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kwilquib · 26 days ago

Text

Unscripted Desire

Part 1

Part 2

Bae Suzy x Reader

Switching POV

Word Count: 8.9k+

A/N: had go split into two because of block limit.

The hotel bar exuded quiet luxury, its polished mahogany counters gleaming under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. The scent of aged whiskey mingled with hints of expensive cologne, a far cry from the smoke-filled dives she usually avoided. Suzy sat at the counter, her manicured nails idly tracing the rim of her crystal tumbler, the ice inside melting slowly. The amber liquid glided down her throat—smooth, refined—but it did little to quell the fire simmering in her chest.

She didn’t need to look at the screen to know what was playing. She had heard the gasps, the whispered murmurs, the way the bartender had hesitated before refilling her glass.

But still, she turned.

“Top actress Suzy caught in scandal—exclusive photos leaked!”

The news anchor’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard. The massive screen above the bar displayed a montage of her face—smiling on red carpets, caught in the glare of paparazzi cameras. Then, the latest ones—blurry but damning. Her, exiting a luxury hotel. A man’s silhouette beside her. A rumor spun into a wildfire.

Her grip tightened around the glass. Bastards.

The sound of ice clinking in glasses and the occasional hum of jazz music no longer masked the shift in atmosphere. A low murmur spread through the bar like an infection.

"Is that really her?"

"No way, it’s Suzy, right?"

"Damn, she’s even hotter in person—"

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head down as she adjusted the brim of her cap. But it was too late. She could feel the stares now—some subtle, some bold. A group of men at the far end of the bar were whispering, one of them already raising his phone.

Shit.

Suzy threw back the rest of her drink and slammed a bill onto the counter, not bothering to wait for change.

“Leaving so soon?” the bartender asked, wary.

She flashed a practiced smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. Not really in the mood for company.”

She could feel it now—the shift. It always happened right before someone got brave enough to approach. Right before someone tried to talk to her, or worse, tried to touch.

Sliding off the barstool, she pulled her coat tighter around her body and moved toward the exit, ignoring the hushed conversations behind her.

Outside, the cold air hit her like a slap. She took a deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled out her phone. The screen was flooded with missed calls—her manager, her agency, even her mother. The scandal was spreading like poison.

And she had nowhere to go.

Her apartment? No chance. The press would be swarming the entrance.

Hotels? Cameras everywhere.

She started walking, head low, ignoring the flash of a camera from across the street. She needed to disappear—just for a night.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the dark figure leaning casually against the alley wall up ahead.

Not until it was too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You drag your feet along the dimly lit street, shoulders heavy from another grueling day at the accounting firm. The subway entrance is just two blocks away when you hear it—a sharp intake of breath, followed by hushed, urgent voices spilling from the alley ahead.

You slow your steps, instincts prickling.

The sounds come first—muffled struggles, the scrape of boots against the pavement, a low chuckle laced with something vile. Then, a woman’s voice, sharp with defiance but tinged with the tremor of fear.

"Let me go."

Your gaze sharpens.

A slim figure is pressed against the cold brick wall, three men surrounding her. One grips her wrist. Another blocks her escape. The third, holding a camera, sneers.

"Come on, sweetheart. You’re already all over the news—what’s one more little scandal?"

"We know what kind of girl you are."

"Bet you’re just playing hard to get."

Your fingers twitch. You take them in—calculating.

The man gripping her wrist leans in, voice dripping with amusement. The second stands close, predatory. The third lingers just outside the fray, the lens of his camera gleaming.

And then there’s her.

Dark hair in wild disarray, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast. Her dress is bunched at her thighs where they must have grabbed at her. But her stance is defiant—legs set, shoulders squared. She’s fighting. But she won’t win.

You step forward. Slowly. Deliberate. The scrape of your shoes against the pavement finally catches their attention.

The one holding her tenses first, his head snapping toward you. "The fuck do you want?"

You don’t answer. Your eyes flick between them, then to her. She sees you. Measures you the same way you did her.

"You lost, buddy?" the second sneers.

You pull out your phone, raising it just enough for them to see the screen. "Police or tabloids first? Either way, your faces are going viral."

A beat of hesitation.

"Fuck, let’s go, man. It’s not worth it," the one with the camera mutters.

That does it.

The grip on her wrist loosens. The men exchange glances before slinking into the shadows, muttering curses under their breath.

Silence.

You exhale, already turning to leave. But she’s still there, still pressed against the wall, watching you. Really watching you.

Chest still rising too fast. Adrenaline still humming beneath her skin. But now there’s something else in her gaze. Something keen.

"You okay?" Your voice is quieter now, but firm.

Her lips part—then curl. A slow, deliberate movement, the ghost of a smirk.

She trails her fingers down her arm, smoothing over her own skin as if only now remembering it belongs to her. "That was... brave of you."

Something in the way she says it makes your pulse thrum.

Her dress is still askew, one strap slipping off her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone gleaming under the dim light. When she exhales, it’s slower now—measured. A performance.

For you.

She shifts, subtly, her thigh brushing against yours as she steadies herself. "You didn’t have to help me."

"You wanted me to?"

A pause. Then, a soft laugh. "I wanted someone to."

Your fingers twitch.

She tilts her chin up, her mouth so very close now, her scent—something faintly sweet, something warm—curling around you.

And then, barely above a whisper: "Are you going to take your reward?"

"Don't care." The words come out before you can stop them, exhaustion stripping any patience you might have had. "What the hell were you thinking, walking alone in an alley at night? Are you trying to get hurt?"

She blinks, caught off guard. "Do you... not know who I am?"

"Should I?" You rub your temples, already regretting stepping in. "Look, get a cab or something. It’s not safe here."

You turn to leave, already thinking about your bed, your alarm clock, the miserable morning ahead.

"Wait—" she calls after you, indignation flaring in her tone.

But you don’t stop. Whatever mess she’s in, it’s not your problem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Desperation makes people do crazy things. That's what Suzy tells herself as she trails the stranger through the dimly lit streets, keeping just far enough behind that he doesn't notice. Her heels click softly against the pavement—a sound that would normally make her self-conscious, but right now she's beyond caring.

She watches him climb the stairs of a weathered apartment building. Third floor. The kind of place she wouldn't have looked twice at before tonight. But right now? It might as well be salvation.

Her phone buzzes again. Another message from her manager: "Where are you? The press is everywhere. Your house is surrounded."

Decision made.

She catches the door before it locks, following his path up the worn stairs. The carpet is threadbare, the walls a dingy shade of beige. She finds him just as he's unlocking his door—303.

"Hey!"

He startles, turning to face her with wide eyes. "What the—"

She doesn't give him time to finish. The moment the door cracks open, she pushes past him into the apartment.

It’s small– painfully small. A one-bedroom unit with an open living space, a kitchen tucked neatly to the side, and a couch that looks well-worn but comfortable. The floor-to-ceiling windows should make it feel spacious, yet to her, the walls seem too close, the ceiling too low.

But it's private. Anonymous.

And right now, that's all that matters.

Perfect.

"You can't be here," he says, voice tight with disbelief. "How did you even—"

"I followed you." She drops onto his couch, letting her body sink into the worn cushions. They smell faintly of laundry detergent. "I need a place to stay."

"This is not a hotel." His jaw clenches. "Get out."

She reaches for the remote on his coffee table, flipping on the small TV mounted to the wall. As if on cue, her face appears on the screen—the scandal still breaking news. She gestures at it dramatically. "See that? That's why I can't leave. You saved me back there. That makes you responsible."

"That's... that's not how this works." But she can see the fight draining from him, replaced by pure exhaustion.

She pulls her legs up onto the couch, making herself comfortable. "One night. That's all I'm asking. By tomorrow, my agency will have handled everything." She hopes.

He stares at her for a long moment, and she holds her breath. This is crazy. She knows it's crazy. But she's out of options.

Finally, his shoulders slump. "Fine. One night. Then you leave."

Relief floods through her, though she keeps her expression neutral. "Deal."

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "I must be losing my mind" as he disappears into what she assumes is the bathroom.

Suzy lets out a long breath, sinking deeper into the couch. Around her, the tiny apartment feels like a fortress—the first safe space she's found since this nightmare began.

Her phone buzzes again. She turns it off without looking.

Just one night, she thinks. One night to breathe. One night to figure out her next move.

One night in this stranger's apartment, where nobody would think to look for Korea's biggest star.

She closes her eyes, listening to the sound of running water from the bathroom. For the first time since the scandal broke, she feels her muscles begin to relax.

Maybe desperate choices aren't always the worst ones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sat at your desk, eyes flicking to the clock, counting down the minutes until the workday ended. Each second dragged like molasses, the fluorescent lights overhead doing little to keep your exhaustion at bay.

Then—your phone buzzed.

"When are you going home?!?"

You sighed, barely sparing the message a glance before turning back to your screen. You weren’t in the mood. Home wasn’t any better than work, anyway.

Another buzz.

"I’m bored. I’ll be waiting outside your office."

Your fingers paused over the keyboard. A bluff. Typical Suzy, always demanding, always expecting. As if the world revolved around her whims. You dismissed the message and refocused on your task.

Then, another buzz—this time, a photo.

Annoyed but curious, you unlocked your phone.

It was a selfie. But it wasn’t her face that made your stomach drop—it was the background. The ground floor of your office. The reception desk, crystal clear behind her.

She wasn’t bluffing.

"Unbelievable," you muttered under your breath, shoving your chair back.

You shot up from your seat, raking a hand through your hair.

"Sir?" you called out, barely masking the irritation in your tone. "I know it's a little early, but can I clock out?"

Your senior barely looked up but caught the urgency in your face. He sighed, waving you off. "Go ahead."

Not wasting another second, you grabbed your things and rushed to the elevator, pressing the button impatiently.

The moment the doors slid open, you strode into the lobby—and there she was. Suzy.

Leaning against the reception desk, chatting with the receptionist like she had all the time in the world. Carefree. As if she hadn’t just disrupted your entire evening for no reason other than her own boredom.

Despite her attempt at going incognito—oversized hoodie, cap pulled low, and dark sunglasses—there was no mistaking her. The way she carried herself, the subtle air of confidence, the effortless way she drew attention even when trying to avoid it.

As you got closer, her voice drifted to you.

"Can you call someone for me? It's urgent."

"I can look up their name for you," the receptionist offered with a polite smile.

"His name is—”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A sudden grip on her wrist. Firm. Quick.

Suzy blinked, momentarily startled, before a slow smirk curled her lips.

Ah. There he was.

She turned her head lazily, meeting his sharp, irritated gaze. Annoyance simmered just beneath the surface—he was trying to keep his cool, but oh, she could see it. The frustration, the barely restrained anger.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice tight, forced into some semblance of calm.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "I told you, I was bored. You shouldn’t have ignored me."

She watched him grit his teeth, his fingers twitching against her wrist before he let go. How amusing. He always acted like she was some kind of nuisance, an inconvenience in his neatly arranged life. But despite all that? He was here. Right where she wanted him.

Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she pressed her car keys into his palm, ignoring the exasperation and tightening his expression.

She pressed her car keys into his palm, watching his expression shift from exasperation to disbelief. "I’m hungry. Let’s eat."

"You could’ve just ordered something. Or gone through a drive-thru," he said, voice sharp.

She ignored him.

Because despite all his resistance, all his frustration, she knew.

He was going to follow her.

And that—more than anything—made her smile.

The drive was tense.

The low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of turn signals were the only things filling the silence between them. He gripped the steering wheel a little too tight, jaw locked as he focused on the road ahead.

Suzy, on the other hand, sat comfortably in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other, tapping her fingers idly against her knee. She was entirely unbothered by the thick cloud of irritation radiating off of him.

"You know," she finally broke the silence, her voice laced with amusement, "I'm paying, so you can relax."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing around the wheel. "That’s not the problem, Suzy."

"I just wanted takeout anyway," she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, "so we can eat at home."

His eyes flicked toward her, disbelief flashing across his face. "Home?" he repeated. "Whose home?"

"Yours, obviously," she said easily, stretching her arms behind her head.

And just like that, he had enough.

"You’re unbelievable," he snapped, his patience finally cracking. "You act like you own me, like you can just decide things for me. What part of this makes sense to you, Suzy? You show up uninvited, you drag me out of work, and now you expect me to do something you could've done alone?"

"You’re being ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, but he caught it.

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, I’m ridiculous? That’s rich coming from you."

Her head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "I don’t see what the big deal is. I just wanted to eat with you. Why are you acting like I did something horrible?"

"Because you don’t ask—you just decide things for me," he shot back. "You don’t care what I want, Suzy. It’s always about you."

Suzy scowled. "That’s not true."

"Really? Then tell me—when have you ever considered what I wanted?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. She hated that. Hated how he always had something to throw back at her.

"Well, I want to be with you," she declared, as if that alone should settle it.

He clenched his jaw. "And that’s exactly the problem. You act like I don’t have a choice in the matter."

She scoffed. "You’re just making excuses. What, are you scared of me or something?"

"Scared of you?" He laughed, shaking his head. "No, Suzy. I just don’t want to deal with your entitled attitude."

That struck a nerve.

She turned fully to face him, brows furrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he said, exasperation bleeding into his tone. "You walk around like the world owes you something—like I owe you something."

Her fingers tightened around her arms. "I owe you something?" she echoed, tone sharper now. "I don’t see you complaining when other people throw themselves at me. But when it’s you, suddenly it’s a problem?"

"Because I’m not one of your fans, Suzy."

That shut her up for a second.

But only for a second.

"You’re acting like I’m forcing you at gunpoint," she snapped. "All I’m doing is giving you my time. Do you know how many people would kill for that?"

"There it is again," he muttered, gripping the wheel. "Your time. Your attention. It’s always about you."

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "If you hate it so much, then why are we still here?"

"Because you won’t leave me alone!"

His voice rose, frustration boiling over. Suzy flinched slightly at the sharpness of it. But instead of backing down, she doubled down.

"God, you’re so dramatic," she muttered. "I thought you were different."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah? Well, I thought you would change after your hiatus, but here we are."

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he’d gone too far.

The car went deathly silent.

Suzy's expression froze, the usual fire in her eyes flickering out for just a second. Her fingers clenched against her arms, nails pressing into her skin.

He could feel it—the shift. He hit a nerve. A deep one.

She swallowed, staring ahead, jaw tight. "Pull over."

"Suzy—"

"Pull over."

He exhaled through his nose but did as she asked, guiding the car to the side of the road. The moment it stopped, she pushed the door open, stepping out without another word.

He closed his eyes, running a hand down his face. "Shit."

After a moment, he unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out, finding her standing by the side of the car, arms crossed.

"Look," he started, sighing, "I shouldn’t have said that."

She didn’t look at him. "No, you shouldn’t have."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I’m sorry."

Suzy let out a long breath, finally meeting his gaze. She studied him for a moment before nodding. "Apology accepted."

A beat of silence.

"But I still stand by what I said," he added.

Suzy’s lips twitched, somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. "So do I."

Of course she did.

And somehow, despite everything, despite the argument, despite the tension still lingering between them—he knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you pull into the parking spot outside your apartment, Suzy is already moving. Before you can even turn off the engine, she’s out of the car, slipping into the night like she’s done this a hundred times before.

You curse under your breath, grabbing the takeout bags and hurrying after her, but she’s fast—too fast for someone who claims to have nowhere else to be.

By the time you catch up, she’s crouched by your doorstep, fingers deftly adjusting the potted plant where you keep your spare key. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t fumble.

Just lifts it, plucks the key from its usual spot, and unlocks the door with the ease of someone who belongs here.

Like she’s done it countless times before.

She steps inside without looking back, already shrugging off her jacket, already shedding the pieces of her disguise, leaving a trail of familiarity in her wake.

And for a second, you just stand there.

Watching her move through your space like it’s hers. Like she’s always been here.

You tiptoe around her mess, careful not to disturb the chaos that has overtaken your once-pristine apartment. The space you kept meticulously tidy—your sanctuary—now feels like occupied territory, claimed by the nation’s so-called first love. She lounges on your couch, lazily flipping through TV channels as if she belongs there.

“When are you leaving?” you ask, setting your takeout on the table with a little more force than necessary.

She sighs, not even looking at you. “Again?” Her voice carries the weight of someone more exhausted by the question than by her own intrusion.

“You said one night. That was the deal,” you remind her, trying to catch her gaze, but she refuses to meet your eyes.

Instead, "I'm going to shower!" she announced, a touch too brightly, seemingly ignoring your last comment. She stretched languidly from the couch, her shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of her stomach.

Her eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. She moved with a deliberate slowness, her already short shorts riding even higher with each step. As she walked past you, she stretched again, exaggerating the movement, highlighting her petite frame. The stretch pulled her shirt further up her back, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of skin, while her shorts dipped precariously low, almost to the edge of her hips. It was a performance, a subtle display designed for your eyes only.

Reaching the bathroom door, she paused, holding your gaze captive. You watched, unsure of what she was planning next. Suddenly, she moved again, as if initiating another stretch. But this time, the movement was different, more deliberate. She fully lifted her shirt, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Then, she reached for the waistband of her shorts, slowly pulling them down, deliberately showcasing the curve of her backside. Beneath the shorts, she wore lacy underwear, the delicate fabric barely concealing her form. The striptease continued as she slowly raised each knee in turn, carefully removing her panties, teasingly obscuring your view of her most intimate area.

Finally, she stood nude, her back to you. As if sensing your captivated gaze, she turned her head just enough for you to see the edge of a grin playing on her lips. It was a look of both triumph and something else… something you couldn't quite place.

With a final, lingering glance, she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving you in a state of heightened anticipation.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

This wasn’t new. Not really. Ever since she decided your apartment was hers too, Suzy had been toying with you—testing boundaries, pushing limits. The casual touches, the way she’d stretch just enough to let her shirt ride up, the way she’d pretend innocence after every single deliberate move.

But tonight? Tonight was different. Tonight was bolder.

You drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. The image of her peeling off her clothes, that teasing glance before she disappeared into the bathroom—it lingers, searing itself into your mind against your will.

You should be used to this.

You aren’t.

Shaking off the heat curling in your stomach, you turn to the mess she’s left behind, grasping onto the one thing you can control—order.

Her jacket is draped over the armrest like she owns the place. A scarf is tangled with her purse on the floor, one of her shoes discarded near the door while the other is kicked under the coffee table. And her clothes—why the hell were they everywhere? A hoodie thrown onto your chair, a sweater half-off the couch, socks abandoned completely.

You crouch, grabbing her shirt and folding it with a little too much force, jaw tight as you work.

She’s done this before—left her mark, made herself comfortable, like she’s waiting for you to snap, waiting for you to do something about it.

You never do.

Not in the way she wants.

But tonight… tonight is testing you.

The sound of the shower running is background noise, but your mind betrays you, conjuring up images you shouldn’t entertain. You shake your head, focusing on picking up the wreckage of her presence instead.

Because this? This is her entertainment, tormenting you, a game.

And you’re not going to let her win.

~~~

The last beads of water slide down her skin, slow and indulgent, tracing the shape of her body like tiny, obedient servants before vanishing between her thighs. The steam still clings to the air, swirling around her like a curtain before finally retreating, revealing glimpses of her reflection in the mirror.

Suzy grins. There it is. The spark of victory. The proof of her power.

Because she saw it. The way his jaw went tight, the way his fingers curled around his shirt, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He thought she didn’t notice—thought he was still untouchable, still above her games. But tonight, oh tonight, he slipped.

He lingered.

And that? That was a win.

She hums to herself, a playful little tune as she watches her reflection, trailing a finger down the length of her arm like she’s congratulating herself. Because why not? She earned it.

That man had the nerve to dismiss her, to act like she was just a nuisance in his life. Like she wasn’t the most exciting thing to ever happen to his boring, colorless world. Like she wasn’t a gift, generously bestowing him with her presence.

Ungrateful.

And yet, despite all his protests, all his tired sighs and sharp words—he looked. He always looked.

Suzy giggles, the sound light, teasing, full of mischief.

"You can’t ignore me forever, you know."

She tilts her head, admiring herself from different angles, brushing her damp hair back over her shoulder.

Perfect. Every inch of her was designed to be admired, and after tonight? He’d have to admit that. He’d have to admit that he’d been wrong about her. About everything.

She bites her lip, not out of shyness—please—but because she loves the anticipation. The thrill of knowing she’s gotten under his skin, past his walls, into that stubborn little head of his.

Just a little more.

She reaches for her bathrobe, slipping it over her damp skin, the silk clinging in all the right places. She doesn’t bother tying it tight. No, no, no. That would ruin the fun. It stays just loose enough, just dangerous enough, like an invitation waiting to be answered.

Then, with a final wink at herself—because really, who deserves it more?—she steps toward the door.

Suzy’s joy immediately faltered as she stepped out of the bathroom, her grin freezing in place. There he was, diligently setting the table, his back to her, completely unbothered. No lingering glances, no tension in his shoulders—nothing. He wasn’t even waiting.

How dare he?

She had given him a show, hadn’t she? Deliberately undressing in front of him, her back turned just enough to tease, to tempt. She’d felt his eyes on her—or at least, she thought she had. The memory of it had fueled her confidence as she stepped into the shower, imagining him squirming, resisting, wanting. But now? Now he was just… setting the damn table.

“You’re out of shampoo,” she said, her voice sharp with annoyance, though it was mostly to mask the sting of his indifference.

He paused, his hands hovering over the plates for a moment before he straightened. “How?! I bought that four days ago—” His voice caught, as he glanced at Suzy, just barely, but it was enough. A tiny crack.

Suzy’s grin returned, slow and triumphant. She waited, her eyes narrowing as she braced for the rest of his sentence—some excuse, some flicker of emotion. But it never came. Instead, he simply turned back to the table, his movements calm and methodical, as if she hadn’t just emerged from his bathroom, damp and glowing and perfect.

Baffled. Confused. Frustrated. Annoyed. The emotions churned in her chest, each one sharper than the last.

Just when she thought she’d finally cracked him, just when she thought she’d seen the faintest hint of vulnerability, he’d reverted to his usual self—dismissive, unimpressed, utterly unappreciative of her grace and beauty.

“You’re going to eat like that?” he asked, his tone casual, as if nothing had happened. As if she weren’t standing there in his bathrobe, the silk clinging to her skin, her hair still damp and curling at the edges.

Suzy’s jaw tightened, but she forced herself to smile, her steps slow and deliberate as she approached the table. She didn’t take her eyes off him, searching for any sign of a crack in his nonchalance—a twitch of his lips, a flicker of his gaze, anything. But there was nothing. Just the same infuriating calm.

She sat down across from him, her movements deliberate, her robe slipping just enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder. He didn’t look up. He was already eating, his focus entirely on his meal, as if she were nothing more than a mildly inconvenient guest.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Suzy couldn’t take it anymore.

“You’re not gay, are you?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice saccharine-sweet, but her knuckles whitened around her fork. Pathetic, she scolded herself. But she needed an answer—any answer—to explain why he refused to look, to want, to break.

He paused, his fork hovering mid-air. For a heartbeat, she saw it—the faintest twitch in his jaw, the shadow of something raw flickering behind his eyes. Then it vanished. He set his fork down with deliberate calm and met her gaze. “I’m not playing your games. You should’ve realized that by now.”

The words were a slap. Suzy’s smile cracked, her chest tightening. Games? This wasn’t a game. This was survival. If he could resist her, what did that make her?

She stared at her plate, the food now repulsive in its mundanity. Why couldn’t he see her? The steam from the meal curled upward, mocking her, and suddenly the room felt suffocating.

Then it hit her—a jagged, desperate epiphany. He hadn’t thrown her out. He hadn’t called the cops, hadn’t sold her secrets to the ravenous press. For all his scowling and sighs, he’d let her stay. Let her linger.

Because he wants to, her pride hissed. Because he’s lying.

The last drops of water had barely cooled on her skin when she stepped out of the bathroom, her silk robe clinging to her damp body. Suzy knew exactly what she was doing. She always did.

“Are you really unaffected by me?” she purred, rising from her chair, letting the robe slip dangerously off one shoulder. She circled the table like a predator, her bare feet silent against the floor, her movements slow, deliberate.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But something flickered behind his eyes—something dark, something warning.

She ignored it.

“You can pretend all you want,” she whispered, gripping his chin and tilting his face toward hers, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her thumb traced the hard line of his jaw, feeling the tension coiled beneath. “But you’re enjoying this. Admit it.”

“Suzy.” His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Like the silence before a storm.

Drunk on her own confidence, she pressed closer, her breath warm against his skin. “Admit I’m under your skin. Admit you think about me—”

His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around her wrist in an iron grip. The suddenness of it made her gasp, her practiced composure slipping for just a moment.

“You want to know what I think?” His voice was low, controlled, but laced with something that sent a shiver through her. “I think you’re pushing boundaries you don’t understand.”

She tried to hold onto her sultry smile, but it faltered when he stood, towering over her, his presence suffocating in the most intoxicating way.

“I—”

“No.” He cut her off, backing her against the wall with slow, deliberate steps. His other hand came up to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a silent reminder of control she no longer had. “You wanted my attention? Congratulations. You have it.”

Her breath hitched. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be the one in control, the one making him unravel.

“What’s wrong, princess?” His thumb brushed against her racing pulse. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To break my control?” He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Or are you finally realizing you might have pushed too far?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“You didn’t think,” he murmured, his voice darkening. “You never do. You just take and push and demand, thinking there won’t be consequences.”

Then he kissed her. Not sweetly, not like in her carefully crafted fantasies. This was raw, deliberate—punishment wrapped in pleasure. His grip tangled in her hair, holding her still as he devoured her, bruising and possessive.

She whimpered, hands fisting in his shirt, caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away. This wasn’t her game anymore. This was him showing her exactly what happened when she got what she asked for.

When he pulled back, her breath was ragged, her lips swollen. The smug confidence she wore like armor had cracked completely, leaving her wide-eyed, vulnerable.

“Still think I’m unaffected?” His gaze was dark with satisfaction. “Or should I show you exactly how affected I can be?”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her body betraying her even as her mind scrambled to reclaim control.

He didn’t give her the chance.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he tugged at the knot of her robe. The silk slipped from her shoulders, sliding down her body like a whisper, pooling at her feet.

She was bare before him, her skin flushed from heat and the chill of the air. A shiver ran through her as his hands found her shoulders, his touch light yet commanding.

He leaned in, lips grazing her neck, his breath warm against her skin. A small, involuntary whimper escaped her lips.

He pulled back, his gaze never leaving hers, then lowered his head—his breath now ghosting over her breast. Then, without warning, his lips closed around her nipple, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak before sucking deeply.

“Ah… Hnng…” Her moan broke through the silence.

She tried to grasp onto her confidence, forcing a teasing smirk. “I should’ve known you were this hungry—”

The words died on her lips as he latched onto her again, silencing any attempt at control.

Her legs pressed together, squirming against the growing ache between them. Her hands hovered over his body, unsure where they belonged—her thoughts a haze, her senses overwhelmed. A strange sensation started at her toes, tingling, winding its way up until her head felt dizzy, like she was melting into him.

Then he stopped.

She barely registered the ragged sound of her own breathing, her gaze locked on him—not with desire, but with the dazed fixation of a predator realizing it’s become prey.

“You think I’m doing this to make you feel good?” His voice was low, almost clinical, as he pinned her wrists above her head with one hand.

“I’m n-not—” The lie fractured as his free hand slid down her ribcage, fingertips branding her skin. Her body tautened, betraying her, hips arching toward him before she could stop herself.

“You’re right,” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “This isn’t about me. It never was.” His palm closed over her breast, thumb circling her nipple with deliberate, agonizing slowness. “It’s about you learning what happens when you shove your way into someone’s life and demand they perform for you.”

She gasped, teeth sinking into her lower lip to stifle a whimper. Don’t. Don’t give him this. But her traitorous body strained against him, heat pooling low in her stomach.

“Keep your hands here,” he ordered, tightening his grip on her wrists. “Or I stop.”

“Stop then,” she hissed, the last shred of pride sharpening her voice. She shoved weakly against him, but her muscles felt liquid, useless.

He laughed—a dark, humorless sound—and nipped the curve of her neck. “You don’t want me to stop. You’ve never wanted anything real in your life, have you? Just applause. Just proof.” His fingers pinched her nipple hard enough to sting, and a broken noise escaped her throat. “Here’s your proof, Suzy. You’re ordinary here. Just flesh. Just need.”

She hated him. Hated how his words slithered under her skin, hated how her thighs trembled, hated the slick ache between them that throbbed in time with his touch. Most of all, she hated the part of her that craved this—the part that wanted him to dismantle her, piece by performative piece, until nothing was left but the raw, shameful truth:

She’d rather be ruined by him than ignored.

So she let herself break.

Her hands, once limp with shock, clawed at his shirt—buttons scattering, her nails scraping skin. She bit the inside of her cheek, hating how badly she craved the heat he’d denied her.

“You’re already wet,” he muttered, fingers skimming her thigh, blunt and deliberate.

Her breath hitched, but she forced a smirk, lifting her chin. “I—maybe. So?”

His lips curled, as if amused by the pathetic excuse for defiance. “So? Liar.”

A sharp gasp broke from her as he slid a finger into her, ruthless.

Her fingers trembled against his belt, but she yanked at the leather anyway, snapping it free. “You talk too much,” she muttered, pretending her voice wasn’t shaking.

“You begged for this,” he said, pressing another finger inside, harder this time, until she was pinned between him and the wall.

“Hnnng…Fuck…” The sound slipped before she could stop it. Humiliating.

His grin was immediate, infuriating. Heat crawled up her neck, but before he could throw another taunt, she grabbed his waistband and yanked—pants and boxers falling in one sharp pull.

His cock sprang free, thick and hot against her stomach as he leaned in, claiming her mouth. The kiss was different now. Deeper. More. And yet his hands never withdrew from between her legs, never let up, never let her breathe.

She was spiraling too fast, losing ground. No, no, no—she wasn’t supposed to be the one drowning.

The climax built, tight and unbearable, until—

He broke the kiss. Just like that.

Suzy chased his lips, her mouth grazing his chin, his jaw, anywhere—but he turned away, leaving her gasping at nothing.

“Contraceptives,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen counter.

“Oh.” The word slipped out small and stupid. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, cheeks burning. Since when did she forget herself like this?

Her body ached with frustration, but she refused to stand there waiting like some desperate, abandoned thing. So she followed, her bare feet slapping against the floor. “Hurry,” she breathed, though she’d rather die than admit it was a plea.

He turned, a condom packet pinched between his fingers, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her.

“Wait—!” Suzy yelped, arms flailing before instinct had them locking around his neck.

His heartbeat.

She could hear it, rapid and relentless against her ear. Or maybe it was hers. She couldn’t tell anymore. Their breaths, their heat, their hunger—blurring together.

He laid her down, shadow swallowing her whole as he climbed over her. But instead of moving, instead of tearing into her the way she swore she wanted, he just... stared. His gaze traced her face, slow and searching, like he was trying to memorize something she didn’t even know she was showing.

It made her skin prickle. “What?” she snapped.

“Nothing,” he murmured, voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “Just wondering how someone so loud can feel so small.”

Suzy’s throat tightened.

She wanted to scoff, roll her eyes—fire back with something smug and clever. But the words tangled, refusing to come.

Before she could untangle them, he kissed her again. Slow, deliberate. His hands cradled her face, gentle in a way that terrified her.

Here’s your refined scene, keeping Suzy’s teasing nature but also her struggle with honesty and vulnerability:

Because fragility was the one thing she couldn’t fake.

“Just—just do what you want already,” she stuttered, hating how weak she sounded.

He hovered over her, their faces so close she could feel his breath against her lips. Her nipples, tight and sensitive, pressed against the heat of his skin.

Instead of answering, he kissed her—just a tap, far gentler than before. Almost sweet.

“Aren’t you a little impatient, Suzy?” he murmured, the tease running straight through her, twisting low in her stomach.

It was the first time he’d said her name with a smile.

Her heart fluttered.

No. No, no, no. She refused to react to that.

Before she could come up with some snarky retort, he pulled back, dragging his lips down her body. His movements were slow, deliberate, each inch of space he put between their faces only making the anticipation coil tighter inside her.

Her breath hitched when he settled between her legs.

“W-what are you doing?” she asked, already knowing.

She knew exactly what he was about to do.

Yet she asked anyway, unprepared for the moment it would actually happen.

“W-wait, at least let me take a shower first,” she blurted, grasping at anything to stall, to breathe, to think.

A snicker rumbled from below. “Didn’t you just take a shower?”

Heat flooded her face. She wanted to disappear.

Before she could find another excuse—

“Haahn—!”

His tongue swept over her folds, slow and deliberate.

“Ahh! god—!”

A sharp jolt of pleasure shot up her spine as he played with her clit, teasing, circling, pressing.

“W-wait… I—ah! Ahhn! Hnghh!”

Then—

“Hiiic!”

She flinched, her entire body jolting as he sucked, her back arched upwards, the sound indecent, shameless.

Blinking down at him, her breath ragged, she found him already watching her. Smirking.

“You’re really sensitive, Suzy.”

His words lit a spark of defiance in her. He was teasing her, toying with her, and she wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

She sprang up, her body still trembling from his touch. “It’s your turn now.”

He raised a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “What?”

“I said—it’s your turn now.” She tapped his shoulder with her foot, her legs still parted, unintentionally exposing herself more than she realized.

His gaze darkened. “Oh?”

“Let’s see how patient you are,” she challenged, tilting her chin, her voice laced with quiet amusement.

A slow smirk spread across his lips, but he said nothing.

“What are you waiting for? Lie down.” She guided him onto his back, effortlessly shifting their positions. Now, she was on top.

Kneeling between his legs, her eyes flickered downward, and—

Oh.

His cock stood between them, thick and rigid, a sight she was no stranger to. And yet, something about him—about this—felt different.

Her fingers moved without hesitation, wrapping around him with practiced ease, stroking with a steady rhythm. He was warm, heavy in her grasp, the weight of him familiar yet somehow new.

She had done this before—many times. But never with him.

And now, with the heat of the moment slowed to her pace, she had the chance to take him in, to truly feel him.

Her fingers barely met around his girth.

Her breath hitched.

He was bigger than she expected, thicker than she was used to.

A challenge.

Her lips curled slightly as she leaned in, her breath ghosting over his length. Her strokes remained measured, deliberate, teasing. She knew exactly what she was doing—what effect she had on him.

With her free hand, she traced the tip, swirling a finger through the precum, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch. A soft chuckle escaped her as she tucked her hair behind her ears, preparing to take him in.

Slowly, she let her tongue slip out, teasing him before finally making contact—

“Nggh…” A deep grunt rumbled from his chest, his cock twitching in response.

And then—

A sharp pulse, followed by a hot splash across her cheek.

She stilled, eyes flicking up to meet him. His breath was ragged, his fists clenched at his sides.

A wicked smirk tugged at her lips as she dragged a finger through the mess on her skin, bringing it to her mouth, letting her tongue flick out just enough to taste him.

“You’re really sensitive,” she murmured, her tone dripping with satisfaction.

His jaw tightened.

And just like that, she knew—she had him.

That moment of vulnerability, of losing control, it was hers to wield now. The tables had turned, just as she had wanted. Before, she had been overwhelmed by him, caught in his pace, his touch. But now—now, he was the one left breathless beneath her.

Her strokes slowed, teasing, deliberate. She leaned in, lips just barely grazing his length, reveling in the way his muscles tensed, in the sharp breath he sucked through his teeth.

Yes.

This was the power she had been after.

But just as quickly as she seized it—

The world flipped.

A gasp escaped her as he moved with speed she hadn’t anticipated, his hands gripping her waist, turning the entire game on its head. One moment she was on top, in control—

The next, her back was against the sheets, his weight caging her in.

His knee parted her legs effortlessly, pressing between her thighs as he loomed over her. That smug dominance had returned to his gaze, lips curling with something dark and knowing.

She shuddered, realizing—

She had only borrowed control for a moment.

He had merely let her think she had won.

“Suzy,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, eyes dark and impatient. “Did you enjoy your little game?”

Her breath hitched.

She could feel him—his cock resting heavy against her stomach, a silent promise of what was to come. It pulsed against her skin, a relentless reminder of the inevitable.

Heat coiled low in her belly.

She wanted him.

She needed him.

Her breath hitched as she watched him roll the condom on, the slow, practiced motion only fueling the fire already burning inside her.

Hesitation warred with longing, nerves tangled with impatience. But pride had no place here—not when every inch of her ached for him.

She was ready to surrender.

She parted her lips, ready to plead, to beg—

“Ready?”

His voice cut through the air, low, rough, edged with impatience.

It was the question that could have once been her escape. The opening she had looked for before.

But that moment had passed long ago.

Now, there was only him.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, a silent answer—a confirmation, a submission, an invitation.

It wasn’t him who had been in her grasp—

It had been the other way around all along.

With her silent permission, he wasted no time. Strong hands spread her open, parting her folds as the tip of his cock pressed against her entrance.

“Ngh… Fuuuck!”

He pushed inside, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her. A gasp tore from her lips as her walls clenched around him, adjusting to his size. His heat seeped into her, a sensation that was both overwhelming and intoxicating.

Her feet quivered. Her fingers curled into the sheets, while her other hand covered her mouth, muffling the cries threatening to spill free.

The sudden, intense pleasure blinded her. Her eyes clenched shut, darkness swallowing her vision, but she wasn’t alone—she could feel him.

Moving.

Slow at first, each thrust deliberate, controlled, but quickly gaining speed.

“Hnngg…” She bit down on her lip, her breath shaky, her body at his mercy as he drove into her over and over again.

Her world narrowed to the sounds around her—their ragged breaths, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bed beneath them, the rustling sheets.

She could feel everything.

The firm grip of his hands on her thighs. The way her body shifted with every deep thrust. The friction of him inside her, stretching her, claiming spaces untouched before.

And then—

A jolt of pleasure shot through her as his thumb found her clit, circling it, pressing, teasing.

“Hnng… No, n-not there—”

Her eyes flew open, and she found him staring at her, gaze dark, unwavering, drinking in every tremor, every reaction.

Heat flooded her cheeks. His focused attention made her feel bare in an entirely new way.

But he didn’t stop.

If anything, her protest only encouraged him. His movements deepened, his thrusts grew stronger, reaching deeper than she thought possible.

“Hnng!!”

Flustered, she covered her face with both hands, as if shielding herself from his gaze—unwilling to let him see just how undone she was becoming.

His pace slowed—a brief respite.

A chance for him to catch his breath.

And for her to regain a shred of sanity.

Her hands trembled as they shielded her face, as if trying to ground herself, to control the heat creeping up her skin. But he didn’t let her. His hands, warm and firm, gently pried hers away, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Her breath hitched. His eyes, dark and unwavering, held her captive.

Slowly, he guided her hands to his lips, pressing soft, lingering kisses against her fingers, her palms. The sensation sent a shudder through her, and before she could stop it, a whimper slipped past her lips.

“Hnngh…!”

The attention she had craved so desperately now felt overwhelming—almost unbearable.

"Why… why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, voice unsteady, flustered.

A grin tugged at his lips, his intensity never faltering. “Because I want to see your beauty, Suzy.”

Hearing her name from his lips hit her harder than she expected. It wasn’t just the compliment—it was the way he said it. Soft, tender. A stark contrast to the raw dominance he had shown before.

She had heard her name spoken countless times, but with him, it felt different. More intimate. More real.

The simplicity of his words, the sincerity in his voice—it was exactly what she had longed for. And yet, now that she had it, she felt shaken, unprepared for how deeply it unraveled her.

“What?" she breathed, struggling to process it.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against her neck, sending a tremor through her body.

“W-wait—” Her protest barely left her lips before his mouth claimed hers.

His tongue slid past her parted lips, and instinctively, she met him, matching his rhythm as if it had always been this way. As if her body already knew how to respond to him.

His hands skimmed down her legs, shifting, lifting her hips with effortless control.

The brief pause between them shattered.

Their break was over.

His hips drove into her once again, a deep, deliberate thrust that stole her breath.

Her moans were swallowed by his mouth, his kiss consuming, demanding.

The force of him pushed her deeper into the bed, her body molding to his movements as he pressed her into the mattress. His pace was relentless, each thrust pushing her closer to an edge she wasn’t ready to face.

His lips left hers, trailing down her neck, sucking, biting—leaving his mark.

“Hnnng… I can’t… I—” Her plea was barely a whisper, drowned out by the rhythm of their bodies colliding.

His kisses turned into nibbles, teasing, devouring. Desperate to stop his assault, she tried to push his face away, only for him to seize her wrists, pinning them against the sheets.

Now her hands became his focus.

He kissed her fingertips, grazed his teeth along her knuckles, breathed in her scent as if memorizing it. Then he sucked gently, tongue flicking over her skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You look gorgeous like this, Suzy,” he murmured, admiring the wrecked state he had reduced her to.

His voice cut through the symphony of their skin slapping, the slick sounds of their bodies moving together, the ragged breaths and muffled moans.

Heat flared across her skin. She wanted to say something—anything—but before she could, her body jolted.

“Ah—!!” Her cry broke free, louder than before, almost a scream.

He had reached deep, pressing against a spot she hadn’t known existed.

Her vision blurred. Her thoughts fractured.

She was unraveling, pleasure crashing over her in waves so intense she could barely hold on.

“I’m… close…” His voice was rough, strained, barely comprehensible. But she didn’t need to hear it.

She could feel it.

His cock throbbed inside her, primed to explode.

And then—release.

Heat surged inside her as his climax tore through him, his body tensing before he spilled into the condom.

Her walls clenched around him, milking every last drop, her own ecstasy cresting in tandem.

Her mouth parted in a silent scream, her entire body seizing in pleasure so sharp it was almost unbearable.

For a moment, there was nothing. No thoughts, no words—only sensation.

Her consciousness floated, her body trembling, spent, utterly wrecked.

Then—his lips were on hers again.

Soft this time. Gentle. A stark contrast to the madness from moments ago.

With the last remnants of her energy, she kissed him back.

Slowly, the kiss melted into something tender, something lingering. A silent exchange of satisfaction, of fulfillment.

Her breathing slowed.

Her consciousness drifted.

And before she could fight it, sleep pulled her under.

Part 2 ---->

#kpop smut #kpop fanfic #smut #female idol smut #girl group smut #bae suzy #suzy #suzy smut #qwilorg

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macfrog · 1 year ago

Text

sweet child o' mine | pt. i

purely just some fun and games putting big grumpy joel miller slap bang in the middle of a romcom. i hope you guys enjoy. dedicated to big sis @mrsmando, who is the light of my life, let herself be completely swept away by this idea into unhinged, whimsical mania with me, and who inspired so many lil details for this story. love u, zhort x

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you strike up a deal to attend a wedding with your neighbor as his date. what could go wrong?

warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), grumpy!joel initially finds reader mildly infuriating, cursing, alcohol consumption, discussion of a car accident (non-graphic) & dead parents, softdom!joel as per, fingering, handjob, comeplay, spitting, drunk unprotected one night stand, creampie, praise kink, one mention of nausea (but nothing happens, my little emetophobic angels), someone falls pregnant and it's not joel miller i'll tell you that much. honk if you love cats!!!

word count: 9.8k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

It’s just gone seven on a Saturday night when his knuckles rap on your door.

The sun casts tall, angled shapes on your living room wall. Lights the pages before you in a glow of tangerine. Refracts through the glass tumbler on your coffee table and bleeds the amber liquid onto the pale wood surface. Everything lit in some variation of gold, everything bowing its head quietly as the day begins to turn its back.

The house is still. The world feels still, as though transitioning. Like you’re sat in a waiting room, leg bouncing, anticipating something you don’t know to look for yet.

Perfect, comfortable, still – until he’s on your porch. And he knocks again.

You snap your book shut and slide it across the table, nudging the heavy glass. The ice clinks, irritated.

“You mind fastenin’ your…delicates to your clothesline a little better?”

His voice shoulders its way into your hallway before you’ve even pulled the door back enough to see him. Not that you need to see him to know who it is. You’ve lived in Austin three years now and met only one person with a voice as low and toneless as Joel Miller’s. Slung in sarcasm, dripping with disdain. All that.

You cross your arms and slant against the doorframe, unable to mask your amusement. “Excuse me?”

He answers by lifting his left hand. From his pointer finger hang a tiny pair of white panties, lace pattern fluttering in the late summer breeze. You glance over his shoulder as you steal them from his grasp, balling them in your fist.

“Uhuh. They were sitting on my back lawn. I have company tonight, y’know. I can’t have women’s underwear just – lyin’ in my damn yard.”

Your head tilts. Ears prick. “Company? You hostin’ somethin’?”

His shoulders drop with a sigh. “No. I am not hostin’ anythin’.”

“Good. ‘cause I’d want an invite.”

“If I were hostin’, you’d be the last person I would invite. And you know that.”

“Ouch,” you pout, “that hurts, Miller. I watered your plants while you were off visiting your brother last month. They woulda died without me there.”

“And I am grateful to you,” Joel grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean I need those anywhere in view of my kitchen window.” He throws a pointed finger to your elbow, where your panties sit scrunched in your fist.

You look down to the froth of frill spilling between your knuckles, and back up to his dark features – his glower casting a shadow over the hazel eyes and deepening the creases between his brows. You smirk, a realization dawning.

Company – that he doesn’t want seeing a pair of someone else’s underwear.

“You have a date.”

Joel’s tongue flicks across the inside of his cheek. He glances over his shoulder and speaks through his teeth. “No, not a date,” he quietly tells the street.

“But you have a lady comin’ over. Or at least – someone you don’t want seeing these.” You unfold your arms and twirl your fist. The gentle wind lifts the lace.

He grunts. A low hmph. Agreement, you think.

“Sounds like a date.”

He hisses, “’s not a date.”

Your stare doesn’t slip from his. Not when his brows tighten, not when his jaw does, too. Not even when he sucks a breath between gritted teeth. Your smile widens.

Finally, with a sigh, he concedes. “It’s…it’s somebody Tommy ‘n Maria are tryna set me up with. Alright?”

“So – a date.”

“If you don’t –” Joel’s head flicks over to his own driveway at the same time his hand lifts, a pointed gesture you read as – shut the fuck up. “We’re just having a few drinks. Just – hangin’ out.”

“Just hangin’ out,” you repeat, eyes widening. “One-on-one. With some woman who – Wait, Tommy’s in Wyoming. How the hell do he and his wife know someone way the hell down here?”

“From before they moved. And – Maria ain’t his wife. Yet. They’re getting married next month.”

Suddenly the sun reappears over the dark horizon. The evening begins to clear up, make sense again. You lift your chin, nodding.

“Right, right. So, she gonna be your plus one, or…?”

The understanding raises his heckles again. Exasperated, he asks, “How many damn questions are you gonna –? I’m only here to – to return your –” He nods once more to the pale fabric in your hand.

A laugh shoots from your nostrils. “What’s the matter? You don’t like – whatever her name is?”

“Laura.”

“Laura,” you breathe.

“And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with her. She just – she…”

“She…?”

“She has, like, five cats, and it’s just…hair, everywhere. And at their engagement party, she spilled an entire margarita down me. Right down my –” He sweeps a hand down his front, balling his fists again once they reach the hem of his shirt.

Your lips turn, amused. “Five cats. Cat lady Laura. Well. Have fun, I guess. Thanks for these.”

He acknowledges your raised fist with a bashful glance. He’s already halfway down your front steps when he says, “Keep an eye on your laundry from now on,” and strides off back to his own place.

Joel has lived here his whole life. In Austin. You’ve no idea when he moved in next door, just that he was here when you did. You don’t know much about him at all – the fact he even filled you in enough to tell you about his date is shocking enough.

The day you first arrived, U-Haul truck squealing to a halt by the curb, he found himself unlucky enough to be stood in his front yard watering the blond patches of his grass. He saw you struggling to open the rear door of the truck, and with a grumble and a glance across the street for a more eager rescuer, he tossed his hose and came over to help.

He unclicked the heavy latch and pushed the door up with enough ease to put you to shame. And he seemed to feel some obligation when he saw the mass of belongings stuffed in the back, to help you unload them. Didn’t seem overjoyed by the thought, mind you, what with the sigh he let slip when you hopped up and held out the first box.

He indulged you for no more than one hour. Answered every question you had about the neighborhood, dodged every one about himself. He told you about the couple across the street with the newborn baby, told you about your neighbor on the other side who pretends to garden just so she can snoop on everyone else’s business. And as soon as the last box thudded down on your gleaming living room floor, he nodded, and paced back over to his own property.

He's a good guy. You know this much. He’s a dick to you most days, but he’s honest, and he’s kind when you catch him in the right light. He takes deliveries for you when you’re not home; he once drove Diane to the vets when she showed up on his doorstep in the dead of night, Fred the Jack Russell ailing in her arms.

He’s observant. Noticed just this summer the three different plumbers who showed up to your house in the space of two days, and came over as the third guy was leaving – his shining bald head low between his shoulders.

‘s the matter? Joel asked, watching the navy overalls sink into the rusted vehicle.

Kitchen sink’s leakin’. Fuckin’ – nobody can fix it.

He shouldered you out of the way with his then-trademark sigh and left twenty minutes later, your kitchen finally free of the dripdripdrip you’d been plagued with for a week straight.

He’s good. He’s a good neighbor. But, man, is he private.

You’ve never seen the inside of his place. His body blocks it anytime you’re on his doorstep. He has a brother, you know that – though, only since last month, when he asked you to keep an eye on his garden – and you know, now, that the brother is getting married.

You know that he likes country music, know he plays guitar – accidentally. You heard him one day in the spring, when he left his window open and you were lounging by your pool. When he looked out and noticed how you’d angled your sunbed to listen, really listen, he slammed it shut.

You know he’s single and childless and has been for at least the three years you’ve lived next door to him.

You know little fucking else.

The words on the curled pages seep into one another. You’re staring through the book now back in your hands, the shape of your living room blurring around you: the brick fireplace, the still, red light of the TV. The lulling sway of the sheer curtains, pushed like the tides by the air through the open window.

You cross your ankles on the coffee table. Your lips purse. Tongue dabs at the smoky-sweet singe of whiskey on the flesh of your cheeks. From here, you can see the street outside Joel’s house. If – when – Laura pulls up, you’ll know. And you’ll be here to watch. Survey. Observe.

See what kind of woman a guy like Joel Miller takes to his brother’s wedding.

It’s nine fifty-two when she eventually leaves.

She’s been in there two hours and seventeen minutes. Her car – a kind of rotten green Chevrolet with one tail light out – sits patiently out front, like even it can’t wait to help her fucking disappear.

You’re hoisting a swollen black bag down your drive when his porch light flickers on and his front door opens. The glossy plastic exhales as it slumps against the trashcan. You dust your hands. Joel hasn’t noticed you yet.

“…so nice gettin’ to properly know you,” Laura’s crooning, sidestepping as Joel walks calmly down to her car. Ushering her. You hold back a laugh.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, his voice falling flat in the windless evening. He’s a step ahead of her, like a parent leading their child away from the park. She’s still babbling about his six-string.

“Maybe next time I can hear a little somethin’…” she says, and you know from the way he halts that Joel hears the same questioning tone you do, the way somethin’ curls up at its end.

“Maybe,” he says, curtly. His words curl down. And then nothing else, and Laura – who, now that she’s a little closer, stood on the curb by her car door, you notice has sweeping golden hair which flicks away from her plump cheeks, and bright eyes which dazzle in the dusky glow – is forced to cough up one last chance.

“I gave you my number,” she says, then, “I didn’t get yours?” and this time, it’s definitely a question.

Joel pretends to pat down his pockets. “I musta left my phone in the house.”

You can’t help it. A scoff bursts from your lips. But he still doesn’t look over.

“Well,” Laura tugs on the handle, “thank you for a lovely evenin’. I’ll hear from ya.”

Joel smiles but puts a hand on the door, like he might slam it shut for her if she tried to backtrack. But she doesn’t. She swings both legs in, pulls it closed, and the engine spurts to life.

As she pulls off, Chevrolet jolting a little, you notice the bright yellow bumper sticker plastered squint beneath the license plate. You walk silently over to Joel, grass prickly under your socks.

“Honk If You Love…Cats,” you murmur, shoulder brushing off his bicep.

He sniffs. Tightens the grip his arms have on his chest. His eyes are fixed on the one red light, slowly shrinking into the distance. “Don’t even.”

“Good date?”

“I said don’t.”

“She talk much about her cats?”

“Goodnight.”

“Did you ask their names, at least?”

He’s backing up, crossing the dark lawn towards his front steps. He looks you up and down, his lips a flat line. Your sweat shorts. Your bare legs. The tight vest top molded around your breasts. His eyes shoot back up. “No more questions. No more pesterin’ me.”

“Nothin’ about the cats? Seriously, dude?” You lift your arms, grinning after his dark figure, swaggering up the porch steps.

Joel ignores you. He disappears through his front door and the light is snuffed. You slink back up to your house, grateful for the blanket of darkness covering the skip in your step.

Eleven hours later, you’re stood in front of your bedroom mirror.

The day melts against your window. Brilliant blue sky, cradling soft puffs of snow-white clouds. Crows on Diane’s roof cawing, slowly yellowing trees rustling. The bright, hot square across your front where the sun forces her way in.

You turn, taking the loose hem of your sleepshirt in your fingers, and pull it over your body, tossing it to the foot of the bed as you examine the pattern of colors hanging from inside your closet.

You take them one by one, tug them free, slot them back in. Eventually you settle for a gray hoodie, cropped and loose. As you haul it from its hanger, there’s a whine from the wooden cabinet. A squeal. The top shelf rips from either side, dropping to the closet floor and taking the pole with it.

“What the f–? You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you growl, stepping forward to run your fingers along the splintered wood where the nails have ripped themselves free. Four black holes, jagged insides of the closet pricking your fingertips.

The crumple of clothes and hangers sulks up at you pathetically. You fall back onto your bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling. The fan whirs slowly, scooping your gaze and throwing it in lazy circles.

The closet was old, anyways. Was here when you moved. It’s probably about time you had some new ones built. But fuck, that’s gonna cost. Ripping the old ones out, building them from scratch. The fan pulls your eyes back around to twelve o’clock.

Joel’s a contractor. He could do ‘em. Might give you a discounted rate, too, for all the times you move his newspaper from his front lawn to his doorstep for him. Either that, or he’d want something in return. And what handy skills do you have? You once knitted a scarf for you grandma for Christmas. Maybe not Joel’s thing. You can cook mac ‘n cheese – though one lousy meal isn’t payment enough for an entire wall of solid wood, two panes of glass and two days’ labor.

A favor, maybe. An IOU. What the fuck kinda favor does Joel Miller need–?

You’re hopping over the tiny burst of hedge between his yard and yours before the thought is finished, bending to scoop his newspaper up and slotting it under your arm. He answers just as you lift your fist to pound on his door for a second time.

You slap the rolled paper into his chest. “I have an idea.”

He squints at you in the summer light. “Wh–? Didn’t I tell you not to p–?”

“I’ll be your date.”

Joel blinks.

“I’ll be your date,” you repeat. “I got a wardrobe needs replacing. You do it, for free, and I’ll be your date.”

“Your wardrobe?”

“Crapped out on me this mornin’. I don’t want to pay for some stranger who’ll overcharge me ‘n do a half-assed job. Fix it, ‘n you don’t have to take cat lady Laura to Tommy’s wedding. And you can fix my kitchen sink, too.”

“I already fixed your kitchen sink.”

“It’s back at it. Drippin’ all through the damn night. Drip drip drip –”

“Alright.” Joel’s palm is up again. He does that a lot when he’s talking to you. “Alright. Wardrobe ‘n sink.”

“We have a deal?” you ask, extending your hand.

His chest fills with a thoughtful breath. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering somewhere a little lower than your jaw for a second. And then, the heavy weight of his palm against yours. The tightening of his fingers around your wrist. One sure shake.

Deal.

Two weeks before the wedding, you’re at Joel’s door again.

He’s in a black tee, dark sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, fringe still dripping onto his forehead. He runs a hand through the gray-singed brown and stares at the tangle of fabric slung over your arm. “The hell is this?”

“Do you know what you’re wearin’?”

His eyes roll up to meet yours. “Do I know what I’m wearin’?”

You nod. “You’re the best man. Guessing Tommy has you covered?”

“Black suit,” he says, after a beat.

“That’s it? He ain’t got no theme?”

Joel’s head cocks. “I don’t do themes.”

You roll your eyes, ducking under his arm fixed against the doorpost. He manages three words of protest and then shuts the door in resignation, turning to watch as you take his stairs two at a time.

“You are so damn annoyin’, you know that?” his voice echoes behind you.

“You want this date or not, Miller?” you call over your shoulder, following the route through the identical house to your own bedroom – thankful when you nudge the door and it opens to reveal his bland, colorless decor. “Very…gray,” you note, feeling the shadow of him over your shoulder.

You throw the dresses down on his bed, satin and lace and pink and green swimming between one another on his sheets.

“I’m not wearin’ a dress.”

You glower at him. “Ha. We have to match.”

He rubs the towel against the back of his head, drying the dark hair. “Match how?”

“Y’know, your suit ‘n my dress. If I’m your date, we have to match.”

“Already told you. I’m wearin’ a black suit.”

“Right. But, like – what color tie? And can it be any of these colors?” You hold your hands out, surfing over the sea of shades. “Maybe,” you lift your eyebrows, eyes darting to the pale teal color, “this one?”

Joel entertains you for all of five seconds, lifting his cheeks in a false grin before they deflate. “No. Black.”

“Joel.”

He slings the towel over his folded arms, and looks at you plainly. “Black,” he says again, in a tone of voice which sounds something like a door being slammed shut.

Your eyes thin, and you gather your dresses up in one swipe. “Can you just –? Will you make sure that you match my corsage, at least?”

“Why the hell are you so hung up on this?”

“I’m not. I’m just tryna make it believable. You turned down cat lady Laura, this is what you get.”

He sighs, tossing the towel over to his laundry basket. “I will make sure I match your corsage. Happy?”

“Happy. Are you ready?”

“Give me five minutes.”

You huff, head rolling back. “You are so prima-donna, Joel Miller.”

With a sarcastic chuckle, he shoves you out of his bedroom to get dressed. You saunter down his stairs, drinking in every detail of his home as though it’s the only chance you’ll get to see it.

It probably is, when you think about it. You don’t imagine he’ll be inviting you over for drinks anytime soon.

Your eyes move along the wall as you slowly thump down his stairs, thrown from framed photo to framed photo – a black and white photo of a man with a tousle-haired boy on his lap, the kid’s tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he wraps his small hand around the neck of a guitar; an out-of-focus Christmas photo, a family of four sat in front of a million multicolored orbs dotted along the branches of a tree; a kid with skinned knees crouched by a German shepherd, his lanky arms hooked around the dog’s thick neck.

One brown suede jacket hangs from a coat peg at the bottom, Joel’s boots sat loose and unlaced beneath. A dark blue blanket draped over the back of his couch. A painting of a moose over his fireplace. Shelves lining one entire wall decorated with carved-wood animals, with more photographs of times gone and memories made, with books and DVDs that lend your fingertip with a heap of white dust as you drag it across their spines.

Enough to paint a picture, not quite enough to show you the colors. The tones, the depth. Despite your best efforts, the man remains a mystery. You settle with the fact he will never be fully revealed.

The creak of his stairs turns your attention from the guitar on the wall around to his tall figure, fixing the collar of the loose flannel over his shoulders.

“You ready?” Joel asks, bending with a groan to reach for his boots.

“Yep,” you reply, leaning forward to glance into his kitchen while his head’s down. The most you manage to observe are the light drapes, the sunlight shooting through and bouncing off of a white-topped island.

“’s go,” he says, keys dangling from his finger.

It takes twenty minutes to drive to Home Depot.

You chitter in Joel’s ear the entire time, reading from his handwritten list of measurements and supplies needed for your new closet. ‘n how do you know this is all enough? Because I know. What if you get started and it’s not? I won’t; it’s enough. You sound so sure. That’s ‘cause I’ve done it before, kid. You take many closetless girls out on fake wedding dates, Joel?

“What’s our story, then?” you ask in the store, fiddling with hanging packets of door hinges while Joel reads thrice over his note. Your hand dives into the bag of M&M’s he begrudgingly bought you at a gas station on the way.

“Our story?” he mumbles back, the words slipping under the mental math you can see going on behind his eyes.

“Like, when people ask how we met. What’s our meet-cute? Both reached for the same door hinge, our hands touched and lit aflame? That kinda thing?”

He doesn’t laugh. Your smile dampens instantly. You kick his boot. “Joel.”

“’sec,” he frowns, “I’m focusing.”

You lean close, pushing on your toes to study the folded slip. His scrawled numbers, the pencil lines blunt and smudged in the creases of the paper.

“Twentytwofortysixeightyninetyfivesixhundredelevenfourtwelvenineteen–”

Joel’s lips seep a maddened sigh; he glances down the aisle like a store attendant might separate you from him if he demanded with enough passion, or maybe if he slipped them a twenty.

“Do you mind?” he barks, his expression a brick wall for your giggles to fall flat to the floor against.

“Home Depot’s your stomping ground. Why the hell do I gotta come watch you pick hinges and timber?”

“Because it’s your damn closet I’m fittin’. Just –” he swipes two packets from their peg, tossing them into the shopping cart, “– come on.”

Joel makes off down the muck-colored floor, the overhead lights reflecting harshly in the shiny surface. The front right wheel of the cart trembles as it rolls, nervously leading the two of you down an aisle lined with cylinder tins and pamphlets on Choosing the right finish.

“So, are your parents gonna be at this wedding?” you ask, taking the cart from Joel’s hands when he drifts off to study a shelf of wood varnish.

His jaw turns towards you, and then back to the tin in his hand. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do I get to meet ‘em?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not gonna introduce your date to your mom and dad?”

He scoffs, stealing a handful of candy. “My fake date?”

“They don’t know that. Let me meet Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

He holds two tins up, offering them to you like answer to your question. “Matt or gloss? Guess it don’t really matter if I’m painting ‘em after.”

“Stop fuckin’ ignoring me. I hate when you do that.”

He leans in close, lowering the matt varnish into the cart. “You think I’m gonna introduce you ‘n your potty mouth to my mom?”

You smirk, eyes narrow. “Dick.”

“Funny. What color paint you want? You said something about duck egg?”

“Planning on repainting my room that color, yeah. Hey, you could –”

He swats your pointed finger away, taking the cart back. “We shook on new wardrobe. No changin’ the deal,” he mutters, wandering over to the rainbow of paint tins on the opposite side of the aisle.

You follow him over, eyes moving from blue over to green, the tins plastered with the fake smiles of families and fluffy pet dogs on the front. “Where are your mom and dad from?” you ask.

“Austin,” he replies, eyes squinting to read the small print on the back of one vibrant shade. You shake your head and guide his wrist back to the shelf, where he obediently sets the heavy tin back. “Never known anywhere else,” he adds. “What about you? Where’s Mr. and Mrs. Potty Mouth?”

“Uh,” you swipe at your nose awkwardly, “they’re up in Allandale. That’s where I grew up.”

“That so? I got a cousin who used to live that way. Used to take my bike up every Saturday. He lived right by this old car shop, all these old classics they used to fix up ‘n resell.”

“Yeah,” you say, “right next to the cemetery, right?”

“That’s the one,” Joel says, lifting paint tins to the light and setting them down again. “They live nearby?”

Your breathing shifts, starts to claw its way up your throat. Your chest heats, skin lighting with an irritating anxiety. “They’re, um,” you gulp, “they’re in the cemetery.”

Joel pauses, letting the tin slip from his grasp with an echoing thud against the wooden shelf which reverberates in your ears a second too long. “Oh,” he says, set on your expression.

“It’s okay – I don’t mind. It’s – it was a car accident, back when I was eight. I wasn’t in it, or anything. I grew up with my grandma. Really, Joel, I don’t mind,” you add, when his face falls and he begins to apologize.

“I had no idea,” he says, and you break the eye contact before you break a fucking sweat.

“’s all good,” you murmur, lifting paint tins of your own now, focusing on deblurring your glossy vision, “I got to buy a big house with the money they left.”

It thaws him a little. He snorts, and taps the lid of the tin you’re holding. “That one’s nice. You, uh – you okay?”

You finally turn back, the world clearer, colors no longer bleeding into one another through sharp tears. “Yeah. I’m fine. We got everything?”

Joel nods, and wheels the cart around. “You can meet her, if you want. My mom. She’s a little full on, but I reckon you can handle her.”

You smile, following him down the aisle.

A month after he delivered your underwear back to you, you’re back on Joel’s doorstep.

Your hand flicks nervously at your side as you wait for him to answer, petals of your corsage quivering. The clip of his footsteps echoes down the stairs, a deep sound growing louder and louder until the door clinks open and you’re separated only by air.

Joel’s eyes scan down your body at the same time yours scan down his. Black suit, sure enough, just without the jacket, and with his tie slung around his loose collar. You both freeze when your eyes meet again, your lips silently forming the shape of an avalanche of words that refuse to sound until Joel’s do.

“Wow, you –”

“– look great, I –”

“– nice dress, is that –? Sorry –”

“– no, I’m sorry, you were – sorry.” A laugh pushes from your throat. “You look – you look good. Scrub up well, ‘n all that.”

“You too. You – Yeah. That’s a nice color, after all. You suit it.” His eyes linger on your chest, your breasts draped in lustrous silk, decorated with the glint of golden jewelry. You notice.

“Thanks. After all?” You snort, and Joel’s exterior seems to crack a little.

He steps back, ushering you in. “Alright,” he says, taking the tote with your change of clothes from your wrist. He watches across the street as you step over the threshold, his fingertips light on your back as you pass by, like little shocks of lightning up your spine. “You know what I meant.”

Your dress swishes around your ankles, your heels clicking along his varnished floor. Your arms lock around your torso, holding your pashmina in place while Joel totters around, tossing his jacket over his shoulders. His shirt stretches from his tight waistband, fabric flattening against his tummy. Your eyes shoot north again when he speaks.

“You mind doin’ my tie? It’ll end up squint if I do.”

“Sure,” you reply, stepping forward.

He buttons the top of his shirt and lifts his chin, staring at the wall behind you as you tug on the black fabric, the silk slipping through your fingers. You steal glances at the trim of his beard, his pink lips beneath the dark bristles; the slope of his nose, the lines on his worn skin.

He’s rough around the edges, sure, a man in his late forties. But there’s something soft about him, something familiar and…comfortable. The pages of a used sketchbook, the lived-in material of a favorite dress.

You pull the knot higher until it’s sitting in the notch below his Adam’s apple, smoothing it down and giving his chest a light pat before stepping back again.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he mumbles, and a spark lights in your chest. “Oh,” he says, holding a finger up and disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with a little white box, holding it out for you to see.

Your cheeks swell, eyes flitting up to acknowledge the proud look on his face. “Very nice. Good job.”

“You can do the honors,” Joel says, handing you the boutonniere by the stem.

You pin it through his lapel, straightening it with a focused glance. Joel’s eyes are on you, watching the flutter of your eyelashes, the tilt of your head. “There,” you whisper, leaning back.

He extends his elbow, something of a smile on his lips. You don’t see it often. It beckons a mirrored expression.

Arm in arm, Joel leads you out to the truck, where he helps you up and waits for you to scoop your dress into the footwell before closing the door. You watch patiently as he locks the front door, slings both your bags over his shoulder and jogs back to the truck, tossing them in the backseat before joining you in the front.

“How come he didn’t send a limousine? Or a Jag, or somethin’?”

“You think we’re made a’ money?” Joel asks, smirking.

You return the smile, wrapping your shawl over your body. “Can I pick the music?” you ask, earnestly, a tinge of sweetness to your voice.

Joel glances over again, reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the drive. He runs his tongue along his top teeth. “No,” he says.

Three hours later, Tommy and Maria are married.

The wedding is…big. Joel’s family is big. The venue – a rustic hotel suite, fairy lights draped from the rafters, blooming flowers sprouting from crystal vases, lace tablecloths and tied chair cushions and wax dripping from thick, naked candles – is big.

Joel’s been good about it – that friendly neighbor you see all too little has been kicked into high gear. He delivered you by hand straight to his mom – a small woman with silver hair neatly twisted into an updo at the back of her head – who took your hand and held it tightly all the way to your seats.

Kind and warm, she asked where you were from, how you met Joel, how long you’d been dating. She offered you some tissues before the ceremony started, then winked and nodded in Joel’s direction as the bridesmaids swept down the aisle.

You lingered behind the photographer while he took photos of the wedding party, instructing them to shuffle a little closer, that’s it; ma’am, with the red hair, lower your bouquet a little; alright, now, everyone: big smiles!

You worried that Joel had kept the same placated smile frozen on his face for so long that it might never melt away, might never return to the stoic scowl you’re so used to seeing on him. You didn’t even realize you were staring at him, until he waved you down, flicked his hand, and beckoned you over to the group.

You hesitated. I don’t know if I –

Get over here, girl, Tommy had called, grinning alongside his big brother.

The two Millers slotted you in like a jigsaw piece between their bodies, two arms wrapped around your back – Tommy’s, loose on your shoulders, and Joel’s, tight around your waist. He held you close, squeezing you into his side while the photographer praised the party and snapped photo after photo, the flash burning into your eyes by the time he clapped his hands and thanked you all for your patience.

Drink? Joel had asked, and you’d responded with one thumb up, the other massaging your eyelids. He squeezed your shoulder and disappeared into the crowd of bodies.

He’s still over there – by the bar, a wooden structure draped in ivy and studded by steel bolts. His beer in one hand and your wine in the other. A lean, poised figure stood opposite him – her dress a royal purple, her hair a wave of brown spilling over her bare shoulders.

She’s beautiful – a striking charm which draws your eye to her like an arrow directly through the sea of bodies between here and there. Her languid movements, the slow roll of her neck to sweep the hair from one side of her body to the other.

Her head falls back in laugher, her bejeweled hand falls softly on his arm. Your throat closes sharply. Joel nods, angling as if to make off, but she holds onto him and leans in. He laughs, then, at whatever her full lips whisper into his ear, and he finally breaks off from her and returns to you.

He pushes the glass by its base across the smooth tablecloth. Your fingers brush over one another as you trade, the stem sitting between your index and middle. He’s warm, his knuckles kissing yours.

“How was it, then, talkin’ to my mom?” Joel asks.

You smile, propping your chin on the heel of your palm. “I like her. She’s funny.” And then, when he tosses his head in response, “Who were you talkin’ to?”

Joel follows your eyeline over to the woman in the purple dress. The glint of white crystal on her neck. The drama of dark hair on pale skin. “Uh,” he wanders around your back to his chair, “we used to work together.”

Your nails tap against the glass. “Oh, yeah?”

He sniffs. Doesn’t meet your eye. “Yep.”

“You were talking to her for a long time.”

He watches a blue orb dance over your head on the wall, a spot of light from the disco ball over the dancefloor. “Lotta memories.”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

His eyes plummet. Fall from the string bulbs straight to your face, sparkling in the rainbow lights. “You want me to look at you? There.”

You grin. “’s better. If you stare up there long enough, they might stick.”

“Safer to have ‘em stuck on you, is it?”

“Mhm,” your voice echoes around the curve of your wine glass, “better view. So, who is she?”

Joel shifts uncomfortably. He twirls the bottle in his fingers. “We…we were together for some time. A few years.”

“An ex,” you muse, stain of lipstick left on the rim of your glass. “How many years?”

“Eight.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Eight – eight years?”

Joel nods, waiting for you to catch your breath. Expression never changing. Bottle still twirling. “Haven’t seen her in a while. We were just catchin’ up.”

“Eight fucking years. Why the fuck aren’t you married?”

He scoffs. “That’s a fifth-date question.” He lifts the bottle to his lips, tongue pushes against the glass.

“I don’t need five fuckin’ wardrobes,” you quip, and he laughs. Like, genuinely laughs. His head tips back, his teeth show. Your chest swells, confidence and relief blooming there. She didn’t make him laugh like that – not from where you were watching.

It becomes something of a mission in the back of your mind – tallying up how many times you can make his chest shudder, his shoulders jerk. How many times he leans in closer and repeats whatever you said, eyes closing over and hand hitting his thigh. How many times he looks at you and your stomach flutters, the blood cartwheels through your veins, the bones of your ribcage readjust and make room for the swelling of your heart.

Within four rounds, you’ve lost count.

The thudding beat of the music muffles in your drunken ears, like it’s coming from the next room. Your gaze fixes on the vase in the center of the table, the bouquet spilling over the glass. The wide burst of speckled lilies, the humble blush of tulips between. The colors soften and blur the longer you stare at them.

The jerk of Joel’s shoulders stirs you from your daydream. That’s one more.

“What?” you ask, head rolling to look over to him.

“You still in there?” he asks, one word slurring into the next like waves lapping.

You scoff, looking back to the pink flowers. “You know who has tulips?” you ask him.

He lifts his eyebrows. Who?

“Alice.”

“Brown?”

Your head nods heavily. “One time, she was out getting her mail, and I had just pulled up in my car on the phone to my best friend – he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, it was a whole thing…” You bat your hand. “Anyway. She pretended to tend to her tulips for forty-five minutes while I sat talkin’ to him in the driveway.”

Joel’s head tilts back with a burst of laughter. “She hear every word?”

“Every – damn – word. Stood by the fence listenin’.”

“That woman is som’ else,” Joel says, shaking his head. He stares down at the bottle between his fingers. His thumbs play with the curled corner of the label. “Didn’t I warn you about her?”

“Mhm.” You smile, realizing he has the same memory that you do, locked up somewhere in his mind. The sweat running down his temple, the dark patch between his shoulder blades. His hands gripping the heavier boxes, leaving you to carry the linen, the base of a lamp. Nodding as he wandered back over to his own porch, calling back for you to Holler if you need anythin’.

The high squeal of the Sweet Child O’ Mine intro snaps you back to the wedding reception. Tommy and Maria are playing air guitar on the dancefloor over Joel’s shoulder. You unstick your gaze from his white shirt, unsure how long you’ve been fucking staring.

Joel sits forward, drags his chair across the polished floor closer to you. He fixes the strap on your dress, untwisting it before settling back again. Your eyes follow his fingers as they leave your shoulder and sit back on the curve of his thigh, lifting when his voice breaks through to your eardrums.

“What room number did you say you were, again?”

Your shoulders roll. “Thirty-four, I think.”

Joel nods. Points to himself. “Thirty-six.” And then he glances over his shoulder, watches as Tommy kneels before Maria and rocks his head, his messy mop of hair tossed across his shoulders. The older Miller brother turns back. “Think they’ll miss us if we call it a night?”

“We’re callin’ it a night?”

“Figure if I’m headin’ off then you won’t wanna be sat here by yourself,” Joel says, and he’s right. He stands up, sets the half-empty bottle on the tablecloth and stares down at you. “I’m callin’ it a night,” he tells you. “You comin’?”

The colors in the room spin like the reels of a slot machine. Your fingers sit lightly in his outstretched palm, and you pull yourself up alongside him.

“’s a good girl,” he mutters, looking over your shoulder to the doorway, and your eyes sober up long enough to catch the flicker in his eye.

You totter along the hallway, arm in arm, anchoring yourselves together. Whichever way one sways, the other inevitably follows. You’re laughing, and Joel’s hushing you, warning that there are folks tryna – tryna sleep, we’re in a fancy place, hey, da-rlin’, no – you gotta shhhut up.

“Great party,” you decide, finally docking against your door.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, leaning a little on the wall. The gentle glow of the hallway lights him perfectly; the strong angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones. The hazel pools that make up his irises, the swollen circles of black in the middle. And the twinkle in them, like the moon reflecting on dark water, every time his gaze lifts to you.

He’s different tonight. Maybe it’s the alcohol. The way it colors everything in a peachy film, all objects softened and rosy and shapeless. But he feels different, too. You suddenly realize, shoulder pressed hard against the cold doorframe, that you’ve never touched one another more than you have today. His elbow in yours, his arm around your waist, his hand through yours as you danced together.

“Are you tired?” you ask, head rolling.

“Tired? No. Drunk, yeah. Not tired.” He laughs again. It’s infectious.

“You wanna come inside?” you ask, words leaping from your giggle.

He takes ten seconds to consider it. Slumps into the wall, steadied only by his forearm pushing him back upright. His watch face catches the light behind him.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, I do.”

Your hand fumbles in your clutch for the keycard, swiping the handle and pushing down heavily. You spill into the dark room, light sneaking in from the sconce outside your window, and spin back to face him, his hand locked tight with yours.

Joel follows you slowly as you back towards the bed, kicking your heels off and tripping over the skirt of your dress. When your legs hit the plush mattress, his body leans into yours. Your lips ghost across his, your words pushing them apart one by one.

“This ain’t – part of the – agreement,” you murmur, the coarse hair of his beard scratching your chin. You pull apart his tie, loosening the knot.

“Changed my mind,” he replies, collapsing on top of you on the bed.

Your head rolls back when his lips suck into your neck. You wrestle with his belt, with the waist of his suit trousers. “No changin’ the deal, remember?”

“Tell me to stop.”

If you had any intention of answering him, your body overrides it. Words lassoed and dragged back down where they came from, your throat opening only to gasp when Joel’s teeth graze the flesh of your breast. His fingers tug on the straps of your dress, letting them fall from your shoulders until your chest sits exposed.

He drags his tongue along your skin, dipping between your tits while his hands massage them, fingers pinching your nipples. Your back lifts and his hands move beneath, following the curve of your spine to where your dress pools loose around your waist. He pushes down, slinking the smooth fabric from your body.

“You fuckin’…” He clicks his teeth, laughing behind them. Another flush of heat washes over your skin.

You giggle, bending your knees to cover the lace panties he knows all too fucking well. Joel stops you, pushes your legs back down with two heavy hands.

“Don’t get shy now, baby,” he murmurs, opening your body up again. “You were so happy about me seein’ ‘em a few weeks ago, no?”

“’s different,” you reply, tang of alcohol fueling your words, “now I just want you to take them off me.”

He cocks his head, drinking every word you’re handing over like it’s water from an oasis. “Such a dirty girl, ain’t you?”

You pull him closer by the collar and line your mouth against his, the tip of your tongue wetting the inside of his lips. “You got no fucking idea,” you whisper, whipping the shirt from his torso.

Joel growls, flipping you over and pulling you by the shoulders flush against his chest. You hook an arm around his neck, turn to grant him access to your lips. He kisses you like a starved animal, savoring every taste, teeth nipping at your tingling lips.

His hand curves around your hips, pushing beneath your underwear to cup your mound, middle finger pushing on the spongey hood of your clit. Your head falls limp against his collarbone, back arching as Joel holds you steady with an arm around your waist.

“’s alright, baby,” he coos, his tongue licking the shell of your ear. “I’m gonna take good care of ya. Gonna give you what you need, alright?”

A strangled moan unravels across your tongue, echoing into Joel’s mouth. Your hips begin to gyrate, meeting the rhythm of his hand, his finger massaging rough circles into your clit. He smirks, peeling the panties down your thighs.

“Attagirl,” he breathes, “you want it bad, huh? Gettin’ so worked up so fast. Here.”

He removes his hand from between your legs, ignoring your moan of protest and replacing it with two fingers on your bottom lip. “Open,” he instructs, and you obey like a fucking dog. He slips them in, thick and heavy, and waits for you to coat them with your wine-stained tongue.

Joel pushes down, forcing a muffled gag from your throat which lifts the corners of his mouth. He shakes his head lightly, whispering, “You got it, ‘s okay.”

A thread of saliva strings between his fingers and your lips when he lowers his hand again, trailing his fingers through your folds until he’s dancing along the seam of your cunt. You jolt forward; Joel hauls you back.

“Just fucking – do it,” you whimper, your walls clenching around nothing.

He holds his fingers together, curling and inserting them in a painfully slow motion. Your knees widen on the mattress, body sinking down by instinct to meet his fist, to feel his thick fingers and wide knuckles as deep as they’ll go.

You gasp when Joel begins hooking them inside you, nudging against your walls like your heartbeat against your clit. Your hand lowers, slipping beneath his loose waistband, beneath the elastic of his boxers and around his already solid cock.

Joel groans, fucking you harder on his hand. “Fuck, just like that, baby. You feel what you do to me?”

“Uhuh,” you reply, voice wanton and broken.

You squeeze him, your fist moving up and down, his warm skin following the movements of your tight grip. His tip is already soaked, precome staining his underwear, dribbling down your thumb.

Joel uses his free hand to shove his pants down, crumpling on the floor at his feet when they free his cock. You carve your mouth around his, the two of you exchanging breath and flicking your tongues together as you fuck one another’s hands, the room slowly filling with the hot, muggy smell of sex.

Joel’s the first to cave. With a jerk of his hips, he takes you by the wrist and frees himself from your clutches.

“You’re gonna make me come, darlin’,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers from your cunt.

“That’s kinda the point here,” you reply, teeth bumping into his in a grin.

Joel shakes his head, lifting his hand, glistening with your arousal. “Gotta feel this fucking pussy first.”

You smile, parting your lips for him for the second time, suckling on his fingers and licking them clean of your own salty slick. His cock draws sticky trails on the seam of your thigh.

“Yeah,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on the place where you close around him, “that good, baby? You gonna let me taste you?”

You release his fingers and he pulls you in, tongue slipping against yours with a groan which vibrates against your jaw. When your lips part, you hold your mouth open, your tongue sat on your bottom lip.

Joel reacts instantly, collecting a bead of saliva in front of his teeth and letting it drop into your mouth. You moan and swallow it, a cocktail of beer and whiskey and slick. Joel watches as you lick your lips, the stained-pink coated in a thick, white shine.

“Alright,” he says, letting you fall forward onto the bed. He jacks himself a few times, spitting into his hand and using it to coat his cock.

“Want you to come in it,” you whine, wiggling your ass for him as he lines up at your slit. You can feel the arousal gathered on his tip, dripping down your cunt.

“Yeah, baby,” Joel growls, a smirk on his lips as he watches himself slowly disappear inside you. And then –

You both fall silent, mouths hanging wide open as you each feel the width of his cock and the tightness of your cunt. The way your body opens up to accommodate his size, the direct pain and ethereal pleasure of Joel pushing into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, your pussy drawing him in with a sweet, wet sound. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. So damn gorgeous in that dress.”

You slowly move your hips back to meet him at the base of his cock; dark, trimmed hair bristling against your lips. Joel’s hands lock around your waist, holding you steady with his entirety buried inside, letting you adjust to him.

He’s so fucking big, so wide and deep that your breath tears rugged from your lungs, barreling up your windpipe. Your walls squeeze tight as he pulls out like your body refuses to let him go, like your cells understand better than you do that you were made for this – made for him. Like the only place in the world that he belongs, is somewhere deep inside you.

So big that it hurts, each time he fills you up and stretches you wide open. The pain an eye-rolling, lung-closing, limb-shaking sensation.

Your elbows give, falling chest-first onto the mattress while Joel fucks you hard, his hands gripping your hips. Your cheek and breasts flat against the sheets, your back arched. He slams into you, edging you closer and closer with each meeting of his warm skin against yours, each sopping slap of come and saliva.

The mattress shifts above your head, two valleys where his palms push down heavily, then the weight of his body at the back of your thighs. He towers over you, hips hammering so hard that you’re forced to hook your fingers around his wrists just to stay on the same fucking planet.

“Gonna – fuckin’ – come – baby,” he spits, his jaw locked tight. “You want it in this little pussy? You think she can take it all?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, the edges of your words rounded by the silk sheets. “Joel, I – fuck –”

“Yeah, she can,” he agrees, playing with the hair spilling across your shoulders and taking it in a fistful.

The hazy drunken blur begins to turn over in favor of something sharper, something electric pulsing through your veins. Every part of your body alive, everything rising to meet the same high, the same release. You cling onto him, body beginning to melt beneath his.

Joel’s lips press between your shoulder blades. “Don’t fight it, baby, let go. I got you.”

You moan his name in one last pathetic attempt before the world whitens. You clench around him as a deafening orgasm shocks through your body, curling your back and forcing your nails deep into Joel’s wrists.

“Fuck, baby, fuck me,” Joel gasps. He slams into you one final time before you feel the staggered pump of his come flooding between your walls. “Ahh,” he groans, pushing apart your ass cheeks to watch the trickle seep from your cunt. “Good fucking girl. Take it, baby. That’s my girl.”

He turns you over onto your back and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against your body as he thrusts into you again, tenderly pushing his spend deeper inside. It draws a strained moan from your throat.

“’s alright,” he coos, hips slowing against yours, “just feel it, baby. You feel how deep I am?”

“Uhuh,” you cry, nails digging into his skin, damp with sweat.

“So fuckin’ full of me,” he says, more to himself, before collapsing alongside you, holding your thigh on his hip, his tip still sheathed inside you.

You lie like that for a while, listening to the distant hum of music from downstairs, the party still raving in the belly of the hotel while you two lay in content bliss somewhere in its ribcage. Tracing one another’s features, learning the lines on Joel’s face, the flecks of gray in his eyebrows – all the parts you’re never close nor brave enough to get to know.

His right hand massages your plush waist, his left arm a pillow to rest your heavy, dizzy, drunk head on.

“I wanna do it again,” you whisper, the words sneaking out between heavy breaths.

Joel nods. His bottom lip sticks with sweat to yours. His hips push a little neater into you. “I wanna do it again, too.”

“I wanna do it all night.”

He hasn’t stopped nodding. He shrugs, tightens his grip around your shoulders, and tilts his head. “Then let’s do it all fucking night,” he says, and his lips slam back into yours.

The morning after the wedding, Joel drives you home. The truck soars down the highway, the two of you an uncomfortable distance apart. The same sobering distance you’ve kept all morning – the unreal aftermath of sex.

The rolling waves of bedsheets between your bodies; the sun sifting her long fingers through his hair as she peered through the curtains. The way you’d silently pushed yourself from the mattress, fragmenting your movements and allowing the spring to dip a fraction at a time so not to wake him. The spongey feel of the hotel carpet under the balls of your feet as you’d tottered to the bathroom. The sharp shot of the lock sliding into place, echoing like a bullet.

He waited until you finished showering to get ready himself. Sat on the edge of the bed patiently and watched your shadow beneath the door, the to-and-fro of your silhouette breaking the sliver of golden light as you dressed your sticky body. When you pulled on the metal lock again, he was sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose. His bare shoulders were curved, and tanned. You blinked twice to store the image and turned away as he stood.

He says he feels hungover. You say you do, too. It’s the closest you come to talking about it. You hop out of the truck in his drive, your tote bag hooked on your shoulder. The canvas gnawing at the silk inside. Joel tells you he’ll see his end of the deal through in a couple weeks.

“Real busy with work,” he mutters apologetically, his wrists still balancing on the steering wheel.

“That’s good,” you tell him, nodding. “I ain’t in any rush. I know where you live, so.”

A relieved laugh pushes from his lips. “I will get to it,” he assures you.

You shrug casually. “Whenever, Joel.”

You don’t talk for a few days. A few days bleeds into three weeks. You find yourself stood by his front tires, throwing his newspaper onto the porch and scampering when it lands. The noise like a bomb dropping.

Slowly, as the month draws on, you become braver and braver – daring closer and closer to his front door, until you’re back to marching up the steps like you own the place, depositing the roll on his doormat. Rubbing your thumbs against your fingers to feel the ink like satin.

The door cracks open as you make your way back down his steps one bright morning.

“Hey, kid,” Joel murmurs, reaching down for the paper with a groan.

“Hey.”

“You doin’ okay?” he asks, leaning his forearm against the door.

Your head tilts back and forth, your hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. “Think I ate som’ bad, maybe. Weird stomach this mornin’.”

Joel’s chin angles. “Hope it ain’t contagious. Was thinkin’ I could get that closet started for you, maybe tomorrow?”

The offer takes you off guard. You buffer for a few seconds before answering, “Sure. Sure, just, uh – just come over whenever, I guess.”

“Nine work for you?”

You nod. “Nine’s good. See ya then.”

It’s something like nine when you find out.

You wake feeling groggy. Tired, sluggish. A heavy ache pulling on your breasts as you rise from bed, tender and swollen. You stand in the bathroom, milky morning light filtering in through the doorway, and your stomach lurches. Waves of nausea deep in your belly, rocking back and forth, swirling and spiraling.

You’ve a box under your sink. It makes sense. Before Joel was some date from Hinge, who fucked you against the wall of his living room and who snored so loud that you left before the sun came up. Negative. Like always.

But it never hurts to be sure.

The pack tears like it’s liquid in your hands. Peels back to reveal the plastic white test, the bubblegum pink cap – like it’s something fun and sweet to place the direction of your future into this little device. A clinical compass needle.

Three to five minutes. You set it down on the counter and drag yourself back through to your room, lifting your bedsheets, tucking them under the mattress, heaving your pillows back into place against the headboard. An uncomfortable heat boiling under the surface of your skin, a prickle of sweat clinging to the nape of your neck.

A sickly taste harboring on your tongue, you pad back to the bathroom and swipe the test up. Your eyes scan past the result window to the counter as you reach for your toothbrush – and then snap abruptly back to the tiny oval. Your outstretched hand freezes in midair. There’s no fucking w–

Your arm swings back to reach for the light cord. The bulb hesitates – flickers, like it’s unsure whether to reveal the truth to you. It knows something you don’t. It’s seen something it doesn’t want to show you. You stare at the pregnancy test.

Two little pink lines stare back. And Joel knocks at your door.

#forgive me for it not being clm or sof #they're coming very soon i promise #this was too fun an idea not to chase #i have the attention span of my labrador retrievers (nil)#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #neighbor!joel #babydaddy!joel miller

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itacats · 4 months ago

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Operation 141: The Family Business

FT: TF141 x gn!reader - Mafia AU

Warnings: mafia themes, stalking, use of the name "sweetheart", please let me know if anything else should be here!��

A/N: Welcome to the underground, where secrets are currency and alliances are as fragile as glass. Part 1 of our Mafia AU story is here, ready to pull you into a world of shadowy deals, unexpected loyalties, and high-stakes drama. Step carefully, but don’t look away—you won’t want to miss a thing!

Read Part 2 Read Part 3 Read Part 4 Read Part 5 Read Part 6 Read Part 7 Read Part 8 Read Part 9 Read Part 10

Part 1: The Hidden World

The dim lights of the bar flickered, casting a soft amber glow across worn wooden tables and well-worn stools. The low hum of the jukebox played in the background, mingling with the clink of glasses and the steady hum of conversation. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the bar's gritty charm. This was no high-end joint — just a dive, a haven for the forgotten and those who preferred to keep their lives in the shadows. For years, you’d been part of that rhythm, the steady beat of routine keeping the world at bay, making you feel just detached enough to avoid the spotlight.

And then they walked in.

Members of the 141 Mafia.

For months now, they’d come in like ghosts slipping through the shadows — deadly, enigmatic, and utterly out of place in the world most people knew. To the outside eye, they looked like any other patrons, but the air around them was charged, like a storm perpetually on the horizon. The kind of tension that made you realize they weren’t just men who had seen an unspoken battle, but men who carried it with them, like a weight that could never be set down. But to you, they were just regulars, faces who blended into the dim light like anyone else. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

John "Soap" MacTavish was the first to break the ice. His boyish grin and easy banter disarmed you from the start, making you forget, if only for a moment, that he was part of something darker. He’d sling a joke your way or toss a casual flirtation across the bar, a half-finished beer in hand. His carefree nature seemed almost out of place, but when you caught the flicker in his eyes — a fleeting darkness — you knew there was more to him than the easy charm. He often asked you to stay after closing for a drink, and though you’d laughed it off the first few times, lately, you found yourself lingering a little longer, drawn to the mystery behind his laugh..

Then there was Simon Riley — Ghost. Silent as a shadow, he would plant himself in the farthest corner of the bar, a hood pulled low and that eerie skull-patterned mask always hiding his face. No one dared approach him unless invited, but his eyes, constantly scanning the room, missed nothing. His mere presence sent shivers down your spine, though not from fear — it was something else, something deeper, as though he carried the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders. Whenever Soap got too close, Ghost’s gaze would darken just a shade, his silent watch never breaking, as though ensuring nothing more than words passed between you two.

John Price was different — a man who exuded authority and a weariness that came with a lifetime of hidden battles. He’d sit at the bar nursing a tumbler of whiskey, sharing stories that sounded more like fiction than fact.

And then there was Gaz. He brought a breath of fresh air to the heavy atmosphere. His laid-back attitude, the way he could light up the room with a joke or a quick challenge to a game of darts, made it easy to forget that he too was part of this group of regulars. He’d always laugh at your terrible aim, encouraging you despite the fact that you’d never win, but that was the charm of it. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke, like you were part of their world, if only for a moment.

But tonight was different.

The bar, usually bustling at this hour on a Friday night, had grown unsettlingly still. Midnight had come and gone, and the usual hum of late-night laughter and drunken banter was absent. You were meant to take your break, but something gnawed at the back of your mind, keeping you anchored behind the bar. There was a heaviness in the air, a stillness that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t quite see.

You wiped down the counter, deciding that it’d be better to call your boss and close up instead of standing around, casting a glance toward the door. Nothing. No one. Even the regulars had slipped away without you noticing. The quiet was unnatural, as if the bar itself had exhaled its last breath. The jukebox continued its soft, haunting melody, the only sound left in the deafening silence. As you reached for a bottle to busy yourself, your fingers brushed against something cold.

A folded piece of paper.

It sat there on the counter, exactly where an afternoon patron had been sitting earlier. Your heart thudded in your chest as you unfolded it, the jagged handwriting making it somewhat hard to read:

"I’ll see you later, sweetheart…"

Read Part 2

Part 1 just scratched the surface of what’s to come! Thanks for taking this first step into the underworld with me. The stakes are only getting higher, and Part 2 will be here before you know it!

#bt extra #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #gaz garrick #cod fic #mafia au #tf 141 x reader #fanfic #cod #operation 141: the family business

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dreamgrlarchive · 1 year ago

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A Prissy Girl’s Guide to Spring

since i won’t be active on tumblr when next spring comes around, and i’ve done 3/4 seasons, i felt it was appropriate to go ahead and finish the series! if you find yourself inspired by my aesthetic/looks, you can absolutely use this as a guide for the next primavera season! 🐇

what’s the look this spring?

my personal forecast for fashion spring ‘24 is “pink pilates bimbo” for sure. the renewal of spring is the time for a wellness reset. so i’ll be engaging in a physical activity but i’ll still be in barbie attire. pink athleisure pieces with super girly additions is my predicted aesthetic. 🎀

first and foremost…

let’s talk about what spring symbolizes: renewal, cleansing, and restarting. that makes itself apparent in the seasons colors; the darkness of winter transitions to the soft pastels of spring.

preparation

start spring cleaning and prepping for seasonal allergies. stock up on in season fruits to keep in the house. take up outside activities like biking, outdoor yoga, and jogging. buy new fragrances. prep your skin and hair for the overtime humidity.

essentials

pretty umbrella

allergy meds/quarterly check up

new water bottle/tumbler

fresh and clean candles + home fragrances

matcha and jade citrus tea

humidifier

neti pot

clothes and accessories

pink athleisure. the lululemon strawberry milkshake jacket is a must! (or a dupe if you’re on budget)

foldover yoga pants

bedazzled pieces

pastel colored pieces

cute mini bags

victoria’s secret totes

tennis skirts

sheer + lacey tops

florals for spring? groundbreaking.

glitter + sequins

satin dresses

lace up sandals

hunter boots

coach baguettes

victoria’s secret co-ords, leggings and sweaters

ballet flats

ugg slippers + fluff sandals

cute gym shoes with pink/sparkly details

lace up pieces

baby blue is a staple color for spring

ruffle trims

warm materials + revealing cuts

“pastry princess” looks inspired by sweets and dessertz

cropped baby tees

stripper heelz

diamond jewelry

body jewelry + belly chainz

sparkly hair clips and headbands

butterfly aesthetics

ribbons and bows

ostrich feathers

sparkly keychains and wristlets

bodysuits + heels combo

statement jewelry like hello kitty, fruit or desserts

beauty

pretty eye pigments (try mac, huda or iconic london)

vibrant pinks

warm bronzer

glitter gloss

translucent glosses in pink and orange

charlotte tilbury flawless filter

nars super orgasm blush

morphe 8r complexion palette

morphe nikita palette

natasha denona diamond & glow (favvv)

a bunch of clear glosses

fenty diamond bomb

fenty fussy gloss bomb

urban decay moondust shadows

cake beauty products

joseon spf 50

bright and/or floral fragrances (gucci flora gorgeous gardenia, jimmy choo illicit flower, carolina herrera good girl blush, juliette has a gun collection, yves saint laurent mon paris intensement, marc jacobs daisy fragrances)

victoria’s secret love spell + warm and cozy + la crème fragrances

sol de janeiro body mists

body shimmer (fenty beauty or bath and body works)

sweet body butters

sol de janeiro beija flor

exfoliating gloves

juicy sheet masks

cetaphil moisturizing cream

native candy shop collection

victoria’s secret tease + eau so sexy

5 blade razors and post shave oil

cute mirrors to keep in my purses

glitter nails

lavenders and pinks

protein treatments for moisture overload

#diva seasonz!#the prissy girl agenda #dream girl beauty #dream girl journey #my posts

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weemssapphic · 2 months ago

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Split in half

Larissa Weems x f!reader

This is a part two to We're not who we used to be set a few months after that fic, from Larissa's POV. It's just as angsty as part one, maybe even worse. It's inspired by the song Stick Season by Noah Kahan. Enjoy 😅

Words: ~1.5k | ao3 link in title

And I love Vermont, but it's the season of the sticks And I saw your mom, she forgot that I existed And it's half my fault, but I just like to play the victim I'll drink alcohol 'til my friends come home for Christmas And I'll dream each night of some version of you That I might not have, but I did not lose Now you're tire tracks and one pair of shoes And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

“Ow - fuck!”

It takes Larissa’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness blanketing her quarters. She steadies herself against the little table by the door and squints at the floor as she searches for whatever she’s just tripped over that caused her to ram her hip into the corner of said table.

Now she remembers - she’d changed her mind about her heels that morning and left the initial pair next to the door. She sighs and kicks off the heels she’s wearing now, leaving them lying haphazardly next to the others.

She walks towards the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light now that her eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Pain blooms in her hip, growing sharper with each step - she can already feel the deep purple bruise forming across her hip bone. She opens the fridge and stoops down, the bright, fluorescent glow shooting straight through her eyeballs into her already throbbing skull, making her eyes water. The fridge is nearly empty and Larissa groans in frustration as she closes its door and blindly reaches for the cabinets above the stove instead, running her fingertips across the smooth, familiar wood as her eyes adjust again.

Her fingers bump into the little brass handle and she opens the cabinet, pulling out the first bottle she finds. Whiskey. She opens another cabinet and takes out a crystal tumbler, then pads across her quarters to her little balcony, clutching both bottle and tumbler to her chest.

A chill seeps through her stockings and straight into her bones as she steps outside, and she grits her teeth as she lowers herself onto the oversized pillow she’d taken out here when she first started spending her evenings after work out on the balcony.

It’s a lot colder tonight than it was those weeks - or has it been months? - ago. Fall is as good as over, the trees barren of their gorgeous red and orange foliage, but winter hasn’t fully started yet either, the first snowfall having yet to make an appearance.

Larissa pours some of the amber liquid into the tumbler, raising it to her lips and tossing it back in one go. It burns her throat and the swift motion smudges her lipstick, not that that matters. It warms her a little from the inside, so she pours herself another.

She supposes she could do something productive, or at least try to distract herself, but there’s not really a point - she can’t read books or watch films or even knit without spending the entire time trying to reign in her wandering thoughts. Even her work is suffering as a result.

She should’ve seen it coming, really, you leaving her. After all, she thinks bitterly, as her thoughts once again hone in on you, she had been rather absent in your marriage. Even when you told her you were moving out, that you were done trying, she could hardly wrap her head around it. Hardly believe it was actually over.

On the day you’d left, she’d woken up to a horribly loud rummaging in the closet. It was a Sunday, and she remembered the pang of irritation that mixed with her confusion, the frustration that you’d woken her early on the only day she ever slept in. She’d remembered readying herself to berate you, tasting the words on her sharp tongue as she’d pushed herself up onto her elbow - the words dying just as quickly as they’d come when her sleep-filled eyes were met with the sight of your half-full suitcase (the big one, the one you used for longer vacations) on the floor in front of the walk-in.

Between stuffing everything from your underwear to a few framed photos into the suitcase, you’d explained your reasoning rather coolly for someone who usually wore her heart on her sleeve and cried at even comedy films - it had unsettled Larissa to see you so casual about leaving. Perhaps it was due to this that she didn’t say much. She didn’t say any of the things she should have said, any of the things you might’ve hoped she’d say or the things she wishes today that she had said. She’d watched you pack, nodding along to whatever you were saying about divorce lawyers - divorce? - and robotically seeing you to the door.

Your tires had screeched a bit on your way down the driveway - the sound rings in Larissa’s ear as she tosses back another tumbler of whiskey.

Everything had passed so quickly after that, weeks and months blurring together. She’d signed the divorce papers in what she can, in hindsight, only describe as a fugue-like state, not realizing until much later the full consequences of her actions. And ‘much later’, apparently, translated into ‘too late’.

So I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad That I could cancel out the darkness I inherited from dad No, I am no longer funny, 'cause I miss the way you laugh You once called me forever, now you still can't call me back

One tumbler turns into two turns into three, and then she’s abandoned the glass in favor of drinking straight from the bottle. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her blazer, scrolling to your contact as if on autopilot and staring at it as if it would suddenly come to life.

You’d forgotten an old pair of sneakers at the back of the closet. She’d told you when you’d stopped by with the divorce papers, and you’d told her to just throw them out.

Just throw them out.

It should be so easy. They’re dirty and they stink and the sole is peeling off on the right one. Every time Larissa sees them, she picks them up and wills herself to walk straight to the trash bin. She picks them up - then puts them right back, next to her own rarely-used running shoes.

Larissa clicks ‘call’. She lifts the phone to her ear as she waits, taking another gulp of whiskey. It doesn’t burn anymore.

Her throat gets tighter with every ring, a thin film of tears beginning to blur her eyes. After a few long minutes, the call goes to your voicemail - which is full - and Larissa’s tears spill over, clinging to her lashes before racing each other down her cheeks.

“Pick up, goddamnit!” she growls, her voice hoarse and wet. She tosses her phone angrily onto the floor beside her, not caring if it gets scratched.

There was a time when you’d have picked up the phone in the middle of a packed movie theater if it was her calling - now she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since the divorce was finalized. It’s at least half her fault, she supposes, but she’s still angry at you for ignoring her. For leaving her. Even if she seemed intent on driving you away.

It’s getting late. Larissa knows this not because she’s checked the time, or because the moon is already high in the night sky, but because time always manages to slip away from her when she’s sitting out here, and because her ass is numb and her knees hurt from sitting in one position for so long.

She pushes herself up, a bit shaky on her feet, nearly stumbling then steadying herself against the railing of the balcony. She bends, stumbling again, grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck, fumbles with the tumbler, then makes her way into her quarters, leaving her phone on the floor and the balcony door open behind her. It’s been so drafty in her quarters lately.

The bottle of whiskey is placed on the counter and, as Larissa goes to place the tumbler into the sink to be washed, it slips and shatters, shards of glass flying everywhere. She feels the warmth of her own blood on her finger before she feels the sting of the cut.

“Fuck!”

A little bit of moonlight is streaming into the kitchen, and Larissa raises her finger into the light and stares at it, watching blood form a large bead on her fingertip, then slowly trickle down towards her hand. She sucks her finger between her lips, trying to stem the flow of blood. The metallic taste mixes with the whiskey on her tongue and, as she stands there in the darkness of her kitchen, she suddenly feels tired, so unbelievably tired.

She wants to call you again. She wants to tell your full voicemail box to go fuck itself, all she wants is to hear your voice. It’s all she wants yet it’s all she can’t do.

And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @gwens-wife

#larissa weems x reader #larissa x reader #larissa weems #principal weems #principal weems x reader

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aperfecthalosblog · 1 year ago

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Why are you so Obsessed with me pink Horror Star 20oz or 30oz skinny tumbler (Glow in dark)

This listing is for one 20oz or 30oz skinny tumbler ( Glow in dark option)

Vacuum insulated tumbler with lid and straw. Drinks stay ice cold or steaming hot ALL DAY LONG. Perfect for hot coffee in the morning, cold drinks all day long, or wine at the end of the day.

These are custom made and can be custom made for you with a process called sublimation..

Add a name or saying

Since these are handmade the image maybe slightly different then pictured

** All tumblers should be hand washed and not placed in the dishwasher.

There is no actual glitter the image make it appear like glitter..

Check out my other listings if you can't find what your looking for message me I can put almost any image on a tumbler..

#scream horror cup #Scary horror movie #20oz 30oz tumbler #glow in dark tumbler #birthday gift #Halloween cup #pastel pink horror #Michael myers #Jason voorhees #scream Ghostface #it pennywise pink #horror valentines #coffee mug cup

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enby-art-creations · 3 months ago

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Mardigras eye

#eye #mardigras #mardi gras beads #mixed media art #heart #neon #blacklight #glows in the dark #glitter #artists on tumbler #trans artist #nonbinary artist

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moonchi-af · 1 year ago

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Glow in the dark tumbler

✨ Get yours custom made ✨

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ms-snape · 3 months ago

Note

Lucius x Reader in which Draco hypes him up to court the Reader. Maybe she is Lucuis old hogwarts crush who is visiting the manor with her family for pureblood stuff, (No hating on Narcissa tho,)

Title: Old Crush

Warning: none

Words Count: 3000+

Masterlist

---

The Malfoy Manor stood tall against the waning twilight, its grand silhouette casting long shadows over the carefully manicured grounds. In the distance, the dark stone walls of the estate loomed, holding secrets—secrets that had been carefully locked away for years, only to be stirred up by a seemingly innocuous dinner invitation.

Lucius Malfoy was pacing inside the drawing room, the ornate chandelier above him casting a soft, golden glow over the room. His fingers tightened around the edge of his crystal tumbler, the amber liquid swirling inside as he tried to focus on the current matters at hand. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—toward a time long ago when his life had been less complicated, when the future had seemed as bright as the stars themselves.

The evening had been meticulously planned. The table was set with the finest silver and crystal, each piece gleaming under the soft, flickering light of candles. The house-elves had been instructed to prepare a banquet of the highest quality. The guest list had been carefully curated, and there was one particular name that occupied Lucius’s mind: Y/N.

Y/N.

The name had not crossed his mind in years, not since their last encounter at Hogwarts. It was a memory he had buried deep, choosing to focus on the present rather than the past—on the rise of the Dark Lord, on the responsibilities of being a Malfoy, on marrying Narcissa, and eventually having a son. Yet now, with her impending arrival at the manor, the memory resurfaced in a wave of nostalgia that caught him off guard.

It wasn’t just the passing of time that had changed things. It was the sudden realization that, all these years later, he would see her again, this time as an adult, no longer the shy, innocent girl from their youth. The girl who had unknowingly occupied a special place in his heart, a place he had tried—unsuccessfully—to forget.

Lucius adjusted the cuffs of his pristine robes, his long fingers brushing over the fine fabric, his mind returning to their last interaction as teenagers. He could still remember the way she had looked—radiant, graceful, the very definition of elegance. Her laughter had been soft, like the gentle tinkling of silver bells, and her smile... he had always wondered if she even realized how her smile had haunted him.

He had never acted on his feelings for her, never had the courage to tell her how much he admired her. But now, years later, the same inexplicable pull he had felt back then was beginning to return. He wondered what had become of her, what path she had walked after Hogwarts, and whether she would still remember him, or whether he had faded into the background of her life as the years passed.

There was a knock on the door, snapping Lucius from his reverie.

“Master Malfoy,” the voice of the house-elf called through the crack in the door. “The guests have arrived.”

Lucius straightened, inhaling deeply, before giving a subtle nod. “Show them in.”

It was time.

The grand double doors to the drawing room opened slowly, and there, standing in the doorway, was Y/N.

Lucius’s breath caught in his throat.

She looked exactly the same—yet not at all. Time had sculpted her into someone more refined, more poised, but the essence of the girl he had once admired was still there. Her hair, long and dark, cascaded down her back in soft waves, her eyes gleaming with that same quiet intelligence he remembered. She was dressed in a deep sapphire gown that complemented her complexion, her posture exuding the kind of regal confidence only a powerful pureblood could possess.

Her presence filled the room, commanding attention effortlessly. Lucius found himself momentarily lost in her gaze, his heart racing in a way he hadn’t experienced in years.

Behind her stood her father—an older, more imposing figure—and her mother, a woman whose face was lined with the wisdom and grace of decades spent in the company of the finest families in the wizarding world. But it was Y/N who held Lucius’s attention.

“Y/N,” Lucius finally managed, his voice low, almost tentative. “It’s been so long.”

Her smile was warm, though it held a certain distance. “Lucius,” she greeted, her voice just as melodic as he remembered. “It’s good to see you again.”

The formality of the greeting did not go unnoticed. Lucius gave a polite bow to her parents, who had entered the room behind her, before turning back to Y/N.

“I trust the journey was comfortable?” he asked, his tone polite yet undeniably genuine.

“It was, thank you,” she replied, her smile never faltering. “Your home is as magnificent as ever.”

Lucius chuckled softly, though a pang of nostalgia tugged at his heart. “I suppose I have to keep up appearances.”

It was then that Draco entered the room, his steps light but deliberate, his eyes scanning the group before landing on Y/N.

Lucius’s son, now a young man on the cusp of adulthood, had been observing the scene quietly from the corner. He had never met Y/N before—his father’s feelings for her were not something he had been made aware of—but there was something in his father’s demeanor that immediately caught Draco’s attention. The way Lucius stood a little taller, the subtle way his gaze lingered on Y/N, the shift in the atmosphere that seemed to hum with unspoken tension.

Draco’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a single detail. He could feel the unspoken history between the two, even if he didn’t fully understand it.

After a moment of awkward silence, Draco’s natural instinct to break the tension took over. He gave a slight smile and extended a hand to Y/N. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Y/N. I don’t believe we’ve ever had the honor of crossing paths.”

Y/N’s smile was kind but polite as she took his hand. “The pleasure is mine, Draco. I’m sure we’ve heard much about each other.”

Draco gave a small laugh, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I imagine the stories have been exaggerated.” His tone was light, but there was something calculating in the way he observed the interaction between his father and their guest.

Lucius’s expression shifted subtly, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face before he masked it. It was clear to Draco that something about Y/N had affected his father deeply. And given that Draco had never heard of Y/N before, this piqued his curiosity even further.

As the dinner began, the conversation turned to more mundane topics—the state of the Ministry, the ongoing political shifts, and the upcoming Quidditch season. Lucius was doing his best to appear composed, but his attention kept drifting toward Y/N.

There was no ring on her finger.

It was a detail that had not escaped his notice. Lucius had always assumed that, by now, Y/N would have married someone, settled down, perhaps had children of her own. The absence of a ring intrigued him, though he told himself it was of little consequence. The years had passed, and his life was no longer the one it had once been. He had responsibilities—his son, his family, his position in the wizarding world. Yet there, sitting across from him at the table, was Y/N, and he found it impossible to ignore the feeling that something had been left undone between them.

Draco, ever the observant one, had been watching his father closely. He could sense the shift in the air, the subtle tension that lingered around Lucius whenever Y/N spoke. It was as if his father was trying to suppress some old, long-forgotten feeling.

Draco’s mind worked quickly. He didn’t know what had transpired between his father and Y/N in their youth, but it was clear that there was unfinished business between them. And Draco, ever the opportunist, decided to play the matchmaker.

As the meal progressed, Draco made several subtle attempts to draw Y/N into conversation, asking her about her travels, her work, her family. Each time, he steered the conversation back to his father. He did it casually, but with a knowing glance. Lucius, however, was hardly aware of his son’s matchmaking efforts, too focused on Y/N.

Finally, after dessert had been served, and the conversation had shifted to lighter matters, Draco leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He smiled at his father, and then at Y/N.

“You know, Father,” Draco began innocently, “I was just telling my friend Theodore Nott the other day that it’s high time the Malfoy family expanded its connections. The right connections.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked to Draco, an eyebrow quirked. “And what do you mean by that, Draco?”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Y/N, and then back to his father. “Oh, just that perhaps some old friendships could be revisited,” he said casually, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of mischief in his voice.

Lucius froze. His heart thudded loudly in his chest. Draco’s words were carefully chosen, and Lucius couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of discomfort. But Draco’s eyes were innocent, yet there was something knowing about them—something that suggested he had picked up on the tension between the two.

“Perhaps,” Lucius replied, his voice tight, “it’s best to leave the past where it belongs.”

Draco merely shrugged, but his eyes gleamed with a kind of satisfaction.

The evening wore on, but for Lucius, time seemed to stretch on forever. His thoughts were consumed by Y/N, by the memories of their youth, by the realization that life had led them both down different paths. Paths that, now, perhaps, could intersect once more.

The evening ended on a polite note, with guests exchanging pleasantries and preparing to depart. Lucius stood by the door, his eyes lingering on Y/N one last time. She was the same woman he had admired all those years ago—yet she was so much more now. There was an unspoken understanding between them, an awareness that something had shifted, though neither spoke of it directly.

As Y/N reached the door, she turned back to Lucius, her gaze softening.

“It was a pleasure, Lucius,” she said quietly, her voice filled with an emotion he couldn’t place. “Perhaps we should not wait so long before we meet again.”

Lucius’s heart skipped a beat. There was something in her words, in the way she said them, that held promise. The past wasn’t quite finished yet, and neither, it seemed, was their story.

As she walked away, Lucius found himself standing there, staring after her, unable to shake the feeling that his life had just taken an unexpected turn.

And so, as the last echoes of footsteps faded from the Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy found himself at a crossroads—one that he had never anticipated, but one that was now as inevitable as the coming dawn.

Weeks passed after that fateful dinner at the Malfoy Manor, and life returned to its predictable rhythm for Lucius. The manor remained pristine, his family’s reputation intact, and his position in the wizarding world unchallenged. But there was a lingering thought, a feeling that refused to dissipate, a presence that had subtly taken root in his mind—Y/N.

Lucius had tried, with all his might, to push aside the memories of their evening together. He had responsibilities, his son to guide, and the political landscape to navigate. But every time his gaze caught a glimpse of something familiar—a sapphire blue cloak, a flowing dark mane, or even the scent of lilies—it reminded him of her. Of their past.

It had been years since he had thought of Y/N with such intensity. During their days at Hogwarts, their lives had been shaped by their families' ambitions and the great conflict that loomed over them. But now? Now, after the passage of so much time, it seemed the possibility of a future, or at least a rekindling of something, hung in the air.

The moment came, unexpected and seemingly out of nowhere, one crisp autumn morning in the heart of London. Lucius had been summoned to the Ministry of Magic for a series of meetings with various department heads. The Ministry had always been a place of both opportunity and political minefield for someone like him—navigating it required a careful dance of diplomacy, subterfuge, and a very keen eye on potential allies and threats.

Lucius arrived in the Ministry lobby, his steps deliberate as he made his way past the statues and glittering marble. His robes whispered across the floor as he passed familiar faces, most of whom nodded respectfully at him, knowing his status as one of the most powerful purebloods in the wizarding world. His mind was preoccupied with the matters he had come to discuss with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he paid little attention to the mundane sights of the bustling Ministry.

But then, as he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with a figure emerging from an adjacent hallway.

Y/N.

It happened so quickly that Lucius barely had time to register the shock of her sudden appearance before their eyes locked. Her figure was as striking as ever—tall, composed, with an air of quiet authority that could command a room without a single word. But it wasn’t just the years that had passed that changed her—there was a subtle maturity about her now, a sense of self-assuredness that radiated from her, it was second time he noticed it, the first itme being during that dinner, and now...

“Lucius,” she said, her voice softer than he remembered, though still carrying that familiar warmth.

“Y/N,” Lucius replied, his voice a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something far more personal.

The moment stretched between them, brief but intense. It had been years since they last spoke, just the two of them, no one else around, but in that instant, Lucius was reminded of their time together in their youth—the secret moments shared when the world had seemed so much simpler. Now, it was as if no time had passed at all. But the world had changed, and so had they.

The noise of the Ministry seemed to fade as Lucius and Y/N stood there, as if the room itself had quieted in reverence of this unexpected encounter. But the spell was broken when a voice called out to Y/N from behind.

“Miss Y/N! We’re running behind on the schedules for today’s meeting. Shall we?”

Lucius’s gaze shifted slightly as the interruption pulled him from his reverie. The speaker was a young, eager-looking wizard, dressed in a crisp, understated suit—clearly someone in a position of power, though nowhere near the caliber of Lucius himself.

Y/N smiled politely, though Lucius could see the slight tension in her posture as she turned her attention back to him.

“I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere,” she said, her tone apologetic. “But it was good to see you again, Lucius.”

Lucius nodded, though a part of him felt as though he had just missed the opportunity to truly speak to her, to catch up.

“I didn’t know you worked here at the Ministry,” Lucius remarked, his voice smooth but tinged with curiosity.

“I’ve been here for several years now,” Y/N explained, a faint but knowing smile on her lips. “I’m in the Department of Magical Transportation. It’s... far from the more public-facing departments, but I find the work fulfilling.”

Lucius’s brow furrowed in surprise. He had assumed, given her background, that Y/N would have found herself in a position more aligned with the prominent pureblood families—perhaps a post in the Department of International Magical Cooperation or even within the Wizengamot. But the Department of Magical Transportation was far more obscure, dealing with the intricacies of portkeys, apparition regulations, and other aspects of magical transportation that most wizards never gave much thought to.

“Magical Transportation?” Lucius repeated, almost incredulously. “I must admit, I didn’t think you would be in such a... practical department.”

Y/N laughed softly, a sound that brought a flash of warmth to Lucius’s chest. “I suppose it’s not glamorous,” she said. “But it has its own importance. Not all of us are eager for a hight and important place as yours.”

Lucius’s eyes searched her face for any hint of irony or regret, but there was none. She seemed perfectly content with her life, though he wondered what had brought her to such a quiet corner of the Ministry. Had her path truly diverged so completely from his own? Or was it by choice that she had stayed out of the political spotlight?

“Well, I won’t keep you from your duties,” Lucius said, though the disappointment in his voice was clear despite his best efforts to mask it. “It was good to see you, Y/N.”

“You as well, Lucius.” Her smile was warm, but there was a hint of sadness in it, as though she, too, regretted the brief nature of their meeting.

With that, she turned, and her figure disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing softly in the vast corridor.

Lucius stood still for a moment, his thoughts racing. The encounter had been so unexpected, so fleeting. He couldn’t help but feel the weight of the years between them, the paths they had taken that had led them to such different places. But in that brief moment, it was clear to him that whatever distance had grown between them in the past, it hadn’t erased the connection that still lingered, hidden just beneath the surface.

Later that day, Lucius sat in the sterile, polished offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, going over the details of an ongoing case. But his mind was elsewhere, occupied by the encounter with Y/N. He found it difficult to concentrate, to keep his thoughts fixed on the matters at hand. His gaze kept drifting to the corner of his desk, where a small piece of parchment sat, untouched—a note that had arrived earlier that day, courtesy of Y/N’s office. It was a formal request to discuss some bureaucratic matters between their departments, a rather innocuous request in the grand scheme of things. But for Lucius, it was a lifeline—an excuse to see her again.

He hadn’t forgotten the way her smile had made his heart race, how the years seemed to melt away when their eyes met. She was more than just a former acquaintance; she was a reminder of something he had long buried—a part of his past that, despite his best efforts, refused to stay buried.

Lucius sat back in his chair, steeling himself for what would come next. He knew he would have to play the game carefully—after all, Y/N wasn’t just a passing fancy. She was someone who had the potential to change everything. He wasn’t the same man he had been at Hogwarts, and neither was she. But their meeting was proof that the threads of their past hadn’t unraveled completely. There was still something there.

And Lucius Malfoy, despite his carefully curated life and responsibilities, was beginning to wonder if that something was worth exploring.

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hookhausenschips · 3 months ago

Text

Whispered Intentions

Ch.1 of The Game Of Seduction

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Summary: At a glamorous charity gala, mob boss Lando Norris encounters Y/N, a captivating and enigmatic woman who disrupts his control with her fearless charm. Their meeting sets the stage for a dangerous game of power, seduction, and hidden motives.

Warnings: Manipulation, Deception, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Psychological Tension, Mature Themes

WC: 2.1k

17+

Taglists

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The charity gala was a spectacle of wealth and shadowed power. Beneath the golden glow of crystal chandeliers, the elite mingled—mob bosses masquerading as philanthropists, business tycoons laundering their riches, and politicians exchanging favors with quiet handshakes. Conversations were murmurs of veiled threats and promises, the kind of deals that could move markets or topple governments.

At the center of it all stood Lando Norris, the newly crowned leader of the McLaren Mob Family.

Lando carried himself with a calm authority that demanded respect. His midnight-blue suit was immaculately tailored, its sharp lines emphasizing his slim but commanding build. The soft curls of his infamous mullet rested casually along the nape of his neck, a style that shouldn’t have worked but somehow added to his mystique. With a crystal tumbler of bourbon in hand, he exuded an effortless magnetism, his every move calculated yet unhurried.

The room was his, and he knew it.

But when she walked in, even Lando couldn’t deny the shift in the atmosphere.

---

Lando’s POV

I didn’t see her at first.

The room was filled with the usual crowd—men trying to act more powerful than they were, women hoping to catch the eye of someone important. All of them, predictable. Forgettable.

Then she walked in.

I caught a glimpse of green first, a flash of emerald against the subdued tones of tuxedos and evening gowns. The dress clung to her curves like it was made for her, shimmering with every subtle sway of her hips. Her skin, rich and smooth like polished mahogany, glowed under the chandeliers, and her hair—jet-black curls swept to one side—framed her face perfectly.

I couldn’t look away.

Who the hell is that?

My grip on my glass tightened as I watched her glide through the crowd. She was unlike anyone else in the room. Where the other women fawned and flitted, their presence ornamental at best, she was electric. Every step she took seemed deliberate, her gaze calculated.

She didn’t belong here—or maybe that was the point.

It wasn’t just her beauty, though that was impossible to ignore. It was the way she carried herself as if the world bent around her will. The other men in the room noticed her too, their attention blatant, but she dismissed them with the slightest tilt of her chin. I had seen countless women try to get his attention, but this one wasn’t trying at all.

And yet, she had it entirely.

She didn’t scan the room like most people, trying to figure out who mattered and who didn’t. No, she moved like she already knew she was the most important person here. And the way people turned to watch her... they might have agreed.

Then her eyes met mine.

Dark, piercing, and unreadable. She didn’t smile right away. Instead, she studied me like she was deciding something.

I tipped my glass to my lips to cover the flicker of unease that ran through me. For a split second, I felt like I was the one being observed.

Then she smiled, slow and deliberate, and started walking toward me.

---

Y/N’s POV

The room was a stage, and every player was already in character.

I spotted Lando immediately. He wasn’t hard to find. He stood near the bar, effortlessly commanding the room with his presence. The pictures I’d seen of him didn’t capture the full picture—the sharpness of his jawline, the casual confidence in the way he held himself. And the infamous curly mullet? Somehow, it worked. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

I let my gaze linger on him for a moment longer, just enough to make sure he noticed. Men like him loved being noticed, but they hated feeling studied. It was a balance, one I’d perfected.

The emerald gown was a weapon, just like the bold red lipstick and the diamond cuff that glittered on my wrist. I’d chosen it all with precision. Tonight, I wasn’t just here to seduce Lando Norris. I was here to dismantle him.

I began moving toward him, my steps slow, deliberate. The crowd parted without me needing to ask, their gazes trailing me like whispers. I didn’t acknowledge them. My focus was entirely on the man watching me with a sharp, unreadable expression.

“Mr. Norris,” I said when I reached him, extending my hand. My voice was smooth, velvety, as though this was the most natural moment in the world.

His eyes flicked to my hand, then back to my face. For a moment, he didn’t move, and I wondered if he would refuse. Then he reached out, his grip firm and warm against my skin.

“Y/N,” I offered, letting my name roll off my tongue like a secret.

“Y/N...” he repeated, his voice low, almost testing the name. “And your last name?”

“Just Y/N,” I replied, my lips curving into a faint smile.

His brow arched slightly, the first crack in his otherwise unreadable expression. “Intriguing.”

“Not as intriguing as you,” I said lightly, releasing his hand but not the tension between us.

---

Lando’s POV

She was fearless. Most people, even the bold ones, had some tell—nervous hands, a flicker in their gaze, something. But not her. She was poised, calm, like this was her gala and not mine.

“What brings you here?” I asked, keeping my tone polite but cool.

“Curiosity,” she said. Her lips quirked into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “And the promise of an unforgettable host. I must say, you don’t disappoint.”

Flattery, but not the usual kind. It wasn’t heavy-handed or desperate. If anything, she said it like she didn’t care whether I believed her or not.

I leaned in slightly, enough to close the distance but not enough to touch her. “You don’t seem like the type to come to an event like this just for curiosity.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she tilted her head as if considering me. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

It was maddening. Every question I asked, she answered without actually giving anything away.

“Are you always this forward?” I asked, my voice dropping lower.

“Only when it’s worth it,” she replied smoothly, her gaze locking with mine.

I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in years—unease. She was too calm, too composed. But damn if I didn’t want to know more.

Before I could press her further, she stepped back, her curls brushing against her bare shoulder as she turned. “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Norris. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”

And just like that, she was gone.

---

Y/N’s POV

I felt his eyes on me as I walked away, burning into my back like a physical weight. I kept my movements steady, controlled, but my pulse thrummed beneath my skin.

This was the first step—a small victory in a much larger game. But I couldn’t deny the flicker of something unexpected. He was sharp. Sharper than I anticipated. And the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to see more than he let on, had left me unsettled.

I hated it.

The mission came first. It always came first. But the way he looked at me, like he was unraveling me even as I tried to unravel him... it made me want to play this game a little longer than I should.

---

Lando’s POV

She’s dangerous.

That was my first thought as I watched her disappear into the crowd. I didn’t know who she was or what she wanted, but I knew this much—she wasn’t here by chance.

There was something about her. The way she carried herself, the way her eyes held mine like a challenge. She wasn’t scared of me, and that was rare.

I didn’t trust her. I couldn’t.

But as I tipped my glass back and let the bourbon burn down my throat, I couldn’t deny the other thought running through my head.

I wanted to see her again.

The bourbon didn’t do a damn thing to settle the unease she’d left behind.

I was used to people playing games around me. Men schemed to gain favor, women fawned to get closer, and everyone always wanted something. It came with the job. Hell, it came with the name. But her? She didn’t fit into any of those boxes.

She didn’t want my approval. She didn’t need my validation. And somehow, that made her the most dangerous person in the room.

I leaned against the bar, pretending to survey the crowd, but my attention kept drifting to her. She was moving through the gala like she owned it, smiling at strangers, exchanging words I couldn’t hear. She laughed once, a soft sound that seemed effortless but made my chest tighten.

What was her game?

She’d disarmed me with that dress, that smile, those damn red lips that still lingered in my mind. But it wasn’t just the surface—she was clever. Too clever. The way she parried my questions, the subtle way she prodded at my defenses... it felt like I’d walked into a trap and hadn’t even realized it.

No one had made me feel like that in years.

I set my glass down harder than I intended, the sound drawing the bartender’s attention. I waved him off, keeping my eyes on her. She was talking to a group now, her hand resting lightly on the arm of some wealthy politician I didn’t care to remember. Her body language was relaxed, her smile easy.

She was working them. Just like she was working me.

---

Lando’s jaw tightened as he watched her. To anyone else, she seemed nothing more than an enchanting stranger. But he knew better. He had to.

Her calculated movements, the way she had studied him during their conversation—it wasn’t just casual curiosity. She was too deliberate. Too perfect.

But that was the problem.

Despite all the warning bells ringing in his head, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her confidence, her quick wit, the way she stood toe-to-toe with him without so much as flinching. For the first time in a long time, someone had gotten under his skin.

He hated it. And yet, he couldn’t look away.

---

Y/N’s POV

I could feel his eyes on me again, as sharp and heavy as the blade hidden under my dress.

Good.

This was the part of the game I thrived in—the tension, the dance of pushing and pulling without revealing too much. Lando Norris wasn’t the first powerful man I’d faced, but he was the first to make me second-guess myself.

I hated that.

I’d done my research. He was smart, careful, calculated. A man like him didn’t get to where he was by being easy to manipulate. And yet, there was something about him that surprised me.

He didn’t act the way I expected. He didn’t flaunt his power, didn’t preen like most mob bosses. Instead, he carried it quietly, like it was woven into his very being. It was... unsettling.

And worse, it was intriguing.

I forced myself to focus, to push past the little voice in the back of my mind whispering that this was dangerous. That he was dangerous.

I couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Not when I was so close to the first step in unraveling him.

---

Lando’s POV

There was something else about her. Something I couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t just the way she moved, though that was enough to drive any man insane. It was the way she looked at me. Like she already knew every secret I’d ever tried to bury.

No one looked at me like that.

I should’ve been angry. Hell, I should’ve had someone follow her out of the gala to see who she really was. But I couldn’t bring myself to act. Not yet.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure I was the one holding all the cards.

And that terrified me.

---

As the night wore on, Lando found himself returning to the same questions over and over again.

Who was she?

What did she want?

And why the hell did it feel like she was toying with him when it should’ve been the other way around?

From across the room, Y/N caught his eye again. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile before she turned away, leaving him with nothing but the taste of his own uncertainty.

It was a game, no doubt about it. But as Lando stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd like smoke, one thought gnawed at the edges of his mind.

What if he was the one being played?

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Series Taglist: @laptime-deleted

LN4 Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @ilivbullyingjeongin, @ggaslyp1, @icecoldtires, @cmleitora, @cheyennep3107, @d3kstar, @fadingcloudballoon-blog, @same1995, @hinamesgigantica, @laptime-deleted

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nelapanela94 · 1 year ago

Text

“Levi?”

You push the door open with your back and the weathered hinges creak. It’s dark and quiet inside, Levi’s leather jacket hangs over the chair backrest. The window behind his desk is closed, the quill stands in the holder.

The plate and tumbler clatter on the tray as you inch toward the door that connects his office to the room. It is ajar and you, uninvitedly, slip inside.

“Levi?”

A faint glow flickers from the nightstand, and Levi is tucked in bed, like a bundle, covered from head to toe.

Your eyes squint, lines mar the space between your brows. Something doesn’t seem right. You set the tray on the side table and pad gingerly to the bed, lay a hand on the quilt where his shoulder should be.

“Levi? Are you ok?”

What is someone kidnapped him and left the corpse of an animal behind? Panic rises in your chest.

“Y/N?”

His gravelly voice tames the drama snakes in your head. He rolls onto the opposite side. “What are you doing here?”

“You missed dinner. I thought you’d be hungry, so I saved some leftovers…”

“Not hungry.” His voice is shaky, like the rest of his body.

“What’s wrong then? Why are you in bed?”

“Why couldn't I be in bed?” He coughs. “I’m not a child. Get out of here.”

You frown, tap tapping the floor. “You’re acting like one now. And I’m not leaving until I make sure you’re fine.”

He flings the covers off and reveals himself. “I’m fine.”

His eyes are glassy, his lips dry, cheeks red, his hair glued to his face in sweat. He wriggles up against the headboard to a sitting position. You sit next to him, making him curse under his breath, and bring the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re far from fine. Why don’t you go to the infirmary?”

“I don't want to waste their time. Besides, there are others who need it more.”

“You could’ve asked for help at least.”

“I don’t want shitty glasses entering my room.”

“You could’ve asked me.” You jab a finger to your chest, pouting.

His cheeks sizzle with a deeper blush. What a shame it is that you see him in this deplorable state. He is the one who should be protecting you and not the other way around.

You peel from bed and scuff to the washbasin. In the shelf next to it, Levi keeps towels and linens. You take a lavender-imbued cloth, soak it and wring the excess. “Lay down, Levi.”

“Leave me alone.” He grunts and reluctantly complies. You brush his hair off his face and place the cloth on his forehead.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

“No, it’s just the fever. Thanks. Now, you can leave.”

“Are you kidding me? What if you get worse?” You plonk on the wing chair, arms folded on your chest.

“You’re worse than lice.”

“Just let me know if you need anything.” You stretch out your legs, and your ass sinks into the cotton canvas.

Thirty minutes later, your soft snores swarm the room. Your chest rises and falls steadily in your peaceful slumber. Levi sighs. And you were the one who was supposed to take care of him? His lips curve in a half smile. The ache in his bones and muscles is ebbing, the trembling in his limbs is easing. It's not of him to catch a seasonal flu, but a little attention from you doesn't hurt, does it?

He throws a cushion at you, and you jerk awake.

"Water."

#levi ackerman #aot #attack on titan #levi attack on titan #levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin #snk #levi aot #snk levi #levi x you #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman fluff #shingeki no kyoujin #levi ackerman x female reader

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immortalbumblebee · 2 months ago

Text

The Sunken City

Chapter 2: Hidden Shadows

When I tell y'all that this chapter was already almost at 10k and THEN I WROTE A SMUT SCENE! Like this chapter is probably the longest I've written, it's a little insane.

But don't make me regret it! MINORS DNI PLEASE I'M SERIOUS

Again, this is a sequel series to City of Iron and Glass!

Masterlist

The moon hung low over Piltover’s shimmering harbor, its pale light fractured by ripples in the dark, inky water. The salty air mingled with the faint creak of moored ships, the rhythmic splash of distant waves, and the occasional muffled clink of metal from the nearby docks. Looming in the shadows, the warehouse stood like a sleeping titan—silent, yet alive with the hum of machinery within. Its walls of corrugated steel, weathered and streaked with rust, were dappled with golden light leaking through gaps in its panels. The glow pulsed faintly, flickering like the heartbeat of the city’s tireless industry.

At the edge of this industrial monolith, four young figures crouched in the shadows near the entrance. The air was thick with tension, every creak of wood or echo of a footstep setting their nerves alight. Silco, the leanest of the ragtag group, worked with practiced precision, his long, nimble fingers twisting a thin lockpick inside the heavy padlock that secured the warehouse doors. The faint clicks of tumblers turning echoed in the still night, each one a small victory, though far too slow for anyone’s comfort.

“Hurry!” Benzo hissed, his hand tightening and loosening around the crowbar strapped to his back. His restless energy was palpable, his foot tapping lightly against the ground as if he could speed up the process through sheer impatience.

Silco rolled his eyes, though his focus never wavered. “How about you shut up and let me work?” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Vander, crouched just behind them, shot Benzo a warning look. His broad frame was tense, his arms resting on his knees as he kept his eyes locked on the shadows around them. “Keep it down, both of you,” he rumbled, his voice a quiet growl that brooked no argument. “We’re too exposed out here.”

You, easily the smallest of the group, sat closest to the ground, your back pressed against a crate as your eyes flitted nervously between Silco’s meticulous work and the distant glow of a patrolling Enforcer’s lantern. Your bandana was pulled low over your face, but the faint sheen of sweat on your brow betrayed her unease. “We’re not exactly blending in,” you whispered, glancing at the dim light spilling from the nearest lamppost.

“Almost there,” Silco muttered, the tension in his voice betraying his usual calm. Another faint click echoed as he worked, and the lock inched closer to surrendering.

From somewhere further down the docks came the muffled bark of a guard dog, followed by the distant murmur of voices. The group froze for a heartbeat, their breath collectively catching as the sound carried across the water. Silco’s hands paused mid-turn, his jaw tightening.

“Hurry faster,” Benzo urged again, his tone sharper now, his hand gripping the crowbar so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Silco didn’t respond this time, his focus narrowing to the final tumbler. His fingers moved with deft precision, his eyes narrowing as he coaxed the mechanism into compliance. With a soft, triumphant click, the lock popped open, and he pulled it free with a small smirk. “Told you I’d get it,” he said, a trace of pride in his voice.

Vander was already on his feet, gesturing for the others to move. “Save the victory lap for later,” he muttered. “Let’s get inside before someone spots us.”

As the heavy metal door creaked open, the faint hum of machinery swelled, its vibrations mingling with the soft whisper of the harbor wind slipping through cracks in the warehouse walls. The four of you slipped inside like shadows, leaving the moonlit harbor and its watchful eyes behind. A heavy heave of Vander’s broad hands pushed the doors shut, sealing the group within. The clang of metal meeting metal echoed briefly before falling into a tense silence.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and steel, mingling with the faint tang of salt carried from the docks. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Moonlight filtered through dirty, streaked windows high above, casting pale beams across the vast interior. The light fell in fragmented patterns, painting jagged lines on the walls and floor. The midnight darkness cloaked much of the space, obscuring the finer details, but what you could see was enough to make your pulse quicken.

Rows upon rows of wooden crates filled the space, stacked high and bound tightly with metal straps. Each bore the faint stenciled logo of a Piltovan arms manufacturer. One crate lay open nearby, its contents spilling out—a chaotic jumble of pistol parts, rifle barrels, and gleaming magazines. The metallic glint caught your eye, and you realized the sheer volume of weaponry around you could turn the tide of a hundred skirmishes.

Benzo was the first to move, his grin splitting wide as he bent over to inspect one of the open crates. “We could arm a whole militia with these!” he cackled, his voice echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. He reached into the crate and pulled out a box of armor-piercing bullets, the heavy rounds glinting in the faint light. He turned one over in his hand, holding it up as if admiring a rare gem. “These babies’ll punch right through an Enforcer helmet.”

Vander shot him a warning look but didn’t speak, his focus on scanning the warehouse for any signs of danger. His jaw was set, his frame tense as he stayed near the entrance, ready to spring into action if the need arose.

Silco is crouched a few feet away, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator searching for weak spots. His voice is quiet, but the edge is unmistakable. “Take what you can,” he says, “but pack light. We’ve still got to make it back across the bridge without getting caught.”

You nod silently, your fingers already working on the nearest crate. The cold bite of the crowbar in your hands feels grounding, a small comfort as you pry open the wooden lid with practiced ease. Inside, rows of pistol parts glint faintly in the moonlight, neatly stacked and pristine. You swallow hard. There’s enough firepower here to change everything for the Undercity—or destroy it.

Your hands move quickly, grabbing what you can fit into your satchel. Beside you, Benzo is stuffing bullets into his bag with reckless enthusiasm, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. You glance at him, wanting to tell him to slow down, but Silco beats you to it.

“This isn’t a game,” Silco snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. “One screw-up, and we’re all dead. Focus.”

Benzo huffs, but he lowers his voice. The tension in the room tightens like a noose, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every sound—the soft scrape of metal, the distant hum of machinery, and the muffled crunch of gravel outside the warehouse.

That sound makes your blood run cold. Gravel shifting. Footsteps? You freeze, your fingers hovering over the next crate as your heart thunders in your chest. You look up at Vander, who’s already gripping the wrench strapped to his back. His expression is unreadable, but his body language screams alert.

Your stomach churns as you glance at Silco. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see a flicker of something that looks like worry. Then his face hardens. “Move faster,” he whispers, the urgency in his tone making your hands tremble as you shove more ammunition into your bag.

Every sound seems louder now—the rustle of fabric, the creak of wood, the faint clang of metal. You force yourself to keep going, your breath coming in shallow bursts. The weight of the bullets in your bag feels heavier with every passing second, but you can’t stop.

You steal another glance toward the door, your mind racing. The crunch of gravel still echoes faintly in your ears, growing closer—or maybe that’s just your imagination. Either way, the oppressive weight of the dark warehouse feels like it’s closing in, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re running out of time.

***

The soft chime of the doorbell announces your arrival as you and Vander step into Benzo’s shop, the warm, cluttered air enveloping you instantly. Vander turns over his shoulder, giving Claggor a quick but firm look. “No one comes in,” he instructs, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Claggor hesitates, his boyish face creased with unease, but he nods curtly and takes a stance outside, glancing up and down the lane like a sentry.

Inside, the shop feels smaller than you remember, stuffed to the brim with shelves packed with all manner of shinies, baubles, and trinkets. Trinkets you know intimately—some of which had passed through your own hands, carefully engineered, polished, and sold to help keep the Undercity scraping by. The faint smell of old wood and machine oil lingers in the air, the hum of a small motor somewhere in the background adding to the charm.

At the counter, a much fuller Benzo is hunched over, studying some sort of gemstone. The years have thickened his frame, but his presence is still the same—equal parts gruff and reliable.

Tucked away in the far corner, working with quiet concentration, is a boy no older than twelve. His dark skin is dusted with oil smudges, and his silver-white hair glints in the dim light as he fiddles with the intricate inner workings of a battered grandfather clock.

Benzo doesn’t even look up as the two of you step inside. “We’re closed!” he barks, his gravelly voice filling the small space.

Vander doesn’t miss a beat. “Then open up!” he retorts, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a pint at the Last Drop.

“For good!” Benzo snaps back, finally lifting his head to glare at the two of you. “You can take your worthless junk elsewhere!”

Vander sighs loudly, one hand running over his thick beard in mock exasperation. “Just as well,” he mutters. “The owner’s the shittiest businessman I know.”

You can’t help the roll of your eyes as a heavy pause settles between them. The weight of the silence stretches for a moment before both men erupt into booming laughter, their voices filling the shop and breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.

The boy in the corner glances up briefly, his bright eyes flicking toward the commotion before returning to the clock’s delicate gears with a faint smirk of his own.

Stepping over to the counter, you offer Benzo a familiar smile, one he can’t help but return despite his gruff demeanor. “Hello, old man,” you greet, your tone light but warm, the playful jab carrying years of friendship behind it.

Benzo snorts, leaning back from his hunched position and crossing his thick arms over his chest. “You’re no spring chicken yourself these days, fishie,” he shoots back, a twinkle of amusement in his sharp eyes. The nickname pulls an exasperated chuckle from you, one you’ve grown used to over the years.

Before you can retort, Benzo’s attention snaps to the corner of the room, where the boy with silver-white hair is still elbow-deep in the inner workings of the grandfather clock. “Ekko!” Benzo barks, his voice carrying that unmistakable tone of authority. “What’s going on with that thing? You plan on fixing it or marrying it?”

The boy glances back over his shoulder, a small wrench clutched in his oil-smudged hand. His expression is focused but calm, the kind of cool confidence that only comes from doing this sort of work a hundred times over. “Give me a few seconds,” Ekko replies evenly, turning back to the intricate gears in front of him. “The cannon pinion’s still busted.”

You resist the urge to walk over and help, your fingers twitching at your sides as you watch Ekko work with precise, careful movements. It’s a familiar instinct, but you remind yourself that the boy doesn’t need your intervention. He’s got it under control—he always does.

You think back to when Ekko had first come into your lives, a scrappy war orphan whose parents’ names were lost to the chaos. You hadn’t known them, but you didn’t need to; their absence was written in the boy’s cautious eyes and the way he clung to survival like it was the only thing he had left. You and Vander had talked long into the night about what to do. You’d already been stretched thin, barely keeping your own heads above water, but the idea of turning him away was unthinkable.

Even then, Ekko had stood out. A genius young lad, his sharp mind and boundless curiosity shone brighter than the glittering spires of Piltover’s skyline. His talent was undeniable—academy-worthy, some might have said. Not that you put much faith in that pompous institution of classist elites. Still, his eye for engineering and science had been like nothing you’d ever seen before. Except maybe in Viktor, that sickly boy from Zaun who had somehow clawed his way up to become Councilman Heimerdinger’s assistant.

But before you could make a decision, Benzo had beaten you to the punch. “Let me have the youngin’,” he’d said, practically begging as he crouched down to Ekko’s level. The boy had been barely three at the time, small and wide-eyed, clinging to a makeshift toy he’d cobbled together from scraps. “I’ll make something great outta him, just you wait.”

You’d been skeptical, of course. Benzo wasn’t exactly known for his parenting skills, and the thought of leaving a child in his care had made your stomach twist. But Vander had seen something you hadn’t, nodding quietly and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll do right by him,” Vander had said, and for all your doubts, you’d trusted his judgment.

And somehow, Benzo had kept his word. Over the years, he’d molded Ekko into something extraordinary—not just a boy who could survive but one who could thrive, even in the harsh realities of the Undercity. He’d taught him not just the mechanics of machines but the mechanics of life itself: how to navigate its moving parts, how to fix what was broken, and how to know when something was beyond repair.

Still, as you watch Ekko now, focused and calm as he works on the clock, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride—and maybe a little ache of what-ifs. He could’ve been under your roof, learning from you, growing with you and Vander. But he’s happy here, in his own way. And maybe that’s all that matters.

“Finish it later!” Benzo barked, “The grown-ups need a word.”

Ekko voiced his complaints, grumbling under his breath about wanting to keep working, but Benzo waved him off with a flick of his hand. “Time to pack it in, kid. Go on, out you go,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. Reluctantly, Ekko gathered his milk crate of tools, muttering something about the clock being “practically done anyway.”

As he shuffled out the door, Claggor greeted him cheerfully, his wide grin immediately brightening the boy’s scowl. You watched through the window as the two exchanged a few words before disappearing around the corner, leaving the shop quiet except for the faint hum of machinery and the creak of settling shelves.

Benzo turned his attention back to Vander the moment the door clicked shut, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance. “You’re early,” he grumbled, leaning on the counter and giving Vander a pointed look. “My guys are still out rounding up this month’s collections. Won’t have the numbers until next—” His words were abruptly cut off as Vander hoisted the burlap sack from his shoulder and dumped its contents onto the counter with a dull thud. The bag fell away, spilling a jumble of items across the wooden surface. A pair of garden clippers. Mylo’s battered earhorn. A few well-worn switchblades. A tangled mess of mundane gadgets that looked more like the detritus of a street vendor’s stall than anything of value. Benzo let out a breath. “Why are you two muckin' about with this?”

You leaned a hip against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched Vander with an amused smirk. He didn’t respond right away, instead taking his time to spread the items out, turning one of the switchblades over in his hand as if examining it for the first time.

Benzo lets out a snort of laughter, the sound rough and hollow. “Yeah, me and half the Undercity,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the weight of the news is too much to shake off.

Vander sighs for real this time, the kind of sigh that seems to pull the air from his lungs and leave him momentarily deflated. He slumps, his shoulders heavy as the burden of the situation presses down. You watch him for a moment, your fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette from the pack in your pocket. You flick it between your lips, lighting it with a practiced motion, the ember catching the flame before you draw in a steady breath.

“How could they be so stupid?” you mutter through a cloud of smoke, the frustration bleeding through your words.

“They were just trying to do what they thought was right,” you remind him, your voice softer now, thoughtful. “Lady knows we did the same when we were their age.”

Vander’s eyes narrow, the dark circles under them deepening. “It’s Vi…” he mutters, his voice tinged with exasperation. “She throws herself at trouble wherever she can find some. I can’t watch her do it anymore.”

You glance over at Benzo, who’s leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, watching the two of you with a kind of detached curiosity. His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—an odd mix of understanding and cynicism.

“Eh, they’re growing up, Vander,” Benzo hums, as if this whole mess were just another part of the dance. “Looking to write their own stories, carve their own place. You can’t protect them forever.”

Vander doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, grab something solid to anchor him against the weight of those words. You can feel the heaviness of the room, the sense that the conversation has turned into something bigger, something unavoidable.

"Someone was following them."

Your head immediately perks up at the words, your senses sharpening. "What?" you ask, your voice tight with sudden alertness.

Benzo lets out a low chortle, clearly enjoying the way you’ve reacted. "Whole lot of someones, from what I heard," he adds with a wicked grin, clearly reveling in the tension of the moment.

Vander shakes his head, his expression hardening. "Not Enforcers," he mutters, as if the very thought of Piltover’s law enforcement being involved would somehow be a lesser blow.

"Someone on our side?" you ask, the curiosity edging out your annoyance. "Who?"

Benzo’s gaze shifts, the playfulness draining from his face as he leans forward, the gravity of his next words settling over the room. "There’s worse things than Enforcers out there."

Vander’s gaze darkens at that, his fingers subconsciously running along the leather cast that envelops his arm. The faint scrape of his thumb against the material is almost inaudible, but it speaks volumes—memories, the kind you never quite forget. His eyes flicker briefly to his cast, the weight of past encounters pressing down on him.

"We all know that," Vander says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding, of history too painful to erase. The room grows heavier, as if the very air itself has thickened with the unspoken truths. You glance at Vander, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

Benzo seems to sense the shift in the mood, his playful tone turning into something more serious. "Whoever's been tailing them, they aren’t just looking to knock some heads around for fun. There’s intent behind it. And that kind of target’s dangerous."

Your gaze hardens as your mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?" you ask, your voice sharper than you intended, frustration creeping in. "Just tell them to lay low? You know they won’t like that."

Benzo huffs, shaking his head. "Don’t have much of a choice, I reckon," he mutters, his tone gruff but resigned. He extends his hand toward you, and without a word, you offer him a drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the shop.

He takes it without hesitation, inhaling deeply before passing the cigarette back to you, his gaze flicking down to the counter. The moment hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding.

Without breaking the silence, Benzo’s hand ducks under the counter, rummaging around for a moment before emerging with a large glass container. The amber liquid inside catches the light in a way that almost makes it look warm, like liquid gold.

"For now, though…" Benzo's voice softens slightly, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he places the bottle on the counter, "some liquid comfort to ease the struggle?"

Vander sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his pipe. The familiar ritual of filling it seems almost automatic. "You read my mind, old friend," he mutters, the weight of the situation settling in his bones.

You watch them both for a moment, the world outside the shop suddenly feeling distant, almost irrelevant. Benzo pops the cork with a satisfying thunk, and the rich smell of the liquor fills the air—warm, inviting, like an old friend. It’s a brief moment of comfort amidst the chaos, one that feels a little too fleeting.

As Benzo pours the liquid into two small glasses, you take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield against the unease gnawing at the edges of your mind. You don’t have a clear plan yet, no concrete steps to follow, but something tells you this won’t be the last time you’ll need a drink to get through the night.

Vander chuckles lowly, his fingers gently tapping the bowl of his pipe. "To the mess we’re about to clean up," he says, the humor in his voice barely masking the tension that lingers in the room.

You clink your glass against theirs, the sharp sound echoing through the small shop before silence settles back in, thick with anticipation.

The moment was shattered by the sharp chime of the door opening, the cool night air sweeping into the shop like an unwelcome guest. The heavy thunk of boots against the worn floorboards followed, each step deliberate and echoing. You barely had time to react before the sharp chill running down your spine forced your shoulders to hunch. Your gaze hardened instinctively, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand.

Two uniformed Enforcers strode in, their presence slicing through the casual warmth of the room like a blade. Their faces were unreadable, save for the subtle tension in their postures and the way their eyes scanned the shop. Almost immediately, the younger of the two removed his air purifier, the smooth hiss of the device disconnecting was a reminder of everything you despised about Topsiders.

It wasn’t just the purifier—it was what it symbolized. It was their disdain for the Undercity, their belief that nothing here could ever be clean enough, pure enough, good enough. Vander had worked tirelessly to improve the air quality since he’d taken charge, striking uneasy deals with the Council to make life just a bit more bearable for those who called this place home. The upper levels had seen progress, but the mines remained a stubborn stain, a task unfinished. A promise unfulfilled.

But of course, nothing would ever be enough for the weak lungs of Piltover’s elite.

“Evening, friends!” Benzo greeted with a practiced smoothness, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that bordered on defiance. “Something I can help you with?”

The older of the two Enforcers stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Grayson. Time had not been kind to her, though she wore it with a quiet dignity. The streaks of silver in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes spoke to a decade of hardened resolve—of battles fought, lost, and somehow survived. Her gaze swept the shop lazily, but there was nothing casual about the way she took in every detail.

The younger one, though—he was different. You didn’t recognize him, and you didn’t like the sharpness in his eyes. He didn’t look at the shop; he looked at all of you, as if he were cataloging a list of things to hold against you. “Some trencher trash attacked one of the buildings in the Academy district, but you already knew that.”

Your teeth clenched at the term, your distaste barely hidden.

“We’re looking for the culprits,” Grayson said, her tone even but tired. She glanced around again, her eyes lingering on the counter, the shelves, and finally on Vander. She, like the rest of you, had aged in the past decade. Grey and white hairs sticking out at her temples, and the shadow of crows' feet framing her cold, but softened, eyes.

“Well, wasn’t us,” you muttered, your words carrying a deliberate edge as you lifted your glass and took a slow sip. The liquor burned slightly as it went down, but the warmth it left behind did little to chase away the growing tension in the room.

Grayson’s eyes shifted to you, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t think it was,” she said softly, her voice quieter than her companion’s but far more effective

“Got a description?” Vander asked smoothly, his voice steady and calm, giving nothing away. His neutral expression remained unreadable, but there was an unmistakable weight to his words—a quiet warning. The smoke from his pipe curled lazily into the air as he leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

The younger Enforcer, Marcus, bristled immediately, stepping in close to Vander, his posture stiff and aggressive. “Yeah,” he growled, his tone laced with venom. He leaned in threateningly, the move deliberate, an attempt to intimidate. “It’s exactly who you’re picturing in that thick head of yours.”

Your muscles tensed instinctively, your hand itching to grab the dagger concealed at your hip. The urge to intervene surged through you, but Vander’s calm demeanor held you back—for now.

Instead of reacting, Vander smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that only seemed to irritate Marcus further. He turned his head slightly to look at you and Benzo, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken humor. “You think my head is thick?” he asked lightly, the subtle challenge in his tone almost mocking.

Benzo shrugged with a casual ease that felt at odds with the tension in the room. “Eh, just past the average,” he replied, his tone deliberately blasé.

Vander’s gaze shifted to you, and in that single look, he gave you a silent command: Stand down. His expression was calm, but the unyielding steel in his eyes left no room for argument.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders as you offered him a small, wry smile. “But just as handsome,” you quipped, your voice light, though your body remained coiled like a spring, ready to act if needed.

Marcus, however, was far from amused. His frustration bubbled over as he snapped, “Listen, you shady son of a—”

“Marcus.” Grayson’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. The authority in her tone left no room for debate, and Marcus immediately stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned to look at her.

Grayson didn’t even flinch, her calm, piercing gaze fixed on him. “How about you take a walk?” she suggested, the words polite but unmistakably firm.

Marcus hesitated, clearly reluctant to back down, but after a beat, he scoffed and turned toward the door. His boots stomped against the floorboards as he exited, muttering under his breath.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Grayson let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s new,” she said, almost apologetically. “Doesn’t know when to pipe down.”

Vander lets out a long, weary sigh, the cool and collected facade he’d held so carefully starting to crumble. His shoulders slump, and he hunches over his drink, his large hands wrapped around the glass as if it’s the only thing grounding him. “Some things are the same topside and bottom,” he mutters, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion.

Grayson steps closer, her boots scuffing softly against the floorboards. She stops beside you, offering a curt nod that you return in kind. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, a shared weariness from years of dealing with the same unending cycle. Without a word, you extend your glass to her in an unspoken offer.

She hesitates for only a moment before accepting, her fingers brushing against yours briefly as she takes the glass. She raises it to her lips, taking a measured sip. The amber liquid burns its way down her throat, and she winces slightly, but her expression remains grim.

“You know this crossed a line upstairs,” Grayson says, her tone cutting through the quiet like a knife. She sets the glass back on the counter with a soft clink, her sharp eyes fixed on Vander. “Right?”

Vander doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the drink in his hands. “Was anyone hurt?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Grayson’s lips press into a thin line. She exhales through her nose, glancing away briefly as if to compose herself. “A building was blown to bits,” she says finally, her words deliberate, heavy with implication. She swallows hard, her throat still stinging from the drink. “What do you think?”

The weight of her words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Vander’s jaw tightens, and his fingers flex around the glass, but he says nothing for a long moment. His silence speaks volumes, though—an acknowledgment of the consequences that are already spiraling beyond anyone’s control.

You watch them both, feeling the tension pull tighter with every second. The lines between right and wrong, between survival and destruction, have never been more blurred.

“Those who did this will be dealt with,” Vander says, his voice low and resolute, but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface, like a man trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. You don’t like how much it sounds like a plea.

Grayson straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That workshop belonged to the Kirammans,” she says, her words measured and deliberate. The name strikes a chord, and you immediately recognize it—the influential family tied to one of the council members. The same councilor who had supported the air quality initiative that Vander had fought so hard for.

Grayson continues, her voice hardening. “Do you know what kind of equipment they had in there? Cutting-edge prototypes, tools worth more than half the Undercity combined. This place”—she gestures vaguely around the shop—“looks like a candy store compared to what they lost. The Council isn’t just angry; they need to make an example of someone. People need to feel safe.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “You mean Piltover needs to feel safe,” you say sharply, your words dripping with contempt.

Grayson’s head snaps toward you, her eyes narrowing in warning, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Vander, the weight of her attention bearing down on him like a hammer. “We had a deal, Vander,” she reminds him, her voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “You keep your people off my streets, and I stay out of your business.” She leans in, her tone softening just slightly, almost as if she’s pleading. “Give me a name. We’ll handle it quietly. No one will know you were involved.”

Vander exhales heavily, his broad shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of the situation. The stress rolls off him in waves, palpable even to you. He shakes his head slowly, his jaw tightening as he finally meets Grayson’s gaze. “I can’t do that.”

Grayson’s hand slams down onto the counter with a sharp crack, making you flinch. “You don’t seem to grasp how serious this is,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her composure cracks, revealing the urgency and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “If I don’t put someone behind bars tonight, the next time I come down here, I’ll have an army of Enforcers with me.” She leans forward, her face mere inches from Vander’s. “And we both know how that’ll go.”

The shop falls into a heavy silence, the weight of her threat settling over the room like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, Grayson,” Vander says finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “We don’t give up our own people.”

For a moment, Grayson stares at him, her jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding. Then she straightens, her expression hardening into the steely mask of an Enforcer doing her job. “You’re making a mistake, Vander,” she says, her tone cold and formal now.

You straighten, pulling your glass closer back to you. “I think it’s time you go, Captain.” Her cold eyes move from you, linger on Vander, then back to you. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind her with a sharp chime.

The silence that follows is deafening, and for a long moment, no one speaks. You glance at Vander, but his face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the door as if he can still see her retreating form.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,” Benzo mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no hiding the worry in his tone.

Vander doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at the door, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.

***

As you stepped back over the threshold, the sounds and smell of home filled your senses. Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the faint smell of spilled ale and old wood mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the Underground’s air. It was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening, save for the faint creaks of the rafters and the occasional drip of condensation from the exposed pipes above.

Claggor trailed behind, his young face a mask of determination that couldn’t quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. His boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he stifled a yawn, glancing toward you for a moment before looking away.

You gave him a small, tired smile and placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him into a side-hug. “Go on, sweetheart,” you said softly. “You’ve done enough for one night. Get some rest.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Vander, who nodded in agreement. “You heard her,” Vander said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “We’ll take it from here.”

Claggor gave a slight nod, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Goodnight,” he mumbled before heading toward the back door. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving you and Vander alone in the quiet bar.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you glanced around the space. The chairs were scattered haphazardly, the tables sticky with the remnants of spilled drinks. Behind the counter, a few empty glasses glinted in the low light, waiting to be washed. You immediately walked over to the bar, grabbing your rags and spray bottles as you prepared to clean the expanse of tables. Silently, for a moment, Vander watched you.

“I know you hate working with her,” he says. His voice is quiet, hushed, wary of any overhearing little voices.

You pause mid-spray, the rag in your hand frozen against the tabletop. For a moment, you don’t turn to face him, letting the silence hang between you like the damp air of the Lanes. Slowly, you straighten, glancing over your shoulder at Vander. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow gives him away.

“It’s not about liking or hating her,” you say, turning back to the table and scrubbing at a stubborn stain. Your voice is matching his, hushed, calm, measured. “It’s about what she represents. What they all represent.”

He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean agreement, frustration, or both. “We’ve been over this, Love. We don’t have a choice.”

You can’t help but scoff. “You think I don’t know that?” More scrubbing. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, when she comes in here, making orders. Like we’re her lackies. Like she doesn’t respect us,” you look back at him over your shoulder, “wasn’t too long ago she was throwing you in Stillwater.”

“She’s trying to help,” he says, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “Just like us.”

You glance up at him, rag poised over the table. “Is she? Or is she just trying to keep the peace so Piltover doesn’t have to dirty its hands with another war?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves behind the bar, his large hands steady as he begins stacking glasses. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice quieter.

“It never is,” you reply, resuming your work. The rhythmic motion of cleaning gives you something to focus on, something to anchor you in the midst of your swirling thoughts. “But it doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”

Vander stops what he’s doing, leaning heavily against the counter. “You don’t have to trust her,” he says, meeting your gaze. “But you do have to work with her. For the kids. For all of us.”

You sigh, your movements slowing as his words sink in. “I know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” he agrees, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t.”

The room falls into silence again, save for the faint creak of the rafters and the soft scrape of your rag against the wood. Vander watches you for a moment longer before returning to his task, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling between you like a familiar, unwelcome guest.

The two of you continue to work in silence, but your mind is anything but. Every thought feels like a sharp edge, cutting deeper the longer you let it fester. You hate it—hate how the idea lingers in your mind like an unwelcome guest you can’t quite kick out. You know you have to say it, to release the weight pressing against your chest, even if it makes everything worse.

As you finish wiping down the individual tables, your feet instinctively carry you over to the old jukebox in the corner. You press a few buttons, the familiar crackle and hum signaling it’s come to life. A low, mellow tune begins to play, not loud enough to disrupt the peace but just enough to mask any prying ears that might be listening.

With a steadying breath, you turn and step toward the bar, your gaze finding Vander. He’s behind the counter, absentmindedly drying glasses, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that tells you he’s thinking about more than just the task at hand.

“Vander,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the music. He glances up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can feel the weight of everything unsaid between you.

“I’m just gonna say it once,” you begin, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that demands his full attention. “And then never again.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing the leather cast on his arm. The worn material feels rough under your touch, a stark reminder of what’s at stake. “There is someone we could hand over to Grayson.”

The moment the words leave your lips, you see it—the flash of betrayal, hurt, and anger in his eyes. It’s as though you’ve physically struck him, and for a moment, he just stares at you, as if willing you to take it back.

“Minnie,” he says, his voice low and warning, laced with disappointment.

You pull your hand back, holding both up in surrender. “I know,” you say quickly, trying to cut through the tension before it boils over. “I know. We don’t give up our own people.” You shrug, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “But you and I both know the kids being stalked today wasn’t some one-off incident.”

His jaw tightens, his broad shoulders squaring as if to brace himself against your words. You can see the fury in his expression, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles whiten. But beneath the anger, you see it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes, the hesitation he’s trying so hard to bury.

“I hate even thinking about it,” you admit, your voice quieter now, tinged with guilt. “But if it’s him or them…”

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and final. “We don’t give up our own people,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the only way this works. If we start turning on people, even him…” He shakes his head, his gaze burning into yours. “We lose everything. Trust. Loyalty. Unity. It all falls apart.”

You nod, swallowing hard as the weight of his words settles over you. “I know,” you whisper, the guilt in your chest twisting like a knife. “I know, Vander.”

For a moment, the silence returns, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the jukebox. Then, without a word, you make your way around the bar, stepping into his space. You take his hands in yours, the roughness of his skin grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’m scared, Vander. For them.”

His hands tighten around yours, the calloused grip grounding you in a way only he can. For the first time tonight, some of the tension in his shoulders softens, and his gaze, though still heavy with the weight of his responsibilities, holds something warmer. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But I need you to back me up here. If I don’t have you…” His voice trails off, as if saying it aloud would make it too real, too raw.

You nod, feeling the knot in your chest tighten. “I understand,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. His skin is rough, the stubble coarse beneath your palm, but the way he leans into your touch feels so vulnerable, so human. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, either. I’m sorry for even thinking it, for even saying it.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, his voice soft but resolute. “I understand. I don’t blame you for thinking it. Things are… complicated right now.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And thank you for not saying it with anyone else in the room.”

“Of course!” you reply instantly, your tone carrying a faint edge of indignation, though your lips quirk into a small, reassuring smile. “It’s you and me, Vander. Always.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, holding on to each other in the quiet safety of the empty bar. The jukebox hums softly in the background, its low melody a distant reminder of the chaos outside. But here, in this bubble of stillness, it feels like it’s just the two of you against the world, like it’s always been.

Vander’s hands shift slightly, his rough fingers brushing against the backs of yours in a way that feels almost reverent. His eyes meet yours, the familiar storm of conflict and determination softening into something deeper. The flicker of light from the bar catches in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time has slowed, the weight of everything giving way to this single, fleeting moment.

Without thinking, you step closer, your breath mingling with his as the distance between you narrows. His calloused hand rises to cradle your face, his thumb tracing a line across your cheek. It’s such a gentle gesture for someone who carries the weight of the Undercity on his shoulders, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Minnie…” he murmurs, your name barely more than a whisper on his lips, filled with so much emotion it almost undoes you.

You don’t give him a chance to say more. Standing on your toes, you close the remaining space, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is fierce, filled with everything unspoken—fear, frustration, love, and the unshakable bond that has carried you both through every storm.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace of this moment. You lose yourself in the warmth of him, in the way his lips move against yours, rough yet tender, commanding yet vulnerable. The rest of the world falls away—no Enforcers, no chembarons, no threats hanging over your heads. Just the two of you, anchored to each other.

When you finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His hands linger on your waist, keeping you close. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled with the quiet hum of the jukebox and the sound of your uneven breaths.

“I love you,” he says finally, his voice rough but steady, the words a promise, a declaration, a plea all at once.

“I love you too,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. It wasn’t just a repeat of the words you’d both said a million times, but rather, a promise. To him, to the life you’d created together, to the idea of your shared future together.

It started soft, tentative, like he was handling glass—terrified that one wrong move might shatter you. His lips brushed against yours with the kind of care you wouldn’t expect from a man who carried the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. The coarse itch of his beard against your skin grounded you, a quiet reminder of the ruggedness that hid the tenderness beneath. His hands settled on the small of your back, steady and secure, while his forehead pressed against yours, anchoring the moment.

The kiss was gentle but spoke volumes—every unspoken word, every hidden fear, and every promise he couldn’t quite put into words. It was restraint and love wrapped into one fragile moment.

But you wanted more. Needed more.

Your hand slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the coarse strands as you tugged gently. Just as you expected, Vander groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deeper. His grip on your back tightened ever so slightly, betraying the restraint he was desperately trying to maintain.

Then, with a small, mischievous smile against his lips, you nipped at his bottom lip. The action was playful but bold, a silent plea for him to let go, to give in.

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes burned with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and something far more primal. For a second, the room seemed to hold its breath, and then his lips found yours again—this time with more urgency, more need.

The gentleness gave way to a deeper passion, his kisses more fervent, his hands gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you. Your own hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of your own feelings into the moment. The jukebox hummed in the background, but it was drowned out by the sound of your quickened breaths and the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

When he finally broke away, his breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against yours once more, eyes closed as though savoring the moment. His hands stayed firm on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“M’love,” he whispered, his voice husky, laced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “You drive me mad, you know that?”

You smirked, your thumb brushing over the lines of his jaw. “Good. Someone’s got to keep you in check.”

He chuckled softly, pressing another kiss—this one slower, softer, like a thank-you—against your lips before pulling you into a tight embrace. In the quiet safety of the bar, the world outside could wait a little longer.

Between kisses, his lips brush against yours as he breathes out a barely audible, “Bedroom?” His voice is low and ragged, the word almost lost in the heat of the moment.

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, the sound cutting through the intensity like a bright spark. “Kids are going to bed,” you remind him, your hands sliding from his hair to his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as the passion simmers between you. Your fingers dig gently into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath. “Office,” you suggest, your tone playful yet laced with urgency.

The corner of his lips quirks upward in a smirk, and he doesn’t hesitate. In one swift, practiced motion, his hands lower to your waist, gripping you with a confidence born of years together. Effortlessly, he lifts you as though you weigh nothing at all, his strength so familiar yet no less thrilling.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, holding onto him as he shifts his grip to better support you. The intimacy of the motion, the way your bodies fit so perfectly together, sends a new rush of heat through you. You can feel the tension in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Blindly, his steps take him around the bar, his focus entirely on you even as he navigates the dim room with ease. Your laughter echoes softly, a sweet contrast to the muffled hum of the jukebox in the background.

When he reaches the base of the stairs, he pauses for a split second, adjusting his grip as if savoring the closeness before beginning the ascent. Each step is deliberate but unhurried, the anticipation between you growing thicker with every passing second. You brush a kiss against the edge of his jaw, and he groans softly in response, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Someone’s enjoying this,” you murmur teasingly against his ear, unable to resist.

His response is a low chuckle, the vibrations resonating between you. “With you? Always,” he counters, his voice a mix of affection and heat. The words hang in the air, adding yet another layer to the smoldering intensity of the moment as the two of you disappear into the shadows of the upstairs office.

This moment, here, on the staircase. Those moments where you have someone safe, someone to come back to when the world outside was so harsh and unforgiving. It made your heart flip and your breath hitch in a way that felt as though it could shatter you, yet you leaned into it willingly. So few good things had been left here, in this city that tried to take everything from you, and you were impossibly grateful—achingly, desperately grateful—that Vander was still one of them.

“Something you want?” Vander’s voice pulled you from the spiral, his words gentle but teasing as his beard grazed your skin. One of his hands left the sanctuary of your hair, sliding down to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your jawline.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I always want you,” you admitted, the words leaving you unfiltered, vulnerable, as raw as the feeling surging within you. It seemed to be all the incentive he needed. Without another word, Vander carried you up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate, as though savoring the anticipation. His office wasn’t anything grand—just a small, wooden room with a simple, scratched-up desk, its surface covered in scribbles and doodles from your youngest, a reminder of the life you’d built here amidst the chaos.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, none of that mattered. The world outside faded entirely as you felt your back press into the wooden paneling. Vander’s broad chest pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you, grounding you. Your legs stayed locked firmly around his waist, keeping him close, while your arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him in as though letting go might make him disappear.

His lips found yours again, this time hungrier, more desperate. There was no hesitation in the way his hands slid up your sides, memorizing every curve, as though reassuring himself you were still here. And you needed him just as much—primal, all-consuming. Every inch of him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning you a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned into you, his strength overwhelming but never overbearing, as if even now, he was holding back just enough to keep you from breaking. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not now.

“Vander,” you breathed against his lips, your voice laced with urgency.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes darkened with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’m here,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours for a brief, grounding moment.

That moment was all too brief, though, as his lips returned to your neck, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin that made your breath hitch and your knees feel weak—even though you weren’t standing. His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring you to him as his movements became more insistent, more certain.

You tilted your head back, letting the tension of the day melt away under his touch, letting yourself get lost in him. Because in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the threats, not the fears, not the looming uncertainty of tomorrow. He took hungry advantage to the access to your neck, nipping at the tender skin there, which in turn sent electric shock through and down your spine.

“Beautiful…” he whispered into your skin, “absolutely breath-taking.”

“Could say the same about you.” Your grin was large, breath quickening with every movement of his lips against the flesh of your neck. He pulled away only slightly, a mix of emotions on his face.

“Even after all this time, Love?” He asked, his voice gravelly and heavy with feeling. His voice tinged with playful self-deprecation, though his smirk gave away the spark of mischief in his tone. “With the ‘dad-bod’, as you say, and the gray hair?”

“Always.” You affirm with a smile, leaning in so your lips were just a whisper away from his. “Especially with the dad-bod and the gray hair.”

Your words made him chuckle, the sound deep and warm, but it quickly turned into a low growl as your fingers trailed down from his face, over his broad chest, and settled at his belt. You tugged at it deliberately, your lips curving into a smirk of your own. “Now, get those damn pants off and come here,” you commanded, your voice husky with need.

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped back just enough to comply, his hands placing you down onto your own feet to undo his belt with practiced ease. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he rumbled, his tone equal parts amusement and desire.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you shot back, pulling our shirt over your head and leaning back against the door, watching him with a mixture of affection and anticipation.

He let the belt drop to the floor with a heavy clink, his hands now working the button and zipper as he shrugged out of his suspenders. “Oh, I love it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes raked over you. “Almost as much as I love the thought of filling you.” His words sent a rush of warm blood through to your cheeks, even after all these years together. The air between you crackled with heat, the playful banter giving way to something far more intense as the space between you disappeared again. His pants hit the floor, and before you could quip back, his hands were on you—gripping your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. “And Gods, do I need to fill you.”

With a somewhat shaky hand on his chest, you gently pushed him towards his desk, his body easily and smoothly following your guiding as he found himself leaning against the wooden piece of furniture.

“First,” you began, slowly falling to your knees in front of him, “let someone else take care of you for a change.”

You run your tongue slowly along his length, ensuring he’s well-lubricated and ready before diving into the real effort. Once satisfied, you let your lips glide from the base to the tip in one smooth motion, preparing him—not just physically, but teasingly, setting the tone. His sharp exhale of approval sends a wave of heat through you, a rush of endorphins mingling with your anticipation. That sound, that subtle reaction, only fuels your desire to push further, to see what other noises you can coax from him.

“Fuck,” he sighs as you start to really work, moving the hand at the base in tandem with your mouth as you begin to slowly bob your head up and down, your tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is already deeper, more measured, and he shifts lower, trying to tilt his hips further into your mouth. You could, honestly, listen to the sounds of his moan all day.

Spitting into your hand, you used the combination of saliva and precum to begin pumping his cock while you eagerly took in the full view of the man above you. Chest rising and falling in staggered breaths, Vander’s head was fallen back as he grips the edge of his desk with one hand and the other moves to your hair, carefully gathering it and holding the strands out of your face.

“Bleedin’—fucking hell—” he choked out, his voice rough and raw as you lowered your head, taking him as deep as you could manage. His length felt heavy on your tongue, the warmth of him filling your mouth completely as you worked yourself closer to the base.

When the tip of him brushed against the back of your throat, the sound he let out shifted from a groan to something primal, a deep, guttural noise that sent a shiver down your spine. His reaction only fueled your determination, and you relished the way he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure.

You managed a couple of steady bobs, finding a rhythm, but that softness didn’t last long. His grip tightened, firm and commanding, as if his control had snapped entirely. He thrust into your mouth with a force that sent your head back slightly, his hips moving instinctively, hungrily, as though he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The sheer intensity of it left you breathless, but you braced yourself, meeting his pace with as much control as you could muster. This wasn’t just passion—it was raw, consuming need.

It wasn’t long until you felt a distinct pressure at the base of your skull, his hands-carefully with an edge of urgency-removing you from his shaft and lifting you to your feet. Dutifully, you obey, letting him guide you with a firm grasp on the strands of hair in his hand as he moves you back around, gently moving you atop the desk. Hurried hands rid you of your pants and underwear as you take your perch, and for a moment, the coolness of the wood felt unpleasant. But he’s quick to warm you with the heat emanating from his body as he stepped between your legs.

“Gods, I love that mouth of yours.” He all but croons. His voice like butter to your ears and you have to physically try and focus your mind to not just fall to your knees for him all over again. His presence between your legs, however, keeps you present as he lines himself up to the warm, dripping slit between your legs. “But you know damn well which of your holes I prefer.”

You didn’t mean to let out the desperate whine that ripped from your throat. But as he slid into you, filling you so entirely, that whine turned into a breathless gasp. He took his time filling you, letting both of you fall whole-heartedly into the pleasure. His hands were moving, sliding up from your hips and along your sides to grasp your tits, busying himself to not get lost in the warmth of your cunt and how it seemed to take him perfectly. But you were too busy to focus on his hands, suddenly flooded with the sense of feeling intensely full. “Fuck…”

He shushed you gently, like a tender kiss to your hair as his hands continued to play with the mounds on your chest. “Hush my love, wouldn’t want the little ones to overhear.” His strong hands roam your body, caressing your curves possessively. He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth as he presses his warm body against yours.

As he begins to move, you move your face into his chest, letting the soft muscle muffle your downright sinful sounds. Vander, however, continues to whisper into your ear, hands moving down to your hips. "Gods you feel so good…” he murmurs, “need that cunt so bad, all of you. Every damned inch.”

You’re clinging to him now, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he thrusts in and out of you. Vander’s eyes watched you intently, concentrating on studying the way your body reacted to his thrusts, how you bounced and quivered with his movements, all while he became drunk on the very feeling of you.

Knowing you were both nearing your limits, his movements became even harder and faster, almost animalistic, as he fucked every thought out of your mind, your brain completely blank, pleasure becoming the only thing that occupied your thoughts. His body leaned into yours, forcing you to lay down across the surface of the now creaking desk, your face pressed into his shoulder as his hands traced over to your knees. Well-versed in this, you let your flexibility take over as he maneuvered you into a breeding press, his hips now thrusting into with reckless pleasure.

“Need to fill you, breed you.” He groaned into your skin, voice deep enough that the tone was enough to make your walls clench around him, in turn making him let out a wolf-like growl. “Yeah? You like that? Want me to breed you, love?”

The two of you had discussed this so many times, both within the warmth of the bedroom and outside it. The thought of having your own child—your own little one to nurture, to love, and to watch grow—had always been a dream, but a complicated one. You had both agreed that another mouth to feed wasn’t something you could afford, not when the weight of raising the children you already had was such a burden. They were your joy, your reason for everything, yet the reality of your lives felt too fragile to invite another little one into it. There was also the truth of your years, the undeniable fact that time had a way of changing things.

Didn’t stop the breeding kink from being hot as fuck, though.

“Gods, yes, please!” You cry out, trying desperately to not carry your volume too high. “Vander, please, I need it.” Your horny brain has fully taken over at this point. “I wanna feel it.”

“Cum for me, Love.” He grunts, droplets of sweat rolling down his body. “I’m right there with you, just…fuck, please, I need to feel you cum around my cock.”

Your climax crashes into you at his words, and this obliterates him. Crumpling into a mess of guttural groans, Vander plunges into you one final time and Gods, it’s like you’re seeing the stars again.

As you both lay there, tangled in a chaotic blend of sweat and breathless sighs, your mind, hazy and clouded by desire, can only vaguely register the sensation of him trailing soft, tender kisses along the curve of your collarbones. Each gentle touch, each lingering kiss, sends a shiver through your body, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment as you struggle to catch your breath. Your arms instinctively move up, draping around his shoulders as you nestle deeper into the comfort of his warmth. The stillness of the moment is almost enough to make you forget the mess you’ll have to deal with soon, but it’s there, lingering at the back of your mind.

‘I… needed that,’ he admits softly, his voice low and filled with a quiet satisfaction. You can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes you, the sound light and playful.

‘No shit,’ you tease, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He lifts his head then, his eyes meeting yours with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Without warning, he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that’s deep and heated, pulling a soft moan from your throat. The kiss leaves you breathless, the sensation of his mouth on yours stirring something within you that lingers even as the moment fades.

As he pulls away, Vander’s gaze has softened, his eyes tender and filled with a depth that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as gentle as ever.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he speaks too loudly. You can feel the sincerity in his words, a truth that has been woven into the very fabric of your lives together.

You smile, the warmth in your chest spreading, and you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too, Vander. More than you’ll ever know.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Nothing else matters, not the worries of tomorrow, not the world outside. There is only this—the soft exchange of love, shared in the stillness of your hearts.

He rests his forehead against yours, his breath slow and steady, matching the rhythm of your own. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of hearing you say that,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You chuckle softly, a sound that feels like it’s part of the warmth between you both. “Then I’ll say it every day, if I have to.”

And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and his heart laid bare, you know you’ve found your home.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Dirty Work 13

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Ew, Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The taxi lets you out just outside the darkened estate. Your heart lurches as you stand on the curb, the car slowly rolling away as you stand in a cone of light beneath a street pole. You stare up at the ominous facade with its cavernous windows.

You want to believe it was just a faulty wire or some anomaly but you have to be sure of it. The gate is locked, just as you were certain you left it. You key in the code and shut yourself in. The hedges and looming trees lendthe property an unearthly feel as you creep along, aided only by slivers of moonlight.

You stop and look down at the phone clutched in your hand. You search for the flashlight app and shine it ahead of you. By habit, you go around the back, even as the chirp of crickets and hum of the night adds to your foreboding.

The beep of each digit pressed into the keypad pierces the night. The electronic chime is unceremonious is the nocturnal din. Inside, there is a haze of light from just down the hallway. Did you leave it on or did someone else?

You turn off the light on the phone and drag up the call app instead. Just in case you need to call for help. You proceed without flipping any switches, careful not to make a noise as you advance. You reach the entryway and turn to face the glow emitting from the broad archway.

You hold your breath as dread bubbles up to your throat. You stop short as the clink of a glass cracks the silence. Mr. Laufeyson’s back is to you as he sets down the short tumbler, a stray droplet clinging to the brim. He rescinds his arm and wipes his mouth with his cuff.

You could sigh. It’s okay. He’s only come home early. It’s not some sinister intruder or covetous criminal. It is only him.

You could go and he’d never know of your foolish panic. You lean back on your heel as you tuck away your phone. He strides to the tall glass cabinet and presses the door so it releases. He pushes it open and drags out one of the dark bottles. You sidle backwards, stretching an arm out to feel around you.

“What are you doing here?” He sneers and stops you in your tracks.

You gulp and blink. Speechless. Caught.

“Yes, you,” he turns and uncaps the round-shouldered bottle.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I…” you sputter and step out of the shadows, “the alarm.”

He fills the glass and clunks the bottle down heavily, resting the cap on top but not sealing it. He swipes up the tumbler and brings it before his mouth. His green eyes sparkle like emeralds in the low light of a single lamp.

“And you came oh so quickly,” he scoffs.

You rub your lips together, uncertain what to say. He seems unhappy. His early return is likely for unpleasant reasons.

He swigs and strides, his free hand patting his thigh in agitation as he paces. He spins and retraces his steps, mouthing to himself. You peer down the hall and back at him. You feel you’ve walked in on a very private moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I’ll go,” you say.

“Hm, you do not want to stay?” He challenges as he halts and faces you, his sole scuffing sharply, “I’m certain this place is preferable to whatever sty you reside in.”

“I only came to make sure all is well–”

“And why wouldn’t it be?” He pauses to toss back the last of his drink, liquor by the looks of it. “Were you neglectful in your duties, mm? Shall I take inventory?”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I was only… nevermind,” you shrug.

“Bah,” he waves you off and twists on his feet, once more strutting away. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he goes to stand by the mantel, tilting his head as he gazes along the ornaments. Just where the camera hides. “While you’re here, pour me another drink.”

You chew your lip and wring your hands as you come forward. You break the threshold of the den and near the round table beside the armchair. You peek at him as he toys with the globe, flicking it around with one finger.

“Do take your time,” he hisses.

You grab the bottle and lift the cap. You tip it carefully but still hit it against the top of the glass. The liquid glugs out and the scent rises to tinge your nostrils. You set the bottle down and take the glass, wondering how anyone can stomach it.

You go to him as he leans a hand on the mantel, his other on his hip as he huffs. He shakes his head at some irksome thought. You stand nearby but don’t dare disturb him. He frightens you as he turns and snatches the glass.

“You know,” he begins, stopping himself to drain half the glass, “the last thing I need to worry about is this place. I hired you for just that and I find you looking at me as if this house should be aflame.”

You look down and take a step back. He clucks and pivots, stomping around the sofa. You stay as you are, rigid and uneasy. The anger roils off of him and you are the only one there to hear it.

“My father… of course, couldn’t be happy for my visit. No, never is. I swear he must’ve despised my very birth,” he snarls, “but my brother, oh, he can do no wrong.”

He empties the last of the glass as you peer over your shoulder. He grips the glass tight and bares his teeth at it. His eyes are drawn to yours as if he can sense them.

“You’re still here,” he growls.

“Mr. Laufeyson, sorry, I–” you hurry around the other side of the sofa towards the door, “I was only–”

“No, no,” he stops you as he waves his palm, “another.”

He presents the glass in his other hand. You stare at it. There’s a cloudy tint in his eyes. As you approach, you hear him exhale. You take the glass and his fingers brush yours clumsily as he drops his arm.

You look at the empty tumbler and back to him. You don’t know how much he’s had or how much more he should. You don’t drink but you suppose he wouldn’t need more than a few glasses.

“Are you sure you should–”

“Are you questioning me?” He snips.

“No, Mr. Laufeyson, I only… it’s late and you’ve been traveling–”

“Don’t tell me what’s good for me,” he raises a finger to point in your face, “left alone for one day and you presume a bit much.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, not at all,” you swallow, “I will get you more–”

“No,” he grabs you before you can retreat, his hands on your shoulders, “why…”

His word dangles between you as his question remains unasked. Terror courses through you as he grips your shoulders tight, the size and strength of his hands locking you in place. You bat your lashes as you stare up at him. The liquor clings to his breath as it fans over you.

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you squeak.

He holds on to you, almost trembling. He steps closer as he draws you in. He is almost hypnotised as he glares down at you. His hands slip away only to grasp the bulk of your hood instead, bunching it in his fists. He leans, teetering on his feet, looming over you.

You are trapped in your own shock. You cannot pull away, you can’t push him off, you can’t move. You’re horrified as you wonder what he’s thinking. As you fear what he might do next.

He is drunk, that isn’t a question, but is he dangerous?

“The light plays tricks on me,” he whispers before he lets you go, swaying as he turns and finds his way to the sofa. He flops down, leaning against the backrest. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “You are correct, I am drunk.” He takes a breath and blows out with a groan, his lashes flicking open suddenly as he sits up, “go.”

You nod and put the glass beside the bottle. You march back to the archway and stop, glancing back at Mr. Laufeyson as he drops his head and cradles it in his hands. He looks almost pathetic as he slouches forward.

“I said leave me,” he snaps without looking up, “now!”

🧹

The night is short and fruitless. Your sleep is splintered with anxiety and the morning sees you twitchy and uneasy. As you get ready to leave, you wonder if you should even bother. That rotten feeling in your gut assures you you’ll meet no different than the previous night.

Yet, Mr. Laufeyson hadn’t fired you. He only told you to leave and you can’t afford to give up, though for the first time, you're considering it. As Leslie gets your father’s coffee ready, you’re reminded that you can’t. No, he needs you, he is only too stubborn to admit it.

You set off as the knot in your stomach draws tighter. You don’t sit on the bus, instead standing as your nerves get the better of you. You rock, leaning into the motion of the bus and your stop comes too soon. You drag yourself off and shudder as you look down towards your fate.

You’re on time. Five minutes ahead of expected. The gate code works, that’s a good sign. Your usual trawl through the gardens is hazy and dull. You don’t notice the blue jay winging or the lady bugs crawling on the brick. You can only focus on what comes next. You’re completely blinded by the unknown.

Inside, the house is as empty as the day before. Not truly. You know Mr. Laufeyson will show himself eventually. You hang your bag and put on shoe covers and gloves. It’s Monday, a cleaning day.

You begin if only for the distraction. Down the hall, into the kitchen, room to room, until you reach the den. There is no sign of the previous night’s run-in. The bottle is neatly back in the cabinet with the rest, the short glass is gone, and all appears as it should be. So why does it feel so off?

You work through the room almost ritualistically. You have a pattern and you stick to it. The familiar has always been safest.

As you near the table, something sparkles on the dark hardwood. You bend to pick up the small shard of glass, careful not to let it cut into your fingertips. You glance around to see if it broke off anything close by. No cracks, no chips. It’s clear and tiny. Almost indiscernible.

You cup it in your hand and take it to the kitchen to put in the bin. Something so small can cause a lot of pain. You shake off your palm and let the lid close.

“Ah, I see you are working hard,” Mr. Laufeyson’s voice rolls through you.

You tense and turn slowly from the bin. You keep your head down as you cross the kitchen, “yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

As you try to pass the counter, where he stands, he steps out to block your path. You stop and back up, your gaze stuck to the tiles before his leather shoes. He stands close enough for his warmth to cloud around you.

“Coffee,” he states the single word and in an undeniable demand.

He’s never asked for that before but you can figure it out. It must be a test. Or a lesson. He’s reminding you of your place. You can’t just barge in after hours, even if you are trying to help. Well, that’s the thing, he only wants the help he asks for so you better stop thinking so much.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

You turn and go to the cupboard. You don’t know where anything is. You clean but you don’t cook or go through anything. You open one door; wrong. The second; wrong. On the fifth, you find a bag of coffee.

As you unfold the top, you reveal aromatic beans. You stare at them. You make coffee for your father all the time but you buy grounds, not whole beans. You look around for a hint. You’ve seen people grind beans on television but they don’t exactly show the grinder; it’s always just a loud noise in the background before the balding blonde brings the metropolitan cast their wide brimmed cappuccinos.

You flinch as Mr. Laufeyson struts around the bend of the counter and slides a square device across the granite. He pushes it in front of you, crowding you again. You thank him and stare at the grinder. What do you do now?

You take the little scoop from inside the bag and spoon up a heap of beans. You hover them above the rest as you touch the grinder, turning it as you examine it. He sighs and taps a silver button. The lid pops up and reveals a compartment. You pour in the beans and close the top.

“Are you truly so ignorant?” He accuses.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you utter, not bothering with an excuse.

“It is a simple task. They train teenagers to do it,” he scoffs.

You nod and press the button that reads ‘grind’. You hold it, happy for the noisy reprieve from his criticism. When it’s done, you look around again. There’s a machine but it looks a lot different than the drip machine in your own kitchen. You go over to it and feel along the upper part, searching for a catch. Surely there’s somewhere to put a filter.

He nears again. He slides a drawer out and takes out a little metal canister. He pushes a button to open the top of the machine and wiggles it over it to say, it goes here. You open your hand and he lets you have it. You return to the grinder and scoop out the ground beans into the little canister.

You return to the machine as he taps his fingers on the counter. You slip the canister into place and close the lid. The screen lights up and shows several options. You don’t know which one to choose. He huffs and selects ‘bold’. You stare at his tie in shame.

“How can you not know how to brew a coffee?” He sneers.

You shrug, “sorry, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Mm, there is much you don’t know, isn’t there? Much I know which you wouldn’t,” he snickers, “oh but I know something about you. Something… interesting.”

You furrow your brow and look up, not far, just at his throat. His hand slips across the counter and he looms over you. His gaze bores into you as he hangs over you like a shadow. He pulls back and turns to lean on the counter, lifting his wrist to adjust his watch. He’s certain to turn his hand to show it off.

“What I know is that you’re a liar,” he states, “and sneaky. And nosy.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I only came last night because the alarm–”

“Last night? What do you mean?”

“Uh…” you blink and look him in the face. “You don’t remember?”

“Ha,” he snorts, “of course I do. You were concerned after I triggered the alarm. So be it. I am not talking about that,” he faces you as he smirks, “you like to hide, don’t you?”

You frown and shrug. You don’t know what he means. He laughs and once more touches his watch.

“I know exactly how you came upon my watch that day,” he announces, “and I suspect you discovered a few other curious sights.”

You blanch and shake your head vehemently. Your cheeks are on fire and your whole body is buzzing. You could disintegrate right then and there. You almost wish you could.

“I didn’t– I didn’t see anything at all. I just– I just– Mr. Laufeyson, I wouldn’t ever– you’re my boss. I was afraid but I couldn’t see out from under the bed.”

“But if you could…” he hums.

“No,” you insist, “no, I wouldn’t want to.”

“Wouldn’t want to?” He echoes dully.

“I understand, I was wrong to not say anything but I was only trying to clean–”

“Wouldn’t want to?” He repeats even louder.

You snap your mouth shut and frown. You don’t know what to say. You’re embarrassed. You should’ve just told him yourself. Before you can apologise, he throws his hand up and sidesteps you.

“You may bring me my coffee,” he orders harshly, “be certain to knock.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #dirty work #au #maid au #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor

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