#I started with Unravel II

[a-z-4-m-i]

"Poor little Az used to always quit

But she never really quit, she just say she did"

-Cigarettes out the Window (TV Girl)

I just though this song would fit since this fandom never really left me- I mean, my OC whole entire backstory is heavily inspired of this universe so....

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part ii)

MICROFRACTURE—A quiet crack, invisible but irreversible.

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: on today's episode of 'angry idiots and sad assholes', introducing the one and only Joel Miller! I let out a few tears writing this one, too, it's really painful when you think about how Joel probably perceives himself, or how I think he does. onto other happier news, I simply cannot believe the kind of response the first part garnered, and I'm shook! rise up, depression girlies!!! To everyone who responded in the comments and reblogs, I've read them all twice over and giggled and twirled my hair and threw up butterflies. Thank you, and I hope you like this one! :)

Joel settled into his routine like a man settling into an old wound. Patrols, clearing trails, the stables, the repair shop, the bar, dinner in silence, rinse and repeat. It was easier that way—easier than thinking too much about a vain attempt. He ignored his neighbour’s existence completely. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But ignoring something didn’t make it disappear.

Every morning, he still ended up at the dining table—the one he never used—sipping his coffee too slow for his patience, gaze drawn to the big white house across the street like a goddamn magnet. Watching for movement. Watching for them.

And he fucking hated it.

Hated the part of him that waited, that noticed, that took account of the smallest details like they meant anything to him. Like he still had a reason to care.

Sometimes, Maya fussed too much, and Leela would come outside, her hair a little unkempt, gait all botched, but her hands steady as she cradled her baby against her chest. He saw her murmuring softly to the baby girl, pointing to the sky, the trees, the shifting clouds, the falling snow. A little trick from Maria, he figured. It worked well enough. Maya would quiet, those big brown eyes so curious, distracted by the vastness of the world she barely understood.

And Leela—she still looked tired. Still looked like she was moving through a fog, unseeing, carrying more than just the baby in her arms. But she took to Maya differently now, touched her calmly, like she was no longer afraid she might break her.

That was good. That meant she was doing fine. That meant she didn’t need him. And that meant Joel could stop worrying about the things that weren’t his to worry about.

Joel was outside, tightening the hinges on his porch gate, bracing against the cold, when he heard her steps crunching in the snow. Still quiet. Still waiting. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his focus on the task in front of him. If she needed something, she’d say it.

"Good morning, Joel," Leela greeted warmly.

Joel gave a short nod, adjusting the grip on his screwdriver. "Mornin’."

She lingered there. Honestly, he just wished she’d just go back inside. So, he kept working, unbothered, and didn't look up.

"Loose hinges?" she asked.

Courtesies. He wasn't falling for it. "Mhm."

He knew when he wasn't wanted. She was finding her feet now, somewhat starting to take care of herself, carefully taking care of Maya. She didn’t need him checking in, didn’t need him hovering. And maybe—maybe that should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.

"You need anything else?" he asked, voice gruffer than he meant it to be.

"No, I just..." Leela wavered, softly, like she already knew he was about to shut her down. "I wanted to say thank you. For helping me out these few weeks. I couldn't have done it without you."

Joel finally glanced up at that. Just a flicker.

Leela shifted in her puffy pants, adjusting Maya against her shoulder. The baby girl was bundled up tight, small fists curled into her mouth, watching him with that blank, childlike wonder in big eyes. It took every bit of strength he had to not fall for that, and just forget everything that happened.

Joel hung his head, nodding again, keeping his focus downward on the screw.

She was being friendly. Trying to meet him halfway. And he hated that this was what it had come to—that she felt like she had to say something, to extend some kind of olive branch, when all he’d done was build a wall between them. For no fucking reason.

He straightened up with a muffled grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Nothin’ to thank me for. It was all you."

She half-laughed, something wry and knowing. "I know that's not true."

Joel glanced up, stiffening, but she wasn’t looking at him, just rubbing slow circles into Maya’s back, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head, consoling herself.

He knew what she was doing. He wasn’t stupid.

She was trying to make things normal again. Like they hadn’t spent nights under the same roof. Like he hadn’t seen her fall apart. Like she wasn’t still here, right now, offering him something—a small, careful thing—and he was too much of a coward to take it.

So he didn’t.

Joel scratched the back of his neck with the screwdriver, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "You oughta get inside," he said instead. "It’s too cold for the kid."

Leela’s expression flickered. Not hurt. Just resigned. He felt like he'd ripped the bandaid off a baby.

"Okay. Yes." She slowly nodded but hesitated a step back. Then—too quietly, almost like an afterthought—"It’s nice to see you around, Joel."

And with that, she started back down the road, holding Maya closer by her head, and Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was better. Cleaner.

He grabbed his tools and turned back to his door, locking his jaw. He hadn’t meant to come off short, but it was better this way. Best to stay in his own lane. Best not to make something out of nothing. That’s what he told himself.

But later that night, when he was eating that damn delicious soup she’d left for him by his door—still warm, still considerate—he felt like a grade-A asshole.

From then on, it was Tommy who had taken over fixing the nursery, finishing what Joel had started. He figured that was for the best. It kept things clean. Tied up loose ends. He had no business stepping into that house anymore, no reason to.

And yet, his eyes always caught the details—the way the curtains in the nursery window shifted, the way light flickered between the slats, the way the wood he had sanded and painted was still unfinished, the way Tommy started bringing someone else along.

Mal.

Joel had seen him before, a younger guy with an afro that Tommy had taken under his wing. Handy with repairs, and good with his hands. Nothing special.

At first, Mal actually worked. Brought his toolbox, put up a few shelves, and nodded along to whatever Tommy said. Kept to himself. But then—things started changing. Mal started staying longer. Talking... to her. Right on the front stoop until the sun went down.

It was fine at first. Two steps between them. Then one. Then none at all. Soon, he was leaning close on the porch railing, shoulders nearly brushing hers, speaking in low, easy tones that Joel couldn’t quite make out from across the street. And then—laughter. Leela’s laughter. Soft, hesitant, but real.

More than Joel had ever gotten out of her. Not that he’d ever tried.

Tommy and Maria stopped coming around entirely. It was just Mal now. Every goddamn day. He’d stroll up, toolbox in hand, tap on the door, and then—nothing. No sounds of work being done. No hammering, no shifting furniture. Just conversation.

Joel told himself it didn’t matter. Repeated it like a prayer, like a lesson he should’ve learned by now. That whatever Leela did, whoever she let into her home, was none of his business. That was the whole point of leaving, wasn’t it? Cutting ties, walking away.

He didn’t care about the way Mal lingered on that porch, didn’t care about the way Leela had started looking at him—not quite wary, not quite inviting. Like she was still learning how to trust people but was willing to try. Didn’t care about the way Maya reached for Mal, the tiny fingers curling into his beard, the easy way Mal let her.

And yet, he always saw it.

The way Mal leaned just a little closer, the way Leela’s shoulders, once so tight and drawn, started to loosen. The way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeves when she spoke to him, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enjoy the conversation.

Joel hated how much he noticed. It was worse when he overheard them.

He'd been out all damn day. Sun up to sundown, rifle slung over his shoulder, dealing with raiders, clickers, and everything in between. The kind of day that made his bones ache, that made his back scream when he so much as breathed wrong. The kind of day where all he wanted was to go home, put his feet up, and maybe—just maybe—close his eyes for longer than ten damn minutes.

But no. Because just as he was rounding the corner to his place, the world ready to lay even more shit on him, he heard them.

"You mean to tell me no one's ever spun you around before?" Mal was saying.

Joel's step faltered. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve ignored it. But of course, he didn’t. He adjusted his grip on the sack slung over his shoulder, slowing his pace, letting their voices drift through the cold evening air.

Leela snorted, light and dismissive. "Like dancing?"

"Exactly like," Mal confirmed, smooth as you please. "Having a little fun, letting go, feeling the music. Bet you don’t do much of that."

Joel’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag, grip tightening.

"There are more pressing matters than romance," Leela muttered, but she was laughing.

Joel didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like the way she said it. Playful. Entertained. That was the first thing that rubbed Joel the wrong way. The second was the way the kid kept talking.

"Well, I bet Maya’s never even seen her mama all dolled up before, huh? Imagine that, baby girl," Mal cooed, and Maya's sweet crool followed like a melody.

Fuck this.

Joel didn’t hear Leela’s response, didn’t hear whatever she said next, because he was already moving—boots heavy, hands fisted, the strap of his bag biting into his palm. He was about to lay one on this bitch.

The frozen dirt beneath his boots crunched as he made his way there, shoulders squared, hackles raised, barely restraining the urge to grab that kid by the collar and shake some goddamn sense into him.

Because who the hell did this punk think he was?

Talking like that, acting like Leela was some blushing girl to be sweet-talked. Like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely holding herself together. Like she hadn’t bled for that kid in her arms. Like Joel hadn’t been the one who—

He stopped himself there. Tamped it down. Shoved it deep into the pit of his stomach where all the other shit lived.

Instead, he turned away, kept his head down and walked straight home, fists tight around anything. By the time he kicked the door shut behind him, his jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. Fucking Mal.

Joel dumped the sack of supplies on the table and went straight for the bottle. Pulled the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself a glass with a hand that was damn near steady.

He took a sip. Let it burn. Let it settle. Then he muttered, "Goddamn kid."

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Because why should he be?

She liked him. Sure, he wanted her to be happy. If that happened, he'd finally get a good night's sleep. And yet, it wouldn't mean a fucking thing to him if Mal was the reason. One day, when he's going to see her and Mal inside her home, silver rings glinting off their hands, little Maya nestled between them, the picture of a perfect family...

Joel knocked back the rest of the whiskey and swallowed hard. Good. That was good. Good for her. Good for the baby. She didn't need him. Maya wouldn't need him. He'd butt out and live alone, in peace.

He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to. Stared at it. Then, just to be sure, he muttered it out loud.

"Ain't my problem."

But the facts remained.

She still wasn’t eating much or sleeping well. The dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded. She still rubbed at her temples when she thought no one was looking, still blinked a little too long, like she was fighting off exhaustion every second of the day. Food was out of compulsion, not hunger, for the sake of staying healthy for Maya.

And then, one night, he saw her asleep on the porch swing. Curled in on herself, arms tucked tight, shivering against the cold, exhaustion dragging her under where she sat.

It took everything in him not to walk over and wake her. To shake her by the shoulder, drag her inside, make sure she was warm. It took everything in him not to care.

Because this wasn’t his anymore. He had no claim over them.

Didn’t change the fact that every time he saw Mal leaning against that railing, looking like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged there—that knot in his chest twisted tighter.

And he hated that, too.

X

Joel had truly been looking forward to dinner. It was the same thing every week. He’d go over to Tommy's, have a decent meal, shoot the shit with his brother, and let Ellie fill in the gaps of conversation. It was comfortable. Familiar. Nice. A welcome change from the silence of his own home, from days spent running the same damn circuit—patrol, repairs, the bar, then back to a house that wasn’t a home, not really.

But tonight, something was off. Joel could feel it from the moment he sat down.

Maybe it was the way Maria and Ellie kept glancing at him like they were waiting for something. Or maybe it was just Tommy—sitting across from him, chewing through a mouthful of steak, his expression too nonchalant like he had something up his sleeve.

Joel didn’t think much of it at first. He focused on his food, carving through the meat, grounding himself in the scrape of his fork against the plate.

Then Tommy opened his big hole of a mouth.

"Mal’s been spending a lot of time over at Leela’s place."

Joel’s hand tensed around his knife. And just like that, his appetite was gone. He kept his face neutral and didn’t look up. Just kept chewing, lagging and deliberate motions, like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Tommy, either oblivious or just plain cruel, kept going. "Helpin’ out with the nursery. Putting some time in with the baby girl." He ripped a piece of bread in half, completely unaware of the way Joel’s grip had turned his fork into a weapon. "Good guy. He and Leela get along well. It's nice to see."

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. Focused on his plate. Flattened a piece of potato with the back of his fork. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. That was the whole goddamn point, wasn’t it?

He’d helped Leela out. Gave her time. Took care of her baby. That was it. She was somebody else’s problem now. And yet, the idea of some guy stepping into his place, rocking Maya to sleep, working on the nursery, fixing things, being there—his mouth flattened into a hard line. It stung.

No. It wasn’t his place to care. He'd told himself so many times, it felt like one of those daily affirmations bullshit. Thou shall not think of thy neighbour's handyman and his fuckeries.

Though, still, before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth. "Nursery ain’t even done yet."

The second it left him, he regretted it. A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, too slowly, Joel looked up—and immediately hated what he saw. Maria and Ellie were smirking. That stupid, all-too-knowing, ready-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-him-smirk. He had the greatest urge to leave the room.

Maria lifted an eyebrow. "And how exactly would you know that, Joel?"

Joel pursed his lips casually, setting his fork down with a little too much care. "They live right across the damn street. Hard to miss."

Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her fist. "Right. And how much time do you spend looking across the damn street?"

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don’t start, Ellie."

Tommy tilted his head, giving him a look that made Joel want to knock his damn teeth out. "You’ve been actin’ real funny ever since you left that house, y’know."

"Ain’t nothin’ to act on," Joel muttered, shifting in his seat. "I helped her out. End of story. Moving on."

Tommy wasn't letting go, damn him. "Uh-huh. Then why you sittin’ here lookin’ like you just bit into a bad lemon the second her name came up?"

Joel’s jaw ticked.

"Yeah," Ellie added, grinning. "Why’s your face doing that thing?"

Joel frowned. "What thing?"

She pointed with her fork to the furrows above his eyebrows. "The thing where you pretend you don’t care, but your forehead says otherwise."

Maria hid a knowing smile behind her glass while Joel rubbed at his face consciously, glaring over at Ellie. "You could just go over there, you know."

Joel let out a short, humourless chuckle. "Oh, c'mon. For what?"

"Dinner," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just a meal with friends. Tommy, me, you, Ellie—Leela and Maya. Nothing big."

Joel stared down at his plate. His food had gone cold.

"We don’t need to be doin’ all that," he muttered, shaking his head. Getting familiar and cosy. It'd only invite more trouble.

Maria ignored him. "She’s got that nice, big dining room. A sweet bar cart. French windows. Good view of the lawn. It’d be like a little party."

Joel didn’t respond.

"C'mon, man," Tommy pressed. "What’s stopping you?"

That was the question, wasn’t it? Joel wasn’t sure he had an answer. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t want to say it.

Because the truth was, he had no business going back. He’d done what he came to do. He’d helped. That was it.

But then there was Maya—her featherlight body in his arms, the way she’d reached for his shirt in her sleep. There was Leela—standing in the doorway that last morning, silent, watching him go. There was the stillness in his own house, the way he’d catch himself in the middle of the night, listening for a cry that never came. What the hell was wrong with him?

Instead, he just stabbed his fork into his potato and muttered, "Pass."

Maria and Ellie exchanged another conspiratorial glance. And Joel had the distinct feeling this wasn’t over.

Once dinner had progressed into a chore, Ellie and Joel, ever the gentleman, helped Tommy dry the dishes. Well—Joel did. Ellie, on the other hand, was just sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and cracking jokes about Tommy’s new manbun. The kitchen was warm, the soft clatter of dishes filling the space and laughter, the steak dinner still settling in Joel’s stomach.

“You’re really doing the whole ponytail thing now, huh?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, flicking on the tap. “Jesus, you sound like Joel.”

“Hey, you take that back! I am way cooler than Joel,” Ellie corrected. “And I'm a thousand times funnier. Pun-nier.”

“Debatable,” Joel muttered.

“Did Maria do this to you?” she asked, flicking a sudsy fork in Joel’s direction. “Blink twice if you need help. I've got emergency scissors.”

Tommy snorted, stacking the last plate in the cabinet. “It’s practical. And I'm starting to like it.”

Ellie tilted her head, unimpressed. “It's lazy. Tragic.”

Joel smirked but said nothing, wiping down a plate before handing it over. Tommy shot him a glare like he was expecting some backup, but Joel just shrugged. Not his fight.

Maria walked in from behind them, and Joel noticed that infuriating look on her face. Oh, nothing good would come out of this. She set a small box on the counter with a dull thud, right beside Joel. He barely glanced at it before she plopped another paper box on top—leftovers from tonight. Steak and potatoes just for a special someone.

“Could you pass this on to Leela on your way back?” she said casually, drying her hands. “It's one dose a day, each. And one scoop in cold water.”

Joel looked down, his hands bracing against the counter. Vitamins. Protein powder. Of course.

Maria tapped the food box. “And dinner.”

Joel eyed them both, then her. The way she said it, like it was no big deal. Like she hadn’t just put him in a position he couldn’t easily wiggle out of.

He sighed, already seeing where this was going. He set down the dish towel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tommy can pass it to her tomorrow.”

Maria simply raised an eyebrow. “Meat’s gonna go bad.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so this is how you’re gonna play it?” He glanced at Tommy, then Ellie, both of whom were very pointedly looking elsewhere. “Really?”

Ellie grinned. “It’s a neighbourly thing to do, Joel. Don't you call yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m with her on that one,” Tommy added, crossing his arms.

Joel let out a slow, irritated breath. Family? No, just a bunch of annoying, traitorous little shits.

Maria only smiled, sliding the box closer to him. “Wouldn’t want her going without. She's already skin and bones. And you know... you live right across the damn street.”

Ellie burst out laughing, raising her fist to Maria, who bumped with her own knowing smile. “Respect.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She'd got him right where she wanted. Because now, if he didn’t take the stupid thing, he’d look like an asshole. And Maria knew that. She was being fucking shameless about it.

His gaze flickered down to the box. Then, before he could stop himself and leave them standing, an image surfaced—Leela, sitting on that damn porch swing, curled up against the cold. Maya’s tiny fingers tugging at her collar, red-cheeked, catching swirling snow in her dark curls.

Joel closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't shake it off. And he admitted it to himself, despite all his grievances against this, he missed them. He missed Leela's soft footsteps in the nursery past midnight, he missed Maya entirely. He missed the sense of normalcy once the blood and gore of patrol ended, to head to a warm home and lay down, exhausted, knowing he hadn't had a drink to fall asleep.

Then, wordlessly, he grabbed the boxes off the counter.

Ellie elbowed Tommy in the ribs, giggling. “See? Look at him. Good ol’ Joel, real man of the people.”

Joel shot her a warning look while heading over to grab his jacket, the delivery under his arm. “Don’t push it, kid.” Then pointed a threatening finger at Tommy as he yanked the front door open. “Can't believe we're related.”

Tommy only puckered his lips at him, miming a kiss. “Mensch Miller.”

X

The house across the street was unlocked again.

Joel stood at the threshold, jaw clenched, boots planted firm against the porch floorboards. The door was cracked open, swaying slightly from the evening breeze, the light from inside spilling out onto the steps. Did she even care about safety? It should’ve been locked. It should’ve been bolted shut, curtains drawn, an armoury stacked by the doorway. But Leela still acted like the world wasn’t what it was. Like Jackson was different.

It had been a whole two months since Leela brought Maya into this world, a month of struggling, of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely breathing. And now she had the nerve to leave her door wide open like she was inviting trouble? Like Jackson was some safe little haven where nothing bad could ever happen? A dangerous thing, that kind of trust. He’d seen what happened to people who had it.

His jaw ticked. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—baby powder, maybe, or that lavender soap Maria kept handing out. The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing restless shadows across the room, licking at the edges of the high-backed armchair and the mathematics-riddled books and papers neatly stacked up in scatters.

And there she was, standing in front of it. Leela was running a brush through her hair, violently. Dragging it down, tangling it further, hissing under her breath when it snagged. Frustrated, impatient. Needed a haircut.

The same damn nightgown again. White, sleeveless, falling in soft folds just past her knees. But this time, his eyes caught the details—the way a single pearl button at her collar had been left open carelessly, the way the thin cotton made the dark silhouette of her body visible beneath, and the odd little cherries sewn sparsely into the fabric. Small, stitched by hand.

He had no idea why all that stood out to him. It just did. And boy, did it leave nothing to the imagination.

Leela stilled, catching sight of him in the doorway. The brush hung mid-stroke in her hand.

“Oh,” she said, like he hadn’t just barged into her house uninvited. “Hello.”

Her eyes and voice were warm. Soft, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she wasn’t standing there in nothing but a slip of a dress while the light from the hearth turned her edges golden.

Joel forced his gaze away. His eyes flicked over the living room instead, to the couch against the far wall—his couch, as much as he hated to admit it. The blankets were still there, folded neatly, stacked with the pillows like she’d been expecting him to come back. His grip tightened around the boxes in his hands.

“I—” He cleared his throat, stepping forward, extending the boxes toward her. “Maria sent you some stuff.”

Leela blinked again before setting the hairbrush down, padding toward him on bare feet. She took the boxes gently, fingers barely brushing his. “Thank you, Joel,” she murmured, flashing a little smile.

“Just vitamins, powder,” he played off.

She pried the lid off the larger box and inhaled deeply. He caught the way her nose twitched, her fingers tightening just a fraction around the edges.

“Her famous steak dinner,” he offered her.

And then, like clockwork, her stomach betrayed her, the low grumble cutting through the quiet between them. She stiffened, laughing, breathless and sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“You should eat—”

A sharp cry cut through the air, calling for her. Both their heads swung toward the staircase.

Leela sighed first, setting the boxes away. “Napkin,” she murmured, as if reciting from a schedule. “Please help yourself to anything. I’ll be right back.”

But Joel stepped forward, one arm extended, the box acting as a barrier between her and the stairs. He despised the unfamiliarity.

“Eat,” he said, firm.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between him and the staircase, like she was weighing her options, debating whether to argue or just go along with it.

Another cry echoed from upstairs—short, needy. Joel could tell. It wasn’t hunger, it wasn’t pain. Little Maya was lonely already.

“I got this,” he assured.

Leela chewed her lip. “But—”

“I know the drill.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Just eat.”

A long moment passed, heavy with hesitation. Then, finally, she relented, her shoulders sagging as she breathed in surrender. She took the box from him.

“I’ll grab a fork, I guess,” she muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

Joel smothered a grin while watching her go, and took the stairs two at a time, powerless to his anticipation. It had been two weeks since he held the baby girl. He'd missed the shit out of her, not that he would admit that to anybody. Of course, he wasn't about to pass up this chance for anything.

From the landing, the nursery's door cracked open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dim room. Joel frowned as he leaned in to inspect.

The first thing he noticed was that the crib had moved. His boots made no sound over the wooden floor as he stepped inside, scanning the space. The wooden shelves were up, already home to Maya's folded clothes, towels and napkins. The light installation dangled halfway, unfixed. No one had even begun work on painting the walls. No armchair. No rug.

This Mal guy was a complete jackass. Maya's nursery was a mess.

“Good with his hands, my ass,” Joel muttered. “What a fuckin' tool.”

Joel angrily followed the hallway light, stepping through the open doorway into the furthest bedroom, a room bigger than any he’d ever seen in Jackson. In Texas. In this country.

Massive was an understatement. This was the kind of bedroom you’d see in a damn commercial—the kind of thing he would’ve scoffed at, once upon a time. The bed alone was ridiculous. Olympic-sized, sunken into a floor for itself, welling with plush, overstuffed pillows and thick sheets, barely disturbed. A sliding-door closet stood at the far end, pristine, untouched. A plasma-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall, thick with dust.

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line. There was something unnatural about it. The way it felt more like an untouched display than her bedroom.

Maya’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. Joel crossed the room, approaching the crib—the one he’d worked on. All pink and polished for the spoiled little girl.

The moment she saw him, her cries hitched. Big, teary brown eyes blinked up at him, wide and glistening, like she was struggling to focus. She sniffled, tiny fists flexing against the mattress, mouth wobbling around her jutting tongue, as if trying to place him.

Joel couldn't resist a grin, brushing a coarse knuckle against her soft cheek.

“Hi, baby girl.” Then leaned closer to whisper, “Traitor.”

Maya sniffled, blinking again, then reached for him—small fingers curling, grasping blindly before finding his much larger one, tugging it toward her mouth. She gummed at his gnarled knuckles with a fussy little noise, her brows furrowing in concentration.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That ain't fair. That's your apology?”

Maya made another small whimper of a sound. And a real smile. A big, toothless, gummy grin, full of warmth and recognition. Something nearly uncoiled at his ribs.

He pulled a so-so face. “Hm, I'll bite.”

It was muscle memory, really. The way his hands moved—effortless, practised. He'd done it more than fifty times in two weeks. He made quick work of the napkin, wiping her clean, then slid his hands beneath her arms, lifting her up in one smooth motion.

He grunted as he did, “C'mere, sweetheart. You beautiful, beautiful girl. Did you miss me, huh?”

She squealed, legs kicking excitedly as he cradled her against his chest, supporting her head the way he always did. And just like that, he eased into the old rhythm without thinking. That familiar weight against him, that warmth—gentle, swaying, murmuring under his breath. It was easy. Too easy. Like breathing. Like falling asleep.

She nestled into his shoulder, tiny fist pressing against his neck, seeking his warmth. She’d gotten bigger. Not by much, but enough. Still delicate, still small—but stronger now. More aware. Smart, like her mother.

"Yeah, you missed me," he murmured when she nuzzled against his neck.

And then—pure, infallible instinct—he dipped his nose into her hair and breathed her in deep. Soft linen and old cotton, warm and faint.

Sarah used to smell like this once. For just a little while. That same invisible claw tore at his memories. Joel closed his eyes, just for a second. He remembered how, when she outgrew it, he'd missed it terribly. How he’d sometimes let her sleep curled up in his arms all night long, his back against the headboard, just to hold onto that smell. Just to keep that small, fleeting moment of innocence before the world could take it away.

That nostalgia settled deep in his ribs, quiet and whole. This seemed like the only place in the world where suffering didn’t exist. Like his hands weren’t stained with all the things he’d done, all the lives he’d taken.

Because here, right now, with Maya, he wasn’t the man who had lost and lost and lost again. He wasn’t the man who’d left behind nothing but bodies and broken promises. No, she didn’t know any of that. She didn’t care.

She only knew his warmth. She knew the steady beat of his heart, the scratch of his beard against her soft skin, and the way he said her name. She only knew him as someone safe. And fuck, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but—

God help him, he wanted to be.

Maya sighed, a tiny, content sound, pressing closer. And Joel—he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was clean.

A soft gasp behind him made him turn to reality and toward the door. “Oh, Maya.”

Joel turned to find Leela standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth, eyes wide in amusement. She had changed—finally—into one of those oversized sweaters he’d seen her wear on colder nights, sleeves swallowing her hands. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at his chest.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Leela bit her lip, trying—failing—to smother a smile. She motioned vaguely toward him. Joel tracked her finger and glanced to the side. And felt it. Hot, damp.

Damned baby spit-up.

Maya’s little betrayal soaked through the fabric of his shirt, spreading down from his collar and shoulder to his chest in an uneven, milky stain. She smacked her lips contentedly against his collarbone, completely unaware of the mess she’d just made.

He sighed, shifting her to the other arm. He levelled her with a playful glare. “You gonna warn me next time you ruin my shirt, darlin'?”

Maya only gurgled in response, a soft, pleased little sound.

And then, following her daughter—Leela laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind that he'd managed out of her once. Not the forced kind, either. A real laugh. Breathless, unexpected, warm. Like it had slipped out before she could stop it.

Joel felt it like a slow-moving punch to the gut. He didn’t hear that sound often. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it before on his account. He'd finally done it.

It changed something about her, softening her face in a way that caught him off guard. Her eyes creased at the corners, the tightness in her shoulders eased, the exhaustion in her expression smoothed over—just for a moment.

It did something strange to him. He didn’t have the time to name it. So he just exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as he adjusted Maya over to the other arm, rubbing a hand over his damp shirt.

“Yeah, real funny. Your girl just aired her paunch all over me,” he grumbled.

Leela tried to sober up, apologising, but another chuckle slipped out in between, and Joel caught the way she bit her lip, fighting to suppress it.

She was enjoying this. And he was in big fucking trouble.

"Don't move. I'll get you a spare shirt," she said, laughing, before walking to the adjacent closet doors.

Joel didn’t even get the chance to protest before Leela slid one side of the closet doors open, revealing—sweet Jesus.

His eyes landed on the neat rows of men’s clothing hanging inside. Not just a few misplaced items, not something left behind by chance. An entire collection.

Button-downs, slacks, henleys—clothes meant for daily wear. Added into the mix, were pressed suits, the kind that cost more than a month’s worth of supplies, the kind men used to wear to skyscrapers and boardrooms, back when the world was still upright. And golf shirts. For fuck’s sake, golf shirts.

Joel’s jaw hinged back up. Golf was a rich man’s game. He’d worked jobs near country clubs in his past life, and seen the kind of people who played. Men with money. Her father, perhaps.

Leela had definitely grown up rich. And looking at this—this untouched wealth, just sitting here, long past its time—it became clear. She probably still was.

Joel’s grip on Maya shifted slightly, the warmth of the baby pressing into his chest the only real thing anchoring him as his eyes dragged over the closet once more.

For all that Leela lived like a ghost, for all that she barely let anyone near her, this place still held echoes of what she came from. A past life that didn’t match the woman he’d seen standing at her front door, exhausted and hollow-eyed, desperate for her baby to stop crying.

Leela flipped through the hangers without hesitation, fingers brushing past labels he recognized—Armani, Burberry, Hollister. Eventually, she pulled out a green pullover. Soft, fine material. A little small for him, but it’d do.

She turned, offering it wordlessly.

Joel didn’t move to take it right away.

He was still staring at the closet. Not because he gave a damn about how much a fucking sweater cost, or whether she had a trust fund hidden away somewhere, but because it told him something. Something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Leela had come from comfort. Stability. A world where things were taken care of. And yet she’d buried herself in this big, empty house, alone, fighting tooth and nail to survive—like everyone else. And she never asked for help.

Leela cleared her throat. "It should fit. My father was a tall man."

Joel managed a sigh, shifting Maya in his arms. He took the pullover with one hand, already halfway through plucking open the buttons of his flannel.

While he worked, Leela stepped closer, ready to take Maya. She was quick about it, but Joel caught the way her fingers lingered, just for a second, as she scooped the baby up from his arms. Not on Maya.

On him.

Joel really tried to push it out of his head, write it off as an illusion, already plucking open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers brushed the fabric, and he paused when he caught the tag inside. Ralph Lauren, for fuck's sake.

Leela noticed with a small smile. "I didn’t take you for a man with fancy taste," she mused.

Joel let out a dry snort. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

He pulled off his flannel, the sleeves catching briefly on his wrists before he tossed it aside. The room wasn’t cold, but the air bit at his skin anyway. The scars felt it first—every healed cut, every old wound stretched over knotted muscle, each one a reminder of what his body had been through.

"Oh, man," he couldn't help but grunt, stretching his arms.

He worked the pullover over his head in one smooth motion, the fabric soft, snug across his shoulders. Felt like something he would’ve bought for Sarah back in the day, something she’d pull from a Macy’s rack, nodding in approval before insisting, "Dad, just try it on."

It fit better than he expected, but Joel barely registered that. His body had begun to ache. Not in one place—everywhere. It was late at night, it was cold, he missed his daily dose of whiskey, and he needed sleep for tomorrow.

The exhaustion sat in his bones now, permanent and familiar. His bad knee throbbed, aggravated from the cold, from the weight he put on it patrolling for hours at a time. His back had never been the same after that one fall, a long time ago. Some mornings, he woke up and could barely stand straight, feeling every single one of his years sink into him.

And yet, his body still held. Still worked. It wasn’t much to look at anymore. Not that it ever had been.

He had no delusions about himself—he wasn’t built for admiration. Never had been. Picking up girls and fooling around; that was Tommy's thing. He wasn’t the kind of man people looked at twice, not in the way that mattered. His body told a story, but not the sort anyone wanted to read or had a happy ending,

His hands were ruined things, thick with callouses from years of exertion, from gripping rifle stocks, from skinning game, from chopping wood in the dead of winter. His knuckles were perpetually split, healing just enough before the next fight, the next job, the next reason to curl his fists. Scars mapped his skin, uneven and jagged, old bullet wounds and knife cuts, hard edges, marks of a life spent fighting for something—for anything.

He wasn’t young anymore. He wasn’t some smooth-talking son of a bitch with a face that turned heads. He was always angry at something, thinking about something, readying his next step, even if it was a complete waste of his time.

But he was still formidable. He could protect. He could endure the rough-hewn demands of survival, even now. He could fight like hell. That had to count for something.

But Leela—she wasn’t staring, exactly. Wasn’t not staring, either. It was subtle. Barely there. A flicker of something implicit, something fleeting, the way her gaze traced along his arms, his shoulders, abdomen, the sharp cut of his collarbone before snapping away. As if she hadn’t meant to look, and she’d caught herself a second too late.

Joel had been around long enough to recognize when a woman was checking him out. And hell—he wasn’t gonna lie to himself. It made him feel good. Fucking fantastic, really. Like he could wake up tomorrow feeling twenty years younger. Like he could leap right out of bed and his back wouldn’t stiffen before noon. Like he still had something left in him worth looking at.

He wasn’t an idiot, though. He wasn't going to let it go to his head.

Leela adjusted Maya in her arms, moving her weight as if giving herself something to do, something to focus on that wasn’t him.

And Joel—he pretended not to notice. Didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t shift under her gaze, didn’t smirk at her, didn’t let her see that she’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected.

Just muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and left it at that.

Leela hummed in response, turning away to lay Maya down, who was already dozing her little head off, into the crib with practised care. Then, just as easily, she pivoted back to her bedside dresser, fingers moving over a stack of neatly folded quadrille paper.

"Can you pass something to Tommy for me?" she asked, voice soft, controlled. "It’s really important he gets this as soon as possible."

Joel might not have paid it much mind, might’ve brushed it off as just another errand he wasn’t keen on running—but then he saw it. The way her posture stiffened, the way her hands smoothed over the edges of the papers like they were something fragile, something vital. But whatever this was—it mattered.

She flipped through the pages, and for the first time since he’d met her, he saw something rare. Excitement. A flicker of life.

"It’s a wonderful breakthrough, Joel," she said, and there was a rare enough lightness in her voice, bordering on unguarded enthusiasm.

Joel just blinked. Leela wasn’t the type to get excited. Or maybe he's just never seen it in her before.

"So, I’ve been working on…" then she went into something technical for his dense mind, talking fast in words that blurred together. It all went miles over his head. Circuits, electrical theory, conduction points—half of it might as well have been a foreign language.

Joel just stared when she finished with a deep breath.

Leela instantly caught the look and pursed her lips. "Okay, um. Let me put it this way."

She shifted toward him, gesturing as she spoke, putting it into Layman's terms. "You know how the dam stops producing enough energy in winter? When the river freezes over?"

Joel gave a slow nod.

"So we rely on fuel, but fuel’s very limited. We've got the town expanding, and people coming in. So our batteries drain. If we had an alternative energy source, something reliable—" She held up the paper, tapping a rough sketch. "And that’s where this comes in."

Her hands moved as she spoke, cutting through the air with sharp, purposeful gestures. Not just passion, not just expertise. Conviction.

"Lightning is erratic, but it’s raw power. Joules of energy. Think about it. If we can direct a strike into a controlled medium—like a graphene capacitor—we can store it."

Joel narrowed his eyes, the concept clicking into his lagging brain. "So what, you think you can catch a goddamn thunderstorm and turn it into a battery?"

Leela wheezed a quiet laugh. "More or less."

He thought about it. "Seems like a hell of a thing to gamble on."

"It’s not a gamble. It’s math. Physics. It will work, Joel, I know it."

Joel didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, not really, but he’d seen Leela work before. He trusted her genius. The nights she couldn't sleep—he’d sometimes blink awake to the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard, catching sight of her standing there in the dim glow of the bulb, mapping something out with surgical precision. Or hunched over a notebook, scribbling feverishly, lost in calculations that only made sense to her.

It wasn’t just her passion—it was her outlet. A relief. A tether to something greater than herself, something she could control before she lost herself completely in the demands of motherhood. And if this was what she was holding onto, then perhaps it was more than just an idea.

She tucked the paper back into the stack, levelling him with a quiet look. "I also have a prototype," she said simply.

Joel raised a brow.

Leela nodded toward the hallway. "It’s in the basement if you want to see."

Joel wasn’t big on machines. Or gear. The finer technical details weren’t for him. But—he glanced at her, at the way she stood, weight shifting from foot to foot, something unreadable behind her eyes.

She wasn’t pushing him. She was waiting.

After a beat, he sighed, tilting his head toward the door. "Lead the way, ma'am."

X

The stairs were steep, the kind that creaked under their weight, but Joel kept a firm hold on Leela’s elbow, steadying her as they made their way down. She was still weak. Too breakable. As far as his knowledge went, she should've gotten better by now. And how the hell was she supposed to do that when she barely ate without cringing?

Joel had half a mind to tell her that, to point out how unsteady she was, how she winced when she put too much pressure on her feet—but she’d just brush him off with a shaky smile. So instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and adjusted his grip, keeping her close until they reached the bottom.

"There you go. Watch that last step," he guided as gently as he could.

She glanced up at him from the fringes of a smile, letting his hands go. "Thank you."

He expected damp walls, waterlogged corners, mould creeping up the corners, and a basement that smelled like rot and rust. As what he had been always used to when he went scouring towns nearby for supplies. What he got instead stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he blew out.

It was a workshop. A big-ass one. Tools lined up on the magnetic walls, neatly arranged, half-finished projects sitting on a worktable, schematics pinned up in careful rows. More of Leela's notes and markers, taped-up designs. Funny how there was life only around all this machinery. Off to the side, an old wine cellar, the glass cases still intact, though the bottles inside were coated in dust.

And then—the cars.

Joel let out a low whistle. Two of them. Just sitting there like some abandoned luxury showroom. One was a Dodge Aspen, a classic in its own right. All violet and under repair. But the other...—his eyes caught the silver emblem glinting under the dim basement light. A prancing horse on the red steel.

"Come on," he muttered in disbelief, stepping forward, barely resisting the urge to run his hand over the hood. "Is that a… Maranello?"

Leela took a deep breath, still recovering from the stairs. "Yes. Custom-made and still brand-new. Not sure if there's any left out there anymore."

"Holy shit." His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t want to seem desperate, but fuck, when was the last time he’d seen something like this? Much less, been this close?

"Can I, uh…" He gestured indistinctly at the car.

Leela flashed him a small grin. "Knock yourself out. The door's unlocked."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel reached out, fingers brushing over cool, crimson steel before yanking the door open. The new car smell hit him right in the face—leather, polish, something untouched by time. His chest tensed at the familiarity of it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the wheel, the stitching around the stick shift, and the soft beige leather of the custom interior. And just for a second—he let himself imagine it. Top down. Gliding down the I-10, no speed limits, no patrols, just him and the open road, wind in his hair, sun on his face, Raybans on. That dream all felt like a lifetime ago.

A soft knock on the passenger side window startled him back to reality.

Leela’s face appeared through the glass, her lips quirked in amusement. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Joel huffed, turning slightly to mask the grin tugging at his mouth. She opened the door and drudged her way inside, moving slowly. The descent had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit.

When she shut the door, he immediately rolled down his window, straining his ears toward the stairs. The one time he wished his hearing wouldn't betray him. Had he locked the door upstairs? Could he hear Maya if she cried? What if he couldn’t? How come Leela didn't seem to think about this? God, this girl really had no clue.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "I wish I knew how to drive it." She ran her hand absentmindedly over the dashboard, voice softer now, almost wistful. "I believe the last great invention of man was the automobile."

"You said it," he mumbled. "A damn beaut."

Joel glanced at her and did a little mental math. She must’ve been nine, maybe ten, when the outbreak hit. No middle school. No high school. No road trips, no late-night drives with her friends, music blasting. No first kiss. Just one world ending, and another one starting—a crueller one.

Leela exhaled, long and slow, sinking deeper into the leather seat like she could melt into it. Her fingers drummed idly on the handlebars, tracing invisible patterns, slipping into an old rhythm—one she didn’t even seem aware of.

Then, soft as a whisper, she started humming.

It was unhurried, quiet, like something she’d sung to herself a thousand times before. But it was enough to make Joel pause, something about the tune pulling at him. A half-buried memory, something from before. He knew that song. Hadn’t heard it in years, but it was still there, lodged somewhere deep in the creases of his mind.

"That’s—" He frowned, tilting his head, listening closer. "That Patsy Cline?"

Leela glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before something warmer took its place. "Walkin’ After Midnight. Yeah."

Joel hid a grin. "That is way before your time."

"So?" She smirked, tipping her head back against the seat, fingers still tapping, moving. "I had old parents. Rubbed off on me."

A layer beneath her words made Joel tread carefully. He, of all people, knew how age could sit heavy on a person, how some things weren’t worth prying open.

"Can’t have been that old," he muttered, though he wasn’t sure why he said it.

"My mom was seventy-eight when she passed. Dad, eighty-four."

Joel blinked. "W-o-w." The syllables came out slowly, one after the other, before he could stop himself.

Leela let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. She glanced down, her fingers still moving, trailing over the leather, the stitching, following some old path only she could see.

"I miss them every day," she said, voice softer now, more distant. "I’m grateful they singled me out of those photographs. Brought me here." She gestured vaguely to the house above her, her home, before exhaling, like she was letting something go. "I just hope I’m doing them proud."

Joel sensed that change, and he realized: too much sharing. It had to go both ways. And he was never going to be ready for that. So he did what he did best, avoided and threw her off the scent.

"Man," he said abruptly, with a cluck of his tongue, "if I had the keys and some fuel, I’d ride the hell outta this baby." The words came out before he could stop them. "And die a happy old man."

Leela laughed. A loud laugh, sounding much like her daughter just then, deep in her chest, like she hadn't done it in a long time.

"It’s got fuel," she said, still grinning. "You can still ride it."

"Just sitting here like it's nothing." He shook his head, a small laugh rolling out. "Christ. This is fantastic."

He glanced down at the stick shift, thumb absently tracing the edge of the gear knob, but something else caught his eye.

Her nightgown. Hitched up, ruffled around the tops of her thighs, loose fabric pooling where she sat. Bare skin. Soft, smooth, taut over lean bone—too much of it. The way she shifted, unthinking, rubbing one knee over the other, restless. He felt a rock dislodge in his throat.

Fuck. For all that he could be—a guardian, a protector—he had to be a man.

His fingers curled against his palm, an old instinct, something long-trained. Look away, don’t think about it. He turned back to the wheel, forcing his eyes forward. Dashboard. Windshield. Glove compartment. The thin layer of dust coating the steering column. Anything but the way one more inch of movement would have left too much for his mind to comprehend.

But the problem was—she hadn’t bothered to fix it. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. So why should he?

He swallowed, jaw flexing tight. Because that was the kind of man he was. Greying, frustrated, scarce on love.

His fingers twitched, itching for something to do, something to grab. Instead, he moved without thinking, across the partition—one finger. Just a light tug, barely a breath of a touch, dragging the hem of her gown down, covering her knees. A simple thing. A quiet thing. A mistake.

Her whole body jerked, a sharp intake of breath—like she’d been touched by fire. Really, Joel felt it more than he saw it. The way her muscles tensed, a shudder raced, the quick clutch of her fingers as she held the fabric in place now, suddenly conscious of it.

Shit.

He withdrew instantly, fingers curling into a fist on the steering wheel. Should’ve just minded his goddamn business. Stupid, stupid man.

For a second, the air between them felt too tight. Even with the windows rolled down and winter winds howling outside, he broke into a sweat.

"Didn't see it," she mumbled.

He just shook his head, a small, dismissive grunt, keeping his eyes straight ahead. And that was that.

But the silence that settled over them after wasn’t comfortable. Not one either of them knew how to break.

Joel exhaled through his nose, fixing his stare on the windshield., fingers tapping slowly against the wheel, like he could smooth out the moment just by waiting it out. Jesus, he should’ve never touched her. Should’ve let it be.

“So, that prototype of yours,” he attempted to distract, voice rough. “You got it nearby?”

No response.

He frowned, risked a glance at her—and stopped cold.

Leela sat stiff in the passenger seat, her posture folded in on itself. One slender hand curled at her side, gripping the hem of her nightgown tight until her knuckles went white, the other was pressed to her face, knuckles braced against her nose. Her eyes filled with tears in seconds.

A long, slow breath in, too shaky.

Joel’s stomach sank. He knew that sound. He had seen a lot of it in his time. Had seen grief in all its forms—loud, violent, shattering. But this—this was different. This was quiet, heavy, desperate.

Her shoulders hitched, her breath sucking in too sharp like she was holding something back—something about to give.

And then, just like that, as if a thread had been cut, she sucked in another sharp breath, her whole body curling forward, hands coming up to cover her face—and it hit.

That same soft, keening sound he’d heard from her room almost every night. The one that came through thin walls, muffled by pillows, engulfed by fatigue.

But this time, she wasn’t hiding.

And Joel—he didn’t know what to do. His hands flexed against the wheel, confused and useless.

She wasn’t supposed to be crying. Not because of his pathetic self. Whichever way he saw it, this was his fault. He’d crossed a line, broken through a wall he’d meant to keep standing, and now she was here—crying. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but nothing happened. Fuck. What the hell was he even supposed to say? Everything seemed inappropriate. There was no justification for what he'd done.

His fingers curled tighter, nails digging into his palm. He had to fix it. Before it got worse.

His voice came out too rough, uncertain. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go.”

It hit like a crack of thunder. A faint, clear command, strangled between a cry. His stomach twisted.

He hesitated for half a second, long enough to hear the way her breath hitched, how her fingers curled deeper into her hair, how she looked like she wanted to fold in on herself, disappear into the goddamn leather seat.

He swallowed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He'd had seen women cry before. Ellie, Tess, hell even Maria. He’d occasionally held them while they did. But not this. Not her. And he hated—hated—that it was because of him.

His fingers flexed against his sides, fighting the instinct to reach out, to fix something he wasn’t sure could be fixed. But she’d made herself perfectly clear. To leave her alone.

So he did.

He wrenched the door open, barely registering the way it swung shut behind him. Didn’t look back, didn’t breathe until he was back up the stairs and out the door.

As he jogged down the porch stairs, the cold biting sharper now, cutting straight through the thick weave of his sweater, Joel tried to breathe. Snowflakes clung to the expensive fabric, melting fast, sinking in. He barely noticed. His inhales came long, exhales too short, not quite ragged, but uneven—like he couldn’t get enough air, like something in his chest was pressing down too hard, and no matter how deep he pulled, it wasn’t letting up.

It wasn’t panic. He knew what that felt like all too well.

This was different. A slow, creeping wrongness. A feeling that something had already slipped through his fingers, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding onto. And now it was gone, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix it.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, and wiped it down the scruff on his jaw, trying to steady himself, trying to shove it all back where it belonged. It wasn’t working.

His fingers curled into an aching fist. His breath fogged in the air in clouds.

He needed that fucking drink now.

X

The cold still lingered in the morning air, settling deep in Joel’s bones, but that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He hadn’t slept worth a damn. Tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of restless half-dreams—images he didn’t want, memories he didn’t need. He woke up cold, despite the blankets, with a dull ache in his joints, and a scratch in his throat. Maybe from the weather. Maybe from something else.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out of that house. Getting up, getting moving. Keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind from straying where it wanted to go—back to last night, back to the way she had curled in on herself, hands to her face, shaking with something he couldn’t fix. He despised being around something unfixable. Made him feel incompetent.

He gripped the stack of papers tighter, the edges digging into his fingers as he stepped into the stables. Tommy was there, adjusting the saddle on one of the mares, humming some old tune under his breath. The familiar smell of hay, leather, and horse filled the space, grounding Joel in the moment. He clung to that.

“Tommy!” Joel called, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Tommy glanced up, brow lifting in mild curiosity. “Mornin’, brother. No hard feelings from last night,” he said, giving the straps one last tug before stepping back. His gaze flickered to the papers in Joel’s hand. “What’s all this?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just extended them out. Tommy brushed his palms off before taking them, flipping through the pages absentmindedly—until he wasn’t. His fingers slowed, putting together the pieces, his brows knitting together, his mouth parting just slightly.

"What in the... I mean—I talked to her about this,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Told her we'd be having trouble. That was last week.” He let out a low breath, rubbing at his mouth as he stared at the pages like they had just appeared out of thin air. "She really did all this?"

Joel exhaled with a slight grin, feeling like someone had just handed him a gold star. An odd feeling—one he didn’t quite know what to do with. It wasn’t his place to feel this way, no right to. But still, pride curled as concrete in his ribs.

“She stayed up workin’ on ‘em,” Joel muttered, not quite looking at him.

Tommy let out a short whistle, shaking his head. “Christ. This little genius just saved our asses out of the red.” He waved the papers at him. “Takin' this straight to Maria.”

Joel rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Not just yet. There's a page is missing.”

Tommy paused and frowned, flipping through again. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Joel crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I’ll give it to you if you let me fix that nursery instead of that goddamn kid.”

Tommy looked up at that, blinking. Then, realization dawned, slow and amused. His mouth curved into a smirk.

“For real, Joel?”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Can’t even fix shelves right.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “He's just doing his job.”

“Little shit damn near had it fallin’ apart the last time I was there,” he argued. “Look, do you want the page or not? I'll just feed it to the horse.”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back slightly. “You really got a bone to pick with this poor guy, huh?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. Just kept his arms crossed, eyes unwavering. He wasn't backing down just yet.

Tommy shook his head, flipping the last page with a chuckle. “Fine, fine. You can fix whatever you want.” Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand. “Now gimme the damn page.”

Joel handed it over without another word. But the way Tommy was still looking at him—grinning like he had something to say but was letting Joel walk away with his dignity intact—had him turning on his heel before his brother could get the last word in.

X

[ wow you read this far! now, if you're still reading, I'd just like to know - what song crept into your mind, about Joel or Leela, as you read this chapter? For Joel, definitely: Pain and Misery by The Teskey Brothers and as for Leela, ooooh: Wasteland by Royal & the Serpent! what about you? ]

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And to those in the reblogs, I have no idea how to respond to your sweet, sweet, wondrous words, but after reading them all, I have the most fulfilling, full eight-hour sleep I've ever had in three whole months! I love all the effort you put into commenting, and sharing your thoughts, I know it doesn't seem big, but really, you've made such a difference in my life :) Thank you all so much, and I'd love to keep hearing more!!

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[scarluna]

Y/N, a gifted but self-conscious graphic designer, lands a job at Jeon Enterprises, a powerhouse ruled by the sharp and controlling Jeon Jungkook, whose ruthless perfectionism hides behind an enigmatic façade. Though admired and feared, Jungkook targets Y/N’s insecurities, using them as weapons against her.

Beside him stands his best friend, Min Yoongi, a sly and unpredictable force whose hot-and-cold behavior leaves Y/N questioning his motives.

Tangled in a web of cold authority, teasing games, and unspoken desire, Y/N must navigate a dangerous love triangle where ambition and emotion collide, threatening to unravel everything.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, ceo!jungkook, graphic designer!reader, mafia!yoongi

Link to the other chapters: ACT I / ACT II / ACT III / ACT IV / ACT VI / ACT VII / ACT VIII

Chapters: 5 / ?

Chapter Warnings: mature language, bullying, slow burn, enemies to lovers

A/N: Thank you all so much for the likes and the comments. I did not think this story would become so liked. Again, thank you and enjoy! x

ACT V.

I climbed onto the bus and found an empty seat near the back. The hum of the engine and the faint chatter of passengers filled the air, but it all felt distant. My mind was a swirling storm of everything that had happened, and I couldn’t focus on anything else. I stared out the window as the city blurred past, the gray sky above mirroring the heaviness in my chest.

The tears threatened to spill again, but I clenched my fists and bit the inside of my cheek to hold them back. Not here. Not in front of strangers. I kept my face turned to the window, pretending to watch the scenery, hoping no one would notice how broken I felt inside. I had sunken in that headspace again, where I felt helpless and I didn't felt human at all. It was a nightmare for me. My mind was only stuck in the past and the pain was never ending cycle.

When the bus finally reached my stop, I stepped off into the cool air. My feet carried me the short distance to my apartment automatically, like I was on autopilot. The moment I closed the door behind me, the silence hit, and with it came the flood of emotions I’d been trying to keep at bay.

I dropped my bag by the door and slumped against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. My chest heaved as the first sob broke free, and then another, and another, until I was crying uncontrollably. All the frustration, anger, and pain from today—hell, from the past few days—poured out of me in waves. I hugged my knees to my chest, rocking slightly, as if trying to comfort myself. Since I was a kid there was no one to comfort me, all the adults I once had believed in were never there for me. My dad was an alcoholic who used to mentally abuse me, my mom and my brother. My mother to this day is obsessed with control and she has always had the mentality of the victim. My brother was always the one who was cherished more, as the only boy of the family. And of course, I was thrown to the side with my emotional needs. So at this point, I had to be there for myself. And as grew up in adult, I felt comfortable crying and picking my pain alone rather than being vulnerable with someone. I knew I was broken, I didn't know how broken until now. 

I stayed like that for hours, crying until my throat was raw and my head pounded. Everything became a blur and I felt my body shaking. My breath was cut short and this is when I realized I was having an anxiety attack. I tried to grip at whatever I could find, my bag or my clothing as I sharply braeathed in and out of my nose, counting random numbers. At some point, my phone started buzzing incessantly, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to explain or relive any of it. I was busy prioritizing myself at this very moment and nothing else mattered.

When the tears finally stopped, I felt hollow. My body ached from the tension, and my eyes were sore and swollen. I sat there in silence for what felt like forever, staring at nothing, feeling like I had nothing left to give. Eventually, I forced myself to stand, my movements sluggish and heavy.

I shuffled to the bathroom and turned on the shower, stripping off my clothes while the water heated up. The warmth of the shower felt soothing against my skin, like it was washing away the mess of the day and all the negative emotions I have felt until now. When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in a towel, drying off quickly before changing into sweats and grabbing Hades’ leash.

My dog greeted me eagerly, his tail wagging as if sensing I needed comfort. “Come on, boy,” I murmured, attaching the leash to his collar. His soft brown eyes met mine, and I felt a small pang of warmth in my chest. At least I had him. Hades was the only one that I felt was giving me the unconditional love I so desperately craved.

We went for a short walk around the block. The cold air biting at my skin but somehow grounding me. Hades trotted happily beside me, occasionally sniffing at patches of grass or barking at squirrels. His enthusiasm was a welcome distraction from the mess in my head, and for a brief moment, I felt like I could breathe again.

When we got back, I gave him a treat and collapsed into bed, wrapping myself in the blankets yet again. My body was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easily. My mind replayed everything—the picture, Yoongi’s words, Rya’s betrayal, Tina’s cruelty—until I finally slipped into a restless slumber.

-

When my alarm went off, it took every ounce of willpower I had to drag myself out of bed. My eyes were dry, almost painfully so, but the crying had done its work—I felt an empty hollow shell of myself. I had realized that I slept for more than ten hours which was a record, yet I still didn't feel refreshed at all. I felt the same slump as I did yesterday. I didn't even manage to have any dinner, not that I felt like eating at all. In the last few days I skept meals way too much and I noticed my clothes growing bigger on me, which was odd because I wasn't a person to skip any meal. 

I finally went through the motions of getting ready: a quick shower, brushing my hair, slapping on some concealer to hide the evidence of my breakdown. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like me at all. I couldn't recognize the person I had became. I was drowning in my own pain and it was getting harder to keep my head above the water. Grasping the sink, I stilled for a moment to give myself sometime to breathe. In and out. Until I felt I was grounded in my body and in my mind.

The bus ride to work felt endless. I kept my headphones in, the music drowning out the world around me as I stared out the window. I wasn’t ready for today, I wasn’t ready to face anyone, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to hold my head high and continue to push further. I shouldn't run away because these things would keep hunting me.

When I stepped into the office, the usual hustle and bustle felt distant, like I was walking through a dream.The people and their chatters almost sounded as an echo as I made my way toward my desk. It was Thursday now, and all I could think about was how close the masquerade ball was. 

I sat at my desk, turning on my computer and trying to focus, but my mind was still a jumbled mess. The excitement I’d once felt for the ball was gone, replaced by a dull ache in my chest. What was the point of pretending to care about it? Everything felt meaningless now.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to start working. One task at a time, I told myself. Just get through the day and go home. I was too mentally exhausted with everything at this point. I typed on my keyboard, my eyes raking over the screen and the e-mail I was typing.

The office felt heavier than usual as I worked, staring blankly at the screen in front of me. The steady hum of keyboards and muted voices of my coworkers swirled around me, but I didn’t register any of it. 

“Y/N?”

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. That voice—soft, hesitant—made my stomach churn. I clenched my jaw, refusing to acknowledge her presence. My eyes stayed glued to the screen, fingers tapping faster on the keyboard in an attempt to appear busy.

“Can I talk to you? Please?” Rya’s voice was quiet, almost trembling.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even turn my head. The silence stretched between us and I could feel her discomfort, her desperation hanging in the air.

“I just... I need to explain. I didn’t mean for it to—”

“Don’t.” My voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. I turned to her slowly, my expression cold and unyielding. “I don’t want to hear any of it, Rya. What's done is done.”

Her face crumpled, her lips pressing together as if trying to hold back tears. “I messed up, okay? I know I did. I—I shouldn’t have sent that picture to Hoseok. I thought it was just—”

“Just what?” I snapped, finally swiveling my chair to face her fully. “Funny? Harmless? What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

Her shoulders slumped, her gaze falling to the floor. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking, Y/N. I was just... being stupid. I didn’t think he’d actually—”

I held up a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t care what you were thinking, Rya. You sent something private—something personal—to someone else without my permission. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’ll do anything to make it right. Please, just—”

“Make it right?” I let out a humorless laugh, shaking my head. “You can’t. It’s done. And I don’t want your apology.”

Before she could say anything else, another voice interrupted.

“Y/N.”

I looked up to see Hoseok standing a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked guilty, his eyes avoiding mine at first before he forced himself to meet my gaze.

Great. Just what I needed.

“I want to apologize as well, it wasn't okay for me to do that—” he asked, his voice low.

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. “I don't need your apology.”

“Please,” he said, stepping closer. “I messed up as well, okay? I shouldn’t have shown that picture to anyone. I just wanted to show off how happy you looked that night. It was immature and wrong, and I’m sorry. I—I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear.”

I stared at him, my expression unreadable. “But you did. Both of you did.”

Hoseok sighed, running a hand through his hair. He seemed worried and frustrated. “I know. I was stupid, and I regret it more than anything. I’ve felt like crap ever since. Please, Y/N, I’m begging you. Just give us a chance to make it up to you.”

I shook my head, standing up from my chair. “You don’t get to feel bad about this, Hoseok. Neither of you do. You made your choices, and now you have to live with them.”

Rya sniffled beside me, her voice barely a whisper. I could see that she has been crying, her eyes were red and her face was swollen. “Y/N, please—”

“No,” I said firmly, cutting her off. “We’re done here. Both of you, leave me alone.”

Without another word, I slowly stood up headed to the break room to escape the suffocating tension. My hands were trembling as I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. Thankfully they didn't follow me or else I'd have leashed on them even worse than I did back there. Soft sigh escaped my lips as I closed my eyes.

They might have been sorry, but their apologies didn’t mean anything to me. Not now. Maybe not ever. I could feel the entire office's eyes on me as I arrived here this morning, their judgy stares, the way they would whisper about me as I passed by . . . it almost felt like I was in high school all over again. I hated it.

The cool stream of water poured steadily into the glass I had picked from the cabinet as I focused on controlling my breathing. The break room felt quieter than usual, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the space. I brought the glass to my lips, taking a small sip, when the sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness.

I turned my head just as Jungkook entered the room, his sharp suit tailored perfectly, his posture confident yet somehow intimidating. He glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable as he made his way to the coffee machine.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice even and professional as he greeted. That man was so cold. I could feel the chills in the room. He stared at my face for far too long to be comfortable. I tried to look away, but he grabbed my jaw. My breath stopped for a moment. The way he touched me, so gently, his skin felt burning sensation on me.* "Have you been crying?" he asked, tone low and demanding. I sighed and shrugged. "None of your business if I did." I could practically hear him roll his eyes. My Boss was not a man who tolerated such answers, but in my case, he remained silent. Instead, he changed the subject rather quickly and I was appreciating that, because I was not ready to talk about how I was with anyone. “About the 2 PM meeting today. You’ll need to be ready with the brief.”

I set the glass down on the counter, nodding. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Good.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and added, “Make sure Tina looks over it before you hand it to me.”

The words made me freeze for a split second. I turned to him, my expression hardening. “No.”

He looked up from his coffee cup, eyebrows slightly raised. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not giving Tina my work,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’ll present it directly to you.”

Jungkook sighed, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms. “Y/N, Tina is your direct manager. It’s her job to review your work before it reaches me.”

“And it’s my job to make sure the work is actually done right,” I shot back, my tone sharper than intended. “Every time Tina gets involved, she messes things up. This is important, and I’m not taking that risk.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Fine. You can present it directly to me. But don’t let this happen again. The hierarchy is there for a reason, Y/N. We can’t just ignore it.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t argue further. It was already a small victory.

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes briefly studying me. Then, in a tone noticeably cooler, he asked, “I hope you are feeling better than yesterday. That doesn't mean you should slack at your work, understood?” His gaze was sharp, and yet there was something softer lurking beneath the surface.

“I won't,” I said curtly, my defenses snapping back into place.

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but he gave a slight nod before turning to leave the break room.

As the door swung shut behind him, I let out a slow breath. My hands still trembled slightly from the conversation me and him had, but I refused to let it show. If there was one thing I had to prove today, it was that I could handle myself—and my work—without interference.

-

By the time the meeting started, the tension in the room was palpable. Tina sat stiffly across the table from me, her lips pressed into a thin line. Jungkook, ever the professional, appeared calm, but there was a hint of worry in his expression. Whether it was about Yoongi’s absence that went unnoticed by me as well or something else, he didn’t let on.

As we began, I passed copies of my brief directly to Jungkook and the other key members of the team. Tina shot me a pointed look, her eyes narrowing. Rya and Hoseok looked at me as if they tried to say something but I did not give thim that opportunity.

“Y/N,” she said, her tone clipped, “you were supposed to send this to me first.”

“I decided it was better to present it directly,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral but firm as I reached my seat and sat back down.

Tina’s glare hardened, but before she could say anything further, Jungkook cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Let’s focus on the content of the work,” he said, flipping through the pages. His expression shifted slightly as he reviewed my document, a hint of approval crossing his features. He set the papers down and looked at me.

“Good work, Y/N. This is thorough and well-presented. It shows that you had improvement since last time.” Is he serious? I wanted to roll my eyes so fucking bad but I did not. Soft sigh escaped my lips. At the same time however, I fought to keep the pride from showing too much on my face but couldn’t stop a small, satisfied smile from tugging at my lips.

Jungkook turned to Tina, his tone calm but pointed. “Tina, I understand you’re managing multiple aspects of the team, but when Y/N expresses concerns about her work being compromised, those concerns need to be heard. You should take her input seriously going forward. That said, the two of you need to keep collaborating effectively.”

Tina’s jaw clenched, but she nodded stiffly. “Understood.”

I couldn’t resist. Leaning back slightly in my chair, I fixed her with a steady gaze, my smirk subtle but unmistakable. Her eyes flicked to mine briefly before she looked away, her irritation clear.

Satisfied, I shifted my attention back to Jungkook as he moved on to the next topic on the agenda: the current project documentation.

“The documentation for the ongoing projects needs a thorough review,” Jungkook said. “There have been inconsistencies flagged by the higher-ups, and we need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

The discussion continued, but I barely registered Tina’s contributions. The small victory from earlier left me feeling hyped, even as I knew the real challenges lay ahead. Jungkook’s approval meant something, even if his cold professionalism sometimes made it hard to tell.

As the meeting wrapped up, I caught Jungkook’s gaze briefly. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before gathering his papers and leaving the room. Tina stormed out soon after, her heels clicking against the floor.

I allowed myself one more small, triumphant smile before heading back to my desk to finish my current brief.

-

The night had already fallen by the time I finally managed to clear my apartment. The chaos from the past few days had left my place in disarray—papers scattered on the floor, dishes piled up in the sink, and the weight of everything I was trying to avoid pressed against the walls. But now, as I wiped down the last countertop and took a deep breath, it was like a small weight had been lifted. At least something in my life felt under control, even if it was just this tiny corner of my world.

I collapsed onto the couch, trying to relax for a moment before I had to dive back into whatever would come next. But just as I settled, my phone buzzed loudly on the table. I picked it up with a sigh, already knowing who it was from.

Tae <3

I’d seen his name flashing on my screen in these days, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind, but now, with everything finally settling down a little, I pressed the green button.

“Hey, Tae,” I said softly, my voice hoarse from the days of tension.

“Y/N! I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” he said, his voice filled with concern. “Are you okay? I… am worried.”

I let out a slow exhale, feeling a knot form in my chest as I tried to explain what had happened. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just… it’s been a rough couple of days. There’s a lot to explain, honestly.”

I spent the next few minutes filling him in on the events that had unfolded at work—about the picture, the drama with Yoongi, Tina’s cruelty, and Rya’s betrayal. Tae listened patiently, his silence comforting. Even though I was exhausted from talking about it all, his kind, calming presence over the phone helped ground me.

“Y/N, that’s… a lot. I’m really sorry you had to go through that,” Tae said, his voice tender with compassion. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I’m here for you, okay?”

His words meant more than he probably realized. Despite everything, it felt like a small lifeline.

“I appreciate it, Tae. Really. It’s just… I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel like I’ve been surrounded by lies. It’s all just been too much.”

“I get it. But know that you have people around you that care and you should not forget who you are, stand your ground, Y/N.” he reassured me.

His voice was steady, and for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. And then I remembered what my parents had told me. Did Tae actually had feelings for me? Did he stuck around all this time because he felt something for me and I blantantly ignored him, oblivious to his advances and words? I felt like such a bad person. I had to figure out what I actually felt toward him, but deep down I was afraid that I might loose him. 

“We should hang out this weekend,” he continued, his voice pulled me out of the trance I was falling into. “Maybe grab a bite, just get out of there for a bit. How about Sunday- I mean, we will still see each other at the masquerade ball tomorrow but still?”

“Sunday sounds perfect,” I replied, the idea of spending some time with him lifting my spirits. No matter how many times I was with him, it always felt like a gulp of fresh air.

“Great. I’ll text you the details. And Y/N, take care of yourself, okay?”

The sincerity in his voice had me biting my lip to keep from tearing up. “Thanks, Tae. I’ll see you then.”

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up feeling lighter. The weight that had been dragging me down all day wasn’t gone, but it had lessened. I had a plan for Sunday after the ball, something to look forward to, and that was enough for now. I should start prioritizing my life and controlling my emotions better. This was such a vulnerable and cruical moment for me. I had let people peel my skin and expose me so bad that it hurt. I was going to fight and not let anyone do that anymore.

I set my phone down and glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was already eleven pm. Time was passing fast when I was lost in my own little world.

Before I could do anything, my phone buzzed again, the screen flashing an anonymous number. I hesitated for a second, but curiosity got the better of me. Who could this be in such hour? I swiped the green button and pressed the phone to my ear.

The line was eerily quiet, nothing but slow breathing on the other end. My heart began to race, a strange chill creeping up my spine.

“Hello?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The silence continued for a moment longer, making my skin crawl. And then, just as I was about to hang up, I heard a voice.

“Y/N,” Yoongi’s voice came through the phone, gravelly and almost unrecognizable. “Please-” he slurred, "come down, I am in front of y-your apartment." 

A cold wave of panic washed over me.

“Yoongi? What the hell are you talking about?” I stood up and my bare feet tapped quickly and hastily toward my large window. I removed the curtain and I saw him. Yoongi's Hyundai Palisade was parked at the front and he was leaning against it. He glanced up but it was as if he was looking straight through me.

The line went silent again. His breathing was slow, labored, like he was struggling to stay awake.

My hands shook as I held the phone, my mind racing. What was he doing here? Why now? How the fuck did he get my phone and address?

I didn’t want to go down there, didn’t want to face him after everything that had happened. But something in his voice, a combination of weariness and something I couldn’t place, made me grab my jacket and slip on my shoes as I headed out of my apartment. My heart pounding in my chest as I walked towards the elevator. There was no way I could ignore this.

When I stepped outside, I froze.

Yoongi was standing there, barely able to stand on his own. His face was bruised, and his clothes were disheveled. His eyes were half-lidded, a bottle of something in his hand. He looked like he’d been through hell.

“Yoongi?” I whispered, my voice shaky. “What happened to you?” I took a few hesitant steps toward him. The view was horrific. It appeared as if Yoongi has fought with someone. And on top of that he was drunk and got here driving. The fuck was wrong with him?!

He didn’t respond immediately, swaying slightly on his feet. His breath was thick with alcohol, and his usually sharp gaze was dull and unfocused. He lifted his head and glared at me, trying to stand on his two feet.

“I… I just needed to see you,” he muttered, his voice thick with something I couldn’t quite place. He took a step toward me, his hand outstretched.

“You’re drunk,” I said, my voice rising in panic as I took a step back. “Yoongi, what the hell—why are you even here? Why are you acting like this?”

His eyes flickered to mine, a brief moment of recognition, “I… didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he slurred. I could hear the pain in his voice, it was strained but it was there. 

I stood there, shocked and unsure of what to do. My mind screamed at me to walk away, to shut the door and forget this ever happened. But something inside me—something I couldn’t ignore—told me that I needed to help him. Even if I didn’t want to. See, I wasn't a person that would let others in distress or pain. Unfortunately, I'd even help to people who hurt me deeply. It was how I was raised, to always care for other's comfort but ours. It was a wicked game really, I was standing there and stared at his condition. In the months I have been at this company, I have never seen Yoongi drunk and like this. Vulnerable.

"Yoongi, you need to go home," I said, my voice firm despite the confusion swirling inside me. I felt him approach me but for some reason I didn't move. He towered over me, his brown eyes gazed at me but yet again, it felt like he was seeing right through me. Before I could say something he leaned over and pressed his face into my shoulder, sighing quietly. He dropped the bottle and I could feel him grow heavy. Was he about to pass out? Fuck.

I had second to decide what to do. To leave him lay there or drag him inside.  "Come on, let’s get you inside." I muttered quickly, wrapping my arms around him.

He didn’t argue, allowing me to help him stumble towards the entrance. He was a mess, and I hated that I couldn’t just leave him out there. I hated that I was a kind and caring person toward people that didn't deserve it at all.

As I guided him inside of the elevators and the doors closed, my mind raced with all sorts of questions.

Yoongi lifted his head and stared at my face yet again. I frowned his way and his lips twitched as he soon gave me a drunkish grin. "You are pretty like this." I rolled my eyes. "You are hallucinating,"  "I wish I was, then I wouldn't feel like shit for saying all those things to you and making you cry." he muttered lowly.

I dragged Yoongi inside, half-carrying him as he leaned heavily against me, barely able to keep his footing. His breath was labored, and his body seemed to have gone limp. It was like he was a completely different person from the Yoongi I had known—the one with sharp wit and even sharper eyes. This Yoongi was a shell, drunk and beaten, stumbling through the door of my apartment.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew I had to get him off the hallway, away from the peeking neighbours and cold night air. I laid him down on my couch, watching as he immediately passed out, his head lolling to the side. He looked so vulnerable in that moment—so fragile—and it made my stomach turn. I hated seeing him like this.

I stood over him for a moment, my hands on my hips as I was unsure of what to do next. My mind was still reeling from the shock of his unexpected appearance, but there was something deeper stirring inside me. I had to make sure he was okay. Or at least, make sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself more.

I didn't really know any people closer to Yoongi than Jungkook. So I grabbed my phone and dialed Jungkook's number. After a few signals, he picked up.

“Hello?” Jungkook’s voice came through the speaker, sounding concerned and confused as of to who that might be. He probably didn't have my number saved at all. "It's uh- Y/N..." I trailed off, "sorry to bother you this late," I could tell by the sound of his voice that he was probably asleep.  "No, it's fine. Whats going on?"

“Well. . . Yoongi at my apartment. He showed up drunk with his car parked in front of my place and he’s passed out on my couch.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and I could almost hear Jungkook’s mind racing. I heard faint curses and then some rustling before he spoke again.

“Give me your address, I will be on my way shortly,” he mumbled, I took a deep breath and gave him the location and then the line disconnected.

True to his word, Jungkook arrived fifteen minutes later. He was quiet when he walked in, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Yoongi, sprawled helplessly on the couch. His jaw tightened for a moment, but he said nothing. I noticed Jungkook was wearing his pajamas. This is why he was so fast, he just got up and rushed here? 

“Will he be okay?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

Jungkook ran a hand through his messy dark hair and sighed, kneeling beside Yoongi. “Yeah. It's not his first time being like this.”

I bit my lip, watching as Jungkook carefully adjusted Yoongi’s position, making sure he was comfortable. The whole situation felt too surreal.

“Why is he like this?” I asked. The question had been gnawing at me ever since I found him outside, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Why would he show up like this, covered in bruises?”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered to me for a moment, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately, as if weighing how much he could reveal. After a long pause, he finally said, “Yoongi doesn’t handle emotional pain well. He’d rather take physical pain than face whatever’s going on inside. It’s easier for him, in a way.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Physical pain over emotional pain. I had always thought Yoongi was this hard, untouchable person, but hearing that made me realize how much he was hiding beneath that façade.

“That’s… that’s not normal,” I whispered, my heart aching for him.

Jungkook gave me a look, as if to say, You don’t know the half of it. He stood up and turned toward me, his eyes piercing right through me.

“I’m taking him home,” Jungkook muttered, his voice a little softer now. “I’ll make sure he’s settled in. But Y/N…”

I looked up at him, surprised by the seriousness in his voice.

“He won’t admit it, but he needs help. And I don’t think he’ll let anyone in if he knows they’re worried...”

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words.

Jungkook gave Yoongi one last look before he crouched down and gently shook him awake. It took a moment, but Yoongi stirred, groaning as he slowly blinked his eyes open.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook said, his voice low and commanding. “We’re taking you home. Can you stand?”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and he winced as he tried to sit up. “I don’t want to go home…” he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Jungkook’s eyes softened for just a second. “We don’t have much of a choice. Come on.”

With a little effort, Jungkook helped Yoongi stand, supporting him as they made their way out of my apartment. My eyes followed them as they left, a mixture of concern and confusion swirling inside me. I had no idea what was going on in Yoongi’s life, what demons he was fighting. But I could tell it was more than just the things I saw at work.

I stood in the doorway for a while after they left, the quiet of my apartment settling back in around me. There was a lot more to Yoongi than I had ever realized, and I couldn’t help but wonder—what else was he hiding?

The night felt long, and I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same after tonight.

-

I tossed and turned in my bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to escape the thoughts swirling in my mind. Yoongi. What was going on inside his head? Why would he let himself fall to such a low point? I had been so wrapped up in my own problems, so focused on myself, that I failed to look outside my bubble.

Was he suffering just as much as I was? Or worse? His words, those harsh, cutting words, still echoed in my head. I couldn’t ignore them, no matter how much I wanted to. The damage had been done. There was no coming back from that—at least not for me. His actions, his words, they had already crossed a line I wasn’t willing to forgive.

I didn’t trust him anymore. How could I? But despite my resolve, I still wondered—why? Why had he let himself get to that point? Why was he hurting like this? Was he just as lost as I felt sometimes?

But that didn’t change anything. I couldn’t let my guard down. Not now. Not after everything he had put me through.

By the time morning came, I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. I forced myself to get up, get dressed, and head to work, though it felt like everything was happening in a haze. When I walked into the building, everything felt louder, more intense. But my mind was still stuck on Yoongi.

As I walked down the hallway, lost in my own thoughts, I almost bumped into Jungkook.

"Hey," he said quietly, his tone almost cautious.

I glanced up at him, blinking a few times as I tried to focus. "How's Yoongi?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Jungkook gave me a quick glance, and I could tell from his expression that Yoongi’s condition was still on his mind, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. “He’s fine. Just a little bruised up. He’ll be at the ball tomorrow.”

I nodded, but the words hit me harder than I expected. The ball? He was going to attend? After everything that happened?

Before I could process any more thoughts, I heard the click of heels approaching. Tina. Of course, she couldn’t leave us alone. She came up to us with that smug look she always wore, her eyes narrowing as she took in our whispered conversation.

“So, what’s going on here?” she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness, arms crossed against her chest. “Are you two flirting?”

I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to entertain her question. I had better things to do than to deal with Tina and her constant attempts at stirring drama. "She's all yours." I muttered to him.

Jungkook, on the other hand, wasn’t as forgiving. He snapped back at her harshly, his tone cold. “No, Tina. We’re not flirting. I suggest you stop with the snarky comments or I will make you regret it.”

Tina’s eyes widened slightly, and I could see the jealousy bubbling beneath the surface. She looked from Jungkook to me, trying to read our expressions, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.

Instead, I just turned and walked away, not bothering to waste my time on her games. Tina was starting to get pathetic even more in my eyes. 

Jungkook sighed behind me, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t say anything more.

It was strange—despite everything that had happened, despite the weight of my own emotions, there was something comforting about Jungkook’s presence. Maybe it was his steady calmness, or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t play games like Tina. Whatever it was, I didn’t feel as alone when he was around.

But even with that small comfort, my mind couldn’t let go of Yoongi. He was still a mess. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I couldn’t help but feel responsible for part of it.

I had to focus. On the work. On moving forward. Because if I didn’t, I might drown in all of this.

-

The afternoon sunlight streamed softly through my apartment windows, warming the room as I sipped my sugarless coffee, the cup cradled in both hands. At my feet, Hades curled up, his soft fur was shining under the soft rays of the sun. My eyes kept drifting to the royal blue dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door.

Rya had talked me into it—her determination was unrelenting. “You deserve to look stunning, Y/N,” she’d said, dragging me into store after store until she found the dress.

I reached for the diamond hair accessory on my dresser, its glimmer catching the sunlight. My fingers grazed it thoughtfully as I imagined how it would sit in my hair, which Rya had insisted I style in soft, flowing beach curls. I sighed, setting it down again.

Hades stirred, flicking his tail against my ankle as I took another sip of coffee, trying to ground myself. My thoughts were tangled, looping through the chaos of the past few weeks. Yoongi. Jungkook. The picture. The insults. And now, the ball. A part of me was still so anxious, but beneath it all was a simmering determination to get through this. To face everything head-on.

My phone buzzed on the counter, interrupting my thoughts. I picked it up, my heart sinking a little when I saw my parents’ number.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice.

“Sweetheart,” came my mom’s familiar voice, warm but tinged with hesitation. "Have you been alright, my girl?"  I paused, should I tell her about what happened to me or keep it to myself. I swallowed thickly and forced a steady voice, it was tough not being able to be understood by your own mother. I knew what she was gonna say so I did not bother letting her know about this. "I am okay, mom. How's dad?" "Oh, you know, he has a new hobby which is grilling. He is quite alright per say." I humed in response and there was a pause. “Your brother’s parole was denied.” she served it as if it was the most casual thing ever. I frowned and rose up from my bed, biting on my lips. The words hit me like a dull thud in the chest, but I kept my voice steady. “What now? Should we change the attorney?”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll visit him soon and see how we should proceed.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Alright," I trailed off. I couldn't believe his parole was denied. That probably wrecked him completely. 

We chatted a little longer before saying our goodbyes, but the call left a small crack in my composure. I set the phone down and took a deep breath. Focus, Y/N. Tonight is about showing up and holding your own.

-

The drive to the MNT Media headquarters was a blur. Taehyung had picked me up in his sleek black Genesis GV80 SUV, his reaction when he saw me leaving my apartment still fresh in my mind.

“Wow, Y/N,” he had said, his eyes widening as I stepped outside. “You look... incredible.”

I’d smiled, a little shy under his burning gaze. “Thanks, Tae." I was not used to compliments, but I took enough time to look at myself in the mirror. I did look quite well tonight. That dress hugged my curves perfectly and it showed everything that had to be shown and everything that had to stay hidden. The color perfectly contrasted with my skin. The mask was hiding who I struggled to be, it was made from royal blue diamonds and it shined under the lighting of my apartment.  And the jewlery in my hair only added to the effect of luxury. 

Tae however, he was wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, with a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. His mask—a gold and black design that made him look impossibly suave—only added to his charm. His brown locks of hair tossled and messy suited him perfectly. He looked like a handsome prince. And for a moment I found the thought of him liking me ridicilous. Why would someone who looked so perfect would like someone like me? As we drove, he threw out compliments like they were second nature, his voice laced with a playful flirtation that made me laugh despite my nerves.

“You’re going to steal the show tonight,” he said, his eyes briefly flicking toward me before returning to the road. "You are exaggerating." I gazed at him with soft grin and my eyes raked over his face and that smug smirk from my response. However, my eyes focused on his veiny hands that held the steering wheel. I stared at them for a little too long as he obviously noticed my stare. "Something wrong?" I snapped out of it and looked away, clearing my throat. "No- not at all."  I saw that dumbass smirk smugly at me. I wanted to punch him but instead a small giggle escaped my lips.

When we pulled up to the grand entrance of MNT Media’s headquarters, I felt a wave of anxiety crash over me. The paparazzi were already gathered outside, their cameras flashing incessantly, blinding all the people that passed by. The building itself was a towering masterpiece of glass and steel, lit up like a beacon in the night. It screamed 'you are out of this world, Y/N' in big bold letters.

Taehyung parked, stepping out first before circling around to open my door. “Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand like the real gentleman he was.

I nodded, placing my hand in his. I felt electricity run down my spine as I felt the warmth and softness of his skin. He held my hand ever so gentle as if he was afraid I'd break. I spared a glance at his face and then my focuse went on my exit from the car. As I stepped out, the flashing lights of the cameras hit me like a tidal wave. I felt overwhelmed for a moment, but Taehyung offered his arm, and I clung to it like a lifeline.

“Just keep your eyes forward,” he whispered, leaning close so only I could hear. “You’ve got this.”

I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and let him lead me inside.

The ballroom was breathtaking. The lights were dimmed, casting everything in a soft golden glow. Crystal chandeliers hung high above, their facets sparkling like stars. Guests milled about in masks, their laughter and conversation blending with the sound of a grand piano being played in the corner. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne, champagne, and roses.

Round tables draped in white silk lined the edges of the room, while the center was open for dancing. Everything oozed luxury—from the gilded accents on the walls to the servers circulating with trays of expensive champagne.

“Not bad, huh?” Taehyung said, his tone light as we stepped inside.

“It’s beautiful,” I admitted, my eyes sweeping over the scene.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice quieter this time.

I glanced up at him, his expression softer now, less playful. It was cute really, all I could do was give him a soft grin in response.

As we moved deeper into the room, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the evening settling over me. And whatever happened tonight, I knew it was going to change everything.

I scanned the room, feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all. Everywhere I looked, there were important people—CEOs, celebrities, politicians—all dressed in their finest. The men wore tailored suits with intricate masks, while the women dazzled in luxurious gowns, their jewels glinting under the chandeliers. The anonymity of the masks made it impossible to identify anyone from Jeon Enterprises however.

Taehyung and I found a spot near one of the round tables draped in white silk. He handed me a glass of champagne, the bubbling liquid catching the warm golden glow of the chandeliers.

“You’re doing great,” he said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the soft murmur of conversation.

I gave him a small smile, grateful for his calming presence. “Thanks, Tae.”

We lounged there for a while, sipping our champagne and observing the scene. Taehyung’s easy charm and lighthearted comments kept me grounded, though my thoughts still occasionally drifted to the potential encounters lurking behind the glittering masks.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw them—Rya and Hoseok.

Rya looked absolutely stunning, as she always did. She wore a deep crimson gown with a plunging neckline, the fabric hugging her petite frame and flowing elegantly to the floor. Her dark hair was pinned up in a sophisticated bun, and her mask—a delicate creation of red lace and gold—perfectly matched her dress. She exuded confidence, but there was a cautiousness in her eyes as she approached.

Hoseok, by contrast, looked sharp and understated in a classic black suit paired with a sleek white mask. The suit was tailored impeccably to his lean frame, and the silk pocket square matched the ivory tones of his mask. His usual bright smile was subdued as he stood beside Rya, his hands in his pockets, his posture slightly hesitant.

They stopped a few feet away from me, and for a moment, the air seemed to hang heavy between us.

“Y/N,” Rya said, her voice tentative.

I smiled softly, deciding tonight wasn’t the time for grudges or rehashing old wounds. The ball was too grand, the stakes too high for petty arguments. “Rya. Hoseok,” I greeted politely, nodding to each of them. “You both look amazing.”

Relief washed over their faces.

“You too,” Rya said, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “That dress... wow. You look incredible.”

“She’s right,” Hoseok added, his tone sincere. “You’re... glowing, Y/N. Like, really.”

I gave a small laugh, shaking my head. “You two are just trying to butter me up.”

“No, really,” Rya insisted, stepping closer. “I’m so sorry about everything. We are. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand—”

“Not tonight,” I interrupted gently, raising a hand to stop her. “Let’s just enjoy the ball, okay? We can talk about it another time.”

They exchanged a glance before nodding in unison. “Okay,” Rya said. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Thank you,” Hoseok echoed, his smile finally warming.

I felt a small weight lift off my chest. It wasn’t forgiveness—not entirely—but it was a step in the right direction. Tonight wasn’t about grudges or misunderstandings. It was about standing tall, embracing the moment, and maybe even letting myself enjoy it.

Taehyung, who had been quietly observing the exchange, leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “See? You’re a natural at this.”

I gave him a playful nudge, but his words made me smile. The night was still young, and for now, I was determined to make the most of it.

The conversation with Rya and Hoseok had settled into an easy rhythm, the earlier tension softening with every passing minute. I was just starting to feel comfortable when the grand double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, drawing everyone’s attention.

I turned toward the entrance, my champagne glass frozen mid-air. That’s when I saw him—Jungkook.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his broad shoulders commanding attention even amidst the sea of masked guests. His dark mask was minimalistic yet elegant, fitting his sharp, chiseled features like it was made for him. But what truly caught me off guard was the person on his arm.

Tina.

She clung to him like her life depended on it, her smug expression practically radiating across the room. Her gown, a striking emerald green with a dangerously high slit, screamed of someone desperate to make an impression. She looked ecstatic—proud, even—and for good reason. To show up with Jeon Jungkook at her side? That was a trophy in itself.

My stomach twisted uncomfortably as I watched her lean closer to him, giggling at something he said. But Jungkook didn’t seem invested in her. His eyes were scanning the room, restless, as though he was searching for someone.

Someone?

Before I could make sense of it my eyes shifted to the second couple that had just walked in.

This time, it was Yoongi.

The sight of him stole my breath for a moment. He was dressed in an all-black ensemble as well, but with a velvet jacket that added an edge of understated luxury. His mask, a rich silver that contrasted against his dark hair, gave him an air of quiet mystery. But it wasn’t just him.

On his arm was Gina.

Gina—the same girl from the cafeteria who had made those snide comments about my weight. The same Gina who had once asked Hoseok to this ball and been pushed away. She had traded in her usual uniform for a glittering golden gown that hugged her figure like it had been poured onto her. Her mask sparkled with rhinestones, matching the shimmering confidence in her eyes.

The sight of her with Yoongi made my chest tighten, though I couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was because she had made me feel so small that day in the cafeteria, and now she was walking in like she owned the place.

I stared longer than I should have, my gaze flicking between the two pairs—Jungkook and Tina, Yoongi and Gina. "The hell, Tina and Gina?" Rya asked in disbelief. Hoseok giggled. "Their names rhyme." "They are both equally evil." Rya answered with a flat tone, "that's why." I burst out laughing at this, because let's face it. It was true, both of them thrived on attention. I wonder how the Boss and Yoongi fell for their traps.

“You’re staring,” Taehyung’s voice broke through my thoughts. He leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Don’t let them see they’ve gotten to you,” he murmured, his tone soft but firm.

I blinked, snapping my gaze back to Taehyung. His brown eyes were warm, reassuring, and I gave him a small nod. He was right. I wouldn’t let them have that satisfaction.

But it seemed I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jungkook’s head turn in my direction. His eyes, sharp and focused even behind the mask, landed on me almost instantly. I couldn’t see his expression entirely, but something flickered there—recognition.

And then Yoongi’s gaze followed.

It was as though time slowed for a moment. Jungkook and Yoongi both stared at me, their attention laser-focused despite the room full of people.

I felt exposed, vulnerable, even though I was fully covered by my mask and gown.

“Looks like you’ve been spotted,” Taehyung said, an annoying lilt to his voice as he lifted his glass to his lips.

I exhaled slowly, trying to calm the sudden flutter of nerves in my stomach. “Let them look,” I muttered, tilting my chin up slightly.

But as much as I wanted to exude confidence, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was about to get a lot more complicated.

A hush fell over the ballroom as a woman walked onto the stage at the far end of the room. The murmurs around me stilled as all eyes turned toward her. Octavia Leeroy, the CEO of MNT Media, stood tall and commanding under the spotlight.

She was stunning—her elegance more commanding than any gown or mask in the room. Dressed in a sleek, black floor-length gown with subtle sequins that caught the light, she radiated power and sophistication. Her mask was a bold gold creation, but her presence alone was enough to command attention.

As she took her place at the microphone, her voice carried through the room, smooth and steady.

“Welcome,” she began, her tone warm yet authoritative. “Tonight is a celebration—a celebration of not only our successes but of the people who make those successes possible. Each of you represents a piece of a puzzle that drives industries, builds communities, and inspires change. But let’s not forget, behind every mask, every polished exterior, are sacrifices, challenges, and battles fought in silence.”

I felt a lump form in my throat as her words resonated. She spoke with a sincerity that cut through the grandeur of the event, sharing stories of her struggles—the nights she worked tirelessly, the people who doubted her and the moments she doubted herself.

Her voice wavered only slightly when she spoke of the cost of ambition, but she never faltered. She had built an empire with blood, sweat, and tears, and now she stood as a symbol of resilience.

A wave of admiration surged through me. This is what strength looks like, I thought to myself, soaking in every word. She was everything I dreamed of becoming—powerful, respected, unshakable. When Octavia finished her speech, a thunderous applause erupted, echoing through the grand ballroom. I clapped along with the crowd, my heart swelling with a renewed sense of determination.

As the applause faded, the music resumed—a gentle, lilting melody that invited couples to the dance floor.

I turned back to Taehyung, who was already watching me with a mischievous glint in his eye. He extended his hand, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “May I have this dance?”

I hesitated for only a moment before taking his hand. “You may,” I replied, my voice light. Rya and Hoseok also joined the dance floor and swayed in the slow rhytum of the piano music.

Taehyung led me to the dance floor, his confidence putting me at ease. He placed one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine, and we began to move in time with the music.

At first, our steps were measured, almost formal. But as we swayed, something shifted. The space between us grew smaller, and the intensity of his gaze deepened. His fingers lingered on my waist, his touch light yet deliberate.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Me?” I countered, my heart fluttering as his gaze dropped briefly to my lips. “You’re the one making all the bold moves.”

He chuckled, spinning me gently. “Maybe I like seeing you off guard.”

Before I could respond, I felt a pair of hands catch me mid-spin, steadying me. The grip was firm, different.

When I turned to look up, I froze.

Jungkook.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us. His mask did little to hide the sharp angles of his face, and the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips.

“Mind if I cut in?” he asked, his tone smooth yet edged with something deeper.

I blinked, my breath hitching as I realized I had no choice—Taehyung had already stepped back, a deep scowl at his lips as he let Jungkook take the lead without any other word. 

Jungkook’s hand slid to my waist, his other still holding mine as he began to move us effortlessly across the floor. His proximity, the intensity of his gaze, left me completely unmoored.

“You look proper,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. Proper? Really? What should I expect from a man like him.

“Thanks,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

His smirk deepened as he twirled me, his movements confident and precise. “I’d say I look more than ‘not too bad‘.’”

I rolled my eyes, despite the warmth creeping up my neck. “Careful, Jungkook. Your ego’s showing.”

He chuckled, his grip on my waist tightening slightly as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And here I thought you’d be too nervous to handle a dance like this.”

I tilted my chin up, refusing to let him rattle me. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

His gaze darkened, his expression unreadable as we continued to move in perfect synchronization. For a moment, the world around us blurred—the guests, the music, the grandeur of the ballroom. It was just him and me, locked in a silent battle of wills.  "You came with Tina?" I asked in a hushed tone as we danced. He frowned but then low chuckle escaped his plump lips. Was he amused? "Are you jealous?" "You fucking wish." I spoke out and Jungkook laughed at that. I have never seen him so cheery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another familiar figure on the edge of the dance floor. Yoongi.

He was watching us, his expression unreadable behind his mask, but his eyes told a different story. He was intently staring at me and Jungkook as Gina was tugging his arm to go to the dance floor but by his expression and his stoic frame, he refused. Gina gave up and crossed her arms against her chest.

The tension in the air between Jungkook and me was palpable. I couldn't breathe from the closeness of him. He was intoxicating me, like a bottle of strong alcohol making my knees go weak. I had my breath hitched the entire dance before the music stopped and everyone parted. Jungkook refused to let me go.  "You are really beautiful tonight, Y/N." he muttered, his eyes exploring my face. I cleared my throat and pulled away immediately, "T-thanks." He hummed and soon I saw a few guys call out to him. Jungkook turned around to see who it was then back at me. "I have to go. Talk to you later." he said before he headed toward the group of people as I was left alone at the dance floor.

Suddenly, a voice called my name from behind me.

“Y/N?”

I turned around, my steps faltering as I came face-to-face with a man I hadn’t seen in years. Richard Delgrassi.

“Mr. Delgrassi?” I stammered, the surprise evident in my tone. What was he doing here?

He smiled warmly, his salt-and-pepper hair adding a distinguished edge to his polished appearance. Dressed in a charcoal-gray tuxedo and a black mask that matched his sharp features, he exuded the same air of authority and charm I remembered from my childhood.

“I thought that was you,” he said, his tone brimming with familiarity. “My, how you’ve grown. It’s been what—ten years?”

“More like twelve,” I replied, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’m surprised you recognized me with this mask.”

“Your eyes, dear,” he said, gesturing lightly. “They’re unmistakable. Just like your father’s.”

At the mention of my father, a pang of nostalgia hit me. Richard Delgrassi had been one of my father’s closest associates back when our family was still living the high life. My father, Benjamin, had owned one of the most successful car manufacturing companies in the country. His name had once been synonymous with innovation and luxury in the automobile industry. Richard had been his right-hand man, helping to expand the business and secure lucrative deals. But as fate would have it, a series of unfortunate events—including betrayal from within the company—had forced my father to sell his empire and move abroad, leaving behind the life he had built so painstakingly.

Now, Richard was a prominent politician, known for his advocacy for economic reform and his push for ethical practices in business. His transformation from a business mogul’s associate to a public figure had been nothing short of remarkable.

“It’s been ages,” I said, trying to suppress the rush of emotions his presence stirred. “How have you been?”

“Well, politics keeps me busy,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’ve been keeping an eye on the industry. It’s hard to let go of one’s roots entirely, you know.”

I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.

“And you?” he asked, his tone shifting to genuine curiosity. “What are you doing these days? Last I heard, your family had moved overseas.”

“I’m working here now,” I said, straightening slightly. “At Jeon Enterprises.”

His brows shot up in surprise. “Jeon Enterprises? That’s unexpected. What are you doing there?”

“I’m part of their marketing team,” I explained, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “It’s... challenging, but it’s been a learning experience.”

Richard studied me for a moment, a glimmer of intrigue sparking in his eyes. “Jeon Enterprises, you say? That’s an interesting choice. They have quite the reputation—for better or worse.”

I tilted my head slightly, curious. “You know them?”

“I’ve crossed paths with their CEO, Jungkook, a few times,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes shifting behind me. I didn't have to turn around to know he was staring at Jungkook. “He’s a sharp one, but his company’s ethos has always been... pragmatic, shall we say. I’ve been looking for an organization that values long-term growth over short-term profits, something more aligned with my goals.”

“And you think Jeon Enterprises could be that organization?” I asked, intrigued.

“Perhaps,” he said, stroking his chin. “If they’re willing to adapt. But enough about me—how do you find it there? Are they treating you well?”

The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, the memories of Tina’s snarky remarks and Yoongi’s cold demeanor flashing through my mind. But then I thought of the moments when Jungkook had, in his own quiet way, come to my defense.

“It has its ups and downs,” I admitted carefully. “But I’m learning a lot.”

Richard nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s what matters. And who knows, perhaps our paths might cross again soon in a more... professional capacity.” I saw him pull out a business card out of his pocket and give it to me. Did I just made the first client join our company? My heart skipped. I accepted it. "Then, we should discuss this over a meeting at our company soon. "Excellent. See you soon, Y/N. And give Benjamin my regards."

A mix of nostalgia and newfound curiosity swirling in my chest. For years, I had tried to bury the life my family had left behind, but seeing Richard here, so firmly planted in this world of power and influence, made me wonder if maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t entirely out of reach for me either.

As he excused himself to speak with another guest, I couldn’t help but feel that this meeting was more than just a coincidence. Perhaps, amidst all the chaos, this was the start of something new. Something I hadn’t even realized I was searching for.

-

The evening had been going surprisingly well so far. I stood among a small group of representatives from various companies, discussing Jeon Enterprises and its potential as a reliable partner. My nerves had simmered down, and I was finally hitting my stride in the conversation.

“So, what makes Jeon Enterprises stand out from its competitors?” a tall, sharp-suited executive asked, his tone curious yet skeptical.

I took a deep breath, summoning the confidence I had been building over the months. “Aside from our innovative approach to market trends, Jeon Enterprises is focused on creating long-term solutions rather than short-term fixes. We prioritize adaptability, ensuring that our clients’ needs are met even as industries evolve. And with the resources we provide, we’re not just a business partner—we’re a growth catalyst.”

The executive nodded thoughtfully, and I could see that I was making headway.

But just as I was about to elaborate further, I heard the telltale clink of heels approaching.

And then it happened.

A sudden cold splash against my side made me flinch, and I looked down to see a vivid crimson stain blooming across my royal blue gown.

“Oh no!” came Tina’s voice, syrupy and fake, as she stood there holding an almost-empty glass of wine. “I’m so clumsy. I didn’t see you standing there, Y/N.”

Her tone didn’t match her words; there wasn’t an ounce of remorse in her expression. Instead, her lips curled into a smug smirk as her gaze swept over me, clearly reveling in the scene she’d just created.

Around me, the small crowd went silent, their eyes darting between Tina and me. The heat of their stares burned on my skin as I stood frozen for a moment, staring at the spreading stain.

Tina’s mockery didn’t stop there. “Oh dear, that dress must have cost a fortune. It’s such a shame, really.”

I clenched my fists, biting back a sharp retort. She wanted a scene, and I refused to give her one.

Forcing a tight smile, I turned to the group I had been speaking with. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

Their sympathetic nods did little to ease the weight of humiliation pressing down on me as I stepped away. As I walked past Taehyung, who had been nearby, he immediately stood and reached for my arm.

“Y/N, let me—”

“No,” I said quickly, not wanting to draw more attention. “I’ve got this, Tae. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitated but nodded, his concern clear in his eyes as he let me go.

I made my way toward the restrooms, my chest tightening with every step. The laughter and conversation from the ballroom felt like it was directed at me, though I knew logically that wasn’t the case. Still, the weight of humiliation was suffocating.

Once in the restroom, I tried dabbing at the stain with water, but it was no use. The red had seeped too deeply into the fabric. Sighing, I gave up and left, heading toward the balcony for some air.

The cold night breeze hit me as I stepped outside, the quiet a welcome reprieve from the noise and judgment inside. I leaned against the stone railing, my eyes sweeping over the city lights below. They sparkled like a sea of stars, but even their beauty couldn’t distract me from the ache in my chest.

I felt humiliated, small, like no matter how much effort I put into proving myself, people like Tina would always find a way to knock me down.

“Thought I might find you here,” came a familiar voice from behind me.

I stiffened, glancing over my shoulder. Yoongi stood there, his mask pushed up slightly on his forehead, his bruised face partially illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. I noticed him not taking off his mask at all at the ball room. Probably because he didn't want anyone to see his bruised face.

“Did you come to add to the humiliation?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

He sighed, stepping closer but leaving enough space between us to keep it comfortable. “No,” he said simply. “You looked like you could use some air.”

I turned back to the railing, the weight of the evening pressing down on me again. “Well, congratulations. You were right. I don’t belong here.”

His silence was surprising, and when I glanced at him, I saw something I didn’t expect—regret.

“I didn’t say that,” he said after a moment, his voice low.

“You didn’t have to.”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I’ve been... a jerk.”

I scoffed at the understatement but said nothing, letting him continue.

“I’ve said things—done things—that I’m not proud of,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “And I can’t take those back. But for what it’s worth... I don’t think you’re out of place here. Not tonight. Not ever.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, and I stared at him, a cocktail of emotions swirling inside me. Regret? From Min Yoongi? It was almost laughable. Almost.

I turned back toward the city lights, gripping the railing tighter. “You think a couple of kind words will fix everything?” I asked, my tone sharp.

He didn’t respond right away, and I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and searching.

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” he said finally. “I just... I wanted to say it.”

“Well, you can’t just ‘say it’ and expect me to forget everything else.” I spun to face him, the emotions I’d been suppressing all night bubbling to the surface. “You humiliated me, Yoongi. Over and over again. And for what? To make yourself feel better?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I deserve that.”

“You deserve more than that,” I snapped. “But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is what you did that night. Do you even realize what could’ve happened? Driving drunk to my apartment like that? What the hell were you thinking?”

Yoongi blinked, clearly not expecting the shift in conversation. His face darkened, a flicker of shame passing over his features. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just... I needed to see you.”

“To see me?” I threw my hands up in disbelief. “So you thought, ‘Hey, let me risk my life and possibly someone else’s because I’m having a bad day’? What if you’d hurt someone, Yoongi? What if you’d hurt yourself?”

He took a step closer, his expression pained. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know it was stupid. I wasn’t in a good place—”

“That’s not an excuse,” I cut him off, my voice trembling. “You don’t get to make reckless decisions and then shrug it off because you ‘weren’t in a good place.’”

He looked down, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’re right. It’s not an excuse. I just...” He trailed off, shaking his head as if searching for the right words. “I didn’t know how to deal with... everything. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

I let out a bitter laugh, turning away from him. “Clearly.”

Silence settled between us, the tension thick and suffocating. The sounds of the city below seemed to fade as I struggled to rein in my emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice catching me off guard. “For all of it. For the things I said, the way I treated you, for... showing up that night. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, but I wasn’t ready to let go of my anger just yet. “You’re right, I didn’t,” I said coldly. “And sorry doesn’t erase what you did.”

“I know it doesn’t,” he said quickly, his tone pleading now. “But it’s all I can give you.”

I turned to face him again, searching his eyes for something—anything—that would make sense of the man standing before me. He looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before, the usual cool confidence stripped away.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I said finally, my voice breaking. “You hurt me, Yoongi. Over and over. And I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.”

The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear, and I looked away, my chest tight with a mix of anger, sadness, and something I didn’t want to name.

“I’m trying to be better,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if that matters to you, but... I thought you should know.”

I didn’t respond, my emotions too tangled to form a coherent thought. Instead, I turned back to the city lights, the cold air biting at my skin.

Yoongi stayed for a moment longer, as if waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, anything. But when it became clear I wasn’t going to give him one, he sighed and stepped back.

“Have fun at the ball, Y/N. You deserve it.” he said softly before turning and walking away, leaving me alone on the balcony with my thoughts.

I gripped the railing tighter, the ache in my chest growing stronger as I watched him disappear into the shadows of the ballroom.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.

[maidragoste]

Needy

Aegon II Targaryen x Reader

Warning: +18, NSFW, unprotected sex.

MDNI!

A/N: It was supposed to publish Jacaery drabble first but I woke up thinking of Aegon and I could not avoid it 🤭

If you enjoy reading please do not hesitate to leave a comment or reblog 🥰💖💖

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes. Also, I don't usually write smut so I apologize if this is a mess, have mercy on me lol

Thank you for reading!

When you put on that pretty new skirt, a little shorter than you were used to using, to go to the Helaena house it had been with the intention of attracting Aegon's attention. But you never imagined that when he offered to take you back to your home you would end up being fucked by his fingers in the passenger seat of his car.

Your skirt was lifted, your panties to one side and two Aegon fingers didn't stop moving quickly inside you while with his thumb rubbed your clitoris seeking to give you another orgasm.

You had already cummed before and made a mess on the seat but Aegon instead of worrying about it he continued fucking you and telling you how pretty you looked making you fall in love with him even more.

“Come on babe, I know you can give me another one” Aegon said increasing the intensity of his movements making your moans increase “Come on, be a good girl for me and let me see again how pretty you look while you cum” his words were like a switch because you began to move your hips desperately trying to reach your orgasm faster.

You cried his name as you felt the knot in your stomach unravel, wetting his fingers and part of the seat again. You felt empty as Aegon's fingers left your insides. You thought disappointedly that it was over, that you would just be best friends with his sister again, but then Aegon put his fingers in his mouth and the image of him sucking his fingers to taste your juices made your pussy throb. You are greedy and want more so you went to sit on his lap. You looked at the bulge in his pants before looking into his eyes.

“I want your cock, can I have it?” you asked directly, forgetting about any modesty you may have had before. If this was going to be the only time you could have Aegon then you wanted to have the whole experience. “Please,” the smile on his face made your desire for him increase.

“Come on, take me” as soon as you had his permission your hands went to his belt but you were too anxious so you were having a hard time unbuckling it making him laugh “Look at you, so desperate to have me” he mocked before helping you.

Maybe at another time you would have been embarrassed but the only thing you were thinking now is that you want him. So once him got rid of the belt you hurriedly pulled down his pants and boxers revealing his erection. Aegon watched enthralled as you lowered your hand to your wet pussy and then spread your juices over his cock, moving your hand up and down making him sigh. Seeing that he was starting to get impatient, you directed his cock towards your entrance and slowly began to put him inside you. Aegon gasped as he felt your walls tighten around him and you dug your nails into his chest as you began to ride his cock. Then he lunged at your mouth, giving you messy kisses because in the middle of them he couldn't help but moan at how good your pussy felt. Hearing it only made your lust increase. You love hearing him needy for you, feeling the warmth of his hands on your waist, his tongue and teeth on your neck. You're so caught up in your haze of lust that you can't help but let out a surprised scream when he begins to ride you on and off his cock at a more intense pace. Now it's you who seems needy, whining to Aegon not to stop, that you love the way his cock feels, that you're close to cumming and you want to cum along with him.

The volume of your moans increase as you get closer to reaching your climax, Aegon should put his hand over your pretty little mouth and try to shut you up because the last thing he wanted was for someone passing by on the street to hear you and interrupt but he doesn't because he loves to listen to them. Now the next time you come home the only thing he will think about when he sees you will be this image, you cumming on his cock, looking at him with eyes clouded with ecstasy and moaning his name.

Aegon cums inside you and you feel his heavy breathing against your neck. You wonder if now is the time to go back to normal but he surprises you by giving you kisses on your neck and gently caressing your waist making you melt in his arms.

“Are you coming home next Saturday?” he asks, looking at you without stopping his caresses.

“Helaena is busy on Saturday,” you respond, knowing that your best friend had planned to meet up with her college classmates that day.

“I'm not asking you if you're going to see Helaena, I'm telling you to come see me” he smiled when he saw the surprise in your eyes. “I want to fuck you in front of the mirror in my room, what do you think?”

Your response comes with a hungry kiss.

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[fratboyrrrry]

THE QUIET BETWEEN US PART II

Harry Styles x Y/N

Description: Their affair was a slow-burning secret—hidden in glances, stolen time, and sheets tangled with guilt. What started as innocent conversation turned into touches that lingered too long, kisses that couldn’t be taken back, and nights they were never meant to share. She belonged to someone else. But with Harry, she felt seen. Wanted. Alive.

Warnings: Infidelity, Sexual Content, Guilt, Emotional manipulation(?)

WC: 4K

Part I

A/N: I spent all night and the whole day writing and editing this, i tried my best with the sexual content, let me know what you think, i wanna continue on writing different things, i quite like how how this turned out. Enjoy.

⸻

She doesn’t expect him today.

That’s what makes it worse.

The rain starts late afternoon, fine and steady, dripping down her windows like a slow unraveling. She’s just kicked off her shoes, tossed her keys in the bowl by the door, and stripped off her jacket — damp and clinging — when there’s a knock.

Not the kind of knock that’s polite. Not the kind of knock that waits.

It’s the kind of knock that knows.

She freezes.

Three seconds pass. Then four. She already knows who it is. Her body tells her before her mind catches up.

She opens the door anyway.

Harry’s standing there, hood up, soaked to the bone. He looks like hell and heaven at once — red-cheeked from the cold, curls plastered to his forehead, eyes too bright.

She swallows.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

She steps aside.

He brushes past her in silence, dripping water on the hardwood. The door clicks shut behind her, and it’s like closing the rest of the world out.

This is how it always starts. No words. Just tension. Just heat beneath skin.

He stands in her hallway, fingers clenched, chest rising like he ran here.

“Bad day?” she asks, softer than she means to.

He turns to look at her. And his eyes — God, his eyes — they don’t just look at her. They take her in. Like he needs her to stay steady so he can breathe.

“I needed to see you,” he says.

That’s all.

No explanation. No apologies.

Not that she needs one.

She crosses the room and puts her hand on his chest — over his coat, wet and cold. His heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape.

“Harry,” she whispers.

“I know,” he breathes. “I’m not staying long. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

She knows that’s a lie. He has a home. He has a life. A life she isn’t part of, not really.

But he comes here like it’s gravity. Like it’s not a choice.

She reaches for his hands, cold and shaking, and tugs him gently toward the kitchen.

“Let’s get you dry.”

She hands him a towel and he shrugs out of his coat, shaking water from his hair like a soaked dog. She rolls her eyes and throws the towel at his head, and he catches it — grinning for the first time since he arrived

It’s that smile that kills her every time.

Not because it’s perfect.

But because it’s hers, here.

Only here.

He uses the towel, his rings clinking against the glass as he sets it down, and follows her into the living room.

“You weren’t expecting me,” he says, like he’s suddenly realized it.

“No.”

“Am I… interrupting anything?”

She tilts her head. “Do I look interrupted?”

He lets out a breath. The smallest, softest laugh. His shoulders drop half an inch.

“Didn’t mean to barge in. Just—” He runs a hand through his damp hair. “Had a weird day. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

She sits on the arm of the couch, watching him.

“What kind of weird?”

He shrugs. “Phone calls. Meetings. Everything loud. Everyone fake. You know how it is.”

She nods. “And you thought of me?”

“Always think of you.”

She looks down. That’s the problem.

“Do you want tea?” she asks, changing the subject.

He nods. “Only if you sit with me while I drink it.”

She makes the tea. He watches her from the couch, legs spread, damp curls pushed back, sleeves rolled up now. His tattoo peeks out from under the soft edge of his sweater, and she forces herself not to look too long.

When she returns, two mugs in hand, he’s pulled his feet up onto the couch, blanket draped across his lap.

She sets his mug down in front of him and sits — not beside him.

Across from him.

Distance. Boundaries. Illusions.

“Why’d you come, really?” she asks.

He looks at her for a long moment.

And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than before.

“Because I feel more like myself in this room than anywhere else.”

She blinks.

That’s… more than she expected.

“Is that true?” she asks.

“I think so,” he says. “But maybe it’s selfish.”

“How?”

He sips his tea. Doesn’t answer right away.

“I take something from you every time I come here.”

She exhales. “Harry…”

“No,” he says, meeting her eyes. “I mean it. I walk in here and I forget everything else. And it feels good. Too good. And I think… maybe I’m making it harder for you.”

She stares at him, tea cooling in her hands.

“You are.”

He doesn’t look away. “Then why do you let me in?”

She thinks for a second. “Because you knock.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked to hers.

“And if I stop?”

She swallows. Her heart beats too loud in her ears.

“I don’t know,” she says. “But you never do.”

He doesn’t smile.

Just nods.

And then, slowly, he sets his mug down and stands.

Walks toward her.

She doesn’t move.

He stops just in front of her, looking down. Her breath catches.

“You can tell me to leave,” he says.

“I know.”

He reaches out — slow, tentative — and brushes a thumb over her cheek.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers. “And I’ll go.”

She looks up at him.

And for a second, just a second, she thinks about lying.

About saving them both.

But she doesn’t.

Because his hand is warm and familiar, and his eyes are full of things he’ll never say, and she is so tired of pretending she doesn’t want this.

“i can’t.” she whispers

His jaw clenches.

And then he kisses her.

His mouth moves like a confession — slow, reverent, careful. Like he thinks this is the last time and he doesn’t want to waste a second.

He kisses her like he’s not supposed to.

Because he’s not.

His hand is on her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek, and when he deepens the kiss, she feels something in her chest give way — like a window cracked open after holding in too much heat.

She grips the front of his sweater and tugs him closer. He lets her. Always lets her.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush — just kisses her like they have all the time in the world, even though they never do.

And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers, both of them breathing like they’ve run a mile.

“Hi,” he whispers.

She smiles, breathless. “Hi.”

He closes his eyes, lips brushing hers again like a secret.

“I missed you.”

She opens her mouth to say something — anything — but no words come out.

So instead, she pulls him back into the kiss.

���

When they make it to the bedroom, it’s not desperate.

It’s slow.

Harry presses her into the mattress like he’s scared she’ll vanish beneath him, like she’s something he’s dreamed up and doesn’t quite believe he gets to touch.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he whispers, fingers dragging up her ribs beneath her shirt. “I mean it. Just say the word.”

She nods. “Okay.”

But she won’t.

His hands are warm and steady. Gentle in ways that undo her.

He traces the curves of her hips, her waist, her collarbones, like he’s trying to memorize them. Like if he touches her soft enough, she won’t feel like sin.

And she doesn’t.

Not with him.

When he’s above her, eyes dark and patient, her whole body aches. Not from need, but from how safe he makes her feel in the most dangerous place possible — his arms.

He kisses her like she’s breakable. Like he’d rather fall apart than let her shatter.

His kiss is slow.

Not lazy. Not rushed. Just slow — like time’s finally caught up with them and wants to savor every second.

He kisses her with both hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing beneath her eyes, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he closes his own. There’s no urgency, no fumbling. Just care. Just heat building, inch by inch.

She melts into him.

Her hands slip beneath the damp hem of his sweater, fingers brushing warm skin and cold metal. The rings on his fingers drag along her ribs as he shifts, and her breath catches.

“You cold?” he murmurs.

“No.”

His mouth curves against hers.

“Good.”

He helps her out of her shirt like it’s sacred — careful, unhurried. His eyes fall to the curve of her shoulder, the way her collarbone rises and falls with her breath, the softness of skin he’s already memorized but will never take for granted.

She watches the way he looks at her — not like she’s something to conquer. Like she’s something to protect.

“Come here,” she whispers.

He doesn’t ask where.

He just listens.

He leans in again, kissing the hollow of her throat. His lips are warm, soft, reverent. He takes his time — tracing a path down the center of her chest, along her ribs, over the space just beneath her breast like he’s mapping her heartbeat.

And when his hands find the clasp behind her back, he pauses.

“Okay?”

She nods.

He kisses her again. She’s never felt anything like the way he touches her — gentle but certain, like every movement is deliberate. Worshipful.

When he finally lays her back on the bed, it isn’t with hunger.

It’s with awe.

His body settles over hers slowly, like he’s afraid of crushing the moment. His hands skim down her sides, thumbs drawing lazy circles over her hips.

Their foreheads touch. Their noses brush.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes.

“You,” she whispers. “Just… you.”

It’s all he needs to hear.

His mouth finds hers again, deeper this time. She arches into him, and his hands slide beneath the waistband of her pants, dragging them down with agonizing patience.

When they’re skin to skin, it feels like the world narrows to the heat between them. His hands explore her like he’s searching for something he already knows by heart. Her breath hitches when his thumb strokes just the right place, and he smiles against her neck.

“Right there?” he murmurs.

She nods, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low.

She does.

And the way he looks at her — with that kind of raw, almost broken tenderness — it makes her stomach twist.

He moves above her, settling between her thighs, pausing with a sharp breath.

“Still okay?”

“Yes,” she says. “Please.”

He presses forward slowly, inch by inch. Her breath catches in her throat.

Not because it hurts.

But because it’s him.

He holds still once he’s there, forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm against her lips. His hands are cupped around her face, and when he finally starts to move, it’s with such aching precision that it makes her eyes sting.

“Harry…”

“Shhh,” he whispers. “I know.”

Their bodies fall into rhythm — not fast, not hard — just full. Every thrust is deep and drawn-out, his hips rolling like he wants to feel every second of it. He kisses her slowly, again and again, like the world is ending and he wants her to remember this part the most.

His hand finds hers, fingers lacing tight, grounding them both. Her other hand slides through his hair, tugging softly, and he groans low in his throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good. Always do.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises, eyes locked to hers. “I couldn’t.”

The room is quiet except for the soft sounds of skin, breath, whispered names. The rain is still falling outside, but in here, it’s nothing but them — wrapped up in each other, in secrets, in everything they can’t have but take anyway.

When her body starts to tighten around him, he notices first. His hand moves to her hip, guiding her through it, voice soothing in her ear.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

She comes with a soft cry, eyes locked on his. He watches her like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to see.

And when she starts to come down, still shaking, he kisses her — slow and sweet — as he follows her over the edge.

His release is quiet. A gasp against her skin. A whispered “fuck” against her throat. He stills, buried deep, and breathes her in like she’s salvation.

Neither of them moves for a long time.

When he finally pulls back, his hand cradles her face again, and he just looks at her — eyes glassy, lips parted, like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust the words.

She kisses his palm.

And he lays beside her, still holding her hand.

⸻

Later, her back is to his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her waist, their legs tangled under the covers. The rain hasn’t stopped.

Neither has the world.

But in here, it’s quiet.

He presses a kiss to the back of her neck. Then another. Then one to her shoulder, lazy and slow.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

She nods.

“You’re quiet again.”

She shifts a little. “Just tired.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“You always ask.”

He hums, his hand stroking her stomach gently.

She closes her eyes.

“You never sleep here,” she says after a long beat.

His fingers pause.

“No,” he says softly.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

She turns a little, just enough to look at him. His face is shadowed in the low light, but his eyes are clear — open, vulnerable, honest in a way that would ruin them both if it ever saw the light of day.

“I think I want you to stay,” she says.

And just like that, the quiet turns heavier.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

He looks down. “I want to.”

“But…”

He nods. “But.”

She doesn’t push him. Just watches the way his thumb traces lazy patterns on her hip beneath the sheet.

“It’s not that I don’t want to stay,” he says. “It’s that I know if I do, it’ll feel too real.”

“And this isn’t?”

“It is,” he says. “It’s the realest thing in my life. That’s the problem.”

That silences her.

He leans in, presses a kiss to her temple. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like if we met in a different way?”

“All the time,” she says, barely above a whisper.

“Like… no secrets. No sneaking. Just…” He trails off. “You and me.”

“Just you and me,” she echoes.

She feels his hand tighten slightly around her waist. Like the idea hurts.

“I think I’d still fall in love with you,” he says. “Even if we met at the wrong time. Even if I wasn’t allowed.”

Her throat tightens.

“Harry—”

“You don’t have to say it back,” he says quickly. “I just… I need you to know.”

She turns fully now, facing him, hand sliding up to his jaw.

He looks at her like she’s already a memory.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he whispers.

“You won’t.”

But the moment she says it, she knows it’s a lie.

Because everything this good has a shelf life. Everything this intense burns itself out eventually.

Still, she kisses him.

He kisses her back like he believes her.

⸻

They don’t sleep for a long time.

They talk.

About nothing. About everything. About where he’d go if he could disappear for a week — “Somewhere cold, quiet, with you and too many blankets.” About her favorite memory as a kid — “There was this swing set in the backyard. I used to pretend I could fly.” About the kinds of things you don’t talk about with someone you don’t love.

And eventually, it’s just the sound of the rain. The rhythm of their breathing. The soft brush of his fingers over her skin like a promise he doesn’t dare say aloud.

She falls asleep first.

He stays awake long after.

Watching her.

Wondering how much longer he’ll get to have this.

And knowing — deep down — it’ll never be enough.

⸻

A/n: uh oh. Part II. i spent soooo long on this. Tell me what you think!!

[beloved-calypso]

・ ゜ ʚɞ ゜ ゜𝕳𝖔𝖜 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖔𝖒? ♡ ・ ゜ ʚɞ ゜ ゜‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡ 18+!

♡ 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓅𝒾𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁.” – 𝐿𝓊𝒹𝓌𝒾𝑔 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒾𝓃 ♡

All pictures and gifs are not mine but belong to their original artists. ♡

I. -> II. -> III.

ᴍᴅɴɪ!!! ʏᴇᴘ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴡᴏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏɴᴇ. ᴇxᴄᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ.

~ XOXO 💋🎀

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 1 ๑◞꒱ა

[2 of Swords rx, Emperor, Judgment rx]

Well pile 1, your sexual prowess is rough and playful. I think you have a dominant streak, or at the very least, you like to take the reigns from your partner, and guide how the night goes. I think ya'll are natural leaders, and have the need to take control for yourselves. The ones that pick this pile are definitely toppers. I'm seeing some wild-girl cowgirl positions mostly front facing, but some back rides as well. Do some of ya'll go to a ranch and ride horses? Ya'll have strong thighs and stamina. Ya'll like to grind and ride and have a fun time doing so, may have a reference for teasing and play-fighting. You make sure that your partner is the focus and that they are completely distracted and absorbed by you, like nothing matters in comparison to the moment. Your partners find this irresistible, tempting. Your demeanor feels playful, I can see you being the initiator, and rarely will you ever be denied. You may like to sex it up in unfamiliar spaces, experiment here and there and try new things. You can be a bit demanding, even forceful, but your partners will like it. They find it sexy, and are relieved that they have found a partner who can speak their mind and is able to handle even the awkward, embarrassing parts of sex with grace. I think you give them the space to think, to pause for a moment in their busy, possibly tumultuous lives, and let loose with your sex. You create a bubble like atmosphere where it's just you and your partner, and you both can relax and be yourselves, all giggles, smiles, and laughter. I can see you directing the way things play out; play fighting, subduing, and then consuming. I see you being the type of lover that is excitable, loud, and always un-serious. You may like to start off with foreplay-touching, squeezing and embracing-and then the main event, making sure needs are attended for and that you both are satisfied. Not seeing many quickies. You like to enjoy yourself, and take as much time is needed to commit to the act. Sex is a fun exorcise to stress and negativity. Climax's are maximized and prolonged. I can tell ya'll are lovers of penetration and motion, and are very good at pacing. I heard you put the motion in the ocean 😂. I genuinely laughed with those one. But ya'll are so free and enticing. I can see that the best parts of your sex are the way your partners can relax with you, melt in you. They are comfortable enough to let you take control, and they are relieved at someone that can give them pleasure just as much as they take it from them. Your sex feels so fun and freeing.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 2 ๑◞꒱ა

[9 of Wands rx, 8 of Swords, Knight of Cups]

Ya'll are slow lovers. I think the most important thing other than exploring each others bodies is exploring the others' minds. Vulnerability is a big highlight here. In order to satisfy you, your partners need to come with mental stimulation and not just physical. I'm getting in general, you like to unravel your partners, do to them as you would a piece of chocolate in a wrapper. Your partners feel quite naked with you, figuratively and literally. It's hard not to attach to you because in order to bed you, your partners feel like they have to sacrifice something to you. I got a vision of you in a cave at an altar, lit with candlelight, and a person with a hopeful, almost fearful, look on their face, on their knees with an offering presented. They can't come to you with an empty plate and expect to win you over. I don't think ya'll would give your time to casual relationships either. Partners would have to work at lowering your defenses. You're like a princess protected by a moat. On the outside, you may come off as closed off and uninterested, but there is much activity going on in your mental space. You have a lot to offer, but partners need to come to you with just as much. You're quite selective and come towards those that match your energy. I think you prefer sex at a slow, measured pace. I'm getting my lovemakers here, and the energy is very dream-like and cozy, like a person wrapped up in blankets, eyes closed, and day-dreaming. There's also a pronounced aspect of wetness in your sex. Lots of fluids are exchanged here, and a playing of those fluids. Why did I hear, "relaxed cumplay,"and "slip and slide", lmao. You may get very wet, like to play with oils and lubricates, and are attracted to sweat and moist skin. It's also the emotions revealed in sex that attract you. I see your partners get so worked up that they climax big and long. You transport people into a fantasy. You may especially like to cater to people and agree to whatever you wish they share with you. There's also a need to please and serve. Your touch is very soft and giving. I'm getting roleplay and sensory play. Your bedroom is such a secluded and sacred space that every partner will feel like stepping into it, is like stepping into a new world. I think you like to push your partners and make them open up to you, but gradually and slowly, so that they are willing. ✨️Very Lilith vibes.✨️It's giving the impression of control through submission. This pile is more into vanilla stuff but enhanced, like conventional kinks if that makes sense. Sex while soft and slow won't be boring. It will be emotionally fulfilling. The excitement that comes from the build-up alone will be enjoyable. If you imprint anything on your partners, it's that sex isn't a race, it's a journey, and the small things do matter in the end goal.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 3 ๑◞꒱ა

9 of Cups, The Emperor, Wheel of Fortune

People here have a big personality and a competitive streak. Sex with you is exciting and unpredictable. There's a want to prove something through sex, as if it's a battlefield of some sort, and only one can come out the winner. I feel like a few people in particular have a thing for woman empowerment, and want to prove just how powerful they are through sexual means. Ya'll use it as a style of communication, as an expression of sides of yourself that can't be easily seen or received. I think this pile has sex for the fun of it, and there's a pinch of mischief that comes out once the bedroom door is closed. This pile likes to play coy, likes to tease and rile up their partners and prolong their anticipation. I think ya'll are quite wild in the bedroom, and I just saw a vision of two people going at it like tumbleweeds, lol. I think the want for sex often corresponds with your moods, and your tastes can vary widely, so your a sporadic lover, the type able to adjust to anything thrown at them and improvise, also the type able to be 100 different people in the bedroom. Pile 3 are some minxes. I think some of the people here are short, and get a kick out of acting bigger than they are. It's cute. I think a big thing that comes out is your masculine side. Like I said that competitive energy stems from a need to please and be the best pleaser. Your masculinity makes you eager and able to confidently do things others would be too shy to do. I think ya'll focus on creating multiple climaxes; multiple sessions, multiple places, multiple positions. The possibilities are endless, and there are many records to break is my point. Ya'll are very driven and full of energy. That translates into a fast and frenetic passion of the moment. Your partners absorb your energy, try to match you and share in your delight. I see lovemaking in the morning, a couple fresh from deep sleep, still looking disgruntled, but warm sunshine cutting through the curtains and laughter seeping through blankets. I'm not seeing specific kinks, but I see a platter with a variety of assortments. Ya'll are comfortable in your bodies and may like to study on different, sometimes extreme, positions to try next. I think this pile are Kama Sutra naturals. Sex isn’t taken too seriously, but it brings some measure of emotional fulfillment. Your partners find satisfaction quickly, completely, and they succumb to a warm afterglow in the end. I feel this pile has the best hugs and the best aftercare. I feel the comfort of a bear hug and the warmth that comes with it. It feels very tender and very at odds with what would be an exhausting but vigorous bout of sex, but it works out in an endearing way.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

ᴀɴʏ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍꜱ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴍ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. ♡

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ

© lolita-bonita — Please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other social media platforms without my permission. This is the only platform that I post this type of content. If you see my work being posted anywhere else, please kindly report them to me. ♡

⊱┈───── ✧

✨️ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Tarot is not an exact science, nor can it produce information that is factually true. All things posted are alleged and for entertainment purposes only. The future is fluid, and what may happen is based on your choices and actions, not what I and a deck of cards say. You are still the creator of your future. ✨️

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

[haartemis]

CROSS THE LINE II | Jude Bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader, unnamed fictional RM player x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

summary: after a fallout with your boyfriend, you find solace in a spontaneous night at the movies, where you run into his golden boy teammate. one thing leads to another and you cross the line. what happens next?

A/N: happy holidays yall 🥳 lmk what you guys think!! <3

warnings: infidelity (once again, i don't condone it. 🫣), non explicit smut

PART ONE

before all of this, you’d always imagined an affair as something out of a movie: clandestine meetings, tensions running high, stolen moments, secret rendezvous. but in reality, it’s messier, quieter. it’s second guessing yourself every step of the way, staring at your reflection and admitting you’re a horrible person time and time again, and then doing it anyway. 

it doesn’t start with a bang, no dramatic explosion of passion. after the night at the cinema, things unfold slowly. you text every single day for weeks, conversations ranging from the mundane to the deep. you learn about each other, piece by piece. and jude, you realize, is like quicksand. the more you discover, the deeper you sink. he’s too funny, too kind, too good. unfairly handsome, and somehow better for it.

he has an uncanny way of making you unravel. of making you open up so easily that sometimes you don't notice it's happening. you, usually reserved and guarded, find yourself sharing without hesitation. you suppose its the way there's no judgement from him, no disinterest or impatience.

and then there’s the way he lets you in. with every detail he shares, every message, he pulls you in like a magnet you can’t resist. he tells you about the running joke he’s had with his best friend for years, humor inexplicable to anyone but the two of them. the trivial argument he had with his brother that was inconsequential but still annoying enough to stick in his mind. his new favorite song, sent with a note about how it makes him feel. formative memories he’ll never forget, now shared with you. it’s as though he’s placing his heart on a silver platter, daring you: know me. know me and want me.  

and you do. want him, that is.

that’s the exact reason why you find yourself in his bed one afternoon. 

his room is dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the waning sun. you sit on the edge of the bed, your hands twisting in your lap, nerves running high. jude sits beside you, eyes locked on yours, searching for the final hint of hesitation. a sign that you might leave. but you don’t move. you can’t.

when he leans in, his fingers brushing against your cheek, it feels inevitable. of course you’re here, with him. where else would you be? his touch is warm, grounding, and when his lips finally meet yours, it feels like everything that’s ever happened in the world has led to this moment.

his hands find your waist, sliding under your shirt as the kiss deepens. his touch is firm and warm, yet capable of sending shivers down your spine. you don’t stop him when he pulls your shirt over your head or when his lips trail down your neck, leaving your skin tingling.

 “what are we doing?” you murmur almost to yourself as he bites on a sensitive spot. 

jude pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and full of desire, but there’s something else there too: something deeper, more vulnerable. 

“whatever you want” he says, his voice low, his hand grazing your cheek tenderly. “i want this. i want you”

you nod wordlessly, and the rest happens in a blur. his weight presses you into the mattress, his skin warm under your fingertips as you trace the muscles of his back. he kisses you like he can’t help himself, and you kiss him back just as desperately. plush lips and calloused hands taking their liberties, roaming all over your body, eliciting sounds and sensations you’ve never experienced with anyone else. you don’t hold back either, not when his golden brown skin is all yours to explore, to kiss, to bite. to revel in. 

he moves against you, his hands gripping your hips as you arch into him. there’s nothing slow or tentative about it now. his movements are purposeful and you meet him with equal attention . when he finally pushes inside you, you let out a rush of breath, almost like a sigh of relief. it’s overwhelming, the way he fits perfectly inside of you, the way it feels familiar and routine, like he’s done this a hundred times before. 

the room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the creak of the mattress as he rhythmically thrusts into you, his low murmurs against your skin that range from curses to your name to soft groans. your nails dig into his back, and he doesn’t flinch, only moves harder, deeper, his focus entirely on you. “you feel so perfect, so good” he whispers, like its a confession he’s been waiting to make for the longest time. 

you don’t think about the guilt or the consequences. there’s only jude, the way he feels, the way he moves. for now, that’s all that matters.

afterwards, you lie in bed, your head on his chest, his hand softly grazing your now frizzy curls. his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a comforting sound. 

“so,” you say, breaking the silence as you trace his chiseled chest with your finger. “you won’t believe what happened at work today. this guy left his mic on during a teams meeting and got caught badmouthing our boss.”

jude’s chest vibrates beneath you as he laughs silently. “no way. what did he say?”

you tell the story, and he listens intently, chuckling softly. you think two things: first, never in your life did you imagine having pillow talk with jude bellingham. and second, the knowledge that you made him laugh gives you such a rush of serotonin you want do it over and over again.

seasons change, your situation doesn’t. months go by and jude and you are sneaking around. no one knows, not even your closest friend or your mother– people who know you better than anyone, people who love and accept the parts of you that you consider deeply embarrassing and shameful. you don’t share this, because it’s different. this secret is well and truly a condemnation of your character. but that doesn’t mean you want to stop.  

you find yourself at a real madrid christmas party one evening. you’re there with your boyfriend, of course. the man who feels more and more like a stranger as the days go by. the man in whose phone, just last night, you’d found incriminating dms with an instagram model. it hadn’t fazed you. after all, you were doing the same.

you sip on a glass of champagne, watching jude from across the room. he’s in his element, charming everyone from the staff to the players to the wags. his laugh carries over to where you’re standing, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering at the sound. 

and yet, despite all the mingling, he hasn’t approached you.

you hate yourself for keeping track, but you’ve noticed. he’s made his rounds, talking to everyone, making small talk that leaves people grinning. but you? not a glance, not a word. it’s like you’re invisible.

you can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy as you watch a group of wags giggling at something he says, leaning in closer as if trying to soak up his presence. your nails dig into the stem of your glass, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“you okay?” your boyfriend asks, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. you must be having a very visible reaction for even him to notice.

“fine” you lie, forcing a smile. don’t touch me, is what you really want to say.

you’re not fine though. not as you steal another glance at jude, who’s now leaning against the bar, talking to vini. he looks relaxed, like he hasn’t a care in the world, like he doesn’t feel the tension that’s suffocating you.

you tell yourself it’s better this way. no one is gonna suspect anything if he avoids you. but still, it stings.

and then, as if he senses your eyes on him, he finally looks your way. the moment is brief, a flicker of recognition  before he looks away quickly, returning his attention to vini like nothing happened.

the champagne in your glass suddenly feels too heavy, and you set it down on the nearest table before excusing yourself to the restroom.

Inside the rest room, you splash cold water on your face, hoping it will calm the heat in your chest, the ache in your gut. but it doesn’t.

the sound of the restroom door opening makes you freeze. you glance up and flinch when you see jude.he steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind him, his eyes locking on yours immediately.

you watch silently as he leans back against the door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. he looks calm but his jaw is visibly clenched. 

“you’ve been avoiding me” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“i had to” he replies, his voice low. “you know why”

you do know why. but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“you talked to everyone in that room except me” you continue, voice sharper than you expect. “it’s like i don’t even exist to you”

“you think i wanted to ignore you? do you know how hard it is to be in the same room as you and pretend like–” he cuts himself off, hands rubbing the back of his neck.

“pretend like what?” 

“like i don’t want you,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “like i don’t think about you all the time. like i’m not going crazy knowing you’re here with him”

“then why avoid me?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“because if i talked to you” he says, stepping even closer. “if i got too close, i don’t know if i could stop myself”

your lips meet just then, as if drawn together like magnets. you kiss fiercely, desperately. his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him. you can taste the sweet champagne on his lips, can feel the heat from his warm hands. when you pull away, you’re breathless, but you feel renewed. like touching him made up for the fact that you had to put up with your boyfriend for the whole evening. 

“i’m breaking up with him tonight” you blurt. “I found out he’s been cheating”

“what an asshole” jude says without skipping a beat.

you laugh bitterly as you adjust the top of his turtleneck. “i’m doing the same thing”

jude smirks. “yeah, bit hypocritical isn’t it?” he says, and you both burst out laughing, the sound echoing loudly in the bathroom. 

you sit with it for a bit, the weight of your actions settling in between you two, both of you knowing what an awful thing you’re doing. you, to someone who’s been a partner of yours for some time. him, to his teammate who he doesn’t particularly like, but still owes some loyalty to, some obligation of decency.

“i don’t regret it” he says quietly, as if reading your thoughts. he grabs your hand and enterwines your fingers.  “i don’t regret any of it”

“me too” you murmur. and you mean it. 

that night, you keep your word and dump your boyfriend. it's an anti climactic ending, both of you mentally checked out of the relationship in the end to even care. still, you feel the weight lifting off your shoulder. good riddance.

that's how an affair with your boyfriend’s teammate unfolds and then ends. if you’re wondering how a relationship with your ex’s teammate begins, here it is: first, you scrub any trace of your previous relationship off the internet (you were always pretty private anyway). then, you gaslight everyone who knows all three of you into believing the relationship was never that serious, so what's the harm if you're seeing the other guy now? stranger things have happened. thankfully said ex-boyfriend conveniently leaves the team and the country at the end of the season, so it makes things easier for you. third step is to keep a careful distance from your new man in public for several months to maintain the illusion that there was no overlap with your past... relationship? situationship? or was it friendship? we’ll never know. finally, hard launch on a sunny afternoon at one of your favorite cafes in madrid, on a random wednesday in late summer. that’s how you do it.

so here you are, seated across from each other. you sip on a latte; jude’s having tea. he’s just come back from an adidas shoot, and he’s exhausted, you can tell by the tired smile on his face and by the way his body is slouched slightly in his chair. the only expression of affection he can muster is the soft brush of his leg against yours under the table. 

you chat about the book you’re currently reading, how the price of pastries in the cafe are atrociously high. yet again, you marvel at how easy it is with him. talking, laughing, slipping into comfortable silences. its like you’ve known him for years. 

“someone’s taking a pic” he nods towards someone behind you. you don’t look back, just smile softly. “going according to plan” he murmurs, taking a sip of his tea. 

you’re silent, thinking about how luckly you are, to have him, to be with him. you continue to chat, and now you’re on the topic of the show you’re watching. jude confesses he watched an episode without you on the plane back from an away game, and you gasp indignantly, kicking his leg under the table. 

“ow” he mutters. “i couldn’t sleep!”

“you couldn't watch anything else?” you say, dabbing at a coffee stain that had tainted the sleeve of your shirt. When you look up, jude’s looking at you with such a tender look on his face that you want to look away. 

“what?” you say, half self consciously. 

“nothing” he grins. “its just that you’re so beautiful. everytime i look at you it gets better”

your stomach is immediately filled with butterflies, and all you can do is grin back at him shyly, cheeks heating up from his words. sometimes being with him feels like you’re on a rollercoaster ride, in a good way. except the rush you get is from basking in his warmth, in his love, in his presence. 

needless to say it was all worth it in the end. thank god for late night cinema trips. 

[daycourtofficial]

I got cursed like Eve got bitten - part II

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand’s Sister!reader | WC: 2.3k

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Previous part | Next part | Masterlist

Being labeled as ‘tainted’ had a few perks.

The best perk was that no male in the camp wanted your hand in marriage nor sought you out in any way. They behaved as if you were diseased, avoiding you at all costs outside of the tavern you worked in. 

It worked well for you - even the most handsome of males and females in your village did nothing to make you feel any sort of attraction.

You had lived in your village for a century, the familiar homes and people doing little over that time to ever make you feel a part of the community. You had always considered leaving, but your village was rather progressive with allowing you to run the tavern the barkeep had left to you when he died a few years prior, and you knew you wouldn’t have nearly as good luck in any other village.

You had been working in this tavern for nearly seventy years when the previous owner died, leaving the entire place, including the apartment upstairs, to you. At first several of the males of the village had been upset before quickly realizing you would just refuse to serve them their only source of alcohol at any sign of tension.

You lived over the bar and most of your patrons were the males of your village, which allowed you little access to the females. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them - they all seemed fine, several were even friendly when you lived in a smaller shack. Some part of you found it incredibly difficult to connect with them, every attempt you made to develop friendships with them were quickly sabotaged by your own inability to follow up. 

You felt guilty every time you did it, but something inside of you rang out wrong, wrong, wrong. So between your lack of interest in being outside of your bar and the very close knit group of friends you had (approximately no one), not much really tethered you to this village.

You had heard rumors throughout the day from the other women that the High Lord had been snooping about the village. You hoped so - perhaps he could see first hand how little the armies beneath him respected him or his policies, how they sneered and called him a variety of names, their favorite being some variation of ‘wingless pointy eared bastard’. You weren’t sure why the nicknames bothered you so much - you had no attachment to the High Lord, nor had you ever met him nor had a desire to do so. 

It just gnawed on some part deep inside of you.

Thoughts of the High Lord quickly dissipated as you spent the afternoon pouring drinks and serving tables. The males of your village found you unmarriable and a potentially bad omen for females everywhere, but they did enjoy the alcohol you cured.

You’d take their money over their acceptance any day.

The door opened, the chill from outside coming in as you looked up briefly to find a beautiful male in the doorway, his pointy ears and violet eyes giving away his identity immediately.

You put down the glass you were drying, focused instead on the male who stood in the doorway, unmoving as he looked toward you. Something about his gaze felt so familiar - he looked at you with fondness and longing, and it was starting to upset you. You began turning to go back to the task at hand when a second male appeared from the High Lord.

He was taller, his eyes deep, rich hazel pools of warmth. He had some slight freckling across his strong Illyrian nose, some of them reaching down to the sharp jawline you were sure could cut paper. The male the High Lord brought was clearly Illyrian, his large frame making that abundantly clear. Yet he had these wisps of black shadow that circled him in a frenzy, leaving trails of smoke in their wake.

The sight of him knocked the air from your lungs - he was stunning, perhaps the most gorgeous male alive. His downturned eyes and long eyelashes gave him a perpetual look of sadness that just made you want to kiss the corners of his eyes.

You widened your eyes at the thought, where did that come from?

You bowed slightly towards Rhysand, the movement spurring him into movement away from the door. It was not a deep bow, but just enough for it to count. The High Lord made a slight face, one you couldn’t discern. Shock at such a display of nonchalance in his elegant presence, you presumed.

“High Lord.”

You moved around the bar, walking toward them. You really didn’t have time to cater toward him and the male with him. You weren’t even sure what the two of them were doing so far out in Illyria. The tavern was full of patrons, all looking toward the two males who just entered. You felt their gazes on your back making your scars tingle.

“Do you have a table you’d prefer us to be at?”

The High Lord’s voice was soft, his eyes unmoving from you as he asked. His question caught you off guard, making you eye him suspiciously. Why was he speaking to you like this? The males of your village often completely disregarded any preferences you might have, and they were absolutely unnoteworthy in the grand scheme of things.

Why was the High Lord addressing you at all?

You eyed him warily before you pulled out a chair from the table in front of you, the wood scraping the floor. You tapped your nails on the top of the table before moving away to tend to your other patrons, all of whom had their gazes fixed on the High Lord and his companion, several of them openly sneering at the pair.

You really, really didn’t want a brawl to break out in your pub. 

You tended to the other tables, your feet swift across the stone floor as you tried to ensure even the most unpleasant of males was content with your service. The whole night your eyes never strayed too far from the High Lord and his companion. Their eyes never strayed from you either, their gazes were piercing as you flitted about, feeling their eyes with every movement.

You got back to their table, and you hadn’t been able to really look at the High Lord’s companion until you faced him. He was sitting down, his long legs closed and tight beneath the table, as if he were incapable of allowing himself to linger for too long. Sitting down made him look even more massive - he was nearly as tall as you are in the chair.

His wings were massive behind his back, the black leathery skin seemingly connected to his shoulders with the way the wispy black shadows that followed him curled on his skin. They looked antsy, an occasional wisp darting a few inches away before being pulled as if some invisible leash were keeping them back.

But him. Your heart stopped at how beautiful he was up close - his hazel eyes betrayed nothing, but golden flecks inside of them sang to you, desperate for you to keep looking at them. Your gaze flickered down to his hands, and your breath got caught in your throat at the deeply scarred tissue. 

The male flexed his hands before hiding them beneath the table, his eyes still on you. 

Despite their disappearance, you couldn’t help but continue to look at where they had been, the sight of them floating around in your mind, the image burning inside of you. You cleared your throat, looking between them. “Can I get either of you some wine?”

The High Lord looked to his companion before nodding his head, the silent male doing the same before you turned around, heading back to the bar. You hadn’t heard or seen them speak to each other, but you’ve seen them staring at each other this whole time, lost in thought. Their faces gave nothing away, but perhaps the High Lord had an additional consort to the High Lady. The male was quite pretty, despite his inability to speak or look anything other than strained.

You headed behind the bar, popping the cork on a fresh bottle of wine. Pouring two glasses, you dropped them off before tending to your other patrons. The night went by in a blur - several males gathered at different tables, hunched together, voices low. Everyone in the tavern spent the evening paying attention to the High Lord and the male with him, discretion be damned, but no one approached either of them. 

They sat silently at their table all night, making their way slowly through the one glass of wine you poured. The night moved on, patrons of the tavern making their way to the door, each one stopping to gawk at the High Lord. You came back from the store room to watch the door close behind the last of your patrons, save for the High Lord’s party of two.

He pulled another chair out and brought it to their table, leaving space for you to sit before he tapped his own nails against the wood. You watched his violet eyes assess you at his invitation - the way you stood there, eyes moving in uncertainty until finally you dropped your rag at the bar, taking the seat he offered. He looked at you, something twinkling in his violet eyes. 

“I’m Rhys, this is Azriel.”

The High Lord pointed to himself before nodding towards the male who made no movement at the acknowledgement. His arms were crossed over his chest, eyes almost squinting in assessment, as if he tried hard enough, he could see right through you.

“We wanted to speak with you privately.”

His voice wavered just slightly - he seemed confident, but every time he spoke to you, he had to suck in a breath as if preparing himself.

“What does this pertain to?”

Rhys took a deep breath, his eyes trained on yours. “I will cut this short. We know you are an empath.”

Your heart stopped in your chest. It became hard to control your face, but you tried to remain neutral. He kept speaking, but the words all muddied together, your brain unable to pick up the different syllables and words. Your eyes briefly roamed over the bar again, ensuring no one was still in the building. When you looked back, Azriel had been tracking your eye movement.

“I am unfamiliar with what you speak of, I don’t know what an empath is.”

His violet eyes were so much like your own as his gaze pierced into yours. His face adopted a sense of familiarity as he looked at you. “We both know that’s bullshit.” He sighed, taking another sip from his glass. Azriel still hadn’t spoken, but his eyes never left you, tracking all of your movements. Your ears roared, uncertain how they had known you were an empath and what they were going to do to you now that they knew. You surveyed the room, trying to get a sense of anything you could use against them to get to the door.

Would the males of your village help if you were able to make it outside? Would they stand up to your High Lord? Or would they leave you, the tainted goods that you were?

You stiffened, your jaw going rigid as you quickly assessed your options. You schooled your features, looking toward the High Lord in challenge. He merely shrugged before scooting his chair back, the wood making a high pitched noise as it rubbed against the floor beneath. “Fine, if you wish to pretend you do not possess such powers, we will be going.”

You almost missed how wide Azriel’s eyes went, back to their normal size in the blink of an eye. A trick of the light, perhaps. The two stood, Rhys nodding to you before turning, Azriel lingering behind in contemplation. He looked at you as if he might say something, his first words of the night. Your voice stopped him before he could, your eyes looking back to the High Lord. 

“Why are you looking for an empath?”

The High Lord turned back to you, his mouth slightly quirked in amusement. A predator assessing their prey. And you had put yourself directly in the predator’s path. 

“We wanted to help train an empath, keep them safe while we help them develop their powers.” 

He took a few steps toward you again, now standing next to Azriel. The silent male just watched the exchange as if he were taking notes.

You cleared your throat. “What would such training entail?”

“Daily training with the High Lady. Practicing techniques. Learning the scope of these powers. It would be difficult, tiring work, as no one has seen an empath for a very, very long time.”

His voice got softer by the end, a melancholic lilt to it. 

“And in return?”

“In return, I sleep soundly knowing one of my enemies did not get an empath in their ranks. And that a wingless female has some control over her powers.”

There it was.

He choked briefly on the word. Wingless. 

The word came from his mouth like venom, Azriel visibly flinching in the wake of it. You had kept your eyes on Azriel since the motion, your eyes moving over his icy exterior, taking in every part of him. His body screamed hypervigilance, his muscles not even twitching in your presence until Rhys had said it.

But his eyes screamed with need. They were practically hypnotic the way they called to you. Something about them felt so familiar, the brown ring around his iris melting into green, strokes of warm gold bridging the gap in color. They were beautiful eyes. Something stirred in you at them - a deep sadness, an impossible weight in your chest leaving you stranded.

But buried somewhere amidst the grief and despair in his eyes laid a small drop of hope that was so strong it nearly consumed you.

Perhaps that is why you agreed to go with them. 

A hope induced decision.

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Thanks for reading ❣️

[0silver0dreams0]

"Whispers of Devotion" | Storyline |

✦ >>Part I (Your name) died in a horrific way, but she has been reborn in a new world, where the body she is trapped in is (your name) Targaryen, daughter of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, who took her own life after the death of her dear sister Helaena, who was very close to her.

✧ >>Part II Despite her mother, Queen Consort Alicent's attempts to control her, (your name) felt a stronger attachment to Rhaenyra and her children, which created jealousy and tension within the family. Aemond's frustration at not having a dragon fueled his anger, which grew daily, especially after Laena's tragic death. This escalating conflict ultimately led to a tragedy.

✦ >>Part III Gradually, as time passes, the girl she once was begins to transform into a woman. Those around her take notice, and the actions of those in her life start to bear consequences. As tensions rise, rivalries deepen, and complex feelings begin to intertwine.

✧ >>Part IV As tensions escalate, (your name) finds herself caught between conflicting emotions and the manipulative forces around her. The arrival of Jacaerys and Aegon only deepens the complexity of her relationships, leaving her at a crossroads as secrets unravel.

✦ >>Part V | Coming soon...

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

lecherous

part II

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

Summary: You've avoided Soldier Boy for almost two weeks... key word being almost. Because you haven't really avoided him at all. He's watched your every move, he's waited, and you can bet your ass that he's gonna find a moment to get you on your own.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is kinda his own warning?, language, innocence, corruption/corruption kink, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, handjob, overstim, biting, marking, p in v, spitting), misogyny, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 8,213

A/N: I am so gross. But to be honest, Ben makes me feral. In fairness, any character portrayed by Jensen Ackles makes me feral, but Ben??? The misogyny? I'm weak for it. Feel free to give me feedback, please. I really hope ya'll like my writing. <3 This is part two, and whoops... it appears I have lied. This isn't a two-parter at all... (so while all of the warnings listed above may not be evident, they will be in the next part) and there will be a third and final instalment. All the love.

Without further ado: LECHEROUS

Corruption is a slow, creeping thing.

It does not strike like lightning, does not announce itself with fire and fury.

It is quieter than that, softer. A whisper in the dark. A hand at your throat that never quite tightens. A steady unraveling, thread by thread, until you are something else entirely—something ruined.

Something willing.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks of ducking and dodging, of sidestepping rooms before he could enter, of lingering too close to Hughie’s side or pressing into the safe space of Kimiko’s presence. Even MM had softened to you now, tolerated your company, let you sit in silence with him when the air felt too thick with something you refused to name.

You didn’t read in the common areas anymore. Didn’t lounge on the sofa with your knees tucked up, book balanced in your lap. It was too dangerous. Too exposed. Too easy for him to—

No. No, you weren’t thinking about it.

You weren’t thinking about the way his mouth had felt on yours, the way he’d drawn you out, unraveled you with slow, indulgent precision. You weren’t thinking about how he’d left you breathless, ruined, a trembling mess in his lap.

You weren’t thinking about him.

Except… you were.

Because avoiding him? That wasn’t impossible—but ignoring him? That was another thing entirely. Because he wasn’t ignoring you.

The looks. The smirks. The brushing touches.

It was always so subtle. A gaze that lingered too long across the room, smug and knowing. The back of his knuckles dragging against the sensitive skin of your arm as he passed by, slow enough to make you shudder. The heat of his palm pressing fleetingly—deliberately—against the small of your back, fingers teasing the hem of your shirt.

And each time—each and every single time—you reacted exactly the way he wanted. A sharp breath. A jolt. A barely contained yelp, like you’d been burned. Like he had that kind of power over you.

And Hughie had started noticing.

His brows would pinch when your shoulders locked up, when your spine went straight as a blade, when you excused yourself too quickly from a room. He’d open his mouth to ask, but you’d cut him off, change the subject, force a smile.

He knew you. And he knew something was wrong. But you wouldn’t tell him.

Because how could you? How could you explain that Soldier Boy hadn’t even tried? That he hadn’t chased, hadn’t begged, hadn’t fought for your attention—

And yet somehow, he still had it?

Somehow, he’d still gotten you?

You didn’t fall over guys. You were strong in your morals, strong in yourself. You weren’t weak.

And yet—

You could still feel him.

Still feel his mouth on yours, the heat of his body, the grip of his hands, the rasp of his voice telling you—

"That’s my girl."

No. No, enough. You were done. You weren’t going to let him take up space in your head anymore.

You needed to breathe.

You waited until the house was quiet. It was past midnight. The walls settled with the weight of sleeping bodies. It was safe. You crept out of your room, silent, careful, bare feet padding down the hall. The kitchen light flickered dimly as you pushed the door open.

The air was cool. The world felt still.

You let out a slow breath, crossing to the sink. Reached for a glass. Poured yourself some water.

And then—

"‘Bout time you stopped runnin’."

Your stomach dropped. Your fingers tightened around the glass, heart stalling in your ribs. Slowly, carefully, you turned.

He was leaning against the doorway. Relaxed. Smirking. Waiting. The light from the kitchen threw shadows over the sharp angles of his face, the messy waves of his hair, the muscle of his arms. Grey sweats. A plain t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing the cut of his forearms. Casual. Comfortable.

Like he hadn’t been sleeping. Like he’d been expecting you.

Your lips parted—nothing came out.

His gaze dragged over you, slow and indulgent, before he let out a low, amused breath.

"C’mon, sweetheart." He tilted his head slightly, mocking, lazy. "You really think I didn’t notice?"

Your fingers curled against the counter. Your pulse thudded.

"Two weeks, and you can’t even be in the same room as me without fidgeting like a fuckin’ schoolgirl?"

You swallowed. Your throat was dry. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

So why were you trembling?

He stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. He reached you in three strides. Didn’t touch you. Not yet. But he was close. Too close.

"You gonna keep pretendin’ that you don’t want me to touch you again?"

His voice was low, rough around the edges, all quiet gravel and smug heat.

Your jaw clenched. Your nails bit into the counter. Heat bloomed at the base of your spine. No, you weren’t going to fall for this again. You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin.

"I don’t—"

His brow quirked—like he already knew what you were going to say. Like it was boring. Like it was expected. Like you were predictable.

"Bullshit."

Your breath shattered. Because you couldn’t deny it.

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when your body was already betraying you.

And he knew it.

Your pulse thundered. It felt too loud, too obvious, like he could hear it, like he could feel it.

Then he lifted his hand, let the backs of his fingers drag down the line of your jaw, slow and mocking, watching the way your breath caught, hitched, trembled.

"Lyin’ little thing, ain’tcha?"

The words punched the air out of your lungs. You jerked back on instinct, twisting away from his touch, fumbling to set your glass down before you dropped it. It clinked against the counter—your fingers trembled, wobbly, weak.

You stepped back.

And he—

He followed. Crowding into your space. Pressing forward. Cutting off any escape. Your lower back hit the counter—your fingers curled tight around the edge, breath caught in your throat.

And the look on his face? Smug. Devastatingly smug.

"Bet you ain’t ever come like that in your life."

The words hit hard. Your stomach dropped, heat flaring over your cheeks, spreading down your spine.

His voice was low, full of rough, ruined amusement, heavy with smug satisfaction.

"Matter of fact—", he tilted his head slightly, mocking, gaze dragging down your body before lifting back to yours. "I bet that’s the only time you ever have."

Your breath stalled. Your lips parted—nothing came out. Heat flooded your face, burned down your throat, settled like something humiliating and undeniable in your chest.

"Ohhh," he exhaled slow, grinning now, sharp and wicked. "That hit a nerve, huh?"

Your fingers tightened around the counter, desperate for something solid, something that wasn’t him.

"I—" You swallowed, shaking your head. "I have—" You hesitated, stumbled, the words clunky, awkward, desperate. "I have come before."

His eyebrows lifted, like he was genuinely entertained.

"Sure you have, sweetheart."

The patronising drawl made your stomach curl tight, hot, unbearable.

"What was it?" He smirked, amused. "Some poor fuckin’ college boy, five-pump chump tryin’ to figure out where your clit is?"

Your face burned, mortification hitting like a slap. Your hands curled into fists, frown deepening, jaw tightening—

And then he reached down. Adjusted his cock right in front of you, thick and fucking obvious through his sweats, his big palm gripping slow, deliberate.

Your gaze flickered down, back up—your breath stuttered, and your brows pulled together in a furious scowl.

His grin stretched wider, filthier.

"That look right there?" He hummed low, voice all gravel, all wreckage. "Fuckin’ dangerous."

Your throat went dry.

"’Cause I know," his fingers squeezed, a rough adjustment, like he wasn’t even thinking about it—like it was just habit, instinct, need. "I know I can wipe that pissed-off little look right off your face."

Your stomach twisted. Your body betrayed you—heat low and aching, that unbearable tightening pulse between your thighs. Your nails bit into your palm. You squeezed your eyes shut, sucked in a slow breath—

No. No, you weren’t doing this again. You weren’t letting him win again.

You exhaled hard, eyes flicking back up to meet his, steeled, steady, stubborn.

"Soldier Boy, I—"

"Try again." His voice cut through yours, sharp and absolute, tearing your words straight from your mouth.

Your breath stumbled. Your brows knitted together—confusion flickering too quick, too obvious.

And his fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up, up, up.

"My name’s Ben."

The words didn’t just land—they lingered.

Your breath hitched, barely escaping past your lips as his fingers remained firm under your chin, keeping you there, keeping you locked in place. He wasn’t squeezing, wasn’t forcing—but he didn’t need to. It was the weight of it, the deliberate control of his touch, the silent command behind it.

And the way he looked at you?

Like he was waiting. Like he was expecting something.

Your lips parted, but nothing came. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, a slow, creeping thing crawling up the column of your throat, spreading across your cheeks. His gaze flicked downward, watching the way your lips trembled before tilting back up to your eyes, something dark settling in his own.

"Try again, sweetheart."

Soft. Too soft.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the edge of the counter behind you, like you could somehow ground yourself—like you could pull yourself back from whatever this was. Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you, too aware of how close he was, of the heat rolling off him in slow, even waves.

"Ben," you whispered, hesitant, uncertain, your voice barely more than a breath.

His fingers eased, just slightly, the pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your jaw. His touch was warm, too warm, like an ember pressed against sensitive skin.

And then, he hummed. Low. Pleased. Indulgent.

"There’s a good girl."

Your stomach plummeted.

A sharp, tight breath caught in your throat as something twisted hot and aching at the base of your spine. You wanted to step back, to put space between you, but there was nowhere to go. The counter pressed firm against your lower back, trapping you in place.

And he could see it.

The flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way your breath quickened, the way your thighs pressed together just a little too tightly. His smirk curled higher, just slightly, but his voice stayed slow, patient, knowing.

"Why you runnin’ from me, huh?"

Your lips parted—then closed again.

Because what were you supposed to say?

That you weren’t? That he was imagining things? That this wasn’t happening, hadn’t already happened?

"I’m not—"

The subtle tilt of his head cut you off before you could even finish. A small gesture, simple, but it shut you up immediately.

Like he already knew you were lying.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His voice dipped lower, slower, the gravel of it dragging over your skin like the rough edge of a match before a flame. "Ain’t like you don’t want me. Ain’t like I didn’t already prove that."

Your stomach clenched. You shook your head, desperate, exhaling a sharp breath.

"This can’t happen again."

His eyes flickered, watching you carefully, reading you. And then—he chuckled. Soft. Amused. Entirely unbothered.

"Why not?"

Like you hadn’t just drawn a line. Like it wasn’t even a real answer.

You stiffened, swallowing against the thick knot in your throat, hands curling into fists at your sides.

"Because I won’t let it."

That only made him laugh again, lower this time, under his breath.

"That’s cute."

The air in your lungs turned thick, heavy. The heat behind your ribs seared.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and indulgent, gaze flickering to your mouth before sliding lower—watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way you pressed back against the counter like you could somehow disappear into it.

"But, sweetheart," he leaned in, voice dropping, tilting his head slightly—like he was letting you in on a little secret. "I don’t think you got it in you."

Your fingers dug into the counter.

"I do."

"Mmm." He hummed low, dragging his fingers slow over your jaw, knuckles brushing feather-light down your throat. Not grabbing, not holding—just barely touching. "You keep sayin’ that, but I ain't seein’ it."

His lips parted, exhaling hot and slow, his breath fanning over your cheek, your neck—your pulse jumped.

"Matter of fact," his voice dropped deeper, slower, like it was just for you—just for this. "I think you like bein’ right here."

Your stomach twisted.

"Pinned up against the counter. Nothin’ to do but let me touch you."

Your throat went dry.

"No."

"Yeah," he corrected easily, like he was just helping you out. Like you weren’t even in control of your own answer.

Your nails bit into your palms.

"I told you, this isn’t happening again—"

And then, his fingers—still resting under your jaw, still holding you there—traced lower. Not rough, not forceful. Just soft. His knuckles skimmed over the side of your throat, down to your shoulder, then lower—barely there, just enough to feel it.

"Told me a lotta things, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dragging like silk over a blade.

His fingers brushed over the inside of your wrist. Gentle. Testing.

"Told me you weren’t a virgin."

Your breath stammered.

"Told me you’ve come before."

A sharp, hot flush climbed up your neck, burning high into your cheeks.

His lips parted—he exhaled, slow, warm, smug.

"That was cute, too."

Your stomach twisted violently—you flinched, jerking slightly, but his palm pressed firm against the small of your back, stopping you. Not pushing. Not forcing. Just keeping you.

"That mouth of yours says a lotta things," he murmured, the weight of his hand so heavy, so warm, so devastatingly steady.

His fingers flexed against your spine, just slightly, just enough to make you feel it.

"Shame your body don’t agree."

Your breath hitched loudly.

Because he was right. And he knew it. His smirk was still there, lazy and knowing, but his voice was softer now. Lower. Richer.

"Just say the word, sweetheart."

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

His fingers tightened slightly, his voice dropping even further.

"Tell me to stop."

Your pulse pounded. Your stomach knotted.

"Go on."

You should. You should tell him to back off, to stop, to leave you alone.

But—

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

His smirk stretched wider.

"See?" His voice was pure satisfaction. "Told you."

His fingers were still firm at the small of your back, keeping you there, keeping you steady—not forcing, just holding. And yet, your knees felt weak, your breath unsteady, something hot and helpless curling tight in your stomach.

You needed to breathe. You needed to get out of this. And he needed to stop looking at you like that. Like he’d already won.

His lips parted, exhaling slow and warm, so close to your mouth now that you could feel the ghost of his breath on your lips. But he didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

Instead, he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Lethal.

"What’re you so scared of, sweetheart?" His voice was too soft, too patient, too unbearably coaxing.

Your throat went dry.

"Ain’t like you don’t want me touchin’ you again."

His fingers flexed slightly against your spine, small, deliberate, and your whole body responded.

You hated the way your breath hitched. You hated the way your thighs clenched together. And you hated the way he noticed.

His smirk twitched, but he kept his voice low, indulgent, coaxing.

"You gonna let me do it proper this time?"

Your stomach twisted.

"Let me touch you right?"

Your fingers dug into the counter, something hot and humiliated and desperate coiling inside you.

"Let me feel you without those pretty little panties in the way?"

Your breath shattered. A sharp, soft gasp escaped your throat, but his voice didn’t falter—didn’t stop.

"Bet you’re soaked already, ain'tcha?" His lips brushed yours just barely, teasing, feather-light. "Bet I could just slide my fingers in, feel how tight that needy little pussy grips ‘em."

You choked on a breath, shaking, eyes wide, your whole body flushing hot, burning up, completely betraying you.

And he saw it all.

His breath dragged slow over your lips, still not kissing you, still just hovering close, watching, waiting.

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice was nothing more than a whisper now, dragging warm over your skin. "That’s what you want, ain’t it?"

Your stomach twisted. You should say no. You should push him away. But all you could do was breathe too hard and tremble too much.

His voice stayed gentle. Soothing.

"You just gotta let me, baby."

Your nails bit into the counter.

"Lemme make it feel good. Lemme show you what it’s supposed to be like."

The words were too much. You gasped, breath stammering, chest rising too fast, head spinning too heavy, heart hammering too hard.

And that—that made him grin.

"There it is." His lips brushed yours as he murmured the words, slow and indulgent, like he was drinking in the way you were coming apart right in front of him. "Knew you’d sound fuckin’ sweet when you got all worked up."

You sucked in a breath, shaking your head too quick, too desperate, too defensive.

"Someone could—" You gasped, voice shaky, fragile, fumbling. "Anyone could walk in—"

He huffed out a low, lazy laugh, one hand sliding up your spine, fingers brushing barely there against the nape of your neck.

"Yeah?" He murmured, lips still ghosting over yours, still not kissing you. "That what’s got you so nervous, sweetheart?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Your brother’s just down the hall, huh?"

A sharp, startled breath tore from your throat, and he grinned wider.

"That makes it even more exciting for you, doesn’t it?"

You exhaled hard, shaking, trying to push back against the counter, trying to find something solid.

"No—"

"Yeah." His voice dropped again, heavier, smoother, sliding right down your spine like syrup. "You’re gonna be a quiet little thing, huh?"

A humiliated gasp stammered past your lips, your legs trembling, heat pooling so deep inside you that you didn’t know what to do with it.

"I know you can do it, baby." His voice so soft, so coaxing, but the way he was looking at you—

Like he was already certain. Like you were already his. Like it was just a matter of when you’d break. Not if.

His fingers dragged up the back of your neck, warm, steady, teasing that fragile line between tenderness and possession.

"So, you gonna let me take care of you, or you gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t wanna be fucked senseless?"

Your fingers twitched. Still clenched into the counter, still holding onto something solid, real, something that wasn’t him.

But the way he was looking at you—so smug, so patient, so devastatingly certain—it was making it harder and harder to breathe.

You needed to push him away. You needed to end this before it went any further. But instead you moved.

Your hands lifted slowly, like you weren’t even in control of them anymore, like they had a mind of their own.

And then—

Your palms pressed against his chest.

His breath hitched. Not much. Just a small, almost imperceptible shift. But you felt it. Felt the way his heartbeat thumped beneath your hands, steady, strong, unfazed. Felt the heat radiating off him, so warm, so unbearably close. Felt the muscle under your fingers as you dragged your hands up, slowly, carefully, over the firm plane of his pecs, up, up over his shoulders, until your fingers curled around the thick muscle.

His lips parted slightly, exhaling a slow breath against your mouth, watching you with rapt fascination.

And when your hands slid up further, when your fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck, his smirk twitched.

"That’s it, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightened.

He was still holding you so close, his body so big and solid against yours, his hands still spanning your lower back, keeping you in place.

And still—

You rose onto your toes. Your gaze flickered to his mouth, hesitant, nervous, before you pulled him down. And you kissed him. A soft, tentative press at first—uncertain, unsteady.

But then his hands slid lower, firmer, stronger. One splayed against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, crushing the space between you, moulding your body against his. The other trailed down, palming the curve of your ass, teasing, indulgent.

And then?

Then he grinned against your mouth. Wicked. Smug. Victorious.

"Knew you’d come back to me."

A soft, helpless whimper caught in your throat, but he was already kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, taking everything you were giving.

"So sweet," he murmured against your lips, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip, pulling at it, biting, soothing.

"Such a little angel."

Your breath shattered. A needy, desperate sound escaped before you could stop it, and your fingers tightened in his hair.

That did something to him. Because suddenly, his hands were everywhere. Dragging down your back, squeezing at your waist, grabbing at your thighs, pressing, kneading, gripping like he needed to touch every inch of you.

And when your fingers tugged harder at his hair—

He groaned. Low and deep and wrecked, and his hips jerked into yours, rutting slow, grinding against you, pushing you back just enough—

Until your lower back hit the counter again.

"Careful, baby." His voice was teasing, but there was something darker underneath it. Something thicker. Heavier.

"Don’t want you gettin’ hurt before I even get my hands on you."

Your thighs clenched, breath stammering, body trembling.

His fingers hooked into the hem of your nightdress.

"C’mon, sweetheart."

You gasped, your whole body burning, tightening, unraveling—

"Let me feel you right."

The fabric dragged up, up, up, his hand hot and slow against your bare thigh. And his other hand slid forward. Fingers gliding over your stomach, teasing, brushing soft against the waistband of your panties.

Your whole body locked up, shuddering, heat curling so deep inside you that you thought you might break apart from it.

"There you go, baby." His voice was a slow, wicked drawl, soft and sweet, smooth as honey, thick as sin. "Told you I’d make you feel so fuckin’ good."

Your breath hitched.

"Gonna make you see stars, sweetheart."

Your fingers clenched into his shoulders, desperate, dizzy, overwhelmed.

"Bet you’ll like this even more than you like your little poems."

The first brush of his fingers over your waistband had your stomach clenching tight, anticipation twisting thick and electric through your veins.

The warmth of his palm against your stomach was steady, grounding, his thumb teasing soft against your skin in slow, absentminded strokes—like he was soaking up the moment, like he was memorising the way you trembled beneath his touch.

His mouth was still moving against yours, hot and slow, deep and devastating. He licked into you, coaxing, teasing, kissing you filthy and sweet, swallowing every unsteady sound you made like he owned them, like he’d been waiting for them.

And then—

His fingers slipped lower. Past your waistband. Past the last barrier of fabric. Until his knuckles brushed against the wet heat of you.

His breath caught.

And then—he groaned. Low. Rough. Wrecked. His mouth pulled from yours, lips still grazing close as he exhaled slow and disbelieving.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ."

Heat flooded your face, embarrassment burning high into your cheeks, crawling up your neck like fire.

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest tight, breath shallow, but he was already shaking his head, grinning against your cheek, lips pressing slow and indulgent to your skin as his fingers dragged through the unbearable slickness between your thighs.

"Goddamn, sweetheart." His voice was thicker now, heavier, syrup-slow and dripping with indulgence. "You’re soaked already, huh?"

A sharp, humiliated whimper caught in your throat, your hands tightening around the broad span of his shoulders.

"That’s so fuckin’ hot." His mouth traveled down, lips dragging along the curve of your jaw, kissing slow, reverent. "So wet for me."

His fingers slid through it again, slow, lazy, dragging slickness up and spreading it over your clit, barely there, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

"Jesus," he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, grinning wicked and smug as his fingers slipped down again, testing, teasing.

"Your body’s so fuckin’ perfect, baby."

Your breath hitched, another soft gasp spilling past your lips, but he swallowed it eagerly, capturing your mouth again, deep and filthy.

His fingers dipped lower, probing, teasing at your entrance, and when he pressed inside—

The sound was obscene.

A wet squelch filled the room, loud and undeniable, and your whole body went tight with shame, pleasure, mortification.

"Oh, sweetheart."

His voice was pure satisfaction, thick with wreckage, rich with indulgence.

"That sounded so fuckin’ good."

Your hands tightened in his hair, tugging too hard, too desperate, and he groaned against your mouth, hips jerking into you on instinct.

His finger slid in deeper, slow, deliberate, stretching you open inch by inch, the pressure too much, too intoxicating.

"That’s it, baby." His voice hushed, coaxing, a slow, honey-thick murmur against your lips. "Takin’ me so fuckin’ sweet."

His palm flattened against you, pressing firm against your clit, trapping you there, holding you open. The pressure was exquisite, unbearable, pleasure curling through your stomach like something molten, hot and unrelenting.

You whimpered, the sound high and helpless, and he kissed you again, swallowing it down like he needed it.

"You ready for me, sweetheart?"

You opened your mouth—but before you could even answer—

His finger curled.

The sensation was immediate, visceral, devastating. A sharp, white-hot shock of pleasure burst through you like lightning, your back arching without permission, pressing you tighter into him.

"There it is."

His voice was a slow, smug murmur, dragging over your lips, thick with satisfaction as his finger pressed right against that soft, spongey spot inside you.

Your whole body jerked, pleasure crashing through you too fast, too sudden, your thighs squeezing around his wrist as your breath shattered into something helpless, wrecked.

"Yeah, baby." His breath was hot against your mouth, voice molten, coaxing, teasing. "That’s the spot, huh?"

Your hands clawed into his hair, desperate, shaking, as he pressed against it again, and you gasped, eyes fluttering, mouth parted and trembling as a sharp, desperate sound broke free.

His smirk was pure sin.

"Fuck, you sound so fuckin’ pretty like this."

His finger curled again, deeper, stronger, deliberate.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His lips brushed against yours, soft, teasing, filthy. "Let me hear you."

Your breath was coming too fast now, sharp and uneven, breaking apart against his mouth as his finger worked inside you—slow, calculated, pressing deep and curling just right, like he’d known your body longer than you had.

It was building too fast.

You could feel it, that tight, hot coil winding low in your stomach, growing sharper, heavier, too much too soon—but there was no stopping it, no slowing down, no escaping the way he was pulling you apart, piece by piece.

And he could tell.

"Already, sweetheart?" His voice was so fucking soft, syrup-smooth and indulgent, mocking and reverent all at once.

"Knew you’d be quick for me."

His free hand moved from your back, slipping up, coaxing, guiding, pulling.

He pried one of your hands from his hair, bringing it forward, threading his fingers through yours like he was about to kiss your palm, about to say something sweet.

And then—

His lips brushed your knuckles, pressing a small, deliberate kiss to the ridge of your fingers, and something in your chest caved. Your knees went weak, stomach tightening, twisting, your fingers trembling in his grip.

He felt it.

And he smiled.

"There’s my girl."

A soft, wrecked whimper slipped from your throat, but he was already guiding your hand lower. Sliding it down, down, down.

Until—

You felt it. Thick. Hard. Burning hot under your fingers.

Your breath stammered, eyes going wide as your palm pressed against the solid length of him through his sweats.

"Wanna keep those hands busy, baby?" His lips grazed yours, grinning against them, smug and knowing.

You nodded—frantic, eager, desperate.

"Yeah?" His fingers flexed around yours, pulling your hand into his sweats, pressing you more firmly against him, rolling his hips slightly so you could feel just how much you’d done to him.

"Feel that?" His voice dropped, deep and molten. "That’s for you, sweetheart."

A broken whimper tumbled past your lips, and you surged forward, kissing him messy, desperate, needing.

He groaned.

"Look what you've done to me, baby."

He pressed you firmer against him, dragging your palm along his length, showing you how to move. His fingers curled around yours, guiding you, controlling you, teaching you.

And you—

You followed. Your grip tightened, your fingers starting to move on their own now, stroking him slow, testing, feeling, learning.

And he fucking felt it. His breath shuddered, a low, wrecked sound deep in his chest as his grip on your hand eased, letting you take over, letting you explore him the way he was exploring you.

"That’s it." His mouth dragged hot over your cheek, voice thick, strained, ruined. "Fuck, that’s it, baby."

You whined—high and needy, pleasure too much, too close, too unbearable—but you kept moving, palm dragging over the thick outline of him, feeling him twitch against your touch.

And then—

He added another finger and pressed into that spot inside you again. Your whole body went tight, the pleasure so sharp, so sudden, so overwhelmingly good that it ripped through you in one swift, dizzying wave.

Your back arched, pressing yourself fully into him, your mouth falling open against his, a broken groan escaping as you shattered.

Your body clenched around his fingers—

And your hand squeezed around his cock.

He felt it. And he lost it. A sharp, ragged breath punched out of his chest, his hips jerking into your grip, chasing the tight, hot pressure of your touch.

"Jesus fuck—"

His forehead dropped against yours, breath heavy, uneven, mouth parted and wrecked as his fingers kept moving, coaxing you through it, drawing it out.

"Goddamn, sweetheart."

His voice was hoarse, strained, something hot and desperate bleeding into it.

"Knew you’d sound this fuckin’ good."

His fingers stayed deep, the stretch still too much, too perfect, too devastating, but he didn’t stop moving—slow, unrelenting, dragging your pleasure out for as long as he wanted to.

Your whole body was trembling, chest heaving against his, face flushed, slack, ruined. You didn’t even realise you were still rocking against his hand, chasing the last waves of your release, trying to milk every last drop of pleasure he’d wrung from you.

He felt it.

And he grinned.

"Greedy little thing, ain'tcha?"

A helpless, broken whine slipped from your throat, your grip on his cock tightening slightly in your palm.

That did something to him. His breath hitched, eyes going darker, hips jerking into your hand like he couldn’t help himself.

"Fuckin’ hell, baby."

And then—

His fingers moved harder. Fucking into you deeper, rougher, sharper. You choked on a gasp, body tensing, clenching, pleasure spiking all over again before you even had time to recover.

"That’s it, sweetheart."

His voice was low, indulgent, dragging wet and hot over your pulse, kissing, licking, sucking at the delicate skin there.

"Takin’ it so good for me."

Your breath stammered, fingers tightening in his hair, around his cock, both of you trembling against each other. He groaned, sucking harder at your neck, holding you still while he bruised you, while he marked you.

And you barely even noticed.

Your mind was too foggy, too blurry with pleasure, focusing only on your own fist wrapped around his cock, the way he twitched against your palm, the way he was fucking you open like he owned you.

And then—

His mouth pulled away. He leaned back just enough to admire his work. And his smirk? Unbearable.

"Look at that, sweetheart." His voice was thick with satisfaction, smug and teasing. "You look so fuckin’ good with my mark on your neck."

You scowled, gasping when you realised what he’d done, when you felt the sore, pulsing throb at your pulse point.

"Ben—"

But before you could even say anything, his fingers pressed against that spot inside you again. And just like that, your face went slack. Your lips parted, eyes hazy, mind going completely blank.

He saw it.

And he chuckled.

"Told you, baby." His voice was taunting, but not cruel—just so goddamn smug, so goddamn certain. "Know how to wipe that little fuckin’ scowl right off your face."

Your whole body flushed, humiliation mixing with pleasure, ruining you in real-time. And then he tilted his head, like he was considering something.

"Open your mouth."

Your brows furrowed, lips parting slightly, breath still broken and uneven.

"What—"

He fucked up into your fist, cock twitching, grip tightening at your waist.

"C’mon, open your fuckin’ mouth, pretty baby."

His voice was pure filth, wrecked and coaxing, gritted and sweet, urging you on.

"Do it for me."

And you? You did. Your mouth fell open on instinct, breath stammering, body trembling. And the second it did—

His smirk stretched.

"Good girl."

Your stomach flipped, heat crashing through you all over again, and then—

He spat.

The slick warmth landed right on your tongue, thick, wet, his eyes locked onto yours the entire time. You barely had time to process it before his mouth was on yours. Deep. Claiming. Indulgent. He kissed you slow and hot, tongue licking into your mouth, swallowing it down, making you swallow it.

And all you could do?

Was let him.

Your whole body was trembling. Your pulse thundering, your breath stammering, pleasure climbing so high, so unbearable, so dangerously close to the edge.

He felt it.

Felt the way your thighs squeezed together, the way your stomach went tight, the way your little whimpers turned into choked sobs against his mouth, too quiet, too overwhelmed, too ruined to even form real words.

And he fucking loved it.

"That’s it, baby." His voice was low, thick with wreckage, hushed against your lips. "Keep doin’ what you’re doin’."

His fingers never faltered, never slowed—pushing inside you, fucking into that gummy spot, working you open, coaxing you higher.

"You’re so fuckin’ sweet for me." His other hand gripped at your waist, steadying you, grounding you, stopping you from swaying too much, keeping you right there, right where he wanted you.

"So fuckin’ good with those pretty little hands." His hips thrust into your fist, the muscles in his stomach tensing, quivering—his breath going ragged, desperate.

"Gonna make me come so fuckin’ hard, sweetheart."

Your back arched, your grip on his cock tightening, slick and hot in your palm.

"Fuck—" His breath stuttered, his voice coming out gritted, raw. "Wish I could slip it inside you right now and paint your fuckin' womb."

Your stomach flipped, heat slamming through you so violently that you thought you might shatter on the spot.

"Wish I could fuck this tight little pussy for real—"

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails biting into muscle, another soft sob breaking from your throat as you buried your face against his jaw, letting him spill his filth into your ear.

"Fill you up nice and deep." His voice was pure sin, thick and syrup-slow, dragging over your skin like liquid heat.

"Goddamn, sweetheart—" He growled, the sound deep, guttural, primal. "Bet you’d take it so good."

And that?

That was it.

Your whole body locked up, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave, rolling hot and fast, obliterating everything in its wake. You clenched hard around his fingers, breath shattering, chest arching, a wrecked sob spilling into his mouth.

And at the exact same time he came. With a sharp, wrecked grunt, his hips bucked into your grip, breath stammering, muscles going rigid, tense, shaking.

"F-fuck—" His forehead dropped against yours, mouth falling open, panting, groaning, fucking into your hand, riding it out.

His fingers stilled inside you, buried deep, pressing one last time into that sweet, devastatingly perfect spot, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of you until you were spent, trembling, gone.

You both stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against each other’s mouths, chests rising and falling in tandem.

And then—

His fingers slid out, slow, careful. And before you could even recover, he tapped you once against your clit. Sharp. Teasing.

You jolted. A soft gasp ripped from your throat, your legs trembling violently, and he laughed. Right into your mouth.

"Goddamn, you’re fun." His voice was lazy, wrecked, teasing, his smirk curling wide as he kissed you again—a slow, indulgent drag of lips, completely unhurried, completely satisfied.

Your body was still buzzing, still overheated, still locked in the heavy, drowning warmth of aftershocks, when you finally pulled your hand from his sweats. Your fingers were sticky. Your breath hitched when you looked down, blinking in dazed fascination at the warm, wet fluid coating your palm.

He caught your stare.

And he grinned.

"You can wipe it on my pants if you want, sweetheart." His voice was thick with amusement, watching you with heavy-lidded satisfaction.

His smirk widened.

"Or—" He tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "You can have a little taste."

Your stomach flipped, an embarrassed flush creeping up your neck, but curiosity flickered beneath it. Your fingers twitched. Your breath came shaky, uneven, lips parting slightly as you hesitated—

And then slowly, deliberately, you lifted your fingers to your mouth.

His expression shifted. The amusement faded into something heavier. His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in, watching you so closely, so intently as your tongue flicked softly over the tip of your index finger.

A small hum rumbled in your throat, and—

"Huh." You licked your lips, eyes flickering up to meet his, voice airy, distant. "S’kinda nice."

His breath hitched. He groaned.

"Christ on a fuckin' cross." His hand came up, dragging slow and rough over his face, exhaling sharp and strained, before his fingers curled tight around your waist.

"You better stop that, sweetheart." His voice was low, hoarse, wrecked. "Or I’m gonna be ready to go another round."

You were still standing there. Still breathless. Still reeling.

His body was so close, still warm, still pressed against yours, still caging you in like you weren’t going anywhere. His hands had slipped back to your hips, loose but firm, like he was letting you breathe but not letting you leave.

And his face?

Unbearably fucking smug.

That smirk, lazy and self-satisfied, pure fucking victory curling at the edges of his lips. His eyes dragged slow over you, indulgent, still dark, still hungry, like he was taking in every detail.

Your face was still hot, your body still buzzing, your lips still tingling from the last thing he’d done to them. You swallowed. And then, hesitantly, voice small, quiet, unsure—

"Was I… okay?"

His expression shifted. Not in any way that meant he was about to stop being insufferable. No. It shifted in a way that made him look like he was about to fucking ruin you all over again.

His grip tightened slightly, big hands curling possessively at your hips, keeping you there. And his voice? His voice dropped.

"Sweetheart."

A shiver crawled up your spine.

"You were fuckin’ perfect."

Your stomach flipped, heat climbing right back up your neck, pooling deep and heavy inside you all over again.

"That pretty little pussy of yours?" His hands flexed, a slow, deliberate squeeze that had you biting your lip. "So warm. So wet."

Your face burned, mortification curling hot under your skin.

"So fuckin’ tight around my fingers."

You sucked in a breath.

"Gripped me so goddamn good." His voice was pure sin, thick and syrupy-slow. "Made me come so hard I almost saw fuckin’ stars."

Your lips parted, your whole body betraying you, heat flooding every inch of you, chest tightening, thighs clenching. And he saw it. He saw all of it. His smirk widened, his fingers brushing slow along the curve of your waist, something too gentle, too indulgent in the way he was still holding onto you.

"So."

The amusement was back. Sharp. Smug. Unbearable.

"Now that we got that outta the way—" He tilted his head, watching you, voice easy, casual, but laced with something too sure. "You don’t get to avoid me anymore."

Your stomach dropped. Your brows furrowed, head jerking up, eyes narrowing.

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled.

"You heard me, sweetheart." His grip tightened just slightly, fingers pressing into your hips like he was reminding you who just made you fall apart in his hands.

"No more runnin’."

Your mouth fell open, indignation flaring white-hot in your chest.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do."

That made him laugh. A low, slow, devastating chuckle, his head tilting slightly, watching you with something way too pleased.

"Oh, baby."

The condescension. The goddamn amusement.

"I just made you come so hard you damn near forgot your own name." His voice dropped even lower, thicker, heavier. "You don’t really get a fuckin’ say anymore."

Your stomach twisted. Your whole body went rigid, sharp, bristling, rage curling hot through your veins.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Dead serious, sweetheart."

His voice was so calm, so easy, so effortlessly in control.

"Ain’t no broad back in my day would’ve had a problem with that." His lips curled slightly, like he was enjoying this, like he was fucking entertained by the way your whole body had gone tense. "Knew how to take care of a man, knew how to show some appreciation when he took care of them."

Your breath stammered.

"You are so—"

He cut you off without even trying.

"Knew their place, too."

Your mouth fell open, outrage slamming through you like a bullet.

"Oh, my God—"

"Shit, sweetheart, c’mon." His voice was so smug, so goddamn unbearable, so Soldier Boy. "We both know you like it when I talk to you like this."

Your jaw clenched, fists curling at your sides, heart hammering, heat rising.

And he saw that too. His grin stretched even wider.

"See? Look at you, all fuckin’ riled up now."

"I am not riled up—"

"Sure you are, baby." His voice was thick, teasing, so goddamn sure. "Can practically feel you squeezin’ those pretty little thighs together already."

Your hands twitched, lips parting—

"You are the most—"

"You gonna run off now?" He interrupted easily, effortlessly, smoothly. "Pout like a fuckin' brat, stomp off to your room?"

Your stomach flipped, rage curling hot and tight and unbearable. Your whole body was tense, face burning, blood pounding.

"Go fuck yourself, Ben."

And then, without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed away. His smug laughter followed you down the hall. Low. Taunting. Completely entertained. And just before you slammed your bedroom door—

"You’ll be back, sweetheart."

You slept like a damn baby.

Like a woman with no regrets, no shame, no absolutely ruinous decisions hanging over her head.

Slept so deep, so sweet, so undisturbed that for a brief, blissful moment when you woke up—

You forgot.

Forgot about last night. Forgot about his hands on you. Forgot about his mouth on yours. Forgot about his filthy fucking voice in your ear, telling you all the things he wanted to do to you. Forgot about the absolute, insufferable, misogynistic bullshit that had you stomping off to bed in the first place.

And now?

Now you were heading out, feeling good, feeling light, feeling normal, ready to spend some time with Hughie while you actually could before Butcher inevitably dragged him into some bullshit again.

So, you stepped out of your room. And walked straight past Ben. Didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t let yourself see whatever smug look he was probably throwing your way.

Just kept walking, shoulders back, head high, ignoring the way your stomach twisted just from knowing he was there.

And then, just as you reached the communal room—

Kimiko stopped in her tracks.

She was already looking at you, eyes darting over your face—then lower, down, down, stopping right at your neck. Her eyes went wide. Before you could even open your mouth, she grabbed your wrist and dragged you.

"Wait—Kimiko—where—"

Too late.

You were already moving, stumbling after her, dragged down the hall, pulled right past the communal room, right past whatever conversation you were supposed to be having with Hughie.

And then—

Kimiko shoved open Frenchie’s door and hauled you inside.

The room was dark, warm, faintly hazy from the lingering scent of whatever questionable substance Frenchie had been indulging in last night.

And Frenchie? Was dead asleep. Or—he had been. Because the second Kimiko smacked him on the chest—

"Merde!" Frenchie jolted so hard he nearly rolled off the bed, swearing violently in half-asleep, drugged-up French, hands flailing as he blinked blearily into the dim light.

"Putain de merde—Kimiko, mon coeur, what the fuck—?"

Kimiko ignored him. Her hands moved fast, sharp, urgent. Signing. Pointing at you. Signing again.

Frenchie sat up, rubbing at his face, scratching at his stubble, still groggy and confused as he tried to follow her hands.

"Oui, oui, I see you, mon coeur, but what—"

Then his eyes landed on you. Really landed on you. His gaze drifted.

Down. To your neck. And just like that, his eyes went wide as hell. His hand dropped from his face.

"Ah."

Frenchie’s mouth stretched into a slow, wicked grin.

"Ooooh, mon ange—"

"What?" Your hands flew up. "Don’t even—"

But it was too late. He turned back to Kimiko, eyes still blown comically wide, pointing at you before signing fast and frantic.

"She’s asking who gave you that."

Your stomach knotted violently, a hot spike of realisation crashing through your chest, because suddenly you remembered.

Your hand flew to your neck, prodding blindly, feeling the sore, tender mark blooming dark against your skin.

The mark. The one Ben sucked into you last night. The one you completely forgot about. The one that Kimiko immediately spotted the second you walked into the room.

Panic.

Absolute, immediate panic.

The realisation landed like a gunshot, sharp and immediate, rattling through your ribs before your stomach even had the chance to catch up.

Kimiko had seen it. Frenchie had seen it. And if they had seen it—then Hughie?

Hughie was definitely going to see it.

And Hughie—who had known you your whole life, who could read you like a fucking book, who could crack you open with one well-placed look—was going to ask questions.

And you?

You were a terrible liar.

The thought alone made your stomach seize, heat curling through your chest like something violent, something warning, something screaming fix this before it’s too late.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake—" you groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already pacing, already spiralling.

Kimiko’s eyes widened, expression flickering between shock and delight, amusement tucked just beneath the surface. She lifted a hand to her mouth, muffling whatever sound she might’ve made, watching as you turned in a tight, frantic circle, muttering under your breath.

Frenchie, still groggy, still scratching at the stubble on his jaw, sat up slowly, blinking at you as though he wasn’t quite sure he was actually awake. He let out a low sigh, rubbing at his face before dropping his hands into his lap, and when he spoke, his voice was warm with laughter, low and teasing, his grin spreading wide.

"Mon dieu, I have never heard you swear before." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It sounds funny coming from you."

"Shut up, Frenchie." Your tone was sharp, but your voice was wavering, already stretched too thin.

"Non, non—this is magnifique." He gestured lazily toward the obvious, undeniable mark blooming against your neck. "This is scandalous."

You groaned again, running your hands through your hair, fingers tangling at your scalp as you paced the room in a tight, erratic line.

"He is such a fucking degrading piece of shit."

Kimiko gasped softly, eyes blown wide again, clearly startled by the sheer venom in your voice.

And Frenchie snorted. Then, in the most exaggerated, delighted voice possible, he sighed, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Ah, mon ange—she says more dirty words."

"Frenchie—" you warned.

"I like this version of you," he continued, grinning as he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained. "You should keep her around."

Your glare deepened.

"How the hell am I supposed to hide this from Hughie?"

Frenchie let out a slow, dramatic sigh, like this was the most exhausting conversation he’d ever had.

"You do not." He gestured lazily with one hand, like the solution was so obvious you were an idiot for not thinking of it yourself.

You stared at him.

"Frenchie—"

"You just tell him you are getting laid and that you are a grown woman who makes her own decisions."

Your stomach plummeted.

"And you do not tell him who did it."

Your eyes widened in immediate, visceral horror.

"Frenchie, that is the worst idea I have ever heard."

"Ah, but is it?"

"YES."

He grinned.

"Well, then—who did do it?"

The room went still. Your stomach knotted. Kimiko tilted her head, waiting. Frenchie lifted a brow, expectant. You could feel the weight of their attention, too sharp, too knowing, too fucking smug.

Your jaw clenched.

"It’s nobody’s goddamn business."

And then before either of them could say another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room.

Frenchie’s laughter followed you down the hall.

You didn’t give yourself time to think. Didn’t give yourself time to second-guess, to panic, to backtrack, to overcomplicate the situation.

No.

Instead, you marched. Right through the hallway, straight into the communal area, straight to Hughie, who was slouched on the couch, half-watching whatever shitty old TV show was on, lazily shovelling Mike and Ikes into his mouth.

And before he could even fully register your presence—

His eyes landed on your neck.

And immediately—

They went wide.

His whole body jerked upright, mouth parting, hands pausing mid-motion, like he had just been personally victimised by the discovery.

You saw the exact moment his protective older brother instincts kicked in, the moment he sucked in a breath, ready to demand an explanation.

And before he could, you cut him off.

"None of your damn business, Hughie."

His mouth snapped shut.

"I’m a grown woman." You barrelled on, unflinching, unwavering, too committed to stop now. "I’m getting laid. I will not be taking questions."

You lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely.

"Thank you for coming to my TED Talk."

The room went silent. And then, a laugh. A real, genuine, unfiltered laugh.

From Butcher.

Butcher—who had been lounging across from Hughie, beer in hand, an eyebrow raised, clearly not expecting to be entertained this early in the day.

"Oh, mate. She's fuckin' brilliant." He chortled.

You weren’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that he had actually laughed or the fact that it sounded genuine, amused, actually entertained.

Meanwhile, Hughie?

Hughie was stammering.

"I—what—" He blinked rapidly, looking between you, MM, and Butcher, like he had just walked into a completely different timeline. "What the fuck do you mean, you’re getting laid?"

"I mean, exactly what I said, Hughie." Your arms crossed, stance firm, unwavering.

"Yeah, but—" He gestured wildly at you. "Since when?"

"Not taking questions."

"That’s not how this works!"

"That’s how it’s working today!"

"I—" Hughie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, visibly distressed.

MM, who had been watching the whole exchange with mild amusement, finally leaned forward, smirking slightly as he gestured at Hughie’s entire meltdown.

"You good, man?"

"No, I’m not good!" Hughie spluttered, pointing aggressively at you. "She’s supposed to be—like—normal!"

"I am normal!"

"No, you’re supposed to be—" He waved a hand, frantic, disbelieving. "I don’t know! Not saying things like ‘I’m getting laid’ in the middle of the goddamn living room!"

"Hughie." You sighed, hands dropping to your hips. "Do you want me to go back to my room, or do you want to shut up and watch some shitty old TV shows while we share a box of Mike and Ikes?"

His eyes narrowed. Then, after a moment—

"I’m still asking who did it."

"And I’m still explicitly stating that I will not be taking questions."

Hughie groaned, slumping back onto the couch, looking like he had just aged ten years in the last five minutes.

"Jesus Christ." He ran a hand down his face before reaching for the Mike and Ikes, shaking the box at you. "Fine. But I swear to God, if you say one more thing about ‘getting laid’ I’m—"

"—not taking questions, yeah, yeah." You flopped down beside him, stealing a handful of candy, finally relaxing.

But just as you popped one into your mouth—

A voice from the hallway. Low. Lazy. Smug as hell.

"Atta girl."

Your stomach dropped. You froze. Slowly, slowly, you turned your head—and there he was.

Ben.

Lingering against the wall. Watching. Smirking. Enjoying every second of your misery.

And that hickey on your neck? Yeah. It just started burning all over again.

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 001 (II). the student.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 0.6k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: here's chapter 1.5 !!?? its supposed to be in anaxa's pov hehe <3 its not big enough to be a chapter in itself, but its also not something i wanted to squeeze into the original first chapter. i had to rewrite this a million times so i cld express his inner oopie goopie feelings as naturally as possible aughhhh !! i hope i did him justice :") -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

The first time Anaxagoras sees you, he barely registers your presence. Another student, another mind seeking knowledge—no different from the rest. He speaks, and the hall falls into rapt silence, his words measured, precise. He does not need to raise his voice; the magic woven into the walls ensures that even the softest murmur carries.

When he looks at you, it is brief, a mere flicker of attention. Your thoughts are guarded—not uncommon, but rare enough to be noted. A foreign mind, one not yet shaped by the Grove of Epiphany.

Interesting, perhaps. But not remarkable.

Anaxagoras continues his lecture, brushing you off as just another scholar passing through his world.

The second time he notices you, it is because you are watching him.

Not unusual. Students watch him often—some with reverence, others with trepidation. Some attempt to discern his methods, while others marvel at the way he manipulates the arcane with the ease of a sculptor shaping clay. But your gaze is different.

He meets your eyes briefly, his mind already cycling through possibilities. A challenge? No—your expression is too guarded for that. Curiosity? Perhaps. He allows himself a moment to observe, to test. Your posture, the way your fingers tighten around the notebook in your lap. A mind on the edge of inquiry, but hesitant.

When he looks away, it is because he has already determined the outcome—you will either retreat or step forward. The choice is yours.

You return.

That is when he begins to watch you in earnest.

Not because of your presence—there are many students who linger, drawn to the Grove’s vast knowledge, but the way your attention sharpens when he speaks, the way you absorb his words not as mere instruction but as something to be unraveled, understood. You are not listening out of obligation.

That is why, when he calls upon you, it is not an arbitrary selection, for he does not waste time on students who lack potential. He watches the momentary scramble of your thoughts, the way you hesitate—not out of ignorance, but out of care. And when you answer, he finds himself satisfied.

Not impressed. Not yet.

But satisfied.

You do not sit in the back after that. He does not need to look to confirm it—he knows. Your presence is closer, a ripple in the pattern of the lecture hall. He tests you again, weaving your name into the thread of discussion, shaping the tempo of the lesson around your answer without drawing attention to the fact. And each time, you meet the challenge. Not perfectly. Nowhere near flawlessly. But well.

He notes the way your pulse quickens when he acknowledges you, the way your breath hitches for just a fraction of a second before you compose yourself. It is an instinctive reaction, untrained. He wonders if you realize it. He wonders if you know that you give yourself away.

And then, another question. He watches you as you answer—not just the words, but the shape of your reasoning, the way your mind reaches for knowledge and stitches it together with careful precision. It is this, more than anything, that makes him pause.

He does not smile often.

But perhaps, just then, he does.

After the lecture, as the students disperse, he catches fragments of conversation, the murmurs of intrigue. Your name spoken in passing, your presence noted in a way that was not before. He does not interfere. He does not need to.

He has seen this pattern before. Minds that shine brightly in the endless constellation of scholars. Some burn hot and fade quickly. Others endure.

He wonders which you will be.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat (send an ask or comment to be added!)

[lessi-lover]

a terrible santa II l.williamson x reader

you've signed leah up as the santa for the yearly street christmas party and she's not so fond.

a terrible santa II l.williamson x reader 1.7k

snowflakes clung to the windows like they were desperate for their first christmas, the edges of their fragile crystals barely gripping the glass, as if afraid to melt away.

"mil, go show mummy how to wrap a present properly." you teased, lifting your daughter off your lap and gently pushing her in leah's direction. amelia huffed, clutching a roll of wrapping paper under her arm, walking over to leah like it was the most serious task in the world.

"mummy never folds the corners right." she said matter of factly, with only enough gravitas a four year old could come up with. your wife however was not so impressed, sliding her mum's present behind her back in shielding for the apparent approaching elf.

"excuse me. but i'll let you know i'm an excellent gift wrapper!" the blonde defended, hand placed dramatically on her chest as if accused of murder. you stifled a laugh, leaning back against the couch, as you watched your daughter try to pull the gift from under your wife's legs.

amelia pouted dramatically, unraveling the roll of shiny red paper. "but mummy always uses too much tape! i do it better." she stated, snatching the child scissors from the table and setting herself down on the carpet.

"i'd like to agree with you on that one, lee. but an excellent wrapper wouldn’t leave a mountain of tape on every gift like you do." you quipped, raising an eyebrow as she begrudgingly handed over the gift to the clearly impatient elf.

leah narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her lips twitching into a knowing smile. "it’s called ensuring structural integrity, my love. i don't think your gifts could survive a hurricane if they tried."

"well thank goodness there are not usually hurricanes in london, babe." you teased, sipping your tea and watching leah as she carefully measured another piece of tape.

amelia, who had been watching the two of you with wide eyes, suddenly piped up, "mummy, don't worry i'm teaching mumma how to wrap good!"

you chuckled softly, eyes meeting leah's as amelia proudly presented amanda's gift that she'd now rewrapped, which was, predictably, a little crooked but potentially better than leah's five layers of tape.

"oh, really?" sliding your body off the couch and scooching over to where your wife and daughter were sat next to the fire. "well, i think we might be out of trouble then."

as amelia’s tiny hands clutched the gift, her eyelids slowly began to fall, the soft light of the christmas tree casting a warm glow on her face. she shuffled closer to leah, nestling her head into her mum’s chest, a soft sigh escaping her lips as her body relaxed against the blonde.

"mummy, i’m tired." amelia murmured, her voice thick with sleep as she clutched onto leah's pyjamas. leah smiled softly , gently lifting her little girl up and cradling her in her arms, brushing away her stray hairs.

you watched the two of them for a moment, your heart swelling as leah held your daughter close. you shifted on the rug, pulling the blanket over your legs as you took in the scene, watching as leah swiped her fingers gently over the tiny blonde's face.

"this is nice, isn’t it?" you murmured, your voice low, so as not to disturb the moment. leah nodded, her eyes warm as she looked down at your daughter, stroking her hair softly. "yeah," she whispered back, "it’s going to be a really good christmas."

the fire crackled beside you, its warmth filling the room as the snow outside continued to fall, soft and steady. you shuffled over to leah, resting your head on leah's shoulder as you now brought your own hand up to lock with amelia's tiny hands.

"by the way," you started casually, grin taking over your face as you guiltily looked the other way. "i signed you up as santa." leah looked at you, her brow furrowing in confusion. "what?" she asked, trying to maintain quiet for amelia's sake but barely managing to hide her horror.

"yeah, i thought you’d make a great santa. big beard, little red boots, and you’re always so good with the kids. figured it was about time we gave it a try," you teased, trying to suppress your grin as she narrowed her eyes at you.

"we give it a try? babe, i'm sorry but i don't see us getting into the fat suit together."

"oh, come on. i’m sure you’d look adorable with a long white beard. suits your face shape!" you teased, leaning further into her body with a hopeful look in your eyes. "yeah, because nothing says 'merry christmas' like pretending to be an old man who breaks into people's houses and eats their cookies."

"babe, please! it’ll be fun. we can even take some cute family photos while we’re at it. mil will love it!" leah shook her head. "no, no. i’m good at being the one to do all the other christmas magic. but i am not putting on a santa suit."

"baby, i love you but no." leah's voice was firm, but the way she looked away from your pouting face told you that she was close to breaking. "i am not putting on a santa suit. that's your job love, not mine."

"well the street party is next saturday night. so you better improve your wrapping skills. you're going to be a very very sexy santa." you smiled, picking amelia up and walking with her in your arms over towards her bedroom.

"you're lucky i love you!"

~

the christmas party was in full swing with kids on the jumping castle the street had hired, parents drinking away their yearly stress and a few elderly couples that you swore only came out of their houses for the free food.

you had to hold in your laugh when you caught sight of leah in the corner, standing with an oversized red jacket draped over her shoulders, a fake beard barely clinging to her chin, and the unmistakable presence of someone who had been roped into a very unflattering santa suit.

you tried to suppress your laughter as you walked toward her, holding a plate of gingerbread cookies. "well, well, well, look who finally decided to embrace her inner santa."

leah gave you a look that was somewhere between amused and mildly exhausted, the fake beard itching her skin as she pulled it down when the kids had walked away. "you’re a dead woman," she muttered under her breath, as you pulled down the beard to snap back into her chin.

"you look great, babe." you said, unable to keep the grin off your face. "i told you, you’d be perfect as santa." she shot you a look. "yeah, thanks for that," she said, adjusting the outrageously sized buckle. "i have to admit though, the kids do love it."

you watched as amelia who was absolutely delighted to have santa visit the christmas party, played along with the other kids who lived down the road, a lot of them roping a few of the older ones into playing on the jumping castle.

but it wasn't long before the tiny blonde ran over to where you and leah were standing, her big coat down to her ankles as the cold nipped at the exposed skin of her cheeks. "mummy, you're santa!" she exclaimed, tugging at the long red pants.

leah leaned down, scooping amelia up into her arms and holding her close. "well, i am santa tonight, sweetie," she said, despite the ridiculousness of the outfit she managed to sound serious. "and i’ve got a big sack full of presents just for you ready for christmas day."

you had warned leah against telling amelia about presents, knowing that the four-year-old was prone to way too much excitement and a complete lack of subtlety. but leah, of course, had brushed off your concerns with her usual charm.

well, you were now witnessing the consequences of that decision. amelia, perched on leah's (santa's) lap in her oversized suit, was barely containing herself. her hands were wiggling with excitement as she whispered loudly to her mummy, "mummy, are you really santa? are you sure? cause i saw that big bag you brought in, and it looks like you’ve got my presents in there!"

you could see leah trying her hardest to keep a straight face, her eyes darting nervously toward the other kids that had gathered around. "shhh, bubba," leah whispered, her voice high and strained. "we have to keep it a secret, remember? santa’s magic only works if we surprise everyone!"

"but i want to tell them!" amelia protested, her voice suddenly too loud for the crowded room. "i know what’s in the sack!"

you quickly swooped in, trying to stop your over excited daughter before it got any more out of hand. "mil," you said gently, crouching down next to her, "it’s a secret, remember? you can’t spoil the surprise. think about how excited everyone’s going to be when they open their presents!"

amelia looked between you and leah, still buzzing with energy. "but mummy said it was for me!" she squealed. leah groaned softly, but you could see a hint of amusement in her eyes. "okay, fine, but you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone else, alright? otherwise santa won’t come next year."

amelia’s eyes went wide with horror. "i promise!" she whispered urgently, crossing her little fingers in front of her chest. leah locked her pinky with the girl quickly before she had shot off her lap and charged towards the other kids.

you shot leah a pointed look. "hey, how was i supposed to know she’d have such a big mouth?" the blonde tried to defend herself, arms coming up in innocence as the obnoxiously long sleeves towered over the sight of her hands.

with a soft shake of your head, you stood up and turned away, leaving leah to continue her little 'acting job' that she so graciously signed up for. "yeah, well, let’s hope you can keep a few secrets tonight," you teased, heading towards the snack table.

"don’t worry, love. you’ll be on my lap sooner or later and i’ll be sure to make you teach me how to keep some things a secret!"

~

[honeyryewhiskey]

BREAKING NEWS IN THE POPSCENE!! . . .

You're America's shiny new star, dominating the industry with thousands of adoring fans—but with fame comes danger, and some fans have taken their admiration too far.

After a break-in at your California home, your management scrambles to tighten security. A series of failed bodyguard hires leaves you skeptical—until your publicist brings in Dean Winchester.

he's no-nonsense. full of attitude. And now your roommate, your new companion 24/7.

Unlike most people in your orbit, Dean isn’t fazed by your playful, bratty charm or flirtatious antics, nor is he afraid to call you out when needed.

But there’s something undeniably thrilling about testing his limits—and when you get under his skin, the sparks really start to fly.

DISCOGRAPHY!! . . .

001. bad idea, right? 002. obsessed 003. guilty as sin? 004. piece of me 005. clumsy 006. false god 007. oops!. . .i did it again 008. primadonna 009. escapism 010. think later 011. cruel summer 012. so high school

THE B-SIDE!! . . .

i. my goodies ii. diet pepsi iv. nonsense

DULCIE'S ONE SHEET!! . . .

stage name. . . dulcie! [ doll - see ]

❝ eat me! ❞ made of sugar, glitter, and escapism

BEHIND THE SCENES . . .

Dean dips his head, lips brushing your ear—so you can hear him over the chaos of screaming fans and a million camera shutters as you're exiting your hotel.

Someone leaked your location—again—and it didn't long for your name to be trending on X, people flocking to get a glimpse at their favorite icon.

"Keep your head down," he mutters, his brows set in a firm line as he scans the crowd. Each muscle tense with anticipation, keeping his body close to yours. You're wrapped in the thrill of his need to protect.

With a sly little smile, you glance up to catch his gaze, "relax, killjoy, I can handle walking thorugh a crowd just fine."

Your teasing earns a tempered side-eye, his stubbled jaw tighting in a way that makes you have to bite your lip to stop from laughing. "Uh, huh," he huffs, his palm finding the small of your back to keep you just a step ahead of him, "until you trip over those skyscrapers you call heels and make my job harder. Now move."

Any other man spatting demands at you like that would be quick to get the finger and a verbal lashing sharp enough to make the color drain from his face.

But Dean, is not just any other man. All he ever hears from your lips are quips of endless toying and maybe just a little attitude.

"Catch me if I fall, alright, Winchester?" you whisper back, throwing him a wink before turning back to the crowd.

You can practically hear the smirk in his chuckle, "keep that up, babydoll. See how far that mouth of yours gets you."

And just like that your heart skips a beat—Dean has you flustered in a way no one else ever manages. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. It’s ridiculous, really, how one cocky remark from him can unravel you, but there’s no way you’ll let him see that.

"Careful, Dean," you throw over your shoulder with a cheeky grin, "wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re actually having fun."

His low chuckle rumbles behind you, rich and warm. "Fun? Babysitting a spoiled pop princess? Dream come true."

You roll your eyes but don’t miss the faint curve of his lips as he steers you toward the waiting car. The paparazzi frenzy intensifies, flashes blinding, questions flying—your name, his name, rumors already sparking.

Dean doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even glance at the chaos. His grip on your back is firm, steady, and somehow reassuring. You hate how much you like it.

Once inside the car, the noise fades as the door slams shut, leaving just the two of you and the hum of the engine.

"You’re awfully good at this whole brooding, protective act," you tease, leaning back in your seat with a smirk. "Think it comes naturally, or did you practice in the mirror?"

He raises a brow, glancing at you from the corner of his eye as he settles into the driver’s seat. "Natural talent," he shoots back, shifting the car into gear. "And if you don’t quit running that mouth of yours, you’re gonna see just how good I am at keeping you in line."

That shouldn’t make your pulse race, but it does. The words hang in the air between you, thick with a tension that neither of you dares to address.

You bite your lip, turning to stare out the window to hide the grin tugging at your mouth. Dean Winchester might be all business, but he’s playing a dangerous game—one you’re all too eager to win.

PRODUCER NOTES. . . babydoll got a face lift! if you read the first part i posted like months ago... no u didn't bc i had to rewrite it lol

[scarluna]

Y/N, a gifted but self-conscious graphic designer, lands a job at Jeon Enterprises, a powerhouse ruled by the sharp and controlling Jeon Jungkook, whose ruthless perfectionism hides behind an enigmatic façade. Though admired and feared, Jungkook targets Y/N’s insecurities, using them as weapons against her.

Beside him stands his best friend, Min Yoongi, a sly and unpredictable force whose hot-and-cold behavior leaves Y/N questioning his motives.

Tangled in a web of cold authority, teasing games, and unspoken desire, Y/N must navigate a dangerous love triangle where ambition and emotion collide, threatening to unravel everything.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, ceo!jungkook, graphic designer!reader, mafia!yoongi

Link to the other chapters: ACT I / ACT II / ACT III / ACT IV / ACT V / ACT VII / ACT VIII

Chapters: 6 / ?

Chapter Warnings: mature language, bullying, slow burn, enemies to lovers, love triangle

ACT VI.

The crisp winter air nipped at my cheeks as I stepped out of my apartment building, my scarf wrapped snugly around my neck. It was a lazy Sunday, the kind of day where I would’ve normally curled up with a book or caught up on my favorite shows. But today was different. Today, Taehyung had insisted we spend the day together—no work, no drama, just us.

As I adjusted my coat, making sure not to freeze despite the sun outside, I saw him across the street, standing next to a streetlamp. He looked effortlessly handsome in a cream-colored sweater under a beige trench coat, his dark hair slightly tousled by the breeze. His eyes lit up the moment he spotted me, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

In his hands was a small bouquet of flowers—white daisies and pink tulips, delicate and cheerful.

“For you,” he said as I approached, holding the bouquet out with a boyish grin.

“Flowers?” I teased, taking them gently. “Are you trying to win me over?”

He smirked. “Maybe. Is it working?”

I laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s a good start.”

We began walking down the quiet street, the crunch of our shoes against the pavement mingling with the sounds of the city waking up. A few blocks away, we found our favorite little café, the one with the cozy atmosphere and the best hot chocolate in town.

Taehyung held the door open for me, and we were greeted by the familiar scent of cocoa and cinnamon. The café was warm, a stark contrast to the chilly weather outside.

“Two hot chocolates?” the barista asked with a knowing smile as we approached the counter.

“You know us too well,” Taehyung replied with a soft chuckle. We have been visiting this coffee shop back when we were only college students. This place held memories of us. And I cherished it a lot.

Once our drinks were ready—complete with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder—we found a corner booth by the window. The steam from the mugs curled into the air as we sat across from each other, the sunlight streaming in and casting a golden glow over his face.

“So,” he began, his tone playful. “What’s on your mind, Miss Y/N? Besides how devastatingly handsome I am.”

I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of my hot chocolate to hide my smile. “I was actually thinking about how certain someone managed to spill wine on my dress last night.”

His expression softened, the teasing replaced by genuine concern. “You handled that so well. I would’ve lost my cool.”

“Well,” I said, swirling my spoon in the whipped cream, “I guess I’ve had enough practice dealing with people like Tina.”

He reached across the table, resting his hand over mine. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You are more badass than you think.”

His words warmed me more than the hot chocolate ever could. "I honestly don't know what I will do without you, Tae. I am grateful to have you in my life." I spoke out, it was the truth, I never expressed my gratefulness but now I did. I wanted him to know that I cherished him. Tae's cheeks flushed.  "I will always be here, Y/N. No matter what." My heart skept a beat. I grinned at him and brough the glass toward my lips as if to hide my blush. "So, what's the deal with your Boss tho?There seems to be tension between him and you. I didn't like how he stole you away from me last night..." I froze. My smile faltered and I cleared my throat. "He is just . . . a bit controlling, that's all." "Controlling? He is possessive of you, Y/N. His eyes are feral when he is around you." My frown deepened and I shook my head. "That's not true. I mean, he did made fun of me and my way of work but that's all. He thrives for perfection." Tae's eyes darkened, he stared at me for a minute longer, before a deep sigh escaped his lips. "I just want you to be self-aware of your surroundings, Y/N." Maybe he was right. Maybe I was too caught up between him and Yoongi to even notice what was happening. I couldn't keep this up. My feelings didn't matter, all that matters is my job and how I do it. An awkward silence stretched between me and Taehyung. We were both lost in thoughts now. Gosh, he shouldn't have mentioned Jungkook. Because with Jungkook there is also Yoongi.

After we finished our drinks, we spent the rest of the day wandering around the city. Taehyung led me to a park we used to visit back when we were teenagers. The trees were bare, their branches dusted with the season’s first frost, but the air was alive with laughter from families and couples enjoying the day.

We stopped by the frozen pond, watching as kids skated in clumsy circles. Taehyung nudged me gently with his shoulder.

“Remember the time I tried to teach you how to skate?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Don’t remind me. I think I fell a dozen times..”

“And I caught you every single time,” he added, a proud smile on his face. He was the cutest with how he smiled, it was like stars appeared in his eyes everytime he did.

We walked on, stopping occasionally to take in the sights or to snap a picture. At one point, we found a street musician playing a soulful tune on his guitar. Taehyung pulled me to the side, bowing dramatically.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, his voice dripping with charm.

“Here? In the middle of the park?” I asked, laughing nervously.

“Why not?” He took my hand before I could protest, spinning me gently in a slow circle.

People passed by, some smiling at the sight of us, but I didn’t care. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving just the two of us.

By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, we found ourselves sitting on a bench overlooking the river. Taehyung wrapped his scarf around my neck, ignoring my protests that I was fine.

“I don’t want you catching a cold,” he said, tucking the ends neatly under my coat.

“Thanks, Dad,” I teased, but the truth was, I didn’t mind. He was caring by nature, and maybe to be cared for felt good...

As the day came to an end, I realized how much I needed this. No work, no stress, no complicated feelings about Yoongi or Jungkook—just a simple, perfect day with Taehyung..

“Still cold?” he asked, noticing my movements.

“Not really,” I admitted. “This scarf is ridiculously warm.”

He smiled, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. “It’s because it’s mine. Everything I own is top-tier.”

I nudged him with my elbow, grinning. “Oh, please. That’s the most Taehyung thing you’ve said all day.”

He laughed, the sound light and easy, and I couldn’t help but smile wider. There was something about him—his energy, his warmth—that made everything feel okay, even after the chaos of last night.

As we turned the corner onto my street, he slowed his pace.

“You know,” he began, his tone softer now, “I really enjoyed today. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so relaxed.”

“I guess I needed it,” I replied, glancing up at him. “Just a perfect day with an old friend.”

“Old friend?” he repeated, pretending to be offended. “I’ll have you know I’m as youthful as ever. If anything, I’ve only gotten better with age.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, his grin widening.

I didn’t respond, but the way my cheeks warmed betrayed me.

When we reached my building, we stopped just outside the entrance. The soft hum of the city buzzed in the background as we turned to face each other.

“Well,” I said, clutching the bouquet of flowers he’d given me earlier, “thanks for today. Really.”

“Anytime,” he said, his voice gentle. “I mean it. If you ever need to escape, just call me. I’ll be there.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The streetlight above cast a faint glow on his face, highlighting the sincerity in his eyes.

“You’re a good friend, Tae,” I said softly, though the words felt heavier than they should have.

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly, his expression warm and playful again. “Only a good friend? I’ll have to work on upgrading that title.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Goodnight, Taehyung.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, his voice low and filled with something unspoken.

I turned to unlock the door to my building, but before I could step inside, I heard him call my name.

I turned back, and there he was, standing a few feet away, his hands still in his pockets. “Don’t forget to put those flowers in water,” he said, a lopsided grin on his face.

“I won’t,” I promised, holding up the bouquet.

And with that, he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the quiet night. I stood there for a moment, watching him go, the warmth from the day still lingering in my chest.

As I finally stepped inside, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Today had been perfect—simple, sweet, and exactly what I needed. 

-

The scene outside the company building was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Reporters shouted over each other, their cameras flashing relentlessly as they aimed toward the entrance. Police cars were parked haphazardly along the curb, their lights casting ominous blue and red hues against the surrounding buildings.

My heart sank as I tried to push through the crowd, clutching my bag tightly. The questions flying through the air were disjointed but enough to spark unease in my chest.

“Is it true Jeon Enterprises is under investigation?” “CEO Jeon Jungkook has yet to make a statement—”"Is there a suspect already?"

I forced myself to block out the noise, stepping up to the security guard at the entrance. My heart was thumping fast and loud in my chest. This entire atmosphere looked like a crime series. I had no idea what happened but whatever it was, it was serious.

“I work here,” I said, fumbling with my badge. My hands shook slightly, and I hated how obvious it was.

The tall bulky guard dressed in a black suit squinted at my badge, then gave me a short nod. “Go ahead.”

His words did nothing to calm me as I entered the building, the usual hum of productivity replaced by frantic whispers and hurried footsteps. Police officers roamed the lobby, speaking into radios, while employees stood in clusters, their faces pale with shock.

What on earth happened?

I hurried toward the elevator, my pulse quickening with every step. The ride up to our floor felt like an eternity, and when the doors opened, the sight made my stomach churn.

Officers were everywhere, combing through desks and confiscating files. The normally pristine office space was in disarray, papers scattered and voices raised in hushed tones.

“Y/N!”

I turned to see Rya approaching me, her expression frantic. I could see the paleness on her face, she was definitely shocked and panicked.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Rya glanced around before pulling me aside, her grip on my arm tight. “Tina... she’s dead.”

I froze, her words not registering at first. “What?”

“They found her body last night at her apartment,” Rya said, her voice shaking. “And the last person who was seen with her was Jungkook. Police came and took him with them twenty minutes ago. They treated him like a suspect!”

The air seemed to leave my lungs. My mind raced as I tried to piece together what she was saying. Tina? Dead? And Jungkook?

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Jungkook wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Rya interrupted, her voice urgent. “But the police don’t care about what we think. And the media is having a field day with it. They are also got a search order to see if they can find any clue on what happened, Jungkook's office is a raided mess. Cops took everything.”

I glanced around the chaotic office, my chest tightening. Jungkook wasn’t just my boss; he was someone I had come to respect despite our rocky start. The idea that he could be involved in something like this was incomprehensible.

Rya’s hand hovered over the remote as the reporter’s voice filled the tense air of the office.

“Breaking news this morning,” the reporter began, her tone grave. “Authorities have confirmed the discovery of a deceased individual late last night at their apartment. The victim has been identified as an employee of Jeon Enterprises and was last seen attending the high-profile masquerade ball hosted by MNT Media just days ago.”

Rya and I exchanged a glance, our breaths caught in the shared silence. The weight of the words was crushing, and my mind raced to process what I already knew.

“Last seen at the ball...” Rya whispered, her voice barely audible, but I caught the way her hands trembled as she gripped the remote.

I swallowed hard, fighting the knot forming in my throat. 

The broadcast continued, showing images of the ball—the glittering chandeliers, the elegant gowns, the masked faces. And then it switched to a live shot of an apartment building cordoned off with police tape, officers moving in and out under the glow of harsh floodlights.

“Sources close to the investigation report signs of foul play, though no official suspects have been named. Jeon Jungkook, CEO of Jeon Enterprises, has been confirmed to have been the last one who saw the victim alive, and authorities have expressed interest in speaking with him.”

“Damn it,” Rya muttered, her voice cracking slightly. 

I didn’t answer, the words sticking to the back of my throat. We both knew it was. There was no need to say it out loud.

Instead, I fixed my gaze on the screen, where the reporter was now recounting snippets. “The victim was known to be a driven and outspoken employee, with significant professional ties and ongoing disputes that may have played a role in the events leading up to their death.”

"Y/N... this is bad. Really bad. The board is already panicking, and if this gets any worse, it could take down the entire company.”

I felt like the floor was tilting beneath me, the weight of the situation pressing down on my shoulders.

“I need to find Yoongi,” I muttered, my voice steadier than I felt.

“Yoongi?” Rya frowned.

“He’ll know what to do,” I said, more to convince myself than her. “He always does.”

Without waiting for her response, I turned and started toward his office, my mind a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and determination. Whatever was happening, I needed answers—and fast.

His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. “I don’t care what strings you have to pull—just do it.”

He ended the call abruptly, exhaling sharply before he turned, noticing me standing hesitantly behind him. His expression softened slightly, though the strain in his features remained.

“It’s a mess,” he admitted, his tone heavy. “As you already know, Tina was found in her apartment late last night. She has been shot in the head.”

I swallowed hard, the reality of his words sinking in. Shot in the head? What kind of an animal would do that to her?! Surely, Tina was not one of the best people, she was selfish and her ego reached the skies, but not even once did I wish her death. “And Jungkook? Why are they linking him to this?”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked to the side, conflicted. “He was seen leaving her building around the time they estimate it happened. There’s footage from a security camera, but it doesn’t show much. Just him walking out.”

“That doesn’t mean he did anything,” I said quickly, feeling a surge of defensiveness I didn’t expect.

“I know,” Yoongi said, his voice firm. “But right now, appearances are everything. The media doesn’t care about proof—they just want a story. And Tina being...” He hesitated, his expression darkening. “Well, let’s just say she didn’t make herself any friends around here. People are talking, and not in Jungkook’s favor.”

I was trying to process everything. Tina’s death. Jungkook being questioned. The chaos in the office. It felt like the ground beneath me was shifting, and I couldn’t find my footing.

“Do you think he did it?” I asked quietly, almost afraid of his answer.

Yoongi met my gaze, his dark eyes steady. “No,” he said firmly. “I’ve known Jungkook long enough to say that he’s not capable of something like this. But whether he did or didn’t isn’t the issue right now. It’s about what people believe.”

The weight of his words settled heavily in my chest.

“What do we do?” I asked, desperate for some kind of direction.

Yoongi sighed, “For now, we wait. The lawyers are working on getting him released, but until then, we need to keep things from spiraling. The company is already under enough scrutiny.”

I nodded, though it felt like a hollow gesture. Waiting wasn’t exactly my strong suit, especially not when someone I cared about was at the center of it all.

“What about us?” I asked hesitantly. “What can I do to help?”

Yoongi’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the weight he carried seemed to lift just slightly.

“Just stay out of the crossfire, Y/N,” he said gently. “You’ve already been through enough. Let me handle this.”

I bristled slightly at his words, not because I didn’t appreciate his concern, but because I hated feeling powerless.

“Yoongi,” I said firmly, standing. “I’m not going to sit on the sidelines while everything falls apart. If there’s anything I can do—anything—just tell me.”

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he finally nodded.

After leaving Yoongi’s office, I couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on me. Tina’s death had sent shockwaves through the entire company, and though I’d never liked her—she’d been awful to me more times than I could count—this wasn’t what she deserved.

The thought of her lifeless and alone in her apartment was too much. No matter how cruel she’d been, she was still a person, someone with her own struggles and stories I’d never known. She was still someone's daughter, sister, cousin. . .

I needed to talk to someone.

I found Hoseok and Rya in the break room, sitting at one of the tables near the window. Both of them looked tense, their earlier easy smiles replaced with furrowed brows and quiet whispers.

“Hey,” I said softly as I approached. They looked up, and Rya immediately slid over to make room for me.

“Y/N,” Hoseok said, his tone heavy. “How are you holding up?”

I sat down, clasping my hands together to stop them from trembling. “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “This whole thing with Tina... it doesn’t feel real. I know we didn’t get along, but...” I trailed off, unsure how to put the jumble of emotions into words.

“She was a nightmare,” Rya said bluntly, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “But I never thought... this. I mean, she could be petty and cruel, but murder?”

Hoseok frowned, leaning forward. “Nobody deserves that,” he said quietly. “Not even Tina. She could be terrible, sure, but she was still a person.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the three of us lost in our own thoughts.

“I keep thinking about the last time I saw her,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “At the ball. She seemed so... smug. Like she was on top of the world. And now, she’s gone.”

Rya crossed her arms, looking conflicted. “Do you think someone here could’ve done it? I mean, everyone knew she had enemies, but this is... extreme.”

Hoseok shook his head. “I don’t want to believe it, but with the police here, searching the office...” He trailed off, his expression darkening. “It’s hard not to wonder.”

“And Jungkook?” Rya asked, looking at me. “Do you think he’s involved?”

“No,” I said firmly, surprising even myself with the conviction in my voice. “I don’t. He might be cold and distant sometimes, but he’s not a killer. He’s... he’s better than that.”

Hoseok and Rya exchanged a glance, but neither argued.

“What happens now?” Rya asked after a moment. “If Jungkook is being investigated, what does that mean for the company? For us?”

I shook my head, feeling the weight of uncertainty settle over me again. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I think we need to stick together. Now more than ever.”

They both nodded, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a glimmer of solidarity between us.

As the three of us sat there, piecing together what little we knew, I couldn’t help but feel that this was just the beginning of something much bigger—and much darker—than any of us could imagine.

-

The morning was gray and oppressive, the atmosphere at Jeon Enterprises thick with unease. I was called to help clear out Tina’s desk under police supervision, a task I didn’t relish but couldn’t refuse. The sight of her empty chair sent a chill through me. Tina had been vile, no doubt about it, but to think she was gone—and in such a horrific way—made my stomach turn.

The desk was surprisingly tidy for someone as chaotic as Tina. Neat stacks of papers, pristine stationery, and a drawer full of color-coded folders. Yet as I sifted through the surface level, something felt off. It was too perfect, almost staged.

A detective stood nearby, arms crossed as he observed. “Anything that seems unusual, set it aside,” he said flatly.

Unusual? Where did I even start? Tina herself was a cocktail of ambition and cruelty, a persona that could fill a thousand file folders with secrets. As I reached into the bottom drawer, my fingers brushed against something that didn’t feel like an office supply. It was wedged under a stack of legal pads—a worn, leather-bound journal.

I glanced at the detective, who was momentarily distracted by another officer. With a quick, furtive motion, I slipped the journal into my bag. I told myself I’d hand it over eventually, but something about it called to me. A gut feeling. Tina had gone out of her way to hide this. Why?

Once I got home that evening, I pulled the journal out and set it on my kitchen table. The leather was cracked and faded, the corners worn down like it had been carried around for years. When I opened it, the faint scent of Tina’s signature perfume wafted up, mingled with something darker—ink and secrecy.

The first few pages were mundane. Meeting notes, to-do lists, sketches of presentation layouts. But as I flipped further, the tone shifted. The handwriting became erratic, the words slanting across the page with a kind of manic energy.

November 3: Another meeting with K. Promises, promises. Does he think I’m stupid? I’ll take what’s mine before he screws me over.

November 12: Y/N is such a naive little thing. Too easy to push around. If only she knew how far out of her depth she is. Pathetic.

I recoiled at the venom in her words. My name was scrawled there like a curse, surrounded by complaints about nearly everyone in the office. Tina hadn’t just disliked people—she’d despised them.

And then there were the cryptic entries:

December 1: The deal is in place. If K tries to back out, he’ll regret it.

December 15: I’m not playing games anymore. If they think they can silence me, they’re dead wrong.

The entries stopped abruptly a week before her death. My fingers trembled as I turned the pages, my heart pounding in my chest. Who was “K”? What deal? And what had Tina meant by “silence”?

Before I could dive further, my phone buzzed. The name on the screen made my blood run cold: Richard Delgrassi. My father’s old associate. 

“Mr. Delgrassi? How did you find my number?” I said cautiously, picking up the call.

“I called your father, wanted to check up on you.” his voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, like a blade sheathed in silk. “Are you okay? I heard about your co-worker Tina.”

I swallowed thickly, deep sigh escaped my lips. "I am fine, sir. It just . . . shocked us all."

“I am really sorry to hear that, if you need anything, please let me know. If you want to leave the company and start somewhere fresh, I will help you out." Leave. Why would I want to leave? I hummed. "Of course, sir, I will let you know." I heard him shuffle on the other side of the line. "What about Jungkook, I heard he is at the police station for questioning." I started pacing back and forth, "Well, right now we don't have much information on what happens next, but hopefully police would release him soon." "I hope so too." he spoke but something in his voice didn't feel sincere. "Alright, I just wanted to check up on you. Know you have someone you can count on." "Thank you, sir..."

The line went dead before I could ask anything else. I stared at the phone, my heart hammering in my chest. 

I glanced back at the journal, its leather cover now looking more sinister than mysterious. Whatever Tina had been involved in, it wasn’t just office politics. It was something far darker, and I was smack in the middle of it.

-

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I stood in front of the police station, staring at the cold, gray walls. It didn’t feel real—none of it did. My mind kept replaying the moment I heard the news: Tina, my manager, was dead. Murdered. And Jungkook, the CEO of the company I’d worked for, was the prime suspect unofficially.

The shock of it had hit me hard. Tina’s death had left a void in our office, and the fact that Jungkook, the man I already thought I knew so well, was now behind bars... it shattered everything.

I took a deep breath before walking through the sterile halls of the station. The fluorescent lights buzzed above me, making the air feel thick and oppressive. I passed the front desk, where the officers barely acknowledged me and suddenly bumped into someone.

The impact jolted me slightly, and I looked up to find Yoongi standing there, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable as ever. He sighed heavily, as if seeing me here was the last thing he needed.

“What the hell are you doing here, Y/N?” he asked, his tone low but laced with irritation.

I straightened my posture, refusing to let him intimidate me. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m here to see Jungkook.”

Yoongi crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your fight, and it’s definitely not safe.”

“Not safe?” I scoffed, keeping my voice low so the officers milling about wouldn’t overhear. “I work at the same company, Yoongi. Tina was my manager too, in case you forgot. This affects all of us, not just you.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “That’s exactly why you need to stay out of it. Let the police handle this. Do you even realize how messy this is going to get?”

I glared at him, my frustration boiling over. “Messy or not, I have a right to know what’s going on. Jungkook isn’t just some random CEO. He’s—”

“He’s what?” Yoongi cut in, his tone sharp. “Your boss? Your friend? Someone you think you can trust? Newsflash, Y/N: trust doesn’t mean a damn thing right now.”

I felt the sting of his words but refused to back down. “You’re unbelievable,” I shot back. “You act like you’re the only one allowed to care about what’s happening.”

Yoongi ran a hand through his messy long hair, his jaw tight. I could notice he has been sleep deprived too, the dark circles under his eyes screamed tiredness. “I care because I know what’s at stake. And you showing up here, trying to play detective, is only going to make things worse.”

I stepped closer, narrowing the gap between us. “Then why are you here, Yoongi? If you think it’s so dangerous, why aren’t you staying out of it?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. I saw his eyes darken and he took a sharp breath through his nose, hands now resting on his hips. "Fucking hell, why are you so stubborn?" "Maybe I am good at annoying the hell out of you." His eyes narrowed but he didn't say anything. There was a silence stretching between us before he finally turned around and headed down the hallway.

“Fine,” he muttered over his shoulder. “If you’re so hell-bent on getting involved, follow me. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We made our way to the interrogation room, where Jungkook was being held. My heart felt like it was lodged in my throat as we approached the small, glass-walled room. Jungkook sat inside, his hands folded on the metal table in front of him. He looked tired, his usually sharp features drawn and pale.

The officer standing outside the door nodded at Yoongi, allowing us in. I hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, the air thick with tension.

Jungkook glanced up, his dark eyes meeting mine briefly before shifting to Yoongi.

“Didn’t expect visitors,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Yoongi pulled out a chair and sat down, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “We’re not here to chat. What’s going on, Jungkook?”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, his gaze flickering between the two of us. “You tell me. One minute, I’m at the office; the next, I’m hauled in here like a criminal.”

“Did you know Tina was dead?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to stay composed.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then why are you here?” Yoongi pressed, his tone firm.

Jungkook let out a bitter laugh. “Because someone saw me with her at the ball, and apparently, that’s enough to make me the prime suspect. Never mind that half the company was there."

I glanced at Yoongi, who didn’t break his stare. “And what about Tina? Did she say anything to you that night? Act strange? Mention something... off?”

Jungkook’s expression darkened. “She didn’t say much of anything to me. She was too busy playing her games, like always. I told everything to the police but they still keep me in this godforsaken hole.”

“Games?” I asked, leaning forward.

“Y/N, you know fully well how she was,” Jungkook said, his voice bitter. “Testing people's limits, making sure everyone knew she had the upper hand. But I didn’t play along, and maybe that pissed her off. Who knows?”

Yoongi tapped his fingers against the table, his gaze never leaving Jungkook. “You need to give us more than that. If you want us to help you, we need something concrete.”

Jungkook’s eyebrow raised, he was shifting his eyes from me and Yoongi. I looked away, avoiding his gaze. “Help me? Since when are you two playing detectives?”

I rolled my eyes. "We are trying to help you out." I snapped and Jungkook shifted in his seat, letting out a deep sigh of defeat.

The tension in the room thickened, and I felt a pang of guilt watching Jungkook sitting there, defiant but vulnerable. I glanced at Yoongi, his steely demeanor unwavering as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

"Do you know for how long you will be captive here?" I finally asked. Jungkook shrugged. "No idea, until they find an evidence that the killer was not me." "What happens to the comapny now?" I pressed, "is it gonna shut down?" "I will take over." Yoongi muttered, "for the time being, until Jungkook gets released." I frowned glancing at Jungkook who hummed, I guess they managed to talk this through.  "Fine, we will keep digging and see what we will find."  "We?" My Boss frowned, "Y/N, I don't want you to get involved in this." "See?!Told her the same thingg, she doesn't listen." "Stop blabbing about the same things, I want in and I want to help. You two, adult men, act like kids. Jungkook, your situation here is not colorful at all. The quicker we get you out, the quick it would be your name to be cleared in front of the media." -

The sharp chill of the late evening air greeted us as we stepped out of the police station. I pulled my coat tighter around myself, my mind still racing with everything that had just transpired. Jungkook’s face, a mixture of frustration and vulnerability, was etched in my memory.

“I’ll call a cab,” I muttered, fishing my phone out of my bag.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, stepping toward the parking lot. “Don’t bother. I’ll drive you.”

I stopped mid-dial and turned to him. “No offense, but I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

His expression didn’t change, but there was an edge of impatience in his voice. “Why? Because I’m not the most charming chauffeur? Or are you still mad at me for that club thing-y?”

“Neither,” I said quickly, my tone defensive. “It’s just... I don’t need you to babysit me, Yoongi. I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly,” he said dryly, gesturing to my phone. “And you’ll do that by waiting alone outside a police station at night for a cab? Genius plan.”

I opened my mouth to argue but stopped when I realized how ridiculous it would sound. With a resigned sigh, I slid my phone back into my bag. “Fine. But no commentary while you drive.”

“Deal,” he said with a small smirk, leading the way to his car.

The ride started in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. Yoongi’s driving was calm and efficient, and for some reason, it annoyed me that he didn’t seem as rattled by everything as I was.

“Yesterday,” I began, breaking the silence, “when I was cleaning out Tina’s desk... I found something.”

He glanced at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “The journal.”

I blinked, surprised. “How did you—”

"Do you think I am that stupid?"  There was silence, he narrowed his eyes, "don't even answer this, Y/N." I chuckled at that and shrugged my shoulders. "I saw you take a suspicious looking book off Tina's desk without the police looking so..." "I figured that it's better to find who did it first with a solid evidence, before turning it to the police." I hesitated but continued, “It’s... disturbing. Tina wrote about people she hated—colleagues, clients, even... me.”

Yoongi didn’t react visibly, but I caught his fingers tightening slightly on the steering wheel.

“She was ruthless,” I continued. “Manipulating people, sabotaging careers—it’s all in there. And then there are these cryptic entries about a ‘deal.’ She doesn’t say who it was with, but it’s obvious it was risky. She mentioned being scared, like she knew it might backfire.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “And now she’s dead.”

I swallowed hard, the reality of it hitting me again. “Yeah. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Someone she crossed or someone involved in that deal... they might have wanted her gone.”

“You said the police don’t know about it yet?” he asked, his voice tense.

“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t trust them to handle it the right way, especially with the way they’re already treating Jungkook.”

“Smart,” Yoongi said, nodding approvingly. “But if that journal is as explosive as you say, keeping it quiet might put you in danger.”

I bit my lip, anxiety bubbling in my chest. “I know. But what choice do I have? If it can help clear Jungkook’s name, I can’t just ignore it.”

Yoongi pulled into a quieter street, the streetlights casting long shadows over the car. He turned to me, his dark eyes serious. “You’re not doing this alone, Y/N. Whatever’s in that journal, we’re going to figure it out together.”

For a moment, his words surprised me. Despite his often aloof demeanor, there was an unexpected warmth in his voice.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, meaning it.

He nodded once and turned his attention back to the road, the rest of the drive passing in contemplative silence.

When we finally reached my place, he parked at the curb and leaned back in his seat. “Keep the journal close. Don’t let anyone else see it for now.”

“I won’t,” I assured him, opening the door.

As I stepped out, he called after me, “And Y/N?”

I paused, turning back.

“Be careful,” he said, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

I nodded, clutching my bag tightly as I headed up to my apartment, the weight of the journal—and everything it represented—feeling heavier than ever.

[3igbootyl0ver]

who hurt you? [ii]

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: Tara mistakenly puts herself in a relationship she thought would be full of love.

word count: 1822

warnings: (Tara's POV), mentions of abuse, violence, angst, swearing

a/n: ok hi guys this is mostly Tara's POV and won't really be focusing btwn her and r's relationship. the next part would probably be the last one too but im always up on doing head canons for this pic. anyways apologies for any inaccuracy for this part, if ya'll have any feedback or suggestions feel free to dm me or send anonymously.

part [i] | part [iii] | part [iv] | part [v]

Tara never meant for any of this to happen.

She first met Amber a year ago, at a party that invited everyone from both Blackmore and Woodsboro High. Tara went with you at first, but you quickly got caught up in the chaos of the event, drinking with friends to drown your frustrations over the rivalry, leaving Tara to wander through the crowd alone.

Tara glanced around the room, feeling a bit out of place without you. It was her first real taste of a high school party, but somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. You were missing. Some were celebrating—laughing, dancing, and basking in the glory of their win over Blackmore—while others attended this party just for an excuse to get drunk, but Tara wasn’t feeling the same rush. That was when she noticed Amber standing off to the side, holding a drink and watching the crowd with a knowing smile.

Amber had been a wild card that night. No one expected her to show up, least of all Tara. But Amber’s reputation preceded her—everyone knew she was sharp, calculated, and, most importantly, she knew how to play the game. She wasn’t just there to celebrate; she was there to get ahead.

Tara’s initial impression of Amber was a mix of admiration and curiosity. Amber seemed to hold herself in a way that suggested she knew something no one else did. And that intrigued Tara, even if she couldn’t quite explain why.

As Tara wandered away from the chaotic center of the party, she ended up near Amber. The two of them started talking, mostly small talk at first—what they were doing after high school, the thrill of their victory, and the peculiar tension between Woodsboro and Blackmore. Tara found herself drawn to Amber’s cool confidence, the way she seemed to have everything under control.

But what started as a simple conversation slowly shifted into something deeper. Amber had a way of making Tara feel like she was the only one in the room, even when there were dozens of people around. Tara’s mind kept drifting back to the feeling Amber gave her: like maybe she could be something more, something beyond the quiet girl who never quite fit in.

And so, things began to unravel.

Tara never meant for it to go this far. It wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, just a casual connection. But somewhere along the way, Amber made it clear that she wasn’t just interested in Tara’s company—she had a plan, and Tara was a part of it. Tara hadn’t realized how deep Amber’s intentions went until it was already too late. Now, Tara was left to figure out how she’d let herself be pulled into something so complicated—something that, in hindsight, was far more than just a meeting between two people at a party.

Everything was bliss when Tara and Amber started dating. She was kind, gentle, and attentive—the kind of person who made Tara feel understood and like the most important person in the world. It felt like a dream. Amber would send her thoughtful texts, surprise her with little gifts, and always knew how to make her laugh. Tara felt safe, seen, and loved in a way she hadn’t before.

But as time went on, Amber’s true colors started to surface—slowly, almost imperceptibly at first.

It started with small criticisms. At first, they were disguised as concern, little comments about Tara’s appearance or habits that Amber claimed were meant to help her. "You know, if you ate healthier, maybe you wouldn't feel so tired all the time." Or, "I don’t think that outfit is really doing you any favors." Tara tried to brush it off, telling herself it was just Amber wanting her to be her best. But the comments grew sharper, more frequent.

"You always mess things up," Amber would say when Tara made a mistake, like forgetting to pick up groceries or missing a text. "Why can’t you ever get anything right?" Her tone wasn’t playful anymore. It was condescending, even cruel. Tara began to feel like she couldn’t do anything without Amber pointing out what she’d done wrong.

The verbal jabs escalated when Amber started to get possessive. At first, Tara thought it was just a sign of how much Amber cared. But Amber's jealousy started to feel suffocating. She'd ask Tara where she was going, who she was with, and why she didn’t tell her first. "You don't really need to hang out with them, do you?" Amber would ask, her voice dripping with insinuation. It would have been even worse if she had hung out with you. It was as if you were Amber's breaking point. "They don’t even care about you like I do." "I’m better than them; why are you still hanging out with them?"

Tara found herself apologizing constantly—for things she didn’t even understand; she would say sorry just to avoid the tension. 

It was always the same cycle: Amber would get irritated for no reason, her voice would grow cold and sharp just to insult Tara. "You always do this; you always make everything more difficult than it has to be. Why can’t you just do things right?". The next day, Amber would be apologetic, trying to console Tara, making her forget everything that happened the day before. She said all the right things, but Tara couldn’t ignore the knot of anxiety that lingered in her chest. She had a way of twisting everything, making Tara feel like she was always in the wrong, walking on eggshells.

And soon, the emotional abuse turned into physical fights. One day, Tara had dinner plans with Mindy when Amber confronted her again, "You always do this," she snapped. "You always choose them over me." Her voice was cold, venomous.

Tara tried to explain, but Amber wasn’t hearing it. "You think you can just leave whenever you want? No, you’re not going anywhere." Before Tara could react, Amber grabbed her by the arm—tightly, her fingers digging into Tara’s skin. "You’re hurting me, Amber; let me go!" Tara shouted, trying to pull away, but her grip tightened. She twisted Tara’s arm painfully, forcing her to sit down.

Tara’s heart was racing. She didn’t recognize this version of Amber—this wasn’t the woman she had fallen in love with. The love they once shared felt like a distant memory, replaced with anger, control, and fear. Tara was terrified, but she didn’t know how to escape. Before the day ended, Tara made up an excuse to Mindy that she couldn’t make it. She thought about her friends. Chad, Mindy, You. How will she be able to explain herself? She’s embarrassed and ashamed of herself if she were to ever face either of you. 

There was once when Amber picked up Tara from school when she saw her talking to you, both of you giggling like lovestruck teenagers, like you were in love with each other. And Amber simply couldn’t have that. Once both of them got back to Amber’s house, she gripped Tara’s arm, demanding an explanation. "So you’re just whoring around your school with someone else? Especially them? You’re just a slut, aren’t you?" Amber seethed, her nails digging into Tara’s skin, leaving another mark on her skin. Tara stood there, tears streaming down her face, knowing no matter what she said, it would be dismissed, twisted, or ignored. "You’re mine, Tara. I’m not letting you go anywhere," were the last words she heard before being shoved down the stairs, undoubtedly leaving bruises all over her body. She knew the next day Amber would whisper apologies, giving her kisses and hugging her in an attempt to make her forget.

Tara began pulling away, distancing herself from you, from Chad, from Mindy, from Anika—everyone. It wasn’t that she didn’t care anymore, but she couldn’t bear the thought of Amber’s wrath falling on them, especially you. She couldn’t risk you getting hurt because of her, couldn’t risk Amber turning her anger on the people she loved. The more Tara tried to protect her friends, the more she isolated herself.

Every moment felt like a calculation; every text, every phone call, every plan made without Amber’s approval felt like a risk. Tara started to feel like a prisoner in her own life, like Amber was always there—watching, waiting for her to slip up, to make a mistake.

Amber had a way of making her feel like she was constantly under surveillance, always one misstep away from an explosion. Tara couldn’t shake the feeling that Amber was breathing down her neck, that every time she laughed too loudly with a friend or spent too much time away from her, Amber would find out. And when Amber found out, the consequences would be brutal. Tara had learned that the hard way.

It was like living in a constant state of fear. Tara’s heart would race whenever she saw a message from you or heard from one of her friends. She hated that it had come to this—that Amber’s control over her had stretched so far that she couldn’t even speak freely without worrying about the fallout.

But more than anything, she hated that the woman she loved, the woman she had trusted, had become someone she feared. Every day, she woke up wondering how much longer she could live like this. How much longer until Amber's control over her—and over everyone she cared about—was too much to bear?

Amber’s behavior spiraled even further. The emotional abuse had crossed into physical violence, and Tara was left unsure of where it would go next. Amber would apologize, beg for forgiveness, and then turn around and hurt her again. Tara began to feel like she was losing herself. She was afraid of what might happen if she tried to leave, afraid of what Amber might do. 

Though she would still post pictures of them together, of them being in a happy relationship for people to see online, the reality was far different. Behind the carefully staged photos, the smiles seemed forced, the laughter hollow. She knew the posts didn’t reflect the late-night arguments or the hidden marks on Tara’s body. Yet, there was comfort in the illusion, in maintaining a facade that everyone else admired. It was easier to keep up the pretense than to confront the discomfort of what was really happening—of the slow unraveling that no one could see. The attention, the validation from likes and comments, provided a temporary sense of relief, a distraction from the gnawing uncertainty she felt every time she looked at Amber when the camera was off. It became a blurred line for Tara to interpret what was the reality and the sick image she created of her and Amber online. 

But one thing was clear: this wasn’t love anymore. And Tara didn’t know how much longer she could stay in a relationship that was slowly suffocating her.

-----------------------------

a/n: next update might be awhile bc exam season is coming up and im a chill girl that needs to rest so you'll probably hear from me in like 2-3 weeks :p

[cameronsbabydoll]

what is wrong with me?

Part I: The Dollhouse

You’re the image of perfection. Always in pastels, always polished. The house is quiet, pristine, like a showroom. Rafe is loving—but in the way someone loves a rare antique: gentle touches, strict handling, placed just right.

He picks your lipstick. Has your closet reorganized monthly. Your meals are pre-plated by the chef. Your weekly schedule arrives in a gold-trimmed binder he reviews with you every Sunday morning.

You don’t even realize you’re disappearing until one day you swallow a pearl earring. Just to see if you can. Just to feel something heavy and real in your body.

Part II: The First Time He Notices

Rafe doesn’t confront you. He simply stares a little longer. Tilts his head when you decline dinner. Asks, in that slow, quiet voice, “Is something wrong with the meal, sweetheart?”

Later that night, he kisses you slowly while pressing his hand to your stomach.

Part III: The Spiral

You escalate—small things. Swallowing bits of glass. Cutting tags off designer clothes and eating them. Scratching the wallpaper behind the bed. Always where no one will see. Always tidy, controlled. Like your rebellion must still be elegant.

Rafe finds the pattern.

Instead of stopping you, he tests you. Leaves a marble on your nightstand. Watches the camera feed. Waits. When you do it, he calls you down for dinner and kisses you on the forehead like a proud husband.

Part IV: The Shift

He starts playing along:

“Wear this necklace today, angel. You wouldn’t want to lose a piece, would you?”

Packs your lunch with pills you’re not prescribed.

Takes you shopping for more breakable things.

You realize he doesn’t want to fix you. He wants to watch you unravel.