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palomahasenteredthechat · 3 days ago

Text

Well done.

Confidentiality (part 1)

Warnings: one night stand (no smut), manipulation, angst, drama, unplanned pregnancy

Pairing: Joseph Quinn x reader (Joseph Quinn x reader but you won't see her)

Words: 2,2k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

The energy in the ballroom has shifted. The earlier buzz with the endless chatter, the effervescent laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, has dulled into something softer, more intimate. Conversations have turned low and private, exchanged in shadowed corners and over the last remnants of half-finished drinks. The chandeliers overhead cast a golden glow, but it’s dimmer now, as if even they are growing tired. The scent of expensive perfume still lingers in the air, mixing with the deeper notes of whiskey and the faint, smoky trace of extinguished candles. The waitstaff moves silently between guests, clearing away glasses, smoothing tablecloths, restoring order.

I exhale, my shoulders dropping as I roll my neck from side to side. The ache in my feet has settled into a dull throb, a reminder of how many hours I’ve spent weaving through the crowd, making sure everything runs seamlessly.

Making sure he has everything he needs.

Joseph.

I spot him near the bar.

He’s alone, one hand braced on the polished wood, the other rubbing the bridge of his nose. His tuxedo jacket is missing, abandoned somewhere between handshakes and photo ops. The crisp white of his dress shirt is slightly rumpled. His dark eyes are shining while he scans his surroundings.

He looks… worn.

Not drunk, not exactly. But there’s a weight in the way he stands, a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there earlier. I move toward him, the hum of the room fading into the background, and I clear my throat.

“You okay?”

He lifts his head at my voice, blinking as if pulling himself back to the moment. His gaze finds mine, and up close, I can see the tiredness etched into the lines around his eyes.

“Yeah…” he says, though his voice is quieter now, rougher than earlier. His weight shifts slightly, like he’s steadying himself.

“Just… a headache. And I think one of the drinks hit harder than expected.”

His words come slow, deliberate. I study him for a second, noting the slight flush creeping up his neck, the way his fingers flex against the edge of the bar. Warm skin, glassy eyes. Not wasted, but close enough to feel it. Does he know how gorgeous and magnetic he is? No wonder so many women dream to meet him and especially to date him… As quickly as possible, I shake those thoughts away.

Yeah, I guess the champagne is hitting harder than I anticipated!

His team is still engaged in conversation a few feet away, laughter bubbling up between them. They haven’t noticed him pulling back. Or maybe they have and assume he’s fine. Alas, he doesn’t look like he wants to be fine right now.

“You want to head up?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, after a pause, he gives a small nod.

“Would you…?” He exhales a soft laugh, barely there, as if amused by his own hesitation.

“Just walk me up? Make sure I don’t get lost in some hallway on the way?”

His attempt at humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but there’s something else there. Something quieter.

Gratitude.

Trust.

My stomach tenses in a way I don’t fully understand.

I should direct him to someone else, one of his assistants, maybe, or someone from the team who’s actually on payroll for this.

But I don’t.

Instead, I nod.

“Of course.”

The ride up is quiet. The soft chime of the elevator punctuates the silence, the polished brass doors reflecting our figures back at us. Joseph leans against the mirrored wall, eyes closing for a second before he straightens.

“Sorry… I usually handle these things better.” He mutters.

“These things?”

He tilts his head, a ghost of amusement passing over his features.

“Long nights. Too many people. Too many drinks I didn’t really want.”

I watch him, the way his fingers flex against the railing. The tension still sits in his shoulders, in the faint crease between his brows.

“You don’t have to apologize for being human, you know. Your body is probably just very tired.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to smile, but it seems he doesn’t quite have the energy. The chime sounds again. The doors slide open to a quiet hallway, thick carpet swallowing our footsteps as we step out. Then, with a card, he unlocks a door and waves me to follow him inside.

For a second, silence settles. A thick, heavy quiet, disrupted only by the distant hum of the city through the window. The suite is dimly lit, a soft amber glow spilling from the wall sconces, stretching shadows across the sleek furniture. The air carries the faint scent of cologne and the sharper bite of whiskey, remnants of the evening clinging to his skin.

Joseph exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“Well…” he says, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “That was an evening.”

I let out a breathy laugh.

“It definitely had its moments.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why people assume actors love these things. Fancy rooms, stiff conversations, pretending to care about a canapé that tastes like cardboard.”

I smirk.

“So you’re telling me you didn’t enjoy every second of making small talk with strangers who only know you from their Netflix queue?”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Shocking, I know.”

His fingers brush over his temple, rubbing lightly.

“It’s all a bit much sometimes.” He sighs, before he licked his lips.

I watch him for a moment. The exhaustion sits deeper in his features, in the faint crease between his brows, in the way his large shoulders don’t quite relax even now.

“Well, thanks for making sure I didn’t pass out in the elevator. You didn’t have to.”

I shrug and chuckles, seeing how the big man saw me as his “savior”, which seems a bit ridiculous.

“It’s technically my job.”

His lips quirk, but there’s something softer behind it.

“Still. I appreciate it.”

He moves toward the armchair, shrugging off his jacket as he does. The fabric slides down his arms, revealing the crisp white of his dress shirt, the sleeves already slightly rolled. He tosses the jacket onto the back of the chair before undoing the first few buttons at his collar, exhaling slowly as if he can finally breathe.

I shift my weight, suddenly aware of the way my heels dig into my feet. With a small, relieved sigh, I reach down and slip them off, curling my toes against the plush carpet. A shudder of relief rolls through me.

“That bad?” Joseph teases, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You have no idea.”

I flex my foot, wincing slightly.

“I think I lost circulation somewhere around dessert.”

He grins, leaning against the table, watching me. The air between us shifts. Not tense, not yet. Just different.

“Drink before you go?” he asks, already reaching for the small bar cart.

I hesitate. I should say no. I should call it a night, slip back into the professionalism I’ve worn all evening. But then his fingers graze mine as he hands me the glass. A slow, deliberate touch. Just enough to send a shiver running down my spine. I look up. His eyes are already on me, watching, waiting. The glass is warm in my palm, but his touch lingers longer than it should. The silence stretches, a beat too long. A look too much. He steps forward slightly, close enough that I catch the faint trace of whiskey on his breath, the warmth of him seeping into the space between us.

“Maybe you should go…” he murmurs.

A challenge flickers in his gaze.

“Unless you don’t feel like it.”

My pulse trips. His voice is quiet, but it hooks into something deep, something reckless.

I should leave.

I don’t.

His fingers brush against mine again, barely there. A whisper of contact, but enough to send heat curling low in my stomach.

Something shifts.

The space between us disappears.

The scent of coffee lingers in the air before I even open my eyes. Warm, rich, slightly burnt. Something sweeter lingers in the air, like pastries, maybe fruits, or the last trace of cologne on the sheets. The bed feels too good, huge. I shift slightly, the sheets cool where he no longer lies, twisted in soft folds around my bare skin. My body aches, not unpleasantly, but insistently. A reminder of last night. My eyes remain closed for a moment longer, breathing in the stillness. If I don’t move, if I don’t look, I can pretend the moment won’t slip away.

But then I hear it.

The faint clink of porcelain. The subtle rustle of fabric. And I know I’m not alone.

I open my eyes.

Joseph sits on the edge of the bed, one leg bent, the other foot planted firmly on the floor. He’s already dressed? At least partially. His black pants hang loose on his hips, the hem of his white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat. Wrinkled fabric clings to his frame, sleeves rolled up carelessly.

He looks up from his phone, as if sensing my gaze.

“Morning.” he murmurs. His voice is rough, lower than usual.

I swallow and rub my eyes. The lack of sleep is hitting more than I expected… It’s not like I had a lot of sleep.

“Morning.”

My throat is dry. I push myself up onto my elbows, the sheet sliding down my body. His eyes flicker briefly downward before he glances away. I follow his gaze to the bedside table. A silver tray sits there, a pot of coffee, two cups, a small selection of pastries. Not extravagant. Not intimate. Just fuel.

“You… Uh, ordered breakfast?” I ask.

He nods, picking up his coffee.

“Figured you’d need something before heading out.”

Heading out.

The words settle uncomfortably in my chest.

I reach for a croissant, tearing it apart carefully. Flaky layers crumble beneath my fingertips. The butter melts against the warmth of my skin. We eat in silence. Not awkward, but not easy either. Like something unspoken lingers between us, just out of reach. Joseph scrolls through his phone, thumb moving absently. The quiet stretches. Something about it sits wrong. I sip my coffee, letting the bitterness coat my tongue before setting the cup down.

“Mind if I shower?”

His gaze flickers up, as if surprised I’m still here.

“Go ahead. Towels are in the cabinet.”

I slip out of bed, wrapping the sheet around me as I walk toward the bathroom. My dress lies in a crumpled heap near the door. I don’t look at it.

Not long after that, the shower is hot, almost scalding. Steam curls around me as I stand under the spray, letting the water rush over my skin. My body hums from the heat, muscles sore in places I don’t want to think about. I press my palms against the cool tiles, inhaling deep, steady breaths.

Last night shouldn’t have happened.

I know this.

And yet, in the dark, with his mouth on my skin, his hands gripping my hips, none of it had felt wrong. I let the water wash over me a little longer before finally shutting it off. By the time I step out, the mirror is fogged, the air thick with the scent of his shampoo. I grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around me before opening the door…

I freeze.

Joseph sits on the armchair by the window, a pen in his hand, a piece of paper resting on the table beside him. His face is unreadable. Detached. Cool. He taps the pen against the paper, then gestures toward it.

“I need you to sign this.”

I frown, stepping closer. Water drips from my hair onto the plush carpet. The towel clings to my skin.

A contract.

No.

A confidentiality agreement.

A slow, heavy weight settles, in my stomach.

I stare at the words, then at him. My fingers tighten around the edge of the towel.

“You’re joking.”

His expression doesn’t change. He looks at me with his big brown eyes as if I was too dumb to understand his words.

“It’s standard.”

“Standard…” I repeat, my throat tight.

I let the word roll on my tongue, tasting the weight of it, the hollowness. I laugh, the sound so sharp and humorless.

“Right. Because sleeping with me was just another PR risk to manage, wasn’t it?”

His jaw tightens and he frowns.

“That’s not…” He exhales, shifting slightly. “It’s not personal, okay?”

Not personal.

A simple thing, really. Just another signature on another paper, as forgettable as a bar tab. I reach for the pen. My pulse pounds in my ears as I sign my name with slow, deliberate strokes, each letter carved into the paper like an open wound. And then, just beneath it, I scrawl:

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on bragging.”

Joseph watches me. He says nothing.

I cap the pen, setting it down with more force than necessary, then straighten. The towel feels suffocating now, heavy against my skin.

“Thanks for breakfast. And the hospitality.” I say, my voice even. Almost pleasant.

I move past him, grabbing my dress from the floor. The fabric is cold against my fingers, the weight of last night still clinging to it. I step into it without care for grace or poise. My hands don’t shake as I zip it up. I don’t look at him when I reach for my heels. I don’t say anything when I walk toward the door.

Of course, he doesn’t stop me.

Why would he?

I was just to stupid to hook up with the “great and amazing” Joseph Quinn.

Hey! Here’s the first chapter of the series I had announced about my drama/angst idea with Joseph Quinn. Now, there's so much tea that I don’t even know if I’ll continue… Let me know if it’s worth it!

Taglist : @ali-r3n

#fic rec

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palomahasenteredthechat · 6 days ago

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Vic waits, blowing smoke through the centimeter above the slightly lowered window. No way she's taking a chance in this neighborhood. The patter of raindrops bounces along the roof of the BMW as a few errant drops manage to catch the side of her face. She doesn't know why Roland always texts her to meet in some dodgy area, but she suspects that it's a power play. Typical of him, really.

Tapping her nails on the steering wheel, she closes her eyes and tries to practice some of her meditation breathing exercises, but it's no use. The trash strewn along the curb, the blinking streetlight, and the glances her car is getting from the lads hanging out on the corner are setting her nerves on edge. She checks her watch. Late as usual.

Curse you, Roland. You always were a shit.

Finally, a black 4 x 4 approaches, gleaming in the waning light. Vic lowers her window and flicks her cigarette into the street next to the others under her door. The car stops and a window so opaque that it could have been obsidian rolls down, revealing the smirking face of Roland Daubney.

"Those things will kill you, Vic."

Vic grits her teeth. "What else was I supposed to do. You're thirty minutes late."

Roland shrugs. "The newspaper business never sleeps."

"Oh, you call your rag a newspaper now?" Vic cannot resist the dig.

Roland turns and gives her a cool stare. "It's saved your arse more than once, regardless of what you want to call it."

His ice blue eyes cut like steel and Vic retreats. "I need a favor."

Roland barks a laugh. "Don't tell me. Boy wonder fucked up again. Honestly, Vic I don't know why you just don't drop him."

Vic squares her shoulders. "I can't."

Roland shrugs, expensive cashmere rippling just so along his shoulders. "This is getting dull, Vic. Which is the death of a good story."

"You owe me," Vic says, her heart racing. "We have a long way to go before that debt is fully paid."

Roland raises an eyebrow. "I'm not so sure about that, love. School is very much in the past."

"Don't test me," Vic hisses.

A momentary standoff, and then Roland shrugs. "What have you got."

"I need a story. The usual. Lovebirds, happy, all of it. Photos are up at the usual link."

Roland snorts. "It's boring, Vic. Even our readers aren't buying it."

"I'm sure most of them are stupid enough to buy it."

Roland barks a laugh. "We'll see. But each time you rehash the same thing, it gets less effective."

"I'm well aware of how publicity works!" Vic snaps.

Roland laughs. It starts to rain harder, smoothing the sharp edges of the buildings into grey. Eventually, he nods. "Fine."

Vic exhales the breath she has been holding. "Fine."

Roland signals to the driver, and the window rises as the sleek car rolls away. Vic closes her own window and grips the steering wheel. She takes a deep, cleansing breath. And screams into the void.

#vic vignettes

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