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jungkoode · 2 months ago

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ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 02

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 05, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: self-demanding thoughts; perfectionism, self-critique, pushing oneself, expectations, dismissing praise, first encounter, lowkey sadistic streaks (lol you go girl), shaking, trembling, antisocial behaviors, anxiety, ocd, curiosity

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3k

➔ A/N: So, fair warning, I know the aesthetic needs work, I know there’s no color but it’s 3AM and I pushed myself to post this because I have been writing and editing all night and I needed this bitch out or I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep (tragic). SO. Here’s my baby number 2. What can I say about this one, truly… I think you can really pin down OC’s personality in this one a lot better, bahahahahaha. I know what you guys were thinking when you saw stalker x ballerina, and I’m glad to twist your expectations completely and be like ‘yeah nope’. You’ll see how this develops but… Yeah I don’t know, I fucking love her. I adore the water imagery, I adore the nicknames I’ve given these two and I can’t fucking wait for you guys to see more. I also adore him, no lies told here. He’s so pathetic and reverent and ugh my heart combusts everytime I write him shaking (I am mentally unwell, we all know that). Anyways, no more yapping from me. Enjoy this monster. As always, I’ll be maniacally laughing while reading your unhinged comments. Mwah mwah mwah. 💕

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Another twirl.

Your body knows the motion by heart—the sharp pivot, the snap of head and shoulders following a fraction of a second later, the correction of your core that comes automatically.

Another twirl.

The floor beneath you creaks, just slightly. Just enough to notice. Just enough to hate.

Another twirl. Another twirl. Another twirl.

It's not perfect. It's not enough.

Your ankle wobbles one-eighth of a centimeter on the landing. Invisible to anyone else. Glaring to you. You will never achieve perfection if you don't master a simple fucking twirl.

Another twirl.

Camille sneers from the barre. Her reflection catches yours between rotations—that twist of lips, that narrowing of eyes. It is ugly, really, that expression on her face. The way her mouth quirks down at the corner, the way her nostrils flare just slightly. You would feel anger at the derision in her mouth, but it is so exaggerated it's pitiful, really. So you deviate your gaze, focus on the mirror in front of you, and continue twirling.

Another.

The studio’s windows are streaked with last night's rain—Madame never allows the cleaning staff to touch them during rehearsal weeks. ‘Too distracting,’ she says. As if anything could distract you from the absolute necessity of this movement.

Your leotard cuts into your hip, just slightly. You'll have a mark there later. You don't adjust it. Discomfort is irrelevant.

"Excellent extension,” Madame calls your name from the front of the room.

Her voice is crisp, just as usual. You don't register it. Praise means adequate. It is what's expected of you. Expected and therefore unremarkable.

The rest of the company has moved on to petit batterie. You remain in your corner, working. They glance at you between jumps. You don't look back.

Madame calls your name again, and then says, "join the others, please."

You nod once.

You take your place at the back of the group, not out of modesty but because it gives you the clearest view of yourself in the mirror.

You need to see the mistakes before anyone else does.

Jean-Paul catches your eye in the reflection. Smiles. You don't smile back. His smile isn't for you—it's for the image of himself smiling at you. Everything he does is performance. You recognize it because you do the same.

The piano starts. Your body follows. Jump, land, repeat. Your muscles know the pattern. Your mind catalogs each moment, each placement of finger and toe. It's automatic, this dissection. This constant evaluation.

Madame walks among the dancers, making corrections, yet she never approaches you. That's not a compliment. It's simply acknowledgment that you'll fix your own flaws before she can identify them.

Elodie, in the front row, keeps glancing back at you. Her form is flawless as always, but you note how tense she is. How she always is around you.

She knows you're gaining on her. She's thirty next month. Ancient, in ballet years.

The combination ends. The pianist pauses.

"Let's try that again," Madame says. "And this time, perhaps with some actual musicality? We are artists, not robots."

She isn't looking at you when she says it, but you feel the words land anyway. You've been called mechanical before. Precise to a fault. It shouldn't bother you—precision is the foundation of excellence—but something in your chest tightens.

Water break.

The other dancers cluster by their bags, talking in low voices.

You stay at the barre, stretching.

Your hamstring protests. You push deeper into the stretch.

Madame beckons you. "A word, please."

You cross the room, spine straight, chin level. Your reflection follows you, a pale ghost in black cotton.

"Your fouettés are improving," she says.

It's not a compliment. It's a fact.

"Thank you, Madame."

"The company performs Ondine next season. I'm considering you for the lead."

Your face remains neutral. Your pulse does not.

Ondine. The water nymph who gains a soul through love, only to lose everything.

Not just a lead—the lead.

"I'll work harder," you say.

Madame's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "That would be inadvisable. You're already overtraining. Work smarter, not harder."

You nod, though you don't agree. There is no ‘smart’ way to excellence. There is only work. Endless, punishing work.

You turn back to the center, Ondine in your head.

You’ll research her later.

The piano begins again. You take your place. Your custom Freeds creak slightly—you'll need a new pair soon. This one has perhaps two more hours of life in it. You've already prepared the next pair, scoring the soles according to your usual pattern, crushing the box to your exact preference, sewing the ribbons in the specific formation that minimizes blisters on your Achilles.

Camille watches you from her place at the barre, her freckles barely visible beneath her foundation. She performs friendship whenever others are watching, but you've caught her moving your water bottle from your spot, just slightly, just to see what you do.

Collecting weaknesses like souvenirs.

It is pitiful.

She is pitiful.

You are not.

Another combination. Another chance to fail. Another chance to be slightly less imperfect than yesterday.

L'heure bleue.

The hour, however, is not currently blue. Hours don't hold colors in themselves. The name is pretentious, like most things in this city. But the fluorescent sign flickers that particular shade of navy that matches the rain-slicked streets outside, so perhaps there's some truth to it after all.

You catalog the store methodically. Four aisles. One register. Three security cameras—one broken, its red light permanently extinguished. The floor tiles are chipped at the corners.

Imperfect.

Everything is imperfect here.

Rain slides down the windows in precise rivulets. You've been caught in it twice today already. First during your morning commute, then during the three-minute walk from the studio to this convenience store. Your hair—still pulled back in its regulation bun—is damp at the edges. The slight discomfort of wet hair against your scalp is familiar. Almost comforting.

Better the rain, anyway. You need to understand water if you're going to embody it.

Ondine.

It sits in your chest, the role, like a stone dropped into deep water, heavy like an anchor pulling you under.

You can already hear the applause, see the perfect arc your body will make as you take your final bow.

Another performance. Another success. Another inevitability.

Your eyes move across the shelves with surgical precision. Land on the protein bars. The numbers flash in your mind automatically: 20 grams of protein, 180 calories, 4 grams of sugar.

Excessive.

Unnecessary.

You grimace.

The bar goes back exactly where you found it, aligned with the others. Your stomach tightens—from hunger or discipline, you're not sure there's a difference anymore.

Your bun pulls at your scalp, the slight sting a reminder of structure. Beauty is pain. Excellence is sacrifice. These are not platitudes but mathematical certainties. Input equals output. You have the equations memorized.

The oversized cardigan hangs past your hips, concealing the lines of your body. Leotard, tights, canvas shoes—not pointe shoes, never pointe shoes outside the studio. That would be blasphemous. Disrespectful to the craft. You'd sooner walk barefoot through Paris than subject your pointe shoes to the indignity of street grime.

You move through the aisles with the same deliberate placement of feet that you use in adagio. Heel, arch, toe. No wasted motion. No unnecessary steps.

The cosmetics section is in the back corner, poorly lit. You need cotton pads. The ones at home are nearly gone—three left, to be precise. Not enough for tomorrow morning's routine. You glance down, locate them on the bottom shelf.

Crouch.

A blur of motion interrupts your descent. Someone reaches—faster than you, more impulsive—and retrieves the package. Hands it to you without a word.

You note the gloves first. Latex. Clinical blue. Worn at the fingertips as if from constant scrubbing.

Then the downturned face, completely obscured by ashy, wavy hair that falls forward like a curtain.

You can't see his eyes. Can't see anything above the bridge of his nose. Just the curve of his mouth, pressed into a tight line. The shoulders hunched slightly forward. The careful distance he maintains—close enough to hand you the cotton, far enough that no part of him risks touching you.

"Thank you," you say.

Your voice sounds strange in the empty store.

Too formal. Too precise.

He doesn't respond verbally. Just nods once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. His face remains tilted toward the floor, hidden behind that fall of unkempt hair.

You take the cotton pads. The package is slightly dented on one corner. Your eyebrows furrow before you can stop them.

The reaction is immediate. He snatches the package back, so quickly it startles you. For 2.5 seconds, you stand frozen, watching as he examines the shelf with frantic intensity. He selects another package—perfectly intact—and offers it to you with both hands, like a supplicant.

His fingers never touch yours during the exchange. It’s like the avoidance is intentional. Thought out.

You straighten, the pristine cotton pad package in hand. Consider saying something else. Decide against it. What would be the point? Social niceties are performances without purpose. At least on stage, the performance means something.

The rain continues its assault on the windows. You'll be soaked again on the walk back to your apartment. Your hair will frizz at the temples. Your canvas shoes will squelch with each step.

Bothersome.

You approach the register, mentally calculating how many steps it will take. It feels oddly hollow, this convenience store…

Empty except for the cashier—a pink-haired girl with three facial piercings who hasn't looked up from her phone once—and the strange man with the latex gloves.

Seven steps to the counter. You take them.

The cotton pads make a soft sound when you set them down. The cashier doesn't move.

"Excuse me."

Your voice is clipped. Necessary.

She looks up, blinks, then sets her phone down with visible reluctance. Scans the package. Names a price that you mentally note is 0.20€ higher than last month.

Inflation. Even cotton isn't immune to economic decay.

You reach for your wallet—left pocket of your cardigan, where it always is—and find nothing.

A blank space where certainty should be.

Your hand slides to the right pocket. Also empty.

You left it at the studio. The realization arrives without emotion, just a fact to be cataloged. An error to be logged.

You never make this kind of mistake.

(You made this kind of mistake.)

"I don't—" you begin, but stop.

The sentence is a dead end. Unnecessary.

You'll simply return the cotton pads to their shelf and come back tomorrow. It's inefficient, but not catastrophic. You have three pads at home, which is sufficient for one more morning routine. You'll adjust.

The pink-haired girl sighs. Her lower lip has a small sore where the ring passes through.

Before you can pick up the cotton pads, there's movement to your left.

The man with the gloves steps forward. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that you register the height difference.

It is inevitable, catching the scent of something warm beneath the clinical sting of antiseptic—roasted chestnuts, perhaps. The kind sold in paper cones along the Seine in winter.

He keeps his head down, that curtain of fluffy hair obscuring his features. One gloved hand extends, placing exact change on the counter.

His fingers are long. Elegant, even in those hideous blue gloves. You notice a slight tremor as he pulls his hand back quickly—as if the proximity to the cashier might contaminate him somehow.

The money isn't for him. He hasn't bought anything. It's for your cotton pads.

"I don't need—" you begin, but he's already retreating, backing away from the counter, from you.

His shoulders curl forward. The blue latex of his gloves catches the fluorescent light, making his hands look bloodless. He steps backward, once, twice, eyes still fixed on the floor.

The cashier shrugs, takes the money. "Need a bag?"

You shake your head. No. More plastic waste for something so small would be absurd. Wasteful. Undisciplined.

The cotton pads are yours now, purchased by a stranger who won't look at you.

You should thank him. Social convention demands it. But when you turn, he's no longer beside you.

You scan the store, methodical. Not by the register. Not in the front aisle. You spot him in the back corner, methodically straightening items on a shelf. The motions almost beautiful in their devotion to order.

Three steps and you're close enough to speak without raising your voice.

"Thank you for the pads."

The words come out stiff. Clinical. Ridiculous, suddenly. Thank you for the pads. As if there's any meaning to the gesture beyond simple efficiency.

He freezes completely. His back to you, shoulders gone rigid. You can see the line of his spine through his oversized black shirt. Too thin. His belt has been cinched to the last hole and still hangs loose at his waist.

When he doesn't respond, you consider walking away. You've fulfilled the social obligation. Acknowledged the gesture. There's no reason to prolong this interaction.

But something stops you. Some strange, unquantifiable curiosity about this man who won't face you. Who performs small kindnesses while visibly shaking. Who wears medical gloves in a convenience store.

You wait for a response that doesn't come.

A drop of water falls from your hair onto your collarbone. Slides down beneath your leotard. The sensation is unwelcome and bothersome.

He remains perfectly still, as if movement might shatter something crucial. His breathing is shallow. Almost imperceptible.

You should leave now. The exchange is complete. The social obligation fulfilled.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly. Study the slope of his shoulders. The precise angle of his neck as he stares fixedly at the shelf before him. The way his gloved fingers press against his thigh in a rhythm you can't quite decode.

Something about him is... delicate. Like a blown glass figure one breath away from shattering.

A strange impulse seizes you. You want to see his face. Want to know if his features match the fragility of his posture. Want to understand why he refuses to meet your eyes.

You step to the side. Just slightly. Just enough that you might catch a glimpse of his profile.

His reaction is immediate—he turns away, keeping that curtain of washed-out hair between you. Maintaining his anonymity with surprising determination.

The motion is too deliberate to be coincidental—as if he's preserving something vital through this avoidance.

You find it... interesting.

Most men stare. They always have. Since you were thirteen and your body first began to take the shape that others found worth watching. Their gazes slide over you like oil—unpleasant but expected. A toll you pay for occupying space.

This man refuses to look at all. Refuses even to be seen himself.

The novelty of it sparks something in you. A flicker of curiosity. A desire to press just a little further.

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct. Almost rude in its bluntness.

No response. Just that same rigid posture. The same careful avoidance.

The cashier calls from the front: "We're closing in five."

You should leave. The cotton pads are secured. The errand complete. There's no logical reason to remain.

You take one step back. Then another.

His shoulders lower by perhaps two millimeters. Relief.

Your eyes narrow. What a curious reaction to a simple retreat. As if your mere proximity causes him distress.

As you turn to go, something catches your eye. A small plastic employee badge clipped to his belt. Mostly obscured by his shirt, but partially visible now that he's shifted position.

The convenience store's logo. A name printed beneath it.

Kim.

That's all you can see from this angle. Just a single surname.

You file it away. A data point that shouldn't matter but somehow does.

Four more steps and you're at the door. The rain is still falling, harder now. Your shoes will be ruined.

At the threshold, some impulse you don't examine makes you pause. Turn back.

He's watching you now.

Not directly. Not obviously. But you can feel the weight of his gaze from across the store. Can see how he's angled just slightly in your direction, observing through that muted veil of hair.

When he realizes you've caught him, he jerks his head away. The movement is so abrupt it's almost violent. As if being caught looking is somehow worse than looking itself.

Something unfurls in your chest. Something you haven't felt before and therefore cannot name.

It feels like power, but softer. Like command, but quieter.

Like the moment in rehearsal when you know—absolutely know—that every eye in the room is fixed on the perfect arch of your foot.

You watch him a moment longer. Note how his hands have begun to shake more visibly. How his breathing has quickened. How he seems to be counting something under his breath—his lips moving in a silent rhythm.

Afraid. He's afraid. Of you.

The realization should make you uncomfortable. Should compel you to leave.

It doesn't.

Instead, you find yourself... intrigued. By his fear. By his avoidance. By the contradiction of a man who will pay for your purchases but won't meet your eyes.

He's like a puzzle with missing pieces. An equation that doesn't balance. A phrase of music that ends on an unexpected note.

And you…

You’ve always been intrigued by seemingly unsolvable problems.

As you push open the door, the bell above jingles—a cheerful, discordant note in the tense silence of the store. The sound makes him flinch, though it's difficult to tell if it's the suddenness or simply the fact that it marks your departure.

But you file the reaction away with everything else you’ve noticed about him. Building a catalog of responses. Creating a framework for understanding.

You step into the rain, cotton pads clutched in your pocket.

The water hits your face in cold droplets. Your shoes squelch with each step. Your hair grows heavier with accumulated moisture.

None of it matters.

What matters is tomorrow's rehearsal.

What matters is Ondine.

What matters is perfection.

What matters is, strangely, the image of his downturned face.

The graceful arc of his wrist as he straightened those bottles.

The way he was utterly aware of your presence.

It was beautiful—his fear; his distance.

It makes you wonder what would happen if you shattered it.

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7

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smartkookiee · 6 months ago

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Wounds We Never Show // Ch.6 — jjk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・ ❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader (she/her, afab) ❥genre/rating: 18 +explicit content, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, enemies with benefits ❥chapter warnings/tags: More of a funny chapter, some fluff, Taehyung being the biggest menace on the planet, Some touching (Not sexy touching sorry lol, its worth it), hella tension, dirty thoughts hehehehe, more confused feelings, stress, yoongi mentioned, seokjin continuing to make vics life hard, Jungkook is bad at feelings, drinking, swearing, smoking, y/n continuing to be the biggest avoider of the century, they are getting better just trust me, healthy communicating??? Ji-eun continuing to be my fav ❥word-count: 11.6k ❥Series Masterlist Previous Chapter ||❥|| Next chapter ❥Playlist fic is cross posted to ao3 send an ask or comment on post to be added to the taglist! a/n: This is like 85% edited right now so sorry if there are mistakes but I wanted to get this chapter out as soon as possible! So enjoy and if you see a mistake no you didn't and Happy Holidays! .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・

Five years ago

“Come on! Let me take you out. You don’t even have to think about the breakup anymore,” Taehyung called out, trailing after Jungkook as he moved from his bedroom to the kitchen, then back again.

Namjoon had texted Taehyung earlier, saying Jungkook had been sulking around the apartment for days. The breakup was mutual—or so Jungkook claimed—but it was still a gut punch. He and his girlfriend had been together since the start of college, and the shift from something so constant to nothing at all wasn’t easy to navigate. Jungkook hadn’t gone into much detail, just muttering something about them not wanting the same things anymore.

His silence, though, was worrying his friends.

Jungkook barely acknowledged Taehyung, focused on shoving notes and books into his backpack. “I can’t, Tae. I have to meet my project partner.” he muttered, his voice laced with mild frustration.

Taehyung leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “The one who already doesn’t like you? Sounds like a good enough excuse to put it off.”

“I can’t,” Jungkook said, sharper this time. “She already doesn’t like me, so being late will just make it worse. I’m barely tolerated as it is. We’ve been working on this for weeks, and it’s been nothing but cold shoulders and annoyed muttering.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder, heading for the front door.

Taehyung wasn’t giving up so easily. “So...is this the same partner you were complaining about before?”

“Yes.” Jungkook groaned, not breaking stride.

“Well, maybe I should come along. I’m great with people. Could smooth things over—”

“No,” Jungkook cut him off, opening the door. “Anything connected to me seems to make it worse.”

Taehyung kept pace, still grinning. “But you’re already late. What’s five more minutes? I can be a neutral third party. Mediate, make her laugh, maybe even—”

“No.” Jungkook protested again, but Taehyung followed him. Then kept following him all the way to the library.

Once inside, Jungkook scanned the study area. He spotted you almost immediately at a small table in the corner, papers spread around you like a protective barrier. You were frowning, your hand moving quickly across a page as you scribbled something down, a furrow of frustration etched between your brows.

“Alright, time for you to leave.” Jungkook hissed, spinning around and shoving at Taehyung’s shoulder.

But Taehyung wasn’t going anywhere. He caught sight of you, and his playful expression shifted to one of delight. His mouth fell open, and then a slow, mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “Well, hello, gorgeous.” he muttered under his breath.

Jungkook frowned. “What?”

“You didn’t mention she was hot.” Taehyung said, his grin only widening and a wiggle to his eyebrows. “I can work with this.”

Jungkook groaned, grabbing at Taehyung’s arm to stop him, but Taehyung sidestepped him easily, practically skipping as he made his way over to you. You were deep into some calculations for your math class and you felt like you were going insane when someone sat across from you, you peered up to see a stranger swiftly pulling out another chair at your table.

“Hi.” He said warmly, tilting his head as if he’d just stumbled into a casual coffee chat.

Raising an eyebrow to him, you blinked, your pencil pausing mid-air. “Hi? I’m sorry, do I know you?”

Taehyung shook his head, “No, I’m Taehyung.” He held a hand out to you to shake.

You hesitated for a beat, then placed your hand in his for a quick, polite shake. “Nice to meet you, Taehyung. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m actually waiting for someone.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I won’t take up too much of your time.” Taehyung said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m here on a mission.”

You let out a heavy sigh, “If it’s to ask for my number or anything like that. I’m not interested.”

Taehyung waves you off, not that he would mind slipping you his number, “Nothing of the sort… I mean unless you like what you see.” Taehyung leans back posing in his chair, and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of him. “I’m actually here to get some information.”

“Okay?” You cross your arms over your chest, an amused grin on your face. Jungkook from a small distance amazed you haven’t bitten Taehyung's head off.

Taehyung nodded gravely, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ve come on behalf of my dear, troubled friend, Jungkook.”

Your polite smile faded instantly, replaced by a tight line of irritation. Casting a quick glance past Taehyung. Sure enough, Jungkook was standing a short distance away, half-hidden behind a bookshelf. His expression torn between embarrassment and dread. “I have to apologize Taehyung–”

“You can call me Tae.” He grins with a wink, and you roll your eyes.

“Okay Tae. I don’t know you well enough to get into all those details.”

“How about we have dinner and discuss it then?” Taehyung scoots his chair closer to yours leaning his arms on the table. Just at that moment a hand comes down on Taehyung's shoulder, he glances up to see an annoyed Jungkook towering above him.

“That’s enough.” Jungkook wants to avoid your annoyance at him increasing any further by Taehyung's antics.

“You’re late,” you said pointedly, your tone icy as you picked your pencil back up and focused on your notes. Refusing to look at Jungkook.

“Can you see why?” Jungkook gestured to Taehyung and took another seat at the table. Taehyung rubbing his chin glancing between the two of you with some amusement.

“Wow, there really is some hostility here… almost electric.” Taehyung leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as his gaze shifted between you and Jungkook. His grin was as sharp as a knife, cutting through the tension with deliberate ease. “For the sake of Jungkook’s sanity—and mine—I have to know. Did he ghost you? Forget a birthday? Sleep with you and never call you again?”

Your eyes widened, disbelief freezing you for a beat before your voice finally squeaked out, “Excuse me?”

“Tae.” Jungkook kicks his leg under the table and Taehyung winces.

“I was just curious!” Taehyung raises both of his arms up in surrender, “Seriously, what did he do?” He pressed, eyes sparkling with mischief as he ignored Jungkook’s obvious irritation.

You shifted in your seat, feeling caged in under their expectant stares, but your posture stayed composed. You refused to let them see you squirm. “I thought I already said I don’t know you well enough for the details?” You replied coolly, hoping to deflect.

“Well,” Taehyung said, clearing his throat as if settling in for a monologue. “I’m Kim Taehyung. I’m a Capricorn. I enjoy wine and find most other alcohol kind of overrated. Jungkook’s one of my closest friends, like, ever. I love dogs, but I have a massive respect for cats. See? We know each other better already.”

His brazen confidence was so unexpected it caught you off guard, drawing a small laugh from your lips despite yourself. “That’s all fine and good,” You said, shaking your head, “but this is personal, Tae.”

“Can I at least put in a good word for him?” Taehyung raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, gesturing toward Jungkook like he was trying to sell a piece of furniture.

You hesitated, glancing at Jungkook than back to Taehyung. “Alright.”

Jungkook was surprised you were even entertaining his theatrics. Taehyung’s face lit up in triumph, and he shot Jungkook a smug look before leaning in like he was about to share a juicy secret. “Okay, listen. Whatever he did to earn this… frustration from you, I can guarantee it wasn’t on purpose. Either that, or he’s completely oblivious. Probably the second one, honestly.”

You tried not to let his words affect you, but the sincerity in his voice was hard to ignore. He didn’t seem like he was messing with you.

“Here’s the thing,” Taehyung continued, his tone dropping lower as if the next part was especially important. “Jungkook’s one of the best people I know. Seriously. He’s somewhat dumb sometimes, sure, but he’s also loyal and… well, kind of a big softie. I think whatever’s going on here is probably just a huge misunderstanding.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his words.

Then, as if he couldn’t resist, Taehyung grinned again and reached over to pinch Jungkook’s cheek. “Plus, he’s a big baby and such a cutie, right?”

Jungkook groaned, swatting Taehyung’s hand away. “Stop.”

“No, seriously,” Taehyung insisted, turning to you with exaggerated curiosity. “He’s cute, right?”

You froze like a deer in headlights, eyes darting between them. “I mean… he’s alright, I guess.” you said, shrugging in an attempt to play it cool. It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed Jungkook’s looks, they were hard to miss, but you weren't really on the market these days.

“Okay, but what about me?” Taehyung tilted his head, all innocent. “Am I more than just ‘alright’?”

“Goodbye, Taehyung.” Jungkook stood abruptly, tugging Taehyung up from his seat. “We’re leaving.”

Jungkook got up from his seat trying to pull Taehyung away from his own. Taehyung resists for a moment, snatching your pencil to quickly scribble his number down on a blank piece of paper you had out.

“Call me.” Taehyung lifts his hand up to hear ear to motion for you to call, as he is getting dragged away by Jungkook. Far out of your sight from your table. You glance down at the number, it was poorly written but you could still make it out.

You knew you wouldn’t call but Taehyung's genuine honesty and unabashed personality was a breath of fresh air. At least you could really only hope everything he said was real and not him covering for Jungkook.

After a minute Jungkook returned to the table, annoyance written all over his face. He took his seat again with a heavy sigh. “Sorry… about him.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I could tell he meant well.” You brush him off and continue to write something in your notebook. “Seems like a good friend.”

“He is.” Jungkook nods, finally taking the time to pull out his own books and notes. “Just a tad nosy.”

“You think?” You raise an eyebrow with a small smile, presenting the phone number. “Severely cocky too.”

Jungkook laughs, shaking his head at the horribly written numbers on the page. “Yeah, you’re welcome to burn that.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・

Present Day

Taehyung had always been nosy, maybe even intrusive at times. He really just liked being in people's business and being in the know. This time though, he just happened upon this information and wasn’t really trying to be involved. He really couldn’t help himself in this case.

“If you tell me what’s going on with you and Y/N.” Taehyung said, propping his chin in the palm of his hand. His elbow rested on the table as he studied Jungkook with a knowing glint in his eye.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice steady, though a flicker of unease slipped into his tone. He casually raised his drink to his lips, taking a slow sip as if the conversation was of no consequence.

Taehyung grinned wider, his head tilting. “Oh, come on. Don’t play dumb. I saw you.”

Jungkook frowned faintly, still feigning confusion. “Saw me what?” Jungkook didn’t react—not outwardly, at least. Years of navigating intense courtroom scrutiny made him a master of keeping a cool exterior. But beneath the surface, his pulse quickened.

“You and Y/N. Leaving together after emo night.”

Jungkook blinked once, twice. “Okay?”

“Okay?” Taehyung repeated, drawing the word out mockingly. He leaned forward just enough to make Jungkook feel cornered. “Y/N wouldn’t share a fry with you, let alone a ride home. It doesn’t add up. So I started thinking.” He paused, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table, each tap feeling like a provocation. “At first, I let it go. People share cars sometimes, sure. But then Jimin mentioned you’ve been acting... off. Quiet. Weird.”

“It’s called maturity,” Jungkook quipped dryly. “You should try it sometime.”

Taehyung snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Maturity? You? The guy who stress-ate three bags of gummy worms during trial prep and then tried to convince us it was a ‘tactical’ decision?”

“They were sour gummy worms,” Jungkook shot back defensively. “Completely different vibe.”

“Sure but you’re usually unbearable before a trial.” Taehyung raised a brow. “Pacing around, running through every tiny detail like your life depends on it. Hell, last time you made me and Namjoon sit through your entire case just to ‘practice.’ You even roped Melanie into being the jury. Still can’t believe she ruled against me.”

“She has great judgment,” Jungkook quipped, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure. But here’s the thing: this time? No pacing, no rambling, no pestering me to play the opposing counsel. Just radio silence. It’s weird.”

Jungkook shrugged, his shoulders stiff with tension. “Maybe I’ve gotten better at managing my stress.”

Taehyung snorted. “Yeah, right.” He turned in his seat to face Jungkook fully, his expression sharpening. “When Jimin said something, I started piecing it together. Thinking on the last few weeks. I thought maybe it was family related but, you hadn’t mentioned anything recently. So then I thought, who’s the only person who throws you off your game? Y/N.”

Jungkook’s stomach dropped, but he kept his face neutral. Barely.

“I also thought it might have just been the forced proximity. You two always go nuclear when you spend too much time in the same 500 yards. Except I remembered how weird you two were acting at the wedding, and how you guys disappeared for a while during the rehearsal dinner.” Taehyung continued, his voice dropping just enough to feel like a warning shot. “You think I didn’t notice?” He tilted his head, his gaze cutting. “So, one more time—what’s going on with you and Y/N?”

A silence hung between them in quiet confirmation. Jungkook's face was hot and he was flustered, but also… filled with relief? Like a weight was lifted? Jungkook hadn’t told anyone what had been going on with you two but Taehyung figuring it out made it suddenly so easy. It had all gotten him so wound up and freaked out that he hadn’t realized how much he really wanted to talk. Talk it through, you certainly weren’t going to want to discuss it.

Taehyung’s face morphed into a relaxed and understanding grin, clearly reveling in his own detective work. “Hey, listen. If you’re not ready to talk about it… whatever! I think it’s great. Whatever it is, friendship, relationship, sex. You’re both adults. Have fun.”

Jungkook let out a breathless laugh, adjusting in his seat. “I don’t even know what’s going on. Definitely not a relationship, I’ll tell you that much.” His lips curled into a shy smile, but his voice carried an edge of uncertainty.

Taehyung nodded knowingly, leaning back in his chair. “Well, start by telling me how this all started.”

Jungkook hesitated for a moment, organizing his thoughts. “What’s weird is that, thinking about it now, it feels… insane. We fought at the rehearsal dinner. Like, properly fought. Then we went outside to cool off, and I don’t know—something shifted. We started talking about how we’re terrible at communicating. Like, talking has never worked for us.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “So, I said maybe we should try something else. Something physical.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up. “You suggested that?”

“Yeah. Why is that surprising?”

“Because Y/N would never suggest that, and you’re usually too uptight to even think about it.” Taehyung took a long, deliberate sip of his drink, clearly enjoying the moment. “So you guys…?” He trailed off, leaving the question hanging even though it was painfully obvious.

Jungkook sighed and gave a reluctant nod.

“Oh my god,” Taehyung said, leaning forward with wide eyes and a grin. “I knew you two had chemistry.”

Jungkook frowned. “No, you didn’t.”

“Did too! The first time I met Y/N, it was so obvious. Sure, she was silently plotting your demise, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t heat. You can have tension and attraction, you know.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “You’re delusional.”

“So,” Taehyung pressed, clearly not planning to drop the subject anytime soon, “How does Emo Night fit into this?”

Jungkook leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Honestly… it’s kind of a blur. We were fighting, then we weren’t. Then we were laughing, and the next thing I knew, we were going back to my place.”

Taehyung let out a low whistle, giving Jungkook a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. “Wow. Good for you. It was only a matter of time.”

Jungkook blinked at him, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Taehyung shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, come on. You’re both hot. You’re both single. Nothing wrong with playing around and seeing what happens.”

Jungkook hesitated, his expression shifting. “I don’t think it’ll happen again.”

“Why not?” Taehyung asked, his tone light but his gaze probing.

Jungkook shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “I don’t know. Every time it’s happened, I’ve felt this… weird sense of guilt afterward. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like I’m not even living in my own skin.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m not the type to just hook up, you know that. I don’t have the time or the mindset for it.”

Taehyung tilted his head, studying him thoughtfully. His voice was softer this time, almost careful. “Do you feel guilty because you think you’re not supposed to? Or is it because it actually feels good, but since it’s with Y/N, you’re telling yourself it shouldn’t be happening?”

The question caught Jungkook off guard. He blinked, his brow furrowing as he thought about it. “I… don’t know.”

Taehyung chewed on his lip for a moment, his expression pensive. “If I’m not overstepping,” he said cautiously, “I think you are enjoying yourself. And sure, I know you only like to sleep with people if you’re considering a relationship—”

“That’s the thing,” Jungkook cut in, his tone sharper than he’d intended. “I’m not looking for anything right now. Let alone with Y/N.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Taehyung held up a hand, his voice calm but insistent. “I’m saying maybe… let the chips fall where they may.”

Jungkook frowned, his confusion evident. “What do you mean?”

Taehyung leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the tabletop as he chose his words. “You’ve had so much going on in the last year. Maybe this—whatever it is—is happening at the perfect time. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t have to be forever. But maybe it’s exactly what you need right now.”

Jungkook snorted, shaking his head. “I’m not like you. I can’t just sleep around. Plus, work takes up all my time.”

Taehyung laughed lightly, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Oh, I’m not saying with just anyone or all the time. I’m saying just whenever it comes about naturally… with Y/N.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” Taehyung said, grinning now. “Funny enough, I think Y/N is perfect for this. She’s not going to get attached to you, and you already know you have chemistry. It’s like the universe handed you the ideal situation on a silver platter.”

“No,” Jungkook said firmly, shaking his head again. “It’s too complicated with Y/N. It shouldn’t happen again.”

“Why not?” Taehyung pressed, his teasing grin fading into something more thoughtful. His voice softened, but the curiosity behind it remained sharp. “Have you even talked to her about it? Like, actually talked?”

Jungkook let out a dry laugh, the sound short and humorless, as he rubbed his chin. “Sort of. Not really. We talked about the wedding for about five seconds, and then we fought about… well, the last time.”

Taehyung snorted, propping his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Wow, groundbreaking. Gossip of the century. You and Y/N fighting? Stop the presses, I’m shocked.” His voice was thick with sarcasm, and the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth made Jungkook glare.

“You act like conversations come easy for us,” Jungkook shot back, his tone defensive.

Taehyung tilted his head, his expression shifting to something softer—almost amused. “You know,” he began, his voice thoughtful, “I’ve gotten to know Y/N pretty well over the years. She’s not as stubborn as you make her out to be. If anything, she’s way softer than she lets on.”

Jungkook looked at him sharply, his brow furrowing. “Okay?”

“It means,” Taehyung said patiently, “you should at least try. Y/N is actually pretty reasonable once you sit down and actually talk to her.”

“Talking to her isn’t as simple as you’re making it sound,” Jungkook muttered, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.

Taehyung raised an eyebrow. “You talk to people you don’t even like all the time at work. How is this any different?”

“Where do you think I got all that practice?” Jungkook retorted dryly.

Taehyung let out a bark of laughter, his head tilting back briefly before he fixed Jungkook with a pointed look. “Fine. You’re going to Namjoon’s tomorrow, right?”

“Of course.” Jungkook said, crossing his arms like the question was ridiculous.

“Perfect,” Taehyung said, clapping his hands together. “There’s your opportunity. Just try to have a normal conversation with her. Just… be casual. You can do that, can’t you?”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know me?”

Taehyung ignored the jab, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m serious. You don’t have to solve the world’s problems tomorrow. Just talk. And for the love of all that’s holy, keep your clothes on. Since that seems to be difficult for you two now.”

“Alright I’ll try.” Finishing off his drink, Jungkook stood. “I should go now. I need to get some more work done tonight.” Jungkook started to leave when Taehyung called after him.

“Hey!” Taehyung called after him as Jungkook made his way to the door. “Just think about it, alright? You might even realize I’m right. It happens more often than you’d think!”

Jungkook just waved to him as he left. He was going to make his way up to his car but he paused. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Taking one and lighting it. He hadn’t been smoking as often lately, but he felt he deserved one after the success of the week. Jungkook took a long drag letting the smoke fill his lungs before blowing it out through his nose. A small buzz washed through him, cigarettes didn’t really have the same hit these days but couldn't quite kick the habit.

He knew the smell would stick to him, would linger and cling to these clothes. He started to walk up the street to his car. Just finishing off the cigarette slowly and making sure he was more than safe to drive. Thinking about what Taehyung told him, he hadn’t thought he had been so stressed. Hooking up with you continuously was just a recipe for disaster, it had to be. He was just asking for something to go wrong and you two were always on thin ice as it was. Not that Jungkook would ever bring up any of Taehyungs advice to you… again.

Last time was the last time, a very specific set of circumstances had to come together for the last two times to even work out.

All though Jungkook had become the furthest thing from your mind this evening. You were entering the hospital at the ungodly hour of 10:30pm because you decided yeah I can totally switch shifts this weekend! I haven’t done a night shift in a while so this will be fine! You are majorly regretting it now. You had slept most of the day but you were still somehow exhausted.

“Good morning beautiful.” Vic greeted you as you trudged your way to sit next to her at the nurses station. You shot her a glare sitting down in your chair pulling out one of the tablets.

“I hate the night shift. Why did I agree to this?” You groan, typing your password multiple times and failing.

“Because you are lovely and wonderful and Maya really needed the switch.” Vic stood up and behind you and rubbed your shoulders. “You can do this, it’s pretty simple at night anyways.”

“Ugh please don’t jinx me. You’ll say that and suddenly everything’s gonna go wrong.” You lay your head back looking up at her with a small pout.

“You’ll be just fine, plus Yoongi is here all night with you. He’s fun to torture during the night shift.” Vic patted you before she grabbed her bag and rounded her way to the elevators.

“Have a good night.” You call out to her but then dive your head into your work. Since it was so easy going you knew this would be a good opportunity to finish up paperwork. There was always plenty to catch up on, you could maybe even get a medication inventory count done tonight as long as everything goes smoothly.

You spend the next little while just working. Yoongi came and joined you after a while and you both just made small conversation here and there. The two of you had actually gotten closer in the time you’ve been up here. He’s actually super nice and much funnier than anyone gives him credit for. The quiet exterior thing was mostly a professional front but when he’s around you and Vic he loosens way up.

Once one of the other night nurses, Kay, had arrived you stole him away to help you with meds.

“Okay would you rather broadcast your thoughts to everyone around you at all times or never be able to think in words again?” You ask as you write down some notes about things that need to be ordered.

Yoongi thought for a moment as he is opening up a box to inspect the contents, “Can I think in pictures?”

“Hmm I’ll say yes but you can’t imagine pictures of words.” You tap your pen against your mouth.

“I’ll never think in words again. I don’t need everyone knowing my thoughts.” Yoongi says and you nod. “What about you?”

“You know what, I agree. I don’t need everyone knowing how often I think about quitting.” You snort under your breath. Yoongi smiles amused.

“We all know, you don’t need your thoughts broadcasted for that.” Yoongi teased and you push his shoulder.

“I’m quitting right now.”

“Right.”

You sigh looking around. “Well we’ve barley made a dent. I’m going to going do a loop and check in, will you see if Kay needs anything?” You hand him the notepad you had been making notes on.

“No problem, and we can totally finish this tonight. Plus we have like 10 more hours.” Yoongi points around the room. It’s true you guys just needed to stay focussed.

“Nah you have better things to worry about tonight. I’ll just force Wendy to help me when she gets in.” You wave your hand back and forth, leaving the closet.

You make your way up and down the wing. Most patients were asleep and you would slip in just to make sure there was nothing you guys were missing or not being alerted about. You had pretty good systems and alarms to make sure that didn’t happen but you always liked to check just to make sure. Everyone seemed in good shape for the night, you decided to ends your rounds with checking in on Ji-eun. You poked your head into the room to find she was in fact awake. She was looking at something on her Ipad. The light dimmed.

“What are you—” You step into the room, Ji-eun's attention pulled to you. At that moment your attention is immediately pulled to the couch that came into view. Someone was asleep there with blanket pulled over them and they were facing away. You drop your voice to a whisper. “Oh my god I’m so sorry. I didn’t know someone was here with you.”

You try to backing out of the room, but Ji-eun waves for you to come back. Her voice also a whisper, “No no no come back in. I’m happy to see you, you’re never here this late.”

A sigh of exhaustion leaves you, “Yeah one of the girls needed to switch shifts due to an emergency. So here I am.”

“That’s nice of you. I can’t imagine overnight shifts are at all easy.” She gives you a sympathetic smile, setting her iPad to the side.

“It’s alright. Dr. Min and Kay are good company.” Your attention is pulled back to the figure on the couch that shifts slightly. Maybe it was Ji-eun’s husband? You hadn’t had a chance to meet any of her family yet. They were never here when you usually worked. “Is that your husband?”

Ji-eun looks over and then back to you with a shake of her head. “Oh no, this is one of my boys.”

“Oh! How sweet he’s here with you.” You glance over and then back to her.

“Yeah he must have arrived just barely before you. He’s had a long week and hadn’t been able to stop by. Then he fell asleep.”

“Is this his first time coming to see you? Since you got here?” You found your curiosity peaked.

“Oh no no. He was with me the day I checked in and then he’s been here several times since. Always late like this.” She glances over then back to you. “I hope it’s okay he’s here.”

Technically you really shouldn’t let family stay over night but it wasn’t a rule. More frowned upon due to some incidents in the past. “Usually we try not to allow it, but I’ll let it go for now.” You give her mischievous grin, and she laughs to herself.

Ji-eun had an operation schedule for two weeks from now for the tumor in her leg to be removed. She was in high spirits about it. Removing that tumor would officially bring her back down to stage 3. The hope was that they could remove the whole thing.

Dr. Kim took a new biopsy earlier in the week and you learned this tumor was completely unrelated to the liver cancer, which was the original belief. Since the tumor had gotten down almost to the bone she would be off her feet for some time. She also will have to stop chemotherapy for a while until she heals from this operation. So mostly good things but concerning in terms of her cancer and how aggressive her case has been.

The current treatment hasn’t shown any signs of improvements to the tumors on her liver. It was still early so it was inconclusive. You could tell from the way Dr. Kim and Yoongi had been speaking about it that they were hoping for more improvement. Ji-eun hadn’t lost her spirit though. She was still so cheerful everyday you saw her and always had a story or smile to give. She’s made the weeks up here easier. In the time you’ve spent up here you have seen a few patients pass. Two just this week. You didn’t know them well but it was still tough. Especially because they were cases that had much better odds than most. Needless to say it weighed on you, so talking to Ji-eun made it easier.

Vic and Yoongi had also done a good job at showing you how they handle it. In other specialties you don’t spend as much with the patients, little easier to become impersonal. Up here you have people who are here for weeks or months so you learn about them. Which makes it worse if they don’t pull through.

“Why are you up so late?” You sit on the end of her bed, “You just had treatment on Tuesday, you need rest.”

“Just a touch of nausea it’ll pass.” She pats her stomach.

“Are you finally admitting to feeling it a little?” You say, talking about the chemo. Ji-eun had been doing well on this one and not shown any major symptoms yet. At least, that is what she was telling everyone.

“A little.” She huffed, “Nothing serious. It’ll pass soon.”

“I can get you something if you need. You don’t have to just tough it out, even though I know you try too.” You lean on one of your hands, your face falling into slight concern.

“I'm tougher than you think. No chemo can get me down. Now you go. I’m sure you have plenty of work that needs to be done.” She tried to wave you out of the room, but you roll your eyes.

“I’ve got a minute.” You glance over to her ever updating pile of crochet projects. “What are you working on right now?”

Ji-eun glances to her pile. “I know it’s a big cliché, but I’m working on a few things for you and Victoria, and the docs.” She pull over some of her stuff, “It’s just scarves.”

She pulls out one that looks to already be complete that is green and blue and red stripes. Another that is all red.

“The stripped one is for Dr. Kim. The red is for Victoria. Felt fitting since she is so fiery, and Dr. Kim is so flamboyant.” She held them out to you, they were very well done. She picked a very oft thread for them as well so they were nice to touch.

“Oh these are lovely.” You fold them and lay them back down on the bed. “Dr. Kim will love his, I assure you.”

“And this,” She reaches down on the side of the bed, “will be yours eventually.” She pull out a dark blue scarf that had stars being stitched throughout. It was still a work in progress, maybe about half way done? It was truly lovely so far. “I think it looks pretty good!”

You give her a happy pout looking at it, “I love it. It’s so cute. I can’t wait to wear it.”

“Well I better hurry up and get it done!” Her voice was a little louder than she intended, and whichever of Ji-eun's sons was on the couch stirred. “Whoops too loud. Can I get your opinion for Yoongi? I want to make him one but I’m not sure.”

You thought for a moment if you should tell her to give him something outrageously bright just to see him feel forced to wear it. You decided against it though. “Probably something neutral. He’s not the flashy type. Maybe a black or grey.”

“Awe I was hoping maybe he had a colorful streak hidden under that quiet exterior.” Her face twisted in annoyance, “Neutral it is.”

You get yourself off the bed. It was time that you got back and continued your work. It was a nice little break but there was a lot left to be done tonight.

“I must leave you now. If you need anything you know where we are.” You take a step towards the door.

“I’ll try.” Ji-eun huffs with fake annoyance in her tone like you were a mom scolding her.

You roll your eyes knowing she’s just going to continue to be tough about it. You turn to the door before something catches your attention before stepping out. It was subtle and you hadn’t noticed it before but you definitely smelt it now.

Just a faint smell of cigarette.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・

After a long and grueling night. Your shift was coming to an end. You and Yoongi, with the help of Wendy another night nurse, you managed to get a good jump on inventory. The rest of the night you mostly just did paperwork and bothered Yoongi when you could. No major issues except you were not really built for a night shift. About an hour ago you took advantage and stowed yourself away to get a tiny bit of rest in an on call room. With your slumber abruptly interrupted.

“Rise and shine baby girl!” Vic hit her leg on the side of the bunk you were sleeping in. Rattling it and you awake.

With an angry grunt you rolled over to look at her. “You’re so obnoxious.”

“I’m here to relieve you. Get up.” She holds a hand out to you to help you get to your feet. “How was last night?”

“Not bad.” You yawn and stretch your arms straight into the air. You fill her in on some other details and you both leave the on call room and walk back to the nurses station. Giving her some updates on what you and Kay did in the night.

You collected some of your stuff from the desk when you overheard some of the other girls you worked with talking.

“Okay but like you saw him.” Lana, a new hire here, leaning on both of her hands swiveling from side to side in her chair. Dramatically star struck.

“You were right, hot.” Angel, another girl who usually works opposite shifts of you. So you haven’t gotten to know her much.

“Ladies,” Vic interrupted arms folded, “I think we have better things we could be doing?”

“Yeah but Lana’s crush was here. So she’s all distracted now.” Angel rolled her eyes, nudging Lana to come out of her dream state. You laugh under your breath.

“Who’s her crush?” You breath, balancing your stuff in your arms. Looking between the two of them.

Lana groaned, “I don’t actually know his name. I’m just pretty sure he’s Ji-euns son. You had to have seen him Y/N, you’re on her case.” She looked to you, her pupils practically turning into little hearts.

“I actually haven’t met any of Ji-eun’s family. I’ll see what I can find out.” You yawn thinking back on it. Sad Ji-eun’s been excited to introduce you to her family and you just barely missed him. Maybe next time.

“Get his name as soon as possible please. So Lana can bug you about it instead of me.” Angel got up from the desk, walking away as quickly as she could. You and Vic watch her go in her annoyance and you both have amused smiles.

“I’m sure you could just ask. Ji-eun uses any opportunity to talk about her family.” You pat Lana on the shoulder, “Hope he’s everything you hope he is.”

“Me too.” Lana gets up as well taking a tablet with her in a day dreamy walk.

“Don’t encourage her. She’s new so she doesn’t need to get her hopes high. ”Vic nudged you. She was mostly teasing.

“Hey, we need some new entertainment around here other than Yoongi. I’m just sad her crush isn’t on him so we don’t get to tease him about it.” You laugh, just then Seokjin and Yoongi were rounding the corner.

“Good morning my wonderful staff.” Seokjin beamed between you and Vic. Vic narrowing her eyes at Seokjin already. Oh he’s in for a long day.

“You didn’t sign your charts last night.” She taps her finger impatiently. Yoongi trying to hide. “Yoongi this goes for you two, and you have no excuse you were here all night.”

You place a hand on her, “To be fair he really helped us out with the medicine and inventory count.”

She huffs, “Okay fine you’re off the hook. You sir,” pointing back to Seokjin. “You’re gonna sit and do it before you do anything else today.”

“What’s with the hostility? To think I bought treats for you today and this is the thanks I get?” Seokjin sniffs and fake wipes his eyes.

“I’ll be less hostile when you sign your charts.” She barks.

You decide you need to slip out now before the blood bath begins. You made your way home in record time. You were desperate to sleep in your own bed because you were finally going to see Melanie tonight. You were so excited that her and Namjoon were back, and tonight would be all in good fun. Or at least you hoped it would.

Jungkook's annoying presence would certainly be something to handle… considering.

You couldn’t even think straight as you crashed on your bed. You didn’t even bother to change, just letting the weight of the night overtake you. It felt like a blink of an eye though as it was suddenly 6 pm. You needed to get up and get ready for sure now. You had roughly about an hour before you needed to be getting out the door. So you shower the night off and dress casually, you had a feeling you may be crashing there tonight so you didn’t need to look amazing.

You certainly didn’t feel too amazing, exhausted really.

After too long you were arriving and knocking on the front door. Namjoon and Melanie had a very nice townhome, it wasn’t decorated in a typical fashion. It was always very warm and welcoming and homey. You tended to hang out here a lot because of how good of a job they did at making it so nice. Unfortunately that did involve many night where you, Ash, and Melanie overtake the house and Namjoon is left sleeping in the guest room or downstairs. He really didn’t mind but you always felt a little bad.

With a swift swing open of the door Melanie was who you came face to face with. “Finally! My knight in shining armor has arrived!” Melanie swooned against the door frame.

“My darling I’ve return from war!” You step inside and are immediately enveloped into a hug. It was so nice to finally have her back. You didn’t want to bug her with anything while her and Namjoon were away but now it was free game. “I need to hear every detail about your trip.”

“Oh trust me I’ve got a whole presentation prepared.” She keeps an arm around you as you enter the house.

The entryway was a long hallway with tall ceilings, stairs lined one wall, with entrance to the living room first and then just up the hall entrance to the kitchen. A small bathroom tucked under the stairs.

“Oh I can’t wait.” You giggle and rub your hands together, “I need something to eat though I’m starving.”

“Oh there’s plenty of food so help yourself. We’ve got all night.” She pulled you into the living room where you were greeted with Ash and Namjoon in a heated debate about what looked like a just finished match of Mario kart. Taehyung was sprawled out on the couch, looking like a kicked puppy. Melanie sat down on the opposite love seat leaving you standing,

You squat down to Taehyung's eye level, “What was it this time? Eleventh or twelve?”

He fakes sobs, “If there was a thirteenth place they would make it for me.” You snort and ruffle his hair.

“You’ll get him next time.” You sit down on the love seat with Melanie laying your legs across her lap.

“You don’t want to sit with me?” Taehyung sat up on the couch with a puppy dog look in his eye.

“I need some Melanie time tonight. I’ll give you my attention another time.” You say but Taehyung still played sad.

“Mel! Back me up! He so cheated!” Ash erupted between the three of you, pointing to Namjoon accusingly.

“I did not!” Namjoon quipped back, “She’s the one who was trying to shove me the entire time!”

“I’m not getting in the middle of you two and your stupid Mario kart rivalry again! I made that mistake once and I almost got my head bitten off for it.” Melanie grumbled in annoyance at the two of them. They both deflated but still were annoyed.

“You know how competitive they get, why let them play?” You ask, raising an eyebrow to Taehyung and Melanie.

“I left the room for five seconds and suddenly they were deep into it by then.” Melanie raised her hands in innocence. You believed it, Ash and Namjoon had a years long running tally of Mario kart wins. They always stayed neck and neck and it was very serious for them. You were okay at it, always coming out somewhere in the middle.

“Well I need a drink if this is how the night is going to continue.” You get back up from your seat.

“There’s tons of wine please drink it.” Namjoon called after you, you gave a thumbs up behind you in response. Heading down to the kitchen.

Rounding your way into the in there really was tons of snacks and food at the ready on the island counter. You imagine Melanie had meant to bring it into the living room but got sucked into the game with the others.

You pick a random bottle, opening it and pouring yourself a glass. It was pretty good for a random pick. You balance your glass, the bottle, and a armful of snacks bringing them with you to the living room to lay them out on the coffee table.

“Oh thank you.” Melanie beamed, taking a bag of chips from you.

“I figured they got left behind in the gaming escapades. This wine is also nice.” You take another sip from your glass, setting the bottle down.

Melanie takes the bottle holding it up to Namjoon, he also looks at it, “Joonie, where did we get this one?”

“Jungkook got it as a gift.” Namjoon nodded when seeing the bottle.

Taehyung dramatically held onto the nearest object. You gave him a funny look.

“Sorry Jungkook's name was mentioned in your presence. Thought I should prepare for a disaster.” He teased, you hit him on the shoulder.

“I’m not that dramatic.” You settle down on the couch next to him. “Here I’ll give him a compliment right now. He can pick out a nice wine. Let’s hope it’s not poison.”

“Wow,” Taehyung deadpanned, clutching his chest. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“Anyways, what’s going on with you these days.” You look at Taehyung. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

“I tried to catch up with you at emo night but seems you got stolen away.” Taehyung says and it makes you take a slight moment of pause. Taehyung said it that way on purpose. Knowing what he knows, “You know cause you went home early.”

You nod, playing it cool. “Yeah I had too much. It was good I called it early because it could have gotten messy.”

“Probably smart, a little too much to drink can make us do some questionable things.” Taehyung says it almost with some suggestion, like trying to point to a certain subject. It didn’t slip by you, it felt too intentional.

“Yeah, I guess?” You play it off, “Anyways, any new girl I can hear about as of late? Any crazy stories you got for me?”

Taehyung shakes his head, “I’ve taken a little break lately. Trying to be serious.”

“Really? You?” You cock an eyebrow.

“Nah,” He smirks, “What about you? Anyone wrapped around your finger at the moment?”

You narrow your eyes at him, Taehyung had a way of trying to subtly gets answers. Him asking about your love life never comes without a catch. Last time it was a blind date he wanted to set you up on. “No. I’m not really looking right now.”

He slowly nods his head, his stare a bit too intense for comfort. “Very interesting.”

“Okay what are you planning? If you're planning on giving my number out to someone can I at least know who and why?” You groan, leaning your head on the back of the couch looking up to the ceiling.

“No I wouldn't do that to you… again. I’m just confirming a solution to a problem I’m working on.”

You wanted to probe further into what Taehyung was talking about, but decided to just leave it. Whatever he had cooking up in his mind could not be good. Better to not indulge him.

The night buzzed with the hum of wine-fueled laughter, the clink of glasses, and a playlist that had long since fallen victim to the chaos of too many requests. You were tipsy, just enough to feel bold and carefree, your giggles blending seamlessly with the chatter around you.

Ash, Melanie, and you had claimed the big couch as your domain, limbs tangled in a haphazard heap. Your head rested in Ash’s lap, where she was absently braiding and unbraiding sections of your hair, likely creating a disaster you'd deal with tomorrow. Namjoon and Taehyung had been exiled to the love seat and the floor, making them easy targets for your drunken commentary.

This was how these nights always went—wine, games, and an inevitable retreat to Namjoon and Melanie’s room, where the three of you would indulge in a late-night slumber party like teenagers.

Just then a ring from the doorbell sounded through the house. Announcing the arrival of the demon spawn. Namjoon sprung up from his spot and trotted to the door. You could hear a few voices echo in the hall before Namjoon and Jungkook reentered the room with some laughs.

“Golden boy finally arrived.” Taehyung held his arms up in celebration. The wine in his glass almost flinging everywhere.

You rolled your eyes so hard you were sure they’d get stuck. Melanie wiggled her way out from under your legs to give Jungkook a hug, which he returned with genuine warmth. You looked away, muttering under your breath, “Great, now we’re all blessed by his presence.”

Melanie beamed, entirely ignoring your sarcasm. “Okay, now that everyone’s here, we can finally show pictures from the trip!” She dashed out of the room and returned moments later with her laptop, bounding around everyone and hooking it up to the TV.

“Oh you actually had a presentation prepared?” You laugh at her and Melanie rolls her eyes.

“Yes,” Melanie retorted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’ll like it. Now, everyone, sit.”

Melanie urges Namjoon and Jungkook to sit back down. Namjoon took the available spot next to Taehyung, which left the spot your legs currently occupied the only place left.

The command turned the room into a musical chairs scramble. Namjoon reclaimed his spot by Taehyung, leaving the couch seat you were sprawled across as the only one open.

Jungkook eyed the seat with a smirk and crossed his arms. “Guess you’ll have to move.”

Without budging an inch, you waved dismissively at the floor. “There’s plenty of space down there.”

Jungkook, tilted his head, tongue in cheek. He should have expected the immediate annoyance he would get from you being here. Taehyung watched from the other couch with bated breath, sipping on his wine.

“Oh this looks like such a comfortable spot though.” Without warning Jungkook places his butt right on top of your legs. Sighing joyfully, it was not comfortable but the face you were making was worth it.

Ash immediately burst out laughing, her hands still tangled in your hair. “I mean, he’s not wrong. You’re pretty cozy.”

“Get off.” You groan, tugging your legs out from under him and sitting up straight.

Jungkook stretched out leisurely, claiming the newly vacated spot with a satisfied smirk. "Ah, much better."

You narrowed your eyes at him, resisting the urge to shove him off the couch entirely. Taehyung, still observing from his perch with an amused glint in his eye, raised his glass in toast. "And just like that, our main event is underway."

"You're enjoying this way too much," you snapped at Taehyung, who simply shrugged and sipped his wine.

Melanie clapped her hands, reclaiming everyone's attention. "Alright, children, settle down. You're distracting from my masterpiece here." She gestured to the TV, where the first picture from their trip was already displayed: a stunning view of a mountain range bathed in golden light.

The room collectively oohed and aahed, and Melanie launched into a detailed explanation of the hike they had to endure to get the shot. Namjoon chimed in with a few quips about Melanie nearly slipping on a rock, which earned him a playful swat on the arm.

Ash, kept you grounded in your spot so you didn’t push Jungkook away. He didn’t try to antagonize you again. He stayed settled to his spot and his attention on Melanie. Staying engaged with everyone except you. You got another drink into you during the presentation and so did Ash. both of your giggling every now and then on your side of the couch. Entertaining yourselves thoroughly.

Jungkook just stayed as far on his side as he could. Didn’t mean something else was happening. Because Taehyung was texting him.

Tae: So are you going to talk to y/n tonight??????

Tae: I think you should ;)

Tae: Remember just keep it casual!!!

Tae: Could lead to… well you know… again ;)

Tae: I’ll even break the ice

Tae: ;)

Tae: Should be an interesting evening

Jungkook would look every once in a while and not dignify Taehyung with a response. Jungkook could feel Taehyung’s eyes also boring into the side of his head in anticipation. He was looking for that spark, maybe there was something much more going on here.

After a little while, the wine was really getting to you. As well as your messed up sleep schedule making you fuzzy. Warm. You were watching Melanie talking about some trail her and Namjoon followed and got lost along as your attention was caught to Jungkook moving his hand to run through his hair. Settling it back down into his lap. It caught your attention for a moment and it felt like it moved in slow motion. Then without even realizing you were staring at his hands in his lap.

He was fidgeting with his fingers. Probably mindlessly playing with them. Your mind began to drift though, because you know those hands now. You know they are much softer than they initially look. They were warm and strong. His fingers are long and slender, pretty even. Pretty in an artistic way, almost. A memory of them running all over your body imprinted on your mind. Being pulled to the surface.

Almost too quickly you felt like your face was on fire. The memory coming in small flashes. A laugh to a messy drunken make out in a fluorescent bathroom. Your lips finding their way to his skin. Then being in his apartment and stripping down together. Then suddenly being laid back. First his fingers and and then his tongue painting you with pleasure. You could see his hands in your mind so clearly, then suddenly his eyes. Looking back at you, while he took you over the edge.

You need to stop. You shook your head and adjusted in your seat almost too quickly. You cannot be thinking about this right now. What is wrong with you? It had to be the wine, you always got somewhat horny when you drank wine. You settled back into your spot, playing it cool. Your eyes danced around the room for a moment. Pulling yourself back down to earth. Keep it together, you are better than this.

Your eyes glanced at Jungkook for one second. Not even trying to look but you caught him right as he was playing with his lip ring with his tongue. Forcing your eyes to look back to Melanie and the screen.

Pay attention to the presentation.

Your foggy conscience easily betrayed you though. This time, quiet and patient kisses in an elevator. Then a dark hotel room. An image of Jungkook standing above you saying please. Then him placed behind you, slipping himself inside–

You take in a sharp breath in through the nose. You begin to pick your own nails. Surely if you keep your hands busy you can keep your mind distracted. Yes you were a little tipsy and you were having flashbacks but you can fight this. Remember he’s gross, awful, and has said horrible things to you. He drives you insane.

You will not let your tipsy mind flow to... Jungkook.

You decided you needed to get some ice cold water. The pictures wrapped up, Melanie’s enthusiastic commentary dwindling to polite applause as everyone shifted back to casual conversation. You decided it was the perfect moment to escape, slipping away toward the kitchen with quick, deliberate steps. The quiet was immediate and welcome, wrapping around you like a shield.

Getting yourself a glass and getting some water from the sink. Sipping it quickly, letting the coolness slow your mind.

The reprieve didn’t last long.

You heard the floorboards creak and glanced up just in time to see Jungkook stroll into the kitchen. His presence was impossible to ignore. He didn’t look at you at first, but you felt him there, his every move trying to pull at your attention like a gravitational force.

Your grip on the glass tightened reflexively.

“Jungkook.” Your voice was flat, carefully devoid of emotion.

“Y/N.” He mimicked your tone, brushing past you to grab a glass of his own. His voice carried a teasing edge, but there was something else—something softer underneath.

The silence that followed was sharp and deliberate, the air thick with unspoken words. Jungkook could easily toss out some snarky comment to rile you up, it was practically his trademark, but he didn’t. Not this time.

Instead, he lingered, standing just close enough for the faint scent of his cologne to drift your way. Cedarwood, or something like that. It was annoyingly intoxicating.

You busied yourself with your phone, scrolling aimlessly. A quiet laugh escaped you at something you saw, but it felt too loud in the stillness, too revealing.

Clearing his throat, Jungkook finally broke the silence. “How are you?”

You blinked at your phone, unsure if you’d heard him right. Slowly, you glanced his way. “What?”

“How are you?” He rubbed the back of his neck, his movements almost shy.

“Why?”

“I’m making conversation.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what people do, Y/N. They talk.” His tone had a touch of exasperation, but his lips curled into a faint smirk. “Just answer the question. You’re not going to combust if you do.”

You hesitated, the urge to deflect warring with the odd sincerity in his gaze. “I’m good,” you said finally, though it felt like pulling teeth. “Exhausted, but good.”

“How come?”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to read him. Was this a setup? “I worked an overnight shift last night,” you said cautiously. “So my sleep schedule is all over the place.”

“Overnight shift, huh?” Jungkook turned to lean against the counter, crossing his arms as he studied you. “And you still showed up tonight?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “I missed Melanie and Namjoon. We usually crash here after these things.”

“Crash?” He raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah.” You smiled despite yourself. “Mel, Ash, and I take over Namjoon and Melanie’s room after too much wine.”

Jungkook let out a low laugh, the sound unexpectedly warm. “That explains it. Namjoon was muttering about an invasion yesterday. Makes sense now.”

You laughed lightly, the tension between you softening for a moment. “Yeah, invasion is probably accurate. If you and Taehyung weren’t here, the living room would already be in ruins.”

Jungkook moved then, stepping toward the sink to fill his glass. The motion was smooth, casual, but you couldn’t ignore how close he came, the heat of his body brushing against yours. The scent of his cologne floating your way one more time. You took a small step to the side, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened.

He seemed to notice your shift but didn’t comment, his gaze flickering to you for a split second before returning to his glass.

You cleared your throat, your voice quieter than you intended. “How are you?”

Jungkook stilled, glancing at you with something like surprise. For a moment, he didn’t answer, his dark eyes searching your face like he was trying to decide if you meant it.

“I’m alright,” he said finally, his tone subdued. “Busy, though. I’m in the middle of a trial.”

“Right,” you said, nodding. “Lawyer stuff.”

A small, wry smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, lawyer stuff.”

“What kind of trial?” you asked, surprising even yourself.

He hesitated, as if weighing whether to tell you. Finally, he said, “It’s a class-action case. Workers suing their company for unpaid wages. I’m representing them.”

Your eyebrows lifted, genuinely impressed. “Wow. Didn’t expect you to be on the workers’ side.”

Jungkook tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” You gestured vaguely. “Knee jerk reaction. I typically expect the worst from you. Most people would go for the big paycheck.”

A low chuckle escaped him, warm and deep. He couldn’t blame you for jumping to a conclusion after all these years. “Fair enough. It was the right thing to do though.” Jungkook rubs on his neck another time. You noticed it, he had done it a couple of times tonight. Almost like it was bothering him.

“What’s wrong with you?” You tighten your eyebrows together, Jungkook’s eyes meeting yours for just a moment before darting away.

“Oh,” He twists his neck trying to relieve the discomfort. “My neck is just hurting. I think I slept wrong.”

“You could take something, or there are some stretches I know that can help.” You begin to look around the kitchen seeing if you can find some ibuprofen. Your hurriedness surprised Jungkook. Threw him off balance.

“I already took something but didn’t seem to help. Still some pain.” His eyes tracked you round the kitchen as you continued your search.

“Well I’ll show you the stretches then, grab a chair.” You exhale, nodding your head to one of the chairs at the dining table.

Jung walked over and pulled one of the chairs out and took a seat. You hesitated for a moment before you stood right behind him. Your hands hovered hesitantly above his shoulders. What the hell were you doing?

“Are you okay if I just do it… t-to show you how?” You say hesitantly.

Jungkook doesn’t look back to you but finds himself rather… nervous even. Had you gotten him in the perfect position to actually just strangle you out? Were these his final moments?

“Just don’t kill me… but yeah go for it.” He nodded, not looking back to you.

“Okay. Just relax.”

Jungkook feels you place one hand on his left shoulder, making sure his posture stays back and your other hand resting on the top of his head gently pushing it forward. Jungkook could feel a small pull in his neck stretching it out. The pain was on the right side so this was too bad. Your hand on his shoulder was touching some of the skin on his neck and it felt like it was burning into him. It was quiet, just your quiet breathing filling the room.

“So you lean your head forward and then you roll your head side to side,” you murmured, guiding his head gently to the left Your voice was softer than you’d intended, the quiet of the kitchen making every word feel heavier.

Jungkook’s breathing hitched slightly, though you weren’t sure if it was from the stretch or the weight of your hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and you realized with a jolt that your fingers lingered longer than necessary.

“You should feel a pull right along here.” You hovered for a second, but drew a line along his neck where the muscle was tense. Trying to focus on the task and not the way your voice seemed to tremble.

Your touch made Jungkook want to wiggle away from you. So light but almost electric. His mind drifted away somewhat, almost remembering last week but he kept himself grounded in the present.

“Yeah,” he replied, the pull was slightly painful but felt good. “It’s… helping.” His words were simple, but something about the way he said them made your stomach flip.

You adjusted your hand, sliding it to the other side of his head to tilt it gently to the left. “And this?” You kept your eyes focused on the wall now, You had already spent too much time looking… and thinking about his hands tonight. You didn’t need to think about his neck.

Jungkook exhaled, a slow, deep sound that felt too intimate in the quiet space. “Better,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“It also helps to roll in circles slowly too. Trying to stretch those muscles as far as you can. You want to feel the pull.” You remove your hand, but keep them on his shoulders as he rolls his head around in slow circles.

The kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, felt suspended in time. The sounds from the living room—muted laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of louder conversation—faded into the background. It was just you, Jungkook, and the lingering ghost of your touch on his skin.

Your hands had rested on his shoulders longer than they should have. Neither of you had acknowledged it, though Jungkook had noticed. He couldn’t stop noticing. The weight of your touch, light but grounding, had felt entirely different from the energy you normally exuded around him.

Gentle.

It made his pulse quicken, a response he tried desperately to suppress. But his mind betrayed him, conjuring thoughts he had no business entertaining such as your hands moving from his shoulders, sliding down his chest, fingers tracing his jawline—

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back to reality. Because that feeling was there again, that small guilty twist in his stomach. What he had been telling Taehyung about bubbled up. He still couldn’t name it, because guilt didn’t feel right. It wasn’t that but it felt so strange. What was that?

Almost like the universe had heard his struggle, Taehyung appeared in the doorway, a wide grin already plastered on his face. His eyes scanned the scene quickly, locking onto Jungkook still seated and you standing just behind him.

“Oh my god it’s finally happening. Y/N is going to strangle you out!” Taehyung gasped and threw his hands over his mouth dramatically, “Y/N please spare him! He’s a good boy!”

You laugh to yourself, stepping back from Jungkook letting your hands fall away from him. The absence of touch is almost louder than the conflict itself. “I’m not strangling him,” you said, crossing your arms and giving Taehyung a look. “This time. Now roll your shoulders back.” you instructed Jungkook, stepping even farther away as if to reestablish boundaries.

Jungkook complied without a word, rotating his shoulders as you’d shown him. He tilted his head from side to side, testing the stretch. When his gaze flicked back to you, a faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’re good at this,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

“I do it for patients all the time, the hospital beds are notoriously uncomfortable.” You replied, shrugging as if it were nothing. Your arms stayed crossed, a subtle shield against the shift in energy between you. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing,” he said, his words soft but lingering. His eyes stayed on you a fraction too long, enough to make your chest tighten and your cheeks warm.

Taehyung, clearly enjoying himself, stepped farther into the kitchen. His smile widened, but he kept his tone light. “What exactly were you doing?”

“I slept weird last night,” Jungkook interjected, standing up from the chair and adjusting it neatly back under the table. “My neck’s been hurting all day. Y/N was just showing me some stretches to help.”

Taehyung hummed, unconvinced. His gaze darted between you and Jungkook like he was piecing together a puzzle. “Right. Stretching. Sure.”

You decide this is your chance to escape out of here. You pick up your glass and exit the kitchen quickly to rejoin the others in the living room. The kitchen was quieter now that you’d left, though the tension you’d unintentionally abandoned seemed to cling to the air like static. Taehyung leaned against the counter, his grin infuriatingly smug as he watched Jungkook refill his glass of water, the younger man pointedly ignoring him.

“If I had shown up even a second later, you two would’ve probably stripped naked,” Taehyung said.

Jungkook groaned, turning his back on him to hide his flushed face. “We were only talking.”

Taehyung nodded sagely, his expression far too knowing. “Oh, sure. Just talking. Nothing else. Completely innocent. Two people practically pressed against each other in a dimly lit kitchen, having a totally platonic chat.”

Jungkook shot him a glare. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Of course I do,” Taehyung replied smoothly. “But it’s part of my charm. So, what was it really? A nice heart-to-heart, or were you two silently fighting like usual?”

Jungkook paused, his hand tightening briefly on his glass. “No… no, actually. It was just a conversation. Awkward, but… maybe the most normal we’ve spoken to each other in years.”

Taehyung’s grin widened as he pushed off the counter, his eyes alight with mischief. “Told you.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m always right and you know it.”

“No you’re not.”

“She was sweet, though, wasn’t she?” Taehyung continued, his voice quieter now, his teasing edge softening. “Almost shy? Kind, even?”

Jungkook hesitated, his gaze fixed on the countertop. He hated how easily Taehyung saw through him, but there was no use denying it. “...Yeah,” he admitted grudgingly, barely above a whisper.

Taehyung clapped him on the shoulder, his grin shifting into something genuine. “See? Progress. Keep trying.”

Jungkook sighed, rubbing the back of his neck where your touch still lingered faintly. “Yeah. Easier said than done.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・

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cloveroctobers · 28 days ago

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THE BEST THAT I HAVE. | Bo Chow (Sinners) — summer prompts

A/N: idk should I keep offering my little percentage of feeding Bo’s tag? This is only happening because I came across a prompt and thought about a specific part that I included in the other thing I wrote about him. Not necessarily connected but still works as if it is. Also heard this song that fit the late night summer vibe so that really put a stamp on it. Not anything big but with summer prompts I like to be a little more soft hearted lol.

S/N: I’ve officially seen sinners (only) twice now and I’ve definitely missed out on a lot the first round lol—which happens! I appreciate this film even more and need some merch now 🤍

PROMPTS ARE FROM @urfriendlywriter since I can’t find the exact post but thankfully I jotted down which user I got this from & I’m using: when they wear tank-tops while doing manly labor and you're just there admiring the sight. + going out to get ice-cream at 2 am (this has got to be a love language)

<- read my previous summer anthology prompt here.

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“You alright over there, doll?” Bo’s voice holds humor in it as he steps down from the wooden ladder, empty box held underneath his bare muscular arm.

You’re on the outside aisle in front of the pear jam and canned plums in heavy syrup, crouched down as you hold a clipboard on your knee, blinking rapidly to bring yourself out of a daze.

That daze being Bo Chow’s arms in that tank top, with a light sweat patch around the neckline.

He hops off the last two steps of the ladder with a grunt, using his wrist to wipe any droplets of sweat from his forehead away as he continued on, “You’re lookin’ like you might just pass out. And I got a feelin’ it might be the sight of me.”

He’s half teasing, letting you know that he’s seen your stolen glances the moment he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it towards the back hallway. He’s even wiggling his brows at you while you huff and get up to your feet.

“Please. If anything’s gonna damage my eye sight and send me to the ground, it’ll be the smell of your musty underarms, and these dust bunnies hiding in the air vents.” You sass, making Bo chuckle as he peeks upwards at the ceiling fan that was squeaking and shaking about.

He fixed that thing over five times with the help of his soon to be father-in-law, Jian, who worked down at the laundry mat. He was the number one Mr. Fix-It, managing to repair lots of dryers to save money and because he got the run around from certain clear colored repairmen. Bo was convinced that this fan was on its way out and considered turning it off completely, even if you gave him a hard time about it.

It wasn’t the only fan in here anyway.

You move towards the opposite end of the store which the said fan stood on its own on the floor, blocking the air that cooled you from behind as your own shirt stuck to the skin of your back. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you peeled one eye open to see that Bo also moved to stand behind the register, checking the shelves underneath it.

“Shouldn’t your fiancée be here anyway?” You’re not necessarily prying since you were the one who offered to help once you got word that Bo was having a late night to do inventory.

Bo pops back up from behind the register laughing to himself, “Can’t get that woman to do anything after midnight but to chat about wedding dresses, do her skincare routine, party, or tell me how I’ve gotten on her nerves at some point during the day.” He begins flipping through some pages peering up as if thinking about it then finishes, “I’ve learned my lesson messing with her sleep.”

You tried not to think too much about that, considering Grace just recently started working on the other side and across the street of the grocery store.

“So you have your best friend here instead…it all worked out in the end.” You smirk.

Bo laughter lines appear while he grins, “Yeah you can say that,” he tosses whatever booklet he was browsing back underneath the register, “Plus you’re the ultimate night owl here. You’re mostly alive in the night time and live for the graveyard shift madness.”

That much was true yet that didn’t stop you from rolling your eyes. You’re not passing much judgment by any means, since everyone operated differently at certain times of the day and had many things to consider in times like these. The fact of the matter is, you didn’t mind helping, even if it meant sweeping built up dust, with your face starting to itch and couldn’t stop sneezing for a solid five minutes, or almost getting bit by a spider—spending time with Bo was no crime.

Bo notices your quietness and adds, “You can go on and take that cot in the back if you need the rest. Dawn isn’t for a few more hours but if you need to, go right ahead. Or should I follow through with my promise to your momma and bring you on home myself?”

“I just may,” you shrug being in tune with your body to see what type of energy you had left, “If you decide to stick me with those leaky freezers again.”

A grin tugged at his lips as he glanced the wall for the time. Bo definitely tended to get bossy once he was truly locked in. Granted it was just the two of you so of course the work would need to be put in. If Bo needed the extra hands, it would be like pulling teeth for him to ask any other family members…although Bo & Co. Delta Grocery & Market has been in his family’s hands for a while (under different names) Bo Chow was really the type of man who was particular and liked to do things himself.

The only good thing about the freezers was getting blessed with the cool air but that seemed to vanish the harder you worked, pulling what you could to take count and check expiration dates.

There had to be some bruises on your backside from constantly holding the freezer open with it or rather getting smacked with it, since you couldn’t really figure out the mechanism that would hold the door open for you. Until Bo did the honors, his hands messed with the screws so quickly, tempted to lock you in the freezer for jokes once you had to almost climb inside to reach the top, foot slipping from the condensation on the glass of the door while you let all the cold air out. Since the freezer was left open that meant the defrosting process happened thanks to no AC.

And twisting up your ankles on the damp floor was a sight to see.

“Damn doll and here I thought you were doing a new dance.” Bo teased, already behind you with a mop.

Bo speaks, “Nah, I’m callin’ time. We’ve done enough and I think we should reward ourselves don’t you?”

“Meaning?”

Bo exhales with his hands resting on his hips, “Well…Double Chin Harry’s been closed ‘round ten. Our only option for now is Milkshakes at Pepper’s Diner. The ice cream here doesn’t hold a candle to what we really want and I ain’t ashamed to say it.”

A crooked grin plays on your lips then, “I can’t believe my ears right now. Are you actually giving credit to another establishment, Mr. Perfectionist?”

Bo pulls a cigarette from his pocket to tug behind his ear, “‘Course I am. This is a community after all and it’s okay to say what’s lacking in your own business. If Double Chin Harry’s worked with a packaging distributor, I’d get them in here in a heartbeat and hope I get some sorta discount since we’re their favorite customers.”

He winks while you scoff stepping over to place the clipboard down on the counter.

“Well, remind me to write Double Chin Harry a thank you card, since they’re the only reason I’m about to get a milkshake with Bo Chow and not his fiancée.”

Bo clicks his tongue at you with a shake of his head.

Soon the both of you make it around the corner and up the street to Pepper’s which always sits right on the corner, brightly lit and facing the back road. Before your hand can even touch the handle, Bo beats you, yanking the door back and playfully rolling his hand about.

“After you madam.”

You snicker, lightly punching at his chest, “Why thank you, Pally.”

Leading the way into the diner, with the bells above your head signaling your arrival, you’re welcomed with the blast of chilled air that almost makes you hunch your shoulders at its brisk greeting compared to the muggy Mississippi heat, and the stench of burnt coffee, syrup, and grease.

You pick a booth somewhere in the middle, thankful that you wore pants for this occasion while you picked up a menu, eyes already skimming the words. Your ears perk up as you hear Bo greet one of the waitresses but don’t move your eyes from the dessert section.

Bo sits across from you, hands immediately going to the jukebox tabletop, which you whack away with the menu. “Now what was that for?”

“We talked about this. No hoggin’ the radio.”

Bo puffs out a breath, “You’re acting as if I don’t have impeccable taste.”

You tilt your head to the side, “There’s only so much Skip James, Mildred Bailey, and Duke Elllington you can play.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” He grinned, resting an arm along the back of the booth. “You’re welcome for that experience.”

You’re shaking your head at him but the smile is dead giveaway.

It’s Bo’s turn to tilt his head at you, eyes flicking back from you and the menu after fiddling with the jukebox for a little. “There ain’t no point studying the menu so hard when we’ve been here enough. We both know exactly what you want.”

You give him a look.

“No pouting.” He wags his finger at you before dropping it to knock against the menu to the beat of the music.

You tighten your stare, “I don’t pout!”

Bo smirks, “That’s what you think but I know you too well to know what a pout is and you certainly do. It’s adorable though sweetheart, so it’s fine.”

A waitress arrives before you could tear him a new one. She’s one of the ones you’re familiar with, salt and pepper curls always neatly pinned back into a bun, tall as billboards, and gap in between her two front teeth.

Bo sends her a charming smile, “Hey there, Ms. Lynette, right on time as always! We’ll do the strawberry milkshake with extra whip for the lady and a vanilla malt with the caramel syrup mixed in for myself.”

Ms. Lynette winks at the two of you, knowing not to ask if anything else was needed but still says, “Comin’ right up. I’ll be back with some water to tune down the sweetness if needed. If anything else comes to mind, be sure to holler.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lynette.” You smile as she sends you one right back.

Bo gives her a two finger salute, “Will do.”

You lean forward, pressing your chin on top of your hand as you squint over at the dark haired man across from you, “One of these days I’m just gon’ surprise you with my order and you won’t know what to do.”

Bo quirks up a brow, also leaning forward, resting his fingertips on the edge of the table, “Today ain’t one of them days, doll.”

Always matching your energy, you can’t help but to laugh, almost flinging yourself back against the seat of the booth. At Pepper’s the selection was limited compared to Double Chin Harry’s where there were many varieties and a routine. It was your thing to try every flavor together and Double Chin Harry’s had over a hundred and swapped them out during the seasons. Even when winter came along, you and Bo were his number one customers.

Outside the streets were still and quiet, with only the streetlights and moon being the main source of light. Even the neon sign of the diner buzzed like it was half-asleep. Inside, the hum of the AC and faint clanks from the kitchen filled the comfortable silence between you.

“So,” you start, taking your time for your eyes to meet Bo’s dark ones, “Less than a month huh?”

Bo reached up to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck, “Yeah…it’s comin’ up fast. End of September, right when the weather is bearable to be outdoors for longer. A change. Kinda poetic…at least that’s what Grace’s mama says.”

You hum, “Grace get to pick the date?”

“We were told a date,” Bo informs, “Yet Grace got to do the invitations. You know she’s real crafty and gets a kick out of shit like that. Had to put her foot down with that one.”

You can only imagine. You remembered being a in a wedding a few years back (a whole bridesmaid) for your old childhood neighbor who used to live here in the Delta until she met that Lawyer who was here on business and he swept her away to Alabama.

They have triplets now.

Yet it felt like a wedding close to hell if anyone asked you.

Bo’s eyes drop to his hands now, “This ain’t how I imagined a wedding, y’know? In someone else’s hands. Smoke said it’s all about being sure in your love and showin’ up. But families talk, make the decisions, things get knotted if you don’t agree hell—maybe it’ll all be fine.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you’re unsure what to say. You’ve seen them together, see that there’s love there and sure anyone should be nervous or a little…since your life has to change once you’re planning to spend forever with someone you deeply love.

Could it really be that deep if someone had to tell you how your relationship should be instead of just feeling it?

Ms. Lynette placed a pitcher of cool water down on the table followed by two plastic cups.

Then she leaves you to be.

You make quick work of downing the water, not realizing how much you needed it.

His eyes catch yours in the way that it makes your stomach tighten, “You know you’ll always be part of my world, don’t cha?” he said, gently. “I’ll give you the best that I have…and then some.”

Bo meant those words, this you knew.

Which is why you’re deeply exhaling, “…That’ll change the minute y’all say, ‘I do.’”

Bo doesn’t reply right away, choosing to let his eyes burn into your skin. Somewhere inside Bo already knew this moment would be the last of what you were before.

The milkshakes arrive not long after, Ms. Lynette still read the room, realizing that she didn’t need to say a thing but offered a polite smile and tap on the table in understanding, before retreating back behind the counter to chat with the only other customer in here.

A man named Ernest who tragically lost his family in a house fire right after New Year’s Day. For years he had a drinking problem but it seems since then he’s been cutting back on the booze, chews tobacco, and increased his caffeine intake instead.

Wrapping your fingers around the stem of the glass, you bring it closer to you, leaning forward to place your lips around the stripped straw. You’re hit with the perfect balance of sweet and creamy for this summer’s night.

Bo also quietly takes his spoon, dipping it into the glass to stir as your attention turns back to the window which brings you back to another day, ways from August, back in spring, and a painfully bright memory.

It was just touching mid-spring the day you met Grace Quon.

You’re walking along the sidewalk, bouquet lounging against your forearm, sunlight bouncing off the colorful petals just right. The SmokeStack twins requested a bouquet full of roses and lillies to be sent over to Mary’s mother’s residence for her birthday from your family’s flower shop.

On your way out from the shop you made a promise that you would deliver them after stopping by the market. You honestly didn’t plan to stop at Bo’s since there was a market—more of a run in and out type of market—closer to Mrs. Connie’s but he had been outside rearranging the strawberries and blackberries in a crate out front.

He caught sight of you from his peripheral, strand of dark hair hanging over his forehead, “Now I know I’m seein’ things. You, a creature of the night out and about before noon?”

His hands clasp down on your shoulders, lightly shaking them about that you’re tempted to whack him with the flowers…if they weren’t for someone else.

“Special delivery for Mary’s mama, Mrs. Connie,” you smile brushing his strand of hair back against the top of his head, “Momma also sent me for snap peas, rice, and beets. So don’t get used to me in the daylight.”

Bo steps back playfully raising his hands in surrender before letting his gaze eye you up and down before settling back on your face, “The sunlight looks mighty nice on you, doll. You should let it happen more often…but any time I get to see you is a good view.”

A soft smile appears on your face before you can even think to roll your eyes or let out a scoff.

“Who’s this?” Her voice cuts through, as she takes her spot right next to Bo.

Grace had emerged from the other side, the side catered to the whites. She had perfect posture, lipstick untouched by the heat, a knowing look in her eyes that hardened once fully settled on you.

Bo blinked once towards Grace and then back to you, “Hey, honey. This is uh,” he says your name, “A good friend of mine. Been a long time friend since I was a boy.”

There’s a polite smile on your face as you shifted the weight of the bouquet in your arms to hold out your hand, “Nice to meet you…Grace right? Bo’s bride to be.”

Grace looks at the flowers and then your hand, taking her time to place her’s in yours, “Mhm but just Grace is fine. I’ve heard about you, you work night shifts at that hotel.”

It wasn’t fully rude but it wasn’t innocent either, the way her hand slid into yours pinching at your fingertips instead of letting her full palm touch yours. It was as quick of a shake as you can imagine.

“Yes at the Willow Dune,” you answered smoothly, “Just good enough to have somethin’ in my pocket. My old man isn’t pleased but I do alright.”

Grace hums turning her gaze to fix Bo’s collar, “Working hard keeps you out of trouble doesn’t it?” It wasn’t really a question as she slides her hand down the length of Bo’s arm before looping her wrist around his, a move so casual it couldn’t be called possessive—yet it was, “Keeps you out of trouble,” she repeats, before softening her tone, “and focused on your responsibilities.”

Bo quietly catches on, clearing his throat to send Grace a warning look as she side eyed him before settling them back on yours. She doesn’t even bother to offer a faux smile.

“Right,” you trail off awkwardly glancing towards the market, “I won’t keep y’all. Just gonna grab a few things and get these babies delivered. See ya, Bo. And…it was great to finally meet you, Grace.”

Was it though?

Grace says nothing and you don’t wait for more. Her gaze stays on you like a hawk while Bo watches her now—reading her with fresh eyes, recognizing something he hadn’t before.

This was bold.

This was territorial.

By the time you push into the market, the sharp eyes of Grace Quon is still on your back but so was the sun.

You move around the store with ease, grateful for the brief shield of walls and glass—even with the front doors cracked just enough to let in the spring air…the couple on the outside share hushed words of their own that start to rise.

You ignore it.

Back inside Pepper’s, the spluttering of the coffee maker starting up was enough to pull you back into the present.

Bo was watching you with the same look—quiet, and careful, like he wasn’t sure what happens next.

Sliding the glass back and forth between your hands for moment, you stop and offer a smile.

A real one.

Even if it hurt, this was your time.

It was best to make the most of it.

“Just promise me one thing,” you said softly, clammy hands cooling from the sweat of the glass, “Don’t you sing your vows.”

Bo furrowed his brows so deeply that one would have thought you insulted his entire being, “I may not be skilled in that department, but I get by! My lady might even like it.”

Although that would be off the cob…who knows? Grace might be into it.

“Mm,” you can’t help but to smirk around the straw in between your lips, “If that’s y’all thing then who am I?”

Bo’s leaning in again even if it’s only a bit, “Who told you I was even thinkin’ about that? Annie?”

You didn’t answer, just smiled at him with your eyes.

That same kind of smile that used to make him weak in the knees once upon a time.

It should’ve felt like any other summer night.

To some, it appeared to be.

Then Bo reached across the table, gently pulling your hand away from the glass and toward the center. He rests his veiny warm hand right on top of yours, just staring at them for a moment.

Studying your hands as if he’s trying to pick the right fruit.

You don’t move.

The ache could wait.

The milkshakes and late hours were also in your grasp with a shared silence that said a lot of things.

Perhaps?

That is what was best.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚

Continue with my summer anthology prompts here.

#Spotify #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners film #sinners fic #bo chow #bo chow x black reader #queued #summer prompts #bo x grace #grace chow #summer fiction

109 notes · View notes

mirainwonderland · 2 months ago

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Hi,hope you are well and doing fine. So ,today I was playing Stardew Valley, loving the spring,and although it rains a lot,the sound it's very soothing. I was on my way to see( my crush and in the game because it reminds me of Leon. Don't know why. Maybe because he works ? I don't know.) Alex,and I had the urge to get in Tumblr ( to read specially Leon's fics ofc.) ,and then I read your fic,your most recent one. As if your fic about Leon acting intense when jealous didn't already made me imagine somethings and making me wanting to kiss him more than I usually do,your last fic made me feel my cheeks burn. Gosh ,how bad I just wanted that to happen! Gosh, you write such yummy bits. I can't help but wanting to ask if you could,at least just , I don't know,write a short one shot of the continuation of your last ? Goodness, I really wanna keep being able to read your delicious thoughts.

You are so sweet 🥹 this means so much that someone likes what I spew out of my brain. Also loving that we both love Stardew Valley and RE! I really should post more content about how that’s going because I’m doing a Leon play through rn cause he deserves a little peace and quiet.

Anyway my head immediately went to the ribbon one shot (Read Here), so I wrote a continuation for that, I hope that’s okay! I haven’t written smut in a hot minute, so idk how good this is it flew out of my fingertips at like 1AM don’t y’all come for me lol. I’ll see if I can’t cook up some inspiration for the others you mentioned ☺️ thank you for the request and enjoy <3

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Tags: MDNI, smut little to no plot, Leon x afab reader, kinda vanilla actually, doggy (i think?) and prone, cunnilingus (f receiving), technically unprotected but not explicitly stated (?), m dom x f sub implied, praise praise praise (so much yummy praise and being talked through it ugh)

2.5k words

Enjoy :)

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“Leonnn!” You’re half-laughing, half-whining tone isn’t deterring him much as he marches down the hall with you in a secure grip. He bounces your legs draped over one arm, reminding you just how stuck you are. You’re going nowhere, and the only struggling you can do is wiggle your torso and kick your feet. Which isn’t very effective, by the way. Halfway there, he puts you down, and you think for a minute that he was just bluffing after all and is gonna let you go.

Wrong.

He readjusts his grip on you and slings you over his shoulder like a delicate sack of potatoes. Even when he’s rough he’s gentle, and you have a heartbeat in two places all of a sudden.

“Leon!” You squawk, but he just chuckles, and you can feel the rumble through his shoulders. It vibrates through your body and makes it tremble in anticipation.

Begrudging anticipation, of course. Which unsurprisingly won’t last that long.

“No, put me down!” You whine as he kicks open the bedroom door and crosses the floor.

“Sure, babe.” He huffs as he all but throws you on the bed. You bounce on the mattress. Hands still bound together flop above your head and the fingers of one of his big hands wrap around them, keeping them put. He leans over you, settling a knee against the edge of the mattress.

“How’s that?”

You puff out your cheeks in annoyance, but it melts away when he gives you a soothing kiss. Your frown relaxes, even if the slight petulance in your eyes lingers for a beat longer.

“You’re mean.” You say, without the previous bite in your voice. Your eyes scan over the lines of his face, studying the expression that regards you so intimately now.

“To you? Never.”

He tugs open your neckline and descends on your neck with nothing short of an open mouth and a wet tongue. Your eyes slide closed, an agreeing sound slipping from your lips for a change. His mouth his hot and soothing, the way his tongue laves over the skin. He kisses up toward your ear, letting his breath hit the shell in the way he knows sends goosebumps down your spine.

Sure enough, you shiver.

“Yeah… you’re a pretty package, alright.” He hums into it, forcing another shiver through your vibrating bones. You’re all wrapped up in a pretty little bow just for him. And you look so flushed and innocent beneath him, with the tip of your nose matching your cheeks, that he has to bite back a groan himself. His jeans feel a little tighter.

His hand on your wrists slides down your forearm a bit, stroking the sensitive skin on the inside with a gentle thumb motion. That produces a satisfying sound.

A sound he likes a lot.

Your whole body jerks, and you writhe beneath him, your body rolling with the waves of sensation and electricity he sends through you with that simple touch.

“Leon that tickles!”

“Yeah, you like that?”

“Stop!” You stifle an amalgamation of a laugh and a moan.

The corner of his lip lifts. He leans up over you so he can trail his lips down the inside of your forearm, making you twitch. Your wrists writhe in their silk prison. His chest touches your nose, and his scent fills your lungs and numbs your brain.

“C’mon, Leon. Untie me.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Normally he’s not such a menace. But work’s been hell, and when you’d distracted him with that pretty little ribbon of yours he just couldn’t help himself.

He gives your forearm a little nip, and then he’s pulling back again. He looks down at you, with his arms braced on either side, and studies your expression for a minute.

“You wanna stop, you tell me to stop. Understand?” He searches your eyes, double checking to make sure you really want this.

“Okay.” You say, the sound of your voice so cute and meek, he has a hard time not getting hard.

“Okay.” He repeats, leaning back to he can tug his shirt off, eyes fixed on you watching him with rapt attention. You want this, he can see it in your eyes. You’d tell him if you really didn’t.

His shirt is off his back and on the floor, and he’s leaning in again, sweeping his tongue into your mouth. You breathe in sharply through your nose, choking on a moan as he comes in stronger than you expected.

But it’s not unwelcome.

Your bound hands come down from above your head to rest against his chest. It’s about all the touching you can do, and you whine at him for it, giving him those eyes that say ‘please, baby’. He’s almost half-inclined to untie you at the pathetically cute look on your face, but he digresses. He has plans, and you’re not gonna foil them.

“You’ll be okay, sweetheart.” He kisses behind your ear as a soothing apology.

He goes to tug off your tank top, and realizes too late that it’s damn near impossible with your hands tied together like they are. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, knowing you’re gonna hate him for this— but he does it anyway.

There’s a prominent SNAP as the straps are ripped off your shoulders, and your tank top is tugged down and off your body.

“Leon!”

“Shhh, sh sh sh.” He immediately swoops in to soothe you with kisses everywhere. “I’ll buy you a new one, baby.”

You can’t really be too mad. He kisses you to shut you up, and trails his tongue down your neck to pepper more smooches over your braless chest.

It’s easy to forget about the ruined tank top.

“Ah!” Your back bows half an inch off the bed.

“That’s it baby, sing for me.”

Your pink buds stiffen, and he nudges his nose against one of them before taking it into his mouth. Your eyes roll back and your vision goes static for a moment as the sudden rush of pleasure has your back arching again.

He works down your body, kissing and touching all the skin he has access to, and uncovering more. He works down to the waistband of your sweats and tugs them off without ceremony. The whole while, you whine his name and writhe underneath his ticklish kisses like you’ve never been touched before.

He nudges his nose against them when you’re left in just your panties, breathing you in through the damp fabric. A dark flush comes to your cheeks and you close your eyes, only to feel his hand snake its way back up your body and gently nudge your chin down toward him. On instinct you open your eyes.

“Ah ah, baby. Look at me.”

Your whole body feels like it’s trembling from the inside. Like a shiver that won’t quite come to fruition, making your muscles clench and groan with delicious tension that makes you want to make noise. You bite down on your lip, clenching the sheets in your hands above your head.

He mouths your clothed folds, making you whimper and jolt. His teeth snag the edge of your panties and peel it aside, nuzzling his way underneath.

Your eyes roll back when his tongue licks a long strip up the entire length of your sex. You let out the most satisfied moan, and get the sexiest grunt vibrating against you in return.

“Fuck baby, look at you.” He mumbles from against your mound. His tongue licks again, lapping at the path of your nectar to its source. His tongue slides inside shallowly, making you moan and clench the sheets a little harder. Your knuckles turn white.

His tongue laves lazily in and out for a moment, until his hunger takes over. He brings his hand up to hold your panties to the side so he can take a proper bite out of you. And then his tongue goes to work again, with a mission this time. The sounds he draws out of you are pure sin and sugar.

His mouth wraps around your clit and sucks on it, earning a satisfying reaction. His tongue circles it, trailing the tip of it down through your slick folds to your entrance. He teases and prods you without really giving you what it is you want. His tongue slides inside, teasing that sweet spot by barely touching it with the tip of his tongue, and then he retracts it again.

And again.

“Leon, please!” You pant, unable to squeeze your legs closed and relieve some of the tension he’s creating. He holds your thighs open, getting his fill of your sweet flavor.

“I know, baby. Just be patient.”

He comes up, wiping his chin of your juices, his hair slightly disheveled. God, he looks so sexy like this, and there’s nothing you can do about it. So you whine your heart out.

He chuckles, passing the back of his hand over his mouth.

“I know. I got you.”

His clothes (sans boxers) are gone in the blink of an eye, and he leans over you again. You pout up at him, so turned on you’re gonna fucking scream if he doesn’t just give it to you already.

Just as you think he’s about to lean down and give you a taste of yourself, his hands grab you and flip you over onto your hands and knees. You can hardly get out a startled cry before his weight is over top of you, caging you in under him. He has your head between his arms as he braces himself up on the bed, sensually rubbing himself against your dripping slit through both your underwear as he breathes against your ear.

“Yeah, just like that. Easy, girl.”

You gasp and moan, trying to keep yourself upright underneath his weight with your hands tied together.

“Leon-“

“Good girl. Hold that position for me.”

He reaches down behind you, fingers gently skimming your naked side on the way down, making you twitch and shiver. You’re shaking under him, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

He loves pushing you to your limit. If he can make you utterly exhausted by the end of this, then he’ll cuddle you a happy man.

His fingers hook the waistband of your soaked panties, and pull them off you in a smooth practiced motion.

“Easy, baby.” He encourages as he fumbles for his own, working them off too so nothing is standing in between you and him. His boxers hit the floor.

“Atta girl.”

He doesn’t give you much of a warning. One second his palm is soothingly massaging your ass, the next minute, he’s halfway sunk into your tight heat.

“Oh!” Every muscles in your stomach clenches, your ovaries moan in pleasure. You flutter around him as he slowly sinks himself all the way in and bottoms out. Your head drops forward, heavy breaths and moans mingling together as you try to maintain form.

“C’mon baby. Good. You’re doing so good.” He coos when he feels you clench around him. Fuck, you feel good. His mouth leaves soothing kisses across your shoulder blades. He nuzzles the back of your neck.

And then he’s moving.

Slow, lazy pumps at first. In and out. In and out in a predictable rhythm. But once you’re adjusted and he just can’t take it anymore, he speeds up.

The chorus of your moans is music to his ears as he thrusts into you from behind in time with your rapid heartbeat. You start shaking even worse, and it just fills him with a sense of pride that he’s doing his job right. Your head spins, and you really don’t think you can hold yourself up anymore.

“I can’t-“

He watches you closely. He knows your tells. He drops a kiss to your shoulder.

“I know.”

He pushes you down so you’re prone, stretching your pretty ribbon bound wrists above your head. You sigh as your flushed cheek meets the mattress gently. His arm slips underneath your tummy, arching your hips and curving your back. He presses his forearm into you, putting pressure on your tummy just the way he knows gets you.

His thrusts get just a little more powerful and insistent.

You whimper loudly, high-pitched and needy. The thin sheen of sweat gathering on both your bodies is making you stick to each other, and he loves it. Every part of you can’t get enough of him. He feels a wave of self-satisfaction wash through him that makes his chest feel warm, and his dick twitch.

“That’s it. Pretty girl. You gonna cry for me?”

You nod frantically against the sheets, the knot winding up tightly in your abdomen.

“C’mon then. Be a good girl.”

“Ngh! Hah hah!” You grunt, panting hotly against the sheets. “Leon, please-!”

“Let it happen, honey.”

“I need it!” Your chest jolts against the bed.

“I know. Whenever it comes. Just let it, okay?”

The way you’re erratically squeezing and clenching around him, he knows he doesn’t have that much longer either. He grunts through his teeth, gripping your waist tightly, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

“C’mon, c’mon.” He coaxes. He leans forward, rubbing his nose against your spine. He presses a few kisses down it. He feels you tighten up and he straightens again.

“That’s a good girl. Let me see you.”

And that’s when it snaps like a rubber band. You bury your face in the sheets and scream as wave after waves of mind-numbing sensation shakes you to your very core.

“There—” He pants. “—there she is.”

You clench down hard, and take him with you. He grunts as his hips jerk forward, the tension snapped for him too. The world turns white as his vision blurs and his muscles convulse. Just watching the way you tremble beneath him gets him grunting in your ear and biting the shell.

Everything feels so quiet after that. All that’s left is your heavy breathing. No more slapping of skin, or high-pitched moaning, or anything really. Your brain feels numb and quiet and the world feels reverent in the silence of the afterglow.

Sheets rustle, a soft kiss on your lobe. He gets off you, rolling you to your side so he can see your face. The back of his finger touches the apple of your cheek gently, and you let your unfocused eyes close softly with a gentle smile.

“You alright?” He hums, his voice a low, sexy vibration in his chest. He sounds a little raspy in the aftermath, and it’s your favorite thing.

You manage a nod and he gets up, tugging your hands free from the ribbon. You feel boneless and mind-numb, and you’re not really sure you want to leave this feeling behind anytime soon.

“Leon?” You murmur as you lay there while he cleans both of you off with his t-shirt.

“Hm?”

“Can I be your pretty little package again?”

You hear a deep, throaty chuckle. He leans in, and leaves a soft little kiss against your nose.

“Anytime you want, baby.”

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader smut #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy fanfiction #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy oneshot #leon kennedy smut #writing #smut #mdni

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deen-djarin · 7 days ago

Text

Soft Reins — Day Four

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Pairings: Groudskeeper/Rancher ! Joel miller x City girl ! Reader

Summary: Joel tries very hard to pull away, you won’t let him.

Tags: 18+, yearning, tension, a teensy bit of angst, reader frustrated with joel lol, crass language, p in v, creampie, mutual masturbation, cunningulus, absolute FILTH

Word count: 8,9k

a/n i’m so nervous to post this piece of cliterature lmao but…enjoy

Joel barely had time to exhale after you walked away, lips still tingling, head spinning, before he heard Tommy’s boots crunching hard against the gravel behind him.

“You outta your goddamn mind?” Tommy snapped, voice low and sharp.

Joel turned just enough to look at him. “Don’t start.”

“I will start, Joel,” Tommy said, stepping closer, eyes flashing. “I saw that. I saw you leanin’ in. What the hell were you thinkin’, huh?”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “She asked me to come with into town. I went. That’s it.”

“Oh, that’s it?” Tommy let out a humorless laugh. “Looked a hell of a lot like more than just errands. You almost kissed her outside the staff entrance.”

Joel didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw tight.

Tommy shook his head. “You think nobody else is gonna notice that? You think you can get away with sneakin’ around with one of them?”

“She’s not like them,” Joel muttered.

Tommy’s voice snapped. “She’s exactly like them. Rich, bored, here for a week of cowboy fantasy before she gets bored and flies back to wherever the hell she came from. And you? You’re just the help, Joel. That’s all we are.”

Joel’s fists curled at his sides.

Tommy pressed on. “You know who isn’t gonna be so forgiving? The company that owns this place. We’re already on thin ice with them. You remember the last email? They flagged your fuel receipts. Your overtime hours. They’re watching us.”

Joel shifted his weight like the truth of it physically weighed him down.

“All it takes is one mistake and they’ll gut this place,” Tommy continued, quieter now, more furious than loud. “Replace us with cheaper labor, roll us out like some damn theme park. You think they’ll keep you on if they find out you’re messin’ around with a guest? That I’ll keep my job?”

“You gonna risk all this for a fling?” Tommy sighed, his hands on his hips.

“I ain’t messin’ around,” Joel muttered.

Tommy threw his hands up. “Oh, that makes it better. Christ, Joel. You know better than that, hell- you taught me better than that.”

Joel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Because it wasn’t just about the kiss, or the girl, or the ranch. It was about how he looked at her. And how much he already knew it wasn’t going away.

Tommy shook his head like he was too tired to keep fighting. “You need to end it. Before someone else sees.”

Then he turned and walked off toward the main building, boots loud against the quiet.

“And get those damn groceries to the kitchen, they waitin’ on you,” Tommy said before he closed the staff door with a loud slam.

Joel stayed where he was.

Heart thudding. Mind racing.

Hands still curled in fists, aching from holding back more than just a kiss

“Joel? Joel—”

Maria’s voice cut sharply through his thoughts. He blinked, eyes snapping back into focus.

“Yeah? Sorry, I was uh—”

“Yeah, yeah, focus up,” she said, waving a dismissive hand as she turned toward the gathered staff. A dozen or so stood in a loose semi-circle near the barn, coffee cups in hand, squinting against the morning sun.

“Alright, folks, today’s the big day,” Maria continued, voice carrying clear and firm. “The grandparents’ wedding anniversary celebration—fifty years married, if you can believe it.” A couple of the staff gave soft chuckles or murmured impressed sounds.

“Tommy and I will be manning the main festivities up by the lodge,” she went on. “We’ve got lawn games, a live band coming in at five, and a photo booth being set up near the pergola.”

Joel shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. His eyes flicked toward the lodge involuntarily.

Maria caught the glance but didn’t comment, just pressed on. “Joel, you’re on standby today. Float between spots, make sure everything’s running smooth, supplies, crowd flow. If anything needs fixin’, I’m expectin’ you to be two steps ahead of it.”

He gave a tight nod. “Got it.”

Her gaze lingered on him for half a second longer, as if she wanted to say more, then let it go.

“Alright, let’s make it a good one. We want them talkin’ about this for years—no slip-ups, no surprises.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. No surprises.

Joel gave Maria a stiff nod and watched the rest of the staff scatter, voices already fading as they moved toward the event setup near the main lawn. He stood still for a moment longer, rubbing his hands together like he could work the tension out through his palms.

Standby.

Right.

That meant stay outta trouble. Stay visible, but not too visible. Be helpful, but don’t get in the way.

Mostly, don’t get caught staring at her.

He exhaled hard through his nose and turned, heading toward the barn. From where he stood, he could already see the cluster of white tents going up on the front lawn, tables being rolled out, folding chairs carried by two and threes.

He caught a glimpse of her. Just for a second.

She was standing at the edge of the setup, not far from her family. Dress light and summery, hair tied back. She looked like she belonged there—comfortable, confident, laughing at something her cousin said.

If Joel had any sense at all, he’d take that image and walk away.

But his eyes lingered.

God, she looked good when she smiled. And he knew, he knew what she tasted like when she whispered his name. He could still feel her hands in his shirt, still hear that breathless sound she made when he kissed her like it was the only way to stop himself from falling apart.

“You gonna risk all this for a fling?”

Tommy’s words from last night snapped through his mind like a whip. The pressure from corporate had been ramping up—calls, emails, reminders about “professional boundaries” and “guest satisfaction metrics.” The kind of stuff that made Joel’s stomach turn.

They didn’t care about this place. Not like he and Tommy did.

And if anyone caught wind of Joel getting too close to one of the vacationers—especially someone from that family?

They’d lose more than their pride.

He muttered a curse under his breath and turned his back to the main lawn. There was work to do. Things to fix. A dozen ways to keep busy, keep useful, keep away.

But even as he grabbed a toolbox and made for the far fence line, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting.

To her.

To last night.

To what might’ve happened if he didn’t stop himself.

And to what might still happen, if he didn’t find a way to shut this down soon.

You were dressed in a soft pastel sundress, pale yellow with fluttery straps — color-coordinated with the rest of your family, of course. Your mother had laid it out the night before and made a big deal about how “fresh” and “youthful” it looked on you. You smiled, nodded, played the part. Because that’s what today was about: showing up, smiling for pictures, and making sure the grandparents’ anniversary looked like a spread out of a lifestyle magazine.

You stuck close to Amy when you could, let her little ones distract you, let her husband make you laugh. But your parents — and most of the extended family — seemed weirdly unwilling to let you out of their sight. Maybe it was because you vanished yesterday. Maybe it was the lie you gave this morning over coffee, something about allergies and heat exhaustion. Amy backed it up without hesitation. But still, they hovered. Like something was off.

And they were right. You were off.

Because he was here. You had seen him.

Joel.

Not a ghost or a memory — not a maybe — but here. In the crowd. Just far enough to keep his distance, just close enough that it hurt.

You spotted him midmorning during the lawn games — off to the side helping Maria set up canopies and tables. Later again near the stables, talking to a wrangler. Then during the first round of speeches, when he walked right behind your group to move something, eyes fixed anywhere but on you.

It was maddening. He was right there. Always there. But not once did he meet your eyes. Not once did he even acknowledge you.

And after everything that happened in that barn — after that kiss, after the way he held you like he never wanted to let go — it felt like being gutted.

You wanted to scream. Or grab him by the collar and shake him. Or kiss him again until he stopped pretending it didn’t matter.

You tried not to let it show. You smiled when your aunt asked if you were feeling better. You clinked your champagne glass when your grandparents gave a speech. You let your little cousins drag you into a three-legged race that ended with grass stains and polite applause.

But your heart wasn’t in it.

Every time you caught a glimpse of him — the shape of his shoulders, the familiar way he moved — your chest ached. It wasn’t the distance that killed you.

It was the fact that he was close.

So damn close.

And still choosing to stay far.

The whole day had been a carefully orchestrated performance. You were paraded around the anniversary festivities like a show pony, smiling through group photos, politely declining seconds of cake, and trying to laugh at your uncle’s jokes.

And through it all, Joel had been right there.

Not gone. Not out of reach. Just maddeningly near—crossing the lawn with chairs slung over his shoulder, fixing up the microphone setup with those steady hands, talking to guests with that low voice that made your chest ache.

But not once, not once, did he look your way.

By midafternoon, it was getting pathetic.

You weren’t even being subtle anymore. First, you hung around the drink table while he was checking the ice buckets—stood there like an idiot with your empty glass, waiting for him to maybe glance your way. He didn’t.

Then you tried passing by the barn on your way to “nowhere in particular,” slowing your steps when you spotted him talking to another staff member outside. He looked up… but not at you. Right past you, like you were part of the scenery.

Each time it happened, your stomach sank deeper.

At lunch, you’d even dared to linger a little too long behind your family’s table as he walked past. You swore you saw him hesitate, like he’d felt you there. But he never turned around.

It was driving you crazy.

And the worst part was that he was everywhere. Helping with the sound system, adjusting the decorations, talking to Maria and Tommy near the games tent—always just close enough to make you feel like a ghost.

You weren’t sure what pissed you off more: that he wouldn’t talk to you, or that no one else seemed to notice your unraveling. Amy had given you one long side-eye after the third time you sighed too hard during croquet, but even she hadn’t pressed.

You ended up sitting beside your grandmother on a shaded bench near the flower arrangements, your aperol spritz sweating in your hand as you watched the party unfold across the lawn. And you watched him lean over the fences with that infuriating, effortless focus—while you were stuck pretending you weren’t waiting for something. Anything

You couldn’t take much more of this. You took another sip, eyes narrowing over the rim of your glass. Your stomach had been twisting all day and you weren’t sure if it was from frustration, nerves, or last night’s kiss still echoing in your body like a secret.

“You’re fidgeting,” your grandmother said beside you, her voice soft and amused.

You stilled, startled. “Sorry.”

She smiled faintly. “Don’t apologize. Just makes me think something’s eating at you.”

You shrugged, setting your drink down beside you. “It’s nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. That’s the tone of someone lying through their teeth.”

You sighed, staring out at the party. “I guess I’m just a little… off today.”

“Off how?” she asked, not pressing but still watching you closely.

You hesitated. “Yesterday I wasn’t feeling well. Allergies or something.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But that’s not what I meant.”

There was a pause. The music from the band drifted through the warm air, cheerful and at odds with the knot in your chest.

“I saw the way you’ve been looking over there,” she murmured, like she was talking about the weather. “At the man in the work shirt.”

Your head snapped toward her. “Gams—”

“I’m old, not blind,” she said, chuckling. “I’ve been around enough young people to know a look when I see one.”

You flushed, heart stumbling. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” she said lightly, lifting her glass of lemonade. “Then why does your face look like it’s on fire?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to swallow the heat rising up your neck. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, honey.” She patted your knee. “If it wasn’t, it probably wouldn’t be worth it.”

You looked down at your lap. “He’s just… ignoring me. Pretending nothing happened.”

“But something did,” she said gently.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t answer.

Your grandmother leaned back, watching the crowd. “He looks like the type who takes a while to make up his mind. But once he does…” She gave a small smile. “Well. Men like that don’t do things halfway.”

You glanced over, unable to help yourself. Joel was standing near the band now, arms crossed, listening to Maria talk. He still wouldn’t look your way.

You clenched your hands in your lap.

“You can’t chase a man like that, sweetheart,” your grandmother said softly. “But you don’t have to sit here letting him think you’ve given up either.”

You turned to her, surprised.

She winked. “I won’t tell your mama. Now go take a walk or something before you combust.”

You grinned and murmured “Thanks gams,” as you rose up from your seat.

You walked off without telling anyone, weaving through the crowd until you spotted him at the edge of it all. Joel stood by the fence, arms crossed over his chest, watching the festivities like he was somewhere else entirely.

You stepped up beside him, just a few feet away, careful not to touch.

“Joel,” you said, quiet and even.

He didn’t look at you, just replied your name in that same low, unreadable tone.

You shifted your weight, watching the rolling hills beyond the ranch, trying to act like your heart wasn’t pounding.

“So—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, cutting you off.

You glanced at him, brows drawing together. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just talking to you.”

His jaw worked. “Doesn’t matter.”

You turned fully now, facing him. “Can’t we just talk, Joel?”

He finally looked at you—and that was all it took. One glance. His eyes flicked to yours, and something in him faltered.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, turning away slightly like he needed to shield himself from you.

“Why can’t I look at you?” you asked.

“Because I don’t trust myself when you do.”

You swallowed. “Then say something that makes this easier.”

He shook his head, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “There’s no way to make this easy. For either of us.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, voice steadier now.

“I’ve been keepin’ my distance,” he corrected gruffly.

“Same difference.”

His eyes finally found yours again, and this time he didn’t look away. “You want me to pretend like that kiss didn’t mess me up?” he said lowly. “Like I haven’t been thinkin’ about it every damn minute since?”

Your breath caught, hope flaring too fast, too hot.

“But that don’t change the fact that this is wrong.”

“Then tell me to leave,” you challenged, voice trembling. “Say it and I’ll walk away.”

He didn’t say it.

He just stared at you, jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked. And for a second, you swore he was going to close the distance between you again.

But he didn’t. He stepped back.

“I can’t do this here,” he said, voice strained. “Not now. Not with all of them watchin’.”

You watched his back as he turned and walked off, leaving you by the fence—burning with everything you didn’t get to say.

“Then where?” you asked, folding your arms tight against your chest, trying to steady your breath. “If I shouldn’t be here, then tell me where.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward you, jaw working. “Don’t do this here,” he muttered, glancing around like someone might catch you just standing too close.

“I’m not trying to start anything,” you said, voice low. “I just want to talk.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, then dragged a hand over his mouth. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. You could see the war in him clear as day—shoulders tense, gaze darting anywhere but your face.

You softened. “Joel…”

He finally looked at you, like he couldn’t help it anymore. And it made your stomach twist, the way he did. Like you were gravity and he was just tired of fighting it.

He hesitated, then said gruffly, “Later. After dark. Back of the stables.”

Your heart jumped, but you kept your voice even. “Okay.”

His eyes lingered a second longer—more than he should’ve allowed—before he turned, muttering, “Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he was gone again.

By sunset, you sat quietly at the long outdoor dining table, your half-empty glass of wine cradled between your hands. The golden hour stretched lazily over the lawn, turning everything syrupy warm—soft light, long shadows, and the low hum of cicadas joining the smooth sway of the band the family had hired.

From your seat, you watched the couples—your aunts, uncles, even your parents—moving slowly together on the grass. Arms around waists, heads leaned on shoulders, the occasional kiss on a cheek. Everyone looked perfectly content in their little matched sets, like a catalog shoot for love and stability.

You let out a small sigh and glanced to your left, then to your right. Your cousins were either off dancing with their partners or had migrated inside to tuck their kids into bed. All that was left at your end of the table was a crumpled napkin, your untouched slice of cake, and a few younger teens still absorbed in their phones.

Great. You were officially at the kiddie table.

You fiddled with your fork, pretending not to notice how alone you felt. Not lonely, exactly—just… extra. Like a place setting someone forgot to clear. You’d smiled and chatted and laughed through dinner, but now that the music had started and the stars were coming out, the ache set in a little deeper. Everyone had someone.

Except you.

You picked at the edge of your dessert plate, dragging your fork through the icing like it might offer some kind of distraction. The music shifted to a slower tune—something older, probably chosen by your grandparents—and the band’s singer let her voice fall into a smoky hum. It floated across the lawn like something delicate and private, made just for the couples still swaying out there in the twilight.

You rested your chin in your hand, watching your uncle dip your aunt dramatically, both of them laughing like teenagers. You didn’t even realize you were smiling a little until it faded.

It wasn’t about needing a dance partner. You weren’t aching for someone to grab your hand and spin you under the stars.

But it still stung.

Because you used to have that—someone who made you feel chosen, even in a crowd. And then he cheated, and the memory of it left a bruise that hadn’t quite faded.

Now, just as you’d started to feel something new tug at your heart, and you let it do. Just when you thought you found something that felt real, he pulled away.

And you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe love just didn’t run in your blood the same way it did for the rest of your family.

Your eyes drifted to the edge of the lawn—toward the darker part of the path leading out to the barns and stables, past the halo of lights strung up in the trees. You squinted, unsure what you were hoping to see.

Nothing moved.

You looked back down at your plate and pushed it away.

Maybe you’d just go for a walk. Clear your head. Maybe circle by the stables, totally casually. No big reason. Just some air.

You told yourself it wasn’t about anyone. It was just a long day. You were restless. That was all.

You stood quietly and slipped away from the table before anyone could ask where you were going.

You found yourself wandering toward the stables. It was quiet—emptier than usual. The hush was almost comforting.

You made your way to Dolly’s pen.

“Hey, Dolly,” you murmured.

She huffed softly, poking her head over the gate. You smiled and ran your hand gently along the side of her face.

“You get lonely too?” you asked with a quiet chuckle.

Dolly blinked slowly, like she understood.

“Yeah…” you sighed. “I’m talking to a horse,” you added, half-laughing at yourself.

Then came the sound—heavy footsteps on gravel.

You turned your head and saw Joel in the doorway, pausing like he hadn’t expected to see you just yet.

“Oh… you’re here already,” he said, surprised.

“Oh. Right… that,” you murmured. “Sorry, I was just wandering around…and now I'm here.”

He stepped in a little closer, eyes landing on you, then Dolly.

“You were talkin’ to her?”

You let out a breath and nodded. “She’s good company,” you said softly.

Joel leaned against the wall beside you, close but not touching. You didn’t look at him when you asked,

“You done avoiding me now?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“It’s not that simple, sugar,” he said eventually.

You huffed. “Figured you’d say something like that.”

“Because it’s the truth.”

He paused, eyes still on Dolly, like it was easier than looking at you.

“Something like this…” he started, voice low, “it doesn’t end good.”

“And you’re so sure about that?” you asked, not hiding the sting in your voice.

“Yes, I’m sure.” His voice was firmer now. “You’re one of them. The guests. I work here. That’s not somethin’ I can just pretend don’t matter.”

You stared at him. He kept going.

“I’m too old for this kind of risk,” he muttered. “Too old for you,” he added.

You turned your head to him, finally really looking at him. He was staring at the ground like he was counting every stray piece of hay, doing anything not to meet your eyes.

“That doesn’t matter to me,” you said softly.

“Joel, I’m not asking you to quit your job or run away with me. I’m not asking you to marry me.” You let out a quiet breath. “It’s just… what I felt with you…this connection…it’s real. And I haven’t felt something real in a long time.”

”Maybe it’s stupid, selfish even,” you looked down, voice even smaller now. “But I just wanted to feel again.”

Joel didn’t say anything, but you could feel the silence shift—charged, heavy with everything he wasn’t saying. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he stood still, battling himself.

Then, finally, he stepped closer. Slow, deliberate. Until he was right in front of you, his presence blocking out everything else.

His hand, rough and warm, tilted your chin up. You met his eyes, and this time, he didn’t look away. He studied you, quiet and searching, like he was trying to see through the layers, to make sure this wasn’t some fleeting whim. And whatever he saw in you—it was enough.

“You sure about this, sugar?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He exhaled, thumb brushing gently along your bottom lip. “No one can know,” he murmured.

You nodded.

Then finally, finally, he leaned in. And when his lips found yours, it was soft, careful at first. Like a secret. Like something sacred. And it made you feel real, in the most aching, beautiful way.

You kissed him back—slow at first, but aching, hungry beneath the surface. Your hands slid around the back of his neck, pulling him closer like you couldn’t get enough, and you couldn’t

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, then suddenly pressed you back against the stable wall, his mouth claiming yours in a deeper, needier kiss. His hands were on you—one at your waist, the other cupping the side of your face with a surprising gentleness that contrasted the urgency of his lips.

You let out a soft, involuntary moan, fingers tangling in his hair. And as your lips parted on that breath, he didn’t hesitate—his tongue swept into your mouth, slow but sure, coaxing yours to meet him in a rhythm that made your knees weak.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, your breaths came shallow and uneven, lips still tingling. You looked up at him, your gaze meeting eyes that had gone darker—stormy with something unspoken, something barely restrained.

“Fuck, sugar…” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the contact just to steady himself. His voice was rough, low, wrecked. “You make it damn hard to be a gentleman.”

His hands, still holding you like you might slip away, slid slowly from your waist down to your hips—fingers splaying, grounding himself in the feel of you. The touch made your breath catch, your stomach flutter.

You didn’t say anything—couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you. Not with the way your whole body was already leaning back in, ready for more.

Then you grew bold and whispered, “I don’t want you to be.”

He let out a deep, rumbling groan from his chest, a sound of pure, unchecked desire. Before you could even process it, his lips were back on yours, devouring you with a hunger that stole your breath. "You're fucking trouble," he muttered against your mouth, his voice a low, strained rasp. You could only moan in response, your body melting under his touch, your core clenching with need.

His calloused hand slid down to grip your thigh, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. In one swift, decisive move, he hitched your leg up to wrap around his lean hip, pulling you impossibly closer. You gasped as you felt the thick, hard length of him pressing against your stomach, a promise of what was to come. "Joel," you sighed, your voice a needy whimper, drunk on the feeling of him.

He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips, a tortured sound filled with lust and longing. "Fuck, baby, you can’t keep making noises like that," he panted, his breath hot against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured “tell me to stop before i drag you to my cabin and fuck you propper.”

“Fuck,” you panted then bit your lip, “Don’t stop.”

With a sense of urgency, he took your hand in his, practically dragging you out of the stables. He paused at the door, peeking left and right like a man on a mission, ensuring the coast was clear. Then, with a tug of your hand, he led you quickly down the narrow path towards his staff cabin, nestled at the edge of the property.

You had to jog to keep up with his long strides, your heart pounding in your chest as anticipation coiled tight in your belly. The cool evening air rushed past you, but it only seemed to fuel the fire burning under your skin, the fire he had ignited with his touch.

He rushed you inside his cabin, locking the door behind you with a decisive click. You barely had a second to register your surroundings before his mouth was back on yours, hungry and insistent. His hands found your waist, guiding you backward with practiced ease, step by step, until the backs of your legs hit the edge of the bed. You tumbled gently onto the soft mattress, breath catching, heart racing.

Joel stood over you for a beat, gaze sweeping over the sight of you spread out before him, as if committing it to memory.

“You have no idea how many nights I’ve thought about this, sugar,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel.

He climbed onto the bed, his broad frame caging you in, a question lingering in his eyes. “Last chance to back out,” he said lowly. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” you whispered. “Please.”

A deep groan escaped him, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing skin, then teeth—trailing kisses and teasing nips that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“If we’re doin’ this,” he murmured against your throat, “I’m doin’ it right.”

“Right?” you breathed.

“Mm,” he hummed, mouth sliding lower to your collarbone. “Means I’m gonna take my time. Gonna make you cum at least twice before I even think about slippin’ inside you.”

The way he said it—those dirty words wrapped in that low Southern drawl—made your whole body tense with need. You felt your breath catch as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes searching yours, serious even through the heat.

“You gonna let me do that, baby?”

You bit your lip and nodded quickly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Use your words.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively at his tone, but you obeyed.

“Yes, Joel.”

A slow, wicked smile curled on his lips. “Atta girl,” he murmured.

He shifted lower, slow and deliberate, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, trailing down to the edge of your dress’s neckline. His breath was warm against your skin, his voice rough when he murmured, “You looked beautiful in this today.”

Your chest tightened at the confession.

“Had to will myself to look away,” he added, lips brushing the dip between your collarbones.

“I didn’t think you were looking,” you breathed.

That earned a low, rumbling chuckle from him, his stubble grazing your skin as he tilted his head.

“Only when you weren’t lookin’ at me,” he muttered, his hands gliding down your sides, mapping every curve like they were something sacred. He let out a long, almost exasperated breath. “Where the hell’s the zipper on this thing…”

You giggled softly, biting your lip, then reached down to help him find it at your side. He huffed out a quiet laugh, amused, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

And then he stilled.

For a moment, he just looked at you, searching your face for any hint of hesitation, his gaze slow and steady, like he needed to be sure that there wasn’t the smallest flicker of doubt in your eyes.

All he found was hunger. Trust. And pure need.

That was all the permission he needed.

With a gentle hand, he eased the straps of your dress down your shoulders, watching the fabric slide like water down your skin. Inch by inch, he took in every new bit of you revealed to him, reverent in his touch, like you were something rare he never thought he’d be allowed to hold. And he savored it. Like he wanted this moment burned into memory.

The dress pooled silently to the hardwood floor, and Joel’s breath hitched the moment his eyes landed on you—on the soft curves of your body, the delicate lace of your bra, the shape of you that had haunted his thoughts all damn day.

“Fuck…” he murmured, almost to himself. “Look at you, sugar.”

His hands came to rest on your waist, wide and warm as they smoothed up your sides, his thumbs brushing along your skin with a reverence that made your heart skip. You felt his gaze drinking you in—like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile, but failing. Because the way he looked at you… it made you feel like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And maybe you didn’t always believe that about yourself. Maybe there were parts of you you’d been taught to second-guess.

But right now you chose to believe his view of you, you let yourself feel perfect.

His thumb brushed along the edge of your bra, just where the lace met your skin, slow and reverent. “Can I take this off too, baby?” he asked, voice low and a little rough.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips—almost a laugh, really—because for all the urgency in the way he kissed you earlier, for how quickly he led you here, now he was being so careful. So gentle.

“You don’t have to ask,” you murmured, nodding, voice soft with affection.

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, deep and warm. “Tryin’ to be a gentleman here.”

You gave him a teasing look. “I thought I told you not to be.”

That did it.

He leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, and then his hands moved behind your back, steady and sure. The clasp came undone with ease—too easily, you thought, and he must’ve caught your expression because he smirked, just a little. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Not my first time with tricky hooks, sugar,” he murmured against your skin as he eased the straps from your shoulders, his touch as careful as it was possessive.

And when the lace slipped away and hit the floor, the look in his eyes made your whole body burn.

"Mmh," he murmured, his teeth gently tugging on his lower lip as his large hands moved up to cup your naked breasts, kneading the soft flesh with his rough fingertips. "Perfect fucking tits," he whispered, his thumb pressing and tracing deliberate circles on your sensitive nipples. You exhaled a small, breathy moan, and he noticed your vulnerability, compelling him to carefully pinch and roll your nipples between his thumb and index finger. "Hahngh," you gasped, feeling the heat rise in your chest as he let out a deep growl from his throat.

"The noises you make..." he murmured, taking a moment to look into your eyes before leaning in to flick his tongue over your hardened peaks, while his free hand alternated between feather-light caresses and firmer squeezes on the other breast.

He was patient but deliberate in his actions, teasing you until you couldn't help but ask for more. You felt the dampness of your panties become unbearable, your hips shifting restlessly on the bed. "Joel, please," you whimpered softly. His eyes locked onto yours as he hummed in response, acknowledging your unspoken request as his hot kisses traveled down the valley between your breasts and across your quivering stomach.

This time, he didn't hesitate or ask for permission; instead, he hooked two fingers around the waistband of your panties and slowly slid them down your legs before tossing them carelessly to the floor. "Let me see you, baby," he murmured as he gently nudged your knees apart with his firm hands.

His warm breath wafted over your exposed skin, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on every inch of you―possessive, adoring, hungry for all that you were offering. The bristles of his stubble grazed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses closer and closer to your dripping wet cunt. Every lingering caress you felt, every teasing pause he took, seemed to unravel another knot in your belly.

Finally, he settled himself between your legs, his large hands gripping the curve of your hips to hold you steady against the mattress. “Pretty girl,” he rasped, his voice raw and thick with desire. And then, without warning, his tongue slipped between your folds―sweeping a languorous path through the slick arousal that had pooled there. The sensation nearly caused you to buck into his mouth; but he held you firm, relishing the way your body begged for more while he took his time learning what makes you gasp and whimper.

Joel alternated between slow, torturous strokes of his tongue and quick, insistent flicks that targeted your sensitive clit―never allowing you to predict what came next. Your entire body quivered beneath him as you gasped out his name, your fingers twisting into the dark strands of his hair while your hips ground against his face in search of more friction, unashamed.

He didn’t stop, just kept giving and giving. Until breaths turned shallow and heavy, “Joel, ahng fuck baby i’m gonna cum,” you whined and shift your hips. He groaned and pinned your hips harder to the mattress and doubled his efforts, making your breath catch and you let out a lewd mewl. “Joel! Ahngh- baby- nnghh!” you moaned and finally your legs trembled, your legs instinctively clamped his head. A wave of pure ecstasy hit you and you came. Hard. You were left trembling and boneless beneath his mouth.

He licked a last, lazy stripe, then pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh before drawing himself up over you, his face flushed and wet with your release, smile crooked and wolfish. "There she is," he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek, proud of how undone you were, how loose-limbed and ruined by his touch. You tried to muster a clever retort, but all that came out was a shaky laugh.

He kissed you, his beard rough and his tongue tasting of you, kissing you with an urgency that reminded you he still wanted—wanted badly. "You tasted so fucking sweet," he murmured as he pulled away, his voice a low rumble. His hand drifted downward, his rough fingers tracing a deliberate path over your slick skin. "Are you going to give me one more, baby?" he whispered, his words like a gentle command. Your hips instinctively bucked to meet his touch, and he chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "Hmm, that's what I thought."

He slowly urged one finger inside, and you gasped, a soft moan escaping your lips. "Yeah, baby, there we go... Does that feel good?" he cooed, his tone both teasing and tender. You nodded, biting back a whimper, "Nghh—yes," you managed to reply, your voice a breathless admission of pleasure. His lips curled to a smirk, “good girl.”

"You're so fuckin' tight," he groaned, easing you open with his thick finger, then a second. "Goddamn." His pace was patient, careful, like he was intent on learning everything about how your body wanted to be touched—when to keep it slow and when to curl his fingers just right. You buried your face in his neck, breath hot and uneven.

"Don't hide from me, sweetheart," Joel said, and guided your chin up so he could see your eyes, so he could watch you fall apart for him. "I want to see every fuckin' thing you feel." It was almost too much—his gaze, his hands, the attention, the resurrection of something wild and alive inside you.

You thought of protesting, making some half-joking complaint about being watched, but all that would come out was a needy, embarrassingly desperate whine as his fingers curled and pressed perfectly on your g-spot, His rough palms grinding on your already extra sensitive clit.

He grinned at the sound, hungry and a little smug, and leaned in to catch your helpless little noises with his mouth—kissing you through it, swallowing every gasp, giving you something to hold onto as the pleasure built.

His fingers moved in and out agonizingly slowly, making you dizzy with your need for more. "Joel, please," you begged, desperation lacing your voice as your hips bucked uncontrollably. "Patience, baby," he murmured, his voice gruff yet gentle. "Gotta get you ready and stretched for me," he insisted, maintaining his maddening pace. "Hahngh—Joel... Ngghh," you whined again, defiant and yearning. "Shhhh, I know, sugar, I know," he whispered soothingly.

Your desperation transformed into audacity, your free hand embarking on a daring journey between his legs. It slid against the rough fabric of his jeans, palming the hardened bulge that strained beneath. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, hips instinctively rocking towards your touch. "Fuck, sugar," he muttered, voice thick with need. Your hand continued its exploration, tracing the length of him through denim, eyes wide and glazed, shimmering with pure, unadulterated want.

He groaned when he met your gaze, your eyes reflecting a storm of desire. His fingers quickened their pace, just a touch, "You want my cock that bad, huh, baby?" he muttered, voice hoarse with lust. You bit your lip, nodding, a silent plea. "Take it out then," he commanded, chin gesturing downwards.

Eager, you didn't need to be told twice. Your hands worked at his pants, deftly unbuttoning, unzipping, just enough to free him. You nearly gasped as his cock sprang free from its confines, thick and veiny, the angry red tip glistening with beads of pre-cum. "Fuck," you cursed under your breath, the sight of him sending a jolt of heat through you.

"Yeah, you like that, sugar?" he whispered, fingers moving faster, drawing out a gasped moan from you. "See why I gotta stretch this tight little pussy out?" His words were crude, raw, dripping with need and promise.

You whimpered, a ragged breath caught in your throat, and wrapped your hand around his length with trembling fingers. The skin was soft, heated, so alive, and you reveled in his sharp intake of air and the way he twitched in your grip. “Christ,” he rasped, head tipping back, his fingers stuttering inside you for just a split second as your thumb traced a slow, teasing circle over the head of him.

For a few breaths, you found a new equilibrium—your hand pumping him, his fingers plunging inside you. It was a game of escalation, of mutually assured destruction, of who would break first.

And of course it was you.

He withdrew his dripping fingers only to thumb over your clit, hard and insistent, and that was all it took. You shattered, hips jerking, vision going white at the edges, your whole self squeezing down on this sharp, sweet ache. He watched, greedily, taking the sweet sounds of your loud moans when you came once more.

“Look at you, baby,” Joel crooned, voice melting into roughest honey. He slowed his hand, coaxing you through the tremors, head bent to watch every twitch and quake as you spilled over his fingers and soaked his palm. He licked his lips, then brought his hand to your mouth, offering you the taste of yourself. “Open.” You did, dazed and eager, sucking his fingers clean. He grinned at the hungry way you took them, at the gleam in your heavy-lidded eyes. “Good girl.”

You whimpered when he drew his hand away, already empty and greedy for more, a pulse that throbbed everywhere at once. He kissed you again, messy and desperate, all-consuming as the heat surged between your bodies.

"Wait here," he murmured, rising from the bed with a sense of urgency, striding over to his nightstand. He yanked open the drawer, rummaging through the clutter with a growing sense of frustration. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "What's wrong?" you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows. "It's been so long since I've been with anyone," he confessed, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "I, uh... I don't have a condom," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. You grinned, a chuckle escaping your lips, "That's okay."

"What do you mean that's okay?" he asked, his brows knitting together in confusion. "It means I'm on the pill," you smirked, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You watched as his gaze darkened, a primal intensity taking over. "You mean you'll let me fuck you raw?" he muttered, disbelief mingling with desire. You bit your lip, nodding slowly, your heart racing as he made his way back to you, unbuttoning his shirt and let it fall to the ground. You take in the view of him fully bare, for you and only for you.

He trapped your body beneath his, murmuring in a hushed, fervent tone, "You sure about this, baby? 'Cause once I start, I'm not sure I can stop." You nodded, breathless, and whispered back, "I'm sure," followed by a moment of charged silence before you implored, "fuck me, Joel."

A deep, primal groan escaped him as he pried your legs apart, pressing them firmly against your chest. His ravenous eyes devoured every inch of you—your flushed cheeks, lips swollen from passionate kisses, your chest rising and falling heavily—and finally, the sight of your yearning, glistening depths. He urged you to grip your legs, commanding with an authoritative growl, "Hold them there."

With a hunger that could no longer be contained, he stroked his rigid length, a few deliberate pumps, before guiding himself into you.

He slid inside you in one long, slow push, and the stretch was immense—it made you see stars, made you claw at his arms and bite down on a wanton sob. “Fuuuck—baby, you’re so tight—” he groaned, the words shuddering out of him like a prayer that hurt to say. He paused, breath shaking, and leaned in to press his forehead to yours.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did, and the eye contact made the sensation a thousand times more raw. He kissed you, slow and deep, swallowing every wanton moans and whimpers that left your lips. Then he pulled out, inch by inch, and slid back in again, and the friction from the mere movement had you gasping, your head spinning.

He set a rhythm that started out careful, like he was memorizing the way your pussy felt around him, but soon enough the urgency took over. He pistoned his hips with a hunger you felt in your bones, the pressure building with every relentless thrust. Your hands keeping your knees to your chest like he asked you to, until he yanked your legs to rest against his broad shoulders, making his cock hit the blinding spot inside you.

"Ahnngh! There! Joel-fuck hhnnghh," you cried out, your voice dripping with desperation and raw desire. "Yeah? There, baby?" he taunted, his movements relentless, pounding into you with that perfect angle that obliterated everything else from your mind.

"Fuck, you sound so good, baby," he panted, his hips driving with fierce determination, his arms wrapped tightly around your legs, pulling you closer to him. "C’mon, sing for me, sugar," he grunted, a command that sent shivers through your spine. And you did, your moans and whimpers pouring out uninhibited, echoing loudly in the room, though you barely noticed the volume, lost in the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

Your body convulsed as his thumb bore down, grinding tight, relentless circles on your clit. It was your undoing. Every muscle tensed, snapping like a live wire, your spine arching as a raw, primal scream tore from your throat. He didn't just ride you through it; he fucking powered through, pinning you helplessly against him, his cock buried to the hilt as shockwaves of pleasure ripped through you. He was feral, sweat dripping from his hair, jaw locked, eyes feasting on the carnage of your orgasm.

He tore out of you, leaving you gasping, clenching around nothing. Before you could beg for more, he manhandled you, flipping you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up, presenting your ass to him. "I’m not fucking done with you," he growled. Without warning, he impaled you, his cock slamming deep, forcing another desperate cry from your lips. "FUCK! Oh god! JOEL!" He was merciless, the room echoing with the brutal sound of his hips crashing against your ass, his balls swinging, slapping against your throbbing, oversensitive clit with each vicious thrust.

He reached beneath you, snaked an arm around your waist, crushing you back onto him in hard, punishing snaps that had your face pressed to the mattress. Dirty words spilled from him, choked and shaky: "Perfect fucking pussy—taking me so good—goddamn—gonna fill you up, fuck—" Your mind blanked, every thought burned away by the pulsing sensation between your legs and the thick, searing pressure of him inside you.

"You fucking love this, don't you?" he rasped, pulling your hair until your back bowed and your mouth fell open in a wrecked sob. His free hand shot around your throat, not quite choking, just holding—possessive, anchoring, and it made you melt. You nodded frantically, unable to form a word, only a hungry, whimpering "please—please—" as his cock split you, heat pooling low in your belly for another intense orgasm.

With a primal urgency, Joel drove into you with two forceful thrusts, finally surrendering to the overwhelming sensation. He erupted inside you, painting your insides white with his release. "FUCK! Yes, baby—take every drop of my cum," he roared, his voice a guttural growl as he plunged even deeper, determined to ensure his seed reached the farthest depths. You were lost in a haze of ecstasy, so overwhelmed that you barely realized your own climax had crashed over you in tandem.

It flashed by in a blur, a rush of sensations that left you dazed. It wasn't until Joel's voice, filled with admiration and awe, reverberated in your mind that you became aware of what happened. A warm, liquid sensation trickled down your thighs, a testament to the intensity of your climax. The release had been so powerful that it left a noticeable splash against him, seeping into the fabric beneath, creating a dark, damp stain on his navy blue sheets.

Joel paused, pulling out with a slick, wet sound, and for half a second, there was just the sound of you both panting—chests heaving, your knees trembling. He looked at the mess you made, at the way his cock glistened, at the liquid pooling down your thighs, pride and hunger warring in his expression.

"Jesus Christ, sugar," he breathed, his thumb tracing the curve of your ass. "You’re fucking perfect." He slapped your ass—hard, a sting that radiated delight across your skin, then leaned down and pressed his tongue to your still-aching cunt, licking you up, swallow and all. "Made such a mess for me," he mumbled, between greedy, deep sucks.

Your limbs twitched with aftershocks, overstimulation so acute it bordered on pain, and you tried to squirm away—but his hands gripped your ass, holding you open and steady, and he tongued your clit until your thighs clamped on his bearded jaw and you half-sobbed, half-laughed into the pillow.

"Stop, stop," you gasped, wriggling free, but he only smiled—wolfish, proud—and pressed a final, searing kiss to your swollen cunt before letting you collapse, boneless, onto the messy sheets. Joel rolled beside you, his chest still heaving, and flung an arm heavy over your waist, pulling you back against him.

After a moment of ragged breathing, you both gradually settled into a calm. "You okay, sugar?" he murmured softly, his voice tender and gentle, a stark contrast to the intense passion he had shown just moments before. You nodded, releasing a weak, breathy chuckle. "You ruined me," you admitted with a playful grin. He chuckled in response, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Yeah, sorry about that," he murmured, gently stroking your arm before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head, a reassuring smile on your lips. "Just gonna be sore tomorrow," you replied, feeling the pleasant ache. He smiled and chuckled warmly. "Damn right you are."

Joel, ever the considerate gentleman, slipped out of bed, then you heard the soft sound of running water. He returned with a warm wet cloth and a glass of water, crouching beside the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t say anything, just tended to you with such gentle care it made your chest tighten.

He wiped you down slowly, his touch unhurried. “You okay?” he asked softly, brushing his knuckles along your thigh once he was done.

You nodded, a soft smile curling on your lips “Yeah.”

Joel climbed back into bed and opened his arms without a word, gathering you back in his arms, your face tucked against his chest. You knew you should probably leave before anyone noticed you were gone, but the thought of moving felt impossible. Wrong, even—his body was warm, his arms felt safe, and your legs still trembled slightly from what he’d just done to you.

“I should probably go,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.

His hand on your back didn’t budge. “Stay.”

You looked up at him. “You sure?”

He nodded and pulled you closer until your legs tangled beneath the sheets. “Yeah,” he said. “Just… stay.” He kissed the top of your head, then your temple. His voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ll wake you before the sun’s up. Promise.”

You smiled into his chest, your fingers resting lightly over his heart. “Okay.”

Joel tilted your chin up with two fingers and kissed you once more — soft, slow, nothing like the hunger from before.

“Goodnight, sugar,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Joel,” you whispered, eyes finally fluttering closed.

a/n don't look at me....i felt filthy after writing this one lmao. but i hope you guys enjoyed this one! they finally fucked!! yippieee!! your comments and reblogs have really helped me stay motivated to continue this fic so thank you guys so much! let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist ily all!

Taglist: @bau-muffin, @javierpenaismyhusband , @dilf-docs , @heavydirtygirll, @somedayheaven , @loveisacowboyyy , @lyssaspengler, @buckyinluv, @sadgirlcait, @anoverwhelmingdin, @wencontre

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#pedro pascal #joel miller fic #joel miller #rancher joel miller #joel tlou #pedroverse #tlou #soft reins fic #joel miller smut #smut #18 + only

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stellactrums · 3 months ago

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An Exercise in Trust 🗡️🩸 | AO3

Pairing: Abysswalker Rafayel x Princess MC Summary: The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. Rating: Explicit 🔞 Words: 7,857 Tags: POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, Unnamed Main Character, AFAB Main Character, MC uses she/her pronouns, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, PIV Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Fighting As Foreplay, Knifeplay, Bloodplay (kinda), Under-negotiated Kink (i.e. the aforementioned knife and blood play are not discussed beforehand but they're both little freaks on the same wavelength), Soul Bond, Mildly Dubious Consent (she compels him with the soul bond but make no mistake he wants her lol), Rafayel speaks Lemurian (but it's like four words and i made up three of them lol), Mild Gore (it's a brief line and does not actually happen) Notes: Originally posted to AO3 on March 7, 2025. I have the biggest heart eyes for Abysswalker, so here I am! I probably-maybe-definitely took some accidental liberties with the lore because all the different timelines confuse me, so I interpreted it as best I can. There's also some made-up Lemurian language. I tried my best based on the few phrases we've heard in the game. Endless thanks to my friend Sepia for beta-reading this and for hyping me up ever since this was still just an idea in my brain! And additional thanks to Sepia, Maz, and Belle for all giving me feedback when I was stuck. This fic wouldn't exist without you <3 Lemurian Translations: "Huerte mea" → "My heart" and "Vesta mea" → "My bride"

“I will cut out your heart with a dagger honed, my darling. And in Love’s name, your heart will become my faith.

Your body will be washed clean, shine like a pearl.

I will care for your heart. Till we meet again. And you reclaim it for yourself.”

– Siren’s Ballad, Act III: Muia

The desert winds tonight are punishing, noisily rattling the structure of their tent, and the Princess of Philos shivers as she peers outside. She pulls the blanket draped across her form tighter around her shoulders and cranes her neck, turning her gaze up to the sky.

Rafayel watches her from the corner of his eye. He has spent the previous half-hour sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, tending to his garb and attempting to mend a tear in the seams. But his fingers now idle, and the leathers are long forgotten across his lap, only half-sewn, as he finds himself too distracted to continue.

It is, perhaps, the longest Her Highness has ever gone without saying a single word in his presence. Rafayel is accustomed to the sound of her continuous chatter as she flits from subject to subject like a hummingbird searches for nectar, so much so that her sudden silence is a void by comparison. It is almost like she has forgotten he is even there. He wonders what it is that has stolen her attention and has her so captivated.

Even with her back turned toward him, Rafayel still cannot help but stare. His gaze sweeps over her form, following the shape of her hair, held in place with pins made of diamonds and gold. The drab, tattered blanket that surrounds her is unbecoming of a princess, a stark contrast to the rest of her elegance.

He longs to reach out for her and replace the blanket with the warmth of his embrace. To banish whatever thoughts have been keeping her mind so otherwise occupied. It is an old yet familiar twinge of jealousy that has followed him through the ages. He wants to be the sole object of her focus.

But Rafayel stays his hand, tightening his grip on the needle between his fingertips, and desperately tries to silence the yearning in his chest. He cannot allow himself to go down this path—not again, not when he has already strayed too far simply by being here with her in the first place.

A particularly strong breeze blows through the gap in the tent’s opening, strong enough that Rafayel can feel it from where he sits. The Princess draws in a sharp breath, turning away as the wind hits her face. She shivers again and mutters a low curse beneath her breath, wrinkling her nose in a way that is so unbearably endearing.

Rafayel lowers his gaze. A faint smile touches his mouth.

“Your Highness should not linger so close to the entrance,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

He hears the sound of fabric rustling as she closes the flap to the tent, then soft footfalls. Her shadow enters his peripheral, morphing with his into a single, exaggerated shape, and Rafayel looks up when she finally stands in front of him. She kneels onto her bedroll that is laid out opposite of his, clutching the blanket close to her chest.

“I wanted to look at the stars,” she replies.

Flickering flames from the oil lamp that illuminates their tent cast shadows over her face and dance across her delicate features. The subtle pout of her lip indicates her disappointment, and her eyes shine even in the low light, as if the stars themselves have made their home within.

A knot forms in the pit of Rafayel’s stomach. He sets his armor aside and sticks the sewing needle into it, marking his place.

“Your Highness has seen the stars before,” he says.

“Not like these.”

“Are these same stars not visible from the palace?”

“They are much prettier out here than in the city.” Her Highness looks down as another chill runs through her body. She picks at the fraying edges of her blanket. “I wanted to admire them during our last trip out here, but the sandstorm prevented us from doing so.”

Rafayel sighs quietly. Before he can think better of it, he reaches across the short distance between them and covers her hands with his. Her fingers are cool to the touch from the night air, so he brings them to his lips and warms them with his breath.

The Princess’ eyes widen. A soft, surprised sound sticks in her throat. But then, she smiles, and the faint, melodic lilt of her laughter makes the knot in Rafayel’s stomach twist and tighten.

She leans toward him. The blanket slips from her shoulders, falling to the ground behind her, and Rafayel stares at her over the tops of their hands. The gold embroidery of her tunic glitters in the dim light against lavender and black fabric, forming an endless web of intricate patterns that draw his gaze downward—over the swell of her chest, the dip in her waist, the sloping rise of her hips.

“Won’t you look at the stars with me, Rafayel?” she asks him, breaking his reverie.

Reluctantly, Rafayel releases her with a sudden pang of guilt, wishing so badly to tell her that he would give her the stars if he could. Instead, he pulls back, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashes through her eyes.

“Your Highness… should retire for the night,” he says.

The Princess lowers her gaze, watching as Rafayel lays his hands across his lap, then looks back into his eyes.

“But I’m not tired yet,” she says. “Also, you promised we would spar tonight.”

A flush creeps up the back of Rafayel’s neck and warms his ears. He clears his throat and shakes his head, recalling what transpired after their last training session. A repeat of events would not be appropriate.

“It is late, and the wind is too strong,” he says. Raising an eyebrow, he regards her with a look of amusement, unable to resist the urge to tease her. “And someone wanted to stay up to look at the stars.”

Stubborn as ever, the Princess leans in even closer. “But someone else gave me his word.”

“We have a long journey ahead of us come morning. I must ensure Your Highness’ safe return to the city.”

The Princess scowls at him, and Rafayel frowns when she shifts subtly over to her left, her hand twitching. Faster than he expects, she snatches his dagger from its place beside his pillow, clumsily twirling it in her hand before she jabs it in his direction.

Rafayel flinches, eyes widening, and raises his hands in front of him in self-defense.

“What—”

“One lesson,” she says, interrupting him.

He eyes the dagger, then her. “Your Highness—”

“Your Princess has given you a command.”

Rafayel blinks in surprise. Then, he laughs—at himself, at her request, and the absurdity of the circumstances he finds himself in. If only Her Highness realized the true power she holds, her words sharper than any blade could ever be.

“Fine,” he agrees through a sigh. As if he even has the choice. “One lesson. Your Highness must rest after that.”

Rafayel relaxes his posture and holds out one of his hands, reassuring her with a nod and a practiced, boyish smile. Satisfied, the Princess smiles back, then moves to place the dagger in his palm.

It is exactly the opening Rafayel needs. Leaning forward, he clasps her wrist and pulls hard, twisting her arm so the dagger’s blade points away from them both. The Princess loses her balance and falls with a gasp, and Rafayel uses the momentum he created to spin her around and yank her down onto his lap. He wraps his arm around her stomach, holding her in place as she tries to squirm away. Once sure that she is suitably restrained, he wrenches the dagger free from her hand.

“Rafayel!”

The Princess continues to struggle, clawing at his arm and desperately trying to escape his grasp. Rafayel tightens his hold on her and overpowers each attempt to break free. She finally goes completely still, holding her breath, when he presses the flat edge of the dagger against her cheek.

He lowers his lips to her ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of it. He feels her responding shudder against him and holds her even tighter. She winces at the discomfort of his tight grip, but dares not move otherwise.

“Tonight’s lesson,” Rafayel says, soft and quiet, “shall be an exercise in trust.”

Slowly, he moves the dagger down the side of her face. The Princess releases the air from her lungs in a shaky exhale, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Your Highness has failed the first test,” he goes on. “An assassin must never relinquish their weapon so freely.”

The Princess scoffs. “Then you also failed by letting me take it from you to begin with.”

“A bold assertion.” Rafayel laughs and brings the tip of the blade to her chin, turning her face toward him. “I do not believe Your Highness is in the position to argue.”

It is, of course, a mistake, because without another word, looking straight into his eyes, Her Highness lifts her leg and brings her heel down onto his toes—hard.

Rafayel clenches his teeth as the pain spreads throughout his foot. When that is not enough to break free, the Princess elbows him in the ribs. Rafayel accepts the blow, doubling over with a grunt, and only then does she manage to slip out of his arms. Panic rises to Rafayel’s chest as he just narrowly avoids slicing her cheek. She falls forward onto her bedroll, crawling on hands and knees, and pulls something out from under her pillow. Whirling around, she unsheaths the simple dagger he gave her weeks prior.

Rafayel jumps to his feet and holds his blade out in front of him. Pleased with herself, the Princess grins.

“And now?” she asks him. Taunts him.

Narrowing his eyes, Rafayel moves to strike, lunging toward her with his dagger raised above his head. The Princess stumbles backward, but she manages to catch his wrist and block his advance. Rafayel eases off, giving her a moment to reposition.

“Faster,” he growls, and charges at her again.

Her Highness reacts quicker than before. She crosses her arms and catches his wrist between them, trapping him in place with her dagger. When Rafayel does not break free on his own, she releases him.

“Again,” Rafayel says.

The sound of metal cutting through the air and the shallow puffs of their breaths echo throughout the tent as they perform each exercise multiple times. With limited space around them, Rafayel adjusts his maneuvers accordingly, taking care not to lead her too close to the supporting poles of the tent or the dwindling fire of the oil lamp. Their lack of armor poses another challenge. He will have to be especially careful not to injure her.

The air quickly grows warmer within the small space as a result of their spar, and the sound of their breathing grows harsher and more ragged along with it. Sweat glistens along the Princess’ brow, small strands of hair loosening around her temples and clinging to her skin.

“Your Highness is still too slow,” he says. “Each movement must be decisive and swift.”

He changes directions, aiming his dagger lower. The Princess blocks it effortlessly.

“An assassin must never hesitate.” He attacks her again. He nods in approval when she blocks him a second time. “Do not ever show an opponent mercy.”

“Even you?” the Princess asks.

She said it so casually, her tone light-hearted, but those mere two words make Rafayel’s steps falter as if she just punched the air out of him.

“Especially me,” he answers quietly.

They repeat the sequence several more times, settling into a familiar rhythm. Rafayel quiets his mind and wills himself to focus. Attack, block, reset. Attack, block, reset. Again and again, around and around. After the last cycle, he backs off, raising his hand to signal his retreat and taking several steps away from her. He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, catching his breath.

The Princess maintains their distance, holding her dagger in front of her, ready for anything.

“Not bad,” Rafayel says. “However, Your Highness still has much to learn in the art of combat.”

He lowers his attack arm, pointing the dagger away from her.

“A weapon must be a natural extension of one’s self,” he adds. He demonstrates by twirling his dagger, fluid and swift, seamlessly cutting through the air. “Your Highness holds a dagger like it is made of burning coals.”

She immediately tightens her grip around the hilt, wrinkling her nose in response to his teasing, but she remains firmly in place. Rafayel smiles and holds out his free hand.

“Come,” he offers. “Let me remind Your Highness how to wield it properly.”

The Princess does not hesitate: she crosses the distance between them and aims her dagger at his face with a shout. Rafayel quickly brings his own dagger up to block her, and their blades clash with a deafening, metallic clang. His smile stretches into a proper grin.

“Good,” he says. “Your Highness has passed the second test.”

The Princess snarls, baring her teeth, and attacks him again. There is a lethal edge present in her subsequent movements that was not there before. She is faster, harsher, more decisive, and what she still lacks in finesse and experience she makes up for in sheer tenacity. Rafayel blocks and dodges, over and over, letting her maintain the offensive.

She is quickly backing him into a corner, leading him toward the other end of the tent. Rafayel moves from side to side, even more careful not to disturb their surroundings the more aggressive the Princess becomes.

Anger flashes through Her Highness’ eyes, her mouth twisting into a grimace.

“You’re holding back,” she accuses him.

She moves to strike him. Rafayel catches both of her wrists, then resets, frowning at her in confusion.

“Of course I am,” he replies. “This is a spar, not actual combat.”

Her scowl deepens. “I don’t care.”

“Your Highness—”

She does not let him finish, recklessly lunging at him again, her movements sloppy and unrefined. Rafayel lets out a huff as her blade comes down toward his face. He grabs her by the wrists once more and shoves her away. The Princess sways on her feet as she loses balance, but she manages to reorient herself before she falls.

Rafayel’s gaze softens as he regards her with no small amount of concern, fearing he has pushed her too far.

“You tell me not to hesitate,” she says. “You tell me not to show you any mercy. Yet here you are—hesitating.”

She attacks him again.

“Showing me mercy.”

And again.

“Treating me like a helpless child.”

And again.

“Fight me”—and again—“like you”—and again—“mean it!”

Rafayel ducks as she slashes the dagger over the top of his head, snipping off a small lock of his hair. He sidesteps, barely managing to dodge another swing.

He needs to put a stop to this.

No longer holding back, Rafayel moves in on her quickly, not giving her even the slightest chance to react. The Princess gasps when he disarms her, forcing her dagger out of her grasp, sending it flying and clattering to the ground. He kicks her leg out from under her, watching as she falls unceremoniously onto her backside, landing on her bedroll.

With a frustrated growl, Her Highness wraps her legs around his and pulls him forward. Rafayel steadies himself as best as he can on the way down, but there is no use stopping it. He winces as he lands on hands and knees with a grunt, absorbing the impact, hovering over her.

He sits up and wrestles his arms free from the Princess’ hands after she reaches out to grab him. She is bold, he will give her that, and fast. But he is still faster—and stronger.

He straddles her hips and points his dagger to her throat. The Princess seizes him by his wrists and steadies his blade, holding on so tightly her knuckles turn white. She digs her nails into his skin until it stings, making Rafayel hiss through his teeth.

“Enough,” he grits out.

Her Highness gazes up at him with a defiant tilt of her chin, clenching her jaw from the effort of keeping him at bay.

“No.”

Despite the circumstances, Rafayel huffs out a laugh. “Even when faced with certain death, Your Highness does not surrender,” he says, each word laced with amusement. He tilts his head, curious. “That is unwise.”

A flicker of recognition crosses her gaze that gives Rafayel pause. She has looked at him that way before, whenever he would sneak into her bedchamber at night and find her with the fishtail beacon clutched tightly between her fingers. She has looked at him that way countless other times, in another life. In many other lives.

She looks at him like she remembers.

“You would never hurt me,” she replies. “Not really.”

The certainty in her voice pains him, a familiar ache that echoes deep within his chest. Rafayel frowns as fragmented memories of many distant pasts coalesce in his mind like raindrops on glass, some indiscernible from others, overlapping moments across lifetimes.

The God of the Sea and His bride…

Memories that occupy his dreams and every waking thought.

…a Lemurian and the fearsome Witch of the Abyssal Rift…

Memories she will never remember.

…an artist and his bodyguard…

Memories he can never forget.

Rafayel wants so badly to believe that he will never hurt her, but fate has always been cruel to him, and the universe who wields it even more so. His eyes darken, clouded by the once-raging seas of Lemuria that now only thrash behind his gaze.

“Would I not?” he asks. He lets out a low chuckle at the way she tightens her fingers around his wrists. “How can Your Highness be so certain? There is no one around to hear Your Highness’ cries for help. Even if there was…”

Rafayel pauses, searching her face, her eyes. He waits for her reaction—something, anything at all.

“It would be too late.”

The Princess goes to speak, but the words seem to die on her lips, and she promptly snaps her mouth shut. Rafayel smirks, prepared to relish in his victory.

But then, slowly, she loosens her hold on him, until her hands fall away entirely.

A prolonged silence wedges uncomfortably between them, surpassed only by the wailing desert winds beyond their tent.

“Do it, then,” she says.

Rafayel holds her gaze. He expects her to look smug, but her expression remains deliberately neutral, a carefully constructed mask.

“Do it,” she repeats. “Kill me.”

Rafayel keeps his hand steady, so steady that his wrist aches in protest. He very well could kill her right here and now, take back his heart, and fulfill his duty to his people—just like that. She does not realize what she is risking by offering herself to him so willingly.

Or perhaps she does.

She knows. She cannot remember, but she knows.

She knows him. All of him. She has always known, even though she may never come to know it herself. In this moment, as Rafayel stares her down over the curved edge of his dagger, he truly believes that she does.

He almost forgot what it is like to be known.

But here they are once again, bound to one another in this life, and the next, and the many others that have come before. Despite everything, that has never changed. Their love is inevitable, their fate intertwined in a prophecy written in blood and stone—a fate he himself doomed them to long, long ago.

For years beyond his comprehension, he has fought an uphill battle: desire at war with destiny, his pleasure versus his purpose, his love for her perpetually at odds with the love he holds for his people. The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead.

It would be so, so easy to kill her…

She should be afraid of him.

He will teach her to be afraid.

With a wave of his hand, Rafayel extinguishes the flame in the oil lamp. The Princess lets loose a gasp as they are plunged into darkness.

“Does Your Highness not remember our previous lessons?”

His eyes adjust quickly. The outline of her form comes back into view, followed by her face, bathed in shadow. Before she can answer him, Rafayel lazily begins to drag the tip of his dagger down her throat.

Though she tries to suppress it, he does not miss the subtle shift in the Princess’ expression—the way her eyes widen almost imperceptibly—nor the hitch of her breath. Her body tenses beneath him, but even so, her quiet determination remains, made evident by the firm set of her jaw and the slight crease in her brow. Her resolve will not be broken so easily.

He waits for her to stop him, to beg him to stop, to surrender. The Princess remains silent.

“An assassin must kill quickly, before they are killed first,” he says. “As Your Highness may recall, that is what makes the throat a favorable choice. One cut…”

Rafayel turns the dagger with a flourish, holding it horizontally against her neck.

“That is all it takes.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. Rafayel watches, transfixed, as the dagger moves along with it.

He blinks. He blinks again. His mind is slipping, thoughts passing like sand through his fingers. Images flash behind his eyes of the Princess laid out beneath him, blood pooling under her body, her heart carved out of her chest yet still beating in the palm of his hand.

Rafayel shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, and points the sharp tip of the blade at her throat once more. Though not enough to break skin, he presses down just hard enough to leave a mark. A single line, raised and puffy against her otherwise unblemished complexion, follows his dagger from her throat to the top of her chest.

If she feels any pain, Her Highness does not show it. Rafayel wonders just how far she will trust him to go.

He recalls a time, long before, when the artist left his mark upon her skin in a similar fashion, with red paint instead of a blade. He wants to leave his mark on her again now.

It comes to him as easy as breathing. Rafayel turns the dagger carefully and begins to draw a familiar shape into her chest, watching the way her skin reacts the same way as before. For those precious few moments, the world around them falls away. He grows more and more mesmerized at the sight of angry welts forming the shape that mirrors his own mark—the brand on his chest that binds his soul to hers and burns whenever she speaks.

When he finishes the final line, completing the elegant curve of a Lemurian tail, he flicks the dagger upright and roughly scrapes it against her delicate flesh. This time, he can tell it hurts from the way Her Highness’ eye twitches, but it is the only acknowledgment she deigns to give the pain. Tiny droplets of blood bloom from the small cut, trickling down her chest and disappearing underneath the scooped neckline of her tunic.

She is truly a sight to behold—her skin marked by his blade, her life in his hands. She trusts him implicitly, and it stirs something deep within him, like oil being thrown into a fire, an intense longing the likes of which he has never felt before. Heat rises steadily throughout his entire body, making the flush on his cheeks deepen and his ears burn as he averts his gaze.

Rafayel follows the blood trail with the point of his dagger. The sound of metal dragging against fabric, but not ripping, is nearly deafening.

“Bone is a troublesome obstacle.”

His voice sounds so far away, unfamiliar even to his own ears, rough and hollow like the sea of golden sand outside blowing in the wind. He moves the dagger between her breasts, then lower, prodding at her sternum for emphasis. He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest as the Princess meticulously measures and counts each breath.

“To reach the heart,” he continues, “one must…”

He angles the dagger upward, notching it between her ribs on her left side, and points it at her heart.

His heart.

Rafayel narrows his eyes. He pushes her down harder into the bedroll, but still, she does not react—barely even winces. He feels dizzy and drunk, blood roaring in his ears, as if his mind is no longer his own. No matter what he does, she does not flinch. No matter what he says, she does not answer.

The silence stretches between them, tormenting him. Mocking him.

“Does Your Highness truly not fear death?”

Finally, the mask slips. The Princess’ gaze softens.

“Are you afraid, Rafayel?” she asks him.

For a moment, his grip slackens around the hilt of his dagger. She is trying to disorient him. He chuckles again, a low and bitter sound.

“There is nothing I fear,” he says.

She frowns. “You’re lying.”

Rafayel presses the blade against her ribs. Though not strong enough to break skin, she goes tense beneath him once more.

“Everything I have ever feared has already come true.”

He lays his hand over her stomach, pointing the dagger in the direction of her womb.

“The worst nightmares that have ever haunted me, I have experienced firsthand, time and time again,” he continues, recalling every time he has loved her, lost her, never forgotten her. “But Your Highness…”

With a shake of his head, Rafayel grins.

“Your Highness still has not answered my question.”

Beneath his palm, her heartbeat is strong, growing stronger by the second.

“No,” the Princess says.

Rafayel looks up. “Your Highness refuses to answer?”

“No,” she repeats firmly. “As in, no, I do not fear death.”

To his surprise, she lifts her hand. He tries not to react as she draws near, but he has always been so helpless against her, and a short gasp escapes him before he can stifle it. She gently lays her hand against his cheek. Her fingers, cool once more, bring a modicum of relief to his flushed skin. Rafayel turns his face into her palm on impulse with a ragged exhale. Her touch is so tender, far more tender than he deserves.

“I do not fear death,” she says, without a single note of uncertainty in her voice, “because I do not fear you.”

There is a sinking feeling in Rafayel’s stomach, heavier than stone. He looks into her eyes, and for that moment, she is no longer a princess; she is a bride, a queen, a witch, a bodyguard, a muse, a lover…

She is everything. She is his, and he is hers. He has always been hers.

He reaches for her in return, cradling her face so gently, almost reverently.

“You should,” he says. His voice is quiet, choked with regret. “You really… really should.”

In the span of a single breath, the distance between them closes. Rafayel is not sure who moves first, but in the end, it simply does not matter—not when Her Highness’ lips are so soft and inviting beneath his, and the taste of honey and rosewater lingers on her tongue, and she clings to him like she has been starved, deprived, kissing him so deeply it steals the air from his lungs.

He groans against her lips as she pulls him closer. Still holding his dagger, his dominant hand remains trapped between their bodies. The other trembles as he slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her forward.

A quiet moan vibrates in her throat. The Princess runs her hands down the length of his back and then up the sides of his shirt. Rafayel presses himself even closer, wanting to feel the entirety of her body molded against his. The single thread of self-control he has left quickly unravels into nothingness, and he struggles to hold onto a solid thought, his mind utterly consumed by her. She is so warm, trapped under his weight the way she is—so close yet still not close enough. He longs to touch her, to feel her skin against his, to watch her come undone so beautifully as he moves within her.

Rafayel tears his lips away from hers and trails wet kisses down the side of her face instead, then along her jaw. He pulls her head to the side by her hair, groaning softly as she draws in a shaky breath in response. He sucks a greedy bruise over her hammering pulse, every beat of her heart spurring him on more and more.

The Princess’ hands continue to wander. She traces meaningless shapes against his shirt. She bunches the fabric within her grasp. Twists. Pulls. She ventures upward, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him against her, while the other hand lingers in the middle of his back.

Rafayel pauses once he reaches her chest. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“If I truly am to die by your hand,” the Princess says suddenly, and Rafayel shudders at the unmistakable feeling of cold steel pressed against his spine, “your own demise will be just as swift.”

He freezes. Her Highness pushes the tip of an entirely new dagger between his vertebrae. His thighs go tense around her hips, locking them both in place. One wrong move and he will never walk again.

Perhaps, he realizes, it is still he who should be afraid of her.

He lifts his head and stares at her in disbelief. “When did—”

She cuts him off with her laughter, clear and vibrant, giddy from her victory. Rafayel sputters, completely dumbstruck. He did not even hear her draw the weapon from its sheath, nor does he know where she even could have hidden it. The kiss was a total distraction. He cannot help but feel a little disappointed.

But her joy is too infectious, and a smirk slowly spreads across Rafayel’s lips. “It seems I have taught Your Highness well.”

She grins back at him, eyes glittering with mischief and starlight even in the surrounding darkness.

“An assassin must kill quickly,” she says, echoing his previous words, “before they are killed first.”

Rafayel hisses when the small blade scrapes against his skin, tearing through his shirt. Pleasure twists with pain and forces an involuntary groan out of him.

Her Highness brings the dagger between them. It is tiny, small enough to hide in her boot or tuck into her belt. His blood glimmers at the pointed end, a single drop of crimson dipping onto the rumpled fabric of her tunic. Rafayel follows the droplet with his eyes as it falls.

The Princess sits up slowly, making him sit up with her. His arms return to his sides, and he allows his own blade to fall from his grasp.

“Do you trust me?” she asks him.

The cord of restraint holding him back finally snaps, and something else inside of him withers and dies along with it. Regret. Shame. Guilt. Emotions he cannot even name, all of which no longer matter.

None of it matters anymore. And all Rafayel can do is laugh.

“My princess,” he whispers, low and rough like gravel. He bows his head. “I am at Your Highness’ mercy.”

She places the tip of her dagger beneath his chin, lifting his gaze back to hers.

“Rafayel.” Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks his name. “Kiss me.”

Their bond resonates from the depths of his very being, tendrils of agony that spread through his body, constricting him, punishing him for daring to ever deny himself the ecstasy of her touch. But even as he feels himself drawn to her, compelled by her, he does not need it. Not for this. Never for this.

He takes her hand and squeezes, guiding the pitiful little dagger to his chest. The blade harmoniously cuts into his palm and hers, their blood mixing together and trickling down their wrists. The Princess whimpers in pain. Rafayel leans in to kiss her again, deliberate and deep, swallowing down her cries.

She writhes underneath him and tries to push him off her lap. When he does not budge, she draws his bottom lip in between her teeth and bites down in retaliation, soothing it afterward with her tongue. Rafayel gasps, a broken moan escaping him, pleasure coiling tightly in his gut. Letting go of her hand, he pushes her down against the bedroll once more, bending at the waist and leaning over her. A reawakened hunger flows through him, and his touch becomes frantic as he slips his hands beneath her tunic and lifts it over her head.

The Princess is beautiful. Rafayel stops to look at her, really look at her, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin—skin that has been marked by his blade and now begs to be savored beneath his lips. He starts at her shoulder first, then moves to her neck, mouthing along the hollow of her throat. He moves lower and lower still, until he finds the trail of blood he left behind before, messily smeared across her chest. He flattens his tongue against her skin and laps up the blood with a moan like it is the sweetest ambrosia, and he relishes the pleasurable sounds that slip past her lips, the breathless way she whispers his name.

She slides her fingers through his hair and pulls, and Rafayel groans, closing his teeth around the soft mound of her breast. He kneads the other with his hand, ignoring the stinging pain of the cut across his palm as his own blood transfers onto her skin. Her answering moan is so divine, so unguarded, that it goes straight to his cock, and the front of his pants tighten uncomfortably.

“Rafayel,” she says again, louder than before, arching up into his eager mouth. Rafayel lifts his eyes to watch her. Hot, urgent arousal curls in his stomach at the sight of her already so lost in pleasure, with her head thrown back and hair strewn about. One hand shields her face, her index finger wedged between her teeth, dagger pointed away from her.

He finally moves off of her lap and kneels between her legs, then reaches up to pull the dagger from her grasp. The Princess gasps as Rafayel slides the tip of the blade down her stomach, creating another faint but angry line. He follows it with his lips and soothes it with more kisses.

“Up,” he says, tucking his free hand under the small of her back.

She complies and lifts her hips. He undresses her quickly, tugging her pants and undergarments down her legs, and then reaches behind his back to pull his own shirt over his head. He lowers himself down onto his elbows and holds her gaze as he trails fleeting kisses past her navel. Her legs fall open for him, and Rafayel moans at the mere sight of her.

One hand comes to rest against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Rafayel nuzzles against her and turns to press a kiss there. She continues to play with his hair, pulling gently, nails scratching against his scalp and sending a shiver down his spine. He looks up again and slowly brings the dagger up between her legs.

“Your Highness tricked me,” he whispers, poking her thigh with the tip of the blade.

The Princess jumps in surprise, but she laughs under her breath, and some of the tension in her body ebbs away. Her eyes soften around the edges, and her smile melts into something more serene—more sincere.

“All you ever do is hold back,” she says. Her gaze flicks between him and the dagger. “I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Not from me.”

Rafayel’s breath catches as her words settle over him. Slowly, he presses the flat edge of the blade into her thigh, then the tip. He draws swirls and shapes as he continues to transform her skin into a masterpiece of his own making. A twist of the wrist, and he guides the sharp edge along her supple skin to create a fine cut. Her Highness hisses through her teeth, muscles twitching.

Setting the dagger aside, Rafayel chases the blood as it trickles down, catching it with his lips. He breathes in the heady scent of her as he noses the wiry curls between her thighs and parts her with his fingertips. He moans at the first taste of her, the mixture of her arousal and the coppery aftertaste of her blood on his tongue nearly driving him to the brink of total oblivion.

The Princess sighs with pleasure and tightens her fingers through his hair when she begins to move, her back bowing. Rafayel allows her to set their pace and supports her weight with his hands, following each steady, sensual roll of her hips as she chases the heat of his mouth.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Rafayel…”

He groans when her thighs clamp around him, and he imagines himself sheathed inside her, the urge to take her stronger than before. He pushes his own hips into the bedroll in search of more friction, clinging to any sense of relief he can find, determined to taste her release before he seeks his own.

It does not take long, wound up as she is. The Princess lets out a sharp cry, hips flexing and thighs trembling as she comes. Whispered pleas tumble from her lips that grow louder and louder as Rafayel works her through her release, licking into her relentlessly, not pulling away until she is whining in protest from the overstimulation.

“My beloved.” His voice is breathy, soft. A whisper against her thigh. “Huerte mea… vesta mea…”

She collapses against the bedroll, her body going lax. Rafayel straightens, wiping the slick off his chin with the back of his hand as he gazes down at her prone form.

He kneels between her still-trembling legs, pushing her knees even further apart, and shoves his pants down just far enough. Taking his cock into his hand, he gives himself one stroke, then another, before he carefully guides himself forward. The heat between her thighs envelops him, welcoming him, and he lets out a reflexive sigh as he sinks deeper. He bites his lip and struggles not to close his eyes, wanting to watch himself disappear into her cunt.

His mind goes blank—whiting out for one long, blissful moment—once he is fully seated. Rafayel holds himself still, so still, even though he is all but coming apart at the seams, muscles twitching restlessly in anticipation, his own need desperate to be sated.

She holds him close, arms and legs wrapped around him in a sacred geometry that makes him feel more worshiped than any other offering or prayer or devotion ever has. Rafayel leans into her, his hips nestled within the cradle of her thighs. So long as he lives, reborn anew as many times as fate demands it, nothing else will ever be able to compare. Lemuria could fall a thousand times more, damning his soul for all eternity. He will do it all over, again and again, if it means coming home to her even just one more time, saving her just one more time—

And he does not know how much longer he will be able to hold back.

Her Highness moves her hands, fingers at his sides. He shudders beneath her touch, gentle and explorative, as she traces the faint, jagged lines of old scars etched into his skin. Rafayel bends to kiss her brow, but the Princess nudges him with her nose and searches for his lips, finding them in another needy kiss.

“Rafayel,” she whimpers. She wriggles her hips beneath him, urging him to move.

He answers her with a languid thrust that has her head lolling back.

“As my princess wishes,” he says, and then he kisses his way back down, smiling against the side of her neck.

Rafayel gives her time to adjust, moving with short, steady strokes that roll into one another before he settles into a familiar rhythm. When she begins to move with him, he pulls her even closer—lifts her legs higher along his sides so she can cross them at the middle of his back.

The Princess fucks like she fights, breathless and eager, gradually moving with more confidence than she started with. She holds onto him tightly and takes what she needs, works her hips against his with determination as they rock together. Rafayel’s entire body thrums with pleasure, a heartbeat all its own, and he wishes he could spend all of eternity in this moment, drowning in her depths.

She sucks in air when he nips at the delicate skin below her ear. His mouth gentles in apology, his next few kisses more tender, his tongue tasting the sweat on her skin. Rafayel presses himself closer, pushes himself deeper inside on every thrust. He is unable to resist for long, catching her earlobe between his teeth, biting down once more. Her Highness runs her nails down his back, and he nearly crumbles, pleasure and pain twisting and unwinding, consuming him whole—

“Fuck,” he sighs into her neck, kissing it again. “So soft… so warm…”

Rafayel props himself up on one hand and lowers the other to where they are joined to circle his fingers over her clit. He groans at the responding clench of her cunt, and the moan she gifts him with in return makes his blood run hot as her hips arch upward into his touch.

“Your Highness always sings so sweetly for me,” he says, an urgent need threaded through every word. “Let me hear it again.”

He gazes down at her, taken with the way her body slides up, up, up against the bedroll with every snap of his hips. Rising to his knees, he settles his free hand at her waist, holding her there as he meets her with another powerful thrust, then draws her down even harder against him.

“Please,” he rasps. “Please let me hear it again—”

The Princess keens, lashes fluttering as her eyes slip shut. Rafayel does it again, driving forward harder than the first time, and then again, determined to hear her cry his name even just one more time. He cannot look away, never wants to look away, utterly hypnotized by the way her body moves, the way the muscles in her stomach flex and flutter.

Curious, he releases her waist, then lays his palm flat against her lower abdomen and presses down—

“Rafayel!” the Princess cries out, and his name has truly never sounded sweeter.

He feels it when she reaches her end, wave after wave, bearing down on him and clenching rhythmically around his cock and bringing him to the very precipice of his undoing. His eyes never leave her face, watching the kaleidoscope of emotion playing out across her features as she continues to writhe, as her already bruising grip on him tightens to the point of pain.

Desperation claws at him from within. Rafayel chases after the exquisite pressure low in his belly that grows stronger with each thrust. His rhythm falters as he pushes himself to move harder, faster, no longer able to contain it. He plants his hands back on the ground on either side of her hips for leverage as he drives into her, and gods, he is close, so close, each cry that escapes her bringing him closer, closer, closer—

“Your—Your Highness,” he stammers, voice cracking around the words. He lets out a low whine. “I’m—”

Helpless against the inevitability of his own completion, Rafayel surrenders to it—a pleasure so intense it nearly pains him, makes his limbs spasm, makes his heartbeat even more erratic. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, broken little sounds spilling from his lips as he spills inside her, until he has nothing more left to give.

When he opens his eyes once more, the Princess is smiling. Her gaze is serene, almost dreamlike, and for a moment Rafayel wonders if he is, in fact, dreaming.

The world falls away. Time stands still. There is only him and her.

Arms shaking, he nearly collapses as he lies down next to her and curls up at her side. The Princess wraps him up in her embrace and holds him close, and he burrows into the junction between her neck and shoulder. Later, he will clean their bodies and tend to their wounds, then hold her throughout the night as they sleep. But right now, he needs only this.

The softness of her voice soon draws him from his thoughts: “Rafayel?”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to know what I fear?”

Rafayel’s pulse jumps against his throat. He lifts his head from her shoulder, and she reaches for him, gently guiding his gaze to hers with a finger under his chin. She runs her thumb over his bottom lip in a way that is heartbreakingly familiar.

“I fear that one day, I will call for you,” she says, “and you will not answer.”

Guilt runs through him like an arrow to the chest. The knot in his stomach returns, now a noose.

“I fear that I will one day know a life without you in it,” she continues, dropping her voice to a whisper. “That is a fate worse than death.”

He shifts onto his side, pulling her along with him, and touches his forehead to hers. Their noses brush, and Rafayel holds her cheek as he kisses her, even though his throat feels tight and he wants to weep at the mere notion of being without her.

“I have always looked for you,” he whispers back, and though she cannot comprehend the full weight of his words, he wants her to hear them. “And I have always found you.”

The Princess smiles again, saying nothing. Her touch is gentle against his cheeks as she brings his lips back to hers for another longer, softer kiss.

She knows. She knows, but she does not remember. Cannot remember. And for the first time across his many, many lives, Rafayel wonders if maybe it is for the best.

But he will. And should a day ever come where he is not able to find her, he will still remember.

It will not be enough, but he will always, always remember.

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