if you still did.
Your relatives sent links to fertility clinics disguised as concern.
Friends who married younger spoke to you carefully, like you might break if they mentioned anniversaries too often.
Even your fiancé used to joke about it.
“Thank god I found you before your expiration date.”
At the time, you laughed.
Because love had a strange way of teaching women to humiliate themselves gently.
Your best friend Mina walked into the bridal suite holding two iced americanos and one look at your face made her stop mid-step.
“You okay?”
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“That’s normal.”
“No, I mean actually throw up.”
She handed you the coffee carefully before sitting beside you on the couch.
“You slept at all?”
“Maybe two hours.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m getting married.”
“That sentence sounds like you’re being drafted into war.”
You laughed weakly into your cup.
Across the room, your mother was crying again while showing your wedding photoshoot pictures to the makeup artist who clearly did not care but nodded professionally anyway.
Mina lowered her voice.
“Did he text you this morning?”
You glanced at your phone.
Still nothing.
Which wasn’t unusual.
Your fiancé hated texting. Hated calls too. Hated emotional conversations in general, honestly. For three years you convinced yourself it was because he was “logical.”
Now, sitting there in silk pajamas while strangers curled your hair, you realized logical had always just meant emotionally unavailable.
“He’s probably busy,” you said.
Mina gave you a look that lasted half a second too long.
That should’ve been another sign.
But denial was easier when you already spent eighty million won on a wedding.
The venue downstairs looked unreal in the cold morning light. Tall white flowers climbed gold pillars toward the ceiling while hundreds of candles flickered across mirrored tables, reflecting soft gold across the ballroom. Near the aisle, a live string quartet rehearsed quietly as hotel staff moved through the room with flawless precision, adjusting glasses, straightening chairs, fixing details no one else would notice.
Everything was stunning.
Everything was expensive.
Everything had been planned entirely by you.
Your fiancé barely cared about the details beyond what guests would think.
He cared about the prestige hotel.
The guest list.
The photos.
The optics.
You used to mistake that for excitement.
At eleven-thirty, guests began arriving.
Your phone exploded with notifications.
Friends posting mirror selfies.
Coworkers tagging the venue.
A cousin uploaded a video captioned:
"OUR BRIDE IS HOTTER THAN THE GROOM IDC 😭”
You smiled automatically while scrolling.
Then paused.
Still nothing from him.
No good morning.
No where are you?
No nervous excitement.
Just silence.
A weird coldness crept slowly through your stomach.
You stood from the vanity too quickly.
“I’m gonna call him.”
Mina immediately followed you into the hallway.
“He’s probably downstairs already.”
“He always answers before important things.”
“You said he barely texts.”
“Yeah but this is our wedding day.”
The call rang.
Once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
You swallowed hard.
“Maybe his phone died.”
Mina said it too fast.
You called again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Something ugly began crawling up your spine.
You suddenly remembered random things you ignored for years.
How he disappeared for hours after arguments.
How every conflict somehow became your fault.
How he once told you crying during fights was manipulative.
How relieved you felt whenever he acted affectionate because it happened so rarely.
Your wedding coordinator approached carefully.
“The ceremony starts in thirty minutes. We just need confirmation the groom has arrived.”
“He’s here,” you answered instantly.
Because the alternative felt impossible.
Right?
People didn’t just disappear from weddings.
That happened in movies.
In viral Reddit stories.
In humiliating TikTok confession videos narrated by robotic AI voices over Minecraft gameplay.
Not to you.
Not after three years.
Not after invitations were sent.
Not after deposits paid.
Not after your mother told every single person she knew that her daughter was finally marrying a successful man.
Your mother entered the hallway smiling brightly.
“His family is asking where he is.”
You stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“They said they haven’t seen him since last night.”
The silence afterward felt physical.
Mina looked at you immediately.
Your stomach dropped so hard it hurt.
“What?”
Your mother’s smile faltered slightly.
“He probably went somewhere. Men are careless.”
You were already dialing again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Your fingers started shaking so badly you nearly dropped the phone.
Mina took it from your hand gently.
“Hey. Hey. Don’t panic yet.”
But her face had already changed.
Because now she knew too.
Something was wrong.
Downstairs, the ceremony start time passed quietly at first.
Guests continued chatting politely while the quartet kept playing. Staff members whispered urgently into earpieces. Your father began sweating through his suit jacket while pretending everything was fine.
Then the gossip started.
A few glances.
A few phones coming out.
A few whispers behind bouquets.
“Where’s the groom?”
“Did they fight?”
“I heard he was stressed about money.”
“No, apparently his company’s struggling.”
“Imagine if he ran away.”
“Shut up.”
Someone laughed.
Your mother heard it.
That was when she started crying for real.
The kind that came from years of pressure exploding at once.
“I told her not to wait this long,” she sobbed at your aunt. “I told her men become unreliable after thirty.”
You stood frozen in the bridal suite while people searched hotel floors for your fiancé like he was a missing child.
His parents stopped answering calls.
His friends claimed they hadn’t heard from him.
One of the groomsmen looked genuinely terrified.
Another looked unsurprised.
That one hurt the most.
Mina locked the bridal room door.
Your hands felt numb.
“I don’t understand,” you whispered.
Your reflection stared back from the mirror looking absurdly beautiful for somebody being abandoned in real time.
Your makeup was flawless.
Your hair perfectly pinned.
Your dress tailored down to the centimeter.
You looked like a bride in a luxury campaign advertisement.
And somehow that made everything more pathetic.
Your phone vibrated.
Every person in the room froze.
You grabbed it so quickly your bouquet fell to the floor.
Not a call.
A message.
From him.
Your vision blurred immediately before you even opened it.
Mina whispered carefully, “What did he say?”
You stared at the screen.
Then read it again because your brain refused to process the words properly the first time.
I can’t do this anymore.
I’m sorry.
You deserve someone better than me.
Don’t contact me for now.
That was it.
Three fucking years reduced to four sentences that sounded copied from a breakup advice forum.
No explanation.
No apology worth anything.
No shame.
Just cowardice wrapped in fake kindness.
For a second, nobody spoke.
Then your mother started screaming outside the room.
Your aunt arguing with hotel staff.
Your father yelling at somebody on the phone.
Guests murmuring louder now that they knew.
Somebody downstairs had apparently already posted online.
A blurry photo from the ceremony hall with the caption:
“Ummm I think the groom ran away???”
Mina immediately grabbed your phone.
“Don’t look at social media.”
But it was too late.
Notifications flooded endlessly across the screen.
Missed calls.
Messages.
People pretending concern while hunting for gossip.
You sat down slowly in front of the mirror because your legs no longer felt stable.
The room became strangely quiet despite the chaos outside.
You looked at yourself for a long time.
At the expensive dress.
The pearl earrings.
The trembling hands resting in your lap.
Then suddenly, memories started rearranging themselves.
Every ignored instinct returned sharper now.
The way he never looked excited discussing your future.
How annoyed he seemed when you talked too long.
The way affection always felt like something you earned instead of received naturally.
The fact that he proposed right after his younger brother got married because he was afraid of looking behind.
You remembered crying once after asking if he still loved you and how exhausted he sounded when he answered:
“Why do you always need reassurance?”
Your eyes burned.
Because deep down, some awful part of you had always known.
You just kept hoping love would eventually arrive if you stayed long enough.
Outside the bridal suite, the wedding continued collapsing piece by piece.
Hotel staff began extinguishing candles.
Guests quietly started leaving.
The quartet stopped playing.
Somewhere downstairs, dishes clinked while workers dismantled the happiest day of your life before it had even begun.
And inside the bridal room, surrounded by white flowers already beginning to wilt under artificial heat, you finally understood something devastating.
You were never difficult to love.
He simply never loved you enough.
The first thing you noticed after being left at the altar was how violently quiet your apartment felt.
The kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel cruel.
Your heater clicking on.
Your refrigerator humming.
Your phone vibrating endlessly across the kitchen counter.
Outside your window, Seoul carried on normally. Cars moved through wet winter streets. Couples walked past convenience stores holding umbrellas together. Delivery scooters sped recklessly through intersections while people in oversized coats hurried home from work.
Meanwhile your wedding bouquet was rotting in your sink.
You still hadn’t taken off the dress completely.
Hours after the wedding disaster, the expensive lace hung halfway down your body while you sat barefoot on the kitchen floor eating cold convenience store kimbap Mina bought because apparently heartbreak still required calories.
You hadn’t cried in almost an hour now, which somehow felt worse.
There was mascara dried beneath your eyes. Your scalp hurt from the hundreds of pins the stylist used earlier that morning. One earring remained attached while the other sat forgotten beside an unopened bottle of champagne your wedding guests never drank.
Mina emerged from your bedroom carrying sweatpants and one of your old university hoodies.
“You need to change.”
“I live here now.”
“You smell like floral trauma.”
You let out a small laugh despite yourself.
That seemed to be the only emotion your body could still process properly.
Not devastation.
Not rage.
Just exhausted disbelief occasionally interrupted by inappropriate laughter.
Mina crouched beside you carefully.
“Can you stand?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You haven’t moved in like forty minutes.”
“I think my soul left my body around noon.”
“Fair.”
She helped peel the wedding dress off you slowly because the zipper got stuck halfway down your back.
The dress had been custom-made by a designer in Cheongdam. Your fiancé insisted it had to look “luxury but understated.” You remembered him criticizing another bride’s gown once because it looked “cheap on camera.”
At the time, you thought he just cared about aesthetics.
Now every memory felt infected somehow.
You stepped out of the dress carefully, staring at the fabric pooled around your feet.
Thirty million won.
Months of fittings.
Hundreds of photos saved on Pinterest.
And now it looked like evidence from a crime scene.
Mina quietly carried it toward the couch.
“You should sell it.”
You laughed again.
“Who the fuck wants haunted wedding dresses?”
Mina looked like she wanted to cry, which made you immediately look away.
People always talked about heartbreak like it arrived all at once.
Like a car crash.
But this felt different.
This felt like slowly waking up from anesthesia while realizing your entire life had been misdiagnosed.
Your phone buzzed again.
Mina grabbed it before you could.
“No.”
“What if it’s him?”
“If he suddenly grew a conscience he can wait another hour.”
She flipped the phone over anyway.
The screen lit up endlessly with notifications.
Friends asking if you were okay.
Relatives pretending not to ask for details while obviously fishing for details.
Coworkers sending awkward paragraphs full of exclamation marks and crying emojis.
And beneath all of that was the thing you were trying hardest not to think about.
Social media.
Because of course people posted about it.
Weddings in 2026 were barely private events anymore. They were content farms with floral arrangements.
Someone uploaded blurry footage of confused guests leaving the venue.
Another person posted a photo of the untouched wedding stage captioned:
“this is literally my worst fear omg”
You stared at the screen numbly.
Mina immediately locked your phone.
“That’s enough.”
You leaned your head back against the kitchen cabinet.
The ceiling above you blurred slightly.
“You know the worst part?”
“The fact that he’s a coward?”
“No.” Your voice came out quieter than expected. “The worst part is I think I knew.”
Mina didn’t answer immediately.
Because she knew too.
Not that he’d leave.
But that something had always been wrong.
The signs had been there for years.
You just kept repainting them into something prettier.
Your relationship replayed differently now, like someone adjusted the lighting in a movie and suddenly revealed all the hidden damage.
You remembered your third anniversary dinner when he spent most of the night answering work emails while you sat across from him in a restaurant too expensive for either of you to enjoy comfortably.
At one point you asked softly, “Can you put your phone away for one hour?”
And he sighed.
Like loving you properly was exhausting.
“You know how important this project is.”
“I know but we barely see each other lately.”
“We live together.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Then he smiled afterward and bought you dessert, which somehow convinced you the conversation ended well.
God.
The bar had truly been in hell.
You stood slowly and walked toward the living room while memories kept surfacing without permission.
The time you cried after a terrible day at work and he told you:
“You’re too sensitive for corporate life.”
The time you gained weight and he joked:
“At least marriage means I already secured you before the damage.”
The time you mentioned wanting children someday and he replied:
“Well your timeline’s getting serious now.”
Always jokes.
Cruel things wrapped in humor so you felt dramatic for being hurt.
That was his specialty.
Making you feel embarrassing for having emotions.
You sat on the edge of your couch clutching a blanket around yourself while Seoul glittered outside your apartment windows.
You suddenly remembered the proposal.
It happened at a restaurant overlooking the Han River. Candlelight. Expensive wine. A hidden photographer waiting nearby.
Everyone online called it romantic.
What they didn’t know was that you’d argued in the car beforehand because he forgot your birthday dinner the previous week.
What they didn’t know was how distracted he looked during the proposal itself.
What they didn’t know was that your first emotion wasn’t happiness.
It was relief.
Relief that someone finally chose you before time ran out.
The realization made you feel physically sick.
You walked into the bathroom and stared at yourself under harsh white lighting.
Your face looked unfamiliar without bridal makeup.
Swollen eyes. Smudged mascara. Exhaustion carved into your expression.
This morning you looked like somebody starting a new life.
Tonight you looked like somebody surviving one.
You opened your skincare drawer automatically because routine felt safer than thinking.
Cleanser. Toner. Moisturizer.
Your therapist once told you trauma made people cling to rituals because predictability created temporary safety.
At the time you thought she meant childhood trauma.
Turns out she also meant failed weddings apparently.
Your phone buzzed again from the bedroom.
Then again.
Then again.
Mina groaned loudly. “If one more relative asks whether he cheated, I’m gonna start committing crimes.”
You almost smiled.
Then your body suddenly remembered another moment.
Two months ago.
You were lying in bed scrolling through wedding videos on TikTok while showing him flower arrangements you liked.
He barely looked up from his laptop before saying:
“Honestly after thirty-two weddings stop being romantic anyway. At that point it’s more logistical.”
You remembered laughing weakly because the comment hurt.
You remembered asking:
“Then why are you marrying me?”
And without even glancing away from the screen he answered:
“Because this is the stage of life we’re at.”
You slowly slid down the bathroom wall until you were sitting on the floor.
And finally, finally, anger began replacing humiliation.
Not at him.
At yourself.
How many times had you abandoned your own instincts just to keep being chosen?
How many nights did you cry quietly in bathrooms because you were scared asking for more affection would make you seem needy?
How many conversations did you rewrite in your head afterward trying to convince yourself he didn’t mean the hurtful things he clearly fucking meant?
Women called it patience.
Therapists called it emotional neglect.
The internet called it “tolerating crumbs.”
You called it love because admitting otherwise would’ve destroyed you sooner.
Mina knocked softly before entering the bathroom.
“Hey.”
You wiped your face quickly.
“He still hasn’t called?”
“No.” She sat beside you on the floor. “And honestly? Fuck him.”
Silence settled between you.
Then quietly, carefully, Mina asked the question nobody else dared to.
“Were you actually happy?”
Your first instinct was to say yes automatically.
Defend him.
Defend the relationship.
Defend the years you invested.
But exhaustion stripped honesty out of you.
So instead, tears filled your eyes again.
And for the first time since the wedding collapsed, you answered truthfully.
“I don’t think I’ve been happy for a really long time.”
Three days after your failed wedding, Seoul already felt like a city trying to politely suffocate you.
Everywhere you went, people looked at you with the same expression.
Too careful.
Too curious.
Too fucking aware.
Even your apartment no longer felt safe.
The wedding gifts still sat unopened near the entrance like cursed artifacts. White envelopes stuffed with congratulatory money remained stacked on your dining table beside guestbooks nobody would ever read again.
The worst part was your phone.
Your phone had become public enemy number one.
Instagram suggested breakup healing reels every ten seconds. TikTok somehow knew you’d been abandoned and started showing tarot readings with captions like:
“if a man disappeared from your life recently this message is for you”
Your YouTube algorithm became aggressively depressing overnight.
“How to rebuild your life in your 30s.”
“Signs you ignored emotional neglect.”
One video literally used AI-generated wedding stock footage while a woman narrated:
“Ladies, if he says you’re too emotional, RUN.”
You threw your phone across the couch after that.
Mina walked into your apartment carrying takeout and immediately frowned.
“Was that the phone or are we under attack?”
“The internet needs to shut the fuck up.”
She placed the food down carefully.
“You checked social media again?”
“I accidentally opened TikTok and now the algorithm thinks I’m a divorced mother of three healing in Bali.”
“You do have the energy.”
You groaned loudly into your couch cushion.
The apartment smelled like jjigae and exhaustion. Outside, winter rain streaked softly against your windows while Seoul moved restlessly beneath gray skies.
You hadn’t gone outside properly in two days.
Mostly because you were terrified of seeing someone you knew.
The failed wedding had spread faster than you thought possible.
Your aunt apparently told her church group. Your mother’s friends kept calling to offer condolences like your relationship had died in a tragic boating accident. One of your old university classmates even messaged asking if the rumors were true “because people online exaggerate things.”
Mina sat beside you and handed over chopsticks.
“You need to eat actual food.”
“I had crackers earlier.”
“That’s not food. That’s depression.”
You picked at the stew quietly.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Mina finally sighed.
“So.”
“So?”
“What are you gonna do about the honeymoon trip?”
Your hand paused midair.
The honeymoon.
Right.
Somehow, between public humiliation and emotional collapse, you had almost forgotten about the winter Europe trip you planned obsessively for nearly a year.
Train rides through snow-covered cities. Boutique hotels. Michelin restaurants you saved TikToks about at three in the morning.
You planned everything yourself.
Your ex barely contributed beyond saying:
“Whatever you want is fine.”
At the time, you thought it meant he trusted your choices.
Now you realized it was because he emotionally checked out months ago.
“The flights are tomorrow,” Mina continued carefully. “You should probably cancel everything.”
You stared down at your soup.
The deposits alone made you want to throw up.
The luxury train passes.
The hotels.
The non-refundable excursions.
Thousands of dollars spent on a future that no longer existed.
“You’ll get some money back,” Mina said gently.
You laughed softly.
“No I won’t. Europe apparently believes heartbreak is not a valid cancellation policy.”
Mina reached over and squeezed your hand.
“You don’t need to prove anything.”
The thing was, you understood exactly what she meant.
People your age loved dramatic reinventions after breakups.
Move cities.
Cut bangs.
Book solo trips to Europe while posting blurry film photos captioned “healing.”
Social media turned emotional collapse into an aesthetic.
But this didn’t feel aesthetic.
You weren’t healing.
You were humiliated.
There was a difference.
That night after Mina left, you wandered through your apartment unable to settle down properly.
You folded laundry without thinking. Rearranged skincare products. Opened and closed the refrigerator four separate times despite not being hungry.
At midnight, you ended up sitting on the floor beside your packed honeymoon suitcase.
Still packed exactly how you prepared it before the wedding.
Matching airport outfit folded neatly on top.
You stared at it for a very long time.
Then suddenly started laughing.
Because the absurdity finally hit you all at once.
You were supposed to be flying to Europe as somebody’s wife.
Now you were sitting alone on your apartment floor wearing old sweatpants while your ex fiancé was apparently missing from the face of the earth like a fucking criminal.
Your eyes drifted toward the itinerary folder beside the suitcase.
You remembered how excited you felt while planning everything.
Not even for the marriage honestly.
For the trip.
For seeing snow in Switzerland.
For wandering foreign bookstores.
For eating pasta in tiny restaurants nobody on TikTok discovered yet.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
When was the last time you felt excited about your actual relationship the way you felt excited planning the escape from your life?
The realization sat heavily inside you.
You reached for the folder slowly.
Inside were printed reservations, train schedules, restaurant bookings, tiny handwritten notes from yourself.
Try the hot chocolate place near the cathedral.
Wear the black coat in Vienna pictures.
Sunset train route!!!
You suddenly burst into tears so violently it startled you.
Because somewhere along the way, your dream stopped being love.
Your dream became leaving.
The next morning your mother arrived unannounced carrying homemade side dishes and enough anxiety to power an entire neighborhood.
“You look terrible,” she said immediately after entering.
“Good morning to you too.”
She clicked her tongue while removing her shoes.
“You lost weight already.”
“It’s been three days.”
“Stress destroys women’s bodies.”
You watched her unpack containers into your refrigerator like feeding you aggressively might reverse emotional devastation.
For a while, she avoided mentioning the wedding entirely.
Then eventually, quietly:
“People are talking.”
Of course they were.
You almost admired Seoul’s commitment to gossip honestly.
A city of ten million people somehow operated like one enormous auntie group chat.
“I know.”
“Your uncle said maybe you should stay home for a while.”
“Why?”
“So people stop asking questions.”
You stared at her.
“What exactly am I supposed to be ashamed of?”
Your mother looked startled immediately.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation, you heard it.
The fear.
Not for your heartbreak.
For your reputation.
Because women were still expected to survive humiliation quietly.
Especially unmarried women in their thirties.
Especially women publicly abandoned.
Your mother sat beside you carefully.
“I just don’t want people being cruel.”
Too late.
They already were.
Cruel in subtle ways.
Curious ways.
People loved tragedies they could discuss over coffee.
Later that afternoon, after your mother finally left, you opened your honeymoon itinerary again.
Then you opened your airline app.
Then your hotel bookings.
Then the weather forecast for Switzerland.
Heavy snowfall expected next week.
Beautiful.
Your stomach twisted.
You imagined canceling everything.
Staying in Seoul.
Returning to work.
Pretending this entire disaster would eventually stop hurting.
The thought made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.
Suddenly your apartment felt unbearably small.
Too many memories.
Too much embarrassment soaked into every corner.
The couch where your fiancé used to sit scrolling through stocks while ignoring your conversations.
The kitchen where you meal-prepped together in silence.
The hallway where he once kissed your forehead absentmindedly while answering work calls.
Nothing here belonged to you anymore.
Your phone rang.
Mina.
“What are you doing?”
You looked around the apartment slowly.
Then answered honestly.
“Having a mental breakdown.”
“Cute. Want wine?”
“I think I want to leave the country.”
A pause.
“What?”
The words came out before you could reconsider them.
“If I’m gonna cry anyway, I might as well cry in Europe.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re serious.”
“I think I am.”
“You’ve never traveled alone before.”
“I know.”
“You’re emotionally unstable.”
“Also true.”
Mina laughed softly.
Then her voice gentled.
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“Are you running away or trying to find yourself?”
You looked toward the suitcase still sitting beside the couch.
Half packed.
Half abandoned.
Honestly, you didn’t know.
Maybe both.
That night you booked nothing new.
Didn’t change the reservations.
Didn’t cancel a single flight.
Instead, you slowly finished packing.
Thermal coats.
Passport.
Skincare.
The Europe guidebook you bought months ago.
At three in the morning, jet lag articles and train route videos played softly from your laptop while snow fell quietly outside your apartment windows.
And for the first time since the wedding, something unfamiliar appeared beneath all the grief.
Like your life had finally cracked open wide enough for air to enter again.
You stood inside Incheon Airport wearing an oversized black coat while dragging a suitcase originally meant for two people.
The airport buzzed with winter travelers and exhausted families. Luxury brands glowed beneath bright lights. Somewhere nearby, a child cried dramatically while his parents argued over passports.
Nobody here knew your story.
Nobody cared.
Strangely, that felt comforting.
Your mother cried before security.
Your father awkwardly handed you emergency cash even though you absolutely did not need it.
Mina hugged you longest.
“If you accidentally marry an Italian man, I’m blocking you.”
You laughed genuinely for the first time in days.
Then Mina grabbed your shoulders suddenly.
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Do not spend this entire trip crying over a mediocre man.”
Your eyes stung unexpectedly.
“I’ll try.”
“No.” She pointed aggressively. “I’m serious. You are too hot and too emotionally intelligent to waste Europe grieving over a man whose personality was basically Microsoft Excel.”
You burst out laughing right there in the airport.
People stared.
You didn’t care.
Minutes later, after the final goodbye, you walked alone toward immigration.
Your suitcase wheels rattled softly across polished floors.
And somewhere between security checks and departure gates, reality finally settled inside you completely.
You were thirty-two years old.
Recently abandoned.
Flying across Europe alone in winter with a non-refundable honeymoon itinerary.
And somehow, terrifyingly, your life finally belonged entirely to you again.
Airports always made you emotional.
Not in the poetic movie way where people ran dramatically toward lovers while orchestral music played in the background.
More in the deeply millennial way where standing inside an airport immediately triggered an identity crisis.
Everyone looked like they were becoming somebody else.
Businessmen flying to meetings in expensive coats. Students leaving for exchange programs. Couples documenting every second for Instagram stories with captions like catching flights not feelings.
Meanwhile you stood near Gate 22 carrying emotional damage and a seven-kilogram skincare bag.
Incheon Airport glowed beneath soft white lighting while snowfall drifted faintly outside the massive glass windows. Luxury boutiques displayed winter collections you couldn’t afford. A group of influencers in matching beige outfits filmed TikToks near a café while their exhausted boyfriend carried all their luggage silently behind them.
You sat near the charging station staring blankly at your boarding pass while trying not to spiral.
SEOUL → ROME
One-way.
Well, technically round-trip.
But suddenly the return flight felt theoretical.
Your honeymoon itinerary folder rested inside your tote bag beside emergency Xanax Mina forced you to pack “for emotional emergencies.”
Honestly, the entire trip already qualified as an emotional emergency.
Your phone buzzed again.
Mina.
boarded yet?
You typed back immediately.
not yet
Then another message arrived instantly.
remember if you accidentally meet a hot european man with generational wealth i support your healing journey
You smiled despite yourself.
Another notification appeared beneath hers.
Unknown Number.
Your stomach dropped violently before you even opened it.
For one humiliating second, hope still existed.
Maybe your ex fiancé finally regretted everything.
Maybe he’d apologize properly.
Maybe there was some explanation catastrophic enough to justify disappearing from your wedding.
You opened the message.
Your wedding looked beautiful regardless. Things happen for a reason.
You stared at the screen in disbelief.
Things happen for a reason.
What the fuck did that even mean.
People became absolutely unbearable around public heartbreak.
Everybody suddenly transformed into philosophers with access to Pinterest therapy quotes.
Delete him.
Choose yourself.
The universe removed what no longer aligned.
Meanwhile you were just trying not to cry inside an airport Pretzel shop.
You locked your phone aggressively and leaned back in your chair.
Across from you, an older couple quietly shared sandwiches while watching planes through the windows. The woman rested her head on her husband’s shoulder so naturally it looked unconscious.
Something about it hurt unexpectedly.
Because you realized how little tenderness existed in your relationship compared to ordinary people around you.
You spent years celebrating bare minimum affection like it was proof of devotion.
A text back within twenty minutes felt romantic.
Holding hands in public felt significant.
God.
The bar truly had been underground.
A sudden commotion near the boarding desk pulled your attention away.
At first, you assumed it was another influencer situation because airports in 2026 basically functioned as accidental fashion week now.
But this felt different.
More controlled.
A tall man dressed entirely in black stood near the airline counter wearing a baseball cap low over his face and a mask covering half his features. Even from a distance, something about him radiated exhaustion.
The kind of exhaustion people carried when they’d been perceived too much for too long.
One airport staff member spoke carefully while another kept glancing around nervously.
“I understand, sir,” the employee said quietly in English. “But we still need confirmation for the seat arrangement.”
You looked up instinctively.
His voice sounded familiar.
Not familiar familiar.
More like one of those voices your brain recognized from existing online too much.
The staff member lowered her voice further. “We’re trying our best, but there are limitations because of last-minute booking.”
“I specifically asked not to be seated near anyone.”
“I understand.”
“No offense but people photograph everything now.”
Honestly, fair.
Last month somebody went viral for secretly filming a man crying at an airport and turning it into an aesthetic breakup edit with Billie Eilish music.
Humanity truly lost the plot.
You glanced back toward your phone again, trying not to stare.
But something about him kept catching your attention.
Maybe it was the way he stood.
Shoulders tense beneath a black wool coat. Fingers tapping restlessly against the counter. Like he wanted to disappear from the room entirely.
Then the airline employee asked for his passport.
He reached into his coat pocket quickly.
And that was when you noticed the tattoos.
Dark ink stretched across his hand and fingers before disappearing beneath his sleeve.
Your eyes paused there for a second too long.
Because suddenly recognition brushed against your thoughts.
You’d definitely seen those tattoos before.
Online maybe.
Instagram.
TikTok edits.
Your brain immediately rejected the possibility because there was no fucking way.
Still, curiosity lingered.
The man noticed you looking accidentally.
Your eyes met for less than a second.
Even partially hidden beneath the cap and mask, his gaze felt startlingly sharp.
You looked away immediately, embarrassed.
God.
The last thing you needed was becoming one of those creepy airport people secretly identifying celebrities.
Especially when the man clearly looked miserable already.
The interaction at the counter continued quietly.
“We can move you closer to first class partition seating,” the staff member offered carefully.
He exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand over his face.
That tiny movement revealed more tattoos briefly.
Your stomach flipped strangely.
Not attraction exactly.
Recognition.
Like seeing somebody from another life unexpectedly.
A group of college girls suddenly passed nearby dragging carry-ons and immediately slowed down.
One of them gasped softly.
“Oh my god.”
Another grabbed her arm aggressively. “Don’t stare.”
Too late.
They were already staring.
The man noticed instantly.
You watched something in his posture shift immediately.
Like his body learned to brace automatically whenever people recognized him.
The girls whispered frantically among themselves while pretending not to look obvious about it.
One quietly opened her phone.
You almost physically felt the man’s irritation from across the terminal.
Honestly, airports must be hell if you’re famous.
You couldn’t even have a breakdown in peace.
The girls eventually walked away without approaching him, but tension still lingered around the boarding desk afterward.
The airline employee apologized repeatedly.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“It’s fine.”
Except it clearly wasn’t.
He sounded exhausted down to his bones.
A few minutes later boarding announcements echoed through the terminal.
Passengers began standing slowly, collecting luggage and passports.
You grabbed your tote bag and joined the line absentmindedly while checking your seat number again.
22A.
Window seat.
At least if you cried during the flight nobody would notice immediately.
Ahead of you, the man in black adjusted his cap lower while airline staff quietly escorted him toward priority boarding.
Definitely famous then.
Or hiding from a murder investigation.
Honestly fifty-fifty these days.
As the line moved forward, your phone buzzed again.
This time from your mother.
Did you board safely?
You stared at the message.
Then another arrived seconds later.
Eat properly on the plane.
You almost smiled sadly.
Your mother still sounded worried in every text now, like heartbreak turned you fragile permanently.
You typed back:
i’m okay mom
It was a lie.
But easier than explaining the truth.
The truth was you still felt untethered from your own life.
Like none of this belonged to you yet.
The failed wedding.
The solo honeymoon.
The strange freedom.
You stepped forward slowly with the boarding line.
Then paused.
Because the man in black was suddenly right beside you.
Close enough now that you noticed details more clearly.
Broad shoulders beneath his coat. Silver rings against tattooed fingers. A faint smell of clean laundry and expensive cologne lingering in the cold airport air.
He looked taller up close.
Tired too.
Like somebody carrying too much noise inside their head.
One of the airport employees accidentally spoke louder than intended.
“Mr. Jeon, your passport.”
The name hit you instantly.
Jeon.
Your brain connected the tattoos first.
Then the voice.
Then the eyes.
And suddenly realization crashed into you so hard your breath caught.
No fucking way.
You stared before you could stop yourself.
Because standing three feet away from you at Gate 22 wearing all black and looking profoundly unhappy was none other than Jeon Jungkook.
And judging by the way he immediately pulled his cap lower after hearing his own name out loud, the last thing on earth he wanted right now was to be recognized.
The first thing you noticed about Italy was how loud everything felt.
Scooters screamed through narrow streets like they had a death wish. Church bells echoed across old buildings older than your entire bloodline. People spoke with their whole bodies here, arguing dramatically over coffee while cigarette smoke curled into cold winter air.
Even the train station in Rome felt emotional.
Meanwhile you stood in the middle of it wearing an oversized black coat and looking like somebody recently escaped a psychological thriller.
You hadn’t slept properly during the flight.
Every time you closed your eyes, memories kept replaying behind your eyelids.
Your wedding dress pooled on the hotel floor.
Your mother crying in front of relatives.
The message.
I can’t do this anymore.
At some point somewhere above Turkey, you gave up trying to sleep and watched terrible in-flight movies instead while drinking tiny cups of airplane wine like a divorced businessman.
By the time you landed in Rome, your body felt disconnected from reality entirely.
The airport smelled like espresso and expensive perfume. Tourists dragged giant suitcases over tiled floors while exhausted parents negotiated with screaming children in six different languages.
Nobody looked at you twice.
Nobody knew.
That was the first beautiful thing.
Back in Seoul, your humiliation had become public property. Here, you were just another tired woman trying not to miss a train.
Honestly?
Kind of freeing.
You pulled your suitcase through Roma Termini Station while clutching your phone with frozen fingers. Your train to Florence departed in forty minutes, which would’ve been fine if you weren’t operating on emotional collapse and two hours of sleep.
Google Maps betrayed you immediately.
“Why are European train stations built like escape rooms?” you muttered while dragging your luggage down another hallway.
An older Italian man bumped your suitcase accidentally before yelling something passionately at another commuter.
You blinked at him.
He shrugged dramatically like this interaction somehow involved destiny.
Europe was exhausting already.
By the time you finally boarded the train to Florence, your hair looked terrible and your expensive airport outfit had lost all dignity.
You collapsed into your seat beside the window and stared outside while the train slowly pulled away from Rome.
Gray skies stretched endlessly over the countryside. Tiny villages blurred past. Winter fields rolled quietly beneath soft afternoon light.
For the first time in days, nobody called you.
No relatives.
No coworkers.
No pity disguised as concern.
Just silence.
Your phone buzzed once.
Mina.
survived?
You smiled tiredly.
barely
Three dots appeared instantly.
any hot italians yet
mina i almost died in the train station
so thats a no
You laughed softly under your breath.
The woman seated across from you glanced up from her book briefly before smiling politely.
You looked away toward the window again.
Somewhere during the train ride, exhaustion finally overpowered adrenaline.
Your thoughts slowed.
Just softened enough for breathing to stop feeling difficult.
Outside, Italy unfolded quietly beneath winter skies while your old life remained thousands of kilometers away.
And somewhere deep inside yourself, hidden beneath heartbreak and humiliation and grief, another feeling began surfacing carefully.
Relief.
You hated yourself a little for it.
But it was there.
No more pretending.
No more begging somebody to love you correctly.
No more shrinking yourself into “easy” and “understanding” and “low maintenance.”
You spent years trying to become digestible enough for somebody emotionally unavailable to keep.
Maybe that was the real exhaustion.
Florence looked unreal at sunset.
Warm golden lights glowed against ancient buildings while winter fog settled softly over narrow streets. Couples wandered hand in hand beneath hanging lights. Tiny restaurants overflowed with people drinking wine loud enough to make entire sidewalks feel alive.
Your hotel room overlooked a quiet street lined with bookstores and leather shops.
It was beautiful.
And devastating.
Because this was supposed to be your honeymoon.
There should’ve been another suitcase beside yours. Another toothbrush in the bathroom. Somebody laughing with you while struggling to unpack winter coats.
Instead, the second half of the closet remained painfully empty.
You stood in the middle of the room for several minutes before finally whispering:
“Well. Fuck.”
Then you cried again.
Just quietly while sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing your coat.
Jet lag made emotions feel unstable. Everything hurt sharper when you were tired.
After twenty minutes, your stomach growled aggressively enough to interrupt the breakdown.
Right.
Food.
An hour later, you found yourself sitting inside a tiny restaurant near Piazza della Signoria pretending not to notice literally every other table contained couples.
Actual couples.
Not emotionally distant corporate men who treated affection like a quarterly business investment.
These people touched each other absentmindedly.
Hands resting on knees.
Foreheads brushing together during conversation.
Smiling mid-sentence because they genuinely liked one another.
Your waiter approached warmly.
“One?”
The question hurt less this time.
“Yes,” you answered.
He led you toward a tiny table beside the window overlooking the street.
At first, embarrassment sat heavily inside your chest.
You felt visible.
Pathetic.
Like everybody around you somehow knew you weren’t supposed to be alone here.
You ordered wine immediately.
Then pasta.
Then tiramisu because honestly your life already collapsed so calories no longer mattered.
Around you, conversations swirled in languages you barely understood.
A couple beside you argued affectionately over dessert. A family laughed loudly near the back of the restaurant. Somebody outside played violin beneath soft yellow lights while snow drifted gently through Florence.
You took your first bite of pasta absentmindedly.
Then paused.
Holy shit.
Maybe heartbreak truly enhanced flavor because the pasta nearly made you emotional.
You actually laughed quietly to yourself.
The waiter noticed.
“Good?”
“Incredible.”
He grinned proudly before disappearing again.
And somehow, slowly, something strange happened.
The loneliness stopped feeling humiliating.
You looked around the restaurant again.
Not comparing yourself this time.
Just observing.
People were simply living.
Eating. Laughing. Existing.
And for the first time since the wedding, being alone didn’t feel like evidence that something was wrong with you.
It felt peaceful.
Temporary.
Even beautiful.
You poured yourself more wine while snow continued falling softly outside the windows.
Maybe solitude only felt pathetic when you were waiting for someone who kept failing to love you properly.
Maybe being alone wasn’t the tragedy.
Maybe staying in the wrong relationship was.
Back in Seoul, however, another disaster unfolded across every screen imaginable.
News articles exploded hourly.
Entertainment channels.
TikTok gossip accounts.
Anonymous forums.
Every headline carried the same name.
Jeon Jungkook
Videos from a nightclub in Gangnam circulated online relentlessly. Blurry footage showed Jungkook shoving a man aggressively while security intervened nearby.
Different stories spread every hour.
Some claimed he was drunk and violent.
Others claimed he attacked a businessman unprovoked.
One viral post accused him of having anger issues for years.
Nobody knew the full story yet.
The truth was much uglier.
Three nights before leaving Korea, Jungkook attended a private industry gathering he never wanted to attend in the first place. Halfway through the night, he noticed a CEO’s son cornering one of the female staff near a hallway while drunk enough to think money erased consequences.
The staff member looked terrified.
Jungkook intervened.
Words escalated.
Then the man grabbed the woman again while laughing.
After that, Jungkook stopped thinking.
The punch happened fast.
Too fast for somebody constantly watched by cameras.
Unfortunately for him, somebody filmed only the aftermath.
Not the harassment.
Not the woman crying afterward.
Just Jungkook looking furious while security restrained him.
Public opinion turned vicious instantly.
Because people loved building idols into gods almost as much as they loved destroying them afterward.
Inside a luxury hotel suite, Jungkook stared blankly at his phone while another article refreshed across the screen.
“Global Star Under Fire Following Violent Incident.”
He tossed the phone onto the couch immediately.
Silence filled the room afterward.
Heavy silence.
The kind that followed years of exhaustion finally catching up with someone.
His manager called again.
Ignored.
Another message arrived seconds later.
Please contact us. The company is panicking.
Jungkook rubbed both hands over his face before walking toward the hotel window.
Outside, the city glittered beautifully beneath winter rain.
He felt nothing.
That was the problem lately.
Not sadness.
Numbness.
His entire life had become performance management.
Smile correctly.
Apologize correctly.
Disappear correctly.
Even breathing required strategy now.
He glanced toward the television where entertainment news replayed the scandal again.
Muted footage.
Slow-motion edits.
Talking heads debating his personality like they knew him personally.
One panelist actually said:
“Perhaps fame changed him.”
Jungkook laughed bitterly under his breath.
Fame didn’t change him.
Fame just made every mistake permanent.
He grabbed the remote and turned the television off violently.
Then silence again.
The hotel room suddenly felt unbearable.
Too expensive.
Too empty.
Too lonely.
His eyes drifted toward the passport tossed carelessly across the table beside train tickets booked impulsively hours earlier.
No schedules.
No staff.
No cameras.
Just Europe in winter.
He didn’t even know where he wanted to go yet.
He only knew he needed to disappear before the noise swallowed him completely.
Meanwhile, few kilometers away, you sat alone inside a tiny Italian restaurant drinking wine while snow fell softly beyond glowing windows.
And for the first time in years, loneliness no longer felt like failure.
𓄲 In order to make ends meet you pick up a side job as the nanny of a brooding, cold perfectionist by the name of Jeon Jungkook — while in the process of doing so, you might've ended up twisting the narrative about your education just a little. Watching over a few children couldn't be too hard, right? Only Jungkook is very peculiar about how he wants things done — strict routines, meal plans and tedious study hours that make the Jeon estate feel more like a military camp than a home — and it's only a matter of time until cracks in the seemingly perfect facade begin to form.
전정국 x f!reader ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ ‹— cw dilf!jungkook single dad jungkook nanny!reader 1980s au slowburn fluff angst explicit content age gap (jungkook is 30, reader is 20) jungook keeps secrets & so does reader
⧽ word count ⋮ 167.3k+ and counting
total reading time ⋮ 13 hours and 40 minutes
Help Wanted receives updates every week, usually around 4-6 days apart <3
[ Pinterest Board] ╱ [ Timezones For Updates ] ╱ [ Read Help Wanted On Wattpad ] ╱ [ Help Wanted Spotify Playlist ] ╱ [ Read Help Wanted on Ao3 ]
𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫
chapter 01 "daddy doesn't sleep in there anymore" [5.7k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 02 "your clothes are dirty" [5.5k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 03 "could you stay?" [7.3k]
reading time ⋮ 40 minutes
chapter 04 "when mom was here" [6k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 05 "are there some messes that can't be fixed?" [5.2k]
reading time ⋮ 25 minutes
chapter 06 "hide and seek" [8.3k]
reading time ⋮ 45 minutes
chapter 07 "pancakes for lunch and empty fridges" [6.8k]
reading time ⋮ 35 minutes
chapter 08 "I didn't know you wore glasses" [6.2k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 09 "dirty dancing" [5.9k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 10 "whiskey tears" [7k]
reading time ⋮ 40 minutes
chapter 11 "checkmate" [6.1k]
reading time ⋮ 35 minutes
chapter 12 "guilty as sin" [6.4k]
reading time ⋮ 35 minutes
chapter 13 "the truth" [5.8k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 14 "you should be careful with that" [6.7k]
reading time ⋮ 35 minutes
chapter 15 "crumbling resolve" [11.4k]
reading time ⋮ 1 hour
chapter 16 "tainted skin" [6.3k]
reading time ⋮ 35 minutes
chapter 17 "daddy-daughter dance" [5.9k]
reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
chapter 18 "Birthday Girl" [6.8k]
reading time ⋮ 35 minutes
chapter 19 "Dancing Queen" [9.7k]
reading time ⋮ 55 minutes
chapter 20 "Be Quiet" [11.5k]
reading time ⋮ 1 hour
chapter 21 "Heartbeat" [9k]
reading time ⋮ 45 minutes
chapter 22 "The Day Before" [10k]
reading time ⋮ 50 minutes
chapter 23 "Give and Take" [7.3k]
reading time ⋮ 40 minutes
— summary: you stopped expecting anything from love a long time ago. four years on your own taught you that much until you crossed paths with jungkook at yoongi’s birthday party. what begins as a chance encounter quickly becomes something real. and now, are you ready to close your eyes and trust him?
— pairing: jungkook x fem. reader
— genre: strangers to lovers, ceo au, biker au, slow burn, angst, fluff, and smut
— total word count: 50k in total
— author’s note: soo this happened... this started completely naturally, i never expected to write a fanfic this soon, but i've been having so much fun working on it, and i wanted to share it with you all 🥰 i'm still working on it, but as i've been writing a lot the past few days, i already know that by mid-may both parts will be over. jungkook was used as a visual only on the fic, as this had no chosen member at the beginning 🤗 i guess this puts some kind of an end to my hiatus (still not sure though), and i hope you'll enjoy this as much as i'm enjoying writing it ❤️ thank you so so much for your support guys!! means always so so much ❤️
18+ | warnings listed in each part
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PART I
⤷ meeting jungkook at yoongi’s birthday was unexpected, but in less than twenty-four hours, he made you feel more alive than you have in years. letting him into your life felt just natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. as you slowly get to know him, you find yourself trusting him more… but should you really? or is he hiding something from you?
PART II
⤷ finding out about his secret from someone else hurts more than expected. you’ve always hated lies, and he knew it, which made it even harder. his intentions were never meant to hurt you; he just wanted to be seen for who he truly is. despite it all, your heart burns for him. you’ve never loved anyone this intensely, but are you truly ready to trust him again?
⤷ meeting jungkook at yoongi’s birthday was unexpected, but in less than twenty-four hours, he made you feel more alive than you have in years. letting him into your life felt just natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. as you slowly get to know him, you find yourself trusting him more… but should you really? or is he hiding something from you?
— pairing: jungkook x fem. reader
— genre: strangers to lovers, ceo au, biker au, slow burn, angst, fluff, and smut
— rating: 18+
— words: 24,418
— warnings: alcohol consumption, kind of tipsy, jungkook can’t keep his eyes off our girl, mention of divorce, nervousness, mention of grief, mention of heartbreak, mention of breakup, mention of loneliness, some awkwardness, swearing, teasing, mention of crying, a kind of little argument, they’re both stubborn, kind of self sabotage, mention of masturbation, mention of death, lots of kissing, fingering, protected sex, penetrative sex, good old missionary, and multiple orgasms
— author’s note: soooo, this fic’s idea popped up really randomly and i simply started writing it 😊 this fic is honestly pure softness, but also messy at the same time. the point here is to depict someone who struggles with love after spending sooo long by herself, and she falls for someone who lets her guide the pace… biker jungkook had to be part of this, of course! this fic isn’t made to be perfect, it’s actually the opposite. honestly, i hope you all find a jungkook like this one in your lives 💖 wanted to aslo tell you that this fic will be fully written from oc's perspective, and there aren't any glimpses of jungkook's thoughts. also, special shoutout to @kooppss for her support!! she got to see this fic being written and how it changed 😅 hope you’ll enjoy it my loves 💖
SERIES MASTERLIST | PART II
The night is slowly settling, the sky taking on shades of red as the blue gets darker. For a brief moment, your eyes look up, a smile stretching on your face. The sky is beautiful tonight.
Right now, you’re waiting for your best friend outside the restaurant, as you agreed with her some hours ago. While you do so, a handsome man catches your attention. His eyes meet yours for a hot second before he steps inside the restaurant.
“Yn,” someone screams.
A bright smile grows on your face as you look to your right. Hyunri, your best friend, has finally arrived.
“Hyunri,” you say before holding her in your arms.
Tonight, you’re gathering to celebrate Yoongi’s birthday. Juhee, his wife and your best friend, has pulled out this little dinner to celebrate his 40th birthday. Anyone else would have probably asked for a big celebration, but it’s not his style. He prefers intimate dinners filled with loved ones.
“Did you wait long?” she asks when you break apart.
“No,” you reply. “Maybe a minute.”
She smiles at you. It’s been a while since you last saw her, which only heightened how much you missed her. She studied with you before you worked in the same company for a while, and last year she quit. Since then, you haven’t been seeing each other that much even though you speak every day.
Before she even gets the chance to do or say anything else, you grab her hand to take a proper look at her wedding ring. Her boyfriend proposed two days ago in the most romantic and beautiful way.
“Let me see the beauty,” you tell her.
Your eyes sparkle with joy. Hyunri deserves all the happiness in the world. She’s kind of crazy, but for sure, a woman with a big heart. No matter what, you can count on her. She’d even commit a crime for you if you ever asked.
“Woow,” you say. “It’s even prettier than in the pictures.”
“I know, right?” she asks while moving her hand to make the diamond sparkle.
“Must have cost a lot,” you say.
“But I deserve expensive shit,” she says.
You chuckle, but she’s right. She does deserve that.
“Right,” you shake your head while smiling even more.
Nothing has been decided just yet, but they’re planning on getting married next summer. They have more than a year to get everything settled. Honestly, you can’t wait for their big day. You know it’ll be mindblowing and extravagant like she is.
“Now, let’s get inside before Juhee kills us,” you tell her.
She giggles as the two of you head inside. The restaurant seems absolutely fancy—the type of place where the meal's presentation looks better than a painting. But it’s a once-in-a-while experience.
“Hello,” the host greets you once inside.
“Hello, we’re here for Min Yoongi’s birthday,” Hyunri says.
Your best friend is the social butterfly. The two of you are total opposites, like the moon and the sun. Nonetheless, you’re quite the duo. A lot of times, you wonder how on earth the two of you get along, but then you realize how much you complete each other, and your friendship just makes sense.
“Yes,” he offers you a bright smile. “Follow me.”
The man guides you to the huge terrace in the back, which basically looks like a garden. There is a rather long table placed on one side, and you recognize Juhee and Yoongi at the center. A bright smile grows on your face when you see them. Both you and Hyunri head to them, not paying any attention to the other people around the table.
“Happy birthday, Yoongi,” you and Hyunri tell him as you step up to him.
He stands up immediately, pulling you both into a warm hug before stepping back with an easy smile and thanking you for the warm wishes.
It’s genuinely great to see him again. He’s always been kind, and you’re glad you met him through Juhee. They definitely make a great couple; they just fit perfectly together. Sometimes, if you’re honest, you feel a tiny flicker of envy.
“Thanks, girls,” he says with a bright smile, gesturing toward the table. “Sit wherever you want.”
For the first time, you take a proper look at the table. Your eyes move across the guests, scanning the empty seats. Then, to your surprise, you see the handsome guy from outside. Now that he’s closer to you, he seems even prettier. Is it even possible?
You’re not sure if it’s destiny or a pure coincidence, but the only two remaining seats are the ones in front of him.
She just sits down while talking to Yoongi, completely unbothered, which leaves you right across from the handsome guy. You pull your chair back, placing your bag down by your feet before finally looking up.
He’s already watching you.
For a brief second, you meet his eyes without flinching. There’s a flicker of recognition there, and then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts. His gaze is intense on you, and it’s honestly hard to simply look back at him.
You glance around the table, trying to avoid his gaze and looking for the bottle of wine. You’ll definitely need it to survive the night if you’re going to have the handsome stranger in front of you.
When you find it, you just pick it up and fill your glass. While Hyunri is still deep in conversation with Yoongi, you fill her glass as well. It’s no secret that she adores wine. She could drown in it if she could.
“Thanks,” she murmurs when she notices it.
“No problem,” you reply.
You don’t look back right away. You let the conversation around you settle, letting yourself blend into the rhythm of the table. You need some time and courage to interact with people. It usually drains your soul, so you definitely need some time before engaging with people around you.
When you lift your gaze again, he’s still looking at you. This time, you don’t look away as quickly. You bring the glass of wine to your lips, never looking away, and this moment is long enough to notice the way his gaze doesn’t waver, and how he doesn’t seems worried about being caught. It’s like he’s even happy that you noticed it.
Then, he looks away first. You blink and let out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Conversation starts to settle around you—people picking up threads, asking questions, passing drinks down the table. The man next to you, Hoseok, starts to talk to you as well. He’s an absolute ray of sunshine, always throwing jokes.
But no matter what, your attention keeps slipping back to the hot stranger. It’s like your body knows you’re being watched and you need to catch it. It’s never obvious, but it’s frequent enough that you start noticing a pattern. A glance when you laugh. Another one when you speak.
“Okay,” Hyunri murmurs after a while, leaning just enough for her shoulder to brush yours.
“What?” you ask with evident curiosity, your gaze looking at the plate in front of you.
“The guy in front of you,” she continues, “he keeps looking at you.”
You let out a small and dismissive huff. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Oh, he does,” she replies.
You shake your head, reaching for your glass. The fact that she noticed how frequently he looks at you makes you feel a bit uncomfortable and shy.
“You’re imagining things,” you dismiss her once again before taking a sip of wine.
The second you glance up again, there he is, looking at you. You don’t drop your gaze immediately. You hold it for a beat before finally looking away.
Her lips stretch into a smile, but you shake your head. The smug smile on her face almost makes you laugh. Any chance she gets, she tries to patch you up with someone. If she could, she’d make you date the entire world. You know it comes from a good place, but you’re just so introverted.
“Shut up,” you say, nudging her lightly under the table.
She instantly giggles, definitely enjoying herself.
“And he’s definitely hot,” she adds.
“Hyunri,” you warn her. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying,” she replies. “He’s into you, and you should try talking to him.”
You look away, avoiding both her and his gazes. This is so strange, and it doesn’t really make you comfortable. Of course, it feels good to have a man looking at you so intently, but you’re not used to it. It hasn’t happened a lot in the past four years.
“Please,” she literally begs.
You take a deep breath before saying, “Okay, I’ll try.”
She smiles widely with happiness, and it warms your heart. You know you’ll have to interact with him at least once; otherwise, she’ll end up annoying you for the rest of your life.
The evening stretches on, the energy softening as food and drinks are being served and conversations split into smaller groups. At some point, Hoseok turns toward you with an easy smile.
“How do you know Yoongi?” he asks.
You turn slightly toward him. “Through his wife, Juhee. We were coworkers.”
“Oh really?”
You nod. “She had started dating him when I joined the company, so I got the whole Juhee-Yoongi package straight away.”
He chuckles while shaking his head.
“Yeah, they’re quite the couple.”
“And you?”
He starts explaining how he met Yoongi years ago, together with a certain Jungkook. They were neighbors when they were younger. Their moms were close friends, and the three of them always hung out together. They still do it today. You carefully listen to him, not bothering to ask who the third guy is.
For a moment, you even forget the man in front of you. You’re so deep in the conversation with Hoseok, and you're more than glad to learn a bit more about Yoongi. You’ve only known him as an adult, and it seems so weird to discover who he was as a kid and teenager.
Hoseok then starts to explain how he ever found out about Juhee. His story is very similar to what she told you, but you’re hearing Yoongi's side, which is more than interesting. They were roommates, he was in a relationship, and she was in love with him.
“Even if he didn’t want to admit it, Yoongi was so into Juhee.”
The voice comes from across the table, cutting gently into the conversation. You look up. It’s him. He’s leaning forward just slightly now, his attention fully directed at you.
“Yeah,” Hoseok adds. “He was always talking about her when he was still dating this Jennifer.”
Juhee always makes fun of Yoongi for having dated this Swedish girl for a while. She likes to say that he wanted to try something exotic just to poke him, and he really goes with it. He’s totally in love with his wife, which you find absolutely adorable.
“And how did he react when she confessed to him?” you ask with curiosity.
Your best friend told you that after two years of being roommates, she finally confessed to him, but he totally dismissed her as he was still with this Jennifer.
“Oh man,” Hoseok laughs.
A hint of amusement flashes in the eyes of the guy in front of you. “He panicked.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Really?”
“He came to my place, totally freacking out because he didn’t know what to do. He clearly wasn’t in love with Jennifer, but knew how down bad he was for Juhee.”
“Jungkook told him to break up with Jennifer,” Hoseok begins.
“But he clearly didn’t listen to me,” the man in front of you finishes.
So, he’s the famous Jungkook, which makes sense. He wouldn’t have randomly jumped into your conversation.
“Seems like he eventually did,” you add.
Jungkook sincerely smiles before saying, “Because I kept repeating it every day.”
You chuckle, your gaze deep into his. Hoseok glances between the two of you, smiling slightly as if he’s picked up on something.
“I’m glad he listened to you,” you reply. “I wouldn’t have met him if he didn’t.”
Everything would have been so different, but you know that eventually, Yoongi and Juhee would have found their way to each other. They were roommates and madly in love.
There’s a brief pause, but it’s not awkward at all.
You’re both looking at each other, as if the world around had completely vanished. Hoseok then continues talking, but you don’t really listen anymore, too captivated by Jungkook. Eventually, you glance away, focusing on the conversation about how everything started between your best friend and her husband.
Jungkook ends up asking if you were at their wedding, which you weren’t. Your sister was getting married a day before in Italy, and you couldn’t make it to Juhee and Yoongi’s marriage. It saddened you back then, but it’s fine. They never resented you for that, and they showed you all the wedding’s pictures, which made it feel like you were there with them.
As the night keeps going, you talk with everyone around you and keep drinking wine. At some point, you can clearly feel the effect of the alcohol in your system, but you don’t really care. You’re not driving tonight. However, you’re clearly conscious that you need to slow down. Otherwise, you’ll get wasted before the end of the party.
The huge cake with the candles arrives, and you celebrate Yoongi’s birthday. He seems genuinely happy, and it fills your heart that he wanted you to be present at this special day for him. For a brief moment, your eyes meet Jungkook’s, and an odd warmth spreads throughout your body.
Right after eating the cake, Hyunri has to leave and makes you promise that you’ll let her know once you’re home. You’re left alone, but honestly, it doesn’t worry or scare you at all. Hoseok has proven himself to be a great company, together with Jungkook. The three of you talked a lot, and you have to admit that they’re funny.
Jungkook’s constant gaze on you makes you feel more and more desirable, and you wish the night would never stop.
By the time the night starts winding down, the terrace feels different. People are slowly leaving in small groups, chair scraping softly, and goodbyes stretching longer than they need to. When almost everybody has left the restaurant, you decide to do the same. It’s already late, and you should probably go back home.
You say your goodbyes to Yoongi and Juhee, thanking them again for the invitation. She tells you that you should definitely organize something sometime. Outside work, you haven’t seen each other in a while, and you also miss their daughter, Bora, whom you consider your niece. You absolutely need to organize something.
Somehow, without really planning it, you end up outside with Jungkook.
The night air is cooler now, brushing against you as you see everybody splitting and leaving. For a second, it’s just the two of you standing there. He glances at you, hands slipping casually into his jacket, but you don’t dare to look back at him; your gaze is on the building standing in front of you.
“How are you getting home?”
The question catches you a bit off guard, making you finally look at him. With his jacket on, he looks even more like sin. This man looks way too good.
“By taxi,” you say. “Or I’ll check if there’s still any bus running.”
He nods once, like he expected that answer, and you decide to pull your phone out of your handbag. Then, after a brief pause, he tilts his head slightly.
“I can drop you off, if you want,” he proposes, his eyes still glued on you.
It takes you a couple of seconds to process what he just said. Your eyes meet his once more while you lock your phone.
“You have a car?” you ask.
He shakes his head before he gestures behind him. You follow his gaze, and under the streetlight, a bike is parked. It’s honestly a very beautiful one, but you haven’t really seen many bikes in your life. They never really caught your attention whenever you’d see one.
“Oh.”
You look back at him, your gaze taking in the man standing next to you. Jungkook being a biker totally makes sense, and it definitely matches his aura. In fact, the opposite would have surprised you.
You should probably say no—that would be the most reasonable thing to do. This man is a total stranger to you, and on top of that, you’ve never been on a bike. It clearly sounds dangerous. And also, being on a bike clearly doesn’t sound like the best option, as you’re clearly under the influence of alcohol. You could throw up at any given moment.
But instead, you hear yourself ask, “You always offer rides to people you just met?”
His lips stretch in a smile, his little dimples appearing on his cute face.
“Only the ones I end up talking to at Yoongi’s birthday,” he simply says.
Before you can overthink it, you simply nod.
The two of you walk to the bike in pure silence, but his heavy presence next to you doesn’t go unnoticed. It feels strangely intimate to be alone with him after the way he looked at you all night.
Once you’re standing next to it, Jungkook takes two helmets out from what look like cases attached to the engine. He hands you one that you take with a certain hesitation, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.
“Ever been on one?” he asks. You shake your head, and it’s answer enough for him. He rests his helmet on the bike before taking yours from your hands. “Let me help you out then,” he says.
With the gentlest movements, he pushes your hair back, the touch of his fingers on you sending shivers down your spine. He’s so gentle with you right now. Once he’s happy with the result, he places the helmet over your head and pushes it down. By reflex, your hands catch the bottom.
A proud smile grows on his face, and his eyes glow with something you can’t quite name. It’s like he’s proud to see you wearing a helmet. After that, your little handbag is put in his backpack as it clearly doesn’t sound logical to keep it in hand while he drives through the city. The only request he has as for you to carry it and he reassures you that he isn’t heavy.
When he hands it to you, your fingers brush his, and he even helps you to adjust it on your back. For a second, your eyes get lost in the sight in front of you. The big ass man is helping you out with such a simple thing. He’s definitely a very thoughtful person.
Then, in a couple of seconds, his helmet is on his head. After that, he asks you to put your address on his phone. The thought of him knowing where you live thrills you somehow. The hot guy from Yoongi’s party will know your address.
“Alright,” he says. “Just hold onto me, and lean with me when we turn, okay?”
After spending the entire night sharing looks, you’ll be very close to him, like body to body. Never in your life have you ever been that close with a stranger. It’s kind of scary and exciting at the same time, but you can’t back up now. You already agreed to this.
You nod like that’s completely normal, but it’s not. He climbs first and holds out his hand to you. With a bit of hesitation, you take his hand and climb behind him. It’s a little awkward at first, and you adjust your position until you feel somewhat stable. The seat is narrower than you expected.
Jungkook never once looks away from you, making sure that you’re all set and ready. He’s so close to you, and your heart is beating way too fast with nervousness. Being in a bike with a random guy makes you a bit nervous. If anything bad happens, you could get very badly injured.
“Don’t worry, okay?” he asks you.
Somehow, you trust him enough to believe you’re safe with him. If your parents ever found out that you’ve been on a bike, they’ll kill you. They are very old-fashioned and convinced that every biker dies on the road, which you don’t believe.
For a second, you hesitate, hands hovering uncertainly, and then, you place them on him. You’re absolutely unsure of where you’re allowed to place them, so they rest against his sides. Maybe this is the right way to hold onto a biker. You don’t know.
“You can hold tighter,” he says over his shoulder.
There’s something about the way he says it that makes your hesitation fade just a little. And so you do as he says. Your arms slide around him, your hands settling against his torso, and you feel immediately the solid warmth of him under your palms. His body is definitely toned.
Your breath catches. This man seems like a surprise box, and it feels like they keep coming. You’re unsure of what could happen next, but you wouldn’t mind finding out more about him.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Your heart thuds in your chest, ready to leave at any moment. As if he’s feeling it, he grabs one of your fingers and gently taps it against his torso.
“If there’s anything, you can tap like this against me, okay?” he tells you.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be careful,” he adds.
You simply nod, even though you know he’s not going to see it. The engine starts beneath you, and you feel it everywhere—through the seat, through your legs, through the way your body is now pressed against his. And then, you’re moving. At first, it’s slow and careful as the bike eases into the street. You look around, taking in the houses and the people walking around.
But as soon as he picks up speed, everything changes.
The wind hits you, rushing past your body and pulling at your clothes. Instinctively, you tighten your hold on him, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And instead of pulling away—like you would have done under any other circumstances—you lean in closer.
Your chest is now fully pressed against his back, your arms fully wrapped around him, and your eyes are closed as if you’re too scared. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shifts of his body as he moves, while he guides the bike with an ease that makes you trust him without thinking about it.
When you wrap yourself tighter around him, his hand brushes against yours in a comforting way. He’s trying somehow to reassure you, and it’s definitely working because you’re slowly opening your eyes again. From this perspective, the city looks different. Everything moves faster, and the lights feel brighter around you.
And as it appears in movies, being on a bike makes you feel more alive. It’s an indescribable feeling, but a welcome one.
Every time he turns, your body follows his naturally. Your body mirrors everything he does, which is normal with the way you’re clinging to him. You try not to hold onto him too tight, too scared to hurt him, while he guides you both through the city.
Honestly, you could get used to this.
Between the rush of the wind, the warmth of his body, and the quiet thrill sitting low in your chest, you realize you’re smiling.
At some point, the streets start to look familiar as you recognize the corner near your place, the small café that’s always closed too early, and the building across from yours. You almost wish you weren’t reaching your place.
The bike slows down, gradually at first, then more noticeably. The rush of wind softens into something gentler, and the city comes back into focus around you.
Then, he stops right in front of your building.
For a second, neither of you moves. The engine is still running beneath you, vibrating softly like the night hasn’t fully settled yet. Your arms are still around him, and your body is still close to his. Slowly, you become aware of it, and heat rushes through your body.
You loosen your grip, your hands lingering just a fraction longer than necessary before you pull them back. Jungkook doesn’t move, letting you do as you wish. You climb off the bike, your feet finding the ground as the world feels slightly steadier.
Jungkook cuts the engine, and silence falls into place.
You take off the helmet, running a hand through your hair, trying to fix it in a way that probably doesn’t make much difference. Your heart is still beating a little faster than usual, and your body is still holding onto the echo of the ride. It’s like you can still feel your body moving.
“Thanks,” you say, as you block the helmet under your arm. “That was really nice.”
Jungkook lifts the visor of his helmet to look at you. He doesn’t seem like himself when only his eyes are visible. It makes him look innocent, which you truly believe he isn’t.
“I’m glad you agreed to this,” he replies.
You nod, a small smile forming. “Yeah, me too.”
You’re standing close. Closer than you would be with someone you just met, but you’re close enough to notice the details again. His expression shifts slightly when he looks at you, his gaze not rushing away. This right here—his intense gaze on you, and him on a bike with a helmet on—makes your mind race crazily.
You never knew you were into bikers…
You glance toward your building to escape him and calm down your thoughts before looking back at him. Neither of you moves to leave.
“So…” you start, then stop. “I guess it’s time to go home.”
“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in a hurry to go.
A silence stretches between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s like something is waiting to happen, but neither of you is quite ready to be the first to move.
Your fingers wrap tighter around the helmet, your heart beating way too fast in your chest. Jungkook shifts his weight just slightly, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. It’s subtle, but not enough to notice. Your breath catches just for a second, and the air suddenly feels thicker.
You know that if you close the gap between you, you’ll let him do whatever he wants with you, which isn’t a great idea. You’re tipsy, and he’s a total stranger—who knows what he might do if you let him. So, before you start doing something stupid and silly, you take the backpack out to retrieve your own bag.
“This is yours,” you tell him.
Jungkook nods, grabbing the bag and putting it on his back.
“Can I have your phone?” he asks, which makes you frown.
Even though his question confuses you, you still hand it out to him. He types something, and seconds later, his phone starts ringing.
“Now you have my number if you ever want to get a ride again,” he says.
“Thanks,” you say as you get your phone back.
Without truly realizing it, you’re now very close to each other, and his eyes never look away from you. It’s still unsettling, but god, if you could, you’d let him do it for the rest of your life. You love the way he looks at you, even if it is too intense sometimes.
“Goodnight,” he says softly.
“Goodnight,” you repeat.
Neither of you moves right away, and you don’t want this night to finish just yet. It’s for sure one you’ll never forget. This simple ride was enough to make the night memorable, but Yoongi’s birthday party was just as amazing. This was definitely a good evening.
“I’ll see you around?” he asks.
It’s not quite a question, you know it. You smile, still feeling the echo of everything—the ride, the closeness.
“Yeah,” you say. “You will.”
He nods and then starts the bike again, the sound breaking the quiet, and within seconds, he’s pulling away and disappearing down the street. You stay there for a moment longer than you need to, replaying tonight’s events as if you need time to process everything that happened before getting inside.
Your mind can’t help but think about the way he looked at you, the way you held onto him, and the way the ride felt. You exhale softly, a small and involuntary smile appearing on your face.
As the cold air raises goosebumps all over your body, you decide to get inside. It’s time to go to bed, and you know already that tomorrow you’ll be completely dead. When you get older, it becomes harder to deal with the aftermath of a late night filled with alcohol. Thankfully, tomorrow is Sunday, which means a lot of rest.
When the door closes behind you, the silence that follows feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there in the hallway, keys still in your hand. There’s a lingering warmth in your chest that doesn’t quite fade.
When you’re about to unlock your phone, you notice that his helmet is still in your hands. “Shit,” you whisper to yourself. You stare at it for a second, confused at first, but then it clicks. You never gave it back, too absorbed by his beauty.
You set it down on the kitchen counter and sit on a chair, running a hand through your hair as the whole ride replays itself again—his voice, the steady way he drove, and the way he said ‘goodnight’ like it wasn’t quite final.
You quickly send a message to Hyunri, letting her know you safely made it home. Then, a notification appears. There’s a new message.
jungkook 🏍️: you stole my helmet
You stare at the screen for a second, a smile returning on your lips. You can’t help but notice that he added a little bike next to his name, and it does something to your little heart.
you: not on purpose
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
jungkook 🏍️: yeah, sure…
For a brief second, you don’t know whether he’s mad about it or not, so you try to think about what you could eventually reply. But before you can even type anything, another message comes through.
jungkook 🏍️: you didn’t need to steal my helmet to get another free ride 😊
jungkook 🏍️: you can simply ask
That makes you smile more than expected. You settle back on the chair, the helmet resting on the counter beside you, and it’s the proof of tonight’s wild turn.
you: i’m definitely going to ask for another ride 👀
Your heart is beating super fast in your chest. Jungkook makes you feel a certain way—one that you haven’t felt in years, and honestly, you don’t ever want it to stop.
jungkook 🏍️: i can give you another free ride when i pick it up tomorrow
Your entire body freezes when you read his message. He’s literally suggesting seeing you again tomorrow, and you’ve barely just said goodbye. Maybe Hyunri was right when she said that he liked you.
jungkook 🏍️: unless you’re planning to keep it
You feel yourself getting way too bold as you type your answer.
you: maybe
At that instant, your best friend sends you a thank-you message, telling you she’s glad you made it home safely. When she discovers who drops you off, she’ll go insane. In the end, you did more than talk with him. She’ll be proud of you, you’re sure of it.
jungkook 🏍️: do you intend on asking for more rides? 🤔
Well, you definitely would love to repeat this more often, but you can’t just say it now. You met him like five hours ago.
you: if you ever propose, i wouldn’t say no 😊
jungkook 🏍️: we’ll have to check about that tomorrow if you ever give me back my helmet
The silly smile on your face doesn’t fade away. This conversation with him feels incredible.
you: okay, so see you tomorrow then 😊
jungkook 🏍️: yes
The three dots appear and remain for a while before another message drops.
jungkook 🏍️: goodnight, yn
And this right here melts your heart. Not only because it’s a sweet message, but also because you can hear him say it, as he did minutes ago.
you: goodnight, jungkook
And just like that, you go to bed with the silliest smile on your face.
“Are we in a parallel universe?” Hyunri’s voice echoes in your apartment through your phone’s speakers. “What has happened to my best friend?”
Her words make you giggle. As always, she’s exaggerating everything, which only makes you roll your eyes.
“Why are you exaggerating like that?” you ask as you eat your breakfast.
Honestly, this morning you craved chocolate cereals, and you know it’s mostly due to the amount of alcohol you had last night. Always after getting drunk, you find yourself craving chocolate. On top of that, you’re also having a cup of coffee to help you out with the hangover. The aftermath of a night out at thirty doesn’t hit the same way as in your twenties.
“I’m not!!” she almost screams. “Wait, let me add Juhee.”
“Ri, no,” you tell her, but she doesn’t listen, of course, and adds your best friend.
“Hi guuuuuuurls,” Ju screams when she picks up the call. “How are you doing?” She seems full of energy, which makes you smile, even though you know that in a couple of minutes, you wouldn’t be smiling anymore, as they will be talking and raising too many questions related to Jungkook.
“I have to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the party,” Hyunri says.
“Why?” Juhee asks. “Did something happen?”
Is there any point in talking? No. Hyunri is going to say it anyway, and you’ll have to listen to them ranting about you as if you weren’t there.
“Our super friend here managed to get a hot babe’s number,” she teases.
“Don’t call him ‘hot babe’, it’s weird,” you tell her.
“What?” Juhee says. “How?”
You want to chuckle because her reaction is funny, but it’s best not to react at all.
“I’m still trying to figure it out, but as you can imagine, yn hasn’t said much.”
You roll your eyes for the millionth time since she called you. “Let me eat in peace,” you simply reply.
“We don’t care about that,” Juhee says. “We want details!”
Now you giggle before your eyes flutter shut for a moment. Souvenirs from last night flow through your mind. Jungkook seems to be the only thing your mind can even focus on at this moment.
“You actually know him,” you reveal. “It’s one of Yoongi’s closest friends. It’s Jungkook.”
“You should have seen the way he was always looking at her,” Hyunri continues without even letting you or Juhee speak. “He’s really into her.”
Your best friend seems very into what happened yesterday.
“Now, the best part was after the party…” she continues.
Thank god that it’s not a video call, otherwise she’d see the way you constantly roll your eyes. She’s definitely exaggerating everything. It’s like it’s the event of the year when there’s not really much to say.
“Wait…” Juhee then cuts Hyunri off. “Jungkook?”
Juhee must know tons of things about him, and most probably, she knows him well since he’s a close friend of Yoongi with Hoseok—based on what you found out yesterday.
“Yeah,” you simply reply.
Her reaction kind of surprises you. Is there something wrong with him?
“Is there anything we should know about him?”
Your heart is now beating super fast, too scared to hear something you wouldn’t like. For sure, whatever she says will impact the way you’ll see him, and in a couple of hours, you’ll be spending some time with him. Hopefully, she doesn’t have anything bad to say.
“Well…” she begins before pausing for a second. “Not sure if I’m supposed to be the one saying it, but he divorced like a year ago, and apparently, it’s been rough for him since then.”
Somehow, it’s not surprising that he was married, especially considering how thoughtful he was. And on top of that, he’s good-looking, so it mustn’t be difficult for him to find someone.
“What happened?” Hyunri asks with curiosity.
“Yoongi doesn’t speak much about it, nor does Jungkook, but from what I understood, they simply grew apart,” she explains. “But now, back to what happened yesterday, I want to know everything. Yoongi will be happy when I tell him about this.”
A smile spread across your face as you imagine your best friend telling her husband about this. “After the party, he dropped me off with his bike,” you summarize yesterday’s events.
“Annnnnd?” Hyunri tries to push you to reveal more.
“It was cool,” you say. “I’ve never been on a bike, so it was cool to live the experience.”
“You’re annoying, yn,” Juhee says. “We want to know more than that.”
“Fine,” you take a very deep breath. “He gave me his number, and I’m seeing him again today.”
Both girls scream with happiness on the other side of the phone, clearly trying to make you deaf. They really are unbelievable. However, their reaction definitely makes you happy because you know they’ve always been supportive of you. And now, they’ll definitely do everything they can to encourage you to see Jungkook as often as possible.
“I should have introduced you to him years ago!” Juhee says with enthusiasm.
“Well, if he was married, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” you reply.
“Yeah, right… He was indeed already taken,” she seems kind of defeated. “Still, now, you’ve got to meet him, and you can’t do anything stupid to ruin this.”
“He’s definitely into you, yn,” Hyunri continues. “You need to seize the opportunity.”
Honestly, you’re not really sure you’re ready for anything related to relationships. You’ve been on your own for four years, and the simple thought of dating someone scares the hell out of you. Jungkook seems like a nice guy and looks good, but what if he realizes that he doesn’t like you? What if he realizes you simply look good?
“I don’t know…” you admit.
Being single all these years wasn’t in your plans, but life happened. In between sickness, grief, and heartbreak, you gave yourself some time to breathe. Dating was the last thing on your mind, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t try to give it a shot.
Two years ago, you tried tinder, but it was a total mess. It overwhelmed you after two days, and you deleted your profile. You gave it a second chance three months ago, but it ended up with the same result.
The conclusion was that dating apps aren’t for you.
Being on your own never scared you, but sometimes, loneliness can be suffocating—like really suffocating. Those nights, tears get the best of you. Being alone isn’t easy all the time; however, you have to admit that it brings you peace, and you actually love it.
Juhee and Hyunri are worried you’d spend the rest of your life alone. You’re thirty and very much single. For a while, you totally ignored them because you didn’t give a shit about it all. But now, with this Jungkook, it feels a bit different.
“Look, I know you’re scared, but just go with the flow with Jungkook. Don’t overthink, just enjoy yourself. If it doesn’t work, then that’s it, but don’t try to push him away if he keeps coming back, okay?”
It seems easy for her to say. She isn’t the one struggling with relationships. She’s been with Yoongi for seven years, married for two years, and had a baby girl one year ago. She found her soulmate while you’re still trying to figure things out in your life.
“Okay,” you say.
For now, you just have to focus on when he shows up at your door in a couple of hours to retrieve his helmet. Probably nothing will happen, and maybe he’ll leave in two minutes. Maybe he’s not into you, as Hyunri likes to repeat.
“Now, have you planned something for when you see each other again?” Hyunri asks.
“No,” you reply instantly. “He’s just going to pick up his helmet.”
“His helmet?” Juhee asks.
“Yeah, I accidentally stole it yesterday.”
“Ooooh, our girl was so charmed that she stole something…” Hyunri teases you.
She’s not wrong, but you’re absolutely not going to admit it just yet.
“This is awkward, Ri,” you tell her.
“Okay,” Juhee intervenes. “It’s a good thing, though. You get to see him again.”
For sure, you’re going to see him, but you’re not sure how it’ll go. Probably nothing will happen.
“I might have said that I’d like to get on his bike again,” you confess.
“Girl, please beg for that ride today,” Hyunri literally begs you.
“We’ll see,” you reply. “He’s probably just going to take the helmet and leave straight after.”
“Yn…” Juhee exhales. “Don’t let him leave right after. Speak a bit with him and absolutely ask for that ride.”
You take a deep breath. You’d like to go for another ride, but would it even be appropriate if he’s coming to pick up the helmet? He said yesterday that he’ll see when he comes today, but what if he changed his mind?
Suddenly, you receive a notification from him. Your heartbeat increases drastically, and you remain silent as your friends keep talking.
jungkook 🏍️: hi yn ✨ is it okay if i come in one hour?
For a minute, you look at the message without knowing what to say or even to think.
“Yn?” Juhee says, bringing you back down on earth.
“Sorry,” you reply. “He just texted me.”
It feels like you’re in a parallel universe. Everything that has been happening since last night feels absolutely unreal.
“What did he say?” Hyunri asks with curiosity.
“He’s asking if he can come in an hour.”
“And you’re going to say yes,” Juhee tells you.
It’s not even a question. She’s saying it, and you don’t have much of a choice.
“Yes,” you confirm.
you: hi jungkook, yes it’s fine ✨
His reply comes seconds later, as if he was waiting for your answer.
jungkook 🏍️: perfect! see you
“Girls, I’ll have to leave then,” you tell them. “I need to clean my place, it’s a complete mess!”
“Okay, but you keep us updated,” Hyunri makes you promise.
“Yes, I will.”
An hour later, the doorbell rings in your apartment, and your heart starts racing. Your eyes quickly dart around, checking if your place looks presentable. In the mirror of the entrance, you quickly check your reflection to make sure you look presentable.
Following your friends’ advice, you’ve chosen a simple but not too casual outfit. So, you’ve opted for a fitted black top that hugs your frame, the neckline dipping just enough to soften the look without trying too hard. You paired your top with jeans sitting high on your waist, perfectly fitted at the hips before falling straight down your legs. And on top of that, you put on a thin belt that pulls everything together.
You’re kind of satisfied with the outfit, but somehow, it feels like your top is a bit too much. However, now that Jungkook rings at your door, you can’t back out and change.
When you look at the videophone, his strong figure captivates your full attention, and you can’t help but smile. He’s opted for a full black outfit that suits him incredibly well. He’s wearing a tight shirt under a large jacket and tucked into his jeans. In his left hand, he holds his helmet.
“Hi, Jungkook,” you speak through the interphone. “It’s the fifth floor.”
“Thanks,” he says as you open the entrance door through a button on the interphone.
You take a very deep breath, trying to calm your beating heart and your racing thoughts. “He’s just here to pick up the helmet, nothing more,” you try to convince yourself. Deep down, you wish he’s not here just for that. Deep down, you hope he’ll propose to do something. Deep down, you simply want to be around him.
A loud knock against your door brings you back to reality, and without much hesitation, you open the door. Your breath is completely taken away when he stands tall in front of you. He looks even better than yesterday, if it was even possible.
His lips stretch into a bright smile before he says, “Hi, yn.”
“Hi, Jungkook,” you say, smiling as well. “Come inside.”
You step back to let him in, and he doesn’t waste a second before getting inside your place. Jungkook looks around, discovering every corner of the apartment’s entrance. You don’t own a big place because you can’t afford anything bigger, but one thing you’re proud of is the fact that this is yours. You bought this with your own money.
He turns around, his intense gaze now on you. That part hasn’t changed since last night. He still looks at you in a way that makes your tummy twist. You really want to hold his gaze, but you just can’t.
So you look around, searching for the helmet. “Let me just grab the helmet.”
Jungkook frowns. “If you didn’t want my presence here, you could have just said it,” he begins. “I could have waited at the entrance.”
You tilt your head, trying to understand what he’s saying, and when you do, you feel guilty. You’re so awkward that you want to slap your face so badly.
“It’s not that,” you say, shaking your head.
You pause, trying to think of the right way to express yourself, even though you know you’ve already made a mess in like a second.
“I just…”
It feels like you can’t even express yourself, while he’s just waiting for an answer. For sure, after this, he’ll run away and never come back. This is more than over. You don’t even dare to look at him, too scared of what you might see in his eyes.
“I just thought you were here for it,” you finally say, slowly looking back at him.
To your surprise, you see a sly smile on his face, and even if his stare is still intense, it doesn’t feel threatening.
“I wouldn’t be here if it were just for the helmet,” he replies.
“Oh.”
Well, his reply leaves you speechless. He’s implying that he’s here for you, not to retrieve the helmet, and that does things to you. You’re not sure you can remember the last time a man said he wanted to spend time with you, except for the brief times you were on tinder. So, that doesn’t count at all.
“Do you want to drink or eat something, then?” you proceed to ask.
His smile grows bigger as he nods. “Where can I put this?” he shows his helmet.
“Follow me,” you tell him.
Jungkook does as you say, and you guide him to the living room. When he sees the stolen helmet, he instantly understands he needs to place his right next to it.
“You can sit on the couch while I bring some things,” you say with a little smile.
The man nods as you disappear into the kitchen, take some juice from the fridge, and pick up a few biscuits. You come back with all of that and take two glasses from the sideboard.
“This is all I have,” you show him.
“It’s enough,” he smiles. “I really like this orange juice. My favourite.”
His words reassure you.
“I can do coffee if you want,” you propose as well.
“No, no, this is fine,” he replies.
You nod, and the two of you start eating some of the biscuits you have. Those are lactose-free because, unfortunately, your body decided it was damn time you stopped tolerating lactose. In all honesty, this is horrible. The only positive side is that you now know what you're eating, since you always have to read the ingredients.
“Your place is cute,” he finally breaks the silence.
“Thanks,” you reply. “I bought it two years ago, and it’s slowly starting to look like something.”
He chuckles, his fingers placing a chocolate biscuit in his mouth, and you can’t help but drool over this simple action. Fuck, he looks way too hot without even trying.
“So you live alone?” he asks, as if he’s making sure nobody will show up unexpectedly.
“Yes.”
You’re not sure if it’s a good idea to let a stranger know you live by yourself—we never know what might happen. But, somehow, with him, you feel like you’re safe.
“No man is going to show up?”
Your cheeks instantly heat as you realize he’s trying to check if you’re single or not. “Are you trying to ask if I’m single?” you ask without thinking.
“Maybe,” he says, a cheeky smirk appearing on his face.
He’s going to be the death of you. There’s no way you’re going to survive him if he starts acting like that around you.
“Well, if you don’t ask it clearly, I can’t give you an answer,” you decide to tease him back.
If he wants to know, he’ll have to say it loud and clear. Jungkook chuckles before you hear him say, “Are you single?”
Heath instantly spreads through your body as you hear him say it.
“Maybe,” you keep teasing him.
He shakes his head, picking up another biscuit. Why did you even agree to meet him today? He looks way too good, and you don’t even know how to deal with him. Somehow, teasing him is the only way to do it.
“Mmm,” he says. “Is it a yes?”
You decide to nod, “I have been for a while.”
You don’t really know where you found the courage to say it, but maybe the fact that you feel comfortable enough with him can explain it. Suddenly, his face gets dangerously close, his gaze glued on yours. The strong scent of his cologne wraps around you, and you swear that you can feel your soul leaving your body.
“It’s hard to believe it,” he then says.
His words take you off guard.
“Why?” you frown.
“Someone like you can’t possibly be single for long,” he replies.
Your body heat keeps increasing while your heart simply decides to abandon you. Jungkook can’t possibly say things like that. You chuckle, not believing a word. “Is that what you say to all women?”
“No,” he says simply.
The way he says it—calm and without hesitation—makes you shiver. His answer actually surprises you because you weren’t expecting him to reply with ‘no’ so simply.
“I’m sure a guy like you doesn’t have trouble meeting women,” you say.
Even if your friend told you it was hard for him after his divorce, you’re absolutely convinced he managed to flirt—and maybe do even more—with stunning women. You’re not saying you’re ugly; it’s far from that, but you’re sure that he has seen tons of pretty women.
“A guy like me?” he raises an eyebrow.
You’re not even sure what you’re supposed to reply, but you know he understands what you mean. He’s just trying to push you to say it out loud.
“You know what I mean,” you then reply.
Jungkook watches you for a second, his face still too close to yours. A sly smile grows on his face, and your heart just drops right there and then.
“Yeah,” he says. “But it doesn’t mean I’m interested in all of them.”
His answer flusters you. Jungkook is quite straightforward, and you haven’t met a man like him before. It’s unsettling, but at the same time, impressive. As you don’t know what to reply to that, you change the topic of the conversation completely: “I believe you promised me another ride on your bike.”
As you say it out loud, it absolutely sounds dirty. You’re so fucking awkward… He’s going to think you want to go wild with him when it’s absolutely not the case. You press your lips together, trying to suppress the urge to cringe.
Jungkook doesn’t react right away, but for the first time, he looks away. It is as if he needs some time to process what you just said.
“I did,” he then replies calmly. “And we can go whenever you want.”
His eyes meet yours again, and you bite the corner of your lower lip as you think of the place you’d like to go. You’re not sure it’d be right to suggest it because it’s tied to heavy and strong emotions.
“There’s a place I used to go to,” you admit.
You don’t look at him when you continue. Honestly, it’s been a while since you’ve wanted to go there, but you were too scared to go alone. Using this bike ride seems like the perfect excuse.
“I haven’t been there in a while.”
You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you. Somehow, it feels like you have forgotten how he spent last night constantly looking at you. It’s like he can’t look away, and it’s sometimes unsettling.
“I’d like to go back there,” you say, finally looking at him to see his reaction.
Nothing has changed; it’s like he’s a statue. He’s simply looking at you with that unreadable expression. Jungkook doesn’t ask questions, just nods, “Okay,” he ends up saying. “Let me know when you want to go, then.”
“Can we go now?” you dare to ask.
Again, he simply nods. The two of you stand up at the same time, and you notice a little smile on his face. He looks cute when there’s no smirk or sly smile on his face.
Back on his bike, your arms wrap around him while he drives, and you feel alive all over again. A stupid smile stretches across your face as he guides you both through the city. You didn’t think you’d be back on the bike this soon, but god, you’re definitely not going to complain.
At a red light, he looks back, his hand falling on top of yours. “You’re doing okay?”
“Yes,” you try to scream, making sure he can hear you.
“Good,” he says, his head looking back at the road.
His fingers stroking your hands warm your body in an unexplainable way, and you can’t help but wrap yourself tighter around him. Right now, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. He’s made you feel a lot in less than a day, and even if you don’t ever see him again, you’d cherish those moments forever.
When the light turns green, he starts the engine. You look around, enjoying how the city becomes a blur all over again. The bike zigzags between the cars at a fast speed, giving the impression that they are barely moving. Your body moves with his as he drives you around. It’s honestly impressive.
At some point, you rest your head against his back and close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of the wind running through your body. This is so unique. This time around, having your body pressed against his doesn’t scare you. It’s actually the opposite.
Jungkook slows down as you reach the destination, your eyes opening when he speaks. “Can I park here?”
“Yeah, should be fine,” you reply.
He completely stops the engine on a little spot, and you climb off the bike. The street is almost empty, as it was the case when you used to come years ago. The two of you remove the helmets once you put your feet on the floor.
Jungkook’s gaze lands on you, and you don’t look away. His fingers quickly run through his hair to arrange it. This man is so effortlessly good-looking.
“We just need to walk a bit,” you tell him.
He nods as you guide him through the houses and down the street to your secret spot. Four years ago, when you were walking around with an aching heart, you discovered this spot with the prettiest view of the city. You’ve come here tons of times, but over time, you stopped coming.
When you reach it, you halt, and he stands next to you. The view is still breathtaking. A smile forms on your lips. Before you can realize it, your eyes meet the man next to you. For the first time, he isn’t looking at you, but at the city.
“This is a pretty spot,” he admits before looking at you.
“It is,” you say while holding his gaze.
Your hand grabs his gloved one, guiding him to the railing placed a bit further. His hand wraps around you, which honestly creates goosebumps on your body, but you simply ignore it. Once there, you don’t let go of his hand just yet.
“How did you discover this?” he asks, his eyes moving between you and the city. “This is really hidden.”
“The story behind it isn’t the most joyful,” you admit.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t feel like it,” he tells you.
You let go of his hand, put your elbows on the railing, and place your head in your hands. The helmet hangs on your arm while your eyes simply take in the sight before you. Somehow, being here doesn’t overwhelm you as you thought it’d be. It actually eases your mind.
“I lost my best friend to cancer around the time my ex-boyfriend broke up with me,” you confess, not looking once at him.
Revealing the truth feels easy when the person next to you is a complete stranger. He can’t judge you, and even if he does, you can simply walk away.
“The pain was suffocating,” you explain. “And I’d walk around the city for hours to empty my mind. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work,” you try to chuckle, but only a weird noise escapes your mouth. “One day, I stumbled upon this spot and kept coming because the noise in my head and the lump in my throat would calm down for a minute in here.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he tells you.
“Thanks,” you reply. “It’s been four years, but it feels like it was yesterday.”
You can tell that his eyes are on you, not in the city, but you don’t care. It feels good to say this to someone who isn’t Juhee or Hyunri.
“I understand,” he confesses. “Losing someone isn’t easy.”
It isn’t. Grief never leaves you; you simply learn how to live with it, but there are times when everything comes back with more intensity. In those moments, you’re brought back in time, and everything becomes unbearable all over again.
“I hadn’t come here in years, but it’s good to be back,” you admit.
“Thanks for telling me all of this,” he tells you. “And I’m happy you brought us here. It’s very beautiful.”
A small silence settles between you after his words, but it’s not heavy nor awkward. It’s just there as if you both need to proceed with everything you just shared with him. You nod slightly, your gaze still fixed on the city.
The wind brushes lightly against your skin, and without thinking, you pull your jacket a little closer around you. Jungkook steps just slightly closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough to shield you from the breeze. It’s subtle, but you notice it.
“You don’t talk about it much, do you?” he asks quietly behind you.
You shake your head. “Not really.”
The pain that comes with revealing this is always too much, but with Jungkook, it seems easy. It’s not overwhelming, nor painful. It’s just peaceful, especially with the view in front of you.
You finally turn your head to look at him. There’s something different in his expression. It’s softer—as if he can totally understand you and your feelings. It leaves you wondering if he also lost someone.
You hesitate, but then ask, “Have you lost someone too?”
He exhales quietly, his gaze drifting to the city behind you. “Yeah,” he says after a beat.
Jungkook doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push. He has the right not to tell you everything right away. As he said, losing someone isn’t easy, and most probably, he doesn’t feel like sharing with you what he went through. Nevertheless, you’re here if he ever wants to speak.
He moves to stand next to you again, his shoulder brushing against yours. You don’t move away, nor does he. This feels right.
“I used to come here alone,” you say. “I never thought I’d ever bring someone.”
Jungkook glances at you, and you do the same. Your heart misses a beat when you notice the way he looks at you. It isn’t intense, it’s just soft and filled with feelings. Nobody ever looked at you like that.
“I’ll take this as a good sign,” he says.
You huff a quiet laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
His lips curve faintly. “Too late.”
You shake your head before looking back at the city. Another silence stretches between you, and neither of you tries to break it. It just feels good. Being here after all this time feels refreshing because things are different now.
You’ve overcome the heartbreak your ex-boyfriend caused, and the grief isn’t as suffocating as it was. You now know how to live with it, even though you still cry over the loss of your first friend. Lucas would be proud of you; he wouldn’t have wanted you to cry for years.
“Whenever you want to leave, let me know,” he says.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay a little longer,” you tell him.
Jungkook simply nods, and you remain here for a couple more minutes. When the wind becomes too cold, he places his jacket around your shoulders. You mumble a simple ‘thanks’ as you let his warm wrap around you.
No matter what the future holds for you, the simple fact that a man came with you here and showed nothing but support will forever be engraved in your heart. There aren’t many men left like him. He doesn’t question or push you to open up to him. He’s just there, and you only met him last night. What will it be like in a couple of weeks or even months if he stays around?
When you tell him you feel ready to leave, he just brings the two of you back to his bike. No one really speaks, but there’s no need to. You give him back his jacket so he doesn’t get cold while he drives—you’d feel really bad about it.
Like he did yesterday, he stops in front of your building complex. This time around, he climbs off his bike as well. When you open the case on the back to put the helmet back inside, he places his hand on top of yours.
“Keep it,” he says.
His fingers tug a strand of hair behind your ear, as if he’s trying to rearrange it. You let him do as he wishes, your eyes glued on his. Your heart is beating way too fast in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.
“You might need it again,” he whispers.
Clearly, he wants to see you again, and you’re not really sure if you’re ready for that. However, the voices of Hyunri and Juhee echo in your head. You should try not to let him go just yet.
“You’re sure?” you ask.
Your question isn’t about keeping the helmet. It’s about checking if he truly wants to stay around.
“I am,” he replies with the softest voice. “But if you don’t want—”
“I want to,” you cut him off.
Not pushing him away isn’t going to be easy, but there’s one thing you’re sure of. You love being around him. And you don’t want to let him go.
For the past two weeks, you’ve been speaking nonstop with Jungkook. Everything seems easy with him. You don’t struggle to open up; he actually silently encourages you. He doesn’t say it, but always mentions that you don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.
Juhee and Hyunri have been excited about this whole thing with Jungkook. Juhee even speaks about it with Yoongi—you found out that Jungkook has been talking about you with Yoongi, but she refuses to let you know what they’ve been talking about. However, with the way she’s been encouraging you, you can deduce that it’s been positive.
Tonight, he’s picking you up for an outing. The only thing you know is that you’re going to a restaurant for dinner. Honestly, that doesn’t say much, because you don’t know how you’re supposed to dress.
If you follow your friends’ advice, you’d be dressing like a whore, and it’s not necessarily the impression you want to give him. You’ve been enjoying what’s been going on between you without the need to go freaky.
What you’ve discovered is that Jungkook is the type of man you introduce to your parents. Not the type to have one-night stands. For sure, he’s hot as hell, but beyond his looks, there’s a heart made of gold.
You’re not going to lie and say you haven’t thought of sleeping with him, but it was just a fantasy. When you’re around him, it’s the last thing on your mind. You simply enjoy his presence and every little thing that he does for you.
When you reach the main entrance of the building, Jungkook is waiting for you against the wall. For a second, you let your eyes roam over his body. Tonight, he looks different. The biker version of him is gone. Instead, he’s dressed in a full brown suit, the fabric slightly loose on his frame, like everything he wears. This man only seems to love extra-large clothes, but on him, it just works.
It makes him look attractive.
“Hi,” you say finally, once you’ve taken him in properly.
At the sound of your voice, his head turns, and his gaze instantly finds you, his eyes moving slowly over you.
The outfit you’ve opted for is different from what you’re used to. You stepped out of your comfort zone tonight, for him, even if you don’t want to admit it. So, you’ve put on a black skirt—that has been in your wardrobe for years—with a red top that adds just enough contrast. Your black oversized jacket falls naturally over your shoulders, and the boots give you a bit more confidence than usual.
It’s simple, but feels different.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes meeting yours. “You look great.”
“Thanks,” you smile at him. “The suit looks good on you.”
You’ve never seen him in a suit, which somehow makes tonight feel special. You step closer, closing the distance between you, and lean in to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. His hand naturally finds your lower back.
When you pull away, his hand doesn’t leave. His thumb gently strokes your lower back. The simple gesture comforts you in ways you can’t even express. In fact, being around him always brings peace to your soul. You love being with him. It’s just easy. You can simply be yourself, and he’ll never judge you.
“We should get going,” he says after a moment. “Don’t want us to arrive late.”
You nod. Before you can step away, he leans in just slightly and presses a soft kiss on top of your head. The gesture catches you off guard. Then, his hand guides you forward, still resting at your lower back as you walk together toward his car.
It’s the first time you've seen it. You’re so used to the full biker Jungkook, and this feels different. The car is pretty and most probably expensive. You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. This man definitely has good taste.
But then again, you already knew that.
His hand never leaves you as you reach the passenger side, guiding and protecting you. Feeling his warmth next to you is like having a blanket wrapped around you; it’s comforting and reassuring.
He opens the door for you without a word, and when you move to sit, he adjusts slightly to make sure you’re comfortable before closing the door behind you. The outside world fades as you settle into the seat, the soft leather adjusting beneath you. The inside smells just like him, which makes you smile.
Over the past two weeks, you’ve found yourself looking for his clean and strong perfume. It’s like your body and soul are already addicted to him, and you’ll die if you can’t have it for a day. And when you don’t, it’s compensated for by the sweet melody of his voice whenever he calls or drops voice notes.
A few seconds later, the driver’s door opens, and Jungkook slides in. You glance at him as he adjusts his jacket slightly before starting the car. The movement is simple and controlled, like everything he does. Even here, nothing about him seems out of place. If anything, it fits him too well.
The engine hums to life, and he rests his hand on the steering wheel before glancing at you.
“You’re good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod.
Your eyes drift around the interior before settling on the world outside through the window. The car slowly starts to glide into the street with ease.
Neither of you speaks for a moment, but the silence isn’t awkward—it never is with him. The city stretches around you as he drives. You rest your elbow lightly against the door, your fingers brushing your lips as you watch the passing streets.
“You don’t use this car much, do you?” you ask after a while.
He glances at you briefly, then back at the road. “Not really,” he replies.
“That’s what I thought,” you murmur, a small smile growing on your face. “I’ve only ever seen you on the bike.”
He chuckles a bit, which makes you turn your head toward him. “On a day-to-day basis, it’s easier with the bike,” he begins to explain. “I avoid the traffic when I go to work, and honestly, I prefer the bike to the car by far.”
He glances at you again, and you hold his gaze.
“It makes sense,” you reply as he focuses back on the road. “But honestly, I didn’t expect you to have a car like this.”
“What did you expect?” he asks with curiosity.
“I don’t know…” you shrug lightly. “Just the bike, I guess.”
A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I do have other sides,” he replies. “I’m not just a biker.”
“I’m starting to notice that.”
Jungkook slows down at a light, the red glow reflecting across his face. You watch him without really meaning to, and his gaze lands on you, neither of you looking away. At first, having him look at you was sometimes unsettling, but it isn’t anymore.
Suddenly, the red glow turns into green, but he doesn’t notice it, or at least, he pretends he doesn’t. Honestly, you could stay like this forever, but I’m sure the cars behind wouldn’t agree.
“You should focus on the road,” you whisper.
He just nods and starts the car, gliding it through the city. Your eyes look out the window once more, watching silently as the world moves around you. In the past few years, you’ve always been the driver, never the passenger, so you have to admit that it’s a bit odd to be in this position tonight.
Nevertheless, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t good.
After a while, you reach your destination, and your mouth drops as one of the fanciest restaurants in town stands before your eyes.
“We’re going to eat here?” you ask, your head turning to look at him.
Jungkook nods, and your entire body freezes. It’s barely possible to get a reservation, unless you want to wait months. And then, this is expensive as hell.
“How did you…?”
He chuckles lightly as a little smile appears on his face.
“Well, I’ve some friends who helped me out,” he replies.
“No,” you shake your head. “We can’t.”
“Why so?” he frowns. “I thought you’d love to come, you mentioned it a couple of times.”
The simple fact that he remembered you speaking about it warms your heart. He listened and remembered, which to you means more than you’ll ever be able to express.
“It’s not about that,” you say. “This is expensive.”
“And?” he replies as if money was the least of his concerns.
For the past two weeks, whenever you’d be out, Jungkook would pay for everything. Since you’ve met him, you haven’t paid a single thing, even if you begged. He always hides behind the excuse that he was the one inviting you, which wasn’t true all the time.
“I already know you,” you tell him. “You won’t let me pay.”
“I invited you, so I should be the one paying for it.”
“Not this time,” you clap back. “And if you don’t let me, I’ll never speak to you ever again.”
He raises an eyebrow while his eyes try to read yours.
“I dare you to,” he replies.
You’re almost offended by his words. “You don’t believe I can?”
“You’ll for sure do it at first to prove me wrong,” he begins explaining. “But you wouldn’t resist too long.”
Now you’re offended that he already knows you. This sounds totally like you. As you’re stubborn as hell, you’ll try to prove him wrong by ignoring him for as long as you can, but then, you’ll stop. And you both know the reason. You’ll miss him.
As you don’t know and don’t want to reply, you beg, “Just let me pay, please.”
“If it’s expensive for me, it is for you too,” he replies instantly, crossing his arms against his chest.
As you’ve also noticed, there’s no arguing with him. If he has decided something, you can do, say, or ask whatever you want; he’ll just do as he planned and won’t flinch at all.
“At least, let me pay for my part?”
Your words sound more like a question than intended.
“Give me a solid reason, then,” he flatly says.
“The expensive part isn’t reason enough?” you ask, and he shakes his head.
You sigh in defeat, knowing damn well, you’ve already lost this fight. He’s going to pay whether you want it or not. It’s honestly very chivalrous, but he shouldn’t have to pay for everything. It’s like his wallet knows no limit.
“I just feel bad, okay?” you then confess. “You always pay for everything, and I don’t want you to throw your money like that.”
At that moment, something entirely soft appears in his eyes, and his shoulders slightly drop down. His hand finds its way to your cheek before his thumb slowly and gently strokes it. His face gets closer, his hot breath caressing your face.
“I throw my money where I want to,” he gently whispers. “And it’s worth it with you.”
Your eyes inevitably stare down at his lips for a hot moment before shifting up to his eyes. Jungkook can’t throw things like that, especially when it makes you feel so special.
“It’s not fair,” you admit out loud. “I should be able to do it too.”
He chuckles, his eyes still glued to your face.
“Keep your money and make good use of it,” he answers.
You shake your head, looking away and pushing his eyes off your face. He makes everything harder. It’s impossible to resist him.
“Why can’t you let me pay?” he sincerely asks.
His question catches you off guard, which makes you stare back at him instantly. You tilt your head, and you can tell by the look on his face that he isn’t used to this. So, it leaves you wondering if people just let him pay without even questioning it.
“We both work our asses off to earn it,” you start explaining. “It feels like I’m exploiting you when I also have the means to pay for everything we do.”
You don’t know much about his job; he’s always so vague about it, as if he wants to avoid speaking about it. All you know is that he works in finance and he’s gotten promoted several times. With those few pieces of information, you deduced that he must be comfortable in life. Now, to what extent, you don’t really know.
“Please don’t feel like that,” he mumbles. “It’s never been my intention.”
Of course, you know it, and you also don’t want him to feel bad about it. You’re simply not used to all of this. Even your ex would let you pay, but things were different back then. He was struggling financially, and it wouldn’t be right to let him pay for everything. But still, it just feels wrong to let Jungkook do it.
“This is my way of expressing my gratitude for spending time with you,” he whispers with the biggest doe eyes.
Damn, how are you supposed to resist him? Those doe eyes always get the best out of you. He gets whatever he wants with that.
“That’s nice of you,” you tell him. “But just let me sometimes pay, okay?”
He nods, and you can’t help but press a soft kiss on his cheek, even though his lips are the spot you’d like to kiss.
“But it’ll start after this dinner,” he replies.
Well, there’s no more arguing left now. You’ve found a middle ground for now, but you’ll for sure remind him of it next time he doesn’t let you pay.
“Okay,” you agree.
The rest of the night just goes well. The conversation flows perfectly between the two of you, and you absolutely enjoy the dinner. The restaurant looks even better than in all the pictures you’ve seen online, and you’re definitely grateful that Jungkook managed to find a table.
Obviously, you let him pay for you, but you had to bite your tongue when you saw the price. Even if you carefully chose a not-too-expensive plate, it was still a lot. Nonetheless, everything was super good, and let’s not even talk about the wine. It was so good that you swore you had an orgasm just with it.
When he drops you off, it feels like the night was too short. You wish you could spend more time with him, but you don’t want to scare him off just yet.
“Thanks for the night,” you tell him once you’re in front of the building’s entrance.
“I should thank you too,” he replies. “It was great.”
You nod, agreeing completely with him. It was really good, and you’d love to do this again.
“We should repeat it,” you say.
“As long as you keep my helmet, we’ll repeat this as much as you want.”
The helmet has become the guarantee that you’ll keep seeing each other, as if it’s an excuse. Somehow, you know that as long as you have it, you have him as well. It’s proof that he trusts you and wants to spend time with you.
A smile grows on your lips, and you swear that at that moment, your body melts. The more you spend time with him, the more you love every single word falling from his pretty lips. It’s like he’s a romantic man without even trying.
“I’ll keep it forever then,” you admit.
Jungkook gets closer, his hand delicately placing a strand of hair behind your ear. This simple gesture sends shivers down your spine. Your eyes get lost in his, and the world seems to disappear around you as his thumb lightly brushes against your cheek, leaving a warmth that spreads through your entire body.
“I’d love nothing more than that,” he whispers, his face moving way too close to yours until you feel his hot breath on your skin.
Your heart hammers faster and faster in your chest, and for a brief moment, nothing else matters. He’s about to kiss you, there’s absolutely no doubt about it, and truthfully, there’s nothing else you want more right now.
“I’ll keep it safe,” you reply, your eyes moving from his eyes to his lips.
His nose brushes against yours, the bare touch making you shiver. When his eyes search yours, you know he’s silently asking for permission. And when you don’t pull away, he simply knows.
Then, he closes the distance.
His lips press against yours with hesitation at first. His hand finds its way to the back of your neck, holding you while he deepens the kiss. The world entirely disappears as his lips move against yours, consuming you completely.
Your body leans into his instinctively, your hands finding his chest to bunch the fabric of his suit jacket beneath your fingers. When his tongue brushes your lower lip, your stomach flips, and you let him in. The sensation is overwhelming and beautiful.
When you break the kiss, you’re both breathless, foreheads resting against each other as your eyes meet once again. Jungkook’s fingers softly caress your face, and his touch is so soft. You close your eyes to savor this moment.
None of you speaks, too lost in the moment to even express what you feel. Jungkook has made you feel so loved in such a short time, and it’s in all the little things he does, like making you keep his helmet. And above all, he’s shown you that he’s there, by your side. That’s worth way more than any word he could ever say.
His lips meet yours once more as if he needs to repeat it to make sure it’s real. And you let him consume you as much as he wants. He can even take your soul if he desires, because you know that he holds your heart in the palm of his hand.
“Miss yn,” Juhee says when you pick up her call.
“Hi to you too, Ju,” you reply.
Last night you slept like a baby, your dreams filled with Jungkook and his sweet lips.
“How on earth am I finding out through my husband that you kissed Jungkook?” she says, trying to sound angry, but she fails miserably.
Her words catch you by absolute surprise. It’s been a couple of hours since it happened, and Yoongi is already aware of it? You haven’t imagined Jungkook being the type to share everything so fast with Yoongi, his best friend.
“Woow, he already knows?” you ask.
“Of course he does. He has like a group chat with Jungkook and Hobi, and they share everything,” she explains. “Like absolutely everything.”
“Oh.”
“BUT I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!” she screams on the other side. “Gosh, I’ve been dying to hear that since Yoongi’s birthday!”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile appearing on your face. You’re also happy that you finally kissed. You’ve been giggling all morning, thinking about it.
“Don’t get too excited,” you reply. “It’s just a kiss.”
“Stop,” she instantly says. “It wasn’t just a kiss, and we all know it.”
She isn’t wrong, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself. The last time that it happened was with a man who broke your hearts months later. You really don’t want to get hurt. However, it’s clear that you’re letting Jungkook in and giving him all the powers to hurt you.
“Look, you never heard this from me, but Jungkook gets as excited as you about whatever is going on between you. Yoongi even told me that he hasn’t seen him this happy in years.”
A little silence falls between you—one that simply allows you to process for a moment what she just told you.
“I know I promised Yoongi I’d never say anything, but I want you to realize that he’s really into you,” she breaks the silence. “I know you’re scared because of what Elliott did to you. But you can’t be scared for the rest of your life. If you want to find someone who loves you, you have to let them in,” she pauses for a hot second. “You have to let Jungkook in.”
It’s easier said than done. You know you’ll always overthink everything, which probably isn’t the right move.
“And if he ever dares to do something wrong, we’ll kick him in the ass!” she adds. “Now, seriously, we’re rooting for you because you both deserve this.”
“Thanks, Juhee,” you tell her.
“Now, tell me everything!” she urges you.
You chuckle before saying, “He told me that as long as I have his helmet, we’ll keep having dates.”
“Oh god, he’s soooo cheesy,” she says. “But damn, that’s so sweet.”
You then explain everything in detail—from when he picked you up to when you kissed. She keeps giggling through it all, and somehow, it fulfills you that your best friend is so invested in your love life. You know that she’ll support you no matter what.
After that, your sister shows up at your place with your favorite niece in the world—well, it’s your only niece—because she has an important appointment with her husband. They’ve been trying for a second baby through IVF. They followed the same route with your niece, as they were aware of their fertility issues.
Your parents are out of town; they went on a trip to Thailand to enjoy some time alone. With your sister, you’ve encouraged them to do it because they’ve spoken about that trip for years. They decided to go there for three weeks and visit as much as they could.
“Don’t be too silly, okay?” your sister tells your niece, Ivy.
“I promise, mommy,” she replies with the sweetest voice.
“Don’t worry, sissy,” you add while you grab your niece in your arms. “She’s always been good with me.”
Ivy wraps her tiny legs around your waist and her arms around your neck. She’s so tiny for a 5-year-old, but so clingy. You absolutely adore this kid with all your soul.
“Yeah, but I just want to make sure she doesn’t drive you crazy,” she retorts.
“If anything, I’m the one who will drive her crazy,” you chuckle.
Your sister smiles, knowing damn right that it’s the truth. Before your niece existed, you were driving your sister crazy since the day you were born.
“Now, go before you arrive late at your appointment,” you urge her to leave.
She presses a kiss on her daughter’s cheek before doing the same to you.
“Have fun!” she says as she disappears into the hallway.
You close the door, put down your niece, and look at her. She brought her coloring book with her, and it might keep her busy for a moment. You’re not sure how long the appointment will take, but if it lasts long, you’re not sure the coloring will be enough to keep her entertained.
“Let’s get to the living room,” you say, grabbing her little backpack. “Want your favorite juice?”
Since you never know when she might show up at your place, you always have her favorite orange juice, which you recently found out is also Jungkook’s.
“Not yet,” she replies.
Once in the living room, she sits down on the floor in front of the coffee table, takes his book and the coloring pencils, and chooses which coloring she’ll do. On your end, you decide to sit on the couch, which is more comfortable than the floor.
“Do you want to watch something in particular?” you ask.
“Can we watch The Little Mermaid?”
You nod and put it on. She’s obsessed with it; luckily for her, you adore it too. Otherwise, you would have grown tired of watching it every time she comes. At some point, your phone buzzes next to you, and your eyes quickly take a glance.
The second you notice it’s a message from Jungkook, the silliest smile stretches on your lips. For a moment, your eyes run over his message. He’s asking if you’re doing something today. Since your niece is sitting between you and the tv, you take a picture to show him what you’re currently doing.
you: taking care of my niece
The three dots instantly appear on your screen.
jungkook 🏍️: lucky her
Your smile grows bigger, you’re sure it’s reaching your ears.
you: you could come after, if you want 😊
Your heart is beating way too fast in your chest. You’d love nothing more than to spend time with him, especially after how last night went. You’d love to kiss him all over again.
jungkook 🏍️: of course
Your face gets hotter because he didn’t even hesitate.
you: and could we go on a ride? i miss it 🫣
jungkook 🏍️: we do whatever you want
There is a little pause before he sends you a second message.
jungkook 🏍️: everything is fine for me
He’s way too nice. You’re scared you’ll tire him of going on rides, which you don’t want because you enjoy it too much.
you: aren’t you tired of me asking that?
“Aunty?” your niece suddenly turns around.
“Yes, princess,” you say while putting your phone aside.
“Which color you think is better for the dress?” she asks.
She shows you all her pencils, and you look between them and the coloring, trying to figure out which will suit best. The green seems instantly like the perfect color. In the background, your phone buzzes, letting you know Jungkook has replied.
“This one,” you show her the green pencil.
She takes the pen without thinking much and starts coloring. You decide to remain on the floor, next to her, so you grab your phone from the couch. When you unlock it, you notice three messages from Jungkook.
jungkook 🏍️: no, i love my bike
jungkook 🏍️: and i like the rides with company
jungkook 🏍️: you can keep asking as much as you want
A smile grows again on your face. You feel like a teenager falling in love with her crush, and damn, you don’t want that feeling to ever disappear.
you: don’t say that, i’ll ask every single day for a ride
Your heart beats crazily as you type your second message.
you: might even ask you to drop me off at work at some point
“Who are you talking to?” Ivy suddenly asks without hesitation.
Your eyes move from the phone to her tiny figure.
“A friend,” you tell her.
“Is your friend cool?” she asks.
“Absolutely,” you reply instantly.
Without even looking, you notice his answer, but you don’t look just yet as you speak with your niece.
“How cool?”
She’s way too curious, but you don’t mind. She’s still young and cute too, so she can ask or say whatever she wants with you.
“Like he has a bike,” you reply.
“Woow,” her little mouth takes the ‘O’ shape as she speaks. “Can I see a picture?”
Well, you don’t have a picture of his bike.
“Wait, let me ask him.”
She nods, and your eyes fall on your chat with Jungkook.
jungkook 🏍️: i’ll do it gladly
Your heart melts right there and then. What have you done to find someone like him? He’s just so nice and sweet with you. You feel like you can ask for the moon, and he’ll hand it to you without even blinking.
you: you’re too nice!
you: my niece is asking for a picture of your bike
you: can you send one?
It takes a couple of minutes before you receive the requested picture. It doesn’t do it justice at all, but it still looks good.
“Here you go, little monster,” you tell her as you show it to her.
“It’s beautiful,” she says with the biggest doe eyes.
She takes her time to look at the picture as if the bike will suddenly come to your living room if she keeps looking. She looks cute, though. Then, a message from Jungkook pops up.
“You have a message, aunty,” she points out.
jungkook 🏍️: i can come if she wants to see it irl
You almost giggle in front of her. Seems like Jungkook would find any excuse to come see you, even using your niece.
“Would you like to see it?” you then ask to Ivy. “Like really see it?”
“I can?” she says as her eyes widen, and a bright smile grows on her face.
“Yes, my friend can show it to you,” you tell her.
“Yes, yes,” she says, completely excited.
She stands up and starts jumping with happiness. It really fills your heart to see her like that, and you’d do anything to make her happy until she becomes old. Even though she’s your sister’s daughter, she’s kind of your baby too.
you: she would absolutely love that
jungkook 🏍️: okay, i’ll be there in 10 minutes
“We can keep watching the movie until he arrives, okay?” you tell her.
She nods before sitting down on the floor next to you. She presses her tiny body against yours, and you wrap your arm around her. This little girl definitely owns your heart.
Exactly ten minutes later, you receive a notification from Jungkook, letting you know that he’s arrived. Somehow, knowing that your niece is going to meet him makes you nervous. Why? Because it’s like letting him in your family. Ivy is definitely going to tell her parents about this, which will lead to your sister asking about this, and then, she’ll definitely want to meet him.
“So, little monster,” you tell her. “My friend’s here, but before going, I have something to give you.”
She nods, and you disappear into your room to pick up the helmet. When you come back, you hand it to her.
“To make it even cooler, I’ll let you borrow my helmet,” you smile at her.
“Thanks, aunty,” she says.
“Now, let’s put that jacket on because it’s too cold outside.”
The two of you get ready. You look like an absolute mess. You weren’t exactly planning on seeing Jungkook, so it’s just you, your large Sabrina Carpenter shirt, your oversized jacket, and your grey sweatpants.
When you’re finally outside, she sees the bike right in front of her. She gets super excited, which is somehow super funny. As he notices you, Jungkook climbs off his bike and takes his helmet off.
“Hi, mister,” Ivy says while extending her hand to him. “I’m Ivy, her niece.”
“Hi Ivy, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking her hand and gently shaking it. “I’m Jungkook.”
His eyes briefly shift to you, a bright smile appearing on his face.
“Heard you wanted to see a bike for real,” he says with a gentle voice as he lowers himself to her level.
“Yes, my aunty even brought her helmet,” she tells him.
“Well, we will only put it when you’re on the bike,” he explains to her.
“I can go on it?” she asks with evident excitement.
“We’re not going to drive, but you can sit on it,” he tells her.
She gets even more excited, and he takes her in his arms before placing her on the bike. She looks so so tiny on it, but it’s honestly one of the cutest things you’ve ever seen. She’s ridiculously adorable like that.
“Now, Ivy’s aunty,” he says to you, “can you please give me your helmet?”
You nod as you give it to him. With all the care in the world, he places it on top of her head. Obviously, it is way too big for her, but she’s absolutely living her biker dream. As you watch them interact, your heart melts completely. You never knew you needed this in your life.
Jungkook climbs behind her at some point and starts the engine. You obviously take the helmet back as it is too heavy and big for her little head. Let’s avoid hurting her while she’s under your watch. Your sister would kill you if something happened.
He leans in slightly, making sure that he doesn’t squish your niece, and one hand settles on the handlebar.
“Watch this,” he says.
He twists the throttle, and the engine roars to life beneath them, the sound low and powerful as it vibrates. Ivy’s eyes widen instantly. With a small smile, Jungkook gently takes her hand and places it on the handlebar.
“Feel that?” he says.
Ivy nods, almost bouncing in place as the vibrations hums under her fingers. This moment unfolding before your eyes is honestly marvelous. Ivy is clearly so happy to be on a bike for the first time in her life, and Jungkook is more than happy to share this moment with her. He clearly loves his bike. No wonder he doesn’t mind going around with you.
“Aunty,” Ivy calls you, “can you take a picture, please?”
You take your phone out of your pocket, placing yourself in front of them. Jungkook holds her tightly in his arms while she still has her hand on the handlebar. They both give you their brightest smiles. You take several pictures, and then they go back to discuss the bike as if you don’t even exist.
Jungkook tells her many things about it, like how and when he bought it, how he started driving bikes, and how much he loves being on it. She begs for a ride, but he categorically refuses, as it is too dangerous, which you emphasize as well. Obviously, she’s a bit disappointed.
Honestly, you don’t know how long you stayed outside, but you know that it’s enough to have your sister back from her appointment.
“What are you—” she freezes the second she sees her daughter on a bike with a stranger.
“Wait,” you tell her before she joins them. “He’s a friend of mine, and she’s completely safe with him. They’ve been at it for god knows how long.”
Your sister stands next to you, looking at Jungkook and Ivy on the bike, who are animatedly talking.
“A friend of yours?” she raises an eyebrow. “Is it the sexy kind of friend?”
Your eyes move from Jungkook and your niece to her. You really can’t believe her. One second ago, she was concerned to see her daughter with a stranger, and now she’s asking if you’re being freaky in bed with that stranger. Unbelievable!
“Don’t!” you tell her. “It’s not like that between us.”
“Well, with a friend like that, I would have already opened my legs,” she chuckles.
You tap her arm, which only makes her laugh even more. “You’re married.”
“But that doesn’t stop me from appreciating a good-looking man when I see one.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed by what she’s saying. If you didn’t know, you’d believe that she doesn’t care about her husband, but that woman is like desperately in love with your brother-in-law. However, you still decide to tell her what’s going on between you and Jungkook. She’ll find it out anyway.
“If you want to know, this is a friend I’ve been seeing for like two weeks and whom I kissed last night,” you tell her.
She gasps at your words. “You’re telling me that my baby sis is finally giving a chance to a guy?”
“Exactly,” you reply.
“Well, this day couldn’t be going any better!” she says with a big smile on her face.
“You got good news from this appointment?” you ask.
“We’ll start next week our first round,” she explains, and you instantly hug her.
You’re so excited for her. You know how much it means to her to have a baby, and knowing that the whole process will start next week makes you incredibly happy for her. You can’t wait to have another niece or nephew.
Your sister then decides to join her daughter and Jungkook to check up on them. Ivy couldn’t be happier than she is right now.
“Little lady,” she says when she’s next to them. “I leave you with your aunt, and you decide to trick a young man into showing you his bike?”
She laughs with her entire soul, which is an absolutely adorable sound, by the way.
“He’s aunty’s friend,” she explains to her mom. “He agreed to show it to me.”
For the first time since he showed up, his gaze lands on you, and damn, your heart stops beating instantly. The softness in his eyes and the way they glow get the best out of you. He doesn’t need to say it out loud, but you know that this moment fills him with joy. And man, you’re so glad your niece asked for this.
Your sister introduces herself to him, and for a little moment, they discuss. She’s completely charmed by him, just like her daughter. You look at everything from the outside and simply let them discuss. You wouldn’t want to influence the opinions they’ll have of each other.
Somehow, it scares you that he got to meet your sister while you’re still figuring things out between you. But at the same time, it reassures you, because if she believes he’s an asshole, you’ll know where you stand.
He and Ivy end up leaving the bike, and you join them so you can say goodbye to your sister and your niece. When your sister hugs you, she says, “He’s definitely a keeper, so don’t mess things up.”
You hold her even tighter and close your eyes for a second. Knowing that she appreciates him fills your heart.
“Now, let’s go home, Ivy,” your sister says to her daughter.
The little girl waves at you as they disappear into the street. Her car must be parked somewhere, hopefully not too far, so they don’t have to walk too much.
“So, where do you want to go?” Jungkook asks when you’re alone.
“Like now?” you ask with surprise, and he simply nods. “Well, I don’t have the most appropriate clothes.”
“We can stay at your place if you want,” he suggests.
Honestly, you don’t really know what you want to do right now. Staying at your place isn’t what you want to do at this precise moment, but you also look like an absolute mess, so you don’t really know if it’s a good idea to even go somewhere.
“Maybe we can go to the little coffee shop you talked about the other day,” you suggest. “But I’ll just need to change before.”
His hand takes yours, pushing you closer to him. His breath instantly falls on your face as you both get lost in each other’s gaze.
“No need to change,” he whispers. “You look good.”
“But—”
Before you can even add something, his lips find yours for a soft and gentle kiss. It catches you a bit off guard at first, but you reciprocate quite quickly. Your hands find their way to his neck, pulling him closer while his hands rest on your back. If this is how it’s going to be every time you see him, well, you already can’t wait for next time.
When you break the kiss, you look at him with the silliest smile on your face. These moments with him bring so much peace and happiness to your heart. You definitely don’t ever want to let him go, especially since there’s still much more to discover about him.
“You can’t do that to shut me up,” you gently hit his chest.
“I wanted to do it the second you appeared with your niece,” he confesses.
“Still, it’s not an excuse,” you tell him.
“I—”
And you do as he did to you: you kiss him to shut him up. He instantly kisses you back with a passion that could be overwhelming if it wasn’t welcomed. Your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck, as his fingers stroke your back with such gentleness.
“Let’s go to the coffee shop,” he whispers when you break apart. “Before we keep kissing over and over.” And just like that, you climb on his bike and disappear into the street.
As time goes on, you’ve been spending more and more time with him. You’re basically inseparable; he’s always showing up at your doorstep and texting you constantly. Going around on his bike has kind of been your love language.
Even though you’ve been having a lot of fun, it’s obvious that it’s becoming very serious between you. You find yourself waiting for his messages and craving to see him constantly. You absolutely love being with him.
So far, you haven’t put a label on whatever is going on, and except for little kisses here and there, nothing physical has happened, which, being honest, makes you happy. You don’t want to turn this relationship into something sexual.
Why?
It’s simple. You want Jungkook to appreciate you for who you are and not for the sex. On top of that, you haven’t been intimate with any men since your last breakup four years ago, so it kind of frightens you to get freaky with him.
He hasn’t initiated or pushed you to do anything like that, and honestly, you couldn’t be more thankful for that. You’re not sure how you would have reacted if he ever did something.
Jungkook has also been nothing but a gentleman. He sometimes accepts letting you pay, even though you can tell it’s hard for him, which always makes you laugh in some way. However, he’ll compensate in another way, like for example, he’ll buy a bouquet of flowers, or he’ll show up at your place with ramen or your favourite chocolates.
Juhee, Hyunri, and your sister have been encouraging you a lot and giving you tons of advice. It’s been helpful whenever you’d feel like it’s too much, because you’re not used to this anymore.
There are some moments where you question everything. You know you shouldn’t because he’s been nothing but a gentleman, giving you the space you need while still being around. A lot of times, you find yourself doubting it all.
“Should you give him a chance? Should you keep doing this? Should you let him fully in?” Those are some of the questions that sometimes cross your mind.
Also, you’ve been used to being on your own and dealing with everything by yourself. And now, you have someone ready to help you whenever you need it. It’s new, and sometimes, you feel like you’re sharing too much. You feel like he might run away, but he never does. He just helps you.
Even compared to your ex, Jungkook is way more present and supportive. Your ex was definitely there and trying to help you out, but it wasn’t the same. You know you can count on Jungkook no matter what, whereas with your ex, you’d sometimes hesitate to share things with him.
And honestly, back then, you would have preferred having Jungkook because you were dealing with a best friend who was dying. Your ex was there even though he wasn't, and you found out later that he was getting closer to the girl he had always had a crush on, which, honestly, is a jerky move.
This weekend, Jungkook invited you to spend it together in a little house out of the city. Obviously, you hesitated at first, but following many conversations with Juhee, Hyunri, and your sister, you agreed to it.
Honestly, it’s such a beautiful place. It’s surrounded by nature, with other small cabins nearby. You don’t know how he found this place, but you’re happy he brought you with him.
“I heard this is the perfect spot to watch the stars,” he tells you Friday night, right after you arrive.
You inevitably look up at the sky, and the stars shine so bright. The sky is absolutely clear, which is hard to see when you live in a city. A smile stretches across your face.
“We could lie down and watch them together, if you want,” he suggests.
“Absolutely!” you enthusiastically reply.
Jungkook grabs a blanket from the inside before placing it on the floor. You both stand next to each other, your eyes focused on the bright sky. You can’t remember the last time you properly looked up there; it feels like you never have the time to slow down and enjoy life.
The two of you remain in silence for a little while, simply enjoying each other's company. Silences with him are never heavy or awkward. They actually are peaceful, as if they’re mending something inside both your hearts.
“I was married once,” he breaks the silence, his eyes still fixed on the sky.
You also don’t look at him, but deep down, you’re happy that he’s mentioning it to you. Never once have you said or commented on anything about it, preferring to wait for him to speak about it.
“Was it a long time ago?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.
“The divorce was settled a year ago,” he replies. “We were together for eight years at the time of the divorce, and we had celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary a couple of months before.”
They were together for a long time, and it’s saddening to know that his marriage didn’t work out. It must be painful to realize that the person you wanted to spend your life with isn’t the one.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” you gently say. “What happened?”
“Time happened,” he replies before pausing for a while. “After a while, we started to grow apart. We were barely spending time together, and whenever we were, it just didn’t feel right. We would always find excuses to avoid each other.”
Picturing a Jungkook avoiding someone he cares for seems absolutely strange. Since you’ve known him, he’s been finding every possible excuse to spend time with you. However, you know that the version of him that you know isn’t the one that he was back then. If anything, the past version of him created this new one.
“My world also changed a lot at some point, and I guess that over time, she stopped accepting it,” he adds. The way his voice breaks at the end makes your heart ache, so your fingers find his to intertwine them, trying to reassure him in some way.
“On top of that, my family never appreciated her. My dad always told me that she was too superficial, so in the end, it didn’t help.”
Jungkook has barely ever talked about his family. You’ve noticed that he never speaks about his mom, which leaves you wondering whether she was ever a part of his life. His father is mentioned here and there, and you can tell he truly loves him. You also know that he has a younger brother.
“Love wasn’t there anymore, and even if it was the right thing to do, it still hurt,” he confesses.
Your eyes drift from the stars to his face. It’s plainly evident that it still affects him, but you guess it’s the aftermath of a divorce. If you get married in the first place, it’s because you loved the person so deeply. A divorce can feel like a failure.
“I really thought she was the one,” he says, his eyes meeting yours now.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” you tell him.
Even though you wouldn’t be here with him today if he was still with her, it’s still sad.
“I’m too,” he confesses. “But I don’t regret it.” Your eyebrows furrow, not sure what he means. “A divorce isn’t easy, don’t get me wrong, but when it’s not working, there’s no point in staying. We weren’t happy, and I don’t regret choosing to end things.” Jungkook pauses for a moment, his gaze lost on yours. “And I wouldn’t have met you.”
Your heart is seconds away from bursting with joy, and your hand squeezes his. For sure, if his marriage had worked, you wouldn’t have met him, or maybe you would have met him with his ex-wife.
“And believe me, getting to know you has been the best thing to ever happen in my life,” he adds.
The confession hits you harder than expected. Heat instantly rushes to your face, and for a second, you genuinely don’t know what to do with yourself. How are you even supposed to respond to something like that? Nothing you could possibly say would ever sound as meaningful as his words.
“You can’t say things like that,” you shily say.
“I’m just stating the truth,” he says. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
Inevitably, you hide yourself in the crook of his neck, which makes him giggle, and his arms wrap around your body, holding you as tightly as possible. His strong scent invades your nostrils, and god, he smells so good. Jungkook chuckles, his chest vibrating against your body.
“Why are you hiding?” he asks as his hand runs through your hair.
“Because when you say things like that,” you mumble against his neck, “I don’t know what to do with them.”
“You don’t have to do anything with them,” he adds softly as his fingers keep running through your hair. Jungkook shifts just enough to press a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “I’m not saying it so you’ll give me something back,” he continues. “I just want you to know.”
Your arms wrap around him, and you simply hold him tight against you. What have you done to deserve someone like him? He’s just so patient with you; it’s simply unbelievable.
“I’m also happy I got to meet you,” you mumble against his neck. “Everything seems easier with you.” Revealing your feelings isn’t something you’re comfortable with, but since he’s been nothing but adorable with you, it just feels right to let him know what you think, too.
“Things don’t have to be complicated,” he says quietly. “At least, not with me.” He pauses for a second. “I really like you, and that’s enough for me.” His thumb brushes lightly against your side. “And if you let me, I’ll keep being there,” he adds.
This simple moment fills your heart in so many ways. A little silence settles between you, and you close your eyes, focusing on the way his heart beats against his chest. As expected, he sounds very calm and relaxed, which also appeases you.
“I really want to be there for you,” he continues after a while.
“You already are,” you mindabsentedly reply.
“Not like that,” he says, his head shaking lightly. “More like being part of your life for as long as you allow me to be.”
Suddenly, the thought of him implying he wants to date you makes your heart rate increase crazily. Are you truly ready to have a boyfriend? You’re not really sure, but the answer almost feels evident. You want him to be your boyfriend—more than anything else in the world.
Jungkook chuckles before saying, “I might sound old school, but what I’m trying to say is that I’d love nothing more than to have you as my girlfriend.”
The biggest smile appears on your face as you squeeze him in your embrace. Even if he probably didn’t plan it, having him say those words under a sky full of stars and in such a cute setting makes this all incredibly romantic.
You push back a bit to be able to see him, your smile never fading away, and the second he sees you, the most glowy smile stretches on his lips. He’s very handsome.
“Do I get to call you my boyfriend?” you sillily ask.
“Absolutely! It’s even a requirement,” he replies.
“Then, you can have me as your girlfriend.”
Jungkook doesn’t wait even a second more before crashing his lips against yours. Tonight is by far the best night of your life.
The days went by with Jungkook by your side, as your boyfriend. It has been the most exciting and nervous thing you’ve ever experienced. The patience he has with you never seems to stop surprising you.
However, today isn’t honestly one of the greatest days. The day was rather long, work was too intense, and you worked overtime. You barely took a lunch break, but you didn’t have much choice if you wanted to finish your tasks for the day. To say you’re tired is an understatement. You haven’t told Jungkook anything yet, but sincerely, you don’t think you need to. It will just bother him, you’re sure of it. What’s the point of even telling him everything went wrong today? It’s best if you just rest and stay by yourself tonight.
The doorbell echoes in your apartment, and you take a deep breath. Who could it be? Who’s about to ruin your night?
When you see him on the interphone, your heart squeezes instantly. You directly regret thinking or being even mad about him bothering you tonight. Without hesitation, you let him in, and seconds later, he’s standing in front of you. A small smile crosses his face when he sees you, but you don’t really smile back at him.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” you tell him.
His expression shifts slightly. “I was nearby and thought I’d come to see you.”
It’s like he understands something is off because he doesn’t even try to kiss you. Blaming him about it doesn’t sound like the right move at this precise moment, especially since you don’t know if you should or not.
“Is it okay?” he then asks. “I could leave if you want me to.”
“No, it’s fine,” you answer quickly.
You step aside to let him in, your shoulder brushing lightly against his as he passes. Usually, he would head directly to the living room, but he doesn’t tonight. He just waits behind you, his helmet in his hand, as you close the door. His eyes don’t ever leave your body, and you can tell that he knows something’s off, but he won’t ask if you don’t say it.
“I just arrived from work,” you tell him.
A small silence settles between you. For the first time, you can see hesitation in his eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do. This surprises you as he’s always confident and knows what to do.
“Long day?” he breaks the silence.
You shrug, moving past him to move to the kitchen and putting some space between you. “It was just work,” you say as you open the fridge without really looking inside.
Behind you, you hear his footsteps as he tries to close the distance between you.
“I could’ve picked you up,” he says as he reaches the kitchen.
“I didn’t need that,” you reply.
Your words come out sharper than you meant. Behind you, you hear the faint shift of his weight, but he doesn’t move closer. Not once do you look around to see him. It’s like you need to avoid seeing his gaze on you, as if you’ll completely break down if you do.
“I didn’t say you did,” he replies calmly.
You close the fridge door before exhaling and running a hand through your hair. Then, you turn around to face him. The sight in front of you almost breaks your heart. He’s standing there, looking almost defeated and absolutely powerless.
“I know, I just…” You stop, frustrated with yourself. “You don’t have to show up all the time.”
His brows pull together slightly. “I just wanted to see you,” he says with a shaky and weak voice.
And that just breaks you. You just hurt him, not on purpose, but you still did it. Now, you feel stupid and selfish.
“I’m not used to that,” you admit, quieter now.
“To what?”
Jungkook doesn’t attempt to get closer. He stays where he is and simply looks at you, quietly studying you from afar.
“This,” you gesture vaguely between you. “I’m not used to having someone just be there,” you pause for a second. “All the time.”
Jungkook nods slowly, but doesn’t react straight away to your words. Knowing him, you’d say that his silence allows him to carefully think about his next words. And that comforts you. Right now, you don’t need someone blaming you for how you feel.
“I’m not trying to be everywhere,” he finally says. “I just don’t want to be absent either.”
You look at him, your chest tightening slightly. “I’ve been fine on my own,” you then say.
“I know,” he answers.
Over the past four months, you haven’t hidden how you’ve been by yourself for the past four years. And having him by your side isn’t always easy. Your peace has been thrown upside down since Yoongi’s birthday. Obviously, you’re grateful to have met him, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t destabilize you. You need time to adjust to all of this.
“I’m not trying to take that away from you.”
“Then, why does it feel like you are?” you ask, before you can even stop yourself.
If you hadn’t hurt him so far, you’re sure you did now. And you wouldn’t blame him if he leaves you right now. He has all the rights to. You’re not being fair to him, but it’s just how you feel. It makes you feel like you’re doomed to remain single for the rest of your life.
After a moment, he takes a hesitant step toward you. He still keeps his distance, and you just watch him move. A part of you wishes he’d get closer, but another part would like him to remain right where he is.
“I think,” he says slowly. “You’re just not used to someone staying.”
Your throat tightens, the tears seconds away to run down your face, and you look away—too coward to face him.
“That’s not—”
You can’t finish the sentence, because he’s not entirely wrong. Jungkook takes another step in your direction, but you still don’t look at him. You can now feel his presence right in front of you, and you really want to look at him, but you’re internally struggling.
“I don’t need you to need me,” he says quietly. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Jungkook doesn’t try to touch you. He just stays in front of you, reminding you for the millionth time that he’s here. He’s here for you, even when you struggle with it.
“I just want to be part of your life,” he adds. “At your pace.”
Something in your chest shifts, and you finally glance back at him. He’s really close, but you don’t do anything to push him away.
“I don’t know how to do that,” you admit.
“I know,” he says. “And it’s okay.”
There’s no judgment or pressure. There’s just understanding, as if whatever you just said makes sense to him. Then, slowly, you close the small distance between the two of you and nestle your face against his chest. He doesn’t hesitate a second before wrapping his strong arms around you, holding you as tight as possible. You close your eyes, hearing the melody of his heartbeat.
You don’t know how to deal with all of this; it’s frightening at times, but knowing that he’ll never pressure you is enough comfort for you. He’s not forcing you to embrace this all. He’s letting you do things at your own pace, which, let’s be honest, is a completely new concept to you. Even with your ex, it was totally different.
And that’s how you fall more in love with Jungkook.
You don’t fall for his sweet and beautiful words. You fall for the way he shows you over and over again that he isn’t going anywhere.
Being intimate physically with Jungkook is something you know will happen eventually. You’ve been officially together for two months now, and god, he’s hot as hell. There are moments when you just want to jump on him and let him ruin you in every way he wants. However, it also scares you.
You haven’t been intimate with a man for over four years; you’re not even sure you know how to have sex anymore. Sometimes, you still touch yourself, but it’s not the same. You’re on your own when you do it. Here, it’ll be with Jungkook. When you ovulate, all those frightening thoughts are thrown out of the window. And you know he has picked it up, but he holds back as the perfect gentleman that he is. Knowing him, you’d say that he’s waiting for it to happen naturally.
Tonight, you’re staying at his place. He prepared a fantastic dinner, as usual—he has turned into your own personal chef by now—and now, you’re both in his bed, simply discussing. You’re nuzzled together, your head on his chest, while he holds you close.
“In two weeks, it’s my little brother’s birthday,” he tells you, as his fingers trace circles on your back.
A smile spreads across your face as he mentions his brother. Lately, he has started to speak more about his sibling, mentioning how it has been to grow up with him and how much he cares about him. But other than that, he doesn’t speak much about his family, and honestly, if it’s a matter that triggers him, pressuring him to open up to you seems absolutely wrong, especially considering how he treats you.
“He’s planning a party?” you ask with curiosity.
“Yeah, dad planned something,” he tells you. “He always does for our birthdays.”
“That’s nice,” you tell him.
His fingers stop on your back, and you instantly understand that it might not sound ‘nice’ to him. “I wouldn’t say nice, but yeah, he does it…”
He pauses for a moment, his hand wrapping against your side as if he’s trying to hold onto something.
“He’s mostly trying to compensate for his absence,” he confesses after a while. Again, you don’t say anything, so he can reveal what feels comfortable for him.
“My dad was never there for us,” he continues. “Wasn’t there for any achievement, not even for our graduations. It was actually a miracle that he made it to my wedding.” Your heart clutches at the thought of a small Jungkook abandoned by his dad. “I know he went through tough things; it wasn’t easy for him as well.” he pauses for a bit. “The good side was that my mom compensated for him. She was present, taking care of my brother and me, and loving us equally.”
You push your body a bit back to look at him properly. Jungkook’s eyes are glued to the ceiling, but you can tell that sadness fills them. He swallows thickly, and your hand softly caresses his arms, trying to give him enough comfort to keep going. When his eyes finally meet yours, it just shatters you.
“Hyejo wasn’t my mom,” he confesses. “My mom died when I was two, and my dad remarried two years later. She loved me from the moment she saw me and treated me as hers since the very beginning,” a small smile appears on his face. “I don’t remember anything from before her, but to me, she’s always been there. And nothing changed after my brother’s birth.”
Jungkook places a strand of hair behind your ear, as if he needs to distract himself for a second.
“She was my mom even if she hadn’t given birth to me,” he tells you. “And there were moments in my life when I felt like I was betraying my birth mom.”
Imagining a young Jungkook blaming himself for loving another woman other than his mom is heart-crushing.
“Hyejo was my dad and my mom altogether, and I always held her dearly in my heart,” he continues. “She even walked me down the aisle for my wedding.”
A sincere smile appears on his face, and you can tell the memory is very special to him.
“Unfortunately, five years ago, she passed away,” he reveals.
So, she’s the person he lost. Losing his mother must have destroyed him on so many levels. If you barely managed to get yourself together after Lucas’s death, you can’t even imagine how he felt.
“I’m so sorry,” you mumble.
Jungkook simply nods and runs a finger down your face. It mustn’t be easy for him to reveal all of this, and you feel beyond grateful that he felt comfortable enough to share it with you.
“After that, my dad stopped being absent.”
Now that you know this, you understand why Jungkook is the way he is. Growing up with a dad who’s never there impacts the person you grow into. It’s like he promised himself that he’d never be absent. With you, he makes his presence known under any circumstances.
“It’s good to have him now, but it’ll never erase the past,” he admits. “My brother is still struggling with that and always throws it at this face.”
“And you?” you ask with concern.
“I forgave him years ago,” he replies. “I grew up as an angry teenager and hated him with all my soul, but it was destroying me more than anything else. So, I made my peace with it.”
That totally sounds like him. The opposite would have surprised you.
“My brother is trying to change,” he continues. “The death of our mother changed his perception of our dad, but there’s still a lot of anger inside him.”
“It takes a lot of courage to forgive someone who hurt us deeply,” you tell him.
“I know,” he says. “It’s a lot of work.”
Out of all the people, he’s the one who knows that best.
“I hope he’ll find the same strength to do it,” you reply.
“I hope so, too,” he says.
A little silence settles between you. You simply look at each other, body against body, his fingers touching your face with a tenderness that can mend any soul.
“I truly admire you for that,” you break the silence.
“Thanks, love,” he replies.
Jungkook leans down and presses the softest kiss on your lips. Your hands wrap around his neck, pushing him even closer. The confession makes you feel so many things for him right now—pride, admiration, and even more love.
His past could have turned him into an awful man, but it did the opposite. It made him a man with a beautiful soul. It gave him the strength to be different from his dad. It gave him the strength to give love back despite everything.
And man, that does something to your heart.
You feel even more grateful to have met him. Life has been blessing you with the gentlest of souls, and you definitely don’t intend on letting him go, even if it might be hard for you at times. This is all new to you, but he stays despite it all.
His arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer, just enough to close the space left between you. Your legs tangle slightly under the sheets, your body naturally settling against his. Not once do you stop kissing. It actually deepens more and more.
There’s no doubt where this is going.
Your hands find his shirt to push it off his head and run through his firm body. A little moan escapes his lips, but you swallow it with your mouth. Your top follows the same path when he strips it off your body. The moment the cold air brushes against your bare chest, shivers run down your body.
Those shivers suddenly bring you down, and you realize what is about to happen.
“Wait,” you say against his lips, pushing him away.
“Something’s wrong?” he asks.
You swallow hard, thoughts flying through your mind. Jungkook’s gaze is full of concern, and for a brief moment, you look away.
“It’s just—”
The words seem stuck in your throat.
“Sorry,” you shake your head.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “Talk to me.”
The way he looks at you and the way his fingers brush against your skin encourage you to open up to him.
“I’m scared,” you admit. “I haven’t done anything in over four years.”
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to.”
Right now, your entire body craves him with a desperation you can’t quite name. You want this more than anything else, but your mind keeps reminding you that you haven’t done anything in ages.
“I want to,” your voice is barely audible. “I really do.” You pause for a bit, trying to gather all your thoughts and express out loud what is going on inside your head. “Nobody has seen me naked, and…” you’re not even sure you’ll be able to continue, but you have to. “I’m scared you find me ugly.”
Jungkook exhales shakily and presses his forehead against yours. “There is nothing ugly about you, love,” he softly says. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers together. “You’re absolutely drop-dead gorgeous,” he continues. “There’s not a single part of you that's ugly.”
“How can you know that?” you whisper. “You’ve never seen me bare.”
He takes a deep breath, his free hand running through your cheeks.
“When you told me about losing your friend, that felt more intimate to me than seeing you naked,” he tells you. “Being vulnerable with someone means more to me than anything physical could ever.”
How does he always find the right words? It’s like he holds some sort of superpower. That must be it. Jungkook brings your intertwined fingers to his lips, kissing your knuckles, your wrist, and your forearm. The wet kisses ease you a bit, but nothing can ever compare to what he just said.
“Okay,” you say after a while.
“Okay?” he repeats, trying to be sure that you really and fully agree.
You nod before saying, “I really want this.”
“I’ll be slow and careful, but let me know if I overstep,” he tells you.
At first, he moves as if he might break you. His hands run over your body slowly and carefully, as if he’s trying to map your body with his palms. They never linger too long in one place. Your gaze follows his every movement, while his is completely focused on your body.
The remaining clothes slowly disappear from both your bodies, and seeing him naked as well helps you feel at ease. It still isn’t easy, and every time your body tenses, he stops and kisses you gently. There’s nothing but love in every single movement of his body.
Slowly, but surely, his fingers find your wet core, which makes you arch and moan at the same time. The feeling of his cold fingers running through your folds sends shivers down your spine and ignites a fire from within you.
When he slips a finger inside you, pleasure instantly takes over your body. This is new, and it feels so so good. Jungkook takes it easy, giving you all the time to adjust before he adds a second finger.
Your eyes flutter shut to enjoy this moment, but you can feel his gaze on you. The mere thought that this was scaring you minutes ago seems unbelievable. Jungkook leans down to press a kiss on your lips.
“Let me know if it’s too much,” he mumbles against your lips when he slips a third finger.
After so many years without experiencing this kind of exquisite torture, you come as soon as his third finger is inside you. It seems too quick, but god, nobody fingered you in years. And Jungkook does it really well.
However, he doesn’t stop; he keeps fingering you through your orgasm. Your moans get louder and louder, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep up with this if he keeps going. The stretch of his fingers feels marvelous. It’s like you’re transported into another dimension. When the second orgasm rips through you seconds later, he takes his fingers out and licks them. That sight alone could make you come because he looks like pure sin.
“Are you okay?” he asks as he takes his fingers off his mouth. As you’re unable to speak, you simply nod. “Good,” he smiles. “Do you want to keep going?”
His concern melts your heart. This is actually so sweet.
“I do,” you reply.
Jungkook stands up, disappears into his bathroom, and comes back with a box of condoms. As he walks toward the bed, he takes one and tears it from the foil. He kneels before you, settling between your opened legs.
“I haven’t done this in years,” he chuckles as he struggles to put the condom on.
“Do you need help?” you ask.
“No,” he shakes his head as he focuses on the task.
After a couple of seconds, he succeeds in placing it and presses his body against yours. His hand grabs his cock to rub it against your folds.
“If it’s too much, you stop me, okay?” he asks. “At any moment.”
You nod. He clearly gives a lot of importance to consent, which is great. Having sex for the first time with your boyfriend is kind of an intense and special moment. It’s better to turn it into a good memory, filled with respect for each other.
When he finally slides inside you, the stretch almost feels too overwhelming. You’ve read and heard that after going several years without sex, your hole goes back to how it was when you were a virgin. You wouldn’t believe any of it, but now that you’re back at it, you couldn’t agree more. It’s like you’re losing your virginity all over again.
Jungkook halts once he’s fully inside, giving you all the time in the world to adjust. Honestly, you’re grateful he does it because you really need it. Your body needs to learn all over again to have a cock inside. His body leans over yours, his lips pressing a gentle kiss on your cheek. Your arms wrap around his back, and you can’t help but hide your face in his neck. Jungkook holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.
“Let me know when I can move,” he whispers against your ear.
“Just give me a bit more time,” you tell him.
Your boyfriend remains still for as long as you need him to, and after a couple of seconds, you give him the green light. When his hips start rocking slowly, you’re instantly brought to heaven. His body brings pleasure to you like never before.
Everything feels so intense and consuming. You’re not sure if it’s due to the fact that you haven’t had sex in years, but it’s so so good. Jungkook is nothing but a sweetheart. His movements are slow, careful, and full of love. His lips kiss every part of your face and neck, bringing you to your orgasm through love. This is so intimate; you’ve never experienced sex like this.
The act itself is kind of dirty with all the body fluids leaking everywhere, the sweat all over your body, and the moans, but the way he does it turns it into a vulnerable moment. It’s not about sex. It’s about the love and attraction you both feel for each other.
When you cum, your entire body spasms violently while his name falls from your lips. The pleasure overwhelms you in a wonderful way, and you wish this would never stop. Your walls squeeze him so strongly that it pushes him to his release, coming inside the condom.
His body falls on top of yours while you both try to catch your breaths. When he pulls out to remove the condom and throw it, you feel empty and cold. Seconds later, he comes back to bed, wrapping your body against yours after he pushes the sheets on your bodies. One of his hands strokes your back in slow circles while the other remains in your lower back, pushing you as close as possible.
With all the emotions running through you, you fall asleep in the comfort of his warmth around you.
Two weeks later, it is rumored that the CEO of the company you work for is selling it to a worldwide group. People around you have been talking about it nonstop. Honestly, you haven’t paid much attention to them. As long as you keep your job, you don’t care, and it’s also just rumors; it doesn’t mean it’s true.
Jungkook told you yesterday he’ll have an important meeting today, and you promised him you’d spend the night together, eating junk food and watching some silly romcom to decompress. You’re planning to meet at your place, because it’ll be closer for him.
Your eyes look down at the phone in your hands before you send a quick message to your boyfriend, suggesting to order pizzas for tonight. Before he arrives at your place, you want to have everything ready, so he just has to come and sit down. You really want to take care of him, just like he does with you. He deserves it all.
A reply comes quite quickly, where he tells you that it sounds good. You’re already planning to order from his favourite place right before you leave, so you can pick it up on your way home. Hopefully, the pizzas will still be warm when he joins you.
jungkook 🏍️: can’t wait to be with you ❤️
This makes you smile, and it just warms your heart. Why does he always have to be so cute? Instantly, you let him know that you miss him so much. If you could, you’d bring him to your work, so you never have to be apart.
“Have you heard the news?” your coworker Ana asks as she appears next to you.
Instantly, you put your phone down to look at her. Her desk is right next to yours, and she’s always so into all the gossip going around. She’s the one who told you about those rumors concerning the sale.
“What news?” you frown.
“Well, the head of that worldwide group is coming today to meet the CEO,” she explains.
Honestly, you want to tell her that you don’t care, but that would be rude. And you also don’t want her to stop to tell you all the juicy gossip from the office.
“It’s official then?” you ask her.
“It doesn’t confirm if he’s selling, but looks like he is,” she adds.
“Hopefully, we won’t lose our jobs,” you reply, which makes her chuckle.
“Yeah, I hope so too,” she says.
If that guy is money-oriented, for sure, a lot of restructuring plans and other bullshit like that will happen. You truly hope it won’t happen because you love this job, and it’d be a shame to lose it, but this goes beyond yourself.
“But I heard that he’s kind of hot,” she adds. “If you weren’t so enamored with your Gukkie, you could have tried to seduce him and convince him not to fire us.”
You can’t help but laugh while shaking your head. This woman always pulls things like that, as if it was absolutely normal. “You really think I would have managed to?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re hot and sexy too,” she replies.
“But he’s like the head of a group,” you tell her. “Those kinds of guys are unapproachable.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” she mumbles in defeat. “It’s best you keep your man.”
By far, you’d prefer Jungkook to some guy who probably thinks the world belongs to him. Usually, those men believe they’re better than anyone else, which is the total opposite of your boyfriend. She goes back to her desk, and you look down again at your phone. There’s a notification—a message from Jungkook where he says that you’ll be together soon.
The only thought of being with him after work thrills you more than anything else. For sure, you’ll mention this whole story to him, because there’s no way you’ll be hiding that Ana tried to convince you to seduce some random wealthy stranger. You can’t wait to see his face.
A couple of minutes later, there’s a lot of agitation around you, and your coworkers whisper things. Inevitably, you look behind you, trying to understand what’s going on. You try to find Ana, but she’s nowhere to be seen, which is annoying because you’re sure she’d know what is going on.
Then, you look to your right. For a moment, it feels like you’re hallucinating. A man is walking in the hallways who strikingly looks like Jungkook. Your heartbeat instantly increases, your eyes follow him, and your mind goes completely blank. It’s him. There’s no doubt.
He’s wearing his lucky suit—the one he only uses for important meetings. You’ve seen him wearing it a couple of times. His hair is pushed the exact same way as in the picture he sent you an hour ago. What is he doing here? And why is everyone looking at him?
“Who is he?” you ask another coworker.
“It’s Jeon Jungkook,” John tells you.
Your heart drops instantly. Yeah, now, you’re a hundred percent sure that it’s him—your boyfriend.
“He’s the head of the Jeon Group and CEO of Jeon Pharmaceuticals,” he continues. “Apparently, he wants to buy the company.”
Your eyes move back to the man walking in the hallway. Never once does he look around; he’s just focused on following the man in front of him. Honestly, you don’t know how to react to the bomb that John just dropped on you.
How on earth are you finding out only now that Jungkook is the son of Jeon Minju, one of the most influential and wealthiest men on earth?
synopsis: jungkook is the last person you want to be stuck with on your holiday—irritating, smug, painfully attractive—but the universe keeps placing him in your path: at the airport, on the plane, in the room next door.
𓇼 pairing: jeon jungkook x reader
𓇼 genre/warning: e2l, strangers-to-lovers, modern au, travel romance, airport meet-cute, forced proximity, one-bed energy (hotel room next door edition), mutual pining, tension, sun-drenched holiday vibes, light bickering, flirting, slowburn-but-fast-burn, smut (18+), consensual intimacy, alcohol mention, soft feelings, mild angst
𓇼 dedication note: the amazing trip to morocco that has inspired this fic
𓇼 total word count: 45k~
𓇼 status: completed
𓇼 playlist 𓇼 main masterlist
｡⋆𓇼 chapters
teaser ｡⋆
day one ｡⋆
day two ｡⋆
day three ｡⋆
day four ｡⋆
day five ｡⋆
day six ｡⋆
day seven ｡⋆
read on wattpad
review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here
synopsis: jeon jungkook is a clean freak who can’t stand dust, noise or the way you chew. you’re a mess who forgets bin days, leaves dirty laundry everywhere and hates the smell of his chicken breast smoothie. you argue in passing, coexist at a distance, and survive each other only because your schedules never overlap—he works night shifts as a nurse, and you’re an underpaid teacher. until one night, they do. he comes home early. you don’t expect him to. he walks into the living room, catching you with a wine glass, panties on the floor and a vibrator between your legs.
ᥫ᭡ pairing: nurse!jeon jungkook x teacher!female reader
ᥫ᭡ genre/warnings: roommates au, e2l, control-freak x messy roommate, explicit sexual content, 18+ mdni, smut with plot, masturbation, oral sex, rough sex (with protection, doggy), dom/sub vibes, choking, spanking, degradation/dirty talk, exhibitionism, non-verbal consent
ᥫ᭡ wc: 5.5k
As usual, the blender starts at 06:02am exactly.
After nearly two years, your brain has learnt the exact pitch. It’s the smell that does you in. The scent of warm, boiled chicken breast being murdered into paste. It creeps under your door, sits on your tongue, turns your stomach before you’ve even sat up.
You lie there for three long seconds, staring at the ceiling—trying to decide if you can call in sick from poultry-related trauma. You can’t.
You shove the duvet off, hair sticking to your cheek, and swing your legs out of bed with the grace of a woman dragged out of sleep against her will. The floor is cold. Your eyes burn. Your throat feels dry because you’ve slept too little and lived too loudly the day before.
The blender keeps going. You stomp to your door and yank it open. The kitchen lights are on, bright and rude. He’s there, exactly where he always is at this hour.
Jeon Jungkook stands at the counter in his nurse uniform—scrubs that fit him offensively well, sleeves pushed up far enough that you catch the dark ink creeping along his forearm. A glimpse of metal at his mouth when he turns his head. He doesn’t look tired. The blender is under one of his hands. The other hand holds the bottle.
You stare at him for half a second too long. It’s annoying—genuinely irritating—how good he looks. A man who knows exactly what he’s doing with his hands. A man anyone would happily ruin their life over if he wasn’t also the kind of person who wipes down the counter after pouring a glass of water.
He glances up, clocking your presence. “You’re up,” he says, flat. “Your laundry is still in the dryer.”
“Am I up?” you reply, voice hoarse, purposely ignoring the last part. “I thought I was hallucinating the sound of a blender trying to break through the wall.”
His eyes flick to the doorway, then to your face. He gives you that look—the one people give to badly behaved children. It annoys you because you’re a grown woman who pays rent and buys her own groceries.
“It’s been there since yesterday,” he says, again.
“Aaand?” You drag the word out. “It’s also a weekday. People are asleep. Some of us have jobs that don’t involve terrorising innocent kitchen appliances.”
He looks down at the blender and he turns it off. Silence drops—unfortunately, the smell remains.
You walk into the kitchen with purpose, which is mostly to stop yourself from walking into the wall. The tiled floor is cold under your feet. Your eyes flick to the blender jug without permission—it’s pale, dense and horrifying.
“Ew,” you say, disgusted.
He lifts one shoulder. “Protein.”
You reach past him for the bread because you’re already up and you’re already suffering, so you might as well suffer with toast. You shove a slice in the toaster, wait for it to pop, and take a bite.
His gaze snaps to your mouth. “Can you not chew like that?” he says, already reaching for a cloth.
You pause mid-chew, stare at him, then chew louder, with your mouth open.
Jungkook wipes the counter in front of you like you’re shedding crumbs by breathing. He catches a few that fall and wipes again immediately, as if the crumbs have personally offended him.
“It’s disgusting,” he adds. “And you’re eating before you’ve even brushed your teeth.”
“Oh my God,” you say, still chewing.
He doesn’t stop—Jungkook never stops once he starts. “All that bacteria just goes straight into your stomach.”
You swallow. “Fuck off.”
His jaw shifts. “Brush your teeth.”
You take another bite. “You’re such a heter,” you mutter, passing him for the bathroom. You make sure your shoulder bumps his on the way through, just to be petty.
He doesn’t move, not even flinch. But his gaze drops to where your shoulder touches his chest for a fraction of a second, like you’ve burnt him. “Don’t touch me,” he says.
You stop in the doorway of the bathroom and look back at him. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you only let Dettol touch you.”
His jaw shifts. “You’re not funny.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my class. They think I’m a stand-up comedian. Mostly because they’re laughing at me, but still.”
He picks up his bottle and starts rinsing the blender jug. “You left a bowl in the sink last night,” he says again without looking at you.
It’s way too early for his nagging. You stare at the back of his head. “I left a bowl in the sink because I ate dinner like a normal person and then I fell asleep. At night. Like someone who doesn’t work the hours of a vampire.”
Jungkook turns around and looks you up and down once—a quick assessment that manages to make your skin tighten. “Make sure you leave the bathroom window open and turn the fan on.”
You pause. “Why?”
“Steam,” he says, clipped. “Mould.”
You laugh once, without humour, and shut the bathroom door hard enough that the frame rattles.
When you’re finally ready for the day and tugging your shoes on by the front door—bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand— his bedroom door opens.
Jungkook steps out shirtless, towel looped around his neck and another in his hands. His hair falls in wet waves on his forehead. Water glistens on his chest. His tattoos are more visible like this—dark lines disappearing over his ribs, into places you don’t get to see.
You hate your body for noticing. For scanning. For imagining.
He looks at you and his gaze lands on your shoes first, then your bag, then your face. “Bins,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
He nods towards the door with his chin. “It’s bin day. Take them down when you get back.”
“You love bossing me around,” you say.
“You love needing it.”
You swallow your comeback because you don’t have time for a full-scale war before work. You also don’t have time to stare at his chest, so you don’t—making sure your eyes behave.
“Fine,” you say. “I’ll do it.”
“Good.” One beat. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Don’t forget.”
You grab your keys tighter. “I won’t.” You step out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you.
Today has been miserable. You get home with your keys already digging into your palm, jaw tight from clenching it all day.
The flat greets you the way it always does when Jungkook’s been through it—offensively spotless. No shoes by the door unless they’re lined up. No mug in the sink. Not even crumbs. The air even smells clean—the scent of the very specific disinfectant he likes.
You toe your heels off and kick the door shut behind you.
Your eyes land on the hallway mirror. You look like you’ve been chewed up by fifteen-year-olds and spat back out again. Hair escaping your clip, mascara smudged at the edges, shoulders slumped. Your throat hurts from talking over classroom noise. Your head is full of the headmaster’s voice—targets, targets, targets—like you can single-handedly bully kids into better grades with worksheets and hope.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Another email. Another deadline. You don’t even check it. You exhale and drop your bag to the floor.
The bins.
He told you this morning. Bin day. Don’t forget.
You glance at the kitchen corner where the bin lives. “I won’t forget,” you mutter out loud.
You walk past it anyway, telling yourself you’ll do it in a minute—after you’ve had a shower; after your shoulders stop feeling like they’re made of stone; after you remember the feeling of being in your own skin.
You strip your clothes off in the bathroom, step under the water, and let it hit you hot. It loosens something in you—not the stress, not really, but the surface of it. The day washes down the drain in pieces: students arguing over calculators, the constant low anxiety of exams, the headmaster’s tight smile that never reaches his eyes.
You press your forehead to the tiles and breathe.
When you step out, towel around your hair, your body feels lighter and your mind feels emptier. Better. Not fixed—just quieter.
You don’t even bother with dinner. The thought of standing in the kitchen, choosing food, chewing, washing up—it all feels like too much effort for a Friday night you’ve earned through sheer survival.
So you go for the only thing that doesn’t ask questions. Wine.
You pull the red from the cupboard and pour yourself a glass that’s a little too generous. No one’s here to comment on the amount. No one’s here to tell you to use a coaster. No one’s here to wipe the counter behind you the second you turn away.
Jungkook’s meant to be on nights. He’ll come in at stupid o’clock, make his disgusting smoothie, glare at the state of the world, and go to sleep. That’s the arrangement. Your lives brushing past each other like strangers.
You take the wine to the sofa, drop down, and turn on Netflix. Something mindless with attractive people and predictable problems. You let it play while you drink and let your body unclench.
Halfway through the film, two characters start kissing. Hungry kissing—hands in hair, mouth open, bodies grinding against one another.
You swallow a mouthful of wine and stare at the screen for a second longer than you mean to. It’s been—what? Eight months since you got laid? Maybe longer. You can’t even remember the last time someone else’s hands were on you with intent.
You shift on the sofa. Your damp hair sticks to the back of your neck. Your skin feels too awake all of a sudden. That restless, irritated ache that sits low in your belly and refuses to be ignored.
“Tired, stressed, horny,” you mutter. “Amazing.”
You take another sip, bigger this time, as if you can drown the feeling. It doesn’t work.
Your gaze flicks to the hallway. To your bedroom. To the drawer you keep things in—the drawer you pretend isn’t important until nights like this, when your body starts demanding attention.
You stand up.
The film keeps playing behind you, the actors going at each other. You walk to your room, open the drawer, and pull out your vibrator. You pause with it in your hand, considering your bed. The problem is the wine. The glass you left on the coffee table—also the fact that you don’t want to get up again once you start and you’re already too keyed up to be patient with yourself.
You go back to the living room.
You stand there for a moment, looking at the sofa, then at the glass, then at the corridor again. As if Jungkook might suddenly appear and scold you for existing.
He won’t. He’s at work.
You sit.
Leather under your thighs. Cool at first, then warming. You set the vibrator on the cushion beside you and take a gulp of wine that burns a little on the way down.
“Who cares,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone. “It’s my sofa too.”
Your fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. You slide them down, step out, and kick them away without thinking. They land near the coffee table, a soft pile of fabric that would make Jungkook visibly twitch if he saw it.
You sink back into the sofa, the leather sticking slightly to your bare thighs, and grab the vibrator. The wine's buzzing in your veins, making everything feel a little sharper and dirtier.
You flick the toy on—the low hum is too loud in the flat’s quiet—and spread your legs to press it against your clit. The first vibration jolts through you, and you bite your lip to stifle the gasp that wants to escape.
Fuck, it's been too long.
You don’t have patience for slow. Your hips shift instinctively as you circle the tip over your folds. You close your eyes, letting your head fall back. That's when your mind betrays you.
Jeon Jungkook. That asshole with that metal at his mouth and his infuriating control.
You imagine him in the kitchen, not blending his stupid chicken breast shake, but pinning you against the counter instead. His hands—those dry-knuckled, impatient hands that scrub everything spotless—digging hard enough to bruise. Him yanking your panties down your hips.
"You can’t do anything clean, can you?" he'd growl, voice annoyed as usual.
But he'd be hard against you, pressing between your arse cheeks as he bends you forward. Your face pushed against the cold countertop.
You slide the vibrator lower, pushing it inside yourself with an easy glide. Your breath hitches. Fuck, it feels good, but it's not enough—not like how it would feel to have him shoving your thighs apart with his knee.
One of his hands fisting your hair to keep you arched, the other undoing his pants. You can almost feel the length of his cock before he thrusts in with no warning—stretching you open until you're gasping, gripping around him like you'd never let go.
"Fuck, Jungkook," you whisper, the name slipping out desperate as you pump the vibrator faster.
The buzz is sending shocks up your spine. Your free hand claws at the throw blanket, bunching it up, while your hips buck against the toy.
Jungkook’s relentless. His balls are slapping against your clit with every snap of his hips. His tattooed arm wraps around your waist, fingers finding your clit and rubbing circles that make your legs shake.
"Take it," he’d mutter, breath hot against your neck, his ring scraping your shoulder as he bites. "You want this, don't you? Acting like a brat all day just to get fucked like one."
The image burns behind your eyelids—his sweat-slick chest pressed to your back. The wet sounds of skin on skin. The way your pussy would grip him until he's groaning your name—losing that perfect composure.
Your toes curl into the carpet, thighs trembling as the pressure builds in your core. The sofa is pooling with your juices. You're so close, chasing the edge where everything explodes.
“Jungkook—” you moan, louder.
One more thrust in your mind—him slamming home, grinding deep—and you're there, body arching as the orgasm rushes up—
A throat clears.
Your eyes snap open. The vibrator is still buried inside you, still buzzing as your hand freezes. Your heart slams against your ribs; your breath caught in a choke.
He's there. In the doorway. Jungkook, in his scrubs, staring like he's walked into a nightmare. His jaw is clenched. His grip tightens on the strap of his bag.
You yank the toy out with a gasp, thighs snapping shut. You scramble for the blanket, face burning. "Oh my God," you stammer, voice wrecked. "It's not what it looks—fuck. Okay. It is exactly what it looks like."
He doesn't say a word. Just swallows hard, gaze dropping for a split second to your discarded panties on the floor, then away. He turns on his heel, and you can then hear his door slamming.
You want to die.
You’ve pulled on a fresh pair of panties. The cotton is soft against your still-sensitive skin. Your shirt is tugged down over your hips—trying to erase the last fifteen minutes.
You have cleaned up the living room's crime scene. The vibrator is safely stashed back in your drawer. You’ve wiped down the sofa and the throw blanket has been haphazardly folded. Your abandoned wine glass is rinsed and set in the drainer.
But none of it helps settle the pulse under your collarbone.
You stare at his closed door from the hallway, chewing the inside of your cheek until it stings.
This is stupid. You should let it blow over, pretend it never happened. You’re adults who share a flat and nothing else.
But the silence from his room feels heavier than usual—and you know that if you don't deal with it now, it'll turn worse. Awkward glances in the kitchen, him wiping surfaces longer than necessary, you slamming cabinets louder than needed.
Your bare feet pad across the cool floorboards. You knock twice and immediately regret it. There are shuffling sounds from inside, muffled footsteps, and then the door cracks open.
He's changed out of his scrubs into loose sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair's pushed off his forehead, and his eyes are narrowed at you with that familiar edge.
"What?" he says, voice clipped.
You shift your weight, arms crossing over your chest—as if that might shield you from the humiliation crawling up your back. "Can I come in?"
He doesn't move at first, just stares. Then he steps aside with a sigh, letting the door swing wider.
You slip past him, careful not to brush against his arm, and the room envelops you. It’s clean, almost sterile, with the faint scent of his body wash hanging in the air. It’s crisp and minty and it makes your stomach twist.
It's the first time you've been in here, and it's exactly what you'd expect—bed made with military precision, sheets tucked tight, no stray clothes on the floor. His desk is against the far wall, a sleek gaming setup taking up most of it—dual monitors, a keyboard with RGB lights turned off, headset draped over the back of the chair. There is a framed anatomical diagram on the wall that screams nurse vibes.
No clutter, no personality spilling out—just freakishly controlled, like him.
You head straight for the swivel chair at the desk. You spin it around to face him and drop into it, knees pressed together because the bed feels too intimate. He closes the door behind you with a soft click, leaning against it—arms folded, waiting.
The room feels smaller with both of you in it, the air thicker.
"Look," you start, forcing your voice steady even though your throat's dry, "about what you walked in on—it's not what you think. I mean, it is, but—I didn't know you'd be home early. You’re always on nights and never early—and—and yeah."
“They moved my shift,” he says. “Roster change. I got sent home.”
“And you didn’t think to text?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.” He pushes off the door and takes a step closer. His expression remains unchanged—brows furrowed, mouth a flat line. "I also didn't ask for an explanation."
"Yeah, well, I'm giving one anyway," you snap back, heat rising in your cheeks. "Because now it's awkward as hell—and I don't want you thinking I'm some kind of exhibitionist or whatever. It was private—you— you weren't even supposed to see that."
"Private in the living room?" He scoffs, voice low. He moves to stand by the bed, hands shoved in his pockets, posture rigid.
You roll your eyes, swiveling the chair a little to face him fully. "Oh, come on. Like you've never done anything in a common area. The flat was empty—or I thought it was—annd don't act like you're scandalised—we're adults, okay?"
"I'm not scandalised," he mutters, gaze flicking to the floor, then back to you. "Just—didn't expect it."
That’s when your eyes drop, unintentionally, to his sweatpants.
The fabric's loose, but not loose enough to hide the outline straining against it. The unmistakable bulge that's impossible to ignore now that you've seen it. Your breath catches, a fresh wave of heat, mixing with the embarrassment.
"Are you horny?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be—your gaze lifting to his face.
He goes still and doesn't answer. But you see it—the flush creeping up his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His hands flex in his pockets, and he shifts his stance, trying to adjust without admitting it.
You lean forward in the chair, heart hammering. "Is it because of me?"
Silence stretches, until you can't take it.
"If it's my fault—I can take care of it. For you."
His eyes snap to yours, but he doesn't move nor speak.
You push the chair forward with your feet, wheels rolling silently across the floor until you're right in front of him. You slide off the seat, knees hitting the rug with a soft thud, and look up at him.
You wait for the rejection, the bickering—the get out or you're annoying or any of the usual barbs that fly between you.
He doesn't say a word. Just stares down—breath coming a little faster, chest rising and falling under his shirt.
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for him, palms pressing against the bulge. He’s hard under your touch. Jungkook hisses—a sharp intake of breath that sounds more like pain than anything, but his hips twitch forward, betraying him.
Still no words.
You hook your fingers into the waistband, tugging it down slowly. His sweatpants part, and you slide your hand inside. You palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. The fabric's damp at the tip, and he groans low in his throat.
His head tips back against the wall with a thunk, eyes squeezing shut. His cock is throbbing, veins pulsing as you stroke him firmly.
"Jungkook," you murmur, your own arousal building again.
You’re slick between your thighs despite the fresh panties. You tug his boxers down, and he springs out—thick, flushed, the head glistening with precum beading at the slit.
You lean in, wrapping your lips around the tip, tongue swirling to taste the salt of him.
He gasps. One of his hands comes to grip the edge of the desk beside him, knuckles whitening.
You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You bob slowly at first, then faster. His free hand tangles in your hair—fingers flexing as you suck him harder, your hand stroking what doesn't fit. His thighs tense under your other palm, and you feel his cock swell on your tongue—twitching with every flick against the underside.
His breathing turns ragged, hips starting to buck into your mouth. Sweat beads on his neck, trickling under his shirt. His face is flushed, lips parted as soft curses slip out—too low to catch fully.
You pull back when you feel him throb harder, close to the edge. Your lips are shiny and swollen as you look up at him, meeting his gaze.
"Jungkook, do you have any condoms?"
For a beat, he just stares—pupils are blown wide, chest heaving.: “I really can’t stand you,” he says eventually.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
“You’re a mess,” he spits. “You make everything worse.”
“And you still want me,” you say, breathing hard.
That’s all it takes for his hand to shoot out, fingers wrapping around your throat as he hauls you up, crashing his mouth against yours. The kiss is all teeth and tongue. His piercing is cool against your lip as he devours you, tasting himself on your tongue.
His other arm bands around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His cock is still hard and pressing into your stomach, smearing saliva and precum on your shirt. The grip on your throat sends sparks down your spine. Your nipples harden against his chest through the fabric.
You taste the faint mint from his toothpaste mixed with the salt of his skin. Your fingers dig into his shirt, bunching the fabric as you kiss him back.
He breaks the kiss first, pulling back to look at you. His breath comes out in hot puffs against your lips. "You sure about this?" he asks, like he's forcing the words out past whatever restraint he's clinging to.
His grip on your throat loosens, fingers trailing down to your collarbone instead.
You nod, swallowing hard, your own voice shaky but certain. "Yeah. I want this. Do you?"
"Fuck yes," he mutters.
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you murmur back.
“Good,” he says, mouth on your neck, “I don’t need you to.”
His hands slide under your shirt, draggin up your sides and tugging the fabric. You lift your arms without thinking and let him peel your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your bare skin and makes your nipples pebble instantly. He tosses the shirt aside, gaze dropping to your chest.
“Try not to sanitise me,” you say, with a giggle.
“Try not to ruin my sheets,” he grins back.
You grab the hem of his t-shirt and he helps, shrugging it off in one fluid motion. His chest is right there, inked skin glistening faintly from earlier sweat. You run your palms over his pecs, down to his abs. He's built solid, every ridge and dip warm and firm.
"What are you even made out of?" you breathe—half-laughing, half-awed, as your fingers trace the lines of his tattoos.
He smirks, but it's strained, like he's barely holding back. "Condoms," he says, nodding towards the nightstand. "In the drawer."
“You plan for everything, huh?” you say, glancing over.
But he beats you to it and leans across the bed to pull one out. “I didn’t plan you,” he says, foil packet crinkling in his hand.
While he's distracted, you slip out of your panties again, kicking them off. You then tug at his sweatpants and boxers, shoving them down to his thighs.
He kicks his pants the rest of the way off, tears the packet open with his teeth, and rolls the condom on with quick movements.
You watch, thighs pressing together, your clit throbbing. "Come here," he says, grabbing your hips and guiding you onto the bed.
“You’re always telling me what to do,” you say, already crawling back.
“And you always do the apposite,” he answers, not letting you get far. He flips you onto your stomach with surprising ease, his hands strong on your waist. "Like this.”.
You’re positioned on all fours, knees sinking into the mattress. You arch your back instinctively, ass up, and feel the bed dip as he kneels behind you.
"Ready?" he asks. His hand slides between your thighs to check, fingers slipping through your folds. He finds you soaked. He groans at the feel, circling your clit once. It makes you jolt. "Shit, you're so wet."
"Yeah, well, you interrupted me earlier," you shoot back, voice muffled against the sheets.
He chuckles, then lines the blunt head of his cock to your entrance. "I won’t let it happen again."
He pushes in—inch by inch, stretching you open with a burn that's equal parts pain and pleasure. You gasp and he stills for a second, letting you adjust.
His breath is ragged behind you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good—so tight," he grits out, like he's fighting not to move yet.
You feel him throbbing inside you, every twitch sending sparks up your spine. "Move," you beg, pushing against him. "Please."
He does—pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in hard; the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.
You moan as he sets a rhythm, his cock dragging against that spot inside you with every stroke. You’re flooded by the stretch, the friction, the way your walls clench around him.
His hands roam. One slides up your back to press between your shoulder blades, keeping you arched. The other gripps your ass. Then his palm comes down—spanking you once.
Heat blooms across your skin, and you yelp. But it's good, the pain twists into pleasure.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
You don’t get the chance to answer before he does it again, harder this time.
"Yes—fuck, yes," you gasp, rocking back to meet his thrusts.
He's pounding into you and you feel him filling you up. His sweat drips onto your back as he leans over you slightly, breath hot on your neck.
"I’m so close—to cumming," your voice breaks.
The edge is right there, building with each drag of his cock.
"Not yet," he growls, and suddenly stops.
He pulls out completely, leaving you empty and whining at the loss. “I hate you,” you say.
“No, you don’t,” he says.
Before you can respond, his hands are on you, flipping you onto your back. The mattress bounces as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and slides back in—deeper this time, the angle hitting new places that make stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Oh fuck," you cry out, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails digging into his biceps.
He's looming over you, face inches from yours. His eyes are locked on your face as he starts thrusting again, each one punching the air from your lungs. His cock is buried to the hilt, grinding against your cervix.
"I want to see you while I fuck you," he says, one hand bracing beside your head, the other holding your thighs in place. "I want to watch you when you cum on my cock."
Tears prick your eyes—from the pleasure crashing over you in waves.
He notices, thumb brushing under your eye. He flicks a tear away gently, his expression softening for a split second amid the heat. "Is this too much?" he checks, slowing his pace for a fraction.
"No—don't stop," you plead, shaking your head, hips lifting to urge him on. "I feel so good, Jungkook."
He nods and picks up speed again. His face twists with effort—brows furrowed, lips parted as soft grunts escape him. Sweat slicks his forehead, dripping down his temple. You feel the tension in his thighs, the way his abs clench with every movement.
"I’m close," he warns. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so hard."
You cum first—vision blurring as it rips through you. Your whole body shakes, walls fluttering around him in pulses that make you sob his name. "Jungkook—yes, fuck—"
He follows right after, burying himself with a groan. He spills into the condom, cock twitching inside you. His arms tremble, holding himself up—but then he collapses forward, weight pressing you into the mattress.
The both of you are panting, slick with sweat.
He pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it towards the trash. He then flops back on top of you, face buried in your neck. His heart hammers against your chest in time with yours.
For a moment, it's just that—exhausted quiet, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, feeling the muscles relax under your touch.
Then sis hand slides down your body, fingers finding your clit—still sensitive and swollen—and he starts circling it slowly.
You jolt, a whimper escaping as fresh sparks ignite. "Jungkook—what—"
"I’m not done yet," he mumbles against your skin.
He lifts his head to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, tongue flicking over the peak. His other hand squeezes your breast, thumb rolling the nipple until it's hard and aching. He takes turns switching sides, mouth latching onto each bud.
Pleasure builds again, faster this time, your body oversensitive from the first orgasm.
His fingers on your clit speed up, pressing firmer. He leaves marks—sucking hickeys across your breasts, red blooms that sting under his lips. His hand knead the soft flesh like he can't get enough.
"Jungkook, I—oh fuck," you gasp, hips bucking into his hand, tears threatening again from the overload.
It's too much, too good, every nerve ending lit up.
"Come on," he urges, voice muffled against your skin, lifting his head to watch your face again. "Come one more time for me."
You shatter—body convulsing, a cry tearing from your throat as the second orgasm hits. It’s harder than the first, leaving you trembling.
It's the best you've ever had, waves crashing endlessly, your mind blanking out.
He slows his hand, easing you down. Jungkook then pulls you close as you both catch your breath.
"Holy shit," you whisper finally.
He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah."
“Don’t get smug,” you mumble, leaning into to him.
“Don’t get sentimental,” he answers immediately, wrapping around you.
You lie there for what feels like hours, bodies slick and spent. The room smells of sex and sweat and that faint body wash scent from his skin. Your limbs feel heavy, every muscle humming from the aftershocks of what has to be the best fucking of your life.
His arm is draped over your waist, chest rising and falling against your side—and for the first time since you met him, the silence between you isn't loaded with tension. It's comfortable, almost.
"Did you take the bins down?" he asks suddenly, still panting a little. His voice muffled against your shoulder.
You blink, brain sluggish, then it hits you—the morning reminder, the one you'd blown off in your post-work haze. "Oh, shit, I forgot."
Jungkook scoffs. The familiar edge creeps back in, but there's a playful glint in his eyes as he shifts. He rolls on top of you again, pinning you with his weight. His elbows bracket your head.
"Now, what shall I do to get rid of those bad habits of yours?"
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a/n: hi hi hi my loves!! thank you so much for reading. just a note that i wrote this in one night while ovulating (like this is prolly the freakiest thing i have written in my life), and i've been trying to edit it for the past two days, but i'm in the middle of a raging migraine (day 3 of it now yayyy for me), and when i get my migraines, i genuinely cannot function. so ik there are a lot of spelling/grammar errors, and i will try to go back and edit again when the migraine decides it had enough. also, smut is not my best genre, so please do leave me feedback/constructive criticism on where i can improve! (but also pls be kind i have a soft heart). as usual, your comments, reblogs and asks mean so much to me and really fuel my fingers! much love <3
SUMMARY. Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do girls. As the first son of the Jeon family, heir to more money than God, he’s spent thirty years being perfectly fine without them. He doesn’t have any desire to engage in frivolous rendezvouses like his friends, nor enter a situationship that will distract him from the title of CEO. That is, until his best friends drag him to a strip club for his birthday and a girl in red lingerie falls right into his lap, and well… there goes that ideology.
pairing. stripper!oc x virgin!jungkook
word count. 17.2k
warnings/genre. inexperienced!koo, virgin!koo, soft dom!oc, stripper!oc, everyone’s horny, male masturbation, public dry humping???, lap dancing, mention of slutting yourself out obv, jk steals oc’s panties, strip teasing, virginity loss, oral (m receiving), titty fucking, jungkook cums a LOT help, cowgirl
note. hi my pookietons! this was supposed to be out weeks ago but unfortunately my fiancé’s mom passed away and it has been a rough time in the household. luckily, things are starting to get back to normal and i’m trying to stay optimistic about things. writing has always been my outlet for my emotions, and having this community during this time has been such a blessing. i’m so grateful for you all and hope you enjoy this diabolical read 🤍
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banner creds | masterlist
Jeon Jungkook has been seeing black for the past 25 minutes, and quite frankly, he’s fed up with the situation.
He was under the impression that his birthday meant doing what he wanted to do, not getting kidnapped by his six closest friends and getting tossed into a Cadillac for a ‘big birthday surprise.’ If Jungkook wanted a surprise for his birthday, he would’ve just asked his assistant to book out a restaurant of her choosing. Or done absolutely nothing, which was the original plan and, truthfully, a perfect one.
It’s not that Jungkook necessarily despises his birthday—although it is tough to celebrate happily when your family is as strict and prim as his— but more that he doesn’t see the point in it. He would much rather spend money on himself, perhaps buying the new car he had his eye on. Not squeezed in the back of his car with his best friends.
They often lived a different lifestyle than he did. His friends worked hard as most people did in his circle, but they played harder. Weekends were swallowed up by clubs and bottle service and girls whose names they’d forgotten by Monday morning.
Jungkook had never quite understood the appeal. He had a company to inherit, a father who tracked his every move like a hawk and exactly zero interest in giving the man more ammunition. Jeon Wooshik had made it abundantly clear that the CEO seat came with conditions, and Jungkook had spent the better part of his twenties checking every box that his father had almost run out of things to criticize.
So, really, this whole thing is juvenile. Immature and foolish. But considering he’s blindfolded and handcuffed, he doesn’t really have a say in the matter.
“Kook! We’re hereeee,” He recognizes Kim Seokjin’s voice, his hyung. Jin was four years his senior and had the emotional maturity to show for it exactly none of the time. He was Namjoon’s best friend first, then Jungkook’s by proximity, and somewhere along the way had appointed himself a permanent fixture in Jungkook’s life whether he wanted him there or not.
Kim Namjoon, though, he trusted unconditionally despite his laidback lifestyle. If Namjoon had signed off on this, there was a reason. Jungkook just wished the reason didn’t involve handcuffs.
“Alright, jokes fucking over. Can you take off this shit?” Jungkook asks flatly.
He hears the car door open, and warm hands are guiding him out of the vehicle, little giggles and snickers filling the cool night air.
“He speaks!” Taehyung cackles, arguably the most immature of them all. (Well, between him and Park Jimin.)
“What a grump,” Jimin adds, and he sounds closer, so Jungkook assumes it’s his soft hands leading him somewhere. “Look at his cutie little face.”
“Feels kinda unfair I can’t see any of your faces.”
“Jungkookie,” Someone squeezes his cheek, and he has to fight the urge to punch the air.
“Ugh, his pout is so cute, Jin-hyung,” Taehyung giggles again, and Jungkook sighs. He can already tell Taehyung is drunk, since he only laughs in such a way when Jimin is shamelessly flirting with him or he’s drunk too much soju.
“I’m going to kill all of you—“
A hand finally yanks the blindfold off his face, as another undoes the handcuffs digging into his wrists. Jungkook blinks into the dark, vision swimming. When his eyes finally do adjust, six faces grin back at him, varying degrees of giddiness painted across their expressions.
Jungkook surveys his surroundings as quickly as he can. He’s in a parking lot… it’s packed to the brim with all kinds of cars, none that are as expensive as his. Bass pounds in his eardrum from the nearby entrance, but when he cranes his neck to peer inside, he sees nothingness. A void that leaves everything up to the imagination.
The front door is musty, worn down and guarded by one man who’s watching something on his phone. “Paradise” in flashing letters hangs off the top, flickering as though someone had forgotten to pay the bill. And underneath it, “Adult Club.”
Fucking hell.
“What,” he says slowly, “is that.”
“Birthday surprise,” Jin jokes, and the boys giggle like schoolgirls.
Jungkook looks over at Namjoon. Namjoon, to his credit, has the decency to look sheepish. His friends know him better than anyone. People don’t gain access to Jeon Jungkook easily—and yet they failed him so astonishingly he can’t even believe it. This goes against everything he stands for. Clubs of any kind are forbidden. Especially strip clubs, where any lone person can recognize him and report back to his father.
As if Namjoon can smell the rebuttal on his lips, he rushes to argue, “It’s fun in there.”
Jungkook snorts, “I doubt that. If my dad finds out, I’m fucking toast.”
“Your dad’s not gonna find out,” Jimin rolls his eyes. “We’ve been here like once a month and you’re not allowed to take pictures. Out of respect for the girls or some shit.”
A shiver rolls down Jungkook’s back at the word girls. The thought of them annoys him already. “This is stupid, you know? I’m not even into this kind of shit.”
“Yeah, we know,” Taehyung slaps his shoulder, trying to steer him toward the entrance, but Jungkook is fortunately bulkier than him. “You’re the king of the land, Jeon Jungkook, refuses to touch a woman because he’s better than all of them.”
“Fuck off, Tae.”
“Dude, come on. Live a little. It’s your birthday and your boys want to treat you to a night of fun. How could you say no to that?” Jin begs, and Jungkook comes up with a plethora of ways he could say no to this.
Jungkook sighs, staring at the door. On the other side of it are things he cannot get involved in. He has a board meeting Monday morning he hasn’t prepped for yet. A pristine reputation that took the better part of a decade to build. He has a father who has Google alerts set for his name.
He really, really should not be here.
Jungkook turns to face the six faces staring back at him expectantly.
“It’s your birthday,” Namjoon tries feebly one more time.
“That is not the argument you think it is—”
“Jungkook-ah.” Jin steps forward and puts both hands on his shoulders. “We love you. We have always loved you. And it is because we love you that we are telling you, as a united front, that you are going inside that door if we have to carry you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Jungkook retorts, and all Jin does is raise his brows back at him. Well played.
The silence that follows is not reassuring.
Jungkook realizes this is one negotiation he is not going to win. Sighing, he shakes his head. “I fucking hate you guys. One hour tops, and I’m out of there.”
“That’s a good boy,” Jin pats his shoulder like he’s a dog and pushes him in the direction of the entrance. “Let’s get on in there.”
The bouncer at the front seems to finally recognize he has a job when the seven men walk up, beady eyes scanning their faces before they land on Namjoon in the back. “Joon!” he calls out, reaching over to give him a firm handshake, nearly knocking Jungkook flat on the floor. Of course Namjoon knows the fucking bouncer—he’s probably reached some kind of reward status at this club. He doesn’t bother checking anyone’s IDs, just lets all of them sidle in.
Jungkook steps through the door and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Goddamnit.
Red lights flash over the club floor, speakers blasting some RnB song he doesn’t recognize. The place is enormous, larger than he thought, with a main stage dominating the room. Two strippers dance on the two poles adjacent to each other, men perched on chairs with wads of cash stuffed in their hands. Booths line the walls, packed with men in varying states of losing their minds. All decked in suits, loosened collars and flushed faces and eyes tracking the room with an attention they probably never give their actual jobs. Private tables closer to the stage are worse. Bottles everywhere, dollar bills everywhere.
The worst part of it all, is how many girls there are. Girls in lingerie, silk and lace that barely constitute fabric, moving through the room in what feels like slow motion. Every single one of them moves like she knows exactly where she’s going and exactly what’s going to happen when she gets there.
“Kim Namjoon?” A hostess approaches in normal clothes—thank god—and he steps forward to speak to her, all hushed whispers and suspicious glances back at Jungkook. Enough for him to know that this night will be anything but casual. Jungkook expects he’ll have an ass in his face in twenty minutes tops.
She smiles at all of them, clapping her hands to get their attention. “Hi boys! Welcome to Paradise. I know some of you have been here before, so I’ll keep it brief. No pictures or videos allowed. If we catch you, you’re banned for life. ATMs are lined up against the wall, so make sure you take out cash beforehand so you don’t have to get up.”
She pauses to ensure everyone understands, eyes lingering on Jungkook, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not rocket science. It’s a strip club. “I heard we’re celebrating a birthday tonight, so Joon has booked a private table for you all. Dancers will rotate by your table and you better make them feel like the shit, because they are. Got it?”
All boys nod in unison. Jungkook side-eyes Jimin and Tae, and already, they have heart eyes forming. It’s despicable. The hostess leads them through the room, weaving between tables without looking, heels silent on the floor, not once glancing back to check if they’re following. The private table is tucked a few feet off the main floor, with curved booth seating, a pole attached from the ceiling hanging right in front of them, and a clear sightline to the stage. Bottles are already sweating on ice in the center like they’d been expecting them (which Jungkook is certain is the work of his hyungs).
The boys pile in with zero decorum. Hoseok immediately reaches for a bottle, passing out glasses to pour up shots of soju and whiskey. Jungkook allows him to be overserved, because there’s no other scenario in which he gets through this night without being wasted. He doesn’t know where to look, which means he keeps looking everywhere. He’s not stupid — he knows objectively that women are attractive. He’s always known that. It’s just that knowing it theoretically and sitting in a room saturated with it are two very different things.
Jeon Jungkook’s disinterest in women never stemmed from anything other than the fear of being mediocre. His high school life, which should’ve been filled with bad decision making and girlfriends, was instead taken over by shadowing his father at the office or learning how to use Microsoft Excel to make financial reports. College was a repeat, and he adapted easily to the hermit lifestyle he had been living. Even once he graduated, he made no attempt to date anyone. His mother, a frivolous woman who lived off the family money with ease, had once asked him if he was gay or asexual. Unfortunately for her, he is neither.
He is just, quite literally, indifferent to what women can offer.
That’s not to say Jungkook doesn’t get horny (hence dispelling the asexual rumors). Jungkook masturbates as often as most normal guys do, mostly when he’s frustrated by work. But instead of seeking respite in another woman’s vagina, he uses his own hand, which has worked perfectly well for him.
And, well, there is this other… thing he’s kept locked with a key within him. Deep in his unconscious, something not even a therapist could uncover. The fear that he might be bad at it.
It sounds ridiculous when it crosses his mind for even a second. He does not do things badly. He does not do things at all until he’s certain he can do them well. That’s just how he's wired, has always been wired, the same compulsion that made him practice his father’s presentations in the mirror at fifteen until they were perfect.
It is exceedingly unfortunate that this is not something one can research into oblivion or competence. You learn by experience. And the idea of being in front of someone, exposed and vulnerable, makes him want to die.
“Jungkook-ah, look at the girl in the pink,” Namjoon whispers into his ear, fighting to be heard over the bass. “She’s so fucking hot.”
His eyes wander over to where Namjoon is trying to subtly point. A girl in pink lingerie roams the stage, lashes batting flirtatiously as she lets the pole sit between her ass cheeks. Jungkook doesn’t have time to respond to his hyung before he’s being (rudely) interrupted by a girl in light blue lingerie, standing over their table with a smile. “Hi boys, how are we doing tonight?”
The boys, minus Jungkook, whoop and yell, and he wants to crawl into the booth and hide. They’re acting like wild vultures, and his brain is reeling trying to comprehend what’s unfolding in front of him.
Before his mind can catch up, he feels a wad of cash slithering into his palm.
“Just go with it,” Namjoon murmurs from beside him, already clapping.
He gulps as he peers down at the bills in his hand. The girl in blue has climbed onto the small raised platform in the center of their table, one hand wrapping around the pole. Up close she’s gorgeous—warm tanned skin, black curly hair spilling over one shoulder, a devious twinkle in her eye.
Her hips roll in a figure eight, one hand trailing the length of the pole as the other moves down her waist. She turns, spine arching back, and the boys lose their collective minds. Bills flutter onto the platform like confetti, and a small smile contorts onto her plush lips.
With both hands, she drops into a low squat, thighs spread, and comes back up in a languid motion. Hoseok physically slaps the table, tossing twenties to no avail.
Okay, calm down, he thinks distantly. His heartbeat is picking up in his chest.
She spins, one leg extending wide, the momentum carrying her around the pole in a slow arc before she hooks her knee and drops back in a hang that makes the fabric of her lingerie ride up her thighs. The light catches her and Jungkook forgets, very briefly, that he came here against his will.
Taehyung’s on his feet as fast as he can move. Jungkook can only watch in horror as Taehyung peels a bill from his stack and stuffs it right into the waistband of her panties. She giggles and turns toward him. Tae grins up at her and she leans down, curly hair falling forward, and shakes her chest right in his face.
Taehyung tips his head back and says something Jungkook cannot hear over the music, but it evokes another laugh from her. Jungkook’s mind is blank, save for the images of ass and tits flying across his vision.
Jungkook sits very still and feels something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time shift somewhere low in his stomach.
He is not indifferent, it turns out.
He is just very, very in over his head.
The girl turns back to the rest of them, eyeing them up as though to decide her next victim. Her eyes linger on Jungkook for a few seconds, and his heart thumps out of its cage.
He’s aware of what he looks like. He’s not a fool, after all. Tattooed arm, a body sculpted by Greek gods, multiple facial and ear piercings. The irony of it is not lost on him—all that packaging, none of the experience to back it up.
He’s had girls lining up to talk to him, but not a single one that could hold his interest. Jungkook could care less.
But it seems she recognizes he’s not eager to talk to her, and so she focuses her attention on Jimin, who’s practically panting like a puppy left out in the sun for too long. She does a few tricks for him on the pole, all of which are rewarded with bills and yells.
“Candy, you don’t plan on keeping these boys all to yourself, do you?”
A melodic voice, almost like a siren’s, floats into Jungkook’s ear. His body stiffens, muscles taut as his eyes avert over the table to spot a woman.
Jungkook’s not gay by any means. He’s also not fucking blind. The woman that stands before him is an angel, a goddess, a temptation for him sent from hell. Adorned in red lacy lingerie and white knee socks with red bows on them… utterly fucking delicious.
He’s drooling.
“They’re all yours, Angel,” the stripper, apparently named Candy, says with a grin, sliding off the platform, and just like that she relinquishes the pole like a crown being passed. In one smooth motion, you climb up, nimble fingers wrapping around the pole. Immediately, his friends turn into wild animals, even more explicit than before. Taehyung stands from his seat, eyes blanking as he observes how your thong hugs your hips and ass.
You alternate through a series of movements—slow spin, then fast, one leg extended in a line. You hook your knee around the pole and lean back, hair falling away from your face, and the red lace catches the light. Jungkook’s higher brain functions vacate the premises. Money rains onto the platform, more than he expected.
He realizes he’s also holding money, and it’s as though a lightbulb flashes above his head. Oh shit, he thinks. He wants to spend his entire wallet on you.
You climb down and drop straight into Namjoon’s lap like you’ve known him for years. Kim Namjoon, the most composed man Jungkook has ever met, grins like an idiot. You lean in close to say something to him, pink, lush lips brushing his ear, and Namjoon laughs low before responding with a hushed whisper.
Slowly, you pull away from his ear, eyes twinkling.
And then you glance over at Jungkook.
It’s a half-second, a flicker, the most minor redirection of your attention imaginable. A slide of your eyes that lands on him and then lifts away.
His cock twitches in his pants. It is, quite literally, the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. In that moment, he realizes he wants nothing more than your attention, your time, you. But he just doesn’t know what he has to do to get such a thing. To be able to deserve a woman as delectable as you.
A flutter of giggles escapes your mouth, cheeks ruddy as you get up from Namjoon’s lap.drifting around the curve of the table, all seven pairs of eyes track you like flowers following light. Taehyung fans himself with a hundred dollar bill, and you immediately gravitate towards him.
Jungkook watches you kiss his cheek. Watches Taehyung’s hands find your waist. Watches him stuff a fistful of bills into the back of your lingerie, give your ass a playful smack that you welcome with a laugh. He wants to blow his brains out.
He deadpans at the ice bucket instead.
“Fucking hottest girl I’ve ever seen," Namjoon mutters beside him, just loud enough for him to catch, "Don’t you think, Jungkook-ah?”
Jungkook’s tongue is tied into knots.
“She’s a sin,” Namjoon continues.
Across the table, you laugh at something Taehyung says, head tipping back, throat exposed, and the red lace shifts. Jungkook moves with it, recrossing his legs under the table and tugging his shirt down to hide the growing tent in his pants.
Namjoon notices the movement, looking down for a millisecond before peering at Jungkook smugly.
He claps Jungkook on the back, “Welcome,” he says, “to being a fucking man.”
“I hate you so fucking much right now.”
“Your dick doesn’t hate me.”
He’s not technically wrong, per se. Jungkook just refuses to admit he’s right.
Taehyung leans up to murmur something in your ear, and you pull back with a slow smile spreading across your face.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no—your body turns to look directly at Jungkook.
Jungkook has closed deals worth nine figures, has sat across from men who built empires from nothing and held their gaze at the age of 20 without a care in the world. He has endured his father’s silent disappointment across a dinner table for 30 consecutive years.
Like a cartoon character with a fork stuck in his throat, he gulps audibly.
You start walking toward him, your eyes piercing into it. They don’t leave his face not once, not even to check where you’re stepping or acknowledge the table erupting in cheers around you.
Namjoon slides over calmly to make room, and Jungkook watches the space beside him open up and thinks what the fuck are you doing and means it directed at every single person in this room, including himself.
You stop in front of him, and he peers up at you. In those heels, you tower over him, and he notices the smirk that’s curved upon your lips. Evil. You’re fucking evil.
Trepidly, you sink down onto your knees, maintaining eye contact.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god —
His cock twitches so hard he has to lock every muscle in his body to keep from visibly reacting.
“Hi,” you smile.
“Hi,” he replies with bated breath.
You already know. He can tell you already know exactly what you’re doing to him and precisely how badly he’s losing. Somehow that makes it so much worse and so much better.
Your hand comes to land up on his thigh, snaking up and up until he swears you’re going to stick your hand in his pants. You stop right on his inner thigh, feeling the muscle. He swears he sees a twinkle in your eyes at the realization. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm every nerve ending in his body.
“What’s your name, pretty boy?” you whisper, trying not to be heard by the group of animals that he unfortunately calls his friends.
“J-Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”
“Jungkook.” You repeat the name with so much seduction it almost doesn’t even sound recognizable to him.
You stand up, and he exhales the deepest breath. God fucking damnit. Of course you’re done with him—he stuttered his own name like he’d never used it before. He watches you straighten up and thinks okay. okay, that’s fine. that was a normal amount of humiliation for one evening.
But instead of leaving, your knee lands on the cushion beside his thigh, followed by the other one, and then you’re in his lap. The air leaves his lungs in one swift, silent evacuation. Your lace panties settle directly over the front of his pants and you shift forward, eyes panning down between you.
With a lift of your brows, you move again. Shit. He knows what you found. He can feel exactly what you found and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.
Shit shit shit—
“Look at little Kookie!” Taehyung’s voice echoes across the table, ringing in Jungkook’s ear. “He’s pink!”
Jungkook turns to look at his alleged friends with the dead eyes of a man considering his options.
And then he feels your warm hand, two fingers catching his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Don’t look at them, baby.” Your voice is low, meant only for him. “Look at me.”
God help him, he does.
Your eyes hold his for a moment that stretches longer than it should, and then—your hips gyrate forward in a slow circle. The warm drag of your hips moves against his, and nothing, not a single thing, has ever felt like this in his years of living.
“You’re really pretty,” you giggle, looping your arms around his neck, rolling your hips in a figure eight that makes his vision white out at the edges.
Behind you, the boys are losing their minds. Money’s flying, and Jungkook cannot process any of it because you’re shifting again, turning so that your back is pressing into his broad chest. You lean back into him, head dropping to his shoulder, and the slide of red lace against his cock is making him see actual stars. He can’t hide the groan that escapes him.
Leaning your head back to face him, you’re close enough that your breath fans across his jaw. “You’re so tense, pretty boy. These hands doing anything useful or just decorating the couch?”
He really can’t argue, because his hands are pressed flat against the cushions on either side of him, white-knuckled and rigid like he’s bracing for a car crash. “I—” he begins.
“Need help?”
Helplessly, he nods.
You reach down, take his hands and settle them on your hips. The lace is soft under his palms, plush skin warm to the touch.
“Hold on right there,” you whisper. “Don’t let go.”
An actual, audible, involuntary whimper crawls up his throat and escapes before he can catch it. With his hands on your hips he can feel every single movement now, every roll and dip and shift of your weight, and it is so much better than anything he has ever done alone in the dark of his penthouse that it almost feels like a personal insult to every year that came before this one.
“F-fuck,” he exhales. "You’re so—you’re so g-good—”
“Yeah?” You straddle him once more, knees digging into the couch, your eyes pausing to glance at his lips before meeting his eyes. Your finger comes up, tracing slowly along his lower lip, catching on the small metal ring of his lip piercing and playing with it before releasing. “What a pretty piercing for a pretty boy.”
“You like it?” Jungkook feebly asks, even though he knows you do. Every girl likes it, but none have caught his eye the way you do.
Silently, you reach past him then, fingers closing around the forgotten wad of cash still sitting on the cushion where Namjoon pressed it into his palm a lifetime ago. He watches as you lean back in his lap and drag the bills languidly across your chest, the red lace, down over the curve of your waist.
You peer up at him from under your lashes. “You were just going to let all this go to waste?” you ask, clicking your tongue.
“I—” he swallows. "I didn't know—like the protocol—”
The dopey smile that breaks across your face sends vibrations to his cock. “You’re doing so well for me already.”
You lean forward again, closing the distance, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hips keep moving. Without a second thought, he grips your hips tighter.
Somewhere behind you, he distantly registers that the boys are no longer watching. Other girls have materialized at the table, except for Namjoon and Hoseok, who are deep in a drunk conversation. It’s just you and him.
Your teeth graze his earlobe. “You know, when I saw you, I thought you’d be trouble.” A soft giggle leaves your lips. “Turns out you’re harmless.”
“I—” he starts, some distant fragment of pride assembling itself. “I’m not—”
“Harmless,” you repeat, pulling back to look at him. “The sweetest thing in this whole place.”
For an irrational moment, Jungkook forgets every reason why he can’t be caught here.
And then it’s his father’s disapproving tone, thinks about the words you represent this family everywhere you go, Jungkook, everywhere, and the Google alerts and the face his father makes when he’s upset and how Jungkook has spent his entire life trying to prevent that specific expression.
He could call his driver, go home, pretend this whole evening was a fever dream. After all, this is exactly the kind of situation that becomes a headline. Jeon heir spotted at—
Suddenly, your hands leave his shoulders. The warmth of your weight lifts off his lap all at once and the absence of it is so sudden that his body mourns it, an embarrassing physiological grief response he didn’t know he was capable of. Left behind with a raging boner that is apparent to the naked eye.
You smooth down your lingerie. Roll your shoulders back. And just like that the curtain comes back up, a polished version of you, like the last twenty minutes happened only to him. “Bye boys," you say to the table and the ones paying attention halfheartedly wave.
Then you turn to him. “Bye, Jungkook. It was nice to meet you.” With a wink, you disappear off to the next table, and all he can do is stare at the space where you were once sitting, his cock standing tall and proud in his pants.
He becomes aware, slowly, that Namjoon is looking at him. “Don’t start.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
“Ah Jungkook-ah, you just need to fuck a girl and get it over with!”
Kim Seokjin, for all his years of knowledge and wisdom, is a bit of a menace when liquor enters his bloodstream.
Jungkook has become overtly aware of two things: 1) he’s the drunkest he’s ever been and 2) the boner in his pants has yet to go down.
He had briefly considered going into the bathroom to jerk off, but that would be too obvious and embarrassing to admit, even to himself. Instead, he would much rather subject himself to the torture of his best friends and let three other women dance on him to erase the taste of you from his mouth.
Each woman was attractive, but they didn’t entice him the way you had. Even after an hour of sitting at this couch, throwing bills upon bills, nothing felt as ethereal as the feeling of your weight upon him, as though he had claimed you.
“I’m not just going to fuck any girl,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, tipping his head back to take another shot of whiskey.
“Why not?!” Jin motions wildly with his glass, sloshing amber liquid alarmingly close to the rim. “You’re 30! You’re rich! You look like… that!” He waves his hand at Jungkook’s being. “What are you saving your best years for? Soon we’ll all be pumping ashes out of our cock—”
“Jin—”
“Dust will leak from our tips!-”
“I’m going to fucking murder you.”
“He’s waiting for love,” Jimin notes, words slurred from the effects of alcohol. A black-haired girl is draped across his lap, lips peppering kisses on his supple skin. “It’s actually very romantic if you think about it.”
“I am not waiting for love.”
“He’s waiting for her,” Taehyung whispers, pointing across the room. Without even turning to look, Jungkook knows they’re talking about you. Mostly because he hasn’t been able to stop looking at you for the past hour, heat rising to his cheeks when he watches you dance on other men.
“The red lingerie girl has him in a chokehold,” Tae continues to nobody, nodding as though Jungkook is suffering from a grave disease. “I’ve seen this before. This is a chokehold situation.”
“No one except my dad has me in anything, Taehyung,” he argues.
“Your cock has suggested otherwise,” Yoongi snorts, not even looking up from his drink.
Jungkook tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, thinks about how peaceful his penthouse is right now. How peaceful. How completely devoid of these people.
From his peripheral, he watches as Hoseok leans over and cups his hand around Namjoon’s ear. He has known Kim Namjoon for ten years and he knows exactly what Namjoon’s listening face looks like versus Namjoon's scheming face. This is the second one. Very much the second one.
Namjoon’s eyes light up, and Jungkook’s body has a visceral reaction. Namjoon turns to Jin. Whispers something. Jin’s face splits into a grin so enormous it looks like his lips will crack in two.
Flatly, Jungkook asks, “What is happening right now?”
Not a single one of his friends answers. They’re doing the hive thing—buzzing between each other, passing from person to person, grins multiplying like a virus.
Jungkook clears his throat. “Excuse me.”
Namjoon ignores his words and stands up. “Where are you going,” Jungkook blurts, panic bursting in his chest. “Namjoon. Kim Namjoon. Where are you—”
But he’s already gone, sliding through the crowd, and Jungkook watches him disappear toward the back of the club where a woman in all black is standing with a clipboard. The bottom of his stomach drops out completely. He turns to the remaining members of his betrayal circle. “Whatever he’s doing, stop it now—”
“Shh,” Jin serenely says, patting his knee.
“I don’t care that I’m younger, don’t shh me.”
“Shhh.” Jungkook shrugs him off and cranes his neck toward where Namjoon is now deep in conversation with the clipboard woman, nodding, reaching into his jacket pocket. His wallet comes into view. Fuck.
Jungkook can’t imagine whipping out a wallet at the strip club is anything but bad news.
“I’m leaving,” Jungkook announces, planting both hands on the table. The way he sees it, he has about ten minutes to escape before he either blacks out or embarrasses himself even more.
Two pairs of hands push him back down immediately. “You’re not going anywhere, big boy,” Hoseok tuts.
“You’re detaining me.”
“It’s a birthday gift,” Taehyung argues, “You can’t refuse a birthday gift. It’s rude.”
“Watch me.”
Jungkook abruptly feels a slap on his back, and when he looks up, it’s Namjoon reclaiming his seat beside him, a sinister grin plastered on his face. “You’re welcome.”
Sighing, he shakes his head. “For what?”
“Happy birthday, Jungkook-ah.”
“That didn’t answer my fucking question, Namjoon.”
Before Jungkook can pester further, a shadow falls over the table. The woman with the ominous clipboard and headset is standing at the edge of their booth, and she doesn’t particularly look like she’s here to refill their drinks or anything tame.
“Which one of you is Jeon Jungkook?”
Of fucking course.
The boys erupt like zoo animals. Clapping, hollering, hands slapping his back from every direction simultaneously. Jungkook wants to cry, maybe throw himself off the balcony of his penthouse.
The woman smiles at him. “Follow me.”
“What—”
Namjoon’s hand closes around his arm and hauls him bodily upright. “Up you go, buddy.”
“I’m not—this is—you can’t just—”
But none of it matters—his feet are carrying him, brain several steps behind. He’s following the clipboard woman through the club in what feels like cement shoes. As he walks, he peers around the club—other men at tables, women moving through the dim light to reach their poles, money piling on the floor.
He is the only one who looks like he’s being escorted to his own execution.
The woman stops at a door at the back of the club. It’s unmarked, flush against the wall. She pushes it open, and the first and only thing Jungkook sees is red. Everything inside is red. A plush crimson couch curved against the far wall, red LED light bleeding over every surface.
Even the color red turns him on now. That must be your doing.
“Wait right here,” the woman instructs, stepping back toward the door. “Your private dancer will be here to join you shortly.
“My what?!”
He’s so fucked that he might need to use a new word to describe how utterly fucked he is.
The door slams shut behind her, a finite ending to his arguing. There’s no going back.
His cock jumps in his pants, and Jungkook looks down at himself in indignation. Bad, he thinks. Bad. Bad dog. We are leaving.
But he thinks that even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. He’s thinking of you, towering over him, asserting your dominance over him. He’s spent most of his life being in charge, and for once, someone else is taking the reins and letting him sit back.
He stands in the middle of the red room until finally, his legs give up the principle of the thing and carry him to the couch. He should have known. From the moment Namjoon’s wallet came out he should have connected the dots because Kim Namjoon does not spend money without intention, has never done anything without intention, and Jungkook has known this for years and still walked directly into it like a fool.
Pressing both palms to his knees, wiping the sweat off them, he stares at the door. It might not be her, he reasons. It’s probably not her. There are lots of girls here. It could be anyone.
It would be foolish to assume someone like you would not be taken already by another dominant, assertive man. Sure, Jungkook probably has the money that most men in this club dream of, but he doesn’t have an ounce of the confidence that he needs to handle you.
Jeon Jungkook is currently sweating through an expensive shirt in a red room the size of a closet because a girl in lingerie might walk through that door.
The door swings open and the first thing Jungkook sees is—red.
Red flashes across his vision and it’s all he can see or think about.
You step inside and the LED light catches the lace, makes your curves look like they were designed by a Greek god. For a moment, your eyes adjust to the dim light, averting around the space to try and make sense of your surroundings.
But when they finally land on him, there’s a dangerous twinkle dancing in your eyes.
“We meet again.”
Loudly, he swallows whatever drool has accumulated in his mouth. The door clicks shut behind you and you move toward him, heels marking an agonizing rhythm against the floor.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
He cranes his neck as you approach, tracking you up until you’re standing directly in front of him and he has to tip his head all the way back to hold your gaze. Your lips are freshly glossed with red lipstick, he notes.
“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “I was starting to think you were scared of me.”
He opens his mouth (to say what, he’s not sure of.)
“Are you, Jungkook?” You pause, lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “Scared?”
Without a single reservation, yes, he is. But he’s not entirely useless—he’ll never admit that.
Clearly, you take his non-response as an admittance of defeat. Your hand comes down, cradling the side of his face. Your manicured thumb traces his cheekbone. “Hey. We don’t have to do anything, you know. I know your friends booked this.” Your eyes are steady on his, reading him the way you’ve been reading him all night. “Or…”
He blinks like a teenage boy, saliva pooling in his mouth as you hold your words for a second.
“Do you want me, Jungkook?”
Embarrassingly, devastatingly fast, his head bobs up and down before his brain has even finished processing the question. He wants to dissolve into the couch cushions and never be found.
Your smile breaks acros your features. Pearly white teeth come into view, the realest expression he’s seen on your face all night. “Good boy. Do you have any song requests?”
You turn toward the TV mounted on the wall, and he watches you move to it, your back to him now, and somehow that’s almost worse because he can just… look. He may be a virgin, but he’s not an idiot. Your perky ass is mere inches away from his face, and his fingers itch to reach out and squeeze the plush skin in his hand.
With his eyes still trained on your ass, he says, “U-um. Anything. I don’t—I don’t care.”
“Hmm.” You bite your lip, scrolling. Jungkook begins to hope you never turn back around so he can relish in the shape of your ass all night. That would be well worth Namjoon’s money, he thinks.
The opening beat of a song drops from the speakers and Jungkook goes completely still. Of all the songs in the world, it’s his favorite song.
2.0 by BTS.
He’s not ashamed to listen to their music, despite them being a typical k-pop boy group. Their shit is catchy. Sue him.
You swivel back around and your hands come down onto his thighs. You lean down enough that your hair falls forward and he can smell your perfume again. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
Your eyes drag themselves down to his pants, like they’re ogling at the very unfortunate situation he’s unable to handle. Then they drift back up as if you saw nothing at all.
“You know,” you say, your voice dropping to something that would be condescending if it were anyone else. “I’ve had a lot of men in this room.”
He swallows back the bile that threatens to rise up his throat. He’d rather not think about them. .
“But none of them—” your fingers press into his thighs, just slightly, “I’ve wanted to have as bad as I do you.”
He can feel his jaw go slack, eyes widening to the size of flying saucers.
You smile. Lean in until your lips brush the hinge of his jaw, a bare whisper of contact that makes every nerve ending in his body stand at guard. “You have no idea how bad I want you.”
Great. You must be attracted to tortured virgins who are rich and powerful but don’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman. “Lucky for you,” you pull back to look at him. “I’m going to take very good care of you.”
The weight on the couch shifts before he can really notice it, your knees digging into the sofa, until you’ve infiltrated every cell in his body. Above him, around him, your hands landing on his shoulders and squeezing, fingers pressing into the muscle there with a small sound of approval.
Your full, warm body settles onto his lap as though you’re at home, and really, he doesn’t think there’s enough oxygen in the room. The thought of how little space there is between you two wrings a sound out of him that he will be taking to his grave. Your panties graze slow over the length of his cock. “Fuck—”
His head drops back against the couch, neck going loose, and he stares at the ceiling like it might offer him salvation. Potentially a trapdoor.
He can feel your eyes lingering on his face, and not a single thing can be done about it because every resource he has is currently being allocated to not cumming in his pants.
Your clothed pussy drags over him through the thin barrier of your panties. He makes a sound that is not a word.
“There he is,” you murmur. Your hands slide from his shoulders up the sides of his neck, thumbs tracing his jaw, tipping his chin back down so he’s looking at you instead of the ceiling. “Stay with me.”
“I’m—” he tries. “I’m here. I’m very—I’m extremely here—”
The pace you set is torturing enough to make his eyes roll back into his head. Your lips curve. “You feel that?”
“I feel—” he swallows, “—yes. Yeah. I feel that.”
A hum leaves your mouth. Jungkook watches your eyes stay on his face and realizes with dawning, helpless clarity that you are observing every single reaction. Every twitch. None of it really matters, since he has no poker face left, has burned through every last reserve of composure he had somewhere around the moment you sat down.
Manicured hands slide down from his jaw to his chest, pressing flat against him, and you lean back to look at him from a new angle, hair falling over one shoulder, hips never breaking rhythm.
“Relax,” you softly say, fingers digging into his chest. “I can feel how tense you are.”
“I’m not tense—”
You perk an eyebrow.
“I work an intense job—”
“Jungkook.”
“Fine. I’m tense or whatever," he admits, “and I would appreciate it if you didn’t hold that against me.”
You giggle, and his stomach erupts into a nest of angry hornets, bloodthirsty insects that rival those ‘butterflies’ people get when they fall in love. Jungkook doesn’t do girls. Never has. He feels the need to remind himself once or twice.
“You’re doing so well,” you murmur, and your hips roll again, and he swears he can feel your folds against him. Or maybe wishful thinking.
He just can’t fucking think straight anymore.
“I-I’ve never done this b-before,” he whimpers as your ass rubs over his hardened length agonizingly slow. “I don’t r-really—fuck—talk to g-girls.”
His head falls back onto the couch again, small, erratic puffs of air escaping his lips.
You lean into his ear, lips coquettishly brushing against the crimson, heated skin. “I know.”
Kim Namjoon. When he gets his hands on him. It is so fucking over.
Your hands leave his shoulders. They move, traveling behind your back to undo the clip of your bra in one fell swoop. The red lace goes slack. You let it hang from two fingers, dangling, looking at his face the whole time. Then you let the red fabric drop to the floor.
Oh fuck.
Everything he knows about boobs is from porn itself. But up close, he can see your hardened peaks, stimulated and perky, ready for him to suck and play with. They’re just the right size, enough to cup in his hand. You lean forward, bracing your hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head, closing the distance between you inch by inch until your nipples graze his chest through his shirt.
He shivers, cock twitching beneath you.
“Sensitive,” you note with a whisper.
“I have—I’m wearing a shirt—”
“I know.” Your lips brush his jaw. “Imagine if you weren’t.”
He grips your hips so hard the lace bunches under his fingers. “You have no idea,” you exhale against the hinge of his jaw, “what I want to do to you.”
“Tell me.” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice when it escapes him.“Please—”
You pull back to look at him, eyes an onyx black shade, lips parted.
“Have you ever touched yourself, Jungkook?” You punctuate your question with another slow grind. He whimpers in response, and the shame of it hardly registers because his cock is twitching and pulsing against his slacks, his boxers already damp with his arousal. He has never been less in control of his own body.
“Answer me.” Your nail drags across his jawline.
Jungkook can’t breathe. All he can do is grip the couch and try not to fall apart in front of a woman who looks like she has never fallen apart in her life.
“Y-yes.” he croaks, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I do.”
“Hm.” Your hips roll again, the lace of your panties catching against his slacks perfectly, perfectly, and his brain halts all coherent thoughts. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”
He thinks about women, mostly. They’re usually abstract, faceless, nothing like you. Nothing like the warm weight of you in his lap or the way you smell. Usually the entire ordeal takes him four minutes and he goes to sleep feeling embarrassed about the whole thing.
He does not say this.
“I— I think about girls.”
“Just girls?”
Your eyes peer down at him, sparkling with wonder. Your lips graze his cheek and every single neuron in his body fires at once. He’s going to fucking pass out.
God, he’s an idiot. He should’ve been having sex years ago. What was he so busy doing? Working? He gave up this for spreadsheets and impressing his father?
“Y-yeah,” he exhales. “Just—yeah.”
A small sound escapes you, something like a moan. The thought that you could be finding pleasure from this makes his cock pulse desperately in the confines of his pants.
“Well.” Your hand finds his, lifts it, and presses his palm to the curve of your hip. Guiding his grip, guiding your own rhythm, you turn him into an active participant in his own undoing.
“Next time you touch yourself.” You pick up the pace, slowly but steadily. “Think about this. Think about me. And how bad I want to fuck you.”
Fucking hell.
His eyes squeeze tight, tight, tight. Tries, desperately, heroically, pathetically, not to cum. Jungkook groans, and he feels your fingernails dig into his broad shoulders for stability as your movements become more frantic.
“F-Fuck,” he chokes out. “That feels so good.”
“I bet it does, baby,” you purr, and your angelic voice quells the fire in his core. “Bet your cock has been hungry for female attention, hasn’t it?”
“No.” Jungkook hastily replies, “N-No, just for you.”
He’s so fucking close, precum leaking out of his tip incessantly as each grind gets him closer and closer to his orgasm. Your tits bounce in his face, and he opens his eyes to see the sight that will forever be imprinted in his brain. Probably stored in his spank bank for the rest of time. Your cheeks are ruddy, eyes piercing into his, hair moving wildly, lace panties hugging every curve.
Fuck.
He’s going to cum untouched, like the virgin he is.
Underneath the red lights, your hand finds his, and you guide up, up, up, press his palm flat against your chest. Your eye contact doesn’t waver. “Fuck,” he groans, “fuck, I’m—”
You watch him with a faint smile on your face. Without instruction, his fingers find your nipple, toying with the hardened peak lazily. Rolling them softly, you make a small sound above him and a lightbulb goes off in his brain.
This is good for you too. You like what he’s doing. Holy. Shit.
He continues to massage your nipple as you rut against his thighs, and it’s only a matter of time. He is a virgin, after all.
Jungkook feels his cock twitch in his pants once, twice, before he’s moaning and whimpering as spurts of hot cum fill his boxers. His hand tightens around you on instinct, a sound leaving his throat that he has never made in his life, not once, not like this. He rides out his orgasm, shuddering and cursing under his breath, and your hips slow to ease him through it.
He’s not sure how long he cums for, if he’s ever even cum this hard before. But when it does finally end, he slumps back against the couch like his skeleton has resigned. Staring at his face, your own movements still.
Jungkook doesn’t keep track of time, only cares for the loss of the feeling of your body on his. You stand up, using his thighs for leverage to steady yourself.
Placing a chaste kiss on his cheek, your eyes twinkle as you grin at him. “Come and find me when you’re ready, pretty boy.”
Jungkook sounds like a broken record everytime he reminds himself he doesn’t do girls. He’s already convinced himself that his attraction to you is some sort of rebellion against his virginity.
That’s the only explanation as to why he’s standing outside Paradise Adult Club at 7 PM on a Monday holding an extravagant bouquet of red roses.
Definitely has nothing to do with the fact that his Sunday night was spent wallowing in despair, cringing at how fast he came in his pants after you dry humped him for five minutes. No, that piece will live in his brain exclusively. It’s embarrassing to admit how much of an effect you’ve had on him.
He’s never done anything nice for a girl in his life. Never took someone on a date, bought them flowers or jewelry, never held their hand just because he wanted to. He finds that shit cheesy, especially when his dad is yelling at him about some document from ten years ago.
But then again, he can’t say a lot of girls have had the effect on him that you do. You had him throwing his truths and ideologies out the window, disappearing under red lights and red lace and just… he really fucking loves the color red now.
The idea to stop by your place of work was a bold one, he can admit that much. It’s just that your last words to him before you strutted off ‘come and find me when you’re ready, pretty boy’ didn’t leave much room for representation. When he’s ready? Ready for you? Pretty sure he was ready for that the moment you laid eyes on him.
Or, maybe you were referring to being ready to lose his virginity. He’s certain Namjoon has set him up for failure, probably mentioned numerous times everyone thought he was gay. In that case, Jungkook was also more than ready, but only if it was to you. Only if it was to see your tight little pussy swallowing his cock whole, eliciting those same sounds you did a few nights ago.
Fuck, he needs to have you.
“Excuse me? Sir?”
A brunette hostess with a mousy voice jolts him out of his daydream, his cheeks rosy as if he’s been caught sniffing your panties. Her eyebrow is raised in confusion as she eyes the bouquet of roses. Chances are slim to none she’s ever seen those around a dance club before.
“Yes. Hi. I’m looking for—” he stops.
Oh. Jungkook comes to the very hapless realization that he, in fact, does not know your real name. He knows your stage name. Candy called you Angel. That’s what he has. Angel. Which is a stage name, obviously, not a real name, and showing up to a woman’s workplace asking for Angel with a bouquet of roses is somehow worse than what he’s already doing.
“She works here,” he starts.
The hostess blinks. “…several women work here, sir.”
“Right. Yes. She was, uh, she was working Saturday night. She had—” he gestures vaguely at his own chest, “—red. She was wearing red.”
“A lot of women wore red on Saturday too.”
Her patience is wearing thin.
“She had pretty hair.” He’s aware of how this sounds. “And she was—” another vague gesture, this time at his own face, “—she was very. You know.”
The hostess does not know. Her eyebrows are migrating slowly toward her hairline.
“Pretty,” he finishes, lamely. “Very pretty. Like, showstopping pretty.”
“Tall? About this height?” The hostess holds her hand up.
“Yes.”
“Works the private tables?”
“Uh, yeah,” he nods. “And uh, private rooms too.”
Something clicks behind the hostess’s eyes. Her brows lift in a completely different way now, a hint of recognition mixed with amusement.
“[Y/N]?” she asks.
[Y/N.]
He turns the name over in his head. Lets it settle. What a gorgeous name for a gorgeous girl, he thinks.
(It’s his first crush, so he lets himself be as shameless as he needs to be about it.)
“Sure,” he says. “Yes. That one. [Y/N].” Your name. He knows your name now. He likes it more than he has any reasonable right to. “Is she—can I—”
“She’s off today.” The hostess smiles at him, fake sympathy seeping through the gesture. “Sorry.”
Jungkook grips his bouquet of roses until his knuckles are white. “Oh,” he says.
“Yup.”
He looks down at the bouquet. Red roses, obviously, because he’s been colonized by a color. He’d had his assistant order them this morning and had not explained why and the look on her face had been something he’d also be taking to his grave.
“Is there any chance—” he starts.
“I can’t give out personal information, sir. Our dancers lead private lives outside of their place of work.”
Jungkook sighs, weaving his fingers through his hair with his free hand. He can’t blame the hostess for her unwillingness to help, but he can’t let you get away. “No, I know. I wasn’t going to—Could I leave these for her? Is that… is that something that’s allowed?”
The hostess looks at him for a long moment.
Then she sighs, rolling her eyes and beckoning him further into the club. “Follow me.”
Somewhere, there’s a god he’ll be thanking later.
The hostess leads him through a narrow hallway, behind the main floor, past a few closed doors, stopping at one left slightly ajar. When she pushes it open, it’s empty, save for the scattered lingerie and perfume bottles on the floor.
“You can just leave them there,” she says, gesturing at the vanity.
She turns to leave. He hears it distinctly, murmured under her breath as she goes, “Amateur hour.”
Jungkook chooses not to acknowledge that.
He steps inside and sets the roses down on the vanity, straightening them slightly, then immediately feeling insane for straightening them and stopping. Jungkook doesn’t mean to look around, but his ADHD gets the best of him as his eyes wander.
Your setup feels very you, although he’s only been aware of your existence for two days. The vanity mirror is framed with warm bulb lights, surface below it an organized chaos of things he has no reference for—foundation bottles and setting sprays lined up like little soldiers, a tray of eyeshadow with so many colors he can’t identify half of them. There’s trays of lip glosses, shades of red and pink that sent his brain into a tornado of horny thoughts.
And, yeah, that’s enough for today.
He turns to leave, trying to avoid eye contact with any of your other belongings he might find. But on the chair by the door sits a pair of panties.
Black. Lacy. Small enough to fit in one hand.
He stares at them, and they stare back. Every single rational thought he has ever had in thirty years of living lines up in his head and says, collectively and in unison: do not.
His hand moves independently of his brain, reaches out, closes around the fabric, and tucks it into his pocket in one fluid motion. Fuck. He did not plan that. That was not a decision he made, that was a decision his hand made, and he and his hand are going to have a very serious conversation about boundaries later—
He walks quickly, practically jogging. His shoes are loud in the hallway, he just needs to be outside, needs air, needs to be somewhere that isn’t the room where he just stole a woman’s underwear like some kind of pervert.
“Have a good evening, sir!” the hostess calls from the front.
“Yep,” he quickly retorts, not stopping.
The door swings shut behind him and the cool night air hits his face. Luckily, his car is still waiting at the curb. It’s a miracle his driver hasn’t left him for dirt, despite Jungkook telling him to not wait for him. Maybe he also thinks Jungkook is a big, fat loser and knew he would need a backup plan.
Jungkook gets in, stares straight ahead.
“Home, sir?”
“Immediately,” he says. “Please.”
With the knowledge of the black panties sitting pretty in his pocket, his cock puffs up in his pants, poking at his boxers, begging for air. Jungkook suddenly feels sweaty, even with the aircon set to 60 degrees.
By the time Jungkook gets home, he’s a full-on mess. His cock is leaking precum at the tip, dripping into his Calvin Klein boxers. He’s never felt like this before, never been so undeniably hungry for someone that his whole body feels like it’s on the verge of collapse.
Jungkook stumbles into his bedroom, sitting down on his bed and pulling out the pair of panties with shaky hands.
He recognizes this is not a defense, merely an observation—he has never stolen anything in his life. He is a man of principle, of discipline, of self-control that has served him exceptionally well for three decades. He has walked away from bad deals, bad investments, bad decisions, more times than he can count.
He cannot seem to walk away from this.
Jungkook brings them up to his face slowly. Presses the fabric against his face and inhales. The fabric is warm, floral detergent filling his nostrils, and he falls back against his mattress as though his spine has stopped working.
“Okay,” he says to the ceiling. “Okay.”
He is so far gone it’s almost funny.
Almost.
His veiny hands find his waistband. The pants go first, then his boxers shoved halfway down his thighs, and when his cock finally springs free it’s so painfully hard he actually hisses, slapping against his abdomen.
Thirty years old. CEO-in-waiting. Multiple degrees. Fluent in three languages. Lying in his bed with stolen lingerie and the most humbling erection of his life. He rushes to sit up against his headboard, otherwise his skeleton will fail him and he’ll fall straight down on his bed again. His cock is flushed, angry and red, glaring at him. The veins on the side of his length protrude, and he quickly gathers the seed of precum that’s spurted at the top to spread it around his tip. “Fuck,” he groans, head hitting the sturdy wood behind his head.
Jungkook lets saliva fall from his mouth right onto his cock, too desperate to search for lube or lotion. Another quick glide of his hand up and down his length, and he’s painfully hard. Your black panties are strewn to the side of his mattress haphazardly, and he makes eye contact with them for a split second.
He grabs them in his right hand. The lace is soft in his fist, softer than he expected, delicate little scalloped edges. He wraps the pair of panties loosely around his cock, and the sensation of it sends his brain into overdrive. Against him, the lace looks improper, something immoral.
He is a little ashamed of himself.
Unfortunately, he is also completely unable to stop.
He guides his hand up and down his length, at a pace that he normally goes at when he’s just frustrated. His brain supplies images in snapshots—the weight of you in his lap, hips rolling against his crotch. He thinks about your chest, bare in the red light. The small sounds you made when the pace shifted and you stopped being professional about it for a microsecond. He thinks about your hands guiding his, hold on right there, pretty boy.
Your thighs bracketing his, what it would feel like if there was nothing in between them… if you were actually—if he could actually watch you ride his cock, bouncing up and down on it as your tits moved in his face. He would probably press his face into them, so perfectly plump and ready for him.
“God, [Y/N],” he chokes out, to nobody, to the ceiling, to the concept of you existing in the world without his knowledge for however many years before Saturday.
Jungkook jerks himself off faster, twisting his hand at the ase just how he likes it when he wants to cum fast. His hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at the way your black panties are now covered in a mix of his saliva and precum.
He wants to see you covered in his cum, maybe on your perfect tits or those glossy lips, taking every ounce of him that your body can manage. He bets you would take it like a good girl, would do anything just to please him and suck him dry of his money.
It doesn’t take long before his mind is spiraling down a drain and he’s on the brink of his orgasm. It was never going to take long. It bubbles in his core, the knot in his stomach unfurling, and then he’s cumming, with a loud whimper and a “Fuck, fuck. [Y/N],” staining your panties with hot, white ropes of cum. Jungkook doesn’t know how long his orgasm lasts, just that he’s never cum that hard in his entire life, not with the essence of you on your panties lingering so nearby.
For a long time, he sits on his bed, panties still balled in his fist. He sets them down very carefully on his nightstand like they’re evidence. In some sick twisted way, they are. They’re evidence of whatever is happening to him, whatever you cracked open in that private room, whatever he has blindly been waiting thirty years to feel and was not prepared for when it finally arrived.
But Jungkook knows one thing for sure: he can’t go on like this. He has to have you, one way or another.
Sometimes, you really fucking hate your job.
Men over the age of 40, married with two kids, will treat you with such disregard, as though you’re a piece of meat lucky enough to be desired by them. Your boss, Natalie, is a fucking cunt who takes half your earnings some nights, just to assert her dominance. Some nights, it’s so slow that you and the other dancers watch paint dry on the wall in your dressing rooms.
But sometimes, when the stars align and the universe throws you a bone, you really, really love your job.
Those nights are harder to come by. Usually, they start with a man throwing wads of cash at you, or stuffing them into the hem of your panties. They end with a private lap dance in the red room, where you rake in enough cash to pay off ten months of rent in advance.
But in the case of Jeon Jungkook, although your night started and ended the same way with him, you were utterly, completely intrigued by the harmless creature you had made cum in his pants last weekend.
His friends had showered you with cash, but Jungkook sat back in fear, watching you with a hypnotized gaze that never wavered. It was like he was captivated by every movement, hanging on every gyration of your hips. Namjoon didn’t need to tell you he was a virgin. You could smell it on him, something you predicted with just one glance.
And now, that virgin had infiltrated your every thought.
When you stumbled into the club on Tuesday, you saw the fresh bouquet of red roses lying on your vanity, and immediately knew who they were from. Sure, you had other older suitors at the club, some regulars, but none that would bring you flowers or shower you in anything but money. No, this was the gift of a boy, someone who wasn’t quite yet a man.
Quite honestly, you wanted to defile Jeon Jungkook.
So you waited. You waited and you waited, but he didn’t show up all week. By Friday, you were beginning to lose hope of seeing the aforementioned man again. You settled back into your old routine, hoping to get him off your mind with older, more forward men. It’s not like you were having sex with them. It’s a firm line you never wanted to cross, made that clear the first day you started.
It’s also not every day a hot, buff, tatted guy with bunny teeth and puppy-dog eyes walks into your club.
Saturday begins the same way it always does. Saturday nights at Paradise run like a well-oiled machine, and you are one of its most valuable parts.
The private tables are usually packed by 9PM, main stage rotating girls every twenty minutes. Bartenders furiously make drinks for eager men with open wallets, scanning for a dancer they can claim as their own for the night. You move through it with ease, a calming sensation spreading through your limbs. At least for now, this place has become your sanctuary. Or until the number in your head for your mother’s hospital bills finally hits zero.
Candy (also known as Lisa, but no one calls her that anymore) materializes out of nowhere, falling into step beside you. Since the day you joined Paradise, you two have shared a dressing room, secrets, lip gloss, and even underwear. She’s in gold tonight, hair pinned up, already counting a wad of bills from her regular client. Her hand connects with your bare ass, smacking the firm skin hard enough to leave a mark. “Lover boy show his face yet?”
“Haven’t seen him.” You adjust your bra strap without breaking stride. “Don’t think he can handle me, honestly.”
She snorts, “Yeah, no shit. Baby, he came in his pants from a lap dance.” She tucks the bills into her garter. “He cannot handle you. That’s the whole point.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going easy on him. Letting him come to me if he wants.”
Candy stops walking entirely to look at you. “You’ve never gone easy on anyone in your life.”
“I’m feeling charitable.” You try to walk around her, but she holds her arms out.
“We don’t do free shit around here,” she squints her eyes at you, sizing you up. She knows you better than most people do, which is usually a positive, but has now turned into what you hate most about her.
“Listen, the guy’s obviously a virgin.” You roll your eyes. “Not to mention, he’s fucking stacked. Like, loaded loaded. He’s also hot. Need I go on?”
She stares at you for a long moment as though she’s watching a car accident happen in slow motion. Then she opens her mouth to refute.
“CANDY. [Y/N].”
Natalie’s voice bellows across the floor. Your boss is standing by the bar in all black, clipboard tucked under her arm, wearing the expression she reserves for moments when she feels her 40% cut is not being adequately earned. “Floor. Now. Both of you. Please, for the love of God.”
Candy mouths a not-so-subtle we’ll talk later and runs off toward the main stage. You turn back toward the floor, scanning the private tables, already taking mental note of the bachelor party in the far left corner. There’s eight guys, sashes, someone wearing a veil ironically. They’d keep you busy for an hour tops, and everyone knows bachelor parties are where the money is—
Natalie’s hand lands on your shoulder, redirecting you with zero ceremony. “Not that one.”
You turn. “The bachelor party has—”
“Got it covered. I need you at table five.” She steers you firmly. “He’s alone.”
You raise a brow. “He got money?”
Natalie gives you a side eye that could scare kids on Halloween. “Yes, dumbass.”
“How much money?”
“Just enough.” She releases your shoulder and delivers a brisk slap to your ass that you choose not to comment on. “Make me proud.”
Cursing under your breath, you start toward table five, fluffing your hair as you walk, rolling your shoulders back. Chin up, gaze level, lips pouted. Table five is tucked slightly off the main floor, dim even by Paradise standards.
As you approach the booth, you excitedly say, “Hi—”
The word dissolves in your mouth.
Because sitting at table five, in a dark t-shirt that hugs his tattooed biceps, turning a glass of whiskey between his hands nervously, is Jeon Jungkook.
He lifts his eyes to yours. For a second, he has the audacity to look surprised, like he didn’t come here specifically. He blinks at you and his ears go bright pink.
“Well,” you say, recovering first, “Look who found his nerve.”
His eyes rake over your figure, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.
You don’t want to let the poor man suffer for too long. Swinging yourself into his lap, your knees straddle his thighs. A sharp inhale escapes him, hands flying up instinctively before freezing mid-air like he’s forgotten whether touching is allowed, ears going from pink to red in one second flat. “Nothing to be shy about, pretty boy,” you murmur.
He lowly whimpers. A soft and involuntary noise, his jaw snapping shut like he can take it back.
“I got your gift,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, tugging him an inch closer to you. His sculpted chest is pressed against your tits, and he doesn’t need to take his shirt off for you to decipher how buff he is.
His eyes go wide. “Y-yeah? Did you like them?”
You tilt your head, lips brushing against his jawline. “How did you know my favorite color was red?”
(It’s not. Your favorite color is green, has been since you were seven years old. But he doesn’t need to know that, and the way his body tenses when you say it is worth every cent of the lie.)
“L-lucky guess,” he stammers, and looks so pleased with himself.
“You’re a smart boy.” You press a chaste kiss to his jaw, then to his neck, and you feel his cock twitch underneath you. He shifts a little, trying to hide it, but you press down further.
His hands hover at your hips, still not quite landing, suspended in that same paralyzed uncertainty from the private room last week.
“You can touch me.”
He doesn’t spare a moment. His hands land directly on your hips, curling into the fabric of your underwear that rides high.
“Tell me why you came back,” you coyly bat your eyelashes. You know exactly why he’s here and what he wants, but you’ll let him tell you. After all, that’s what you instructed him to do. To come and find you when he was certain he was ready. Even though it was unspoken, he had to have known what you meant.
“I–I wanted to, uh, see you,” he swallows thickly, struggling to maintain eye contact.
“Alone?” You tilt your head.
“My friends don’t know I’m here.”
“Ah, so I’m your secret?” you tease.
“N-no!” He leans forward, brunette hair falling into his eyes. God, he’s so fucking cute. “No, you’re not. I just—this is new for me.”
“What is?”
Say it, Jungkook. Say it.
“You… you know what.”
“You know,” you say, leaning in slightly so he can feel your hardened nipples through your bra, “most men who come in here alone aren’t shy about what they want.”
“I’m not shy,” he pouts.
You roll your hips over his half-hard cock, and he exhales. “You’re right. I’m so sorry, Jungkook. You are a big, strong man.”
He owlishly blinks at you, trying to understand what mind game you’re playing on him. Not that it matters, since he’s putty in your hands.
“So prove to me that you want me.”
You tip his chin up with two fingers, pulling his gaze back to yours. “Hey,” you say quietly. “Right here.”
Hurriedly, like he’ll lose the words, he says, “I touched myself to you. Like you said.”
“Yeah? Did you cum?”
“I did,” he pauses, mulls over his next words. “I came so hard I almost cried.”
“Wish I could’ve seen that.” You kiss his neck, teeth biting down on his soft skin before soothing it with your tongue. A sweet moan echoes in your ear as you suck on his skin, sure to leave a blooming purple bruise on him. “What did you think about?”
“You… and me.” Your lips travel to a different park of his neck, littering a new section with sloppy hickies. “You…ah, fuck… on top of me, riding me. Making me cum again. I wondered w-what it would feel like if there were no clothes between us.”
Your hands slide from his jaw down his chest, feeling him tense under every inch of movement. “And what did you decide?” you ask. “Would it feel good?”
“I think it would feel like—I think you would ruin me,” he whimpers.
It’s written all over his face, plain and undefended, the way everything is with him, and you think about all the men who have sat where he’s sitting and uttered the complete opposite. Your hands drift lower, finding him at your hips, and you guide them up over your waist, ribcage, until his palms are cupped over your tits, fingers curling around you through the thin fabric of your bra.
He breaks your gaze. Looks down at his tattooed hands cupping your breasts.
“Jungkook,” you say.
He looks back up like a puppy following orders from a trainer.
“Still with me?”
“Yeah,” he exhales, massaging your tits with his massive hands. “Yeah,‘m very—I’m extremely with you.”
You roll your hips forward and watch his eyes flutter. “Good,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, cheek, the soft skin below his ear. “Because I’ve been thinking about you all week.”
“You have?”
“Mhm. Kept thinking about how good you’d feel inside me.” Your thumb traces his lower lip, catching the piercing. His cock is hard against you now, has been since you sat down, and you roll over it slightly, enough to feel him inhale sharply through his nose and grip you. “I want you to cum inside me, fill me up the way I know you want to.”
“O-oh,” he breathes, rutting his hips up to feel more. “I want that too.”
“You’d take it like a good boy, wouldn’t you?” You tug at the piercing, running your fingers over his supple pink lips.
“Y-yes, please. Anything.”
His eyes are glossed over with lust, so much that you doubt he’s hearing a word you say. “I bet my pussy feels so good wrapped around your cock. Bet you’re—”
“How much?”
Huh?
Your brows furrow, and his hands halt all movements on your tits. “What do you mean?”
“H-how much for a private room?”
He eyes you expectantly, chest heaving.
Of all the things you expected him to say in this moment, it was not that. You’re half naked in his lap, you just told him you’d been thinking about him all week, and he’s asking for a price point.
The old version of this interaction writes itself easily. You name the number, take him to the back, take his money, take what you want, and send him home by midnight. Clean cut.
You’ve done it a hundred times.
But then he’s looking at you with those eyes, looking like a kicked puppy. An obscenely wealthy, tattooed, jawline-having kicked puppy who brought you roses on a Tuesday and almost cried when he came.
You genuinely, physically cannot take his money right now.
“I don’t want your money, Jungkook,” you say.
He stares at you like you’ve grown an extra head. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I—” he frowns, “—that’s not—you should take it, it’s fine, I have it—”
You shift in his lap, rolling your eyes. “I know you have it.”
“So just let me—”
“I want you,” you shrug. “Not your money. You.”
He goes still underneath you, like he’s running it back trying to find the catch. His brows pull together. “That doesn’t make any sense—”
And before he can question you any further, you kiss him.
You don’t plan it. One second he’s trying to logic his way out of being wanted and the next your hand is at his jaw and your mouth is on his and he makes a strangled sound against your lips. A muffled noise falls from his lips, and you swallow it down. For half a second, he’s frozen, your lips guiding themselves. He clearly has no idea what to do.
And then something gives way in him all at once and he kisses you back clumsily. His lips try to match your speed, and you cup his jaw in your hand to guide him as best you can.
Jungkook lets out a soft moan, fingers digging into your waist so he can tug you closer to him. It feels like your body is melding into his, becoming one. The sound of misogynistic men waving cash around fades into the background, and you forget where you are. Only a mere moment, until you snap back into it. You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he licks into your mouth desperately. You open your mouth a bit to let him explore, and his tongue is so soft and warm that butterflies erupt in your stomach unexpectedly.
When he pulls away, his cheeks are red, breath escaping him in puffs. Those doe eyes of his are twinkling under the light, bunny teeth poking out underneath his top lip.
“I—was that, um, okay?”
Oh god. You’re going to ruin this man’s life.
You bashfully giggle. “It was perfect, pretty boy. Are you sure this is your first time?”
Jungkook nods a few times like a broken bobblehead. You chuckle, shaking your head. Your voice lowers an octave. “I want more of you.”
“R-really?” He squeaks.
Rather than answer him with words (which he seems to understand so little of), you peel yourself off his lap, taking his hand in yours and tugging him off the couch. Jungkook stands, brows stitched together in confusion. You’d forgotten how tall he was, how much of him there is.
The floor parts around you as you move through it, the Saturday night chaos swallowing the two of you whole. You catch Natalie’s eye near the bar. She locks eyes with Jungkook and gives you an enthusiastic double thumbs up from behind her clipboard.
She’d lose her mind if she knew you were walking her highest-paying client of the night to the back for free. That’s a problem for later.
You push open the door to the red room. The LED light bleeds warm over everything.
Turning, you push him onto the couch with one hand flat against his chest and he plops into it with a soft exhale, hair falling across his forehead, looking up at you with those eyes. Puppy dog eyes, you think.
“You know what I’ve been thinking about all week?” you say, reaching up to slide one strap off your shoulder. Then the other.
He frantically shakes his head.
“Taking you apart,” you murmur. “Until you don’t remember your own name.”
“That’s—” he swallows thickly, “—that’s fine. Y-yes.”
You reach behind you and unclasp your bra.
For some reason unknown to you, it’s at this moment that you remember what you’re actually doing.
You’re standing in the red room on a Saturday night about to take the virginity of a man, a man who looked at you in a room full of women and somehow only saw you.
His eyes drop to your bare chest, perked nipples on display
The moment of clarity evaporates completely. You don’t feel bad at all.
Sinking to your knees, you crawl over to where he sits. The carpet is soft beneath your knees. You place your hands flat on his thighs and look up at him, plump, pink lips parting, hands gripping the couch cushions on either side of him. You run your hands slowly up his thighs, feeling the muscle jump under your palms, and tilt your head. “Is this okay, pretty boy?”
“Y-yes. It’s okay,” he hurries to respond like you might rid him of this moment.
“Have you ever been titty-fucked before?” you blink up at him, already knowing the answer.
His cheeks turn the color of the lights. His hand comes up to cover his face and he makes a sound into his palm that is equal parts mortified and desperate. “I-no. I never-I don’t even know, like, what that—I don’t—“
“Hands down,” You tug his hands away from his face. “Use your words, pretty boy. It’s just me.”
“No.” He finds his voice, his big brown eyes burning into yours. “I have not.”
You hold his gaze and run your palms up the inside of his thighs. Every coherent thought he has exits his body through his eyes.
“Well,” you say. “Pay attention.”
Your hands find his zipper. The sound it makes in the quiet room ricochets off the walls. His breath goes ragged, stomach caving on an inhale, watching your manicured hands fiddle with his pants. You take your time dragging the denim down his legs until he kicks them off desperately, left in his boxers.
Even through the fabric, you can see the outline of his erect cock. You wonder how long he’s been hard for, if it’s been before you saw him. You press your palm flat against the fabric, rubbing his bulge, and his head drops back with a groan.
“You’re so responsive,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, pressing slightly and watching his hips shift toward the pressure. “You feel everything, don’t you?”
“Y-yeah, I really—” he stops, swallows, “—I really do.”
“That’s so good,” you tell him. “That’s exactly right.”
His fingers find the edge of the couch cushion and grip. You take the waistband of his boxers between your fingers and look up at him one more time, giving him every opportunity to change his mind.
Jungkook’s eyes say please before his mouth does.
“Please,” he whispers anyway, because he has no defenses left. You trace the outline of his cock—and holy fuck, you can’t believe your luck. You’re the first girl to bear witness to his cock, and its massive, hidden underneath a man who’s never felt the warmth of a woman, never wanted to. Through his boxers, you can feel his girth, how thick he is.
Saliva builds up in your mouth. Slowly, you peel down his boxers, dragging them down his legs to the floor.
His cock stands up proud, slapping against his abdomen. For a moment, your heart thumps in your chest at the size of it, how thick and veiny he is. Fucking hell. You haven’t taken a cock this big in years, but damn straight you’re willing to try.
“I-is everything okay?” he asks, eyeing your expression.
You wrap a firm hand around his cock and he jolts forward. Stroking upwards, you feel every ridge, every vein that outlines his length. “It’s perfect, Jungkook. I can’t wait to taste you, for you to be inside me.”
Precum seeps from his glossy, red tip. You jerk him off a few times until he’s thrusting his hips into your hand. He’s beyond eager for anything you’ll give him, you note. Your eyes meet his, and slowly, you let spit dribble onto his cock, giving you enough slick to jerk him off properly. “Agh-fuck,” he moans, biting his bottom lip hard enough to produce blood.
“Feels good?” you ask, smiling.
“Y-yes, don’t stop,” he begs. Flicking your hair behind your shoulder, you hold your tits together, slipping his cock in between your cleavage. He chokes on a breath. “O-okay—okay—” he stammers, hands hovering uselessly on the couch.
The image of his pretty pink tip sitting between your tits sends waves of arousal to your core, flooding your panties. Adrenaline pumps through you, at the thought of taking this man’s virginity. Slowly, tentatively, enough for him to feel it, to understand it, you observe his face the entire time. His head falls back against the couch.
“You’re—fuck—” he cuts himself off, fingers digging into the cushion. You tilt your head, adjusting the pressure, testing what makes him react harder. Gradually, you move your tits up and down, down to his base and back up to his tip. The slick sounds of skin-on-skin echo across the room, mixed with his soft whimpers. His body tightens under your hands, thick thighs flexing, hips starting to thrust into you without thinking. He’s losing control faster than he can handle, faster than he can pause it. “S-shit, [Y/N], I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna cum—“
But you want him to cum. Want him to cum all over your tits, paint your body with it and let himself claim you. “It’s okay, Kookie,” you let the nickname roll off your tongue. “I want you to cum. It’s okay, I won’t be mad.”
“Y-You won’t?” His eyes bug out of his head like you’ve just spoken another language.
You giggle. “No, of course not.”
He shakes his head like he wants to deny it, but it’s useless. “I– I don’t know, I just— it feels—”
The words fall apart in his mouth. You slow down for a moment before leaning in and adding more slick, dragging your breasts over him again. Jungkook's head snaps back, a broken sound ripping out of him as his hands grip the couch harder. “Oh—fuck— I think I—“
Beneath your grasp, his thighs quiver, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he spurts all over your tits, white, hot liquid painting your skin. Some of it lands on your face, which you lick off happily. “O-oh, [Y/N], fuck fuck, I can’t stop—cumming,” he cries as you slow your pace down, laughing to yourself.
You ease back onto your knees, hands resting loosely around him. Jungkook is entirely too beautiful for his own good with his chest heaving, long lashes fluttering.
You’ve had men leave this room strutting. Buttoning their shirts before they’re off the couch, already reassembled, gone. It’s a specific kind of departure that reminds you what this is and what it isn’t.
He takes two shaky pulls of air, then a third. His eyes find yours and stay there. “I—I think you’re amazing.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have volunteered to defile the virgin, because now he’s saying things like this.
You laugh softly,. “Yeah?”
“No, like—” he pushes himself up further on the couch, words tripping over themselves, “you’re so beautiful and you knew exactly—and I didn’t even—I couldn’t—”
He stops himself. Cheeks flooding red, and all you can do is
look at him. “God, you’re cute,” you say.
Obviously, you’ve said the wrong thing because his ears go scarlet and his shoulders cave inwards. “Oh. Thank you”.
Another giggle escapes you, and you hardly recognize yourself. You’re not the girl who giggles during sex with a client, let alone any man. But then again, Jungkook isn’t really your client.
Your fingers wrap around his softened cock, and without doing much, he begins to harden in your hand, puffing up to his full potential again. He owlishly blinks, gulping. “Sorry, I’m just—“
“Don’t apologize,” you interrupt. “How do you want me?” His throat bobs when he swallows, eyes flicking down to where your hand rests on his length, then back up to your face. “I—”
He exhales shakily. “I don’t know.”
You hum, not letting him off that easy. Your thumb brushes over his tip, gathering the precum that’s begun to form and his hips twitch up.
Your mouth curves into a sinister smirk.“That’s not true.”
Jungkook lets a small, frustrated sound slip from his lips.“I just—” He breaks off again, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to say it.”
Leaning in a little closer, he has no choice but to feel how little space you’re giving him to hide in. “Use your words, pretty boy,” you murmur, “You’ve been doing so good.”
He sucks in a breath, “I want… I want your mouth on my cock. I want you to suck me off.”
Immediately, he turns bright red and you can’t help the delighted laugh that wracks through you. “Kookie,” you say, shaking your head a little, “I didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth.”
He chuckles at that, reaching down to place his hand over yours, guiding your slow strokes. Your heart leaps into your throat at the innocent touch, betraying you entirely.
With your eyes locked on his, you lean down and kitten lick his tip, and then drag it down his shaft. His mouth drops open on a silent moan, chest heaving. When you reach the bottom, you lick back up, following the path of a vein, before engulfing him fully in your mouth. He’s bigger than you expected, and your jaw aches at how much you have to open up to fit him in. Your tongue swirls around his tip, and he jolts forward, instinctively pulling your hair and entangling his tattooed fingers in it.
“K-keep going.” He bucks his hips up, the tip of your nose hitting his pubic bone. You can hardly hold back your gags, choking sounds escaping from your mouth, tears seeping through your lashes as you take him to the hilt. “Feels s-so good, angel. You’re so p-pretty.”
Your lips pop off his cock as you gasp for air, jerking him off in the meantime. “Yeah? You like how I look with your cock in my mouth, baby?”
He nods eagerly. “Yes, please.” Jungkook pushes your head down, and then blushes as though he just caught himself sticking his hand in a candy jar. It’s not as if you mind—his cock is addicting, his precum so sweet and warm. You lower your head, swirling your tongue around his tip just so you can hear his pretty little moans again.
You move at a steady pace, your hand working anything your mouth can’t take. His fingers dig into your scalp, almost guiding you. You don’t want to stop, never do, not until you ruin him. Not until you’ve had every ounce of him. His cock twitches in your mouth, and his thighs shake. It’s hard to hide the smile that’s curving upon your lips. After suctioning your lips around his tip a few more times, he drags your head up, practically ripping you off his body.
Your stomach leaps into your throat, and the unfamiliar swell of anxiety bubbles inside you. Men don’t ever push you off, and you’d be lying if you said your ego isn’t taking a hit.
“What do you want, pretty boy?” you ask sweetly.
“I liked it when you c-choked on it.” His cheeks turn a scarlet glow, brunette hair sticking to his golden skin. “You look pretty.”
“Want me to deepthroat your cock?” You grin, kitten licking his tip. Jungkook whimpers, and you take that as your answer. With no further instruction, you deeply inhale through your nose and take him to the hilt again, your throat full of him. Your air flow is entirely restricted, and Jungkook—the innocent virgin—pushes your head down, as if there were anywhere further to go. The feeling of being lightheaded doesn’t even scare you, just turns you on from how utterly desperate he is for you. “Shit, you’re so good at this,” he whines. “Don’t wanna cum yet. I wanna cum inside you, baby.”
You hum around him, and your mouth pops off his cock, saliva connecting his tip to your lips. “Are you sure, Kookie?”
You’re certain the poor boy has never been more ready for anything in his entire life. “Yes, please, please fuck me.” He begs between breathless groans, and you have to hide your own whimper from how fucked out he sounds.
Now, you’ve done a lot of things in the red room. Bondage, roleplay, orgasm denial… but taking someone’s virginity? And that of a man who actually might be worth your time? Can’t say you’ve done that before. It excites you, and for a moment, you have to wonder if it’s because of the situation, or because of the man sitting in front of you.
Standing up, you steady yourself despite the ache in your knees. You unhurriedly peel off your underwear, your arousal sticking to your thighs as you kick them off. Jungkook’s eyes follow your legs up, up, until he stares at your pussy with a tiny gasp. You straddle his thighs, using his shoulders as leverage. Your soaking core hovers above his erect cock, and he looks down to see just how close you actually are. “Are you sure, pretty boy?” you ask again, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Please.” His eyes snap to yours, and the sincerity behind it sends electricity through your veins. You take his fingers, placing them in your mouth before sucking on them and bringing them to your clit so he can feel how aroused you are for him. So ready and pliant above him. “O-oh, you’re really wet.”
“I am, Kookie,” you giggle. “You made me like this.” You guide his movements, little circles on your clit. Foreplay isn’t even necessary—you’re not sure you’ve ever been wetter.
You align his length to your hole, and sinking down on him, inch by inch, you can feel every ridge and vein decorating his cock. You're deliciously full, until you’re filled to the brim, stuffed with his cock. You’d had a rough idea of what to expect. You’d done this a hundred times in this room. You thought you knew how this part went. But you were not prepared for Jungkook.
The stretch of him is slow and overwhelming and your walls have to work to accommodate his size. You hear yourself exhale, an involuntary release of air. His face finds your neck immediately and he groans. “O-oh my god,” he croons in your neck, muffled against your sweaty skin. “Is this what pussy f-feels like?”
You can hardly think long enough to form a response, and then he starts to move. Careful rolls of his hips, driving his cock up into you, checking every flicker of your expression for anything that looks like discomfort. It’s so like him. Completely, specifically him, that something in your throat tightens.
What he finds instead is your eyes, telling him everything. He continues fucking upwards, and a borderline scream escapes you from how quickly he finds that sweet spot inside you. His fingers flex at your hips. He gasps and then he’s babbling, words tumbling out unfiltered the way everything does with him. “Your pussy feels so good. So tight and warm,” he speaks into your neck, inhaling your scent like he’s a wolf. “It’s so wet, [Y/N], so fucking wet.”
You need to get it together. You need to find the part of yourself that knows what she’s doing in this room, that has always known, that has never once lost the upper hand. Your hands come to rest on his thighs behind you, and you lift yourself up his cock, only to slam yourself back down. Each time you take him fully, your breath punches out in a grunt you can’t swallow back, your knees working against the cushions as you ride him. Your nails dig into his thighs, red, crescent moons forming. The sound of skin slapping and your wet cunt swallowing his cock fills the room. “Fuck, you feel so good, Jungkook. You’re so big, so deep inside me.”
“Yeah? You like how I feel inside you?’ His hands cup your ass, helping your movements. Despite it being his first time, Jungkook moves like he knows you.
Muscle memory takes over, and you grab a fistful of his hair and drag him towards you. You kiss him.
Sloppy and breathless and without technique, lips catching and sliding, both of you too far gone to be graceful about it. He makes a broken sound into your mouth, hips stuttering.
“Want to make you my fucktoy. Would you like that, pretty boy?”
He nods excitedly, eyes squeezed tight as you milk his cock with every bounce. Although you should be focused on making him cum, all of that flies out the window as the familiar coil in your stomach begs to come undone. Your walls flutter around his cock and his eyes open, looking to where your bodies join to try and decipher the sensation. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you moan.
“Really?” he asks, wide-eyed with wonder. “Shit–keep going, baby. You’re gonna make me cum too, I won’t be able to last l-long.”
You switch to a back-and-forth motion, your clit hitting his pelvic bone, enough to make your legs shake as your orgasm washes over you. Jungkook grips your hips tight as you whimper, falling forward and wrapping your arms around his neck for stability. He takes the opportunity to thrust up into you again desperately, chasing his own release. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whines. “So fucking addicting. I want to be inside you forever.” The sound of those words tumbling from his lips, tone so easy, has something inside of you clenching.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum again,” he hisses, hips faltering as he coats your walls with his cum, and the warmth of him fills you up. Wrapping his arms around you entirely, you feel Jungkook press chaste kisses to your neck, jaw, and cheek, bringing you back down to earth.
When you two finally catch your breath, you rest there, with his cock softening inside you and your nails tracing patterns down his back. Your legs remain glued to his thighs, like the rest of the club doesn’t exist, like Natalie and her clipboard and the Saturday night chaos on the other side of the door are happening on a different planet. It feels like just you two in the whole building.
14 months ago, your last relationship ended abruptly. In the parking lot of a grocery store, which is such an unglamorous setting for the end of two years that you’ve never quite been able to shake it. He was handsome, aware of it, rationing it, using it for his benefit. He never brought you flowers. Not once, not for birthdays or apologies or just because. Flowers were a waste of money in his opinion, and not to be spent on ‘cheap girls’ like you.
You look at Jungkook’s profile. The soft line of his jaw in the red light, the flutter of his long lashes.
There are red roses on your vanity that he left without being asked.
“Did I… did I do okay?”
You pull back to peer at him, and his eyes are sparkling, an earnest expression taut on his face. You recognize what he needs to hear. “Yes, Jungkook,” you say, combing your fingers through his hair. “You did very good.”
The relief that moves across his face is immediate. “Okay,” he nods. “That’s good.”
He ducks his head. “How do I—how do I pay you?”
The ripple of his question moves through you. You need the money more than anyone in this room. You have a number in your head that lives there rent free, that wakes you up at 3 AM sometimes, that is the entire reason you’re here in the first place.
You open your mouth to name a figure, but instead, “It’s fine,” you hear yourself say. “You don’t have to.”
He pouts. “But I want to. You should let me.”
“It’s fine,” you repeat.
“Not even a tip?” he tries again, and you have to commend his effort.
“No.”
And with a calm confidence that was not there an hour ago, “My number then,” he says. “Can I have yours? Would that work?”
You laugh, dropping your face into the curve of his neck, and feel him go warm underneath you. “You have some nerve, Jungkook.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Huh?” Maybe he wasn’t expecting your compliance, but you give it anyway. You’ll give yourself this one.
“Yeah, Jungkook.” It’s probably a bad idea. Or maybe it’s the best one you’ll ever have. “You can have my number.”
The next night, when you open your phone, you read a text from Jeon Jungkook that says: i know you said no tips, but think of this as a gift. open your door.
Outside your door sits a bouquet of red roses, with piles and piles of cash sitting beside it. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that.
On the flowers is a note, something even cuter than his text, that reads: give me one more night? - your pretty boy
Summary: The construction company your neighbors hire to do work on their house are loud, inconsiderate, and quickly get under your skin. One man in particular seems hellbent on driving you crazy until one day, all that tension comes to a head.
Warnings: language, smut (piv sex), dirty talk, praise kink, light spanking, reader being kind of pissy and Joel fucks it out of her (but he's not mean), Joel gets turned on by bossy women
Masterlist
It's your day off. You had a long month, working extra late to meet deadlines and skipping plans with friends and family to perform at your fullest and get the promotion you so badly deserved, and now that the project was done and you impressed all right people, you rewarded yourself with a singular day off. But your neighbors had other plans.
It started before eight in the morning. Power tools, yelling, laughing, car doors slamming. It ruined the peace and tranquility of the post-school bus and rush hour lull. At first, you turned over and tried to fall back asleep. When that didn't work, you grabbed your extra pillow and pressed it against your ear. But after thirty minutes of chasing sleep with the sounds outside only growing louder, you gave up, blood boiling.
Maybe you should have coffee first, but unfortunately, your rage wins out. It's way too early. They're being far too noisy. And it's your goddamn day off!
You're seeing red when you tighten your robe around your waist, not even bothering to tie it but instead you hold it closed with your fist as you storm towards the front door. Your pajamas are just a tank top and sleep shorts, it's not anything scandalous anyway, especially given how hot Texas gets in the summer, but the last thing you want is a whole construction crew gawking at you while you give them a piece of your mind.
Music had just been turned on somewhere amongst the site. Tom Petty, you think, as you make your way over. Your flip flops snap angrily against the blacktop as you cross your driveway into your neighbor's front yard to survey the scene.
There's at least eight workers getting set up. Their trucks are parked all up and down the street, taking up every open spot. None of them glance your way as they unload tools, coolers, and supplies from their flatbeds. Your arms cross tightly and your brows furrow but the noise only gets louder.
"Excuse me?" you call out to no one in particular, but they don't hear you. Your jaw tightens. "Hey! Excuse me?"
"Can I help you?"
You swivel around, taken off guard by the deep voice behind you.
"Yes! I—"
Your words falter when you lay eyes on the man who snuck up on you. He's setting a ladder down by his feet, giving you time to take in his strong arms and broad shoulders underneath the stretch of his black short sleeved shirt, which still allows you a generous view of his tanned forearms. His jeans look lived in in the best kind of way. He wears them like a man who doesn't care what they look like, so long as they're comfortable. You push down the heat crawling up your neck by the time he straightens up, but when you see his face, you lose your train of thought once again.
Deep brown eyes, sharp nose, a chiseled jawline dusted with a short, somewhat patchy beard. Then he offers a soft, crooked smile that knocks the wind out of you to the point where you nearly forget your earlier anger.
Focus, you scold yourself.
"I live right over there—" You point behind him and he slowly turns, eyes scanning your modest home. "And my bedroom window is right there," you add. His eyes flicker to your open window towards the back of the house before he gives you his full attention again, something that makes your stomach flip. "I'd appreciate it if you guys could keep it down this early in the morning. It's disruptive to the whole neighborhood."
His devastatingly dark eyes glimmer with humor and even though he's not smiling, you can sense he's not taking you seriously. He makes a show of checking his watch—a beat up old thing with a green fabric band—before looking back at you. "It's eight fifteen," he tells you, tone flat.
"Yeah, now," you say, rolling your eyes, "but this noise started earlier. It woke me up."
Now the corner of his mouth lifts and he slowly crosses his arms, which simultaneously irritates and excites the hell out of you.
"Sorry 'bout that, miss," he tells you, "but we're abidin' by city ordinance."
"I'm sure you are, but you have to admit it's disturbing the peace."
He regards you silently for a moment, his heavy gaze drifting up and down your frame. Suddenly, the thin robe you're wearing is too much and doesn't seem like enough all at once. An amused look flits across his face at one point before his eyes drop to the dirt.
"Could start at seven, technically," he finally says, "we're doin' you a favor by startin' at half past."
Your hackles raise at that. "Would you like me to thank you?"
He chuckles and shakes his head before meeting your gaze again. "Never said that. Just sayin' we're followin' the law, is all."
"I know you are," you huff, "all I'm suggesting is maybe keeping your voices a little lower."
He smirks and uncrosses his arms in favor of propping his hands on his hips, giving you a spectacular view of his wide chest.
"We could," he muses, pretending to think about your request while staring off at a fixed point somewhere over your shoulder, "if you ask real nice."
Your jaw drops at the same time your knees go weak. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, still staring somewhere behind you in order to keep his shit eating grin from stretching across his face. "Just sayin', you came over here all hot under the collar. Had you asked nice, I mighta been able to help you out."
Your throat tightens. He's not trying to sound suggestive but your brain doesn't care. It's sending a wave of arousal right through you, causing your heart to slam against your ribs the more it builds.
"What's your name?" you demand with a clipped tone.
"Joel," he says without missing a beat.
"Joel," you repeat, "I'd like to speak with your boss."
"Ah, that'd be me."
He stretches out his hand with a grin. You ignore it and look back at the trucks until you spot a logo on the side and squint.
"Miller?" you guess. He nods. "Great. I'll be filing a complaint with the better business bureau."
You shoulder past him and try not to fixate on how good he smells, a mixture of motor oil, fresh soap, and coffee.
"Yeah? And what's your complaint gonna be for?" Joel calls after you. You ignore him and keep walking. You hear his deep chuckle before he picks up the ladder and it pisses you off even more, but you don't allow your rage to show until you're safely inside your house where you can seethe to yourself while making some coffee.
***
The rest of the week is uneventful. You have meetings downtown all week, a disruption to your usual remote work schedule, but a necessary evil you try your best to organize all at once every month. When you leave in the morning, the workers are just arriving. When you get home, they're already packed up or gone entirely. You nearly forget all about your intriguing run in with the mysterious Joel Miller until the following Monday, when you're back to working remotely.
You're an hour into emails and onto your second cup of coffee when you first hear the familiar ruckus next door. It starts with amused banter. Then truck doors slamming. Then the music kicks on. You shake your head, close your windows, and keep working.
With your television playing in the background, it's easier to block out some of the construction noise, but at around one in the afternoon you hear a repetitive, ear piercing beep, beep, beep during a work call that sets your teeth on edge.
Stones are pouring from the back of a metal flatbed. Shovels are scraping and banging loudly. And you do your best to stay focused, but when the call ends and you can't recall half the topics discussed, you can't hold back any more.
You spot Joel with his back to you, holding a shovel and shouting instructions to his crew while you approach. As if he can sense it, he turns when you're about ten feet away. His eyes sweep up and down your body and he grins before leaning on his shovel, amused by the anger currently forcing your feet forward.
"Don't tell me we woke you up again," he teases before you can even open your mouth. "It's after lunch. What's the matter now?"
You scowl at him, ignoring the way his crew sends you curious looks as they work.
"No," you snap, "I'm working. Or, at least, trying to! I have all my windows closed and I still can hardly hear myself think."
He looks at you like he's sizing you up, like he's trying to figure something out. "Thought you worked in an office somewhere."
You frown, slightly alarmed. "How would you know that?"
"Saw you couple times last week," he says hurriedly, as if he just realized how his comment sounded. "When I was gettin' here in the mornin', sometimes I'd see you gettin' in your car and drive off."
The silence that followed made Joel nervous. He shifted his weight and awkwardly scratched his beard while you tried to sort through what he just said without giving away your feelings. He noticed you? Was he looking for you, or did he just happen to see you?
"Uh, based on your spiffy clothes, just figured you worked somewhere fancy," he finished, rubbing the back of his neck before looking away.
You look down at the clothes you currently have on—denim shorts and an old, oversized shirt... far from spiffy today—before looking back up at him. To your surprise, you notice some red creeping up his neck and staining the apples of his cheeks. You have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling because despite how pleased it makes you to see the big, annoying, sexy construction guy next door all embarrassed because of you, you're here for a reason.
"Sometimes I work in an office, but most of the time I work at home," you explain, waving toward your house, "and right now, it's pretty much impossible to get anything done."
"Well, m'sorry 'bout that, but we gotta work, too."
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know. How much longer is this going to take?"
Joel clicked his tongue, making you lift your chin to look back up at him. The way he looks at you like you're something worth studying makes your heart skip a beat. Traitor.
"I'm offended you wanna get rid of us." His tone is back to teasing, and that glint in his eye confirms it. He likes pushing your buttons.
"I just want my quiet back! My—your customers are elderly! They can't hear for shit, they keep to themselves, they're the perfect neighbors! They aren't bothered by all this noise, but everyone else is!" Your voice is getting louder than you thought. People are beginning to notice, but you don't care.
"Everyone?" Joel repeats, narrowing his eyes now. "Strange, 'cause you're the only one cryin' 'bout it."
"I am not crying about it, I'm attempting to come to some sort of agreement, but you're being too... too..." Your hands flail in the air as you struggle to think of the right word.
"Too what?" Joel presses, stepping closer. You catch a whiff of his sweat mixed with sawdust and it makes your head swim. Focus.
You glare at him, blood on fire in your veins the longer he stands there looking all cocky.
"Misogynistic!" you exclaim triumphantly. Joel just blinks at you.
"What?"
You roll your eyes. "Means if a man were out here asking you to keep it down, you probably would, but instead you're giving a woman a hard time."
That seems to piss him off. His jaw sets into a tight line and he leans forward, voice low and dangerous. "Now you listen here," he says, and the way his demeanor suddenly shifted makes your spine straighten. "I'll allow for alotta shit, but I ain't gonna stand here and let you spin some wild story when you don't even know me or my crew. That's disrespectful and untrue."
You swallow tightly, unable to tear your gaze away from his eyes. They're so dark and stormy when he's legitimately mad that it's hard to look away.
"Sorry," you mumble, "but you're not taking me seriously, what else am I gonna think?"
His gaze softens then. His shoulders loosen. And the clouds clear from his eyes. The playful glimmer returns and you swear you see a ghost of a smile tug at his lips before he casually says, "I'll prove it to you. Bring out your husband or boyfriend or whoever and I'll tell him the same things I've been tellin' you."
"I don't have a husband or boyfriend," you answer before you even realize the trap you stepped in. His face lights up but he plays it off with ease.
"That's a relief." Your eyes widen and he grins. "'Cause if you had some guy hidin' in there all this time, lettin' his woman handle all the dirty work, gripin' to me while wearin' short shorts or a see-through robe? That wouldn't be much of a man."
Then he turned on his heel to join his crew, leaving you to weave through the rollercoaster of emotions he just dumped on you for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Over the next few days, something slightly changed. You found yourself going outside more, lingering around your car or taking a while to get your mail just to catch a glimpse of Joel. Usually, he'd catch your eye and give you a small smile, but that was the extent of it. Nothing overtly friendly and nothing mean, either. He was very good at being polite and cordial, which infuriated you. It made it impossible to figure out exactly what he was thinking. You replayed so many looks and conversations in your head to the point where you were paralyzed trying to pick apart every inflection and glance.
Why do you care anyway? you kept asking yourself. You never provided an answer.
It's the combination of your frustration with yourself as well as Joel's confusing signals that cause you to find more things to complain about, although you never admit it. But every interaction with Joel leaves you more aggravated and pent up than the last.
"That's not the property line. This is the property line," you had argued with him on Tuesday.
"It's just four inches."
"That's nine inches, easy."
Joel had tsked sympathetically under his breath. "Oh, darlin', if someone out there's tellin' you that's nine inches, I'm so sorry."
On Thursday morning, he had parked his truck in your driveway.
"I need to have my driveway clear!"
"I know, I know, it was only for a minute til the concrete truck comes—"
"I don't care! Park on the street!" you had yelled, but the angrier you got, the more pleased Joel looked.
"No parkin' left on the street."
"Then park on the lawn," you said, crossing your arms and jutting out your hip. His eyes had drifted down, noting you chose to wear a shirt that showed a little more cleavage than usual.
"Careful, sweetheart. Keep yellin' at me like this and I'll fall in love with you."
Every time he said something flirty like that, it sent you back to your house to obsess over whether or not he was serious or just trying to get you off his back.
The cherry on the sundae was the incident on Friday when someone accidentally dug in the wrong spot and severed your internet cable, completely derailing the latest project you had been tasked with at work. Joel had anticipated your anger before you stormed out of the house, screen door smacking loudly against the siding as you stomped down the old wood stairs of your porch, making a beeline right for Joel next door.
"Tell me it wasn't your guys who did that."
He sighed before slowly turning around to face you. He looked tired, no doubt drained from the long, hot week, but he still managed to brighten up a little when he laid eyes on you.
"Sorry, darlin'. They're comin' to fix it."
"When?" you snapped. Joel narrowed his eyes as if to silently warn you about your tone. Who the hell does he think he is?
"An hour," he said flatly.
"An hour?" you exclaimed, clearly devastated.
"Yeah. An hour. Ain't you got a lunch break or somethin' you can take til it's fixed?"
You snorted and tossed your hair over your shoulder. "I haven't taken a lunch break that didn't involve a client in more than five years."
"Well, today's the day you break that streak," he told you before turning back to the hole in the ground. "Damn inspector didn't flag the property right. Ain't our fault, it's the town's."
You bury your face in your hands with a groan. "I can't believe this," you mutter to yourself.
"If it helps, I ain't happy 'bout it either," Joel says, crouching down to inspect the spot closer. "This just set me back a couple days."
"Days?!" you exclaim, letting your hands fall back to your sides in disbelief. Joel nods, still not looking at you.
"Yeah. Gotta redo the plans now. Old plans were built 'round the cables bein' two feet west—"
"So this insanity is going to last even longer?" you ask, cutting him off. Joel sighs and drops his head between his shoulders briefly before standing with a grunt. He's tall—his shadow blocks the sun when he towers over you, a fact that never went unnoticed.
"What's the matter, sweetheart? Thought you'd be happy to know you ain't gettin' rid of me just yet." The smirk he gives you is devastating. Your gaze falls to his throat, where beads of sweat have been trickling down and soaking his collar. It's not fair this man is so fucking handsome yet so irritating.
"I'll survive," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly and looking away to clear your head.
"Yeah? Who you gonna yell at when I'm gone, hm?"
"Believe it or not, I'm actually not a yeller," you shoot back with a glare. "Guess you just bring it out of me."
His gaze darkened for a moment like he was considering how to reply. You could almost see the silent back and forth behind his eyes, the words locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue but a small sliver of logic fought to hold onto them and pull them back down.
He says it anyway.
"That right?" His voice dips lower than you've heard it before, but not out of anger. Something else. Something far more heated and dangerous. "Wonder what else I could bring outta you."
The implication falls between you like an anvil. The weight of it keeps you both still, oblivious to what's going on around you entirely. Somehow, you manage to hold his gaze, but you're swallowing hard and breathing even harder and he can see it. He tracks the movement with those dark eyes, waiting for you to come up with a retort or storm off.
Normally, you'd do the latter, but today, you're fired up. It's always Joel who gets the last flirty word in. It's always Joel who leaves you spinning while he happily carries on with his day. So this time, you close the distance between you and crane your neck up. He doesn't break eye contact but you can tell he didn't expect this. He didn't expect you to get inches away and hold the silence like a knife to his throat. His lip curls into a smile, breathlessly anticipating some flustered, snappy comeback paired with an angry look. Instead, what you say shocks him.
"You couldn't handle it, Miller."
The confidence in your voice is what makes him falter. You clock it and grin, very satisfied with yourself, before turning and heading back to your house. The world begins to wake up around him again. Sounds begin to crescendo slowly in the air: power tools, his crew's voices, cars rumbling down the street. But his eyes are fixed on you. On the way you carry yourself back up your porch and into your house without the courtesy of a single glance back.
When your screen door snaps shut, he blinks. Clears his throat. Then forces his feet to move.
After that, Joel spends the rest of the afternoon praying he doesn't get distracted enough to lose a finger.
***
The weekend is thankfully quiet, but long. You pace around trying to keep busy, but you miss it. You hate it, but you miss peeking out your window to see what Joel is up to. You miss whatever has been brewing between you over the last two weeks. You miss the excitement and electricity that crackles between you when you stomp over there for one reason or another.
By Sunday night, you decide it isn't healthy to be so fixated on this. You're not even sure what's gotten into you. Usually, your life is mundane and quiet, yet this man has burrowed his way in and found a piece of you to bring to life you didn't know existed.
He pisses you off, you remind yourself. It's not good. He's not good. Let this go, the sooner the better.
So on Monday, you force yourself to stay in your house all day. It's hard, but you know it's the right thing to do. You need to focus on work and Joel is just a distraction. A big, annoying, sexy distraction.
On Tuesday, you do the same thing. It's a littler easier this time. You get a decent amount of work done with your earbuds solidly in place. You only look up from your computer to check your window a handful of times. Once or twice you swear you catch Joel glancing expectantly towards your house, but you push down the butterflies in your belly and focus back on the project in front of you.
Wednesday is more difficult because on that day, there's a legitimate reason to be annoyed. Joel's crew is using a portion of your lawn to toss old pieces of wood from the porch next door. When you first notice, you find yourself rising to your feet, propelled by anger. But then you catch yourself and slowly sit back down.
It's fine. They'll clean it up. Don't worry about it.
You finish your workday without stepping foot outside, although you had to close your curtains so you'd stop looking at the mess.
Thursday is loud. Drills pierce the air earlier than usual. You assume it has to do with the rain clouds forming on the horizon, but it still grates your every nerve to hear metal grinding into solid wood first thing in the morning. You pop your earbuds in and turn the volume up. It works, until the rain starts. The water streaking suddenly down your windowpane catches your attention, so you pull your earbuds out and look up.
Across your driveway, Joel's crew is packing up early. They're running, getting absolutely soaked in the rain while trying to get everything valuable back into their trucks as quickly as possible.
Good, you think. Peace and quiet a little earlier today.
Then you see him. Joel. With his dark curls plastered against his forehead and his white shirt sticking to his torso like he had just jumped into a pool. Your brain buffers and your lips part at the sight. You could tell before he's strong, but now his shirt is leaving very little to the imagination.
"Shit," you whisper as you watch, unblinking, while Joel packs up his truck and then turns to help his crew. His muscles flex under his rain soaked skin, water drips furiously down the sides of his head, and you forget how to breathe.
Fuck him for being so irritating and goddamn good looking at the same time.
The image is seared into your brain for the rest of the night. It has you tossing and turning in bed until you can't stand it anymore and you give in, sliding one hand down the front of your shorts in search of relief. It's fleeting and not as good as you hoped, but at least you're able to fall asleep.
Friday is when everything comes to a head.
You're tired from a restless nights sleep and on your third cup of coffee when you notice the end of your driveway is blocked. Your jaw clenches as you push a curtain aside to get a better view and of course, it's Joel's truck.
"Son of a bitch," you mutter, narrowing your eyes like you could destroy the car with your mind if you tried hard enough.
It's fine. He'll move it. He's probably waiting on some delivery, like last time.
But this time, his truck remains parked haphazardly at the end of your driveway all day. When you manage to spot him working next door, he's all smiles, completely unbothered. At last around three you see him walk to his truck, but it's just to get something from the console. The way he strolls back to his crew like he had every right in the world to encroach on your property makes your blood boil.
That's it. You've had enough. You've kept to yourself all week long, it's almost the weekend, you did pretty good. And this isn't unreasonable. He's in your fucking driveway! He's had multiple chances to move and he didn't!
Before you could stop yourself, you reach forward, lift open your window, and lean out.
"Joel Miller!"
He stops dead in his tracks, along with half his crew, to track your voice from your office window. When he spots you, he lifts his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun and he grins.
"Yeah?"
"Move your goddamn truck out of my driveway or else I'm havin' it towed!"
His crew chuckles and goes back to wrapping things up for the day. Joel tilts his head at you like he's amused.
"Thought you moved," he says, "haven't heard that smart mouth all week."
"Unfortunately for me, I'm still here," you snap, "now move that hunk of junk right now!"
"She ain't no hunk of junk," Joel says with mock offense. "She's the only lady in my life that never let me down, don't talk 'bout her like that."
"Stop talking about your car like it's a woman, that's gross."
Joel whistles low and comes closer so he doesn't have to shout. "Jealous?"
"Of a car? Give me a break," you snort.
He tsks and inches closer. By now, he's halfway across your driveway. "Why don't you try askin' me real nice, then maybe I'll move it."
"Why don't you get a little closer and I'll make you do it."
The deep groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench.
"Don't tease a fella now," he warns with a playful look, "'cause if you talk like that I'm gonna make you follow through."
You roll your eyes, grateful you have an entire wall between you to hide the way you're practically squirming in place.
"Will you please shut up and move the truck?"
"Don't love the shut up part, but y'did say please, so I will."
"Thank you," you reply, overly sweet with a fake smile. Still, Joel stifles a laugh, entirely enthralled with how riled up he manages to make you.
"No problem. I'll be done in an hour, then I'll get outta your hair."
The smile falls from your face to be replaced with a scowl. "An hour?"
"Yeah. An hour," he confirms, turning back to his job site. "Don't worry. Won't get in the way of your Friday night plans."
"Joel—"
"It'll be longer if you keep flirtin' with me," he says loudly over his shoulder so his entire crew can hear. Your cheeks instantly heat up but you slam your window shut before you can give him the satisfaction of witnessing your embarrassment.
You sit back down and try to focus on work, but it's impossible. Why does this man get under your skin so easily? And why do you find him so irresistible at the same time? It must be because it's been a while since the last time you've been with someone. You've been so focused on work the last several months, you can't even remember the last time you went on a date, let alone took a man home.
Your gaze drifts up against your will. Most of Joel's crew has cleared out next door. There's two guys left plus Joel, cleaning up the rest of the lawn before the weekend. You can see the relaxed smiles on their faces as they chat, probably discussing weekend plans. It makes you wonder what Joel does on the weekends. You have a feeling he's single based on his earlier comment about his truck. So what does a single man do with their spare time?
Probably pick up girls. The thought makes your stomach twist into a knot. You shake your head and focus back on your computer. That's none of your business. Who cares if he's getting laid? It doesn't matter.
Your lips press together when your eyes lift to find Joel through the window again, but now you realize the yard is empty. The remaining trucks are gone. The supplies are picked up. It's quiet.
For some reason, you're relieved when you stand and hurry to your window to find Joel's truck still idle in your driveway. You stand there staring at it while you weigh your options in your head.
It's a bad idea, you think. Joel isn't good for you. He drives you crazy. Yet you have to admit, you can't remember the last time you've felt such a spark with someone before. He's certainly not boring, you'll give him that. And he's funny, in his own way. Would it really be so bad?
Fuck it. You rush to your bedroom to change your shirt for a simple light dress and freshen up as fast as you can, all the while straining to hear for the telltale sound of his motor turning over, then you slow down.
You decide to leave it up to fate. If he's still there by the time you're ready, then you'll go for it. If he's gone, then he's gone, no big deal.
After tapping on some subtle, fruity flavored lip balm and spritzing just a tiny bit of perfume in your hair, you step out of your bedroom, mustering up as much confidence as possible as you walk to your front door. You decide not to practice what to say, that you'll just let it happen organically if it feels right. But when you swing your door open only to be met face to face with Joel, who has one fist raised in the air as if he were about to knock, all that confidence goes straight out the window.
Shit.
"Hey," he says with a crooked grin. His arm lowers to his side and your heart kicks in your chest when you notice his eyes sweep up and down your body before meeting your gaze.
"What can I do for you?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. His grin widens and you feel like you've stepped into yet another trap.
"That's a loaded question, sweetheart," he says, voice low. You suppress a shudder. "Wanted to tell you I'm headin' out. Looks like I got good timin', too." He gestures to your appearance and you look down.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He quirks up an eyebrow. "You got someone comin' over?"
You shake your head and try to bite back the smile that threatens to stretch across your face.
Joel makes a soft noise and casually lifts his arm to rest against the frame, right above your head. He's towering over you like this and you think it's on purpose.
"Just gettin' all dolled up to sit home alone?" he asks. You shrug and cross your arms, hoping your breasts lift when you do. His gaze flickers down quickly, confirming you're successful.
"You think this is dolled up?"
Slowly, he lets himself take in your appearance again, this time making sure you saw.
"Just used to seein' you in shorts or that little robe of yours."
"You don't like my shorts or robe?"
"Never said that."
You have to stifle a laugh and his eyes practically glitter with amusement.
"Do you have any big plans this weekend?" you ask, hoping to come across casual.
"Nothin' too crazy," he tells you, leaning in a little further. "Watch the game. Mow the lawn. Come up with new ways to get you yellin' at me."
You laugh and shake your head. "You've been doing a great job so far."
"Not so sure 'bout that," he says, swiping his palm over his chin. "Been tryin' all week. Didn't get your attention til I parked in your driveway."
The expression on your face instantly melts into one of annoyance. "You did all of that on purpose?"
His enjoyment couldn't be contained. With a huge grin, he replies, "Yes, ma'am."
"The mess on my lawn? The extra early noise?" You could feel your anger rising, flooding your chest with heat.
"That's right," Joel replies. "Parkin' in your driveway was a last resort."
Your jaw tenses as you stare him down in disbelief. "What is your goddamn problem?" you seethe. Your earlier plans to ask if he wanted to come in for a drink vanish. Screw this guy.
"Thought you were dead or somethin'. Consider it my version of a wellness check."
"I don't need you to do a wellness check on me!" you yell, throwing your hands in the air to stop yourself from pushing him. "I've put in the shittiest work this week because of you! Why are you hellbent on bothering me so much?"
"'Cause it's fun and you're cute when you're all pissed off."
"I'm cu—"
The words die in your throat as your brain formally processes what he just said. You're still angry and red in the face, your chest is still heaving from adrenaline, and yet you're frozen solid, blinking up at him like an idiot. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that dreadfully adorable dimple.
"Probably the only woman on earth who looks prettier when she's readin' me the riot act," he adds just to watch your mouth open and shut like a fish.
"You—"
You're at a loss for words. The emotional whiplash has you reeling. He's into you, but he's showing it like an elementary school boy. It's kind of endearing but mostly immature, so you stand your ground.
"How old are you? Because you act like you're no older than twelve."
"I'm definitely older than twelve," he chuckles without missing a beat. "But listen... I really am sorry if your work suffered 'cause of me. Lemme make it up to you."
"How could you possibly—"
"Lemme take you out to dinner tonight."
The floor practically gives out from under you. What the hell is going on? The last ten minutes has your brain scrambling and your heart racing faster than any workout. How does this man manage to drive you to the brink of insanity only to pull you back at the last second with something sweet?
"You can yell at me the whole time, if you want," he says once too much time has passed without an answer. If you could see through your rage, you'd be able to pick up on his nervousness: his hand flexes at his side and his weight shifts from foot to foot with anxious energy.
"How about I just yell at you right here?" you snap. Joel laughs.
"If that's what you want, darlin', then sure."
Frustration bubbles up with a growl. You push away from the door to pace up and down your small hallway, raking your fingers through your hair while you attempt to calm down. All the while, Joel remains where he is, planted just outside your door, watching you spiral.
"You seem tense."
"I am tense! Because of you!"
"I can help with that."
You freeze and stare at him, long and hard. All those thoughts you've had about him, those images of him working in the rain, his way of turning a phrase to just barely imply he could ruin you... all of those moments crash down over you like a tidal wave and you decide that maybe he could help, after all.
In the blink of an eye, you close the distance keeping you apart. Your hand fists his sweaty, dirty shirt and you yank him forward. He stumbles a few feet into your house with surprised huff. You see the way his eyes widen right before your mouth crashes over his and finally, for a few blissful minutes, you get your coveted silence.
Joel only needs a moment before he catches up. His lips soften against yours as you pull him deeper into your house. He kicks back one foot and it collides with your door, slamming it closed behind him, then his hands are on you, pushing you gently against the wall so he can take control.
His teeth greedily graze your lower lip and your mouth parts for him with a soft moan. Driven by the sound, his tongue eagerly slips past your lips and his hands drop to cup the backs of your thighs. He hauls you up and your legs circle his waist while your tongues tangle together, hot and angry. It's desperate and messy and exactly what you need. The broad heft of his body pressed up against yours, the heady scent of the outdoors and sweat and him invading your senses, the faint taste of coffee on his tongue... it's utterly perfect.
"Where'd this come from, hm?" he asks, voice low and rough as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. Your head tilts back and your eyelids remain closed, offering your throat up to him without a fight.
"You said you could help," you murmur, craning your neck to give him better access. He finds a spot below your ear and sucks, leaving the beginnings of a mark that will take days to disappear.
"I did," he mumbles against your skin. "Meant a drink or somethin', but I ain't complainin'."
Your chin drops, hunting for his mouth, but then his hand is there tipping your head back, cupping your cheek with his thumb pressed on the underside of your jaw.
"Ain't done," he grumbles before continuing his assault on your throat. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and let him move your head this way and that, enjoying the way he's taken control. You get the sense he's wanted this as badly as you because he seems determined to taste every inch of your skin. When his mouth travels lower to ghost over your shoulder, you shrug, allowing the strap of your dress to fall and expose more skin. Joel makes a pleased grunt before his lips explore the newly revealed territory.
"Christ, you're soft." It almost sounds like he's talking to himself, the way his voice is full of quiet wonder. A shiver rolls down your spine and you tug impatiently at his hair.
"Joel," you whine, but your thought is cut off with a gasp when he presses himself firmly against the cradle of your hips. You can feel him there, hot and hard behind his zipper. One of your hands drops to his belt and you slip your fingers past his waistband, but just as you're about to reach your target, his body jolts and he swats your hand away with a chuckle.
"Eager thing," he grins before sealing his lips over yours again.
"Bedroom," you manage to mumble when he takes half a second to breathe. "Behind you."
"Bossy," he scolds. His mouth covers yours with a deep groan before he tightens his grip around your legs. He pulls you from the wall and swings around to carry you in the general direction of your bedroom, all while never breaking the kiss.
It's kind of comical the way you stumble into your room. The door swings open too fast and knocks back against Joel's shoulder but it doesn't slow him down. He refuses to pull away to look where he's going, but when his boot collides with a half empty laundry basket on the floor, he curses under his breath and finally tears himself away.
You take the opportunity to squirm out of his grip. When your feet hit the floor, you instantly rise to your tiptoes, lips seeking out the warm skin of his throat. You moan a little when your tongue drags over his pebbled skin, tasting salt and sun that remains there. It's addicting to taste the product of his day's hard work, so you do it again and relish in the way he shudders from your attention.
"Shoulda just told me from the start what you wanted." His fingers fumble with his belt buckle after he hears the quiet sound of your zipper coming undone. "Would've saved us both alotta time, darlin'."
"Shut up," you grumble before your teeth pinch a spot next to his Adam's apple. Your dress falls into a pool at your feet, hands free to help him lift his shirt over his head.
"I need a shower," Joel says after his shirt is discarded. You just shake your head and press your mouth over his collarbone, then his sternum, mapping his body while he works on kicking off his boots and jeans.
"I like you like this," you whisper. He smirks, stepping out of his clothes as best he can with your mostly naked body pressed against his own. "You smell good," you add after a minute, and he seems pleased with that.
"Get on the bed, sweetheart. Lemme see you."
You pull away from the faint red marks you left littering his chest and look up at him through your lashes. "You first."
Joel frowns. "Wha—"
With a grin, you give him a gentle push. His back hits the bedding and he barely has a chance to register it until you're climbing on top of him, legs bracketing his hips with a giggle. He smiles so big that his eyes squint, revealing those damn dimples again beneath his beard. Then his gaze drops to your bare breasts and his eyes darken.
"Fuck, you're pretty," he mumbles, palming them greedily. When his rough thumb grazes your nipple, you lunge down and capture his mouth with a searing kiss.
"You want me like this?" he asks, words tumbling against your swollen lips. "Wanna ride me, baby?"
"Yes," you whine while tugging down his boxers with one hand. His palms glide over your thighs, squeezing and pulling you back and forth so your hips begin to grind down on his lap.
"Take these off 'fore I ruin 'em," he warns you, fingers hooking into the band of your panties. You suppress the shiver of arousal at his tone before you do exactly as he says.
When your bare cunt comes in contact with the underside of his cock, you suck in a deep breath. He's so hot and throbbing against your soaked folds, making every slide of your hips steal your breath away.
Joel watches you move with heavy lidded eyes, seemingly just as lost in the feeling as you. His chest rises and falls a little faster when the tip of his cock presses against your clit and your whole body shudders with a moan he will end up dreaming about for weeks.
Reality hits when a streak of his arousal leaks and smears across your skin, bringing him back down to earth for one second.
"Wait, my wallet—"
He extends one hand towards the floor and your eyes follow, connecting the dots and sliding off him to grab his pants. You find it tucked into his back pocket and toss it his way. He catches it and fishes out a little foil packet from its depths while you resume your spot in his lap, lips parted and heart racing with anticipation as he rolls the condom on with care.
"Alright honey, I'm all yours," he announces, smirking as he folds his arms behind his head. You roll your eyes but still shimmy forward and raise your hips, using one hand against his chest to prop yourself up and the other to guide him to your entrance. The moment you sink down, however, his lips melt into a soft circle and his eyelids flutter shut, filling your chest with pride before caving into the pleasure yourself.
You sigh and tilt your head back when you finally take all of him. The stretch is exquisite, or maybe it's just been a while, but it doesn't matter. All the static that's been electrifying your brain lately, all that stress from work, from pushing yourself too far every single day dissolves away.
"Oh, shit," he whispers, voice cracking. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips. "Feel so goddamn good."
You drop your head forward to look at him, chest and neck all flushed underneath you. Your eyes trace his body as you begin to move, just slow rolls of your hips while you take in every detail: strong arms built from work, not weights. Skin slightly sweaty and a shade lighter where his shirts protect him from the sun. Broad shoulders and a firm stomach, but not too lean. One of your hands drifts over the planes of his chest and the curves of his muscles, humming with admiration as you continue to slowly ride him. His eyes light up and you swear you can see the pleasure in his expression when he clocks your appreciation for him.
"Make yourself feel good, honey," he says, voice low. Your gaze flickers up to his and you share a smile. "Wanna see what you like. Wanna watch you fall apart on it."
Your hips lift and drop a little faster, skin slapping against skin. "Should've known you never stop talking, even when you're getting laid," you tease, and Joel chuckles.
"Bark and bite, I like that."
"Yeah, I figured that out." You gasp when he thrusts upwards, hitting a spot deep inside you can't reach on your own. He notices and files it away for later.
"Takin' notes on me?" he asks, ghosting his palms over your ribs before landing on your breasts, watching in a daze while they bounce in his hands.
"You wish," you pant. He tsks, eyes still fixed on your chest.
"I got a few things figured out 'bout you, too."
You stop moving to glare down at him and catch your breath. His dark eyes dance with amusement at your annoyed look.
"Like what?"
He shrugs but the smile still tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You work hard but don't ever blow off any steam. Don't know yet if it's cause you're too tired or you feel like you don't deserve it."
That stuns you. Even though you're naked and he's currently buried inside you, you suddenly feel very exposed. He sees he might have overstepped, so he backtracks with a joke.
"You can call me anytime and I'll be happy to help you unwind."
You snort and begin moving again, shaking off the unexpected flash of vulnerability. "Why don't you focus on making this memorable enough for me to call you again?"
Joel laughed then, loud. And despite yourself, you giggle.
"Baby, when you're done playin' cowgirl, I'm gonna flip you over and fuck you so hard, you'll feel it on Monday when you're watchin' me through that office window of yours."
Your pussy clenches involuntarily and you begin working faster, fucking yourself on his lap now like you mean it.
"That's a-a lot of big talk, Miller," you reply, breathless from the exertion. You circle your hips and moan loudly when you find an angle you like.
"Ain't just talk," he says, big hands back on your hips, helping you move. His gaze is fixed on where you're connected, on the slick smearing between your bodies, and his stomach tightens. "Been thinkin' 'bout fuckin' you every which way to Sunday, got a head full'a ideas."
"You've been thinking about fucking me?" you repeat almost shyly.
"Don't be coy, now," he tells you, grunting softly when you plant both hands on his chest for leverage. "You know you came over there that first day with these perfect fucking tits pokin' through that little robe on purpose."
"Did not," you breathe, but all the fight has left your body. You're getting close and it's all you can focus on now.
"Uh-huh," Joel says, clearly not believing you. He swallows hard and his cock twitches impatiently inside you. He could come like this, with you riding him, getting yourself off, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to be over just yet, especially if you expect this to be a one time thing.
Shit, he hopes it's not just a one time thing.
"C'mon, baby, let go," he says before mouthing at your breasts. His tongue glides over one nipple then grazes it with his teeth before moving to the other one. You jolt and whine and push your chest even closer to his face.
"Joel..." you whisper. Your muscles are tired, you're slowing down. Sweat dots your forehead, collects behind your knees, and you're gasping for air.
He sits up suddenly, understanding right away what you need, and wraps one arm around your waist while the other braces himself against the mattress. He's able to fuck up into you like this and instantly your legs relax and your body slumps forward, causing him to relinquish the attention to your chest.
"That's it," he coos, "lemme help you."
You rarely accept help. The thought flickers across your mind for a moment before you push it away. This is different. This is just sex.
"M'close," you mumble shakily, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, forehead pressed intimately against his.
"I know," he breathes, "give it to me, darlin'."
A few more harsh snaps of his hips has you falling, whimpering his name as white hot heat rolls through your limbs and soaking your brain with a drunken haze. He's murmuring to you the whole time: how tight you feel, how beautiful you look, what a good job you did, how perfectly you fit on his cock. The praise goes straight to your head and fills a much needed void somewhere inside you. Some piece of you that is always pushing you to do more, try harder, work faster... efforts that rarely give you desired results. Or, at least, the results you're after. But this—this man—he's giving you something you desperately crave without even realizing it.
Your breath stutters like you've been knocked off kilter, and maybe you have. Joel thinks it's an aftershock of your orgasm and doesn't think anything of it.
He lifts you off his lap and you gasp, eyes flying open in shock. You have about half a second before you're tossed face down onto the bed next to him, then he's climbing behind you, rough hands gentle on your hips as they pull you back up to your hands and knees.
"That's it," he grunts when you obediently spread your legs and arch your back. He smirks to himself before pushing back inside you with a heavy sigh. "Goddamn, you're warm," he says after sliding slowly all the way in, giving you a chance to adjust to the new position. You bite your lip and breathe through it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how deep he feels like this. How good he feels.
"Fuck me, Joel," you moan, pushing your ass back, encouraging him to move. He rolls his hips forward, slow and deep.
"I know," he pants, "I know what you need."
He moves a little faster. Your ass bounces with every push. He grabs it with one big hand and squeezes before giving you a playful smack and doing it again.
"No, you don't. You barely—barely know me," you remind him. Your words stumble over each other as you feel yourself losing focus again. He feels so good, it's impossible not to.
"Know you better than you think," he shoots back. He smoothes over the spot on your ass he had spanked, soothing the area before sliding his palm up and over your spine. He can feel every knot and twist, every stress point you keep locked away deep inside. His fingers seek them out with ease, like maybe he really can see more than you think.
Still, you're stubborn.
"You only know what I want you to know." Your jaw is clenched, the words escape through your teeth but your point is made. You swallow down a moan and close your eyes, giving in to the way he expertly takes you apart.
"I knew you needed this from the first time we met," he tells you, "could've fucked this out of you back then and saved us both the trouble."
"You like it," you hiss over your shoulder. His pace is relentless now, hips swinging roughly against your ass, burying his thick cock as deep as it'll go. He wants to split you open and make you scream his name. He wants your mind blank and your body satiated. "You like—ohh... f-fuck—"
"What's that?" he goads. Joel drops forward so both his arms bracket yours. His chest presses against your spine and his breath is hot in your ear. You shiver and your jaw falls open.
"You..." Your throat is dry. Heat is building behind your navel and your legs are starting to shake. You swallow and keep talking. "You like trouble. You like it... when I yell at you. Whe—when I—"
"Yeah, I know," he admits, "somethin' real sexy 'bout you when you get all pissed off."
"—Like when I tell you... tell you what to do."
He's silent for a moment but his pace never falters. The wet sound of skin on skin is deafening, addicting. Your face warms as he punches the air from your lungs with every devastating thrust.
"Yeah. Maybe I do."
You hum and breathe deep through your nose. Fuck, he's right. You're going to be sore. You can already feel it.
"So tell me what to do now," he adds. It takes you a second to process it, but when you do, you force your eyes open.
What does he want to hear?
Don't overthink it.
"Touch me," you demand, firm and clear despite how your heart is racing.
Joel doesn't hesitate.
He leans back, leaving your sweaty back exposed to the cool air, and he reaches around to play with your clit. Instantly, you gasp and buck under him.
"Like that?"
If you had any clarity at all you would have shot him back some sarcastic remark because of course the answer is yes. Your entire body is shaking, you can barely speak and he knows it.
"Mhm," you manage, "ye—yeah, just like that. Fuck, keep going—"
"Jesus Christ," he mutters when your body begins to work in tandem with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Shit honey, you're gonna make me come like this."
You whine and throw your head back. His fingers don't stop circling your clit. Sweat coats your skin now. Gasping breaths and the sound of his hips meeting your ass over and over are filling the room, punctuated by Joel's deep grunts and your breathy moans.
"Joel—" you whisper as your body locks up. Your muscles ache, your cunt aches even more, but you continue to take it all. Your hand feverishly finds his between your legs and you leave it there, loving the way his fingers feel while they play you like a guitar.
"Sweetheart, I'm gonna—"
But you cut him off before he could finish his thought with a sharp cry. Your orgasm washes over you, harsh and unforgiving. A moment later Joel follows you over the edge with a loud curse, then a rough, deep grunt you can feel in your bones as he empties himself into the condom.
"Oh, holy fuck," he gasps, removing his hand from between your legs. He still thrusts weakly into you as the last of his orgasm streaks through his veins. It's cut short when he feels your body shaking violently under him and just like that, his focus is back on you.
"You okay?"
"I'm—" You're out of breath. Your vision is spotty and your muscles are weak. You swallow hard and try again. "I'm good, just need to—"
You fall onto your elbows and Joel takes the hint. He eases out of you, ignoring the way his chest pangs at the loss of your body, before he collapses into bed and hauls you down next to him.
Now you can rest. You close your eyes and breathe, deep and heavy. He does the same while the sweat cools on both your bodies and slowly, your brain begins to come back online. When it does, you realize his body is loosely curled around yours, keeping you warm and grounding you. It's strangely intimate but you don't pull away. Not yet.
"How 'bout I take you for that dinner now?" he mumbles before carefully pressing a soft kiss against your neck. His sweaty chest is pressed against your back, sealing you together.
"Let's just order something instead," you sigh with your eyes closed.
"Did I tire you out, darlin'?"
"Didn't sleep well," you say, unwilling to give him any credit just yet, "the damn construction crew next door woke me up way too early."
"Uh-huh," he teases before tightening his arm around your middle. It feels nice, so you lean into him just a bit. And for a while it's quiet and peaceful. Your breath steadies, your head clears, but your muscles stay soft and relaxed. Joel doesn't say anything. His thumb rubs idly over your stomach, lips occasionally graze over your back or shoulder, and it feels good until that defensive part of your brain wakes up, right on schedule.
This isn't serious. This didn't mean anything. It was just stress relief. Don't get attached.
"So," you say, voice a little hoarse when you gently slip out of his grip. He rolls onto his back with a soft, reluctant noise and he watches you stand to pick up your clothes. "This is what it takes to finally shut you up, huh?"
You grin at your joke as you press your clothes to your front, hiding your bare body from him like he hadn't just touched every inch of it minutes ago. When he doesn't answer right away with some smart remark, you pause and meet his eye.
He's stretched out on your bed, looking at you like he's seeing something not meant for him. You swallow nervously and try not to let yourself enjoy how good he looks in your space, amongst your things, in your life.
"Yeah," he finally says, "guess that'll do it."
His voice sounds flat and you begin to feel bad, so you clear your throat and inch towards your bathroom. "Let's order something to eat before you go."
Before you go. Joel heard it and got the message. He didn't know what to expect but for some reason, it stings.
"Yeah, what are you thinkin'?" He sits up and reaches for his jeans, where his phone is still tucked into his pocket.
"I don't care. Whatever you like." Then the door to the bathroom quietly snaps shut. Joel sighs once's he's alone and rubs his face before looking around your room. It's neat and organized, nothing like his own. He chews the inside of his cheek while he thinks, but before he lets himself get too lost, he snaps out of it and looks at his phone.
Chinese is a safe bet, so he orders that before standing to rid himself of the condom and get dressed. Suddenly he feels out of place. He's rough and dirty and you're... not. And that's fine. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. Yet when he wanders into your kitchen for water, he can't help but feel an empty pull in his chest at the thought of leaving.
Unknown to him, hidden inside your bathroom, you're struggling with the very same thing.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You swallow your pride for the sake of a calm house, then an anniversary sparks pain and a breakthrough.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Thank you for all the love and kind words . Glad so many people are enjoying it 🥰 I think I’ve caught everyone who wants to be tagged but if I’ve missed you, give me a shout.
Masterlist
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As May moves relentlessly onwards, the Texas spring explodes in full, riotous bloom around you, a sea of vibrant colour as far as the eye can see before the brutal summer sun scorches it all away. The rolling hills are blanketed in thick patches of bluebonnets and fiery Indian paintbrushes, the air heavy with the sweet, damp scent of recent rain and blooming sweet olive. It’s a landscape practically vibrating with life.
And with it, comes a slow, almost imperceptible thawing inside the walls of the Miller ranch. The tension that has choked the rooms since that night loses its sharpest edges, worn down by the sheer, relentless rhythm of daily survival.
You pour yourself entirely into Sarah.
If you can’t be a wife in the dark, you’ll be a mother in the light. You spend the long, golden afternoons at the kitchen table, guiding her small, clumsy fingers as she learns to push a needle through a scrap of calico. You teach her the alphabet using the slate, your voice patient and steady as she traces the chalk letters. When she scrapes her knee on the paddock fence, she doesn’t run to the barn for Joel, she runs to the back porch, burying her tear-streaked face in your apron while you smooth her hair and murmur soft, soothing nonsense.
You love her fiercely, in a way you could never have imagined loving a child not born from your own body, and realise that, if you let it, your pride will be the one thing that keeps the house in a constant state of suffocation.
You don’t want that for Sarah. If you did, you might as well stand back and allow the Reverend and his wife to take her. You want to live in a place where you can be content – or at least as content as each person can allow themselves to be in the situation in which you all find yourselves.
The agonising avoidance that’s settled since your confrontation in the kitchen slowly morphs into a cautious, fragile domesticity. You talk to one another again and you see the relief in Joel’s eyes when you initiate pleasantries that he responds to. You know he’s trying, in his own broken, guarded way, to build a life with you that doesn’t feel like a punishment and you’re determined not to be your own gaoler.
And you try to remember Maria’s words on the porch. Give him time. You cannot force the flower to bloom by pulling on the stem.
You give him time and space, and you ask for absolutely nothing.
But in the deep, agonisingly quiet hours of the night, when the house is asleep and you lie alone beneath the quilt, the physical reality of your untouched marriage gnaws at you like a starving animal.
For your entire life, you’ve accepted the sterile, quiet existence of the spinster sister. But you’re married now and you share a roof, a table, and a name with a man whose sheer, massive physical presence dominates every room he walks into, your imagination continuing to drive you slowly, quietly mad.
You watch him chop wood in the yard, his shirt pulling taut across the heavy, iron-like muscles of his back and shoulders. You watch the way his large hands handle the leather reins of a horse. You watch the grey at his temples gleam in the sun, and a deep, feral ache twists low and hot in your centre.
You don’t need him to whisper poetry. You don’t need him to declare that you’ve replaced Tess in his soul. You just need the untouched cold of your bedroom to end.
If he will just touch me, you think, turning onto your side and clutching the pillow to your chest, your body flushing with a shameful, desperate heat. If he will just come to me in the dark and hold me because he wants to. Even if it's only ever physical.
At least – this is what you tell yourself.
****
The shift in Joel begins three days before the unexpected visit to town, though you don’t immediately understand what it means.
You’ve accepted him as a quiet man. The silence he carries is usually a sturdy, working thing – the silence of a man who measures his words carefully and spends his energy on the physical labour of keeping the ranch alive. But this new quiet is different. It’s heavy and suffocating, a leaden weight that seems to press the very air out of the rooms he occupies.
He stops offering small, polite observations at the table or in the parlour at night. He eats his meals or otherwise occupies his hands whilst staring blindly at whatever’s in front of him, his jaw locked, his eyes dark and completely unfocused. When he looks at you, it’s as if his mind is anchored thousands of miles away.
You don’t know what’s caused this regression, don’t know if you’ve done something to displease him, but you try to bridge the gap by baking the cornbread you’ve come to know he likes best, mending his clothes with meticulous, tiny stitches, and keeping Sarah’s chatter bright and constant to fill the void. But nothing reaches him. He’s a man slowly sinking under dark water and refusing to take the rope you’re throwing him.
So, when he says one Tuesday night, rather unexpectedly, that he’s going into town the following day, it takes you by surprise.
“I thought we might go on Saturday as planned,” you say quietly, turning from where you’re cleaning up the remains of supper and watching him at the table.
“No, tomorrow,” he replies shortly. “I’m takin’ Sarah with me. You’re welcome to join us, but if you’ve got things here you’d rather set your mind to, I don’t have an issue with that.”
His words make you pause and contemplate what the real meaning is behind them – whether he wants you with him or not. And threaded through that is a sliver of annoyance at the fact that you’ve humbled yourself, agreed internally to let the events of that night pass to ensure the smooth running of the house, to give him the time Maria suggested, and now he’s seemingly making every effort to ruin all the progress.
As you machinate over what to say, he eventually lifts his gaze to meet yours. “You could surprise your daddy, if you come.”
That settles it for you and when you come into the kitchen the following morning, wearing a dark blue dress with your hair pinned, you find him already standing by the door, his hat clutched in his hands.
"I got an errand to run. I'll take Sarah with me while you visit your daddy."
"You don't have to take her," you offer, stepping forward and straightening Sarah’s collar. "I can keep her with me at the mercantile. I know Pa would love to see her."
"No." The word is sharp, immediate and he flinches slightly, as if the harshness of his own tone has surprised him. He looks away, staring hard at the doorframe. "No, thank you. I want her with me today."
You pause, your hands stilling, and look at him – really look. The shadows under his eyes are the colour of bruised plums, the lines bracketing his mouth carved so deep they look like scars. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in a week.
"All right, Joel," you say softly, swallowing the hurt that flares in your throat. "If that’s what you want."
The wagon ride into Sawyer’s Creek is an agonising exercise in endurance.
There’s a merciful breeze, sweeping across the dry, golden expanse of the flatlands, kicking up swirling devils of red dust. Joel sits beside you on the wooden bench, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his forearms resting on his knees as he holds the reins. He doesn’t speak a single word for the entire journey, just stares at the horse in front of him, lost in a dark, impenetrable labyrinth of his own making.
You sit rigidly straight, your hands folded in your lap, the physical distance between you on the bench feeling wider than the ocean. You want to reach out, want to slide your hand over his forearm and ask him what terrible ghost is haunting him today, to offer him the comfort of a wife.
But you don’t, because you can’t bear the inevitable rejection.
When the wagon finally rattles down The Street, the noise of the town – the clatter of horseshoes, the shouts of men to one another and the ringing of Wilfred Wallace’s hammer – feel entirely jarring after the silence of the ride.
Joel pulls up in front of the mercantile, sets the brake and steps down, moving with a stiff, heavy slowness. Then he comes around to your side and reaches up. You place your hands on his shoulders, and he grips your waist, lifting you down, but the moment your boots touch the ground, he lets go, stepping back instantly, putting a yard of space between you, as if the brief physical contact has burned him.
"I'll come back for you in two hours," he says, his eyes fixed firmly over your shoulder. Then he turns and lifts Sarah from the back of the wagon, settling her onto his hip where she wraps her arm around his neck and rests her head against his shoulder.
"Where will you be?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light, trying to pretend you don’t feel the sting of his immediate withdrawal.
Joel’s jaw tightens. "Just... an errand. I’ll find you.”
He doesn’t wait for your reply, rather simply turns and walks away, his long, heavy strides carrying him down the street, in the direction of the church.
You stand in the dust and watch him go until he disappears from view then, taking a slow, trembling breath, you smooth the front of your dress and turn toward the doors of the mercantile.
The bell chimes brightly as you step inside, your father automatically looking up from the counter, his eyes lighting up when he sees you.
“Oh, my love!” He exclaims, putting down the box he’s holding and coming around the side, his face breaking into a warm, genuine smile. “I wasn’t expecting you today! What a treat!”
“Hello Pa,” you breathe as he pulls you into an embrace, burying your face in the familiar scent of bay rum and starched cotton. You hug him back tightly, clinging to him for just a second longer than necessary, drawing entirely on his steady, uncomplicated affection.
When he pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his eyes scanning your face.
He’s spent years reading the faces of customers, predicting what they need before they even ask for it and he’s read you for thirty-four years with the same terrifying accuracy. You watch as he takes in the rigid set of your jaw, the forced brightness of your smile, and the deep, exhausted shadows beneath your eyes that powder can’t not hide.
"You look tired," he says quietly, his smile fading into a look of deep, paternal concern.
"No more than usual, but I’m perfectly well," you lie smoothly, stepping back. "The ranch is demanding work, as you know. How are you? Keeping busy?”
"Of course,” he says, gesturing towards the back room. "Come and sit with me. Tell me your news. It’s been – what – three weeks since you last came to town? I’ve got a stack of newspapers waiting for you to take home with you. But I wasn’t expecting you until Saturday at the earliest.”
“No, I know. I…” you hesitate. “Joel wanted to come into town today.”
"Where is Joel?" your father asks, his tone perfectly neutral, though his eyes miss nothing. "And Sarah? I’ve got some new candy I thought she might like to try.”
"He had an errand to run," you say, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor. "He took Sarah with him and said he’d return for me in two hours. So, if you need any assistance with the afternoon rush…" You mean it as humour, but the moment the words leave your mouth you know they haven’t translated that way.
Your father watches the tense, defensive line of your shoulders and the way your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles are white. "How are things between you?”
“Fine.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Of course, Pa,” you reply as brightly as you can, making sure to hold his gaze. You don’t want to tell him that there are moments when you wish to simply be back at the mercantile, living in your old room, inhabiting your old life.
“Did he tell you what this errand was?" he asks softly.
"No. He just said he needed to take Sarah with him, though I offered to keep her here."
Your father lets out a slow, heavy sigh and leans forwards, reaching out to place his hands over yours. "Do you know what today's date is?"
You blink, looking up at him in confusion. "It’s the twenty-seventh of May, why?"
A strange, terrible stillness settles over your father's face, and he looks at you with a mixture of profound pity and absolute heartbreak. "Oh, my dear girl," he whispers.
A cold prickle of dread begins to crawl up the back of your neck. "What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I suppose it’s unrealistic to expect everyone to remember – but I do, because I’ve seen so many births, deaths and marriages in this town as to be able to recite each and every one.” He exhales heavily. "Today is Tess's birthday."
The world tilts on its axis, the air in the room suddenly feeling stifling. You stare at your father, your mind racing backward, piecing together the agonising puzzle of the last three days, thinking on the heavy, impenetrable silence, the exhausted, bruised look in Joel’s eyes and the lack of congeniality. Then you think about the absolute, unyielding refusal to let you keep Sarah with you.
I want her with me today.
He hasn’t been angry with you. He hasn't been retreating because of anything you’ve done. He’s been drowning in the rising tide of an anniversary he can’t escape, dragging the crushing weight of his dead wife's memory through every agonising hour.
And you haven’t realised.
A wave of absolute, sickening guilt washes over you, so intense it makes your stomach roll. You’ve spent the last three days silently cursing him for his distance. You’ve sat on the wagon bench feeling wounded and rejected, wrapped up in your own desperate, unfulfilled yearning, while the man sitting next to you is bleeding to death inside his own head for a woman you knew – a woman whose birthday you ought to have remembered.
"Oh, God," you whisper. Pa, I…I didn’t realise, didn’t remember. And Joel never said anything…"
"You can’t be expected to remember," your father says reasonably. "And Joel is a closed book, we know that. He locks his grief away to survive, and he expects everyone else to simply step around the locked door."
"He took Sarah to the churchyard. That’s the errand. He took her to Tess’s grave."
“As he does every time he comes to town…”
You stand up so fast your chair scrapes loudly against the floorboards. “This is different.”
"Wait," your father cautions. "Let him be. A man needs to mourn in his own way. He doesn’t ask you to accompany him any other time and if he wanted you there today, he would have asked you."
"I’m his wife, Pa, and he needs me. Sarah needs me. If for no other reason than as proof that I care, that I understand.”
You don’t wait for your father to argue, turning on your heel and practically running toward the doors of the mercantile, the sound of your name dying in the air behind you. You ignore him and run, your skirts kicking up the dust as you turn toward the church.
The breeze whips at your face, tearing strands of hair from your pins, stinging your eyes with red dirt, but you don’t slow down, or pay heed to anyone watching. Your heart’s hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs, fuelled by a terrible, urgent need to simply be there. You don’t know what you’re going to do because you know he might reject you the moment you step onto the grass. But the thought of Joel kneeling alone in the dirt on his dead wife's birthday, believing that no one in the world cares about his agony, is something you absolutely can’t bear.
You slow your pace as you reach the churchyard, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps and see them almost immediately near the back, beneath the sweeping, protective canopy of the largest oak tree.
Sarah’s wandering a few yards away from the grave, completely oblivious to the crushing weight of the day, her small hands busy gathering a bouquet of dandelions and mustard weed, her white pinafore stark against the grass.
Joel is on his knees directly in front of Tess’s modest headstone, his hat, tossed carelessly onto the ground beside him,
You stop twenty yards away, frozen in place by the sheer, devastating intimacy of the scene.
He isn’t weeping. There are no dramatic, tearing sobs. Just the absolute, utter stillness of a man who has surrendered completely to the void. He’s leaning forward, hands resting on the headstone, his forehead pressed just above the carved letters of her name, holding it the way a man holds the face of a dying lover.
You stand there, the breeze ruffling your skirts, and feel your own heart break into a thousand irreparable pieces.
You’ve told yourself you can accept a marriage without love. You’ve bargained with your pride in the dark, telling yourself that if he’ll just touch you, if he’ll just give you the physical warmth of his body, it’ll be enough to sustain you.
But looking at him now – looking at the absolute, total devotion radiating from his frame, the way his soul is tethered to the woman buried beneath the dirt – you know you’ve been lying to yourself.
It’ll never be enough. You’ll spend the rest of your life starving at a banquet, watching the man you love pour every ounce of his devotion into a ghost, while you survive on the meagre, guilty scraps of his duty.
Because you do love him, inasmuch as you understand what that means. Perhaps you always have. Perhaps the affection you always felt, the attraction you always felt, really has been more than what you’ve credited it as.
You want him to tell you that he loves you, want him to look at you the way he once looked at Tess, want Maria’s ancestors to describe your love the way she described theirs.
But how can that ever possibly happen, and how are you to possibly survive loving a man who can never love you back?
You can’t help but feel, looking at him now, that this has all been a terrible mistake.
You want to turn around, walk back to the mercantile and pretend you’ve never seen this. You want to protect whatever fragile, bruised pride you have left. But then Joel lets out a breath, a ragged, shuddering exhale that carries across the quiet churchyard, a sound so profoundly, unspeakably broken that it bypasses your pride entirely and strikes straight at the core of your humanity.
He’s drowning, and you are his wife.
You force your feet to move, walking slowly across the grass. Sarah looks up as you draw near, her eyes widening in surprise. She opens her mouth to speak, holding up her fistful of flowers, but you quickly press a finger to your lips, giving her a gentle, reassuring smile. She blinks, then nods solemnly, turning her attention back to a passing beetle.
You step up behind Joel, who is entirely lost to the world, his eyes closed, his forehead still resting against the headstone, the tension in his back absolute. You see the slight, almost imperceptible tremor running through his massive frame, the physical manifestation of a grief so profound it’s literally shaking him apart.
You don’t know what to say because there are no words in the English language that can bridge the gap between a second wife and a dead saint, you know you can’t leave him kneeling in the dirt alone.
Taking a slow, trembling breath, you reach out and place your hand flat against his shoulder.
The reaction is instantaneous and violent. He flinches so hard his entire body jerks with a visceral, physical recoil, as if the touch of your hand has burned straight through his clothes and seared his flesh. He tears his forehead away from the headstone, gasping, his eyes panicked.
He scrambles backward, throwing his hand out to catch his balance, and then looks up, his chest heaving. For a split second, you realise that he doesn’t know who you are, trapped somewhere between the ghost he’s been holding and the living woman standing over him.
Then, the wildness fades, replaced instantly by a look of absolute, sickening horror and he chokes out your name.
You let your hand fall back to your side and hold your ground. You look down at him and let him see the tears standing in your own eyes.
"I didn't realise," you whisper. "I didn’t remember what today was, Joel. Pa reminded me.”
Joel stares at you, his breathing ragged and uneven, looks down at his own trembling hands, then back at the headstone. The carved letters – Tess Miller, Beloved wife, mother and daughter – seem to mock the fractured reality of the three of you standing there.
"You shouldn't be here," he rasps, as he drags the back of his wrist across his eyes, and slowly pushes himself up from the ground. "This…this ain’t your burden to carry."
"I’m your wife, Joel," you say softly. "Your burdens are mine whether you want them to be or not."
He closes his eyes, a muscle leaping frantically in his jaw, but he doesn’t argue. He just stands there, a man torn perfectly in half, bleeding out onto the Texas dirt.
"Pa," a small voice calls out and you both turn to see Sarah trotting toward you, holding her fistful of flowers. She stops in front of Joel, looking up at him with her grave, serious dark eyes and holds them up. "For Mama."
Joel lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-breath, drops to one knee and wraps his arms around his little girl, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He holds her so tightly her feet nearly left the ground, his shoulders shaking with the silent, tearing force of his tears.
You stand a few feet away, entirely separate from their circle of grief, watching, until Joel pulls back, dropping a kiss on Sarah's forehead, his hand trembling as he smooths her hair. Then he stands up, taking the flowers from her small hand, and lays them gently at the base of the headstone.
He picks up his hat from the grass and then turns to you, his face a mask of impenetrable, exhausted stone, the steel doors slammed firmly shut once more.
"We should head back," he says.
"Yes," you agree quietly. "We should."
Reaching down, he lifts Sarah onto his hip, but doesn’t offer you his arm, doesn’t try to bridge the terrible, aching distance between you. He simply turns and begins walking.
****
By the time you reach the ranch, you feel a profound, bone-deep exhaustion settle over you.
Joel helps you down and then proceeds to unharness the horse whilst you take Sarah inside and change both of you into fresh clothes. You realise, as you look out of the window of your bedroom at the vibrant, blooming wildflowers clinging to the edge of the paddock fence, that you could simply lock your bedroom door, and let the silence swallow you both whole, could spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around the massive, bleeding crater in the centre of Joel’s heart whilst trying to hold in your own.
But you can’t fight a ghost or compete with a saint. If you try to force him to choose between the living and the dead, even on a purely physical level, you’ll lose every single time. The only way to survive in this house – the only way to keep your own heart from turning to stone – is to stop fighting Tess’s memory and start making room for it.
If you do that, then perhaps everyone will be able to live more easily.
Give him time.
You take a slow, trembling breath, smooth the front of your skirt, and walk down the hallway, through the kitchen and outside into the warm evening air. Joel’s coming out of the barn, and you watch as he closes and padlocks the door, then turns back towards the house, his step faltering when he sees you.
"May we talk?" You ask.
He hesitates, then nods, stepping closer to you but maintaining a wide, careful distance. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, looking down at the ground. "I’m sorry ‘bout what happened in the churchyard... ‘bout... flinchin’. I didn't mean to insult you, I just…"
"Stop," you say gently, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs.
You’re about to step willingly into the very centre of his grief, and you’re terrified that he’ll push you out again, that he’ll tell you that you’ve no right to speak her name.
"You don't need to apologise," you say. "I understand, truly. I was a fool to think I could impose on you there…touch you. This is her day."
Joel looks up, his eyes wide and wary, completely thrown by your lack of anger.
"I’ve been thinking about Sarah," you continue, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, to look past the defensive wall and see the broken, exhausted man beneath it. "She’s so young, Joel, and the most significant tragedy in all of this is that she won't remember much of her mother on her own. And the churchyard is a hard place for a child."
His jaw tightens. "It's where Tess is."
"I know, but it shouldn't be the only place Sarah has to remember her."
You take a step toward him and he doesn’t retreat, though you see the muscles in his chest lock tight.
"The garden’s doing well this spring," you say, voice dropping to a tentative, fragile whisper. "The soil’s good and I was thinking... if you would allow it... I’d like to clear a patch near the back fence. Just a small square, where the morning sun hits."
He stares at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. "For vegetables?"
"No, for Tess and...”
Your throat tightens, because what you’re about to say has never crossed your lips before and may very well be the worst thing you can say.
“For Tess and your son. I want to plant something for them. Maybe, a memorial garden. Something beautiful and living, right here at the house. A place where Sarah can go to pick flowers for her mother without having to ride all the way into town. A place where…where we can talk about them. Where you can spend time with Tess’s memory without feeling as though you need to…"
You stop and brace yourself, waiting for the anger, for the fierce, protective rage of a man who believes how he grieves his wife’s memory is too sacred for your hands to touch. You wait for him to tell you that you’ve no right to interfere and that you’re overstepping the boundaries of your practical arrangement.
But Joel doesn’t move. He simply stands frozen, staring at you as if you’ve spoken to him in a language he doesn’t understand. For one agonising, suspended moment, you think you’ve made a terrible mistake, pushed too far.
Then, the iron wall shatters.
His face cracks open, the mask of the grieving widower collapsing to reveal the sheer, naked devastation beneath, his breath hitching in a harsh, ragged sound.
"You...you would do that?"
"Of course I would," you whisper, the tears finally welling in your own eyes, blurring the sight of him. "She was your wife, Joel. She gave you Sarah and she’s a part of this family, just as your son is. I knew her too, cared about her…I don't want to erase her. I just want to help you carry her."
He lets out a sob. a deep, guttural sound of absolute, overwhelming relief. Then he drops his head, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently with gratitude.
“I thought…” he stutters. “I thought I couldn’t...I didn’t wanna be disrespectful to you, not any more than I know I have been already…”
“You haven’t been disrespectful.”
“I have,” he insists, raising his head again. “Puttin’ you in a position like I did that night and then suggestin’ you let me come to you again…but I’ve tried so hard to…” he stops and swallows. “I can only imagine what it’s like for you bein’ here, livin’ in her house and raisin’ her child with a man who can’t…I don’t want to mention her ‘cause I don’t wanna hurt you, don’t want you to think that you don’t belong, ‘cause I’m so grateful that you agreed to come here.”
You don’t hesitate this time. You move towards him, closing the distance between you, and reach out, wrapping your arms entirely around his waist and pressing your face against the solid, heavy wall of his chest.
This time, he doesn’t flinch. He collapses against you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against him with a desperate, crushing strength. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his tears soaking into the collar of your dress, his heavy body trembling against yours.
He holds you like a drowning man who has finally been pulled to the surface.
"His name ain’t even on the grave," he weeps the words muffled against your skin, his rough beard scraping your neck. “Today…I was there and, even though it’s her day, his name ain’t there and it should be. I should’ve…”
You hold him back just as fiercely, your hands pressing flat against the heavy muscles of his back, anchoring him, and you close your eyes, letting your own tears fall, feeling the heat of his body and the desperate, clinging strength of his arms.
It isn’t a romantic embrace, but rather something infinitely more profound. It’s the first true, honest bridge built across the chasm between you.
“What was his name?” you murmur.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment before breathing the answer. “Benjamin Henry. She picked it right before she died.”
You screw your eyes tightly closed. “It’s a good name.”
You stand together for a long time, letting the grief bleed out of him and when he finally pulls back, his face is wet, his eyes red-rimmed, but the suffocating, deadened look is gone. He looks at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, thumbs gently brushing the fabric of your dress, with a reverence that makes your breath catch.
"Larkspur," he says softly, his voice thick and wavering.
You look up at him, wiping a tear from your own cheek. "What?"
He swallows hard, a fragile, heartbroken smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Tess loved blue larkspur and yellow climbin’ roses."
"Then we’ll plant larkspur," you promise, your voice steady and sure. "And yellow roses. We’ll start tomorrow and Sarah can help.”
He nods slowly, his hands tightening on your shoulders for one brief, grounding second before he lets you go.
He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t sweep you into his arms and carry you to the bedroom. But as he steps back, wiping his face with the back of his hand, the air feels different somehow.
“May I ask something of you?” You ask, and he nods. “Speak their names. I want you to feel as though you can talk about them, not that they need to be hidden.”
He swallows hard and nods again, “Thank you, and I’m sorry for…”
“Let’s start afresh,” you say, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
“Yes,” he agrees, the relief profound. “Yes, it is.”
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel marry and he takes you to your new home.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Thank you for all the love so far 🥰
Masterlist
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The Reverend doesn’t wait for Sunday to deliver his sermon. He delivers it two days later on Thursday, in the middle of your father's store, beside a display of winter woollens.
He comes in at ten in the morning, bringing the bitter January cold in with him, and doesn’t remove his hat. His face is the colour of old parchment, drawn tight, his eyes burning with the terrible, dry fire of a man who believes he is the sole author of God's will in Sawyer's Creek.
You’re alone at the counter, sorting a box of brass buttons, and you don’t look up when the bell jangles, but years of living in this town means that you recognise the sound of his tread.
He says your name quietly, his tone grating and absolute and you set the box down, wipe your hands on your apron and look at him across the polished pine.
"What can I do for you, Reverend?"
"You can examine your conscience," he says, stepping closer to the counter. "I have just come from my late daughter’s home where I have been told a thing so monstrous, so entirely devoid of Christian decency, that I could scarce credit it until I came here to look you in the eye."
You wait, gaze carefully matching his own, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of saying the words first – of pre-empting his inevitable attack.
He blinks, lips pursing. “I have been told…that you intend to marry Joel Miller.”
"Yes,” you reply, keeping your voice flat. You’ve spent thirty-four years practicing the art of being unbothered furniture and you draw on every hour of it now. "I am going to marry Mr Miller.”
"It is an abomination," he hisses, leaning over the counter, his breath acrid as though he’s been chewing bitterly on the news. "He is a man unhinged by grief, grasping at the first skirt that will help him steal my granddaughter from her rightful blood. And you – a spinster no less who has failed to find her own match – are taking advantage of his madness to elevate your station. You know very well that the natural order of things is for Joel to marry Belle and for her to raise my grandchild.”
"I’m given to understand that Mr Miller doesn’t wish to marry Belle,” you reply calmly, “otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked for my hand.”
"Belle is Tess's blood!" The Reverend's voice rises, vibrating with righteous fury. "You are nothing to that child. You are a shopkeeper's daughter who has clearly spent the last five years waiting to give voice to your sinful infatuation with another woman's husband!"
The words hit you like a physical blow, the air in the store thinning out, leaving a ringing in your ears. You feel the blood rush to your face, hot and humiliating, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you plant both hands flat on the counter and lean forward, meeting his burning eyes with a cold, terrifying calm you didn’t know you possess.
"Now you listen to me,” you say. “I'm marrying Mr Miller because he asked me to, to protect Sarah from a man who would try use the law to rip a grieving child from her father's arms. You speak to me of Christian decency? Where’s the decency in destroying a man to soothe your own pride?"
"I will not marry you," he spits. "I will not read the banns. I will bar the doors of the chapel to the both of you."
"You must do as you see fit. But Sarah is staying at the ranch with her father, and I will be there to help raise her.”
He stares at you and, for a second, you see the raw, bleeding grief beneath the anger – the father who’s lost his brightest light and is thrashing blindly in the dark. But the anger swallows it whole and he turns on his heel and walks out of the store, slamming the door so hard the glass rattles in its frame.
By noon, the whole town knows.
Sawyer's Creek digests its scandals the way an animal digests its prey – slowly, visibly, and with a great deal of quiet satisfaction. Your father’s store, usually a place of lazy afternoon chatter, becomes a theatre of sideways glances and hushed whispers.
You hear it all because you’re the furniture and people forgot you have ears even when they’re talking about you.
There are those who side with the Reverend, of course. Mrs Smart and her sewing circle cluck their tongues over the bolts of calico, whispering that it’s a violation of the natural order.
“Tess's sister ought to have the raising of that baby.”
“It’s only right. Blood calls to blood.”
“She’s overstepping. She’s always been too quiet and it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.”
Then comes the uglier whispers, the ones that burn like acid. Ella-Jean Montgomery, buying laudanum from Doc Cooper, is overheard saying that a man doesn’t just up and marry the shopkeeper’s daughter out of nowhere.
“They must have had an understanding. All those times he paid her account in gold. Tess barely cold in the ground, and here they are.”
You bear it, measure their sugar, cut their cloth and count their change as usual with hands that don’t shake, though your jaw aches from clamping your teeth together.
But there’s the other side, too.
Randall’s father – Wilfred – comes to buy a tin of tobacco he doesn’t need, and tips his hat to you with profound, deliberate respect. And your own father, who’s stood between you and the town’s judgment for thirty-four years, takes to keeping a loaded shotgun under the counter, just visible enough to remind the men of Sawyer’s Creek to mind their manners when they speak to his daughter.
Joel doesn’t seem to care about the whispers. If anything, the town's hostility seems to forge the iron in him harder.
He comes into the store a week later, when the place is crowded, and ignores everyone within, including Mrs Smart who’s standing by the counter. He walks straight up to you, takes off his hat, and lays his hand over yours on the polished pine, right where everyone can see.
The store goes dead silent, the only sound the fire popping in the stove.
The tremor that goes through your body is real and though you fight the urge to visibly tremble at his touch, you realise you’ve failed, when he slowly pulls back.
"I wired the circuit judge in Weatherford, and he’ll be at the county courthouse on the twelfth of February. He’s agreed to perform the ceremony,” he says, his voice carrying perfectly through the quiet room.
You look up into his face and see exhaustion there, the deep hollows of grief, but his eyes stay locked on yours, fierce and protective.
"The twelfth of February," you say, your voice clear and ringing in the silent store. "That suits me just fine."
"I’ll bring the wagon round at dawn. We'll make Weatherford by late afternoon, marry, and then make our way home the next day."
"I’ll be ready," you nod, your stomach doing something akin to a flip as you note how he doesn’t say back to the ranch but rather – home.
He nods with apparent satisfaction, puts his hat back on, and walks out. The store exhales a collective breath once he’s gone and Mrs Smart looks at you, her mouth working like a landed fish, trying to find a word.
You pick up your ledger, dip your pen in the inkwell, and look at her with the cool, level gaze of a woman who’s just ceased to be furniture.
"Will that be all for you today, Mrs Smart?" you ask, trying not to smile as her cheeks redden.
It’s a cold day in Sawyer's Creek, but as you write the date – February 12 – at the top of a fresh page in your ledger, you feel a strange, fierce heat blooming in your chest. You’re going to Weatherford, you’re going to marry Joel Miller and the town, and the Reverend, and the ghost of the life you’re supposed to live, can all go straight to the devil.
****
The trunk is your mother’s, smells of old lavender, and sits open at the foot of your narrow bed waiting to swallow thirty-four years of a life that’s only ever been lived under this slanted roof.
It’s the evening of the eleventh of February and tomorrow at dawn, Joel Miller will bring his wagon to your door to drive you to your wedding.
You fold your good grey silk – the dress you’ll be married in – your hands steady enough as you smooth the fabric, but your chest feeling as though someone has pulled the corset strings tight and tied them off in a hard, blind knot.
Looking around the small room, you think of everything you’re leaving behind. The washstand with the chipped basin, the braided rug and the shelf of books you’ve read until the spines crack. You’re leaving the only safe place you’ve ever known, to go out to a ranch and share a roof with a ghost, a grieving child, and a man whose heart is buried in the church graveyard.
The door creaks open and Maggie comes in carrying a stack of your everyday aprons, freshly laundered and pressed. She arrived the moment the store closed to help you pack, though mostly she’s just watched you with a dark, unreadable expression.
She sets the aprons in the trunk and sits on the edge of your bed, fingering the spread gently.
"That’s the last of the wash.”
"Thank you," you say, your eyes still on the grey silk.
"You don't have to do this, you know."
"The trunk’s packed, Maggie and the judge is expecting us tomorrow."
"I’m not talking about the judge as well you know," Maggie says, reaching out and catching your wrist, her grip warm and surprisingly strong. "Look at me."
You raise your eyes to meet hers.
"Pa thinks you’re doing this out of some grand, self-sacrificing nobility," she says, her voice dropping to a fierce, private whisper. "The town thinks you’re either a saint or a scheming opportunist. But I’m your sister and I know you.”
You try to pull your hand away. "Maggie, please…"
"You have feelings for him. Perhaps…perhaps even love him."
The words hang in the cold air of the bedroom, stark and naked and you feel the blood drain from your face. You don’t call it love, you call it respect – not being indifferent.
"I’m fond of Sarah," you manage, your voice trembling. "And Joel’s a good man in a terrible position."
"Stop it," Maggie snaps, though her eyes are shining. "Stop being the sensible shopkeeper's daughter for one minute. You’ve had feelings for Joel Miller since the first day you ever saw him. I saw the way you looked at him when Tess was alive, and I saw the way you buried it. And I’ve seen the way you look at him now."
“That isn’t true.” You close your eyes, the knot in your chest pulling tighter, until it’s hard to draw breath.
“I think it is.”
Maggie lets go of your wrist and moves closer, putting her arms around your shoulders, drawing you against her. You shake your head, your throat full of emotion that prevents you from speaking as she gently strokes your hair.
"You poor fool,” she whispers, the words not unkind.
"I have to help him," you manage finally. "They’ll take her, Maggie. The Reverend will take Sarah and raise her to be as bitter and narrow as he is, and Joel…Joel won’t survive it. He’s already lost Tess and to lose Sarah too…"
"And what about you?" Maggie asks, pulling back just enough to look fiercely at you. "Will you survive it? He’s a broken man – hollowed out. He’s marrying you to build a wall around his daughter, and he’s told you plainly he has no heart to give you. If you go out to that ranch feeling the way you do, and he looks right through you every day to see the ghost of his dead wife... it’ll kill you – inch by inch."
"He doesn’t look through me.”
Maggie lets out a frustrated breath. "He’s using you."
"Yes, he is," you agree. "And I’m letting him. But I’m not taking Tess’s place, Maggie, and I plan to tell him that once we’re married. I’m making my own place as his wife.”
She reaches out and touches your cheek, her voice softening into something terribly sad. "I just don't want to see you destroyed. You’ve spent your whole life taking care of Pa, taking care of the store, taking care of everyone else's secrets. You deserve a man who looks at you and sees the sun rising."
"I’m thirty-four years old," you meet her eyes. "I’m plain, and practical, and I don’t need the sun to rise on me. I don’t need to have what you have with Randall, but I need a life that’s mine. I need to not be furniture anymore."
You smooth the grey silk one last time.
"He’s broken, I know that," you continue, voice steadying, the iron coming back into it. "But he’s been honest about it. He didn’t lie to me, Maggie. He didn’t promise me a romance he couldn't deliver. He’s promised me the running of his house, and he’s trusting me with the only thing in this world he has left to love."
You look up at your sister.
"I would rather risk being hurt out on that ranch than die safe in this bed."
Maggie stares at you for a long time then, slowly, she smiles – a sad, fierce, yielding smile.
"Well," she says softly. "I suppose there’s no arguing with that." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a small, tissue-wrapped parcel and presses it into your hands.
"What’s this?"
"Open it."
You peel back the tissue to find a silver comb, delicate and old, set with three small, dark garnets. You immediately recognise it as having belonged to your grandmother, Maggie inheriting it when she married Randall.
"You wear it tomorrow," she says, her voice thick. "You put it in your hair and hold your head up when you stand in front of that circuit judge. You’re worth ten of Belle Sawyer, and you’re worth a hundred of that town out there. You make him see it."
You close your hand around the cold silver of the comb and nod. “I will.”
“I wish I could be there.” Maggie kisses your forehead, stands up, and closes the lid of the trunk, the latch falling into place with a heavy, final click. "Get some sleep. Dawn comes early."
When she’s gone, you undress in the cold room, climb into the narrow bed for the last time then lie in the dark feeling the shape of the silver comb on the nightstand beside you.
You feel terrified because Maggie’s right. You’re risking everything, throwing your raw, unspoken heart into the hands of a man who’s still bleeding from the loss of someone else. But as you close your eyes, you don’t picture Tess. You picture Joel, standing in the frozen mud, asking you to help him and you pull the quilt up to your chin.
Let morning come, you think. I’m ready.
****
The wagon’s outside before the sun has fully cleared the eastern ridge.
You hear the creak of the wheels and the snort of the horse through your window. You’re already dressed in the grey silk, your grandmother’s comb biting securely into the heavy coil of your hair. You don’t look in the mirror, but simply pick up your shawl and gloves, and go downstairs to the store.
Your father’s waiting by the stove with fresh coffee that he pours into a cup for you, his hands shaking slightly, and you drink it standing up in the quiet, familiar gloom of home.
"You’re a good woman,” he says finally. “The best of us. If he ever forgets it, you send word."
"He won't forget it, Pa," you say, though your heart is hammering against your ribs. "You know I’m not the type of woman to let him."
“No indeed, I do know that,” he chuckles softly. “I only wish I could come with you to see you wed.”
“It’s better this way. The journey would be too long for you.”
“Yes.” Putting his cup down, he draws you into an embrace, holding you tight, as though he’s never going to see you again. “Take care, my love.”
“I will,” you reply, dropping a kiss on his cheek before walking out of the door, the cold morning air hitting you like a pane of glass.
Joel stands by the wagon wearing a clean black coat that hangs a little loose on his broad shoulders. When he sees you, he takes off his hat and though he doesn’t smile, his eyes take you in, from the hem of your grey silk to the silver comb in your hair.
"Mornin’," he says.
"Good morning."
He helps you up onto the wagon seat, his grip on your arm impersonal, but warm through your sleeve. Then he loads your mother’s trunk into the back, climbs up beside you, and releases the brake.
You look back as the wagon rolls slowly down The Street, turning back only once to watch your father raise his hand in a gesture of farewell, before you round the corner and lose him from view.
The ride to Weatherford takes ten hours.
It’s a quiet journey and you sit beside Joel on the wooden seat, the cold seeping through your wool shawl, watching his hands on the reins. You think of what Maggie said – He is using you – and don’t try to fill the silence with chatter. You’ve never been a woman who needs to fill a silence, and everything you know of Joel suggests he’s a man who lives in it.
Around noon, he stops to rest the horses and hands you a canteen and a wrapped parcel of bread and cheese.
"You cold?" he asks, voice rough.
"I’m fine," you reassure him, and he looks at you for a long moment, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw.
"You look beautiful," he says quietly. "I should’ve said so this mornin’. I’m outta practice with the things a man oughta say.”
You feel a hot, treacherous flush rise in your cheeks and look down at the bread in your lap. "Thank you, Mr Miller, but we don't need to practice things we don't mean."
“Joel,” he says, “please. Reminds me of my folks if we call each other Mr and Mrs and there weren’t much in that home to commend itself as an example.”
“Joel.”
"And I meant it," he says without further elaboration. Then he drinks from the canteen, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbs back onto the wagon.
You reach Weatherford just as the light is starting to fail, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and grey. The county courthouse is a square stone building that smells of damp wool and cigar smoke. The circuit judge, a tired man with ink on his fingers, is packing up his ledger when Joel walks in and lays the marriage licence on his desk.
The ceremony takes less than five minutes given that there’s no chapel, no organist playing hymns, no congregation hanging on every word. There’s only the dusty office, the ticking of a grandfather clock, and Joel standing beside you, tall and rigid.
When the judge asks for the rings, Joel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plain gold band. It’s not Tess’s ring, you notice immediately with a frisson of relief. This is new, heavy and unadorned. He takes your left hand in his and slides it onto your finger, and his voice, when he says the vows, is low and perfectly steady, carrying the weight of a contract signed in blood.
“To have and to hold. From this day forward.”
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the judge says, stamping the paper. "You may kiss the bride."
Joel turns to you and hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his grief standing between you. Then he reaches out, puts his hand gently on your shoulder, and bends his head. He kisses your cheek, right at the corner of your mouth in a dry, chaste kiss, exactly what a man gives a woman he respects but doesn’t love.
"Mrs Miller," he says softly.
"Mr Miller," you reply, your voice shaking slightly.
You spend the night at a boarding house nearby where Joel's booked two rooms. He carries your trunk up the narrow stairs, sets it inside your door, and hands you the key.
"I’ll come for you at first light," he says, standing in the hallway looking impossibly tired, the adrenaline finally draining out of him. "Lock the door behind me and get some sleep."
"I will, thank you. Goodnight, Joel.”
You step inside the room, lock the door, and sit on the edge of the strange bed in your grey silk dress, looking at the plain gold band on your finger.
You’re married. You’ve done it. You’ve thrown your life across the gap.
****
The next day, you ride back the way you came, the Miller ranch coming into view as you round a bend in the creek, sheltered by a stand of massive cottonwoods. It’s a working place with a low, sprawling house with a deep porch, a sturdy barn, and a network of corrals holding winter-shaggy horses, smoke rising from the stone chimney.
The sight of it makes you pause. For some reason, you’ve envisaged coming to a cold, dark place, left shuttered up whilst its owner was away, and now you chide yourself for your foolishness.
“Asked Old Mrs Dawson to come stay with Sarah,” Joel says, as though reading your mind. “She likes her – was fond of Tess too.”
As the wagon pulls into the yard, the front door flies open and Sarah appears on the porch wrapped in a wool shawl that’s too big for her, her dark hair flying in the wind. Behind her, you see Mrs Dawson, a local farmer’s wife, wiping her hands on an apron.
Sarah stops at the edge of the steps, her thumb creeping toward her mouth, her gaze going first to the wagon, then her father, then to you.
Joel sets the brake and wraps the reins around the whip-socket before climbing down, walking around to your side, and reaching up to help you. You put your hands on his shoulders and let him lift you down into the frozen dust of the yard.
Immediately, you let go of him and walk toward the porch, stopping at the bottom step and crouching down so you’re eye-level with her. But you don’t reach for her, knowing better than to rush a frightened animal or a grieving child.
"Hello Sarah," you say quietly.
Sarah stares at you with Joel’s serious, dark eyes. "Pa said you were comin’ to live with us."
"I am, if you'll have me."
"Are you my new mama?" she asks, the question blunt and heartbreakingly direct.
You feel Joel step up close behind you, tension radiating off him, and realise that he’s clearly been ill-equipped to handle the full extent of the explanation his daughter deserves.
"No," you say, your voice clear and firm. "You already have a mama, Sarah. Her name was Tess, and she loved you very much. Nobody can ever take her place."
You reach out, slowly, and touch the edge of the oversized shawl.
"I’m your stepmother now, and I’m going to take care of you, and teach you your letters, and maybe show you how to bake – if you’d like to learn."
Sarah blinks, then she steps off the porch and throws her arms around your neck, burying her face in the collar of your dress.
You catch her, close your eyes and bury your face in her hair, smelling woodsmoke and little girl sweat, and hold her tight against your chest. Over her head, you meet Mrs Dawson’s eyes, and the older woman nods once, a slow, profound gesture of approval, before turning back inside.
Joel carries your trunk inside and leads you past the front parlour, past the kitchen where you can see a pot of stew simmering, and down the hallway to the far end of the house. He stops in front of a heavy pine door and opens it.
"This is your room," he says, moving aside to let you enter.
It’s bigger than your own at the mercantile with a large window facing east, a braided rug on the floor, a washstand with a clean pitcher, and a small iron stove in the corner, already throwing off a fierce, crackling heat.
And then there’s the bed. You can tell by the heavy, square joints and the solid, unornamented headboard that he’s built it himself and it’s made up with fresh linen and a thick yellow quilt.
You stand in the middle of the room looking at the bed, and then you look at Joel, standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands, watching you with that same grave, measuring attention.
"This was a guest room,” he says, “not that we ever had any guests. It’s yours now and no-one else’s ever slept here."
"It’s a beautiful room," you say, throat tight.
"My room’s down the hall," he says looking down at his hat, his jaw working. "I wanted to…I wanted to make sure that you understand that it ain’t my intention to ever...” he pauses. “I know what the law says but… I want you to know that I’ll not cross this threshold, not lay hands on you, unless you ask it of me. I swear it. You’re safe here.”
From me, he means.
You look at him, at the grey in his hair, the exhausted slump of his shoulders and the terrible, honourable restraint that’s holding him together. "Thank you.”
He nods once then steps back. "Take your time. Mrs Dawson’s takin’ care of supper." Then he closes the door, leaving you alone.
You stand in the quiet room for a moment before unpinning your grandmother’s silver comb and setting it on the washstand. Then you remove your shawl, walk over to the new bed, run your hand over the quilt, and sit down on the edge of it.
You’re Mrs Miller now – mistress of this ranch and protector of the child down the hall. You’ve won the initial battle against the Reverend and secured your place.
Inch by inch.
Lying back on the bed, you stare up at the raw pine ceiling, and steal yourself to begin the long, quiet work of living with a man who’s promised you everything but his heart.
Because the battle may have been won, but the war is only just beginning.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: An unfortunate series of events leads to a proposal.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: This evolved out of this WIP. I had to change a few small things as I fleshed things out more but the overall premise is the same. I’ve tagged those who specifically said they’d like to be tagged but if you want added, just let me know.
Masterlist
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Sawyer's Creek sits in a bend of the Brazos where the land forgets to be green. Come August the sky goes white at the edges and the cicadas scream so loud in the live oaks that you stop hearing them, the way you stop hearing your own heartbeat. Your father says the town was born out of stubbornness and a good well, and you've never found reason to argue with him on either count.
There’s one street, and everyone calls it The Street, though the deed at the county seat in Weatherford gives it the name Commerce. It runs a quarter mile from the livery at the north end – run by Ezra Bowen, who smells of horse piss and peppermint – down past the blacksmiths, the land office, the telegraph office, your father's mercantile, the Bluebonnet Hotel, which is neither blue nor a proper hotel, only three rooms above Agatha Smart's kitchen, the Silver Dime saloon, Doc Cooper’s little clapboard with its crooked shingle, and ends at the white chapel sitting prim on its rise like a lady lifting her hem out of the mud. Behind the chapel sits the parsonage and behind the parsonage, the graveyard.
Your place behind the counter of the mercantile store is a kind of confessional. You learned early that people speak freely in front of a woman they've decided is furniture and, at twenty-nine, you’re a settled fact in Sawyer's Creek. Plain is not quite the word for you. Your mother, God rest her, always said sensible looking, which is the kindness women use when they mean a girl's face won't start any wars. Your hair and eyes are non-descript, your hands ink-stained on Tuesdays, days spent completing the ledger, and flour-dusted on Fridays. No young man has ever stood on your porch with his hat crushed in his grip, and you stopped, a while back, pretending to expect one.
Your younger sister, Maggie, has been more fortunate in that department than you have. Besotted with Randall Walker, the son of the blacksmith, since she was a child, they wed when she turned eighteen and are now doting parents to three bouncing, red-cheeked children whom you adore but are somewhat grateful to hand back at the end of a visit from their home on the edge of town.
Sawyer’s Creek is also the kind of town where everybody knows everybody else and, consequently, everybody’s business.
For example, everybody knows that Ella-Jean Montgomery, who lives in a small house in the centre of town with her two children was not widowed back east as she claims, but that her husband did, somewhat unfortunately choose to run off with the heir to a small mining fortune necessitating her return to the town of her birth.
For example, everybody knows that Doc Cooper enjoys a whisky or two, or three, at the Silver Dime of an evening and that, when his tongue is loosened just far enough, the medicinal ailments of many Sawyer’s Creek residents become fair game for discussion.
For example, everybody knows that Jack Lacey’s leg injury, that he claims is the result of a wound sustained at Gettysburg is, in fact, the result of him accidentally hammering a nail into his thigh whilst attempting to mend a fence.
For example, everybody knows that twenty-year-old Tess Sawyer is the most beautiful, most vivacious young woman in the town named after her ancestors. Her hair is long, dark and lustrous, her eyes a piercing blue, her waist the envy of most other women in town who have to near strangle themselves with corsets to achieve anywhere near the like of it. She’s friendly to everyone, never appears troubled or put out and is promised, so everyone assumes, to the son of the minister of the next town over.
Tess comes into the mercantile most mornings for her mother's list – coffee, soda, a yard of this, a spool of that – and she talks to you the way younger women sometimes talk to the unmarried older ones, as though somehow you can’t tell on her. You wouldn’t call yourself friends – she has a gaggle of other young ladies in town to fit that description – but you've heard more of Tess Sawyer's secret heart than any living soul. You aren't sure whether to feel flattered or used and most days you settle on interested, which is the safe middle country you’ve made your home.
And lately, every secret she tells you has the same name stitched through it.
Joel Miller.
You know Joel Miller the way the town knows him, which is to say, not well. He arrived two years earlier with nothing but a good horse and a bill of sale for the old Lawson ranch a mile outside of town, abandoned after the end of the war. He runs a head of cattle, rides in once a month for supplies and whiskey, and he has the deep, weathered quiet of men who have done things they don't mean to discuss.
Having studied him, you’ve estimated him to be late forties or early fifties, grey starting to trickle through his hair and the scruff of his beard. When you see him, you feel your pulse do an unsensible thing in your throat, and then you feel ashamed of it, because he has never once looked at you.
He looks at Tess – looks at her like a man who has spent his life crossing deserts and has just been shown water.
And Tess – who could have any man she wants – looks back at him as though the rest of the world has gone quietly out of focus. You saw it happen one afternoon last April when he came in for sixpenny nails, and she was fetching her mother's sugar. He literally knocked into her, sugar exploding all over her skirts and he apologised for the mess whilst Tess shrugged it off with a laugh and a wave of her hand. To any other casual bystander, she treated the interaction as she might have done with anyone else in town. But you, standing at the corner restocking the scarves that had come in on the stage, didn’t miss something in the air shifting in a way you felt behind your breastbone.
Tess Sawyer loves Joel Miller – and you know that nothing good can come of it because her father, Reverend Sawyer, definitely does not love Joel Miller. He preaches Sundays on the wages of sin in a voice like a handsaw, and has decided that Joel Miller is a man with too much past and not enough Jesus, and has told Tess in no uncertain terms that she will marry him over his dead body.
Mrs Sawyer, Tess's mother, is a softer creature – a pale, anxious woman who keeps chickens and her own counsel and disagrees with her husband only when no-one else is there to bear witness. So, Tess comes to you, leans on your counter in the long slow afternoons when the dust hangs gold in the air and nobody else is in the store, and tells you about the notes she’s passed, about the Sunday she slipped away during the church supper and met Joel in the cottonwoods, about the way his beard scraped her chin and how she didn’t mind it.
She tells you she’s going to marry him, that her father will come around and that if he doesn’t, she'll go to him anyway. And you try to think of something to say, something sensible and worldly, but given your own state, you clearly have nothing to offer.
****
The Reverend gives in two months later and you’re fairly sure you’re the first to hear the news when the bell over the door goes off like a startled bird and Tess comes through it at a run with no bonnet, her hair half loose from its pins, laughing and crying at once. Before you can say anything, she crosses the store and flings both arms around your neck.
"He said yes," she breathes into your collar. "Lord forgive me, he said yes, he said yes, he said yes!"
You can feel her heart going through her bodice like a rabbit's. Over her shoulder, through the front window, you see Joel standing out in the street by his horse with his hat in both hands, looking up at the chapel on its rise as though he’s just been told he can come inside out of a long cold rain. Something in the set of his shoulders has changed, eased, and you understand without being told that he’s walked up that hill that morning and stood in front of the Reverend and said whatever he needed to say to earn the consent he wanted.
They marry in October, when the worst of the heat has broken. Tess wears her mother's dress, taken in at the waist and let out at the bust, with a sprig of late yellow coreopsis pinned at her throat.
The chapel is full of Sawyer’s Creek’s worthies, your father wearing the black suit he hasn’t put on since your mother's funeral to walk Tess down the aisle because the Reverend is standing at the front to do the marrying himself.
Joel stands at the altar in a coat that doesn’t quite fit him across the shoulders. His hair has been freshly cut, his beard shaved down to something barely there, and when Tess comes up the aisle on your father's arm you watch him swallow hard and blink.
He says his vows low and clear whilst she says hers through tears. The Reverend pronounces them man and wife in a voice that manages to hold steady, and Joel bends and kisses his bride with the careful tenderness of a man handling something he can still not quite believe is his.
You clap with everybody else and mean it and then you all traipse out to the green space behind the chapel for music and dancing and laughter, Tess’s younger sister, Belle, catching the bridal bouquet tossed from atop Joel’s wagon before he drives his new wife home.
For a while after that you only see Tess on Saturdays, when she and Joel come into town for supplies. She’s immediately different, her hair pinned lower, her laugh quieter, and her hand resting easy in the crook of her husband's arm as though it’s always belonged there. She still leans on your counter and talks but the secrets are different now – the price of coffee, the chill in the front room of the ranch, the hours Joel spends out working – and you listen, and you measure, and you notice around Christmas, that she stops asking for her monthly packet of clean rags.
She tells you herself in January, pink-cheeked from the wind, the bell jangling behind her. "I think," she whispers, leaning halfway across your counter, "that there's going to be a baby."
"I know," you say, because you’ve known for three weeks.
She laughs and catches your hand across the counter, squeezing it tightly. "Don't tell a soul. Joel doesn't even know yet. I wanted to be sure."
"Tell him tonight," you say, “before he finds out from the look on your face."
You know that she does because the following Saturday Joel walks into your store alone while Tess is next door at the dressmaker’s and stands in front of your counter for a long moment turning his hat in his hands before speaking.
“I understand I have you to thank for a number of kindnesses to my wife."
“Oh, not at all, I…”
You break off as he lays twenty dollars down on the counter, more money than most men in Sawyer's Creek see in a month. "For whatever she needs. Anythin’ she wants. You send word and I'll settle quarterly."
You try to push it back, but he simply shakes his head, touches the brim of his hat and walks out. You stare at the money for a long moment before putting it in the till and writing Miller account in your best hand across the top of a fresh page.
Pregnancy suits Tess Miller. She blooms, coming into town in May as big as a butter churn and twice as pleased with herself. Joel trails her everywhere like a dog that has found its person, and you catch him once in the street outside the mercantile setting his hand flat on the shelf of her belly right there where everyone can see, and the look on his face is the look of a man who has never in his life expected to be permitted such a thing.
You have to go back inside and busy yourself with the coffee mill for a few minutes before your own face is fit for company.
Sarah Ann Miller comes in the first week of August, in the worst heat of the year – named for Tess’s grandmother who came to Texas in a wagon in the thirties and is buried in the churchyard.
By noon the whole of Sawyer's Creek knows. By supper Mrs Smart has baked a cake and sent it out to the ranch with one of the Ewing boys. By Sunday the Reverend stands up in his pulpit and announces the birth of his granddaughter in a voice that, for the first time in living memory sounds more like a man, and you sit in your usual pew and watch with the small quiet ache behind your breastbone that has become, over the course of a year, as familiar to you as breath.
Happy – they’re happy. Happy in the bone-deep ordinary way that is the rarest thing the Lord gives out and the easiest to overlook while you have it. Tess comes into town with Sarah on her hip and the baby reaches for the peppermint jar on your counter with one fat starfish hand, whilst Joel stands in the doorway smiling and the three of them together in the gold afternoon light of your father's store make a picture you do not know, at the time, that you will spend the rest of your life trying to keep unblurred in your mind.
****
The second baby is due in September.
You watch Tess carry this one all through the summer and tell yourself that the little worm of unease in your belly is only superstition. Tess is twenty-five now, Sarah five and as brown as a biscuit from a summer of running barefoot through the ranch yard.
Tess is bigger this time. You notice it at Easter and tell yourself it’s only that she hasn’t quite got her figure back from Sarah. You notice it at midsummer and tell yourself it’s the heat, which makes everybody swell. You notice it in August and stop telling yourself things.
In the first week of September, Mrs Cooper comes into the store, a handkerchief to her mouth and tells you that Tess died in the early hours of the morning. The baby was turned wrong and had been from the start. Doc Cooper had tried to turn it, but to no avail. Tess had been labouring a day and a night and most of another day and had started bleeding in a way that had no ending.
The baby hadn’t drawn breath.
The funerals take place two days later.
The whole town comes again, but the mood this time is markedly different. The Reverend tries to preach but stops in the middle of his own sermon and stands at the pulpit with his mouth open and nothing coming out. After a long terrible minute your father rises from his pew and puts his hand on the Reverend's shoulder and leads him down to the front row beside his wife and Belle, and the Reverend sits down and puts his face in his hands and weeps like a child, whilst someone in the congregationstarts singing Abide with Me and the congregation joins in.
Tess and the baby are buried together, in one coffin in the churchyard. Joel carries Sarah in his arms the whole service, her face pressed into the hollow of his neck, and when the first spade of earth goes down onto the coffin she doesn’t cry, only turns her face further into her father's neck and winds her small fist tighter into the collar of his coat.
You stand with your father, your hand hurting and realise after a while that you’ve been clenching it the whole service. Slowly, finger by finger, you open it, hold it flat against your thigh, and make yourself breathe.
****
You learn of the Reverend’s plan quite by chance some two months later as Thanksgiving approaches. The conversation is likely not meant for your ears, given it takes place in a corner of the store far from where you’re busy working. But what secrets one family holds, another doesn’t and therefore your father turns to you mere moments after the door closes behind Tess’s father.
“Well,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Well, that’s a tale.”
“What’s a tale?”
“The Reverend has it all worked out. Apparently, the solution to the problem is for Joel to marry Belle.”
You pause, your mind rolling over what problem he could possibly be referring to. “I don’t understand.”
Your father sighs and rubs his hand over his face. “The Reverend’s view is that Joel isn’t coping without Tess. Apparently, when he and his wife have ridden out there, the house has been in a state of disarray, Sarah appears neglected…”
“I don’t believe that for a moment!” You exclaim, outraged. “Joel adores Sarah and there is no way that he would allow her to go with less than what she needs.”
“I agree, but the Reverend is, nevertheless, concerned. He thinks the best thing all round, would be for Joel to marry Belle so that she can be a mother to Sarah and keep house the way it should be kept. That it’s what Tess would want.”
“But Belle is…”
You break off, not wishing to be unkind, but resolute in your opinion that Belle is the complete antithesis of Tess. She’s not been blessed with either the beauty or personality of her sister, her surly expression a regular sight around town.
“Belle is not Tess,” you settle on finally.
“No, she isn’t.”
“I know that widowers will often marry the sister of their late wife but…does Joel even want to marry Belle?”
“Apparently not – which leads the Reverend to what he considers to be the alternative.”
You brace yourself. “Which is?”
“Which is, he and his wife raise Sarah.”
Scoffing a laugh, you turn back to the neat pile of scarves on the shelf beside you and start ritually unfolding and refolding them, giving your hands something to do. “Joel would never agree to that, I’m sure.”
“No, the Revered doesn’t think he will, but he’s talking about wiring the circuit court judge to see whether or not he has any legal standing to the child. I don’t know,” he shakes his head. “It’s a sorry business, that’s all I can say. The man has lost his wife and now his wife’s parents are attempting to dictate how he lives the remainder of his life. I’m only thankful you and Maggie were grown when your mother died, or I might have ended up married to your Aunt Gwendolyn.”
His words are meant in humour, but you spend the rest of the day pondering the stark choice Joel has somehow been given – the unfair choice – the one Tess would not have wanted, despite what her father says.
Over the next few weeks, whenever Joel comes into the store, his face is drawn tight as a drumhead, and his eyes have the cornered, dangerous look of a wolf backed against a canyon wall. He says little, merely passing over the list and paying his bill, gaze refusing to meet yours. You want to say something, to offer some crumb of comfort – but like in years gone by when you spoke to Tess, you have none to offer.
You have no experience of love or loss, and you don’t want to give him empty platitudes.
****
On a Tuesday in late January, the bell over the door jangles and Joel walks in. He doesn’t have Sarah with him, nor does he come over to the counter. Instead, he walks straight up to where your father is standing dusting a shelf, takes off his hat, and asks your father if he might speak with him in the back room.
Your father looks at him, looks at you, and nods, leading him through the door and closing it behind him.
They stay there for an hour while you measure out flour and wipe down the counter until the pine shines, all the while listening to the low, steady rumble of men's voices through the thin partition. You can’t make out the words, but you can hear the shape of them – Joel’s rough and urgent, your father’s slow and measuring.
When the door finally opens, Joel walks out without looking at you, puts his hat on his head, and walks out into the cold bright street.
Your father stands in the doorway of the back room with a piece of ledger paper in his hand, folded tight. "Come back here."
You wipe your hands on your apron and follow him through, whereupon he bids you to sit.
"This is…I…” he hesitates and then exhales heavily. “Joel Miller has just asked for your hand in marriage.”
You stare at your father, trying to find the joke in his face, but you can quickly tell there’s none to find.
"Pa…”
Your father leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "The Reverend is trying to take Sarah, just like he said he would, or force Joel to marry Belle. He wants Joel declared unfit as a father and a man alone, working a ranch with no kin nearby stands little chance against a God-fearing judge.”
You feel the blood leave your face. “Unfit…but they wouldn’t do that…”
"They would. The Sawyers are grieving, and grieving people are ruthless." Your father looks down at the folded paper in his hand. "Joel needs a wife before the circuit judge comes through in March. He needs a woman of unimpeachable character, a woman the town respects, a woman the Reverend cannot possibly object to without making a fool of himself."
"And he came to you," you say, voice thin.
"He came to me to ask my permission to speak to you," your father corrects gently. "He laid out his finances, the deed to the ranch. He told me he doesn’t have love to offer you, but he has respect, and he’ll provide for you until the day you die.”
You sit and look at the dust motes turning in the shaft of winter light.
You’re thirty-fours years old. A spinster. The sensible woman behind the counter. And here it is – your proposal. Not born of a long, slow looking or a sudden desperate passion. But rather born of a father's terror of losing his child, negotiated in a back room.
And you're unlikely to ever receive one again.
"He’s waiting out in the side yard," your father says quietly. "He said if your answer is no, I’ve to go out and tell him, he’ll ride home and you’ll never be troubled by it again. If your answer is yes, or if you want to hear it from his own mouth, you’re to go out."
You look at your hands in your lap, dusted with flour, the hands of a spinster bound to die in the room she was born in.
You think of Tess.
You think of Belle.
You think of Sarah.
Standing up, you untie your apron and hang it on the peg before walking out the back door into the biting January wind, the mud in the alley frozen in deep ruts. Joel stands by his horse, his collar turned up against the cold and when he sees you, he takes his hat off.
Neither of you speak for a moment. A chicken moves through the yard clucking loudly and somewhere inside the house you know your father is absolutely listening.
"I s’pect your daddy told you the shape of things," he says finally.
"Yes, he did."
He nods once, looking not quite at you, rather somewhere near you, as though you’re a fence line he’s measuring. "I need somebody consistent for Sarah. Somebody who'll be there. I work hard and the land's good. You'll want for nothin’ practical."
Nothing practical. You turn that over in your head and then file it.
"And what would you want from me?”
That makes him look at you. His eyes are dark and still and give very little away, but something moves in them briefly – surprise, maybe, that you asked it plain.
"Someone to run the house, to understand that I’m a workin’ man. Someone to raise Sarah right and help her become…”
He takes a breath.
“Someone to be consistent.”
"Not a companion, then."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't not say it either, Mr Miller."
His jaw shifts and he looks down at the hat in his hands.
"I buried my wife," he says quietly. "I ain't…I'm not lookin’ to replace her – not like that. I wanna be honest with you about that, because I think you deserve honesty more than you deserve pretty words."
It lands without cruelty, which somehow makes it land harder.
You look at him – really look – at the lines around his eyes and the set of his mouth. A man doing what needs doing in the face of opposition.
"I appreciate that," you say finally, then take a breath. “My answer is yes.”
He stares at you. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
He takes a step toward you then stops, his throat bobbing as he nods. “Thank you. I’ll…I’ll talk to your daddy again and get everythin’ sorted before…”
“Yes,” you say again, hearing your voice shake.
He nods again, fixes his hat back on his head and moves over to his horse swinging into the saddle. “I can never thank you enough for this,” he says quietly, before touching his brim and urging the beast forwards.
You watch him ride away – Tess’s husband – the man who will shortly become your husband, then turn back toward the store.
You have a wedding to prepare for, and a town to shock, and a life to alter forever.
It’s not the proposal of a romantic novel, but it’s a start.
synopsis: your skills as a videographer gets put to the test when your friend, who happens to be in the same profession, falls victim to double-booking. problem is, you only specialized in weddings, not adult films. despite your initial reluctance, you take the job. cue the lights … you meet jeon jungkook, a pornstar, on set — in his world. you just never expected him to play a part in yours.
pairing: pornstar!jungkook x wedding videographer!fem reader
wc: 17.8k
genre: s2l, pornstar au, smut, angst, fluff
cw: slice of life, inaccurate adult filming industry discourse/depiction, epipen usage, miscommunication, angsty confrontation, emotionally confused chars, grief, minor jealousy, tension, yearning, lollipop™, alcohol consumption, menstruation, anxiety, 18+ ONLY, heavy sexual guilt/shame, brief handjob, blowjob, face fucking, dry humping, brief fingering, multiple sex scenes, loss of virginity, protected sex
a/n: this one’s for my angst enthusiasts 🥂 happy readings!
masterlist | prologue | act i. | act ii. | final act.
According to Google, it takes an average of sixty-six days to form a habit. It’s taken you shorter to form a daily habit of talking to Jeon Jungkook; yet, the habit breaks in under a minute.
Your replies grow increasingly cold and delayed, and when some of his messages in your chat thread go entirely unanswered, his heart sends him back to square zero. He’s in no mood to address your avoidant behaviors over text, but after a week of letting feelings simmer, he’s ready to talk. He doesn’t know if you’re ready to talk and on the eighth day, he decides he doesn’t care.
His finger taps on the video call button in your contact information.
About four rings in, he has half a mind to end the call, but the dial tone ceases. His once blown out face minimizes to the top right corner, replaced by yours on the main screen instead.
He sucks in a breath, realizing how little he prepared for this call. No script — no notes to follow along. The improv classes he took years ago on a whim would’ve served him well for this moment if he kept at it. Maybe it would’ve helped him segue into such a difficult conversation … better than being rendered speechless at the sight of you since the day you called him in his dressing room.
Alas, his mind buzzes at the sight of the pretty shade of blush you picked out as well as the curl of your lashes. The camera freezes a little from the poor connection, which is unusual considering you should be home at this time. The lighting of your surroundings is different too. Much brighter, not like the usual soft hues in your home.
“Pixie? Can you hear me?”
“Hey, yes I can. What’s up? Everything okay?”
He frowns. Can’t believe you’re repeating the same shit he said to you a week ago. Unsure if it’s out of pure pettiness or vengeance, Jungkook decides it’s best for his sanity you’re asking out of concern and not spite.
“Yes, I think so–” He pauses as you adjust the angle of the camera and notices a pristine white bed behind you. He hasn’t seen your bed yet, but from the time spent with you, he concluded all-white wasn’t your style. From the side he notices a hotel logo — the only one within a five hour radius of the city.
You’re not home, meaning you’re farther from his reach.
You barely look at the camera, occasionally jumping in and out of the frame as you bend down to sort some items. Jungkook feels more like a bother now with your lack of acknowledgement.
Skipping over formalities and the usual patterns of a conversation, he states the obvious, “You’re out of town.”
“I am.” You confirm, voice unwavering at the fact.
“You didn’t mention you’d be gone.”
Your movements stop for a second before you resume gathering items in your reach. “Wasn’t aware we had to tell each other our whereabouts.”
Ouch.
He levels his breathing, ensuring the next words he utters don’t come out shaky. “When will you be back in town, Pix? I think we should talk—”
“We are talking now.” You avoid his first question. “I have about three minutes, so this has to be quick.”
Alright, Jungkook isn’t one to lose his temper easily, but this was just plain rude. Whatever he wanted to discuss with you cannot be under three minutes — you both know this.
Unable to hide his emotions, he groans. “P, don’t be unreasonable.”
Your expression falters. Staying mean and angry isn’t who you are, no matter if it was deserved.
“We can talk when I’m back in town … I just don’t have a lot of time right now.”
Jungkook deduces you’re at another booking. Though, he can’t predict when you’ll be back home. Was he going to have to wait until you’re ready to talk? He doesn’t know if he can do another week of silence without understanding what’s running through your mind.
He wants to press on, but he knows best what it’s like to work in a sour mood. He’ll spare you.
Still, his teeth worry at his bottom lip. “Okay, just let me know.”
The call ends with a tight-lipped smile and no questions answered. His back hits his couch, stiff and tense. Again, he bought the couch purely for aesthetics, but he wishes for some softness and reassurance — none of which were provided in the short video call.
Jaw ticking at the thoughts swarming in his head, all sources of comfort point at his need to see and talk to you in person. That can’t wait any longer. He’ll have to be rude and bulldoze whatever wall you’ve set up to keep him out.
He thinks back to the details of the short call. The logo in the background was unique to the city and even more unique because it’s the only hotel he’s ever filmed at in the past. Hotels don’t support such productions, but with the money the film company offered in their contract, even a high-end hotel such as the one you’re staying at would bend.
He opens up the Maps application and types in the hotel name. Estimated arrival time was about four hours and fifty-three minutes with minimal traffic if he left right now. He wouldn’t arrive until later in the evening and even so … he’s not so sure when you’d be back from your booking.
Hell, did he even have the right place? He could be wrong for all he knew.
His leg bobs in place, restless and anxious at every second spent thinking about his next move. He could wait. You will be back in town, but again, he’s just not sure when. Everything’s up in the air. Your location, feelings, and relationship status.
To hell with waiting around for answers. He’s got to take matters into his own hands.
Wasting no more time, Jungkook pushes himself off his couch, quickly grabbing his jacket and stuffing his keys in his pocket.
You can’t fucking focus.
The three-day wedding was booked months in advance and, while you’re not new to traveling overnight for work, you miss your home and bed. You can’t help but feel this foreboding dread at the thought of going home at this point, though. Because … something, no, someone is also waiting for you.
Your frustrations were misplaced and unfair — Jungkook didn’t deserve the attitude you displayed on that call simply because you thought you couldn't do it: separating your pleasure, feelings, and work.
Certainly, if he had gone back to work and acted as though everything was normal, you needed to as well, right?
Jungkook makes you feel good in all parts of your life. He’s a good friend — he listens, shows genuine interest, laughs at your jokes and makes you laugh even harder at his. He’s also been a great work partner, and a fast learner, causing pride to swell in your chest whenever he treats your every editing advice with care and pure curiosity.
Until you catch this bitterness on your tongue, fighting to swallow and coexist with it. Then, it doesn’t feel as good anymore.
Seeing him in that dressing room unlocked a foreign feeling you don’t know how to face. You couldn’t even properly face him through a screen, the acidity in your mouth making your own words taste sour. Whenever his profession comes in between you, it builds this unavoidable and stubborn nausea.
His belief resounds in your mind: Pleasure, feelings, and work can be separate.
You’re at work right now, knowing full well you should keep these feelings at bay. Adjusting your camera, you zoom into the lovely couple at the altar. This was their second ceremony, a bigger one in comparison to the first one they had with their family and close friends.
The couple covered your travel costs and lodging, as most newlyweds would. The only difference is you’re not staying at some motel like you’ve been subjected to in the past. A nice upgrade, regardless if it’s hard work; the side perks make up for the difficult nature of this booking. Thankfully, this is the final night and you’re at the midway point of the event.
Just a couple more hours and you’ll be back in your hotel room.
Suddenly, a man comes into your view, stumbling, and he mumbles a quick-whispered apology for lightly hitting your shoulder in the process.
He exits the room and, while you’ve mastered the art of minding your business, his demeanor piqued your interest. Just before the grand doors close, you witness his figure doubling over.
You immediately exit the same way he did, except with much haste and worry.
“Sir, are you okay?” You keep your voice collected, although your eyes widen at his fallen state.
Pale lips, he struggles to take in a breath, let alone speak. You stammer and panic, telling him you’ll go get help, but he shakes his head. He points down at his pocket and you see a sliver of orange before you reach into it.
Fuck, you’ve never administered an Epipen before. Don’t know one damn thing about being a first responder or dealing with someone having a severe allergic reaction. You stall for a second before you’re fumbling with your phone in your hands, quickly looking up the steps while the man wheezes on the ground.
Less than a minute later, you’re stabbing the pen down onto his thigh with a foreign force. He sighs, head dropped to the ground in relief.
You pant, placing a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “Hold on, okay? Gonna call an ambulance—”
“No.” He breathes, staggered and forced. “Can’t ruin the wedding.”
“But—”
“Please.” He reaches for his phone in his pocket, quickly unlocks it and presses on one of his emergency contacts. You assist by pressing onto the speaker phone.
“Mr. Kim?” A gentleman answers after the second ring.
“Hi, um, the owner of this phone had an allergic reaction and needs to go to the hospital.” You look at your surroundings frantically. Your general sense of direction has always been terrible in new locations, but now it’s even more stunted in a state of emergency. Taking a moment, you remember the venue’s map from the itinerary and hurriedly speak into the phone. “We’re at the south wing of the estate.”
Within ten minutes, an older man appears, worried and flustered, but he hauls up the rather tall guy and slings his arm over his shoulders.
Unsure you should join them or go back into the wedding hall, you quickly stand up, wordlessly following behind.
“It’s okay, I got it from here. Thank you, Miss.” The older man assures.
The taller man lifts his head up momentarily, a weak and kind smile on his face before uttering, “Thank you.”
The gratitude settles all the prior buzzing nerves. You take a deep breath waiting for their figures to fully disappear before you rejoin the wedding.
You do your best to shift the crazy events to the back of your head in favor of refocusing on the couple as intended. A part of you is thankful for that particular moment of deterrence. For a brief time, the man and his wellbeing occupied your mind more than the boy at home.
In the last five hours since his arrival at the hotel, Jungkook lived off of cornchips and lobby coffee. Fine, he could’ve gotten a bite, but he was afraid of missing your arrival. Lord knows he’s tried his best to coax the front desk to give your room number. No charm or flirtatious skills worked. It almost did though, he was close, so sure the man nearly cracked and believed his story he was going to propose to his girlfriend as a surprise.
Almost. Part of him eases at the hotel reception’s resilience and inflexibility. Shows their integrity in keeping their guests safe.
He’s out of luck and spent his time loitering around the lobby. Pathetic as hell, though, he has to see through his attempt to right the relationship.
Part of him wonders if he even got the right hotel. The large logo at the main entrance only confirmed his theory, in addition to the sign at the front indicating a special congratulatory message to a newlywedded couple. It checks off all the imaginary boxes in his head, so he’ll chance it.
11:34 p.m.
He’s never been more excited and anxious for a lobby door opening. His jaw relaxes for the first time at a familiar sight — a familiar figure. You look exhausted, shoulders weighed down by the multiple bag straps, steps slightly thrown off as one of your bags hits the corner of a table.
Fuck. If he already felt like a bother through the phone, seeing you like this awakens a sudden and heightened need to hide, shame humming in his ears at the thought of being an added stressor to your long day. Though, he’s here already, so he must stand his ground.
You spot him before he greets you, steps coming to a halt with wide eyes.
“Jungkook?” Your strides speed up, heels clicking on the marble floor before you’re in front of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I–” He hesitates with his next words. What the hell was he doing here? He was eventually going to talk to you whenever you were back in town, except he wasn’t sure when you’d be. Jungkook was right to believe you needed someone gentle and patient — characteristics he clearly lacked in this exact moment, which led him to his impulsive actions.
“Pix, we have to talk.” His voice lifts with urgency. “Please?”
You turn your head to the side, noticing the front desk receptionists staring before looking back at their computer screens. There’s no way you’re going to have this conversation here. For starters, you can’t deny your heart seizing at Jungkook’s effort — the long distance he had to drive from home and the even longer wait in the lobby registering in your brain. But you’re also not going to put up a scene which could potentially become part of the desk clerks’ top 100 dramatic things to witness in their time working at the establishment. You were not about to be a part of a group-chat discussion.
Resolute, you nod up at him. “Okay, let’s go back to my room to talk.”
All muscle memory in how Jungkook reaches over to grab the majority of your bags and sling them over his shoulder. They look weightless on him in comparison to how you struggled to keep them leveled moments ago.
The ride up the elevator is quiet. He looks over at you and by some miracle, you’re also looking at him. You fake a cough, staring straight ahead at the lights on the elevator buttons ascending to your desired floor.
Jungkook’s glad he came. No matter the tension, he’s glad to finally be near you. Even the current silence is better than the other alternate reality where he’s waiting aimlessly, second guessing your thoughts from afar. Here? You both will eventually need to face the unsaid, festering emotions.
He follows you out the elevator, can’t help his eyes trailing down your backside. It’s instinctive, a habit he’s never broken for anyone. All biological and natural in his gaze at first, but it’s a little different this time around.
His stare starts at your exposed shoulders, down the curve of your spine, lingers a little longer at the swell of your ass before his lips tug down at the tiny steps you take, nearly waddling the last stretch down the hallway. He gulps, fingers itching to hold your waist knowing you’ve been on your feet all day.
Despite his wants, he’s aware of the shock value in his unexpected appearance. The last thing he wants is to test your limits with his touch.
You unlock your hotel room with your phone. Fancy shit and honestly a more eco-friendly route for the hotel to do without the old fashion key-card. The door beeps and locks unlatch before you push your way in.
Generic hotel room; nonetheless, similar to the one he previously filmed in. You don’t do your usual spiel of welcoming him. Your place of lodging was all temporary, just like how he hopes the current status of the relationship is.
Bags placed away, Jungkook leans against one of the drawers as you plop down on one of the stools with a disgruntled huff.
You meet the apprehension in his gaze. “We could’ve talked when I was back in town.”
“You didn’t mention when you’d be home.” He retorts, as though you left him with no other choice.
You look away, teeth biting the inside of your cheek. “So, what is it that couldn’t wait?”
“Us.” He begins. “Are we okay?”
You pause, brain racking up a possible answer. Then, sighing, you lift your shoulders. “Yeah, we are.”
Certainly doesn’t feel like it. He didn’t come all the way out here for a lie. He wants things to get exposed, bare out all the ugly so at least he knows where to start to fix things.
“Pix, come on,” a different kind of exhaustion filters through his voice, “Don’t do this.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say…” You can’t hold his stare, though you feel it heavy on the side of your face.
“You’re upset.” He deducts. “Tell me why.”
You look at the digital clock on the nightstand reading a little past midnight. Wordlessly, your steps carry you over to your small suitcase as you fumble through for some sleepwear.
How could anything else be more important than the person who traveled hours to talk to you? The lack of focus and urgency on the matter churns and leaves something unsettling in his stomach.
He stays quiet, hoping the silence eventually spurs your next words to fill the gaps.
Hands coming to a halt at the last piece of clothing, you let out a tiny breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going back to work?” Your voice cracks.
Jungkook’s breath hitches and a thick silence falls heavy between you, broken by the zip of your suitcase closing. Deep down, he knew this was the main reason for your sudden avoidance — couldn’t be a coincidence you began acting differently right after you abruptly ended your call when you found out he was back to work.
He also knew he should have told you, knew he’d be back on set eventually, precisely because that’s his job after all. He doesn’t know why he kept it to himself, but he knows your reaction sits sour in his mouth because, again, that’s his job.
He wishes he could say anything else, but a flimsy excuse flows past his lips.
“I… I didn’t think it was important to know.” Jungkook’s fingers curl on the hardwood panes of the dresser. He jolts at your sudden spring up, heels turning to face him.
“You asked me to tell you about my day and schedule all the time; yet, you can’t do the same?” Your brows lift. “How is that fair?”
Perhaps it’s been a long day for Jungkook, but he doesn’t feel like backing down. He’s tired of constantly bending for others and maybe for once, he just wants the world to bend for him.
“So you want my entire schedule? Itinerary breakdown of the different projects?” What he purposefully leaves out to spare you from the ugly truth: list of all the people he’s fucking at work.
Even at his mercy, your eyes fill with angry tears now, threatening to fall at any moment. “It’s not that. It’s the principle.”
“I forgot.” He lies, shrugging his shoulders. “You really gonna hold that against me?”
“You forgot.” You deadpan. “Really?”
His frown deepens. “Why would I hide that from you?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.” You look to the side to avoid his pointed stare.
“Well, I’m here trying to tell you, am I not?”
“Could’ve done this over a call. You didn’t have to drive all the way here … This is all so–” Your chin trembles — another expression he’s grown to dislike. Hates how his fingers twitch by his side, brain screaming at him to comfort even through your hurtful words.
They stung.
He exhales through his nose. Perhaps his impulsion and effort to resolve the issue with you was a mistake. He should’ve waited until you were ready to talk. Shouldn’t have gone out of his way to come here just to end on even worse terms.
His voice drops lower, oppressed by the ache spreading through his chest. “Then should I leave?”
Your face falls, eyes reading the digital clock. “It’s late. Where would you even go?”
“Home.” There’s nowhere else he’d like to be more at this moment, considering you seem to not want him here with you. Yes, it was late, but the three cups of hotel lobby coffee should hold him through the night.
“No.” You shake your head. No matter how awful the tension was, you’d never want to jeopardize a person’s safety, let alone someone you care for. “You’re not driving home this late.”
Fair, but he wasn’t about to stay in your room, especially since nothing’s been resolved.
This is how you both find yourselves at the front desk asking for a spare room.
“My apologies, sir. All our partnered hotels around the city are booked out for the night. There is a motel about a twenty minute drive from here.”
Jungkook wouldn’t qualify himself as high maintenance, but he can’t help the little grimace at the idea of finding odd sheet stains or waking up to potential bug bites. He could only assume the motel’s conditions if all the hotels within the vicinity were booked out and the receptionist defaulted to that recommendation as a last ditch effort. Kind, although, he wasn’t that desperate — he’d choose to sleep in his car at this point.
“Just stay with me tonight.” Though small, your voice carries the offer with command.
Well, between his car or the motel, staying with you is objectively the better option.
Back in your room again, you let him use the shower first, knowing you’ll be taking a longer one. He places his wallet and phone on the nightstand before walking into the bathroom.
He does the bare minimum in the shower, too aware of how late it is and how exhausted you must feel after what’s transpired tonight. Quickly drying off, the only thing he has on are his boxers underneath the towel around his waist. He drops his day-old clothes in a pile on a stool near the entryway.
His figure comes to your view again, noticing your visible swallow at the sight of his freshly showered state.
“All yours, P.”
Shower or him, he doesn’t care for how you interpret his words.
You scurry to the bathroom and Jungkook stares at the bed for another ten seconds before he plops down on the couch, the water at the ends of his hair dripping down his nape.
What a fuckin’ day.
You come out of the bathroom maybe about forty minutes later. Nothing charming about your old university t-shirt and mismatched sleep shorts, but Jungkook still thinks you’re the prettiest.
Despite the unresolved nature of your relationship, you scoff and snort at the sight of him: long legs well extended over the arm of the couch and his small towel covering his torso as a makeshift blanket. He cracks a smile too, followed by a small ‘what?’
You walk over to one side of the bed, tugging the tightly tucked sheets from the crevices. “Don’t be ridiculous, you can sleep here too.” You pat on the unoccupied space, signaling him to come.
He doesn’t protest, opting to hang the towel on the backrest of the couch and sliding underneath the covers with you. Wordless as you shut off the lamp on your nightstand, your back is turned away from him as you settle on your side of the bed.
He should follow suit like how he has done with his scripts.
But this wasn’t a play — all real life encompassing people he cares deeply for.
Jungkook moves closer, so sure the dip of the bed grows as he nears your warm body. His front touches your back, heat from his bare skin seeps through your thin cotton shirt. When you don’t move or push him away, he takes it as a sign to drape his arm over your torso.
“Didn’t know you’d care so much about my schedule.” He murmurs, taking in your scent — hotel body wash and shampoo. At least having the same scent, albeit just for tonight, was something you guys could be on the same page on.
Voice laced with exhaustion, you reply, “Why wouldn’t I care?”
Swallowing the forming lump down his throat, he holds you closer. “Isn’t it better you don’t know? It’s obvious you’re uncomfortable—”
“Still wanna know.” You turn to him, tucking your face in the crook of his neck. “I care about what’s going on in your life, too.”
This was no Gum and Bubba level of update, but he realizes withholding information from someone you care about is a terrible start to any relationship.
“Are we always gonna handle stuff like this?” Jungkook grumbles into your hair.
“I’ve never been like this with my friends.” You reply, the silent implications left hanging in the air.
Jungkook lets them sink in his chest, where your hand comes to rest on his beating heart. He doesn’t want to think of what a friendship exactly entails — thinks you two are building something entirely unique at this point, learning every step of the way.
Whatever your relationship could be classified as, he doesn’t want to lose it, wants to constantly strengthen it, and that comes with recognizing and owning up to both of your faults.
“I’ll update you from now on. But Pix, you gotta do better too.” Jungkook speaks with his mouth to your ear, honesty flowing out from his heart and right in your system. “This isn’t the first time you’ve iced me out.”
You nod, arms finally coming around to hold him. He moves away just enough to plant a kiss on your forehead, but that only makes you gravitate towards him more. You share a knowing glance, one so soft and full of ache, it only makes sense for you to press your lips against his.
If Jungkook were ten years younger, he’d tell you he never wants to fight like that again. Honestly, unrealistic. Having been through a couple toxic relationships in the past, what transpired between you two was a cake walk in comparison. Disagreements are bound to happen, just need to learn and grow from them.
“You’ll tell me if any of this gets too much, yeah?” He mumbles against your lips. Even through his physical and mental exhaustion, he’s never tired of you. You share the same sentiment, melting and molding into whatever is needed to squash the issue at hand.
It’s exhausting to stay upset and even more exhausting to stay away from each other.
Jungkook kisses you, weight of the world lifted off his chest and formed in the shape of you — your body pressed flush against his hard chest. He hides his neediness underneath his greed, wanting so badly to make you feel good. Thinks the only way to win back your favor again is through your pleasure.
“Wanna touch you.” He grunts, hand trailing down your side. He creates just enough room to push his hand between your thighs, palming your covered sex. “Please?”
You shudder, “Can’t.” Jungkook doesn’t hide his disappointment, hand lingering as he waits for your reason.
“On my period.” You explain, thighs clamping around his hand to keep him in place.
Nothing that a little soap and warm water can’t undo, but he understands your hesitance. Still, he wants you to feel good. Should always feel good when you’re with him.
Hands wiggling out of your hold, he rolls you onto his front while one of his knees part your legs. You tremble in his arms, settling lower on his thigh.
“Pad or tampon, P?”
His question throws you for a loop. “Um, pad.” You answer.
Suddenly you’re in his ear talking about the benefits of using pads, selling the point of Toxic Shock Syndrome being your biggest fear, which is why you don’t wear tampons. He sits up taller against the headboard, soaking in your musings. He smirks when you give him an embarrassed smile, realizing you’ve said more than necessary.
“You’re cute. Thanks for letting me know.” He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Was just curious.”
Your brows furrow. “Huh? Why?”
“So I know how much you’ll feel this.” His large hands grasp your waist, the pressure of his fingers digging into you as he drags you against his thigh. You lurch forward, hands holding onto his shoulders as you watch him maneuver your hips to his liking.
It’s a steady pace, not enough to have you cumming, but enough for you to look at him with pleading eyes to move faster, harder. He pulls and tugs your heat against his muscle, wanton moans leaving your lips as he moves you.
“Oh! Jungkook—” You shut your eyes, head dropped to the side as you try to focus on the growing sensation below.
He wets his lips, moving in to press them on yours. He’s not sure if it’s you getting better with every time you’ve kissed or his silly head playing up your kisses because he likes you so much. His moans vibrate against your mouth, though, not for long. Your head comes to rest at the crook of his neck, hips grinding slowly on his thigh.
“That’s it, use me. Make yourself feel good.” He husks.
You do your best, but with your pad as an extra barrier and your clumsy rolls, you can’t get the rhythm quite right.
“Need your help.” Your whimper in his ears.
Again, he has no backbone when it comes to you. He’s so easily swayed — can’t bear making you work for your pleasure. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you, baby.”
His hand cups the bottom of your ass, guiding and rocking you faster. With the slight flexion of his thighs, the grind is delicious and damn near perfect. You seem to agree with your uneven breaths and nails forming small crescent moons at the back of his nape.
“Missed you, Pix. Fuck, please don’t shut me out like that again.” He pleads, hands slowing down his movements so he could hear you properly.
Your delayed response results in a lift to his thigh, warm palms keeping you in place. You mewl, breath ragged as you grind down on your own. “W-won’t do that again, promise.”
You seal your promise with a quick kiss, mouth parted at a small moan as Jungkook speeds up his movements again. The patterns of your breathing changes and there’s a shiver Jungkook recognizes all too well as you near your end. Head pressed into the crook of his neck, the bottom half of your body tenses and shakes, which only encourages Jungkook to keep dragging down your body the way it needs.
“You’re there, aren’t you?” He coos. “That’s it, pretty.” He wishes you were bare from below — brainsick desire to feel and see the mess you’d make, period and all.
You whimper, a wrecked sob as the orgasm washes over you. Head lifted, you press your lips to his in a searing kiss.
Pulling away for a needed inhale, your eyes trail down his body and gaze locks on his tented black briefs, a damp patch growing in the center. “Can I make it up to you?”
He swallows, “How?” He knows exactly how you could, but waits for your response with bated breath.
You pepper kisses down his body, just like how he did with you. He keens, back bowing off the headboard as your soft lips trail dangerously close to his middle. But you stop, tilt your head to the side, and plant a kiss on his hipbone.
Jungkook looks down … and perhaps, he shouldn’t have. The image of you staring up at him between his legs is all he’ll think of from now on. T-shirt risen up, he eyes your exposed backside and curves just for a bit, because the main attraction will always be your face — your eyes. So full of wonder and interest.
It’s everything he’s dreamed of since the day you filmed from your kneeled position. He blinks away the bleariness, excitement and hope taking over at the thought of his fantasies coming true.
“I wanna,” You look away, suddenly embarrassed.
“What, pretty?” He beams, cups your cheek with one of his hands. “You wanna suck me off?”
You nod in his hold, bashful from his forwardness. “I do.”
God, he nearly cums in his briefs at your admittance.
You continue, unaware of his internal state. “Need you to walk me through it though, that okay?” Fighting your nerves, your hand hovers and rubs his clothed length, stopping momentarily for his response.
“Yeah, Pix, that’s fine. I’ll show you.” He nods, his hand covers yours.
His large hand presses down your smaller one, groaning from the added pressure. He guides you down past the waistband of his briefs, and shudders from your touch, the bare contact sending an electric shock through his body. A quiet, surprised gasp leaves your lips at the new experience.
He cracks another smile, but the corners of his mouth dip from an invasive thought the moment you take his cock in your hand. “W-wait.” He stammers.
You release him almost immediately, afraid you did something wrong or hurt him. Not wanting to waste his time reassuring it had nothing to do with you, he reaches over to the nightstand to grab his wallet, fingers pinching in between the slot to pull out a small foil package.
“Haven’t had the chance to re-test after the recent project, so just to be safe.” He rips the edge of the package. Taking his length in his own hand, he rolls the condom down to the base with swift precision.
Lips tucked in, you look away after your quiet agreement.
Of course and again, nothing goes unnoticed by Jungkook. The same hand that rolled the condom down his length, now cups your cheek once more. There’s a sweet fruity scent, paired with the moist touch from the condom’s lubrication.
“You don’t have to. You know that, right?” He reassures.
You blink, and whatever nerves or insecurities you previously displayed, gets pushed away.
“I want to.” You turn your head, kissing his palm — strawberries with a hint of latex.
His cock stirs at the small action. Settling his back onto the headboard again, he tilts his head at you, waiting for you to touch him. There’s no need to tell you what to do so early on, wanting you to explore your own curiosity first.
Your fingers wrap around his length and Jungkook exhales a shaky breath, gaze fixed on your movement, or lack thereof. You’re warm to the touch, eyes jumping from his cock and back to his hazy stare. You begin moving up and down his length, slow and experimental to glean his reactions.
His small uh-huhs and yeahs, requests for a changed grip, faster or slower movements only encourages you to work harder for him. You grow bolder in your touches, focusing more on the head of his cock. You squeeze, thumb swiping over his covered tip.
“God, baby, you—” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes shutting briefly to focus on the sensation before he peers down at you.
“I remember you doing this in the video.” You confess. “Was that okay?” You ask, swallowing before you lean down.
Hesitant at first, you place a small peck on the underside of his cock. With how soft your touch was, he thinks he might’ve hallucinated it. His doubt gets buried when you place another kiss, head tilted with your nose pressed flush to his shaft.
“Y-yeah, feels good.” He replies, hand raking through your hair and stopping at the base of your head to urge you closer.
His lips are well acquainted with yours, and now his cock will also gain the honor of getting to feel them. So lucky with how you pepper your way up and down his length, lashes kissing the top of your cheeks. Secretly, he wishes he didn’t have a condom on to feel your bare lips on him.
Sickly, he grows harder at the thought.
“Tell me what to do, please.” You mouth against his cock, hand lightly tugging at the base.
Using his other free hand, he replaces yours around his girth. The tip of his cock is pointed directly at your lips. With a knowing look, his words die on his tongue as you open your mouth. The small opening only pushes him to guide his length through the entrance of your lips, noticing how your jaw widens to accommodate for his size.
Jungkook’s going to die. Well, figuratively. He’s never felt more alive and excited. The hand on your head tightens its grasp, doing his best to break the instinctive habit of pushing your head down. At least, for now.
“Breathe, Pix.” A reminder to himself too. “And,” He moans, cutting off with a quick chuckle, “less teeth, please.”
You hum in compliance, mouth going slack to accommodate for his girth and to tuck your lips. It’s not perfect, but the effort is there. You begin bobbing your head up and down, solely focusing on his tip as the other half of his shaft was currently occupied by his hand, grip tightening every second your lips suction harder around him.
“Tongue, push it against–yes, just like that.” He whines.
Habits stay hard to break, especially when this is starting to get good and he wants to feel more of you. His hips buck with little restraint while he holds your head in place.
He likes your soft moans; though, the small gagging sound you just made might’ve dethroned its ranking on his ‘Things I Like About Pixie’ list.
“Sorry,” His chest stutters, red and flushed. “I–ah-”
You pull away, eyes watery and lips pouty. “Do you always do that?” Your voice cracks mid swallow, the edges of your mouth glisten from your saliva.
“Can’t help it, P.” He confesses with a playful smirk. “You feel so good.”
Naturally, Jungkook’s hand releases your hair in your pursuit to sit back up on your heels.
“Keep your hands at your side.” You request.
Jungkook scoffs. “Oh, we’re doing that?”
“What’s that?”
He also sits up higher too, hand releasing his cock in the process. He leans forward, close enough to smell the condom’s flavor on your lips.
Nose touching yours, he grins, “I give you control. Do whatever you like with me.”
“Is that something you like?” You ask with curious eyes.
Depends on who he’s with. Thinks he could like it with you, but with how you presented the question, he’s not so sure if that was your initial intention.
“Sometimes, why?”
You shrug. “Just want to know what makes you feel good, that’s all.”
While he’s been taken care of plenty of times by other partners, he likes knowing you’re just as dedicated to his pleasure. He kisses you, quick and soft. “Okay, Pix, I’ll keep my hands to myself this time.”
You both settle back into place again. One arm behind his head, the other one rests on his stomach comfortably. He keeps his hands to himself, but that doesn’t stop you from holding the one on his abdomen. Your thumb rubbing small circles brings forward a needier version of him to light, wanting you to ground and indulge his pleasures.
You take a couple of seconds to find your rhythm again. By the minute marker, Jungkook’s squeezing your hand, fighting to not push your head down all the way down to the base. You’re so warm, so snug when you suck harder around the head of his cock.
He makes his requests, guiding and teaching you what he fancies. “Baby, use your hand, fuck—so good.”
You hum and moan through his instructions, the action causing an uncontrolled eye-roll to the back of his head. You do something unexpected, though. The jerking motions from your hand ceases completely when you remove it, now used to anchor yourself on his thigh. The movement is quick — head dropping down low, your lips meet the base of his cock and his tip touches the back of your throat.
“Fuck!” Jungkook looks down, brows knitted and eyes blown out. His hand grips yours harder as you go down once more, gagging around his thick length. Your warm breaths exhaled through your nose hit his pubic bone every time you moved down.
You do this for a couple of seconds, whines and low grunts prompting you to move past the discomfort. He’s so close. Though, like any regular human being, your endurance runs low regardless of your heightened need to ensure Jungkook’s pleasure was reciprocated.
You come up for some much needed air, lips so swollen and eyes glassy. The arm behind his head has long dropped to his side where he fists the blanket as you kiss up and down his shaft again.
“Make yourself feel good — use me.” You rasp, eyes hopeful he complies.
He’d nearly combust just with how you mimic his exact words. So quick in how he lets go of your hand in favor of gathering your hair in one messy hold while the other hand steadies your jaw. He knows he can’t go too rough on you, so he settles for a pace good enough to get him to the finish line. Doesn’t require additional work on his end when you lock eyes at him as he pushes your head down to meet his hips.
He fights through the times he feels too much teeth for his liking, relishing in the sensation of whenever his tip hits the back of your throat in a frenzy thrust. Both impatient and mindless in how he seeks relief now, his hips jerk up the same time he pushes your head down.
“I’m close.” He stutters, hoping it brings you some comfort knowing he’s nearing his end all because of you. “You’re gonna make me cum.”
He curses, each word punctured by his every eager shift. Your hand runs up his torso, stopping at his chest where your fingers close in on his nipple. Eyes squeezed close, white-hot splotches fill the back of his lids as he fills the condom with his cum. He momentarily forgets where he’s at, but he never forgets who he’s with. Whose got him cumming like this. Whose head he has pushed down as he rides out his orgasm.
You take it, battling through the throbbing and soreness from having your mouth fucked. Know the ache is worth it when he shows you so much concern after he returns from his high. Jungkook wastes no time pulling you up, singing praises of how good you made him feel. And when you cough and giggle, his cock twitches pathetically against your core as he kisses you senselessly.
Late into the night, Jungkook stirs awake from a sound. His lids flutter open, gaze clearing at a sliver of blue coming from the blackout curtains. Dawn breaks, but not nearly enough to wake up the world. The bed shakes slightly and he’s reminded he’s not home, and the warmth he fell asleep with was no longer beside him.
Another shaky breath followed by a sniffle, Jungkook breaks out of his dream-like state.
“Pixie?” His voice cracks from sleep. He palms for your body and realizes you’re at the furthest edge of the bed from him. He reaches for the light switch on his side only to see your back turned away, shoulders trembling.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He comes closer. When his front meets your back, that’s when you turn to press your tearstained face into his chest.
You shake your head, another round of tearful hiccups escapes as you try to regulate your breathing. “Sorry.”
He’s not sure what you’re apologizing for. Feels awful you’re in this state.
“What’s wrong?” He repeats softly. Voice laced with so much concern, it might be another catalyst to the new round of uncontrolled sobbing.
He’s never seen you like this. Sure, close calls, but never to this magnitude. Nonetheless, he lays there quietly, palm soothing your back as you try to suppress your cries into his chest. Soon enough, your cries are reduced to a somewhat regulated pattern of breathing. Jungkook moves away a little to assess your face.
His heart tugs at the sight of your red eyes and his palm instinctively rubs at your cheeks, making sure to get the fresh tears at the brim of your eyes.
“I’m sorry for waking you.” You say, throat hoarse and voice small. Nimble fingers tugging the end of your shirt, you attempt wiping at the moisture built on his bare chest.
He shakes his head. “‘s okay.” He hugs you closer. “Wanna tell me what’s got you feeling like this?”
Your voice is muffled against his chest, but it would have sounded tiny in the space between you either way. “Just … I feel bad.”
Well, yeah, that checked out. He waits for your explanation.
“This is all so new and I got overwhelmed. I’m sorry.” You apologize again.
“From what we did tonight?” He swallows. “Or us?”
Your breath fans over his skin, creating another layer of warm condensation.
“I-I don’t know.” You stammer.
His throat tightens — he wishes he could push his insecurities and guilt underneath the rug; though, they bubble and fester dangerously at the edge. He can’t stand the thought of doing something as bad as making you feel this way.
Above all, he can’t stand the idea of being a regret — a mistake.
“But I think this feeling will pass.” You reassure through another forced inhale.
“What do you mean?” He does his best to keep his voice even.
You move away. Back flat on the mattress, your head sinks with the hotel’s fluffy pillows just enough to conceal your face. Gravity pulls fresh tears down your temples and past your ears.
“Safe sex is important.” You say. It is, so why does the statement come out laced with contempt? “I guess tonight made me realize there’s an added layer. I’ll be okay though, just need some time.”
His heart drops to his stomach. ‘Added layer.’ What you fail to put into words is how his job and what he does is an added layer to your guys’ relationship, especially when it comes to being intimate. So obvious how damned this whole ordeal was from the start. He couldn’t help himself — had to know what life could look like beyond friendship.
He should’ve listened to Hoseok … listened to his gut.
Although time held the possibility for a change of heart, he can’t run on what-ifs. Not when the possibility of hurt overtakes the potential for fun. He cares about you … but he cares about himself, too.
“Pix …” He begins, words wavering as you look at him with worry and anticipation. He pushes forward despite his better judgment. “Maybe we’re better off as friends.”
The space you create between your bodies is something Jungkook will need to get used to. Just like the hurt and reluctance on your face. Tears well up at the brim of your eyes again.
“No-no, things will get better. I … I just need time.” You stammer through the shaky promise.
“What if it doesn’t get better?” His jaw clenches, doing his best to keep his emotions controlled and logical.
You blink profusely at the question, and he wonders if you’re finally playing out the different scenarios in your head: blissful love versus looming heartbreak.
Your mouth parts, “It—”
“I can’t change what I do.” He realizes how little the statement burns him after it leaves his lips. Not nearly as much as the way your brows pull together in anguish — at another unprepared, shattering revelation: you thought you were enough for change.
“P—Hey,” He rushes to cup your cheek, “Come on, think about it. Nothing’s gonna change. We’ll be the same before all of this. I think it will be good.” Words meant to reassure you, he finds the need to verbalize the belief to himself too — speak it out to the universe.
“But we,” Your lips tremble, you take one calming breath, eyes closing to get a better bearing of your emotions. “Promise nothing’s going to change?”
“Promise.”
Relationships are fleeting, he knows this. But a part of him dies as he’s forced to choose another door.
He’ll settle for a friendship if that’s all he’s allowed. A kiss to your forehead is all he’s allowed as well, needing to create the physical distance only fitting for friends. Blue hour’s nearly over as the first peek of white light hits the window, but blue fills Jungkook’s entire being, jabbing and mocking him at a predictable loss.
So it goes.
Thank god you had a later checkout time. Fortunately for that, Jungkook accumulated a total of five hours of uninterrupted sleep before you stirred him awake around noon.
Lock clicking behind you both one last time, you and Jungkook make your way down to the hotel lobby.
As promised, nothing’s changed in how Jungkook treats you. The conversations come naturally; the way he smiles at you isn't forced. He tells himself it’s okay, it’s alright. The new—uh, old norm is something he’ll take over nothing.
All your bags, except one, are with Jungkook. He stands on the side, waiting while you do the final checkout with the receptionist.
“And did you find your stay pleasant?” A different worker from all the ones Jungkook encountered asks. Her eyes scans his face before looking back at you. Perhaps this worker was briefed on the drama by her other coworkers.
“Was great.” You smile, eyes still puffy from the lack of sleep.
Someone from behind clears their throat, “Um, excuse me, Miss?”
Jungkook turns around first, and it’s someone he’s never seen before. A bit taller than him, more built … strong jawline, too. Well, strong everything, appearance wise. Even with his sharp features, his expression holds an abundance of gentleness and patience Jungkook woefully believes he personally lacks.
Peculiar.
Jungkook nudges your arm. “Pix, think someone’s tryna talk to you.”
You turn, “Uh, wha–” It takes you a moment to register who Jungkook was referring to. But a quick wave from the mysterious man forces the cogs in your brain to move.
“Oh! You were at the wedding, right?”
Jungkook steps off to the side to give you both some privacy, unsure if he’s allowed to listen into the conversation. He’s far enough to where he busies himself on his phone, occasionally looking up to see if you’re done. You’re smiling like you always do, nodding and listening intently to what the man has to say. Jungkook appreciates the view. Prefers you more like this: relaxed and unguarded — diminished qualities you don’t display in the recent time he’s been around you.
Your eyes briefly catch Jungkook, offering an apologetic smile, almost antsy to get back to him. Attention now back on the mysterious man, a phone is thrusted awkwardly in your face and you watch with questioning eyes at what he intends to ask you.
Then, you’re waving your arms frantically. Jungkook nearly walks over to see if his rescue was needed, but you laugh and the man puts his phone back into his pockets, a sheepish smile on his face as he scratches behind his head.
Within seconds, you’re back at Jungkook’s side again.
“Everything good?” He asks.
You nod. “Yup. Just someone I saved at my last booking.”
Jungkook stops in his tracks. “Pix, you can’t just lore drop without any context.”
Your laugh will always be preferred over what he witnessed last night. He needs to keep it this way, another reminder the decision to remain friends was the right thing to do, even with all the conflicting feelings.
You give him the whole run-down of the encounter with the man. Jungkook listens with intent and marvel as he places your equipment into the back of your car.
“It looked like he wanted to get your number?” He rearranges your bags to face a certain way so it’ll be easier for you to unload when you’re home.
“Mm, he said he wanted to get to know me over dinner.” You mumble, but recover and explain, “I mean, he probably just wants to thank me. You know, for saving him and all.”
“That’s nice. Why didn’t you say yes?” Jungkook questions. As the words come out, he fights against a tone indicating his objection to the idea of you with someone other than him. Fights against the sick greed building up in his stomach — the one that rebels against his morals and beliefs, wanting you happy but all to himself. Yet, he knows the two things can’t happen without one lacking.
Such an innocent but extremely foolish question; regardless, he had to know.
“I have more than enough friends.” You reason, voice suddenly lower.
He scoffs, quietly relieved. “There’s no such thing as too many friends. He seems genuine, so—”
“You know why.” You close your trunk, a sad smile on your face as you look at him.
At this very moment, he thinks about what Hoseok said: risk management factors. He’s been a constant risk you’ve willingly partook in. Have the outcomes always been good? He’s not so sure.
What he does know is all the uncertainties with him hold you back on your potential to be happy. What he does know is you deserve better.
You deserve happiness. All of that and more.
He also knows space is needed to better separate pleasure and feelings in order to be actual friends.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he clears his throat. “Pix, don’t take this the wrong way.”
Your brows pull together, anxious-ridden expression only further confirms his next words.
“I think I’d like some space.”
You frown. “You said nothing was going to change between us.”
“It won’t.” He answers all too quickly with a shake to his head. “I need to get some stuff sorted out. It’s not a punishment to you, I swear.”
You look to the side, eyes once again filled with tears. So different from who you were moments ago and who you were before everything transpired between you two.
“Okay.” You reply. If it’s one thing you both have for each other, it’s shared respect. You’d never deny him of his requests just as he’s never done that to you.
But why does your compliance burn like betrayal? Were you also just as tired with no more energy to fight?
Shaking away those thoughts, he replies, “Take care, alright? I promise I’ll reach out when things settle on my end.” He only hopes you’re also content to talk by then, too.
You nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t take too long.”
Your joke lightens the mood a little. “I won’t.” He reassures. “Don’t forget about me either.”
“Never.” You reply.
He’s about to head to his car until he remembers something. Turning on his heels, you’re just as eager to face him, hoping everything transpired in the last twenty-four hours was a fluke and he wants to restore whatever he had with you.
He does, but he can’t. Instead, he grounds himself in his resolve for both your sakes, offering another piece of departing advice, “Don’t sell yourself short, P. Give new things a try, ‘kay?”
Your response lands a bit later, but the wait was worth your smile, warm and genuine. “Okay.”
You’re a bad texter, but it doesn’t mean you’re not thinking of your friends. All you do is think about them: what kind of trouble Taehyung gets into or where your sister from another mister, Candie, has traveled to for the month.
Point is, you think about them just as much as they think about you. Your friends are understanding of your situation and nature — they know exactly when a check-in is needed.
Jungkook now falls under the same category, but he hasn’t met any of your requirements as a friend. You find yourself thinking about him often. What’s he doing? Where is he at? How’s he doing?
Because you haven’t fared well. Breakups hurt, but they hurt more when things end on fair terms. You’ve hit every stage of grief at this point; thought you’d never leave anger or bargain and instead of moving forward, you’re back at the first stage: denial.
A small portion of the denial comes in the form of the sudden loss of Jungkook. The rest of it stems from the concept of experiencing your first situationship — which, honestly, quite laughable and borderline embarrassing at your age. Taehyung reassures this happens to everyone, older or younger. No one is above relationships not working out between two unfit people.
Were you and Jungkook really that unfit for one another?
He was great to you before, well, when you had to accept the realities of his job. Things seemingly took a turn for the worse when you put both your heart and body on the line.
He’s not on social media (that you’re aware of), so stalking his whereabouts and life is out of the question. You also don’t want to search him up on those websites; seeing him intimate with someone else would set you back even more on the stages of grief.
While you had all the intentions of being a good friend and checking in on him, you knew better than to reach out to someone who requested for space. The least you can do is honor his wishes.
Still didn’t hurt any less.
And now, the scales tip back to anger.
He left you to deal with your emotions on your own. Made an impression in your life and left when things got difficult — when things got difficult with you.
People keep reiterating the concept of multiple realities — how they can coexist, meet in the middle, merge together. But the truth is, Jeon Jungkook created this gaping space in your life, leaving parts of it empty, similar to the feeling heaving in your chest.
The first couple of weeks were the hardest. By month two, you’ve gotten better at distracting yourself, pushing yourself even harder at work. Summer trended a slow down of wedding bookings. While you never minded spending extra time with your beta fishes, life had more to offer than working and missing a certain someone, right? You hated the slow-down, creating more space for unfavorable thoughts worthy of mulling over.
Your top distraction for today was your Facebook Marketplace. Thirty minutes into browsing, you think a nice walk outside your complex may do you better than doom scrolling for endless hours. That is, until you see a small red dot in your notifications.
Huh.
You click. Nothing new in your primary inbox with your loved ones, but the notification persists until you realize the source: your message requests.
Kim Mingyu [Yesterday, 8:43 p.m.]: Hello, I’m so sorry to bother…
You look at the profile picture and immediately remember the person. Weddings were an opportunity to meet new people. There’s always a select few that stuck — Jungkook included. The man on screen is another who made quite an impression at your past booking.
You could ignore him. Forget about his message the moment you log out of Facebook. But you’re out of commission for the time being, and well, heartbroken too.
A distraction never hurts anyone.
The exchange starts by a message opened on a whim, then awkward small talk about the weather and how work was, then pictures of meals or recipes get traded until one brave soul (hint: it wasn’t you) initiates a dinner invite to which you later found out was a date.
Mingyu’s good at distracting, replacing your thoughts of a certain pair of round eyes, citrus cologne, and cheshire-like grin. He’s no Jungkook — could never be. Being with Mingyu fell closely to a safety net. Could fall and always expect something to catch you: you were never caught off guard by his intentions with you. Clear as day and patient as the turtle winning the race against the bunny.
You receive a message from Jungkook weeks later, all the grief replaced by acceptance by then, because that’s all that’s left between you two. It starts as a regular check in: he asks you how you’ve been, and you tell your heart and him you’re doing great. The hurt you experienced in the beginning no longer persists at the sight of his message bubbles. And you come to think … maybe he was right — things are better this way.
Four intentional dates later, Mingyu asked to be exclusive with you. He kept reiterating no pressure on a response; though, the urgency in his eyes begged for an answer even if it came as a rejection. Nonetheless, he was kind about it, giving you enough time to mull over what a future could look like with him.
You think back on Jungkook’s words to you at the hotel parking lot … don’t sell yourself short — try something new.
Mingyu comes from a less humble background, but he does his best to stay humble about it. Can’t hide his status whenever he arranges for personal pickups with the same gentleman you encountered at the wedding. Mr. Lee sings his praises about his employer enroute to whatever destination Mingyu chose for the day. Happy employees should be a good sign, right?
He’s also the second person in your life you opened up for physical intimacy. Nothing beyond heavy makeout sessions, of course, which you’re quite thankful for. You don’t mention about your inexperience and Mingyu doesn’t mention about the times you’ve rejected him for more.
His kindness restrains himself because this relationship wasn’t just about that.
Things with Jungkook have gotten better. You might even say the relationship reverts to the time where you only spoke about editing tips — a stretch, but you get it. No one was left to figure out the dynamics of the relationship. At times, he sends you the view from his massive curtain wall, mostly in the early hours of the day because you’ve already seen how the city looks like at night.
He doesn’t tell you to come over to see for yourself when you reply how lucky he is to wake up to that every morning.
A dull ache settles in your bones. So, this is the new norm you’ll have to get used to.
The ache fades a little when you finally tell Mingyu you’d like to continue seeing him exclusively.
“Doll, I can’t have that … peanut oil.” Mingyu frowns as he turns the salad dressing bottle to you.
“I’m so sorry.” You quickly place the bottle back on the shelf.
Dating Mingyu is great, his gentle giant nature leaving your insides feeling mushy. Though, you find yourself on the edge whenever you see a single peanut with his deathly aversion. Thinking back to the day of the wedding, both him and the cousin, the groom, were not aware of the added ingredient in the appetizers. After his cousin found out, he nearly sued the venue over the mishap. Though a big and certainly deadly deal, Mingyu rejected the idea of moving forward with the legal proceeding.
He’s alive and well thanks to you. Plus, the catering incident led him to you, so perhaps all was worth it.
No matter how hard you try, you sometimes overlook these things too — not as bad as the catering company. You’re both grocery shopping for tonight’s date. Mingyu’s idea, of course. Thinks nothing is sweeter than doing these mundane tasks with you, as opposed to having his assistant run these errands for him.
He stands behind you, strong arms caging you against the shopping cart.
“Hey … not your fault the world doesn’t bend for my lame peanut allergy.” He tries to joke. “Thanks for understanding, though. I know how limiting food choices are with me.”
It’s not a terrible adjustment, but it does make you more wary of the places you go with him and the ingredients in your own food pantry.
You kiss his cheek. “Not a trouble at all. I’ll be more thorough next time.”
His small dimples peek through in his smile — nothing nearly as prominent as a certain someone’s, but they’re endearing nonetheless.
“Pixie?”
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about grief. It creeps up on you, reminds you of the gaping hole you’ve tip-toed around. Couldn’t fill the hole no matter how hard you tried. Jeon Jungkook has a way of reminding you of the grief as he stands behind you with a shopping basket in hand. Months of living with the divet in your chest, the edges crumble when he smiles at you, dimples the same and striking as ever.
“Jungkook.” You breathe. Mingyu creates some distance as he backs away from the cart handle. He stares at Jungkook, eyes slightly narrowing. Not out of malice, but in an attempt to recognize.
Jungkook’s smile changes a little too as he takes in the scene, realizing the significant life changes you failed to mention during the time you both started texting again. He doesn’t voice it, of course. Did he deserve the update? Would he even welcome it?
You blink, looking between the two men before landing on the one you have a date with tonight. “Mingyu, did you want to check out the produce section?” You raise your brows with a smile, already stepping away from him and toward the other man. “I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”
Mingyu agrees with a small smile before nodding at Jungkook, who replicates the gesture.
Once he was out of the aisle, Jungkook’s demeanor relaxes a little.
“So.”
You inhale. “So.”
Eyes crinkling, his teeth sink down on his bottom lip to suppress his laugh.
Regaining his composure, he tries, “What’s new?”
“Not much,” you start, ignoring the rapid beats against your chest, “work’s been the same, if anything slower.”
He pauses, waiting for you to continue—to listen to what details you may add on, perhaps details regarding the man embracing you just seconds ago. You don’t, just shrug.
Jungkook doesn’t seem to be bothered, nodding along with the information. “That’s right, you mentioned a slow down during summer holidays.”
He remembered. Breath caught in your throat, you recover with a quick nod, mentally berating yourself to get it together. Your friends should remember what you tell them.
“Yep. How have you been?” Doesn’t take a genius for him to know you were avoiding the topic of work with him.
“Not bad. Busy, but I like that. What’s on the menu?” He looks down at your cart. The conversation rolls off Jungkook with little effort. Envious and ticked by his nonchalance, you reply quickly hoping to match his pace.
“Mingyu wanted to try making lasagna soup after seeing it online.”
“Soup in this weather? Wild night.” He muses.
“It’s not that hot.” You roll your eyes. “Plus, air conditioning exists.”
“Thank god.” He grins. Your eyes trail over his thin cotton t-shirt — much different than his usual baggy shirts he fancied, the tight ones are just as flattering on him, if not more.
You’re getting the hang of this: the conversation, the relationship — this Jungkook.
“Mingyu, huh?” He raises his brows. “He looks familiar.”
You clear your throat. “Ah, yeah. Remember that one guest from that booking? He found me on Facebook.”
He lets his tongue poke the inside of his cheek for a second before he nods. “Cute.”
Your face remains unmoving; though, your heart pulls at the phrase, forever Pavlov-ed like a fool remembering what love was once like.
He continues, “Facebook Mom meets her Facebook Dad.”
His teasing makes up for the lost time — for the gap he left in your life. For a moment, this was enough … the promise he fulfilled as being your friend, or at least his attempt to. Wit caught in your throat, his phone pings and he offers an apologetic smile before reaching for it.
“Crap, I’m late.”
You wanted to ask for what, but hope he’d tell you himself. He doesn’t, instead, says to you:
“Let’s catch up over text or something, okay? Tell me all about Facebook Dad.” He flashes another smile — not the usual kind you’re used to, but you let the image linger in your mind, locking this memory up until the next time you’re afforded to see him.
“I’ll text you.” You smile and wave.
Finally, he gives you a real smile, the one you longed for these last couple of months.
“See ya, Pix.”
Lasagna soup was a hit. Having about three servings, you didn’t refuse Mingyu’s offer to pack you the leftovers for when you leave. On his couch, he tells you about his work drama … something about finances and numbers, you’re not sure. He senses your confusion and diverts to another story worthy of your attention as he muses about executive management.
“So your boss’ boss slept with his secretary?” You ask, setting down your wine glass and leaning back on his couch.
“Yup.” He places his arms over your shoulder. “The kicker? His wife was his prior secretary.”
You let out a scandalized gasp and he grins.
Easing further into the couch, he questions, “How about you? Any recent crazy wedding stories?”
You’ve already mentioned your dryspell at work, so neither something recent nor crazy occurred at a booking. You understand if he asks for formalities … but how hard was it to remember?
“Does saving a man from an allergic reaction count?” You tease.
Now, it’s his turn to gasp as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all evening.
“Was he at least good looking? Worth the saving?”
“Mmm, he’s alright.”
Another gasp leaves his lips before he tickles your sides, “Take that back.”
You giggle and squirm away, “Okay—okay, ‘m sorry!”
He laughs along with you, tugging your body onto his lap. Your heart stirs in your chest at the proximity. Skinship is still a new thing for you regardless of the number of experiences you’ve had prior. Mingyu’s strong arm wraps around your midsection. You quiet down as he presses his chin on your shoulder, breathing into your hair.
“Speaking of which,” he mumbles into the tiny space between you. “Who was the person we bumped into earlier?”
You pause at the mention of Jungkook.
“Ah, just a friend.”
He narrows his eyes. “Friend, as in …?”
Your brows pinch, confused, though Mingyu reads your silence easily.
“I only ask because I’ve never heard about him. You only really talk about Taehyung.”
You don’t feel the need to explain your friendship status or tier levels. But you suppose it comes off odd you haven’t openly talked about a friend to your romantic interest. Friendships are normal; yet, Jungkook was a secret you’d like to keep locked up just for yourself.
“I met him through work.” You keep the response vague. “Why?”
“I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.” He ponders.
“He has a familiar looking face.” You lie. No one looks like him. You find glimpses of him in others, but no one would ever compare.
“Hm, on the contrary, no.” Mingyu disagrees. “I just can’t put a pin on where I’ve seen him …”
The hairs on your neck raise as you buy time through another topic, hoping to lead his train of thoughts astray from Jungkook.
“He was with me on the weekend of your cousin’s wedding. Yeah. Anyway,” Ready to redirect the conversation, “Thanks again for dinner tonight. I can cook for us next time at my place.”
His eyes soften at your remark, thoughts of your friend long forgotten now that the main focus was on you and him. “Anytime. Glad you enjoyed. I love cooking for you.”
His hold on you tightens, one of his arms reaches up your front, large hand cupping your cheek before he turns you to the side. The angle is a little difficult, but you can’t refuse a kiss from Kim Mingyu.
It’s a gentle peck at first, heated second, before his hands are all over you.
“Can I touch you?” He breathes into the shell of your ear.
Funny how he already was with one hand on your hips as the other trails dangerously close to your center. You whisper a breathy yes, and Mingyu makes his descent down your skirt.
Your legs widen for an easier access, exhaling at the first contact of his fingers on your covered cunt.
His hands are a bit clumsy at first, unable to see your expressions from behind. He knows he’s on the right path when you let out a pretty sigh.
After multiple dates, both quiet and loud confessions of his adoration for you, you think you might be ready for the next step in this relationship. Your first time should be with someone you cared for and trusted. The belief gets thrown out the window as he lays you down on his bed, doubtful you’ll ever reach that point with anyone. What you’re certain is:
You cared for your body.
You trusted your body.
Intimacy doesn’t have to be perfect.
The mantra you replay in your head as Mingyu pulls out a condom from his nightstand. He opens it between his teeth and rolls it over his length. Relieved, you wait for the sweet scent to arrive — preferably strawberries, but only the rubbery latex fills your senses as he sinks his cock into you. Foreplay ended at the couch and now he fills you, coaxing you through your heavy breaths. Your body’s uncertain if it trusts you with your decision. You squeeze around him, unable to fully relax from the intrusion.
He waits for your okay to move and while you could’ve told him to never move, you nod, thinking the pain will subside. His thrusts are controlled and slow in the beginning, kissing you when you let out breathier moans. Everything burned longer than you liked, but there were about twenty-three seconds of pleasure until you revert to a state of indifference and wonder of when this will all be over.
He mistakes your tear-stained face as sweat, too busy burying his face into the crook of your neck as his hips piston into yours. Your uneven sounds timed with the punch of his thrusts clouded his judgment as pleasure.
As someone who always believed in trying something three times, you can’t expect your first time to be completely enjoyable. Eyes locked at the moving ceiling—well, no, your body was moving in tandem to Mingyu’s powerful thrusts, you chant a new mantra: Be in the moment. Be in the moment. Be in–
You fall short from the burnt rubber stench permeating your nostrils, mind choosing to slip into other matters like how Gum and Bubba liked their new tanks. Have you received any new booking inquiries? Wow, Mingyu’s chest gets really sweaty. You don’t recall Jungkook ever sweating like this.
Jungkook.
The dull ache returns — different from the ache between your legs.
You know you’re bound to share about your first sexual experience to your friends. Taehyung will be the first to hear, has to be. Plus, he’s been a huge Team Mingyu advocate since Jungkook’s blunder.
Friends. Jungkook is your friend; though, you can’t imagine sharing about this experience with him. Would he want to know? Or is this another secret you’ll have to keep to yourself? Not like he’s never kept things from you.
“Fuck, I’m c-close. You there, doll?” Mingyu grunts into your ear.
Close to cumming? You’re not sure. There, mentally? Also not sure.
But you whine and nod, hoping your body could reach to that desired high if you verbalized it.
The high never arrives … well, for you at least.
Mingyu finishes shortly in the condom, quickly pulling out of you as he rolls onto his back. He cards through his hair before turning to you with a sweet smile.
“That was nice.” He kisses your shoulder. “Be right back.”
You watch as he goes to his bathroom, squinting as the fluorescent light blinds you momentarily before he shuts the door closed. You lay there for a couple minutes, comforter covering your bare chest, wondering if you should locate your clothing on the floor.
Sitting up, your face scrunches in discomfort as the stinging pain in your middle travels to your lower abdomen. Before you could attempt to grab your underwear, the bathroom door opens again.
“Your turn. Should go pee.” Mingyu suggests, pulling up his boxer briefs before climbing into bed again.
You’re not sure why, but you comply and wobble into the bathroom after pulling over his discarded dress shirt. You pee as requested, stream coming out not like you’re used to. The burn greets you during the wipe, and you’re too afraid to look at the aftermath below you. Reaching behind, you flush away your worries.
You look in the mirror as you wash your hands. The world around you looks the same — you didn’t acquire new senses or appear any different. Certainly, an angel didn’t gain a new set of wings from your act. Nothing different, just new revelations … discoverings, like the new hickeys on your neck and chest. When did those even happen?
You should head home — you want to go home and be around something familiar.
When you emerge into Mingyu’s bedroom again, he’s scrolling through his phone, smiling as you near his bed, but the curves drop when you start looking for your clothes.
“Did you wanna spend the night?” He asks.
You quickly make up an excuse about a client reaching out for some clips you forgot to send over. Refusing his offer to have Mr. Lee take you home, you order a cab as you put on your clothes. Your shift worries him — confuses him even more when you don't want to wait for him to pack the leftover soup. You feel guilty enough to offer him a quick peck on the lips, telling him you had fun tonight and you’ll text when you arrive home safely.
The travel home was a blur until the locks of your door clicks behind you. You barely make it halfway through the threshold before you lean against the door for some support.
The back of your lids burn as you press both of your palms to your eyesockets.
Hot tears.
Feeling more foolish for these unknown emotions, you let out a quiet sob. Sex was magical, right? So, why do you feel empty? Void of the magic people speak so highly of?
Sniffling, you fish your phone from your purse, fingers automatically clicking into a contact without a second thought.
Before you could press on the call button, a message notification comes in.
Mingyu [7:11 p.m.]: Hope you arrived home safely. Tonight was fun.
Mingyu [7:12 p.m.]: Btw … I think you started your period. Don’t worry! Stain’s easy to get out 😀
Heat travels to the back of your neck before you quickly start the call. After the second ring, a laugh blares through your phone speakers and it quells the shakiness in your heart. “Hey! What’s up, kiddo?”
You bite down the tremor of your lower lip. “Hey, I’m sorry to bug you, I know you’re out of town and all—”
The background noises cease within two seconds. “Yo, is everything okay? Why do you sound like that?”
You breathe, sniffling and wiping away at your runny nose.
“I don’t know.” You answer honestly, voice breaking. “I just came back from Mingyu’s.”
“What? Did you guys fight or something? Talk to me.” He says, gentle and stern.
You shake your head despite knowing Taehyung couldn’t see your action. A fight is something you could put into words at least … not this feeling.
“We had sex.” Knowing your friend, he’d assume the worst if you were crying. You quickly follow up with, “It was fine. I j-just—I don’t know, I don’t feel fine.”
Taehyung’s quiet on the other end, waiting for you to continue.
“I just feel disappointed.”
“At what?”
The question should be rephrased to ‘who?’ Betrayal sets in, wondering why you chalked up sex to be this grand thing only to feel let down. A part of you grieves the unknown—grieves the hope of something magical. Now, you’re just left with the reality and truth: sex wasn’t all that.
You dodge his question by asking another one. “Sex is supposed to feel good, right?” You palm your cheeks.
“Mm, for girls? Uh, I guess not all the time.” Taehyung answers.
That means it should get better by the third try right? You just need to persevere, figure out what feels good–
“You don’t have to continue having sex to figure out if it’s not something you like, kiddo.” Taehyung cuts off your train of thought as though it could be heard through the line, redirecting it entirely. “I hope you know that.”
“But—”
“Hey,” he interrupts. “Tell you what, go on and take a hot shower, okay? I’m coming home tomorrow evening and we can spend some time with each other—catch up.”
You mumble a quick okay and apologize again for calling while he’s on a retreat. He dismisses your apology and tells you he loves you.
Taehyung’s right. Feeling more refreshed after your thirty-minute shower, you grab your phone to reply to Mingyu only to notice some text messages from your best friend.
Taehyung [8:11 p.m.]: Something’s waiting for you outside your door
Taehyung [8:11 p.m.]: App said it’s delivered so HURRY
Ominous, but you crack an opening and peer outside your apartment. A little brown bag with your name sits nicely on your welcome mat.
The bag crinkles in your attempt to pry the seal apart, finding two pints of your favorite flavors of ice cream. Your eyes water again for different reasons — better reasons.
You [8:15 p.m.]: You shouldn’t have 🥺
Taehyung [8:16 p.m.]: Enjoy, kiddo 😁 I’ll see you tmr
Feet tucked underneath you on your couch, you’re about two spoons deep into the ice cream as you click into your inbox. Luckily, two inquiries came in. A part of you relaxes at the fact of not fully lying to Mingyu about your need to work. The two inquiries were responded to and confirmed within fifteen minutes.
You pay extra attention to Gum and Bubba this evening. Noticing the lack of live plants in their tanks, you seek out your Facebook groups before eventually heading to the local pet store. Clicking on the shortcut in your browser, the first thing you see on your timeline is an announcement from your cohort’s group page:
CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR 9TH ANNUAL SHUTTER AWARDS WINNER: JEON JUNGKOOK
You check the timestamp of the post — made over an hour ago. You gasp, marveling at the submitted images, both ones he took with your assistance and ones you’ve never seen. Were they from his older portfolios or taken in the time you weren’t speaking?
Either way, he did it. He really entered.
… And he didn’t tell you.
You swallow down the icky thoughts of betrayal threatening to invade your mind. Maybe the thought slipped past his head, especially when the submission deadline fell around the time he wasn’t on speaking terms with you. You had a bad habit of forgetting to update him about your life, too. Still, he could’ve said something to you, even at the grocery store today.
Okay, this shouldn’t be about you. You’re happy for him. You hope your text messages congratulating him highlighted your joy and excitement. Minutes go by and there’s no response. Usually it wouldn’t bother you, but didn’t he say he wanted to catch up?
An idea pops in your head and you can’t be stopped. You don’t bother changing out of your grey sweats, opting to pull a thin cardigan to at least look somewhat presentable. You drive to the nearest late-night grocery store, settling for a decent last-call bouquet sale. As you line up for the cashier, a box catches your attention: persimmons.
Jungkook’s sentiment rings in your ears — he wouldn’t be able to finish them on his own.
You don’t think you’d be able to help him either.
About half an hour later, you’re in the lobby of Jungkook’s apartment complex with a bouquet of flowers in hand. The guest entry code changes every month, so there wasn’t a way for you to hand deliver the flowers to him, let alone drop off at his door. The front desk tried reaching him multiple times, but to no avail.
“You guys run a strict program around here, huh?” You muse at the older receptionist while writing a short note on the tiny piece of paper he graciously provided.
He chuckles, strikes up a conversation with you about how rules keep changing every year and he’s too old to keep up.
You’re just about to hand over the bouquet until you hear a familiar laugh in the distance.
Eyes squinting, you spot Jungkook in his workout gear, bangs stringy from sweat. He’s with another person — a woman. Feeling shy and awkward all of the sudden, you attempt to tell the receptionist you’ll be on your way now.
“Oh, Mr. Jeon!” The older man waves, voice booming in the spacious lobby.
Crap.
You grimace.
Jungkook and the woman peer over, steps now turned in the direction of where the front desk is — of where you are.
“Lucky we caught him.” The man murmurs to you, smiling as Jungkook and the woman nears. “You can personally give him the flowers now.”
You grab the flowers before Jungkook could notice them, hiding the bundle behind your back.
“Mr. Jeon, this guest is here to see you.”
Jungkook looks back and forth between you and the receptionist, brows twitching in confusion. His perplexity settles, finally accepting you’re in his building of all places.
He smiles at you; although, it doesn’t fully form before hesitation takes over his features once again. “Pix? Whatcha doing here?”
You catch a brief glimpse of the woman behind him. Older, but gorgeous. Were they a family member?
“Ah, uh, I wanted to congratulate you.” You say, feeling slightly underdressed in your oversized lounge clothes in comparison to their fancy workout clothing.
“Congratulate me?” Jungkook tilts his head. His eyes narrow, bemused but recovering quickly as he turns to the woman. “Sorry, Yoona. You can go ahead.”
Yoona gives him a neutral smile — hinting her gratitude in being dismissed. She turns on her heels and heads back to the elevators.
Something familiar brews inside of you: betrayal sits nicely on your chest, just in a different font.
“You got first place in the photography competition.”
His eyes light up and for a second, you’re transported back in your apartment again at a time when it was just you and him exploring the world of film and editing. For a moment, you wished things stayed like that; yet, you would never trade the feelings you’ve experienced with Jungkook.
“Wait, no fucking way.” His smile grows.
You mirror his smile. “Mhm, announced it a little over two hours ago.”
“Holy shit.” Hands on his hips, he tips his head down, concealing his happiness and excitement. “Fuck, I can’t believe I placed first.”
“I can.” You reply. “Knew you could do it.”
He rubs his hands over his face, still in disbelief at the win. He pauses, as if only just now realizing where you’re both at.
“And you came all the way here to congratulate me, Pix?”
“Well,” You look around awkwardly. “Y-you didn’t answer my text message and I wanted to–”
His hand pats the side of his pants at the mention of your text.
“Shoot, no wonder. My phone died while I was at the gym.” He slides the device back into his pocket.
“You can workout to no music?” You question with a small smile.
“Yeah, well, no.” He clears his throat. “Yoona hooked up her music to the gym stereo.”
Yoona. Well, it doesn’t seem like they’re a relative just by this conversation alone. You’d like to change the topic, unready to open this can of worms.
Jungkook senses the shift and continues, “Anyway, thanks, Pix. I really appreciate it. What a way to end the day.”
You rock on your heels knowing full well the bouquet behind you is far from concealed. Not a bit discreet. The petals poke out from your sides, creating a small border around your frame. Fitting for fairies frolicking in the meadows, if you were one.
You bring the bundle to your front. “Got these for you. Small gift for your big win.”
You win in the exact moment Jungkook’s eyes light up, joy spreading through his features as his hands engulf yours in the exchange. You lose when you realize you never knew how much you’ve missed this touch—his touch.
“This is so thoughtful, really.” He holds the flowers with one hand. Ever so subtly, his other hand twitches at his side, unsure if he’s allowed to pull you in for a hug. “Would you like to come upstairs and catch up? I just need to shower real—”
“No, no.” You shake your head with an awkward chuckle. “Social battery’s a little drained. I’m ready for bed.” You look down at your outfit and pull at your sweats.
“That’s right, soup date with Facebook Dad.” He muses, eyes lingering on your face.
While you’re thankful for Jungkook’s ability to remember details in your life, in that exact moment, you felt exposed. Does Jungkook know? Can he sense something different since the grocery store? You must have some sort of invisible sign on your forehead saying ‘I just had sex,’ right?
Betrayal’s over-welcomed stay gets knocked down a few notches as shame crawls up your spine. You resist the urge to cover your face — as if that’ll appear less shady.
Scientifically and logically impossible to tell; yet, Jungkook’s stare remains, studying and absorbing your every feature. There’s a small tick you’ve realized when he does this — like he’s trying to memorize you, unsure of when’s the next time he’d see you like this again.
He clears his throat a beat later. “Well, I don’t want to keep you too long. Thanks again for this, Pix.”
He offers to walk you to your car, but you’re already backing away, waving and congratulating him one more time this evening to drive home your pride in his win. At the same time, you take your time to memorize him too: eyes softening and lip piercing flipping prettily with his smile.
You’ve won and you’ve lost.
Mingyu and you share a mutual love for evening strolls after dinner.
Even with the warmer weather, he holds your hand as you both make your rounds in his gated complex’s park. It’s safe and clean cut — very similar to Mingyu.
Somewhere between the walk, you unlatch your hand in favor of responding to Jungkook’s invite to his celebratory party at the club next week.
“Would you like to come with me?” You ask Mingyu, phone stuffed into your jean pocket as you grab hold of his hand again.
He hums. “Don’t know, I’m a bit too old for the club scene.”
You want to argue that no one’s too old to be at the club. Plus, it’s not like you’d be participating in any heavy drinking activities. Nothing’s worth busting your knees over on the dance floor either, unless they summon you via “No Hands” by Waka Flocka. Say goodbye to your lower half. Anyway, you’re there to celebrate a friend’s accomplishment.
“It’s that Jungkook friend of yours, right?” Mingyu inquires.
You answer with a nod.
Mingyu hums again and looks straight forward, hand tightening around yours. The moisture gathers as you both continue your hold on each other, unwilling to be the first to let go.
“I did some digging on him. Did you know he does porn?”
Bile gathers at the back of your throat.
“Yes.” You answer, honest and straightforward. There was no dodging of this topic at this point. Jungkook was not ashamed of his profession, and you would never put down your friend’s choices.
“Isn’t that weird?” He shrugs.
“That he does porn?” You question, suddenly feeling defensive at the underlying implication you were weird for accepting Jungkook’s lifestyle. Another thought plays in your head: why the hell was he playing investigator on your friends?
“Well, yeah.”
You let go of Mingyu’s hand, excusing the act as a way to air out your sweaty palm. “Not any weirder than watching porn.”
“That’s different.” He argues.
You retract your head, “How? There wouldn’t be adult films without their viewers.” Simple theory in economics: supply and demand.
He sighs. “This isn’t something worth debating over …”
“You’re talking about my friend.” You purse your lips.
“I’m not trying to control you or anything,” He starts. Your skin pricks at the words. “I just don’t know if that’s the kind of person you want in your life.”
You frown. “You don’t have to come to the party with me if you don’t want to, Mingyu.”
He stops in his tracks at the same time your steps cease. “I wasn’t planning to. What I’m saying is, I don’t fancy the idea of you being friends with someone like that.”
Clean cut and straight to the point, just like his pursuit to get to know you. He knew what he wanted, and what he wants right now is for you to ween away from this particular friendship. So much for someone not wanting to be in control of you.
Silence drags as you continue your walk, eventually cutting it short under the guise of pesky mosquitos. They were never enough of a derailer in your past evening walks; though, you’ve never been happier to leave behind a conversation.
Two hours and you’ll leave.
It’s what you tell yourself the day of Jungkook’s event and what replays in your head as you get ready. After you’ve officially ended things with Mingyu two days ago, going out and having fun was the last thing you wanted to do.
Much like how Mingyu was, the split was clean cut and straight to the point — he didn’t want you going to Jungkook’s celebration party, and gave you the ultimatum of ending your guys’ relationship or the friendship with a pornstar. Ridiculous to think those were your choices when your final decision will always center around your autonomy.
Still, the breakup hurts.
You’re an hour into your socializing quota. Neither having a good or bad time because Jungkook’s too busy greeting others and making his rounds. It’s okay, you’ll catch him at the end of the party when you leave. Luckily, you had great company by your side.
Yoongi sits next to you, complaining about the strobing lights and the shitty playlist. He could’ve easily left you to fend for yourself, but he stayed. He keeps a watchful eye on his husband, laughing through his nose when Hoseok’s booming laughter rang louder than the club’s music.
“You know, I still watch our wedding video till this day.” Yoongi smiles, eyes still trained on Hoseok. “Best day of my life. Can’t believe the easter egg you added at the end.”
You smile fondly at the memory, nodding over to where Hoseok shows off his dance moves. “He was the true mastermind.”
He nods, a tender smile plastered on his lovesick face. Honeymoon’s long over, but there was no expiration for his adoration. “The pictures were a great touch too. Glad Kook had a hand in that.”
Similarly, you match Yoongi’s smile at the mention of Jungkook. Even through the flashing lights and shady hues of the nightclub, you’d always spot him. He stands out way too easily in the crowd with his dark attire, fingers and neck decked out in jewelry. He’s outside with a couple of friends, chatting and laughing. You notice the cigarettes in between their fingers, smoke exiting their nostrils or lips. Can’t exactly tell if Jungkook pinches a burning cigarette in between his fingers too with his arms crossed.
Jungkook spots you and Yoongi from outside, waving briefly. The glimmer from his rings match the single silver cuban links around his neck — still, nothing shone brighter than his smile.
“I’m proud of that kid.” Yoongi says, eyes following where you’re looking at. “Took him long enough.”
Huh? What does that mean? Is he referring to Jungkook finally entering a competition?
“He signed up for some photography courses. Hopefully he sticks through the prereqs.” Yoongi brings his glass to his lips.
You should feel happy for Jungkook, elated he’s finally pursuing his passion. Your joy could only extend for so long after losing. You lost Jungkook, lost Mingyu, and now you’re losing Jungkook again. You can’t help but feel left behind as you stare at him doubled over at a particularly funny thing one of his friends said.
“That’s great to hear.” You put forward your best smile and the corner of your eyes fight to mimic the emotions you outwardly speak of. You hope you’re convincing enough, but the retired actor has years beyond your experiences of faking it.
Out of respect, Yoongi doesn’t press on. Wouldn’t be allowed to anyway as you excuse yourself to get another drink.
“Another midori sour, please?” You wave down the bartender.
The bartender smiles and makes you a new drink. “I’m glad the special item has a fan.”
Your brows furrow at the statement.
“Host requested to add this on the menu today. Honestly a relic.” She pushes the cup towards you in exchange for your card.
You chug the green drink, glass only filled with ice now and the preserved cherry you’ll save for later. Not even the midori sour’s usual sugary goodness could cancel out the bitter aftertaste in your mouth. Checking your phone, you have about thirty-eight minutes left till you can call it a night. Soon. You’ll be back in your bed. Soon, you’ll—
“Pixie.”
Spoke too soon.
You smell him before you see him. The citrus scent paired with a hint of cigarette wafts in your direction as he sits on the barstool next to you, deja vu greeting you when he orders a high-ball and adds another midori sour on his tab.
“Sorry, haven’t had the chance to properly greet you.” One of his arms extends out behind you, tugging you in for a quick side hug. “Thanks for coming. Means a lot to me.”
Your senses get overwhelmed by his scent and heat.
Once pulled away and back on his seat, you drink in his figure donned in a black leather jacket and a pair of baggy jeans. You’d argue his silver chains shined brighter under these flashing lights, but who were you kidding? Those darn playful irises always come in first place.
He smiles at you, a slim white stick poking out from the corner of his mouth to which you later realize was a tiny sucker on its last legs.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You smile as the drinks arrive in front of you both. He watches you take the first sip, tongue swirling around his lollipop to finish whatever last bits were on the stick.
Feeling hot under his gaze, you push your drink towards him. “Wanna try?”
He nods, fingers grasping the rim perfectly. Turning the glass, his mouth slots over the same spot with the lipstick stain. Out of all the free spaces, he still chose to claim your specific landmark.
“Sweet.” He chuckles. “Makes sense why it’s your go-to.”
You nod, taking the glass back, greedy to place your lips over the edges of where his lips once visited.
He stares at you, letting his eyes take their time as they trace your face, down to your exposed legs. Weather’s warmer, but even in your black halter top and short denim skirt, you burn and melt under his gaze.
“Where’s Facebook Dad?” His dropped lids keep a careful watch on you as he tips his own glass to his mouth, the white lolli-stick tucked between his fingers.
“Not sure.” Not here, apparently. Jungkook simply nods, taking the hint of your lack of words.
“I think I should head out, though.” You begin, phone placed in your backpocket as you stand from your stool.
He gives you the same stare on the night of the milestone party. This time, he’s more bold in his request.
“We barely hung out tonight. Stay a little longer for me.” He says. “Please?”
You’ve stayed plenty, but this was his special night. You can brave through a little discomfort for your friend. About three drinks in, Jungkook leads you onto the dance floor despite your initial protests. New lollipop in his mouth, he ignores your complaints and brings you into the middle where the fun’s usually at.
Though stiff at first, your body loosens up eventually, feeling the effects of the alcohol seep into your bloodstream. A warm flush builds in your stomach, undetermined whether it’s the alcohol talking or when Jungkook’s entire demeanor matches yours the moment “No Hands” begins playing.
“Aren’t you hot in that jacket?” You ask, eyes trailing down his covered torso. He has a grey top underneath his leather jacket, dark patches on his shirt growing as the night progresses.
“Pairs well with the outfit.” He banters. “Plus, air conditioning exists.”
You scowl and Jungkook laughs, turning you away from him. Good move on his end. Avoids a childish debate and he gets to dance with you.
The cigarette scent on his clothes intensifies as his front presses against your back. You’re not a smoker, but you wouldn’t mind smelling like one — like him. At least this is one thing you can bring home with you tonight.
You sway to the music, the hands on your hips keep your ass and his groin moving at a sensible distance and pressure. Completely normal between two friends. Yup. Should feel normal, should be alright. So normal how his breath fans over the shell of your ear, how his inhale stutters, an exhaled low chuckle the moment you reach behind his nape, keeping him close and secure.
You dance together like this for a few songs, unready to part for the night. Growing restless at the lack of his visual, you turn around and loop your arms over his neck. His eyes soften from the action, an endeared smile spreads at your hesitance to meet his eyes in the moment. Too soon — need some warming up.
“Didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.” You hum, focused on the white stick on the side of his mouth.
“I don’t.” He shakes his head. “Been tryna quit smoking.”
“You never mentioned you smoked.”
His thumb rubs your exposed skin on your hips. Not something any of your friends do, but you allow it for Jungkook. Your eyes stay on his lips as a deep laugh rumbles through his chest and he pushes the sucker against his cheek. “Did you want to try it?”
He pulls out the sucker and tips it to your lips. What he doesn’t show you are the three other unopened lollies in his pocket. He could’ve offered you one of those, but he’s selfish, wanting to claim what’s already his and only offering you what one would consider damaged goods.
You think they’re just goods.
No words are exchanged as you wrap your lips around the candy, tongue swirling around it slowly as you take it in. Whether it’s the alcohol buzzing through your system or the constant magnetic pull Jungkook has on your entire being, your gaze lifts to his eyes and how they’ve hyperfocused on your lips. His Adam’s apple bobs, pushing the sucker deeper so every part of your tongue’s coated in the sugary goodness.
Should’ve known how territorial he is. Claiming your glass rim and now wanting back the sucker lodged in your mouth. Soon enough, he tugs the lollipop out and pops it straight back to his mouth.
“You’ve been keeping things from me.” You say, teasing with a hint of bitterness despite the sugar sticking on your tongue. “Yoongi tells me you started photography courses.”
The photography classes, competition, smoking … the laundry list of things Jungkook failed to keep you posted about only further shuts you out of his life.
What other things don’t you know about Jeon Jungkook?
He breathes out a laugh, finally taking the wrapper in his pocket to place the unfinished lollipop in it to save for later. A little late to remind himself of the hazards of dancing with something in his mouth. “Yeah, well, I wanted to tell you when we caught up. Not easy being the only thirty-something year old in class too.”
“It’s a scary transition, but I’m proud of you.” You always have been, which is why you didn’t have a second thought in ending things with Mingyu.
“Thanks, Pix.” Smiles so prettily and sweet, you wonder if Jungkook’s mouth is all sugary like yours right now.
You try your best to shut down these thoughts. Hard when he tips his forehead against yours, sweaty bangs also on you. He stays like this as you both dance to the music, never pushing for more. You gave him flowers as a congratulatory gift … was he willing to accept something else from you?
In your drunken stupor, your true thoughts come to light: you missed Jeon Jungkook. And perhaps because of this reason — because of the liquid courage, you move in. Nose slotted snugly against his, you’re so close. So close to home and what you’ve wanted to come back to all these months.
He says your name, pained and strained. Close, so close … so—
The journey back home never arrives. Jungkook removes the pathway along with the hope and dreams of respite, pulling away at the last second.
He told you the space he needed wasn’t a form of punishment, so when is it going to stop feeling like one? Crushed, by the sweetest lips you’ll never kiss again — you can’t kiss again — and the warmest touch you’ll always miss.
“I’ll go get us some water. Wait for me, ‘kay?” He detaches from your body.
And when he returns with two slightly bent cone-shaped water cups, you’re nowhere to be found.
a/n: beta’d by @lovieku & @takeitawaykenny ty as always to my #1 supporters, brainstormers, and hype crew. they get me and this story like no other. aside from their big brained feedback, i should rly show yall the funny cmmts they be dropping LOL i love em
heh anyway, lmk your thoughts! … a roller coaster of a part, huh? homestretch, my beloveds!! next and final (🥺 WAHH!) update will be in june at latest. lots of life stuff happened and i’m doing my best over here. nice thing is, writing is one of the many things keeping me afloat. seeing all the positive feedback during these wild times makes this lil thing called life more tangible. ty all ♡
the best series of bangtumblr is back 🙂↕️ this chapter is so important and special to me, to these characters’ individual growth and to their path towards love. i am always in awe of missie and her writing but this just did it for me… i was nonstop crying while reading and missie can confirm 😭😭 a sneak peek of my angry cmmnts tho
i love you so much missie and i’m so grateful you decided to share such an important piece with us 🩷 this is more than fanfiction you guys this is so deep and will speak to your soul
Summary: Joel is your grumpy old neighbor, and one night when there’s a thunderstorm he comes over when his power goes out.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, porn with some plot, age gap, older Joel, grumpy Joel, dominant Joel, oral female receiving, minor fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, soft Joel at the end.
A/N: hello my favorite people! Let me know what you guys think of this one I would love to hear from everyone! Seriously if it’s a compliment, favorite part, or even to give advice is want to hear from everyone! Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out it is always appreciated and strongly encouraged! Plus, my taglist for Pedro is still open so please join! Thanks everyone again so much! XOXO
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The rain hammers against your roof like it's trying to break in, a late-summer storm that's been building all day. You're curled on the couch in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and cotton underwear, wine glass sweating on the coffee table, some mindless true-crime documentary droning in the background. The thunder is so loud it rattles the old single-pane windows of your fixer-upper.
Then you hear it, those three sharp knocks on your front door. You freeze. No one knocks on your door at 10:47 p.m. during a thunderstorm unless something's wrong.
You pad barefoot across the hardwood, heart already kicking up, and peek through the peephole.
Joel Miller stands on your porch, soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead, flannel shirt clinging obscenely to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. His jaw is set like he's chewing glass. He knocks again much harder this time.
You open the door just enough to speak through the gap. "What the hell, Joel?"
"Power's out on my side," he growls, water dripping from the brim of the baseball cap he's wearing backward. "Generator won't catch. Saw your lights still on. Need to borrow your outlet for my charger. Phone's dead and I got a job site at six."
You stare at him. "You're asking to come inside my house at almost eleven because your phone's dead?"
His eyes narrow. "You gonna make me stand out here and drown or what?"
There's a beat of silence broken only by the rain and distant thunder.
You pull the door open wider. "Fine. But wipe your boots."
He steps inside without a thank-you, tracking mud across your mat anyway. The scent of wet denim, pine sawdust, and something darker—sweat, maybe motor oil—fills the entryway as he shrugs out of his drenched flannel, leaving him in a faded black T-shirt that's just as plastered to him. The fabric molds to every ridge of muscle across his stomach, the deep V of his hips, the thick swell of his biceps. You hate how your mouth goes dry.
He glances around like he's never been inside before, and spots the outlet beside the couch. "This'll do."
You cross your arms. "You could've just asked during daylight like a normal person."
"Didn't need it during daylight." He crouches, plugs in the cord he pulled from his pocket, and his shirt rides up enough to show the dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. "And you're usually gone by the time I get home."
"Because I don't want to hear you bitching about my overgrown hedges again."
He snorts, still crouched, forearms braced on his thighs. "They're a goddamn eyesore."
"They're privacy."
"They're a fire hazard."
You roll your eyes. "You're insufferable."
He finally looks up at you like really looks, and something shifts in his expression. His gaze drags down your bare legs, lingers on the hem of your shirt where it skims the tops of your thighs, then flicks back to your face. His voice drops half an octave.
"And you're standin' there in nothin' but a fuckin' T-shirt like you ain't got a care in the world."
Heat crawls up your neck. "It's my house."
"Yeah." He stands slowly, unfolding all six-foot-something of him until he's crowding the narrow space between you and the couch. "And I'm in it."
The air feels thicker now, charged like the storm outside. You should step back. You don't.
"You want me to leave?" he asks, quieter, meaner.
You swallow. "I want you to stop being such an asshole to me every time we talk."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile. "Maybe I like seein' you get all riled up."
Your breath catches. "That's fucked up."
"Yeah." He takes one step closer. You can feel the heat rolling off him despite the wet clothes. "It is."
Thunder cracks so loud the lights flicker. You both freeze. Then the power cuts out completely. Darkness swallows the room. Only the occasional lightning flash illuminates the hard lines of his face, the way his chest rises and falls faster now.
"Shit," he mutters.
You laugh once, shaky. "Guess your charger's useless now."
He doesn't answer. Just stares at you in the stuttering blue-white light. Another flash. He's closer.
You whisper, "Joel—"
His hand finds your jaw—rough, callused palm cupping the side of your face, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. Not gentle. Possessive.
"You gonna keep runnin' that mouth," he says, voice gravel, "or you gonna let me do somethin' about it?"
Your heart slams against your ribs. You don't answer with words. You surge up and kiss him. It's not sweet. It's teeth and hunger and months of every barbed comment, every glare across the fence, every time you caught him staring too long when you were watering plants in cutoff shorts. He groans into your mouth like he's been starving.
His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding under your shirt to palm your ass, dragging you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he already is through soaked denim.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "Been thinkin' about this too goddamn long."
You bite his bottom lip. "You're such a dick."
"Yeah." He hauls you up quickly your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. "And you're wet for it."
He carries you down the dark hallway like he already knows the layout—maybe he's watched your windows more than he'll ever admit. Your bedroom door bangs open. He drops you onto the mattress hard enough that you bounce once. Lightning flashes again. You see him clearly for a second: shirt clinging, jeans dark with rain, erection straining obscenely against the zipper, eyes black with want.
He yanks his shirt over his head. The wet fabric slaps the floor. You sit up on your elbows, breathing hard.
"You're soaked."
"Gonna get you soaked too." He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and rips them down your legs in one rough tug. No preamble. No teasing. Just pure, impatient need. You gasp when cool air hits you.
"Look at you," he mutters, voice wrecked. "Already drippin' and I ain't even touched you yet."
He drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, drags you toward him by the hips, and buries his face between your thighs without warning. You cry out—sharp, surprised, filthy.
His tongue is relentless. Broad, flat strokes at first, then pointed, flicking over your clit with devastating precision. He groans like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, the sound vibrating through you.
"Joel—fuck—slow down—"
He doesn't. He sucks hard, then softer, then hard again, changing rhythm until your hips are jerking helplessly. One thick forearm bands across your stomach to pin you down.
"Stay still," he growls against you. "Let me eat this pussy the way I've been dreamin' about."
You thread your fingers into his damp hair and pull—hard. He likes it. Growls louder. Shoves two fingers inside you without warning, curling them immediately, stroking that spot that makes your vision white out.
"Oh god—right there—don't stop—"
"Gonna come on my tongue?" he asks, voice muffled, smug. "Gonna soak my fuckin' beard?"
"Yes—yes—Joel—"
You shatter. Back arching, thighs clamping around his head, crying his name loud enough the neighbors probably hear it over the storm. He doesn't stop until you're whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push him away.
Only then does he lift his head, lips shiny, beard glistening. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls up your body like a predator. You're still shaking when he kisses you again—deep, dirty, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Turn over," he orders.
You obey before you can think. He manhandles you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up so you're on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. You hear his belt buckle clank, the rasp of his zipper, the wet sound of him shoving his jeans down just enough.
Then the blunt head of him is nudging at your entrance.
"Tell me you want it," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Tell me you want your grumpy old neighbor to fuck you raw."
You push back against him. "I want it. I want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk tomorrow."
He slams home in one brutal thrust. You scream into the pillow. He's thick—thicker than you expected—and the stretch burns so good your eyes water. He doesn't give you time to adjust. Just grips your hips and starts pounding into you like he's trying to leave an imprint.
"Fuck—tight—Christ—" he grits out. "This cunt was made for me."
You claw at the sheets. "Harder—please—Joel—"
He leans over you, chest to your back, one hand wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding. The other hand finds your clit and rubs fast, merciless circles.
"You like bein' fucked like a little slut in your own bed?" he growls in your ear. "Like knowin' I can hear every sound you make through these thin walls?"
"Yes—god yes—"
"Next time I see you bendin' over in that garden I'm gonna remember how you looked with my cock buried in you. Gonna remember how you begged."
You're crying now—overwhelmed, oversensitive, chasing another orgasm that feels like it might kill you.
"Come on my cock," he snarls. "Come on it right fuckin' now or I swear I'll edge you till mornin'."
You break again—harder this time, vision tunneling, thighs shaking violently. He fucks you through it, pace brutal, until he's gasping, cursing under his breath.
"Gonna fill you up," he warns. "Gonna come so deep you'll feel me for days."
"Do it," you gasp. "Please—give it to me—"
He slams in one last time and stills, cock pulsing, flooding you with heat. The groan he lets out is broken, raw, almost pained. He stays buried inside you for a long minute, breathing ragged against your neck.
Finally he pulls out—slow—watching the way his come leaks out of you with something like possession in his eyes.
He flops onto his back beside you, chest heaving. You collapse onto your stomach, legs trembling. Silence stretches, broken only by the rain.
Then he mutters, rough, "You okay?"
You turn your head to look at him. "You're asking now?"
He snorts. Reaches over and drags you half on top of him, one heavy arm banding around your waist.
"Don't get used to it," he grumbles. But his thumb is stroking lazy circles on your hip.
You smile into his shoulder. "Too late."
He sighs—like he's annoyed, like he's resigned, like he's already thinking about round two. Outside, the storm keeps raging. Inside, something else has just begun.
The storm hasn't let up. Rain still lashes the windows in angry sheets, thunder rolling farther away now like it's finally losing interest. Inside your bedroom the air is thick with sex and sweat and the faint metallic tang of ozone that's seeped in through the cracks. You're both wrecked in the best way—skin slick, breathing uneven, sheets twisted around your ankles.
Joel hasn't moved much. He's still on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling in heavy, slowing pulls. His other hand rests heavy on your lower back where he dragged you half-draped across him earlier. You can feel the steady thump of his heart under your cheek, can feel the sticky warmth of his come still leaking slowly out of you every time you shift. It should feel obscene. Instead it feels like you’ve been claimed.
You're the first to speak, voice hoarse. "You alive over there?"
A low grunt. His arm slides off his face so he can squint at you through the dark. Lightning flickers once, weak and distant, just enough to catch the silver in his beard and the faint flush still riding his cheekbones.
"Barely," he mutters. "You tryin' to kill me?"
You huff a tired laugh against his shoulder. "You started it."
"Yeah, well." His fingers flex against your spine, not quite a caress, more like he's reminding himself you're still there. "You finished it."
Silence again. Not awkward, exactly—just full. The kind of quiet that happens after something irreversible. After a minute he exhales through his nose, long and slow, like he's bracing himself. Then he rolls—careful, deliberate—until you're on your back and he's hovering over you on one elbow. His free hand comes up, rough knuckles brushing sweat-damp hair off your forehead.
"You hurtin'?" he asks, quieter than you've ever heard him.
You blink up at him. "What?"
"Don't play dumb." His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, then down the column of your throat where he'd held you earlier—not tight, never tight, but firm enough you'll probably have faint fingerprints tomorrow. "I was rough. Tell me if I hurt you."
The tenderness in his voice catches you off guard. This is the same man who spent the last year growling at you over property lines and garbage cans. Now he's looking at you like you might break if he breathes wrong.
"I'm sore," you admit. "But the good kind. Not... not bad."
He nods once, jaw working like he's chewing on something he doesn't like the taste of. "Still."
He shifts his weight and eases off you completely. You make a small, involuntary sound of protest—already missing the heat of him—but he's already moving.
"Stay," he says, not looking back as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress dips, then rises.
You hear him in the dark—bare feet on hardwood, the soft clink of his belt buckle as he kicks his soaked jeans the rest of the way off, the rustle of fabric. A minute later the ensuite light flicks on, a warm stripe of gold cutting across the bedroom floor. He disappears inside. Water runs.
You push yourself up on your elbows, wincing a little at the deep ache between your thighs, the dull throb in your hips where his grip had been brutal. Worth it.
He comes back with a damp washcloth and a glass of water from the sink. No shirt, just faded black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how thick his thighs still are, how solid he remains even after coming so hard his voice cracked on your name.
He sets the glass on your nightstand, then kneels on the edge of the mattress—careful, almost hesitant now.
"Open," he says, nudging your knee with his free hand. You hesitate for half a second. He notices of course.
"Ain't askin' to fuck you again," he mutters, a little gruff, a little embarrassed. "Just wanna clean you up. You're a mess."
Heat crawls back into your face. "Romantic."
"Shut up." But there's no bite in it. You let your thighs fall open. He's gentle in a way that feels obscene after how roughly he took you—slow swipes of the warm cloth along your inner thighs, careful presses against your swollen folds, wiping away the mix of both of you with steady, focused strokes. Every time you flinch at a particularly tender spot he pauses, thumb rubbing soothing circles on your hip until you relax again.
When he's done he folds the cloth, sets it aside, then grabs the water glass and holds it out.
"Drink." You take it, sip. Cool relief slides down your throat. He watches you like it's his job to make sure you finish at least half.
Only when the glass is back on the nightstand does he finally lie down beside you again—this time pulling you properly into his side. One thick arm loops around your waist, tucking you against his chest. His chin rests on top of your head. You can feel his heartbeat slowing under your palm where it rests over his sternum.
"Better?" he asks, voice rumbling through you.
"Mm." You nuzzle closer, already half-drifting. "You're still an asshole, though."
A huff of laughter against your hair. "Yeah. But I'm your asshole now, I guess."
You smile into his skin. "Possessive much?"
"Had my tongue in your cunt and my come in you twenty minutes ago. Think I get to be a little possessive."
You snort. "Dick."
His hand starts moving again—slow, lazy strokes up and down your spine, fingertips catching on the knobs of your vertebrae, then smoothing over the small of your back. It's hypnotic. You feel your limbs growing heavier, eyelids drooping.
"Joel?"
"Hm?"
"You staying?" He's quiet long enough you start to wonder if he heard you.
"You want me to?"
You press your lips to the center of his chest. "Yeah."
Another beat.
"Then I'm stayin'." He reaches over you, drags the tangled sheet and comforter up over both of you. The fabric is cool against your overheated skin. He tucks it around your shoulders, then settles back, pulling you even tighter against him—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
"Sleep," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. "I got you."
You believe him. The rain keeps falling, softer now. His breathing evens out beneath you, deep and steady. One last rumble of thunder rolls through, distant and harmless.
You're already slipping under when you feel his hand slide down to cup your ass—not sexual, just simply holding. Possessive. Safe.
"Night, sweetheart," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.
You smile against his skin, already too far gone to answer. But you squeeze his side once, just enough for him to feel it. He squeezes back. And for the first time in a long damn time, the house next door doesn't feel quite so far away.
Joel Miller x fem!reader
part 1 | part 2
summary: When your mother asks you to take Joel to a family wedding, you start opening up to him in ways you haven't with anybody else.
word count: 24k
warnings: dbf!Joel, control kink, decision making kink (?), age gap (20s & 50s), praise kink, asphyxiation, unprotected p in v, Joel calls reader kid or kiddo, edging, orgasm denial, orgasm control, reader works out her family issues on Joel's cock, Joel is very understanding and sweet, Joel is something of a fatherfigure and had a relationship to reader when she was a child, I need to be shot, reader presents herself in a feminine way (wears a dress and makeup), reader has a tattoo (not described), description of reader's family, reader drinks alcohol
note: this is what happens when my cousin announces she's getting married! It's been stewing in my drafts since February, I am very proud of it. Inspired by a scene from Fleabag — you’ll understand why. Enjoy reading, and tell me what you think if you'd like. Keeps me motivated and makes me smile
Your mother should be crowned queen of awkward, bad ideas. And this one surely takes the cake.
"I’m going alone, Mom, it’s not the nineteen-thirties."
"It’s a wedding, darling, who will you dance with?"
You scoff – if you know one thing, it’s that you certainly will not be dancing in front of people, not without the sufficient amount of alcohol.
"Are you gonna ask aunt Ruth the same thing just cause she divorced uncle–."
"You don’t have to be such a smart-ass," she interrupted, "Joel would be going alone otherwise, and this way you both get to have someone there with you! I think he’s been lonely ever since Sarah moved out."
And what’s that got to do with me?, you want to ask, but your mother is right. Your next door neighbor has been sulking all summer, drinking beer on the porch and staring at the driveway as if that will make his daughter magically reappear. Sometimes when you get home in the evening you chat with him for a few minutes. You like Joel – he has the same aversion to smalltalk as you do, so the conversation isn’t superficial. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s pushing his late 50s.
"It wouldn’t be a real date, honey, I’d never set you up with him," you mother starts again, and you sigh. "I just think it’d cheer him up to spend time with someone who isn’t your father."
You almost ask your mother to go with him if it’s so important to her, but of all the guests there he’s probably the easiest to talk to. Not one to make a fuss, Joel Miller. You could just sit quietly next to each other, and if he’s your partner you doubt there’ll be much dancing. Maybe you could convince him to tell any other man who asks you to dance to fuck off. It would make your evening much more enjoyable than pressing your sweating body against the friend of a distant cousin and awkwardly swaying to some romantic pop song from 2009 with your parents watching. It’s a mystery to you why Joel is going at all – it’s not like it’s someone in his family who’s getting married. Your mother mentioned something about the groom and Joel having worked together on a job, but you weren’t paying attention much, as it was before she was trying to pimp you out to a guy basically triple your age.
"I’ll talk to him about it," you concede, and she smiles, clearly taking your answer as success already. You’re not as sure Joel will be thrilled about this idea, can almost hear his grumpy response: you even old enough to stay up past 9 pm? Still, maybe it will get your mother off your back if you at least try to convince him.
***
So you knock on Joel’s door, a tray of cookies your mother made for him in your slightly sweaty hands. You know he’ll find the idea absurd, and you’re not looking forward to being teased for proposing it.
"Hey, kid," Joel drawls when he opens the door, an easy smile tugging on his lips.
"Hi," you answer, pushing the tray towards him, "Mom made these and wanted you to have some."
"Geez, she thinks I don’t eat now that Sarah’s in Boston."
You get the inkling your mother isn’t entirely wrong about that, you haven’t seen Joel do his usual run for groceries in weeks. He probably eats steak every day, no vegetables. The thought almost makes you grin. Joel takes the tray from you and raises an eyebrow.
"You wanna come in?"
"Yeah, I’m definitely eating those," you say, nodding towards his cookies. He scoffs good-naturedly and kicks the door open further with his foot.
"No way, I’m not givin’ these away. Your mother’s bakin’ is sublime."
"Think of it as payment."
He snorts.
"What for?"
"Bringing them over."
Joel shoots you a look that clearly says stop whinin’, you live across the street, but doesn’t answer, just leads you to his kitchen and gets out milk and two glasses. He pushes one over to you, and you dunk one of your mother’s chocolate chip cookies in the milk, watching Joel do the same thing. You eat quietly for a moment, just enjoying the sugar melting into your tongues.
"Mom wants you to take me to my cousin’s wedding," you say once you’ve swallowed your first bite. Joel looks like he has dough stuck in his throat, and when he starts coughing you briefly wonder if you’d be able to perform the Heimlich maneuver on a man of Joel’s size, but he recovers quickly, and gulps down some milk.
"Why?" he asks, voice hoarse. You could lie, but Joel would know – you’ve never been able to hide stuff from him. He knew you were smoking behind his garage when you were seventeen, recognized the boys you snuck in and out of your bedroom window. He never told on you, though.
"She thinks we’re both loners."
Joel scoffs, and takes another bite of his cookie. You shrug.
"I told her it’s a bad idea. She said we needed a dance partner."
You’re grinning, the idea of Joel in a suit and dancing more than absurd. The most you’ve seen him do is tap his foot while listening to his classic rock radio station in his garage.
"I don’t dance," he answers, his brows furrowing.
"Neither do I."
He looks at you inquiringly, and you raise your eyebrows.
"What?"
"You’re what, twenty-one and you don’t dance? Aren’t you supposed to be spendin’ your weekends in clubs, makin’ all sorts of bad choices?"
"Okay, then, let me rephrase that: I don’t dance without at least four shots of tequila in my bloodstream and I doubt my parents would approve of me getting wasted at a family wedding."
Joel hums, as if to say fair point, and looks thoughtful for a second.
"You wanna go with someone else?"
The question is unexpected, you can’t help but answer it honestly.
"No."
Joel holds your eye contact, and you sigh.
"I’m not seeing anyone at the moment and my family is fucking insane, so I’m definitely not taking any of my friends."
That makes Joel chuckle, and for a brief moment you wonder what he thinks of your family.
"So let me take you, then. Wouldn’t have to waltz or nothin’."
No comment about your age, no teasing remarks about the boys Joel knows you see without your parents being aware of it.
"Why?"
Even to your own ears, your voice sounds suspicious. You lean on Joel’s kitchen island and stare up at him inquiringly. He doesn’t look away, not intimidated in the slightest.
"Your Dad’s been tryin’ to get me to ask out Loretta Henderson."
"What, and you’re not interested?"
You know Loretta, a nosy woman who knows all the gossip in the neighborhood. The thought of Joel going out with her makes you frown, he’s so much nicer than her.
"No," Joel just answers, but doesn’t offer much more. You sigh, and he cocks an eyebrow. "What, are you Loretta Henderson’s personal cupid now?"
"It’s not that," you say a little grumbly.
"What, then?"
His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and you find yourself giving into his question before you can change your mind.
"I don’t wanna go to that stupid fucking wedding at all."
There, it’s out in the open, all your childish and petulant disdain for family events. Now he’ll demand explanations, say you’re silly, to grow up and make your parents happy.
"So don’t go."
You stare at him. He stares back, and after a couple of seconds the corners of his mouth lift in a brief, tentative smile.
"You don’t gotta go, kid, with me or with anyone. You’re an adult."
Sure, but it’s your cousin’s wedding. Who bails on something like that? Joel Miller, maybe. He’s not exactly known to be the life of every party, although you know he can stomach quite a few beers. The thought of him building a tolerance on his own makes your frown reappear.
"It’s not that simple," you answer, staring at the crumbs of cookie in what’s left of your milk. "My parents would kill me. Like, genuinely, they’d put an axe to my neck."
Joel chuckles and the sound feels warm in your ears.
"I highly doubt that. You wanna talk about why you’re skippin’ a free three course meal and unlimited drinks?"
"I’m not skipping anything," you argue, then sigh, and look at your hands. "I’m the second oldest after my cousin, and she’s got this great guy, and a degree, and probably twin babies who won’t ever cry on the way, and I…I just don’t think I can handle every single one of my aunts asking me why I’m still single."
Joel is watching you, and hums as if to say he understands, and before you change your mind, you keep rambling.
"I always gotta justify every decision I make to them, you know? Like when I started my first degree, and when I quit it, and when I cut my hair, and got a tattoo. It’s exhausting. I’m awful at decision-making on the best of days, but my whole extended family scrutinizing me makes it hell."
You know you’re being dramatic, that there’s people with worse problems than a distant family member’s snide comments about a tattoo. But still. Still, you don’t want to spend your precious free day defending the choices you struggled with making in the first place, choices you question yourself, day after day.
Joel looks thoughtful, and he contemplates your words for so long, you think he might not answer at all, but then he pushes the cookies over to you, as if to say you need these more than me.
"I was so young when I had Sarah," Joel says to your surprise, "and everybody had somethin’ to say about it. Kept askin’ me if I was sure about havin’ a kid at that age, while I was holdin’ her in my arms, as if I could’ve just gotten her receipt and returned her like a pair of jeans."
You’re not entirely certain, but you think this might not be the kind of thing Joel tells people easily. He sighs.
"Look, I know it’s exhaustin’ to always have to stand your ground, ’specially when it’s shaky even without people voicing their unwarranted opinions. If peace of mind is what ya want, I’d say definitely avoid them. But if you wanna stand up for yourself and tell them to mind their business, I’ll drive your getaway car."
It’s so very much like Joel to offer something like that – taking you to a wedding just so that you can leave it. You can’t help it, you smile. He smiles back, and it makes the crinkles around his eyes more prominent. It’s a good look on him.
"Alright," you say after a second, thinking that if all else fails, you’ll be able to explain all the family gossip to Joel – maybe the day doesn’t have to be all bad.
"Alright," Joel agrees, "what color dress are you wearin’? So I can match my tie."
You groan – partly because the image of Joel Miller in a suit and tie is, for some reason, devastating, and partly because the idea of picking a dress makes you want to scream.
"Fuck, Joel, they’re gonna hate whatever I wear anyway," you mutter, aware you’re making something big out of something small, that any girl would be happy to get to pick out a pretty dress for a wedding – you can see the judgmental looks already, though: too overdressed, too underdressed, too colorful, too conservative, too this and that.
When you look up, Joel is watching you, brows furrowed while he’s thinking. You kind of wish he’d just tell you to suck it up and stop whining.
"Want me to pick it?"
You stare at him. It’s an odd proposition, and the absurdity of the situation is catching up to you – Joel Miller asking to pick your dress for the wedding he’s taking you to, so that the decision won’t fall onto your shoulders. Flannel-wearing, denim-loving Joel, picking a dress he thinks is best suited for you and for the occasion, perhaps even one he would like to see you in. It makes your head spin. It’s strange, absurd, weird, but the idea is oddly soothing. Would you feel self-conscious under your family’s stares if you knew Joel liked the dress? If the choice wasn’t yours in the first place, would you still find a way to feel guilty about it?
"I do," you answer quietly. You know you’re treading in dangerous waters now. Something feels blurry about this conversation, and although you trust Joel not to have ulterior motives, you’re also aware you both know there’s something happening here beyond a choice of dress.
"Alright," Joel says again, just like that.
"Alright," you say. Just like that.
***
Joel takes you shopping, because in his own words he’s never had to buy a fancy dress for Sarah, so you hop onto the passenger seat of his Bronco and try to find a radio station with songs that aren’t several decades older than you, but Joel doesn’t seem to enjoy anything past the 80s, so you opt for a 60s station – Dusty Springfield coos into your ear as you watch Joel turn on the engine.
"My parents somehow don’t think this is strange," you say, and Joel shoots you a glance – you’re clearly implying they should.
"Do you?"
You hum, then shrug.
"I’ve never met a straight man who went shopping for dresses voluntarily. Is there a specific reason you’re not interested in Mrs. Henderson?"
Joel looks over at you with a raised eyebrow.
"Sarah says it’s not politically correct to joke about bein’ gay," he answers seriously, and you grin.
"Yeah, but it’s funny in this case. Poor Loretta, she’s so blissfully unaware of just how small her shot at going out with you is."
Joel shakes his head, but you can see his mouth twitching under his beard.
"Your teasin’ don’t affect me, sweetheart."
"Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Miller."
"I have."
You gape at him, and an involuntary giggle leaves your mouth.
"You’re kidding."
Joel laughs, and runs a broad palm over his beard.
"I’m not. Had a friend called Bill who kissed me once. Hell, I must’ve been your age."
"What happened?" you ask impatiently, a broad smile on your face. Joel shrugs.
"Nothin’. Was a good kiss, but the beard sorta bothered me, so I told him I wasn’t interested like that and that he should ask out Frank. He was another friend of ours, ’n I knew he liked Bill. They’re married now, as far as I know."
It’s oddly sweet instead of funny, and you watch the scenery pass with a smile on your face.
"So why are you spending your Saturday at the mall with me instead of…I don’t know, tinkering with your car? Missing Sarah already?"
Joel looks over and smiles, and in that brief second something in your stomach flutters.
"I’m practically forcin’ you to go to that wedding, the least I can do is spare you the stress and get you your dress myself."
"Technically, you’re not sparing me much if you make me come with you because you don’t know shit about dresses."
Joel scowls and you grin.
"Technically, I could turn this car around right now and make you go in a jeans and t-shirt."
"Can’t make me do anything, Miller."
He doesn’t answer.
***
Turns out Joel’s idea of shopping is getting every single dress in the shop in your size, and making you try them all on. Although his intention was to relieve you of the decision, he’s sort of unhelpful – he tells you it looks real pretty every time you come out of the changing room, and when you can’t stifle a laugh after the fifth time, he clumsily tries to explain why – he likes the purply sort of color.
After around ten dresses, each a different color and style, you feel exhausted – you do like a few, but some have more cleavage than you usually wear, others might be too casual for a wedding, and you sit down on the little bench in the changing room while Joel puts the last dress back on the hanger.
"I changed my mind, Miller, I’m not going to the wedding," you groan. Joel leans against the wall of the changing room, the red dress you tried on last still in his hands.
"I’m no good at this," he says apologetically, "told you I’d help ya pick one and it’s still stressful, sweetheart, I’m sorry."
The nickname makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.
"No, it’s not your fault," you answer and play with the hem of the dark blue dress you’re currently wearing, "I just…I don’t wanna buy a dress cause they’ll like it."
Joel considers you for a couple of seconds.
"Which one would you get if your family wasn’t there?"
You sigh.
"But they are there, Joel–"
"Which one?"
His tone doesn’t allow any arguing, so you look at the dresses, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You liked a baby blue one, a black one, and a light pink one. You lift them up to show Joel, and he smiles.
"So get one of these," he says, as if it’s that easy.
"The blue one has too much cleavage–"
"You’re twenty-one, sweetheart, and you ain’t a nun."
It makes you chuckle, despite yourself.
"I think the baby pink one might be too close to white, you’re not supposed to wear white to somebody else’s wedding."
Joel snorts.
"’S your cousin colorblind?"
You groan, looking between the three dresses.
"Which one would you most like to wear in your own apartment, when you get dressed up just for yourself?"
You stare at Joel, heat rising in your cheeks, as if he caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing.
"I’m a girl-Dad," he reminds you softly, and you have a sudden image of Sarah playing dress-up in front of Joel’s bedroom mirror in your mind. Again, that flutter in your stomach.
"This one," you say quietly, and lift the hanger of the light blue dress. Joel nods, takes the dresses from your hands, drapes the blue one over his forearm, and clutches the curtain of the changing room in his massive fist.
"I’m returnin’ these, you’re changin’ into your jeans again and then we’re gettin’ the blue one."
It’s more expensive than the black one, you want to say, but Joel closes the curtain without giving you the time to argue, and you hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way out of the changing rooms. All of a sudden you have to smile – relief washes over you now that a decision is made.
When you walk out of the changing rooms in your jeans and t-shirt again, the dress you changed out of long forgotten on its hanger, you can see Joel at the checkout, handing the cashier something, and you practically run over to him.
"Absolutely not, Joel, you’re not payi–"
"Thank you," Joel says to the cashier, putting his card back into his worn leather wallet and looking at you, "It’s done. Quit whinin’ and take your new dress."
He hands you the bag with a smile, and although you feel guilty, there’s also a strange sort of comfort in knowing Joel payed for it. Sure, it’s yours, but in a way you’re giving the weight of your family’s reactions, good or bad, over to him.
"Thank you," you say softly, "you didn’t have to do that."
"I know," Joel just answers, "you got matchin’ shoes?"
***
The wedding is still a week away, when you get a message from Joel.
Are you driving to the wedding with your family, or with your date?
You smile, and consider his question for a second. You’re all spending the weekend in a hotel, arriving a day early, and knowing your parents, the packing and driving won’t be exactly peaceful. You don’t know what they will think if you tell them you’re going with Joel, but then you remember your mom asked you to spend time with him so he isn’t lonely. It’s the perfect excuse, and the idea of spending the hours with Joel in his Bronco rather than in the backseat of your parents’ car, trying hard to keep the peace between them while they’re stressed, makes you feel almost giddy.
With my date, you don’t know him tho ;)
You can practically hear Joel’s huff.
Smartass. I’ll pick you up at nine on Friday, don’t oversleep.
From then on you text Joel from time to time. You’re not sure why, but you like the way he responds to you. It never takes him long, even when he surely must be working, and the idea of him checking his phone at a construction site makes that flutter in your stomach reappear. You know it’s stupid, and although it’s not technically flirting, it’s also not innocent, but you tell yourself you’re only going to the wedding because your mother asked you to, so you might as well have a little fun while doing it. And anyway, Joel sure doesn’t seem to mind.
Picked a suit yet? Or r u going in a flannel?
Funny. Picked one that goes well with your dress.
Pic pls??
I’m working. Sorry, sweetheart.
The nickname feels somehow more solid in text than it does in conversation. It’s not a slip of the tongue, he took his time to type it out on his phone, probably with his forefinger, using his other hand to hold the phone.
When the wedding is a week away, your mother starts stress-baking, and asks you to bring Joel one half of the carrot cake she made. You think about asking her how one person is supposed to eat half a cake, but consider your chances of Joel sharing it with you higher if you keep your mouth shut.
When you knock on his door once again, it takes him a second to open the door. He’s drenched in sweat, his old shirt damp and his curls unruly.
"Oh, hey kid," he says with a surprised smile, his eyes flickering towards the cake. "What’s it this time, an uncle’s funeral?"
You snort, and he opens the door wider.
"Are you working out?"
"No," Joel say in a tone that suggests the idea is absurd, "I’m gardenin’."
You watch him lead the way to his kitchen, his broad back and thick arms making you feel a little squirmy. His answer suggests he doesn’t work out, and you wonder if he got so fit just from his job. You always figured contractors just managed the construction sites, but maybe Joel does the construction himself. You think you enjoy entertaining that thought a little too much.
"Can I see your suit?"
Joel glances at you, and you place the cake on his kitchen isle as he gets out two plates.
"No," he answers, a little gruff.
"It’s a common misconception, but it’s actually just the bride who shouldn’t show her outfit to her date," you tease, "the guests are allowed."
Joel scowls, and shakes his head.
"I don’t know anybody who talks back as much as you do."
"You might not know many smart people. I’m quick."
Despite himself, the corners of Joel’s mouth twitch into an amused smile, and he hands you a piece of cake.
"Come on, Joel, you got to see my dress, too," you try again, almost begging now.
"You’ll see it on Saturday."
"Why?"
Joel clears his throat, but you don’t let him off the hook, just chew your piece of cake in silence while you wait for him to answer.
"Cause it’s…it’s ridiculous. I’m not a suit guy."
He’s shy, you realize, maybe even insecure about it. You wonder if he fished out the last suit he wore from the back of his closet, probably still with 80s shoulder pads.
"Now I’ve got to see it," you decide, and when Joel sighs, you know you’ve won. He glares at you for multiple seconds, not breaking the eye contact. Then he shakes his head again, and leaves to get it.
When he returns, he hasn’t put the suit on like you hoped, but you’re relieved to find a classic black suit jacket and pants draped over his arm. You take it from him, holding the jacket up and nodding appreciatively.
"This is nice," you tell him honestly, "no flared pants or fringes."
Joel laughs, the sound traveling up your spine and settling in your chest.
"I’m not that old."
You grin, and hand him the suit back.
"You’ll look really handsome in it," you say softly, because you can tell the idea of wearing it makes him uncomfortable, and because it’s true. You like the way he looks even in his sweaty old t-shirt, but in a suit he’ll surely turn heads. He looks slightly embarrassed at your comment, and smoothes over a wrinkle in the fabric.
He mutters something under his breath and gently drapes the suit over the back of a dining chair. "Wish I could go in a pair of jeans."
It’s endearing, and you wonder if Joel is unaware of how attractive he is. He’s certainly not one to make a fuss about his looks.
"Well, you’d just embarrass me, cause some crazy guy picked and bought a real fancy dress for me. We have to match, sorry."
Your words have the desired effect, and Joel chuckles.
"It’s not too late to bail, though," you offer, "if you’re just coming cause of me."
Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours.
"Gettin’ cold feet?"
You shrug.
"Mine were never really warm. Yours?"
"Toasty," he says softly, eyes still on yours. All of a sudden is a little harder to swallow you mother’s carrot cake.
"You’re still nervous about goin’," Joel says, and it’s more an assessment than a question. You shrug again.
"Why?" he asks, " ’S not about the dress, I saw how happy you were when I made the decision for you."
Something about that sentences makes your stomach flutter again. Make them all for me, you want to say, and instead shove more cake into your mouth. You chew slowly to give yourself more time to sort out the words in your head.
"I just find these sorts of things exhausting," you explain, "I hate figuring out what’s socially appropriate, you know, how much to drink, what jokes to make, when to laugh, what to say and not say."
"I hope ya don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but your family sounds like a piece of work."
You laugh, and watch Joel’s eyes get all crinkly with amusement at your reaction.
"They’re alright," you say honestly, "they’re normal. I’m just sensitive."
"They put that idea in your head?"
That shuts you up. It’s just a quick remark from Joel, but it hits home, and the smile freezes on your face.
"Sorry," Joel says quietly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t my place–"
"No, don’t worry," you say quickly, "you’re right. They’re still normal, though. Usual amount of uptight and judgmental, I guess."
Joel watches you, and it seems like he’s thinking about something. When he speaks, his words are almost tentative.
"You can stick to me, if you want to. You can…ask me if you want a second opinion on what’s socially appropriate."
Your stomach swirls. You swallow and nod.
"I think that might be a relief," you say honestly, and try hard to ignore the pull of want in your stomach.
"Alright," Joel says, and as if it’s an inside joke by now, you answer.
"Alright."
***
He does pick you up at nine on Friday. You parents seemed slightly surprised Joel is taking you to the hotel in his car, but when you asked your mother what the point of going with him was if he still spent most of his time alone, she seemed convinced. You aren’t sure why you felt the need to convince her of anything in the first place, but you try not to think about it, when your doorbell rings. You spent the night at your parents’ place for convenience instead of in your apartment, so that Joel doesn’t have to drive the extra couple of miles. Your father opens the door before you can, and pats Joel’s shoulder.
"So, you’re taking my little girl to the wedding," he says, holding up one finger in a mock-scolding. Joel laughs, but you wonder if it sounds slightly strained. He meets your eye and nods in greeting. You nod back.
"Do you have your suitcase?" your father asks.
"Yeah, it’s right here."
You go to grab it, but Joel is quicker.
"I got it," he mutters, and you try hard not to stare at his arms bulging under the weight, not in front of your father.
"Careful, Miller, don’t be too much of a gentleman, or none of her collage boys will stand a chance," your Dad jokes.
"Oh, I won’t be," Joel drawls. You turn towards the door to hide your blush – you’re sure Joel didn’t mean anything by that comment, but that flutter in your stomach is stronger than ever, and you almost clench your thighs together. Joel doesn’t seem to notice anything, just carries your suitcase to the door.
"See you there, Dad," you say, "where’s Mom?"
"Rearranging the snack box," your Dad answers, "I’ll tell her you said bye. See you there kid, don’t let Joel drive like a lunatic."
Joel is about to quip something back, but you practically shove him out the door, your fingers digging into his biceps. He can barely tell your father goodbye before you close the door behind the two of you.
"Rearranging the snack box," you groan, "they’re so…so…so not chill."
Joel chuckles.
"I ain’t got a snack box, I thought we could make a stop at Burger King or somethin’."
"Finally," you answer, and open the trunk of his car so he can put your suitcase inside, "a man with sense."
***
"So, what do I gotta know about your family? Anyone I should avoid?"
You grin and turn up the radio a little.
"Don’t bring up vaccines with aunt Ingrid, in fact, just don’t bring them up at all. Steer clear of politics, unless you’re pro-life and think gay people shouldn’t get too close to kids, but if that is the case, steer clear of me."
Joel laughs.
"Got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. No politics or human rights, got it."
"Don’t ask uncle Jules if he has children. He does, but it’s…complicated."
"Who’s uncle Jules again?"
"My Dad’s brother. Bald guy with a beard. Don’t call him uncle, though."
"No callin’ people uncle, no questions about family, or politics. Geez, I’ll have to think of some conversation starter."
You chuckle and suddenly feel ridiculous for making such a fuss about attending a family wedding, when Joel is going to have to navigate dozens of people he’s never met before.
"I think showing up there with me as your date might be the starter for most conversations you’ll have," you say, not quite managing to keep the amusement out of your voice.
Joel clears his throat.
"Right, well, I’m sorta hopin’ they won’t dwell on that too much so as to not make things awkward."
"Oh, they’ll make things awkward," you answer, amusement evident in your voice, "but honestly, I think that’ll be the fun part. I wonder if aunt Susie will hit on you, she hits on everybody’s spouses."
Joel shoots you a glance.
"You were worried enough about a dress to consider not goin’ at all, but showin’ up with your Dad’s friend is the fun part?"
You admit, when he puts it like that, it sounds illogical.
"Those are two different things, though. They’ll judge my dress regardless of what I wear, I guarantee you someone will make a comment about it. If you hadn’t helped me, I’dve spent the night wondering if I should’ve gone with a different one."
"You don’t don’t think you should have gone with a different…date?"
You glance over at him.
"No," you say earnestly, "it was never a question of who to go with. I wasn’t gonna go with anyone else, had you said no."
"Right," Joel says, and changes lanes.
You’re quiet for a while, watching the scenery outside your window, but Joel seems to keep thinking about what you said.
"Why does it bother you so much? Whether they like your dress or not?"
You sigh, and he looks over at you briefly.
"You don’t gotta tell me, sweetheart, I was just wonderin’."
You pick at your fingernail.
"No, it’s alright. I guess I just…dislike not living up to expectations. I can deal with it if things are out of my hands, you know, but if my family is questioning my choices, I start to question them myself. It’s the difference between…being late because my flight was cancelled, and being late because I overslept. If it’s out of my control, it’s fine."
Joel hums, and it’s quiet again in his car. The radio is playing Mother’s Little Helper softly in the background.
"I think you’ve made solid choices," Joel says after a moment, "You don’t gotta…doubt yourself so much. I always got the feelin’ you knew what’s right for you, except for those boys I watched climb up and down your drainpipe at night."
You blush at the mention of your teenage hookups, but Joel chuckles. His words mean something to you, though you’re not sure how to tell him.
"Yeah, well, I’m good at overthinking," you say quietly, and Joel hums.
"Cause you’re smart. Dumb people don’t question themselves."
You smile.
"Thanks, Miller."
Joel switches lanes again, and nods.
"I mean it, kid, you’re doin’ just fine. ’N if you need help at the wedding, you come to me and ask for it."
"Alright," you say softly.
***
When you arrive, there is a blur of hugs and kisses and half-shouted greetings between aunts and nephews, cousins and grandmothers, fathers and sisters. Your family isn’t necessarily big, but they’re loud and restless, so you feel relieved when your parents pull you and Joel to the side right after you step out of the car.
"What took you so long?", you Dad asks, but keeps talking before you can tell him about the Burger King break due to a lack of a snack boxes in Joel’s car. "Anyway, we’ve got a problem. They didn’t know you guys aren’t really dating, so they gave you a double room instead of two single ones. We shouldn’t have put your names down together on the attendance list for the wedding, but I was thinking Joel and I can take one room, and you and your mom the other one!"
He’s clearly pleased with how he solved this dilemma, and it takes everything in you not to grit your teeth. You love your mother very much, but living in a single room with her is sure to drive you completely mad.
"Oh no," Joel says, "I don’t wanna cause any trouble. There’s a motel down the street, I’ll just get a room–"
"No way," you answer immediately, momentarily forgetting your parents, "you’re my support at this thing. You’re like my therapy dog. If anyone sleeps at that crappy motel, it’s me."
Joel actually snorts.
"Right, like I’d let ya. Place looked way too sleazy. You’re sleeping in the hotel your cousin booked, end of discussion."
"Fine," you answer, narrowing your eyes, "but so are you. You’re a guest, and I’m a good fucking host."
You hold his gaze, even when he shakes his head in something close to annoyance.
"You’re not the host, you’re a guest yourself. And anyway, it isn’t socially appropriate to decline someone who’s offerin’."
He’s telling you to give in, let him make the decision for you. In any other situation, that thought would get you all tingly.
"Well, I’m offering to share with you, so don’t decline," you say, crossing your arms in front of your body. It feels a little childish.
"Alright," Joel grumbles, sounding defeated, and looks at your father. "Your kid’s a piece of work."
Your parents watched your discussion quietly, and you can see mild distaste on their faces at how you talked to their friend, but for some reason it makes you want to grin. Usually it stresses you out when your parents aren’t satisfied with your behavior, but in this case it fills you with a strangely giddy feeling – if only they knew the sort of things you tell Joel about your family. It would turn those frowns into shouts.
"I’m sure we’ll find a solu–"
Joel’s quicker than your father, and waves him off with an easy hand.
"Ah it’s alright. Piece of work, but good company."
There’s an amused glint in his eyes and you frown at him, half contemplating kicking his shin.
"I’m a piece of work? You’re the one who–"
Your mother’s eyebrows furrow and you fall quiet. For some reason you don’t want to let on just how close you and Joel are these days. You don’t want your parents to see Joel doesn’t mind your bickering, that he does it, too, that it’s not harshness, but barely disguised tenderness underneath the irony. Joel’s eyes are on your face, but you don’t look at him.
"It’s only two nights anyway," you grumble, and Joel nods.
"That’s settled, then. I’ll get the suitcases."
***
You’re rooming with Joel Miller. For some reason you didn’t fully consider what that entailed while you were arguing about it with him – you’ll share a bathroom, possibly a bed. A blanket. You understand your mother’s frown now, it’s certainly strange for you and Joel to be so fine with this situation. You make a mental note to mention only doing this so Joel isn’t lonely to your mother.
"You sure you don’t mind?" Joel asks you when you step into the elevator – your room is on the third floor.
"Depends. Do you snore?"
Joel doesn’t answer, but after a second he shakes his head, though more to himself than as an answer to your question.
"If you’re uncomfortable with this, I really don’t mind staying at that motel," he continues, and you watch him play with the little button on the handle of his suitcase.
"I’m not uncomfortable," you answer, "are you?"
"No."
You don’t know what else to say, so you fall quiet again. Joel seems oddly conflicted, but you don’t blame him, he surely noticed your mother’s expression when you decided to share the room.
When you get there, Joel opens the door, lets you step in first, and you hoist your suitcase inside. It’s a light room, airy curtains, a big double bed that looks cozy. You’re relieved to see it’s big enough for things not to get awkward between Joel and you, and thankfully, there’s two blankets and pillows.
"Which side do you want?"
Joel’s voice is kind, like he really wants you to pick, and you smile.
"Window," you say, the decision coming easily for once. You didn’t consider which side Joel would prefer and picked the other one, you just chose the one you wanted because you were able to hear in Joel’s voice it’s what he wanted you to do.
"I’m gonna change and then I’ll have to say hi to my family," you say, and don’t manage to keep the annoyed tone out of your voice completely. Joel plops down on his side of the bed with a quiet grunt, and watches you.
"You’re not looking forward to the smalltalk," he says in that way of his that is less question and more statement. It spares you from having to answer, but you still sigh.
"No, not really. They’ll ask a million questions about my degree, it’s like nothing else interests them."
Joel’s eyes are still on you, as you open your suitcase and pull out different shirts and pairs of jeans, suddenly realizing you brought too many options.
"Wear that one," Joel says when you hold up and consider a shortsleeved blouse with a flowery pattern, "looks real pretty."
You take the blouse and grab your favorite jeans to change into, glad to finally change out of your sweatpants after the long drive.
"I’ll deflect the conversation when they start talking about your degree," Joel says, crossing his arms, "I’ll mention my age or somethin’."
It makes you laugh, because the idea is so absurd – that talking about your fifty-something year old date would be more comfortable than talking about university.
"Thanks," you say genuinely, "you’ll be the topic of conversation, by the way. Hope you don’t mind gossip."
Joel smiles an easy smile and shrugs.
"Ah, you heard your mother, I’m a loner. Gossip don’t affect me."
You know he’s not being honest – with his connection to the groom, any gossip about his controversially young date is sure to reach his colleagues’ ears, but you’re grateful for his support in this. He’s risking his own reputation just to make this event less dreadful for you. You smile at him, and slip into the bathroom to change.
***
You can see your family from a distance, sitting on some sort of terrace, and you can tell some of them are looking over at you, assessing yours and Joel’s form already. You groan, and tuck your blouse into your waistband.
"Don’t worry," Joel says quietly, "you look great. ’N I picked the blouse anyway, so it’s on me."
You nod, and Joel nudges your shoulder with his softly.
"Cheer up, kid. Won’t be awkward, I got you."
You believe him. You trust Joel to handle the smalltalk with your own family, which should make you feel pathetic and childish and weak, but it’s so easy to let him take the reins. He leads you over to them with a gentle hand on the small of your back and a polite smile on his lips.
"Hey guys," you say, waving awkwardly when you’ve reached the terrace, "this is Joel."
You’ve got to hand it to your family, they’re being polite. You can see their eyes move over Joel’s crowsfeet, his hand on your waist, his flannel shirt, and for a second you feel nervous, but Joel seems so at ease, the judgement pearling off of him like drops of water.
You hug people, Joel shakes hands, says hello in that gruffly charming manner of his, there’s names being exchanged, and during all of it he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his left hand on your back, lets you know he’s there for you. It feels like a secret somehow, even though it’s not – but you’re tricking your family, and they have no idea what your relationship to Joel is really rooted in. They look at the two of you and see something intimate, sure, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s intimate in a different way.
"So what do you do, Joel?" one of your aunts asks him, when you’ve sat down – Joel pulling out your chair for you.
"I’m a contractor," he says, and throws his arm around your shoulders. You want to grin when you watch a dozen pairs of eyes follow the movement. Under the table, you nudge Joel’s foot with your own and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
They ask him more questions, the sort of superficial things most people think will conjure up an accurate image of the person they’re asking, and you’re more than amused by how Joel deflects them easily with that southern charm, but without backing down. The entire time, his thumb draws circles on your shoulder. You welcome the touch – you know it’s partly to keep up the show of dating you, but nevertheless it’s soothing, real or not. You wonder what Joel gets out of this charade – you get to fool the people who regularly make you feel inferior, you get to have some sort of entertainment at an otherwise boring event, but Joel doesn’t. He seems at ease, though, talking to your uncle about his business, fingers toying with the collar of your blouse at the nape of your neck.
"And how did you two meet?"
Your aunt’s question is sickly sweet, her judgment barely disguised. Her outrage makes you want to laugh and yell at the same time, because it’s not your well-being she’s concerned with, it’s etiquette.
"Oh, I’m friends with her parents," Joel says easily, "known each other ages."
It takes everything in you not to snort at the way your aunts eyes widen, and you’re sure Joel’s cough is really a well disguised laugh.
"Yeah," you say once you’re sure you’ll be able to control your voice, "he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen."
After that, someone hastily changes the topic, and when no one is looking, you throw Joel a grin. He winks at you, and doesn’t take his arm off your shoulder when you lean a little closer to him.
***
"You guys going to the beach, or the city?"
Your father smiles at you, squinting against the sun, backpack already slung over his shoulder – your parents are clearly doing the latter. There’s still time before dinner, and your family decided to split into two groups – you’re not sure which one to join. You look up at Joel, and your eyes meet. He holds your gaze for two seconds, and you don’t need to say anything.
"The beach," Joel decides, looking at your father again. "Could both use a bit of nature after that drive."
You say goodbye to your parents and are grateful for the few moments alone with Joel before joining the others for a walk down the beach. It’s what you would have picked, if you had to, but Joel didn’t need you to pick. Just like with your blouse and dress, he made the decision for you, and even though they’re completely mundane choices, it seems to lift a weight off your shoulders. You can just exist around Joel.
"That okay with you?" he asks you now, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"Yeah," you answer, "anything you pick’s okay with me."
It’s more honest than you necessarily wanted it to be, but you find it hard to care when Joel seems so tuned into you. He watches you, and nods.
"Do you think that’s strange?" you ask, all of a sudden worried he finds your need for a lack of autonomy revolting, or pitiful. Joel’s eyes are glued to yours, when you look up at him.
"No," he says softly, "I think you’ve been made to question yourself way too much. Creates stress and pressure I’ll gladly take away if I can."
There’s no judgement in his voice, just acknowledgement. You look at your shoes, then back at him again. You aren’t sure what to answer – you know it’s a strange conversation to be having with your parents’ friend. Before you can answer, Joel does it for you.
"Look, don’t overthink it. This weekend you don’t gotta worry about anythin’, alright? I’m takin’ the reins."
You probably shouldn’t find it as easy to accept this as you do, but then again you probably shouldn’t have brought a man more than twice your age to a family wedding, so you might as well go all in. Joel’s taking the strain. You can just nod and go along with it. For the first time in a long time, you feel oddly silent. Steady.
***
The beach is beautiful and you and Joel take off your shoes and socks to walk barefoot along the water. The steady sound of the waves and the salt in the air makes you feel calm. Your family is close by, walking in little groups, chatting and laughing. You’re enjoying just walking quietly with Joel, but after your conversation with him, you really wouldn’t mind talking to your family either – Joel understood what you were trying to tell him, and offered to take your worries and doubts away from you. There’s no responsibility weighing heavily on your shoulders, and suddenly it seems easy to show your religious aunts your tattoos, and even defend the degree you chose. Joel’s got your back. He’s got your choices, your decisions.
"You’re quiet," Joel tells you over the sound of the wind. You watch it mess up his hair.
"I feel quiet," you say, "in a good way."
Joel hums, and you’re reminded he’s a man of few words, too.
"What you said," you start, voice uncertain, "about them making me question myself. It’s not…they don’t mean any harm."
You watch your toes dig into the wet sand as you walk, soft, cold waves rolling over them in a steady rhythm.
"Yeah, no-one ever does."
You glance at Joel and back at your feet again.
"It’s just…I know I’ve been talking shit about them a lot, but I don’t want you to think they’re bad people or something."
Joel’s eyes are trained on a seagull landing on the sand close by when he answers.
"I don’t think that, I don’t even know ’em. Your parents are good people, and from what I’ve seen, they’re good parents, too."
You nod.
"Still, even if something is well-intentioned, doesn’t mean it can’t have negative repercussions."
You frown, thinking about his words, and Joel sighs.
"I don’t wanna criticize your folks, God knows I’ve made mistakes with Sarah. But I see you constantly tryin’, you know, always workin’ to please them. Even if it comes from a place of wantin’ the best for their kid, I don’t think it should be like that. Parents should be workin’ to make their kids proud, not the other way around."
His words punch the air from your lungs – his assessment of your relationship to your parents so perplexingly correct, you don’t know what to say. And then his immediate acknowledgment of what you feel in your heart, and don’t have the nerve or guts to voice. You feel your eyes begin to prick, and it’s not the sand or the salt. You swallow hard, feel Joel’s eyes on you.
"Hey now," he mutters, noticing your tears, "I didn’t mean to make that happen, darlin’."
The pet name seems to rip something open inside of you, and your tears start to spill silently, your face unmoving. Joel reaches out for your tentatively – the lines between what’s acceptable have blurred. It’s okay for him to put his arm around you to make fools of your family, but this feels different. You decide you don’t care anymore – you want to feel his warm body against your side, you want him to wipe the tears from your cheeks with his huge palms, you want to hear his voice whisper in your ear. Something about Joel Miller soothes an ache inside of you you didn’t even realize needed soothing at all, but now that you’re aware of it, you can’t help but give in completely.
His gentle palm on your arm is all you need, a clumsy but warm gesture of comfort, and you lean against him, your face against his collarbone. You know your family can see you, they’re close by, walking ahead or behind the two of you. You find you don’t mind – if anything, this will fuel the hoax of the two of you being together even more.
Joel is hesitant at first, but your tears seep into his pullover, and when you inhale shakily, he starts to stroke your back. You hear the sea, Joel’s heartbeat, someone laughing and screaming, possibly your cousins.
"I’m sorry kid," Joel says and rests his chin on the top of your head, "it’s alright. You’re alright."
"S-sorry," you mutter, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.
"Don’t gotta apologize. Did I hit a nerve?"
"Yeah," you answer quietly, not stepping back from Joel, just resting your face against his chest. You’ll take what he’s willing to give you, for as long as he is.
"I like it when you choose for me," you whisper after a minute. Although you’ve talked about it before, it feels different to admit this pressed against Joel’s big, warm body. "I really like it."
You feel Joel inhale and sigh, his hand still patting your back softly.
"I know, darlin’. I know."
"It’s weird."
"It’s unusual."
"You’re not, like…grossed out by me?"
Joel holds you a little more tightly.
"No, of course I’m not. Jesus, no. Why would you think that?"
You shrug, and Joel brushes the back of your head with his hand.
"You want me to make your decisions for you this weekend?"
He has been hinting towards that, inching closer to the realization, but he hadn’t put it quite that way before, and you feel something in your belly stir at the directness of his words.
"Yes," you whisper, "please."
You feel him nod, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.
"I gotta know what that entails, kid. We gotta…have a conversation about this."
You don’t want to do that – you haven’t had to explain yourself to Joel this plainly before, he always seemed to just get it, even the things you don’t say.
"Tell me what that means to you," Joel asks you gently. It’s not phrased as a question – already he’s doing it so perfectly, not giving you the choice to decline answering, but deciding you will. It’s easy, this way. You inhale again, and close your eyes for your confession.
"I…I just…I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about. What to listen to, what band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about, what to not joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and…and who to love and how to tell them. I think I just want someone to tell me how to live my life, Joel, because so far…I think I've been getting it wrong."
He’s quiet, and you think you’ve said too much, made it too weird, and for a split second you feel like running, but then Joel looks down at you, and brushes one stray tear away with his thumb.
"I want you to put on your socks and shoes, again," he says softly, and you feel relief wash over you in synch with the waves. "Can you do that for me?"
You nod, and bend down to get your socks, all the while feeling Joel’s eyes on you.
"Good," he says when you’re done, and gives you a small smile. Your head feels blissfully empty.
***
You catch up with your parents and the rest of your family before dinner, where they hover awkwardly just outside of the doors to the dining room in an old, renovated stable.
Joel keeps his steady hand on your waist, a sign of belonging to your distant family, inconspicuous to your parents, and a clear gesture of comfort to you. He looks handsome in his dark jeans and dark green knit pullover. You’re used to him wearing flip-flops and a grease-stained black tee, gardenhose in hand, but he cleans up nice. You feel your family’s eyes on the two of you as you approach and lean into Joel’s touch a little more.
"Heya," your Dad says with a smile, and immediately shows Joel a book he got in the city, something about cars you can’t be bothered to look at for longer than two seconds. Joel seems interested, though, and when you move to talk to one of your aunts, the hand on your waist tightens. You could easily go anyway, but his touch makes it clear he doesn’t want you to, so you stay, letting the car-talk wash over you, oddly at peace with everything. Joel throws you one look and his thumb starts tracing circles on your waist. It feels like a reward for doing as he said, and the thought makes you feel light-headed.
Eventually you all make your way to the dinner table, and Joel pulls out your chair for you, not sitting down until you’re seated. It makes your stomach flutter, and you can see your aunt watching him, apparently having noticed his good manners, too.
You flip open a menu, trying to decide on a drink – you’re not sure if it might not be too risky to start drinking alcohol this early in the evening, your tongue might become a little too lose, especially among this group. You look over at Joel, and when he notices, he subtly points to Cherry Coke on his own menu, tapping the word once, and you think he must remember you drinking the sticky-sweet stuff all summer as a teen. You give a small nod, to show him you understand, and flip the pages of your menu to look at the food.
"The salmon is supposed to be delicious," your mother is telling your father. She turns to Joel and you, and smiles.
"What are you two having?"
Before you can open your mouth, Joel closes his menu.
"The lamb chops," he answers simply, and when your eyes meet, it punches the air from your lungs. He looks proud, satisfied, like nothing pleases him more than to see you do as he says.
"Yeah," you say quietly, "lamb chops."
***
Dinner is perfectly nice, the lamb chops and your cherry coke are delicious, though you switch to wine after Joel asks you if you prefer red or white and then orders a glass for each of you. From time to time, he brushes your back with his hand when your parents aren’t looking, and even though you don’t get a minute to talk just between the two of you, you can tell he’s making an effort to be present and attentive.
Your younger cousins leave the table to play outside after a while, and you wish you had a few your own age to raid the bar with, as Joel seems to be stuck in a conversation about contracting with your uncle. You drain the last of your wine, your foot tapping rhythmically against the table leg, and you suddenly feel a hand just above your knee, effectively stopping your movement. Joel’s palm is huge as it burns a warm imprint into your skin, squeezing your leg slightly. It’s like a quiet acknowledgment of your restlessness, and enough for you to feel an odd calm wash over you. Joel seems to have realized you want to go to bed, or at least to leave the table and these boring, useless conversations. He also holds the power to decide whether you will or not, so you don’t have to worry about being rude at all. The ball is entirely in his court. You sigh in strange contentment and Joel’s thumb starts moving as a response, his eyes glued to your uncle’s face, nodding and answering whenever it’s appropriate.
After around a quarter of an hour, their conversation seems to fizzle out, and Joel glances down the table. Half the people have left, either to put the kids to bed, or to rest themselves after a long day of traveling. Joel’s eyes meet yours, warm and piercing, and he gets up from his chair, hand slipping from your thigh. Your uncle is talking to your parents now, and Joel waits a beat so as not to interrupt them.
"We’re goin’ to bed," he says when there’s a pause in their conversation, and you nod, getting up, too.
"Already?"
Your Dad sounds surprised.
"It’s eleven," you say, stifling a yawn, "and God knows Joel could use a bit of beauty sleep."
He scoffs and you grin, which makes your father chuckle and shake his head.
"Don’t let her give you hell, Miller. We can still switch rooms if this little union has turned sour."
It’s clearly a joke, but the idea of sleeping in a different room than Joel is distinctly unpleasant all of a sudden, so you chuckle.
"Don’t worry, Dad, still sickly sweet."
You hug your parents goodnight, and Joel promises your uncle to continue their talk the day after, and then, finally, he’s leading you back outside and towards the actual hotel building. His hand is a ghost on the small of your back, not quite touching, but guiding. You breathe in the cool evening air as you step outside and sigh. The change in temperature is more than welcome after the noise and buzz in your head.
"Alright?" Joel asks, voice quiet.
"Yes," you say, and suddenly feel shy about the decisions he made for you throughout the evening. "Sorry about…you don’t have to…I mean, I can just pick my own drinks and food tomorrow."
Joel is quiet for a second, but his hand doesn’t leave your back.
"Was it too much?"
You don’t answer, don’t know how to tell him it was perfect and not enough at the same time, that his hand seems to be burning a whole into the fabric of your blouse, that you want him to decide to take it off of you.
"Jesus," Joel says, interpreting your silence as confirmation, "I’m sorry, kid, I thought it’s what you asked me to do back at the beach, but if I got that wrong, I’m rea-"
"You didn’t," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word a little. "Don’t apologize, please. Don’t make this into something…weird or, I don’t know, something to feel guilty about."
Joel falls quiet.
"I hate feeling guilty," you add after a stretch of silence. You can feel Joel looking at you.
"You don’t gotta," he says, shaking his head when you shrug, "no, sweetheart, I mean it. I’m tellin’ ya not to feel guilty."
You shudder, you can’t help it – Joel’s tone has an air of finality you can’t resist. As if Joel pressed a button, you feel the emotion seep out of you. He’s still watching you, and you feel your cheeks burn up. You know it’s a little sick, a little depraved and twisted to want Joel to act like this.
"You know," Joel says suddenly, "when Sarah was ten, you two begged your Dad and me to take you to buy you these headbands you wouldn’t shut up about. They had them in purple and green. Sarah chose the green one, but you just couldn’t decide, you stood in front of that damn shelf for half an hour, until your Dad said he wouldn’t get either if you didn’t pick one."
You don’t remember the shop, but you do remember crying on the way home, Sarah petting your arm and lending you her headband the next day.
"Your Dad didn’t mean bad," Joel continues, "probably thought it was a valuable lesson, but you just needed someone to tell you purple suits you, or green goes with your shoes, or whatever."
You’re still quiet, walking beside Joel in the dark, not quite believing he noticed and cared enough to remember such an innocent incident years later. After a while, you swallow.
"I don’t remember buying that headband," you say softly, "or…not buying it, I guess."
"Why was it so hard for you?" Joel asks, voice sincere "to pick one, I mean."
"I…I’m not sure," you answer, not looking at him, but at your feet moving over the cobblestones. "I think I…I think I learned pretty early on a wrong decision could make people angry or disappointed. By not making one at all I just…disappointed myself, you know? Turning the reaction inward, or something."
Joel hums, and contemplates your words for a while.
"Your Dad, does he…did he…if you’d picked the wrong color, would he have gotten angry?"
You glance up at him, see a slight frown on his face, his muscles pulled tight, and you understand what he’s asking.
"No," you say softly, "no, it’s not like that."
Joel visibly relaxes and nods.
"Sorry," he says with an exhale, "didn’t think it was, but geez, that’d you’d be worried about his reaction to the goddamn color of a headband…"
You sigh.
"I don’t know why I’m like this," you say so quietly, you’re not sure Joel hears, but his hand on your back squeezes slightly, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I wanna please everyone all of the fucking time. It’s pathetic."
"It’s not pathetic, it’s empathetic," Joel argues, and you frown.
"I got no backbone," you say softly, saying out loud the worst you think about yourself to another person for the first time. "I’m a pushover and a narcissist who can’t handle anyone not liking them, as if I’m the centre of the fucking universe."
Joel stops walking, you sigh almost petulantly, and before you can keep walking, Joel’s hand catches your arm.
"Stop," he says, and without thinking about it, you do. He’s frowning, dark eyebrows pulled tight and casting a harsh shadow over his face.
"I don’t want ya sayin’ shit like that," he tells you, "don’t want ya thinkin’ it either, for that matter."
You don’t know what to answer, except that you do, so you just stare at him.
"Were you a pushover when you argued with me until your parents were pissed, just so I wouldn’t sleep in that shithole motel down the road?"
You look at your hands, and pick at your cuticle.
"Answer me, sweetheart," Joel says, and you can hear the order in his voice.
"That was different, it didn’t have anything to do with me," you say, and Joel shakes his head, as if in exasperation.
"Course it didn’t, it was completely selfless. Just like you don’t want to upset your grandma when she sees that little tattoo of yours, or your parents when you pick a career they don’t like. You’re too goddamn nice for your own good. Too empathetic."
You can feel his gaze glued to your face, but you keep staring at your thumbnail, until Joel sighs again.
"You think a narcissist would have worried about your dress stealin’ your cousin’s show?"
You shrug, aware what Joel wants you to say, but unable to do it.
"You think a narcissist would have sprinted across that shop to stop me buyin’ it for ya?"
"I’m still mad at you because of that," you say softly, and despite himself, Joel’s mouth softens into a smile.
"A narcissist," he repeats, voice dripping with irony, "and I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy."
"Even if you’re right," you say finally, "I don’t think you can separate concepts like that, you know, egoism and altruism. It’s like, if you donate money, do you ever truly do it to help, or do you do it because you like thinking of yourself as someone who helps?"
"You’re overthinkin’ this, sweetheart. It ain’t philosophy. You had an occasion to buy a pretty dress, and considered your cousins’s feelings – that’s kind. You’re…you’re good."
For some reason that makes you swallow, your throat thick. Good. You don’t think of yourself as a bad person per se, but sometimes being kind does feel like making amends. Joel thinks you’re good. He called you empathetic, nice, got angry when you disagreed. Your chest feels a little warm.
"You can’t see inside my head, Miller," you say, finally meeting his eyes, as he’s towering over you. "You don’t know my intentions."
"You’re not as mysterious as you think, kid," Joel answers gruffly, "why are you so adamant about makin’ yourself into some kind of super villain?"
"I’m not," you answer, cheeks flushing, "I just…"
"Just what?"
You shrug, don’t know yourself what you were going to say, and Joel raises his eyebrows.
"You’re a good girl, a really good person, you always were. So kind to Sarah when you were kids, and now that she’s in Boston, you’re kind to me, just so I’m not lonely."
"Ah," you answer, face heating up, "that. Well, to tell you the truth, Joel, this is one of those times where altruism and egotism are…congruent."
Joel stares at you, and your stomach flutters.
"That so?" he asks quietly, unmoving and still staring at your face. Your neck grows hot, and images of him telling your father what you said rush through your head, of him being uncomfortable, of him seeing you as a substitute daughter and being freaked out by your attachment to him. You swallow, don’t answer, look at your hand again. Suddenly there’s a finger on your chin, and Joel’s lifting your face back up to meet his eyes.
"I’m not makin’ that decision for you, sweetheart," he says, face serious, but a with hint of something in his voice that wasn’t there before. "You ask for it yourself, or you don’t."
His warm hand lingers on your chin for just a second longer, and then he crosses his arms in front of his body. You two continue walking, as if you’re not headed to sleep in the same bed, as if Joel didn’t put his skin to yours in a way that felt new.
***
You’re slightly embarrassed when you’ve changed into your pajamas, which consist of an old pair of pink shorts, and a Micky mouse shirt much too big for you. When you leave the bathroom, Joel is lying on his side of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, a grin spreading across his face when he sees your outfit.
"Nice," he says, and you feel your cheeks heat up.
"Well, I didn’t know I’d be sharing my bed, did I?"
Your voice is close to irritated, but for some reason it makes Joel’s smile widen, and you scoff.
"Unless you’ve got silk pajamas packed, your humor is misplaced."
You walk over to your suitcase and get out your face cream. Joel keeps watching you and seems to have no intention of brushing his teeth any time soon.
"I like it," he says after a beat, and your eyes shoot up to meet his, your knees still pressed into the carpet next to your suitcase. "Suits ya. That blouse is real pretty, but you were tuggin’ on it all evening."
"Yeah, well," you mutter, rubbing the cream into your skin, "I got it for occasions like this one, cause it’s modest."
"Your Micky Mouse shirt is pretty modest," Joel answers, mouth still twitching, "should wear that tomorrow in case you have second thoughts about your dress."
You snort and look down. Micky’s face is all wrinkled, the print faded from how often you’ve washed it.
"I want you to wear something you like tomorrow," Joel says quietly, and you look up. He’s still watching you, voice steady. "Before the ceremony, I mean. Wear somethin’ that feels like you."
It’s a decision he’s making for you, and you swallow.
"Okay," you answer, voice cracking on the last letter. Joel nods.
"Good."
Joel gets up to brush his teeth and change, and you get comfortable with your book while you’re waiting. You know it should feel awkward, being with him like this, but even though your stomach gives a pleasant leap whenever you think about the man in the bathroom, you’re not nervous. Yes, you’re sleeping in the same bed as Joel, but the conversions you’ve had ever since you asked him to take you to this wedding feel much more intimate than this physical closeness.
When he slides under the covers next to you, smelling of three-in-one shower gel and toothpaste, you turn around to face him, one cheek smushed against your pillow, something in your stomach tugging.
Joel turns his head to look at you, and smiles.
"Comfy?"
"Yeah."
"This ain’t too weird for ya?"
"No," you say, "not too weird."
Joel nods, and takes a gulp from the glass of water on his nightstand. You watch him slide his reading glasses away from the edge, so that they won’t fall to the ground during the night, and think of how he got you the dress you wanted, how each nudge and decision he made for you was always in your favor, always meant to give you pleasure or make things easier for you.
"Joel?"
"Hm?"
"Why do you enjoy…I mean why aren’t you you freaked out by…making my decisions for me and, you know, picking my clothes and food and all that?"
Joel is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have asked him that, but then he sighs, and looks at you again.
"When I took you dress shoppin’, you looked at those dresses the way you looked at the headbands when you were a kid," he begins to explain, "I don’t care about the dress, sweetheart. But I could tell you’dve gone with one you thought everyone else was gonna like, and it wouldn’t have been the one you wanted. So I helped you pick it, just like I should’ve helped you pick a headband."
Joel’s eyes are warm and understanding when you swallow, and for a second, he lifts his arm as if to reach out to you, but then he drops it onto the covers. You want him to pull you towards him the way he did at the beach, but you know it would mean something else here, alone in a bed.
"I don’t tell people what I told you," you say quietly, "about my family, and my indecisiveness."
Joel watches you with an unreadable expression.
"Whatever you wanna tell me," he says gently, "is safe with me."
You take Joel Miller by his word, when you lean towards him, shuffling close to him, until you can feel the heat of his body through both your blankets, and you can see the hesitation in his warm eyes. You trust he’s telling the truth about keeping your secrets, when you arch your back so your lips reach his, and you brush your mouth against his, his beard tickling your skin. It’s soft, and a little clumsy, until your lips part, the fire in your stomach catching, and Joel lets out a groan right into your mouth.
Finally, he kisses you back, warm lips coaxing yours, his big hands coming to rest on your upper arms, and tugging your body towards his. It’s exhilarating to feel how strong he is, to hear his gruff voice not in words but in little sounds of desire for you. Before you can press your hips to his in a reckless moment of need, Joel breaks the kiss, and your eyes open. His pupils are dilated, his mouth is red and shiny with a mixture of both your saliva.
"Jesus," he says quietly, hands still on your arms, "Jesus, kiddo."
You feel nervous, but as so often, the decision lies with Joel, and that makes everything easier. You were honest with him, stripped yourself bare, right down to the skeleton of your want for him and all of the depraved thoughts you have, and now Joel can do with that what he wants – you’ve offered him all you have to offer and feel your limbs relax at that thought. Joel’s thumb starts drawing its familiar circles, his eyes glued to your face.
"I think we should sleep on this," he says after what feels like a long time, "but, God, I wish I didn’t."
The corners of your lips pull up into a smile.
"It’s your choice," you say, and watch Joel swallow – you think this might be affecting him just as much as you.
"You shouldn’t give me that much power, sweetheart," he breathes, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gonna make me go mad with it."
You lean into his palm, which is now cupping your face, and Joel sighs.
"Go to sleep now," he mutters, and the disappointment is dulled by the pleasure of doing as he says. Instead of moving over to your own side of the bed, you rest your head on Joel’s chest, and after a sharp inhale, he drapes his arms over you, pulling you against him and holding you securely.
"Good," he whispers into your ear, making you shudder, and you're almost certain you hear Joel chuckle softly above you.
***
You wake at night, Joel’s arms still wrapped around you, though limp with sleep now. He’s breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling under you as if you weigh nothing, as if you haven’t been lying on top of him for hours. You feel a little bad for crushing him like this, and move away slightly to lay down right next to him, but his arms tighten around you as soon as you pull away, and he keeps you locked in his iron grip, still unconscious, his eyes closed. You can smell his aftershave with your face resting high on his chest, can hear his heartbeat and the air rushing in and out of his lungs. His arms are like a cage around your body, and instead of waking him up, you give in, closing your eyes again, one of your legs sliding between Joel’s. You feel something in your stomach ache pleasantly, but you’re too tired to examine the feeling, just let Joel’s steady breathing and scent lull you into darkness again.
***
The sun pours into the room like honey when you open your eyes again, this time alone in the big bed. You can hear water running in the bathroom, then a quiet cough. Joel Miller is getting ready after holding you all night, even through his deep sleep. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around, so you just press your face into the pillow and inhale, smell his sweat and shower gel, his laundry detergent.
"Mornin’," Joel says quietly, and you turn around to face him. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of clean, black jeans. He looks excruciatingly attractive, all solid and masculine and warm.
"Morning."
"Sleep well?"
You nod, unsure of how to address the shift in dynamic between the two of you in the daylight.
"Did…you?"
Joel hums, still leaning against the bathroom door and watching you. Your eyes flicker towards his chest, and you think of the way it felt pressed against your face at night, how his arms wrapped around you so securely. You swallow, and Joel’s eyes track the movement.
"Do you…want to go have breakfast?" you ask timidly, your voice cracking.
Joel shakes his head, and you start picking at your thumb again. You’re not generally awkward around him, but nobody told you how to deal with a situation like this, with you father’s best friend after you kissed him.
"No, I wanna talk about last night," Joel says, and you can’t stop a little groan escaping your mouth.
"Joel, look, I don’t…I didn’t mean to…I was caught up because you understand me so well, and you smell so good, and I just…I acted on instinct, I didn’t think, and if I made you uncomfortable, I’m really really sorry."
Joel is so quiet, you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you, or walk out of the room and tell your father, but the feeling of his arms tightening around you keeps reappearing in your mind, so you push your worries aside. Joel didn’t have to hold you the way he did.
"Instinct, huh?"
You flush, and look at your hand.
"I…yeah."
"’S a hell of an instinct, sweetheart."
You sigh, and nod.
"I know."
"Your father’s goin’ to behead me with a dull axe if he finds out about this."
Despite yourself, a chuckle escapes you, and your stomach flips pleasantly. Joel runs a hand over his beard and walks over towards you, his hair still wet from his shower.
"He’s never been the dull axe type," you argue, "he’ll try to outsmart you with words, though."
Joel snorts, and for a second you feel bad about making fun of your father when Joel so clearly would have the upper hand in a fight, but then Joel cups your face in his massive palm and you stop thinking all together.
He hums thoughtfully, as if contemplating his options, his eyes drifting over your face, and you don’t dare say anything, scared of spooking him when he’s so close to finally giving into this weird tension.
"I’m not doin’ anything while we’re here," he finally says, and you sigh. The disappointment must show on your face, because Joel’s mouth twitches under his beard.
"Not while I’m a guest," he adds, "wouldn’t be right."
"You’re not a guest, you’re my date," you argue, Joel’s hand still cradling your face.
"Yes, the date your mother picked to distract me from the fact that my daughter moved across the country. Who is your age, by the way."
You know he’s saying it to stress the absurdity of the situation, the reason why he can’t kiss you again, but his words make your stomach flutter instead of deterring you.
"I’m not a kid," you mutter, realizing it’s the most childish thing you could have said.
"Jesus," Joel answers quietly, shaking his head. "We’re goin’ to have breakfast now, before I…"
And he lets go of you, steps back, runs his hand over his beard again in that nervous habit of his, and even though it feels like you somehow turned liquid in his hands, you manage to get up.
"You know, we could just skip breakfast," you suggest, "order room service. Nobody would miss us if we –"
"Get dressed," Joel interrupts, watching you with his jaw clenched tight.
***
It feels different, walking with Joel to meet your family for breakfast. He still puts that calming hand on the small of your back, you still tease him the same way you did before, but there is a new tension between you now, as if you’re each holding on to one end of a rubber band. You wonder if it’s going to snap.
"Mornin’," Joel says, smiling at your parents, and you try hard not to let it show on your face that you kissed their 50-something neighbor just last night. When your mother smiles at you, you’re sure it must be visible in your eyes, that any second now she will start yelling. But she just asks you how you slept, tells you how comfortable she finds the beds and that the water pressure of the showers is just perfect. You agree, indulge her in her good mood.
After a couple of minutes, you look towards your father, and find that Joel is staring at you, face carefully neutral in a way nobody else would notice. You give him a tentative smile, and his jaw clenches again, but his expression softens.
During breakfast, he doesn’t put his hand on your thigh like he did the night before, no matter how much you pathetically bounce it just to get his attention. He keeps talking to your uncle again, and you would feel hurt by how clearly he’s trying to maintain distance between the two of you, if you didn’t catch him looking at you whenever there’s a break in the conversation. You wish you were able to read his thoughts, then wonder if he thinks you’re pitiful, and are glad you can’t.
When you’re almost done with your coffee, a waiter comes over and asks everyone to pick something for dinner – meat, fish or a vegetarian option. Your parents start telling a story of the best fresh fish they ate last time they went on a holiday, as you open the little folded menu and read the options.
You can feel Joel’s eyes practically burning a hole in the side of your head, even thought his hands are carefully kept to himself. Then he lifts up his hand just slightly and points to the fish on his own menu, clearing his throat. Your stomach flips again – whatever it is you’re doing, he’s still willing to do it after you kissed him. You close the menu, and smile.
***
The day passes in a blur of playing with your little cousins, talking to various family members, helping with your cousin’s bridal makeup (mostly, you just hold the mirror, which you’re grateful for – too much pressure to actually apply anything on her big day). Joel keeps his distance, charms your family with that twinkle in his eyes, and keeps looking at you wherever you are.
When you’re pushing your little cousin on a set of swings, there he is, sitting on a hotel garden chair with one of your aunts and looking at pictures she’s showing him on her phone. He nods and smiles, seems to answer when appropriate, but you just know it’s boring him to death. Whenever your aunt looks down, his eyes find you, and you grin at him, giving him a thumbs up. He shakes his head just slightly to himself, but you can see his smile even from this distance. It makes you feel warm inside.
In the afternoon, everyone retreats to their rooms to get changed for the ceremony, and you feel your stomach jolt at the thought of finally seeing Joel in the suit he refused to put on for you before. You meet him at the front of the hotel, where he and several of the younger children are kicking a ball back and forth. They laugh when he cleverly dodges their little feet, and then kicks it through their legs. He laughs, too, ruffles their hair, lets them beat their little fists against his legs when he tricks them again.
"You like him."
It’s your aunt, and she caught you watching Joel, a subconscious smile on your face. You glance at her and look at your feet, then shrug.
"I thought it was some rebellious streak to drive your parents up the wall," she admits, and you snort at that, "but I guess you’ve never been the type to do that."
"No," you say softly.
"They don’t mind?"
You don’t want to lie to her directly – a conversation like this, one on one, feels way different than some vague excuses and stories when fifteen people ask where you met.
"I don’t think they know…how close we are."
Your aunt smiles and nods.
"Well, looks like they’ll have to get used to it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you."
Her last words make your stomach flutter, but it’s the beginning of her sentence that makes you think. Your parents, having to arrange themselves with a choice you made for yourself, one they deem foolish or wrong or even immoral. The idea is almost preposterous – and thrilling. All these years, you were the clay holding your family together, molding yourself until you fit into all the little cracks and rotten cavities. Now it might be their time to soften and adjust, regardless of whether it’s because of Joel or not. You’re tired of being so shapeless.
When Joel spots you, he lets the kids score one more goal, one he could have easily saved, high fives them, and makes his way over to you with a smile on his face.
"Hello, coach," you say, as your aunt makes her way over to the children. "You’d better take a shower before you put on that suit."
He scoffs at you, but there’s that irresistible twinkle in his eyes again.
"You know, my aunt recons my parents could get used to…this."
"Jesus," Joel says and frowns. "I think they’d sooner tell you to join a biker gang."
"Maybe I should," you say, and Joel chuckles. "I’ll save that idea for the next family event. Funeral, maybe. Would be a talking point, wouldn’t it?"
"That what I am? A talking point?"
His voice is teasing, but you immediately regret your words – because he’s not. He got you the dress and he lets you talk about your family, and he doesn’t look at you any different for it.
"No," you say softly, looking up at him, "you’re not."
He doesn’t answer, but you think there is something like relief or satisfaction on his face, though he hides it well.
***
Getting ready with Joel feels weirdly domestic, but comfortable, as if you always share a space like that. He showers, puts on his slacks and a white shirt to wear under his dress shirt, then runs his hand through his hair and leaves it be. You’re glad, you like him best like this anyway.
While you apply your makeup, Joel watches you from the bed, the door to the bathroom wide open to let out the steam. For a moment you let yourself imagine a life in which you always share a bedroom, in which Joel Miller watches you get ready in the mornings, but you ban the thought from your mind, because it’s stupid and reckless and you can’t afford to fall for him.
"Y’look real pretty," he says after you come out of the bathroom in your light blue dress, your hair soft and tamed for once. Your stomach flips, both at the compliment and at how handsome Joel looks in his simple white shirt and black pants. He’s not wearing a tie, but he added light blue cufflinks to his sleeves – a detail that undeniably binds you to him, if only for one evening. He watches your eyes flicker over his form, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, and you remember how self conscious he was about the suit.
"You look…hot", you say honestly, before you can change your mind, and watch Joel’s cheeks flush a bright red.
"Don’t say shit like that," he says, hiding behind his frown, but he uncrosses his arms, and shakes his head. "Hot…"
The first button of his shirt is undone, and you have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from the skin that peeks out, can’t look at his hands either or you’ll see his silver watch on his wrist, and definitely won’t let yourself look at those dress pants, held up by a simple black leather belt.
"Let’s go," Joel mumbles, when you’re done trying and failing not to ogle him, and you grab your purse, slip into your shoes, and find Joel staring at you, when you turn around. He’s waiting by the door, but doesn’t open it when you walk over to him. Instead, he lifts his hand up, strokes the back of his hand once over your cheek, eyes trained on your face, and your skin burns.
"We picked a good dress, sweetheart," he says, you’re pleased that he’s pleased, but more than that, you like how he said we. Not a choice he made for you, but one you made together.
***
The ceremony is beautiful, and although you complained about your family to Joel a lot, you cry as soon as you see your cousin in her dress. Joel puts his arm around your shoulder, stroking your arm in a subconscious, comforting way. You lean into him, let yourself revel in the closeness without wondering what anyone will think – every eye in the room is glued to the bride and groom.
"You want a drink?" Joel asks you when people start to get up, talking in little groups. You hope your makeup isn’t all runny from your tears, but before you get a mirror from your purse, Joel cradles your face and wipes his thumb under your eye gently, just once.
"There," he mutters. The movement was quick and caught you off guard, your stomach fluttering uncontrollably. You’re usually better at keeping the butterflies in check.
"Yeah," you say, a second too late, "I gotta get drunk."
Joel chuckles and together you leave the venue, his hand on your waist, holding you tighter than he did during the day. There are tables set up outside in the sun, decorated with flowers and white tablecloths. People are catching up and laughing, basking in the joy of your cousin and her new husband. Joel leads you to the bar, and before you can look at the different drinks, he orders two Gin Tonics.
"There ya go," he says, handing you a cold glass, and you clink them together, before taking a sip. It’s refreshing, the sun burning your skin just slightly, and you enjoy the bitterness of the drink. It tastes like Joel ordered it, it tastes like him.
"There you are," a voice behind you calls, and Joel steps half a step back from you. "Weren’t those the most beautiful vows you’ve ever heard? I still remember when she was just a baby, and now she’s married."
You mother smiles at you and Joel, then at your father.
"Found the booze already, did you, Miller? Bad influence on my little girl," he just says, laughing and looking younger in the sun. Joel clears his throat, and smiles, but it’s forced.
"Well, anyway, we’d better find grandma," your mother tells you, and off they go. Joel exhales and looks at you. You know the comment about being a bad influence on you threw him off, but you smile at him.
"Get me drunk, then," you say softly, and despite it all, Joel smiles back.
***
In the heat, it doesn’t take long for you to become tipsy at the very least, you really shouldn’t drink gin to get rid of your thirst, but it tastes so good, and Joel watches you so intently. You’re sitting at one of the tables, listening to the music blaring from the speakers, your foot conveniently brushing Joel’s leg every time you move it to the beat of the song.
"We’re gonna dance," Joel says when you’re done with your first drink, and you snort.
"Right," you answer, "we’re gonna dance."
Joel doesn’t break the eye contact, just raises one eyebrow.
"Wasn’t the whole point of going to this thing together not having to dance?"
"It was before you enjoyed the music so much," Joel answers, and you stop moving your foot.
"I don’t dance," you say, frowning now, "and neither do you."
Joel takes a long sip from his own drink, emptying the glass. You watch his throat as he swallows, then sighs and looks at you thoughtfully for a few moments.
"I want you to dance," he says quietly, his gravely voice soft all of a sudden, "with me."
Something in your stomach comes alive – it’s one thing, sitting next to him when he points to a dish on his menu, but his eyes on yours as he practically orders you to dance make you feel all fluttery and hot.
"Okay."
"Good," Joel says softly, and you swallow, try hard not to let it show on your face how much your stomach jolts at his words.
The song is some romantic ballad you remember listening to as a teenager, and you can’t imagine Joel dancing at all, least of all to a song like this, but he gets up and holds out one hand. There are more people on the dance floor, swaying to the music, laughing, some kissing. The idea that Joel and you would join them is so absurd, you almost giggle, but Joel wants you to dance – so you’ll dance. You’re dimly aware he isn’t doing this for himself, but because he noticed your foot, but you pretend not to have made that connection.
His hands find your waist and you wrap yours around his neck a little awkwardly, and he sways you to the music. You’re surprised to find he moves with a certain grace you never would have thought possible, but you give a little sigh of relief when the song changes into something faster and upbeat. Joel notices, and chuckles.
"Havin’ fun?"
You suddenly are, and you didn’t expect that at all. There’s more people joining you now, as you sway your hips and grin up at Joel.
"Yeah," you say over the music and laughter, "think you should get me drunk more often, Miller."
Joel laughs, and gently guides you to your right to let a couple you have never seen before pass. You move easily under Joel’s hands, the insecurity about being seen dancing wiped from your mind by the fact that Joel told you to.
Joel’s forehead is slightly damp by the time the fourth song ends and your feet are starting to hurt in the shoes you’re wearing, so you wrap your arms around his neck again, and pull him towards you.
"I want another drink," you tell him, your mouth close to his ear, and he flinches slightly.
"No need to yell, sweetheart," he says, but turns towards the bar anyway. He takes your hand to pull you through the crowd, and your stomach does a sort of somersault. Joel Miller, holding your hand. Before you can think better of it, before you can worry about your parents seeing you, or Joel becoming angry or distant, you intertwine your fingers with his, and hold on tight. Joel turns his head to look back at you, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t say anything either, not while there’s so many people so close, but he squeezes, just once. Your knees become slightly weak, and your cheeks start to heat up, but the gin was strong enough for you to stop caring about your nervousness.
When you’re at the bar, you grin at the barkeeper, hand still in Joel’s, slightly dizzy from the drink and the heat and all the spinning and swaying.
"One sex on the beach, please," you say, then look directly at Joel with a mischievous smile.
"Jesus," he mutters, then turns to the barkeeper. "She’ll have a beer. Bud. One for me too, please."
"No, she’ll have sex on the beach."
You giggle at your obvious innuendo, and the barkeeper smiles. Joel shakes his head.
"Look, I don’t want her throwin’ up all over her dress, she’ll murder me in the mornin’ if I let that happen."
"Beer it is, then," the bar keeper says with a good natured wink at you. You frown at him.
"I’m an adult and I ordered a–"
Joel squeezes your hand again, and you look at him with a slight pout – his eyes are slightly amused, but there’s a stern expression on his face.
"Okay," you say, "okay okay okay, Miller. Whatever you want."
His eyes stay on yours a second too long, then he lets go of your hand and hands you one of the sweating, ice-cold bottles. You take it, put it to your lips and take a swig, all while looking directly into Joel’s eyes. The way you press your lips against the rim of the bottle is a little too calculated, a little too sensual, and Joel watches your movement with a tense expression on his face.
"Christ, kid, I’m gettin’ you water next," he mumbles, watches you swallow, then smile up sweetly at him.
"Whatever you want," you say again. Joel doesn’t answer.
***
The two of you drink your beers at the end of row of tables, and you’re glad for the moment of quiet – the music isn’t as loud here, and the beer is so cold, you get goosebumps. Neither of you is talking much, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence – as always when you’re with Joel, you’re at ease.
"– why they let her bring him, I really don’t."
Two of your great aunts are sitting at a table close by, completely oblivious to your presence.
"Yes, he’s old enough to be her Daddy."
"And so gruff looking!"
Joel looks away, but you’re sure he must have heard – there is nobody else at this wedding they could be talking about. His expression is unreadable, but his knuckles are white around his beer bottle, and you’re half afraid he’s going to shatter it.
"I don’t understand why she’s interested in him," you aunt continues, "but I was just waiting for her to do something like this, you know. She always was so sensitive, no wonder she has to compensate somehow."
You swallow, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment.
"Come on," Joel suddenly says, a deep frown on his face, and he gets up. You follow him, you don’t want to hear the rest of what your family has to say about you behind your back.
"Excuse me," Joel asks politely, when you pass the two elderly ladies. They scooch, so you can squeeze past them, neither of them saying anything. You don’t look at them, but take Joel’s hand in yours again.
"I’m sorry," you say, when you’re at a safe distance from them, no risk of being overheard, "I’m sorry for what they said about you, Joel–"
"No," he shakes his head. "They ain’t wrong about me. Are about you, though."
His face looks so kind, so sorry for you, you feel like crying. You won’t though, not when you’re on what is practically a date with Joel Miller. You won’t let them ruin this night.
"I wanna dance," you say instead, and finish the last of your beer, before putting it on a table close by. "I wanna dance with you, Joel Miller."
He doesn’t argue, lets you drag him onto the dance floor again, and this time you stand close to him, closer than you should, this time you bury your fingers at the back of his neck in his hair. Joel looks hesitant, his hands on your waist tentative.
"Sweetheart," he starts in an apologetic tone, and you know what’s coming – they were right, your parents are here, you’re drunk, this is reckless. You squeeze closer, until you’re all pressed up against him, your heart hammering right against Joel’s chest. You really are tipsy now, but you don’t care. You lean up, trying to reach Joel’s mouth with yours, but he holds you steady at your waist.
"No," he says softly, "you’re doin’ it to piss of your family."
He’s not entirely wrong, so you let up, but you stay close to him, and after a couple of minutes, his thumb starts drawing circles on your skin, the way he did all throughout the weekend to soothe you, even before you kissed him and turned this into…whatever it is now.
"Let’s do shots after this," you say with a smile, "lets vomit all over their ugly fucking clothes. They want me to fuck up this party so bad, I’ll fuck it up. Gotta compensate somehow."
"I think you’ve had enough, kid," Joel says, his voice just slightly concerned. "You’ll have a headache tomorrow."
"Oh, you’ll pace me," you answer, "given that you’re old enough to be my Daddy."
Joel’s thumb stops moving on your hip, and you smile up at him, which only makes his frown deepen. There’s something else there, too, something you recognize from when you kissed him, from when he saw you in your dress, from when you told him about your family for the first time.
"I wanna kiss you," you admit, "again."
The word tastes delicious in your mouth, your reminder that you have before, that Joel didn’t stop you, that he kissed you back.
"You won’t," Joel answers sternly, and you don’t even think about arguing with him, not when he’s using that tone. The same tone he used to tell you which dress to get.
"Okay," you say softly.
***
Joel does pace you – he doesn’t let you do shots, instead he gets you water, tells you to drink it all, and once again you chug it while looking directly at him, then smile sweetly and watch him shake his head in a mix of exasperation and amusement. After a while you tell Joel you need the bathroom, and when he leads you there you wonder briefly if he thinks you’re too drunk to find it on your own, or if he hates the idea of being alone at this party as much as you do. You’ve sobered up throughout the night, all that water Joel practically poured down your throat seems to have worked.
There is a line in front of the bathroom, and you wait with your grandmother and Joel – an awkward constellation, the silence is thick enough to cut.
"Your dress is awfully low cut, honey," she says after a while, and your eyes meet Joel’s just briefly – told you so. "You’re such a pretty girl, but that just gives the wrong impression."
"And what impression would that be?" you ask, but you don’t want to fight. Their age allows your family to say whatever they want to say, even if it’s not candor, but unprovoked opinions you tell yourself don’t matter anymore.
"I picked that dress," Joel says after a moment, and your grandmother nods.
"Of course men would like it," she says wisely, "but as a woman you have to be above that sort of thing."
You sigh, and Joel puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.
"I like this dress, grandma. It’s not 1850, Joel won’t fall into fits of lust if he sees my ankle."
"He can see a bit more than that, honey."
You make a gesture between a shrug and throwing up your hands, as if to say, well, I tried.
"He’s gonna have to take it off, then, if it’s that awful," you mumble so quietly your grandmother can’t hear, but Joel does. He looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face, and your cheeks go slightly red – you didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, didn’t mean for it to sound so straightforward.
"Stop harassing her, Mom, this is how kids dress these days," a voice behind you says, and suddenly your mother is right next to you, your father not far behind. Although her words are intended to help you, they sting – that’s all your choices are to them, a product of your youth and the times you live in. God forbid you, an adult, wear a dress because you think you look pretty, it must be because it’s what everyone your age would wear.
Joel’s hand leaves your shoulder, and for a second you’re afraid your parents heard what you said about Joel taking off your dress, but they proceed to talk about the wedding, laughing and joking. You clench your fists, digging the sharp edges of your nails into your palms as hard as you can. It feels like being 12 all over again, their comments that aren’t necessarily ill-intended or mean, so you can’t really be mad about them, the way they don’t even notice they upset you.
You feel a very soft touch on your arm, barely there, just a brush of a finger from just above your elbow, down to your fist. Then it’s gone again, and although you don’t dare look at Joel after he touched your bare skin in front of your parents, you will your muscles to relax, knowing it’s what Joel meant to tell you with his touch. Your fingers unclench, and you feel distantly relieved at the absence of pain in your palms.
You know how reckless it is to be so into Joel, you know nothing good can come of it, but you don’t remember the last time you spent this much time with your whole family and felt so seen by someone at the event. For a second you envision kissing him here, on the dance floor, in front of your parents, and you know for once it would be a choice you wouldn’t question or be made to feel ashamed of.
You tried to, just hours before, and Joel stopped you, because you did it to piss of your family. He was right, in that moment you wanted to give them something worth criticizing, if they must criticize all of the time. But this time it’s different – you want to kiss Joel because he doesn’t think you’re a narcissist, because he sees your anger disguised by politeness and doesn’t think it’s ugly.
You turn to him, steadfast in your decision.
"I’m really tired," you say quietly, "we could just go upstairs, I can use the bathroom there."
Joel studies your face for a second, then nods.
"Alright," he agrees, and you turn around to your parents with a newfound confidence.
"I’m gonna use our bathroom upstairs," you tell them, "we’re going to bed anyways."
"Of course, honey, you go to bed," your mother answers and gives you a quick hug, "but Joel, why don’t you stay? You’re not her chaperone."
It’s a joke, you know it is, but it almost makes your blood boil. After your mother asked you to spend some time with Joel as a favor, after you’ve had to deal with judgmental stares and comments all night, after both you and Joel were insulted by your own family behind your backs, they still have the nerve to talk over you, disregard what you said, pretend you’re a child in need of supervision. You open your mouth, surprised by how ready you are to give them a piece of your mind, but Joel’s fingers brush your waist, squeezing gently, and he smiles at your mother.
"I ain’t the kinda man to stay at a party if my date’s leavin’," he says, and although it’s not particularly rude, there is an edge to his voice, a certain tone that suggests he’s sticking to you out of a kind of loyalty they weren’t aware of, and that he is unhappy with what your mother said. You watch your parents, see your father’s eyes flicker down to Joel’s hand on your waist, and although his expression is unreadable, and he doesn’t say anything, you feel triumphant. There you go, you want to say, someone here is willing to take me seriously.
"Good night, Dad," you say, give him a hug, too, and suppress a smile, when Joel’s hand returns to your side as soon as you step over to him. He smiles down at you, and shrugs out of his suit jacket.
"’S probably cold out, put this on."
You do, all too aware of your parents looking at you, all too aware that for some reason Joel doesn’t seem afraid of them noticing your closeness anymore. You thank him, and he says good night to your parents, ever friendly, but decidedly choosing you. His scent envelops you when you walk away together, the warmth of his body still stored in the fabric of his jacket now warming you.
***
You inhale deeply, push the air from your lungs into your mouth to puff up your cheeks, and sit down on the bed. Your feet hurt from spending all night in your fancy shoes, and your mind won’t stop running circles around the comments your family made. You wiggle your toes, watch them move under the fabric of your tights, then look up at Joel again.
"You look worried," he comments, reaching up to his throat to pop open the first two buttons of his shirt. You can’t help but stare at the skin that it reveals, slightly shiny with sweat.
"That was…a lot."
Joel hums, and slips out of his shoes, too.
"I think you did well."
A glowing feeling builds in your chest, and you can’t help but smile, looking at your fingernails.
"Didn’t throw any drinks into anyone’s faces, so I guess it’s a successful night."
Joel chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. He sits down on the foot of the bed, still watching you, looking excruciatingly handsome in his button down and slacks.
"That, too, but more so…you didn’t let them talk down to you. Didn’t just agree with your granny, you know? Stood your ground. ’M real prouda you."
There it is again, the pull in your stomach whenever Joel seems to really see you, and before you can think about it, you move over to Joel, until you’re sitting right in front of him, his broad body turned towards you, you kneeling on the white sheets. Joel’s eyes move over your face, down to your dress, your legs in those itchy tights you can’t wait to get out of.
"Did it help?" His voice is soft. "Me tellin’ you what to do?"
You nod, unsure of where this is going, nervous and so content at the same time. This is Joel, the same Joel who held you at the beach and ordered for you, who picked out your dress. He’ll know what to do, he’ll know what’s best.
"I don’t want you to stop," you admit, eyes wide and staring into Joel’s, "when we get back home. I wish we could just…"
You don’t know how to finish that sentence, aware that what you truly wish for isn’t in the cards for you and him, not while he’s your parents’ friend first. Joel sighs, but doesn’t answer. No me too, no we can’t, not even a nod or head shake. A man of few words, Joel Miller.
"You got my number," he says after a few beats, "can…ask for my help, y’know, when you’re pickin’ out headbands."
Without you being aware of it, your face splits into a smile, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. The kindness Joel offers even the sickest parts of you is unmatched, and you’re unsure what to do with it.
"Hey now," he says and puts a soothing hand on your shoulder, "don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry."
You stop, because Joel told you to, your body by now accustomed to answering his command. With a shaky inhale, you calm yourself, and swallow.
"Sorry," you mutter, but Joel shakes his head.
"What’s got you hurtin’?"
The question is so blunt, so heartfelt.
"Nobody else…gets this," you explain, "it’s lonely."
Joel hums, and his fingers start moving on your shoulder, stroking your skin gently, soothingly.
"Don’t have to be anymore, kid. My door’s always open."
He’s close to you, and when you meet his eyes, there is static in the air between you. Something changed, between telling him about your family and him lending you his jacket, something shifted. It’s palpable, real electricity.
"Tell me what you need," Joel says quietly into the silence, because he can feel those unspoken things, because he knows there is something you need in the first place. It’s easy to tell him this time, without embarrassment or shame.
"I need you to tell me what to do," you whisper, scooching closer to him, his hand still lingering on your shoulder. You watch him swallow, aware that with any other man seeing how your words affect him would gross you out, but with Joel it just makes that pull in your stomach stronger. Joel doesn’t answer for a long while as he’s staring into your open, waiting eyes.
"Lie back," he orders quietly, voice gravelly and low. You feel a pang of want in your stomach so intense it’s almost painful, and your mouth goes dry. Joel watches you move, shuffle out of his suit jacket until you’re just in your dress and stockings, then lie back on the pillow, eyes still on him. You’re quiet, waiting for his next instruction, your mind blissfully empty.
"Good," Joel praises you, and your eyes flutter just briefly, giving away how much this is affecting you. Joel chuckles, and gets up from the bed, turning to face you fully, looking broad and handsome and very safe.
"You enjoy that, huh?"
There’s no condescension in his voice, just acknowledgement and warmth. You nod, and Joel smiles.
"Take off your tights."
You do, letting them drop onto the floor next to the bed, Joel still standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. He looks casual, relaxed, not at all like he’s watching his friend’s daughter undress herself because he asked her to. He moves over to you, and puts one broad palm on your bare leg, his fingers slipping under the hem just slightly.
"This will have consequences," he tells you seriously, "you aware of that?"
It’s the adult, responsible thing to have a conversation about what’s happening between you too, but you wish he would just get on with it.
"I am," you answer a little breathlessly, as Joel’s thumb is drawing circles on your skin and driving you crazy.
"You ready to face them?"
The question is laden with all you shared with him before: are you ready to do the thing your family would disapprove of the most, head high and without giving into their judgement? Two months ago, you wouldn’t have been. The idea of their disappointment would have swallowed you, the look on your father’s face as he noticed Joel’s hand on your waist paralyzed you. But it’s almost like a flip switched inside of you through Joel’s consistent understanding, and suddenly your grandmother’s outrage seems almost funny to you. You want this. And you’re ready to stand in for what you want, without shame.
"Yes," you breathe, "I really am, Joel."
You can see on his face he believes you, the way his crowfeet grow more pronounced with something like pride, and pleasure flushes your whole body, seeing how much your answer pleases Joel.
"Come a long way, sweetheart," he says, his hand moving upwards just slightly, pushing the hem of your dress up. You keep yourself from trembling under his touch, hanging onto the last bit of dignity and restraint you have left.
"’M real prouda you," he says again, the muscles in your stomach flexing at his words. "Now why don’t you tell me what you want me to do to ya?"
You’re no good at that. What you want is to take whatever Joel gives you, to follow his every command and let your mind go quiet in the process. But he’s commanding you to think about what you want yourself, so you dig your front teeth into your bottom lip and furrow your eyebrows just slightly.
"I…um…"
Joel waits, his hand patient and gentle on your leg.
"Remember I told you not to feel guilty?"
It’s not guilt, per se, but something distinctly feminine, something taught and learned over years. Just lie back and take it, the first time always hurts, women don’t finish as often as men do. You haven’t thought of sex as something meant to firstly fulfill your desire, as irrational as it sounds. It was a means to satisfying a partner, your own pleasure a nice side effect. Joel is telling you to leave that in the past, to really think about what you want and tell him without shame.
"I want you inside," you whisper, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribcage with anticipation and the thrill of giving into your need. "And I…I like it when you talk to me."
At those words, Joel’s eyes seem to grow dark, you watch his pupils dilate in real time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your calf.
"Attagirl," he mumbles, and the heat in your stomach peaks. Joel stares at you for a moment. "Turn onto your belly, sweetheart."
You do so without hesitation, without wondering what he’s going to do, and let your cheek sink into the pillow that smells so much like Joel, your calf still enveloped by his massive palm. Joel hums, and then his touch is gone, only to reappear on your back, his hands teasing the satiny, light blue fabric he picked for you to wear. He runs his fingers from the small of your back up to the nape of your neck, and you can’t help but shudder when he grazes your bare skin.
"Let’s get this pretty dress off of ya, hm?"
He pops open the two tiny buttons at the very top, smoothes down the zipper to reveal your bare back. You’re about to be naked in front of a very much dressed Joel Miller, and the thought is exhilarating more than frightening.
"Looked so goddamn beautiful all night," Joel mutters, "wearin’ the clothes I picked. Jesus, you’ve no idea what that does to a man."
You can’t help the whine that escapes your mouth, when Joel’s hands dig into your muscles, kneading them softly and turning your body into liquid.
"So tense, baby, gotta relax f’me."
"I’m trying," you answer softly, and Joel chuckles.
"Know you are, know you are. Doin’ so good."
You close your eyes and let Joel touch you how he pleases, your brain quieter than you can remember it being with a man before him. There’s no fear of what he’ll do if your attention slips, no worry about putting on the right act for him either. Just Joel, his warm hands on your back, and your sore and needy body.
Joel helps you turn around and out of the dress since it doesn’t unzip entirely, moves your arms and legs how he wants so it’s off within a few moments, and you’re lying there on your back in front of him, wearing nothing but your nicest pair of panties and a soft bra to match them.
"Fuckin’ hell," Joel mutters more to himself than to you, eyes raking over your body. You remember the instinct to feel ashamed at his scrutiny, vaguely register you should cover yourself up, but the pride and pleasure triumph. He sees you, and he likes what he sees, in more ways than one. So you shimmy your hips into a sexier position, trail your fingers up your stomach and watch Joel’s eyes follow them. You squirm with need when you notice a very visible tent in Joel’s slacks.
"Alright?" he asks, voice kind and patient, like it would be okay if you weren’t.
You nod, slightly overwhelmed and Joel’s brows furrow just slightly.
"Use your words," he says softly, making your stomach flip.
"I’m alright," you answer softly, your eyes on his. Joel drags his fingertips over your stomach, following your own hand and building the tension and anticipation. You try hard not to visibly clench your thighs together.
"You gonna do as I say?"
He knows the answer. You know he does.
"Yes," you breathe, the feeling of his fingertips trailing over your ribcage bordering on overwhelming. He hums.
"I want you to tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice thoughtful, "will you do that for me?"
"Yes," you say again, your own hand absentmindedly coming up to wrap around his tan forearm, eyes glued to his rolled up sleeve, that silver watch Sarah gave him catching the light with every movement. Joel’s eyes follow yours, and you wonder if he registers how big his palm looks on your skin. If he wanted to, he could touch your bra with his thumb and your panties with his pinkie. The thought makes you squirm.
"I want you to touch yourself," Joel says softly, fingers dipping only just under the waistband of your panties, and you will your hips to stay put, even though you’re one command away from humping his hand like a dog in heat. You flush at his words, the idea of it so lewd and obscene, so intimate. It’s one thing to let him fuck you, to offer him some sort of utility, but to have him watch you get off yourself – it’s everything sex isn’t, not with the people you were with before.
"I…I don’t…"
Your voice trails off, and Joel watches you for a few moments, your pink cheeks, heavy eyelids, the goosebumps on your skin.
"You don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want to," he says, voice soft, "but if you do want to, and it’s just your pretty little head tellin’ you not to, I want you to think twice about sayin’ no."
You listen to him, and think about the feeling in your gut. You’re nervous about letting him see something so private, but not because you don’t want him to see, but because he does. He wants to see your pleasure, and so far it’s something you pushed down for other people, not just during sex. It’s easy to give into him when you realize this, and you feel something crack open inside of you, something primal and unashamed.
"Okay," you answer, voice still a little timid, but with a newfound conviction. "Anything you want."
Joel smiles at your words, but you’re aware he’s telling you to do this for your sake more than his. He wants you to feel good about feeling good.
Before you can move your hand to obey, Joel moves closer, leans down and presses his hand right next to your face, his face close to yours. You can feel the heat of his breath on your lips and shudder.
"Good girl," he says softly and presses his lips to yours. You kiss back willingly, eagerly, but he breaks the kiss all too soon, and finally sits down on the bed next to you, facing your half naked body.
"Go ahead, pretty girl," he mutters, "show me what you do when I ain’t around."
You flush, but do as he says, dragging your fingers down to your panties and slipping them in.
"You leave those on when you touch yourself?" Joel asks with a nod towards your underwear, and you shrug and shake your head at the same time. He chuckles.
"Take ’em off, then."
You swallow, and slowly drag them down. A string of your wetness connects the fabric and your pulsing core, and you flush a deeper red, the sight obscene.
"Christ," Joel mumbles, "all that from some pettin’ and a kiss."
"It’s from what you...from hearing you talk," you admit timidly, sitting up slightly to slip off your panties completely. You look at Joel and his dark eyes are glued to your wetness, but when he notices how nervous you are, he strokes your cheek with his knuckle just once.
"Look so pretty," he tells you, "just how I imagined."
That makes your brain short circuit and your eyes flutter closed at the image of Joel imagining you naked, of him wanting you as badly as you want him.
"Keep those eyes on me, sweetheart," Joel orders, and you open them again, the tension somehow doubling as soon as your eyes meet.
"I’ve never done this in front of someone," you admit, your hand awkwardly hovering over your stomach.
"Tell you what, you touch yourself for just three minutes, and then I’ll take over."
It’s absurd. It should not be sexy to have him time you touching yourself as if you’re running a race, but something about it makes you squirm and clench around nothing. When Joel looks at his watch, you almost moan, and tentatively press your middle finger against your aching clit.
"There we go," Joel mumbles, watching your hand move, "doin’ good, sweetheart."
You want to close your eyes, but Joel told you to look at him, so you watch him watch you touch yourself, his gaze flickering to his watch every once in a while. You don’t slip any fingers inside, just tease your clit, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind, and after exactly three minutes, he leans down to reward you with a kiss.
"All done, baby."
You’re lightheaded with want, the embarrassment not quite gone, but distant. When Joel props himself up onto one elbow, his other hand finding your stomach again, you sigh. He’s looking right into your eyes, when he drags his hand lower and lower, until his fingers find the place you just touched yourself, so much bigger than yours. He presses down lightly, teasingly, watching you bite your bottom lip and arch into his touch.
"Hips stay on the bed," he says softly, just to watch you obey, pressing a kiss to your temple. He starts rubbing slow circles, unhurried and practiced, and already you feel the pleasure building and building inside of you. You whine softly, craning your neck for a kiss, and he obliges, his beard scratching your skin and mouth swallowing your sounds. You try hard not to twitch under his touch, which is both so intense and torturously slow.
When the muscles in your stomach start clenching with your impending release, you can’t help yourself and press into his hand, chasing the pleasure, but Joel presses your hips into the mattress with the heel of his palm, never stopping the movement of his fingers. You’re close, so close you feel your jaw slacken against Joel, sigh into his mouth – and suddenly his touch is gone. Instead, his hand starts rubbing your side soothingly, your promise of release fading again.
"Joel," you whine, "what the fuck."
"Language," Joel scolds with a chuckle and kisses the corner of your mouth. "Patience is a virtue."
You nip at his lower lip, not harsh enough to hurt him, just so he registers your discontent, and Joel laughs a quiet laugh right into your mouth. Despite his amusement, his fingers return to your core, gathering wetness and rubbing once again. A whimper escapes your mouth when he finally prods your entrance teasingly, without real pressure, just to make you want it.
"You gonna lie still?"
"Y-yes," you sigh, "yes, I promise."
Joel hums, and pushes in just slightly, just so that his fingernail is barely inside of you.
"Gonna bite me again?"
"No," you answer, "no, Joel."
He pushes his finger inside of you, curling it upwards instantly, and you mewl.
"That’s alright, sweetheart," he mumbles, "I can handle your bitin’. Know it’s frustratin’."
But he makes no attempt to stop his teasing, sliding his finger in and out of you slowly, and curling it just enough to make the pressure inside of you keep building without intending to let it snap. Absentmindedly you move with him, and Joel stills his fingers. You whine, but stop moving, and he presses down on that spot inside of you again.
"Attagirl," he mutters, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
You’re close again embarrassingly soon, and even though you try not to let it show to trick Joel into letting you finish, he notices the way you flutter around him, and stills his hand once again, letting your orgasm drift away.
"Fuck," you whine, frustrated and so turned on you think you might get there if he so much as blew on your swollen clit.
"Shhh," Joel soothes you, adding another finger, the stretch delicious. He gazes into your open eyes, watches you as he makes you feel so good you could cry.
"Easy," he says, when he feels your stomach tense up with effort – whether to come or not to come, you aren’t sure anymore. "Easy, baby. Relax for me."
You close your eyes and this time Joel doesn’t object, as your whole body goes limp and accepts Joel’s power over it.
"Good," Joel mutters, "that’s real good. You come when I tell you to."
And suddenly you don’t fight it anymore, don’t try to race him there, just lie there with Joel’s thick fingers pumping in and out of you almost lazily, pleasure coming and going as Joel chooses, making your brain go all fuzzy.
"Sweet girl," Joel mutters, "just had to give in, huh?"
You don’t bother to answer, just open your mouth for him when he kisses you.
"Think you’re ready for my cock?"
You almost, almost come. He slips his fingers out of you completely when he notices, and your hips chase his hand, but the feeling is gone again, although it was close enough to taste. Joel chuckles, and it’s just a tiny bit mean, but it makes you even wetter.
"Think you are, huh?"
"Yes," you say, and run your hand up his massive arm, "please."
"So polite," Joel mumbles with a smile, but he finally moves to unbutton his shirt and you watch him through heavy eyes. He smiles down at you, no trace of embarrassment as he’s revealing more and more of his skin dusted in age spots and brown hair. He’s strong, soft in all the right places, and you want to worship his belly with your mouth.
"You look…so sexy."
Joel laughs, and shakes his head, deflecting the compliment but looking a little smug, a little proud, as he lets his shirt drop onto the floor and moves to open his pants. You sit up, and reach for his hands, looking up at him questioningly.
"Go right ahead, sweetheart," Joel says, and you pop open the button and slide down the zipper, eyes glued to his bulge. He gets up to slip out of his slacks, the outline of his cock even more pronounced in his boxer shorts. He looks big. You swallow.
"Don’t you worry," Joel mumbles when he notices, and slides down his boxers, too. "We’ll make it fit."
His cock is hard and an angry red, long and thick and slightly curved, and he hasn’t shaved. With anyone else, you would have preferred it if he had, but the graying hair at the base of his cock makes you lightheaded with lust. He looks so manly, in the primal, safe sense of the word.
His fist wraps around himself as he’s climbing on top of you, pumping once, twice, a little groan of pleasure escaping his lips and you reach down to bat his hand away, to return some of the pleasure he has been giving you. He lets you, even though your hand covers much less of his length, and pushes into your hand as you drag it over him.
"Hips stay on the mattress," you tease softly, and Joel laughs, his eyes all crinkly and warm.
"One more comment like that ’n I’ll force you to the edge five more times, sweetheart," he threatens, but the amusement is evident in his voice. Still, it makes you clench and flutter to know he could, to know you’d let him. Joel takes your wrist in his hand gently, and pulls your hand away from his cock, then aligns it with your entrance.
"Breathe in," he says softly, looking right into your eyes, and you do, staring at him unblinkingly and holding the air in your lungs.
"And breathe out."
As the air rushes out of you and you relax, he starts pushing into you. The stretch is painful in the very beginning, but you sigh in relief when the head of his cock is inside and Joel gives you a moment to breathe.
"Look at you," he mutters, nudging your nose with his, "takin’ it like a champ."
You wiggle your hips and Joel keeps pushing into you, the stretch making your eyes fall closed again. It feels like your body is making room for him in a way you didn’t think possible, like your insides are parting for Joel Miller’s cock. He groans, and with a snap of his hips he’s inside of you entirely, his wiry hairs pressing into your mound. The head of his cock is nudging that spot inside of you, pressing against it insistently even though Joel isn’t moving. You mouth at his neck, tongue darting out to taste his sweat and suck on his skin in an almost soothing manner, as your body adjusts and relaxes.
Joel starts moving in and out of you after a few moments, changing angles with every thrust, until a whine escapes your throat. He keeps fucking into you like that, pressing against your spot with every thrust, eyes staring down into yours.
"That it?"
You mewl, when he gives a particularly sharp thrust and Joel chuckles.
"Yeah, that’s it," he coos.
His hands start moving over your skin as you claw at his back and biceps, teasing your sides and ghosting over your nipples still covered by the fabric of your bra. He forces his hands under your body and unclasps it with ease, then pulls it away from your body and drops it. His eyes flicker down and he puts a large palm over your tits, groping and squeezing, then pinching the nipple just short of painful.
"Perfect fuckin’ tits," he mumbles, rolling the pebbled nub between his thumb and forefinger, making you arch your chest and moan freely. Again, the pleasure starts building, and you think Joel might be distracted by his own this time. More than anything you want to please him, though, so instead of chasing your release, you clench around him and focus on not letting go yet.
"Close," you groan, your body rocking with Joel’s deep thrusts, and he stills inside of you, letting you breathe into his mouth.
"Good girl," he mumbles and kisses your lower lip, "so good for me."
Just those few words would be worth not coming at all, you think, though Joel starts moving again when he’s sure it won’t make you come. His hand moves from your tit up to your throat, wrapping around it loosely. You feel so small under his massive palm, your windpipe and major arteries and spine all fitting into his hand like you’re a blade of grass. He squeezes softly, just enough to cut off the blood flow for a second or two, then relaxes his hand again. Your eyes roll upwards, and you bite your lip.
"Yeah?" he asks, waiting for your permission, and you nod.
"Yeah," you sigh, and your eyes widen when he squeezes again, all the while thrusting in and out of you. This time he squeezes for a couple of seconds more, and although it takes a little more effort, air still rushes into your lungs. When he releases your throat and the blood floods your brain, you moan, and feel Joel’s thrusts go slightly more erratic in response.
"Look at you," he mumbles, pressing his hips into yours, his whole weight on top of you. You whine and feel his hand close around your throat once more. This time his grip is unrelenting and stronger, and there is no oxygen rushing into your lungs, just stillness and quiet. You feel yourself go slightly dizzy, watch Joel’s warm eyes glued to your face, and feel your mind go entirely quiet.
"That’s it," Joel praises, "you breathe when I say you breathe."
You’ve never been closer than now, hearing those words, and when Joel releases you to let you suck in air desperately, you almost, almost come. But once again, he stops moving, lets you teeter on the edge and pull back, your brain fuzzy and overwhelmed with the sudden rush of blood and oxygen.
"What do we say?"
You groan into his mouth.
"Thank you."
"Good girl."
Joel’s thrusts start getting sharper, even deeper, and you know it can’t be long now. He keeps squeezing and releasing your throat, keeping you deprived of oxygen and letting it flood your brain again with the smallest movement of his hand.
"Need me to decide that, too?" he asks breathily, his voice rough and slightly broken, "need me to pick out that dress ’n tell you what to eat? Even when to breathe?"
You nod under his hand because he’s once again tightening his grip around you, rendering you incapable of speaking, and you clench around him. He feels it, thrusts harder.
"Yeah," he mutters, "don’t gotta worry about anythin’. I got you, babygirl. I’ll decide."
Your stomach cramps up with the effort of holding off your orgasm until Joel gives you permission, and when he finally lets you breathe again, he brushes the shell of your ear with his lips.
"Come for me, sweetheart."
It feels like your earth shatters, your vision going white, or maybe your brain just can’t register what it’s seeing, as you pulse around Joel, and shake under his broad body, your stomach exploding with pleasure. He fucks you through it, his thrusts so unwaveringly deep he presses into your clit every time. You shudder and whine, suck in air, come completely apart in Joel’s capable hands, and vaguely register him forcing his cock as deep as it will go, and then pumping you full of his hot spend, holding it there as he fills you up.
His thrusts slow after a while, then he slips out of you, and kisses you gently, softly, his fingers stroking your neck soothingly. You’re pliant and fucked out, entirely boneless.
"My sweet girl," Joel mumbles against your lips, "that what you needed?"
You nod, your eyes and limbs heavy as he brushes your cheeks and nose with his lips. He lies down next to you, muscles completely relaxed, and pulls you close against him. You can feel the mess you both made between you legs and distantly think you should clean yourself up, but you’re too tired, too satisfied, too blissfully happy. Your limbs are heavy, and your mind still when you kiss Joel’s chest, his hair tickling your face softly. He hums contentedly, a deep rumble in his chest.
"’M gonna fall asleep," you mumble against Joel, and he strokes your back in response, his arm draped over your side.
"That’s okay, sweetheart," he mutters, and you feel him kiss the top of your head. "Okay if I clean you up?"
You hum in agreement, yawn, and try to scooch even closer to his sweaty body, press yourself against him as if you will fuse with him if you just try hard enough. Joel’s arms around you tighten and you give into your blissful exhaustion.
A very special thanks to my friend @daryltwdixon who was my beta reader and helped me with my English (fuck this language) <3 she also came up with the idea of Joel making reader thank him for letting her breathe again after choking her, so now I’m making you all thank her. Love u, May, thanks for the help <3
