Warning: age gap, verbal and physical abuse, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: silverfox!Andy Barber (mob au)
Note: If you’ve got a problem with slow burn then you’ve got a problem with me and I suggest you let that one marinate.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You’re wide awake. You’re glad Everly begged you to stay the night. If you were alone in that apartment, well, you’re not sure you could even sit still.
Not that you are now.
It’s not a good idea, but it’s your only one. You don’t know what else to do. Your stomach clenches. You bend over your lap and breathe away the nausea.
Has it all been for nothing? All your hard work? Late nights?
You’re just going to walk away? Maybe you are your mother’s daughter after all. Your father always said so.
There’s nothing else to do. You can’t go back to your dad. He never wanted you and you don’t know if you can face whatever had Andy so riled up. You have no family to take you in. Your mom hasn’t been around since the week before you graduated and that was for about three days before she took off again.
It’s wrong. You know it. All the logic in your brain tells you this is more dangerous than the alternative. But what is that? Staying here, waiting for Andy to get back, living under the thumb of another man with all the control?
Sure, Andy could be nice, but it scares you that he can also be so mean. Even if it’s not to you. This can be his last favour to you.
You leave the phone but take his card. You silently dip out the front door and tiptoe down the hollow hallways. In the front lobby, you stop at the student ATM and take out more than you should. It will have to be enough.
You slide the card into Everly’s mail box before you head out the front of the building. You tuck the money in your pocket and set off on the long walk to the apartment across town. It’s getting lighter by the time you get there.
You approach the apartment door cautiously. You listen through the wood. You don’t think he’s back yet. He’d have messaged. Well, you don’t have the phone anymore.
You enter. It’s just as you left it. You pack up your things. Just your things. Nothing that he got you.
You look back at the apartment and your heart drops. You shuffle into the kitchen and pick up the little marker on the whiteboard. You write a single word; ‘sorry’.
You stick the marker back in the magnetised holder and turn away. You leave without looking back. You hike up your bag and cross your arms, head low, shoulders high. You’ll figure out where you’re going when you get to the station.
🖤
You buy a cheap flip phone from a convenience store across from the train station. You’re sure it’s not out of the usual. You set it up as you sit on a park bench with your bag in your lap.
You don’t think you’ve ever been this far from home. They say big city’s have a place for everyone. Is there even a place in this world for you?
You finish and tuck the phone away. It’s there for emergencies. Besides, you probably can’t get a job without a number. Or a place to stay.
Like any metropolitan hellscape, the apartments are overpriced. You sleep with your bag at a bus terminal for a few hours. You wake up and wander around until you find a library. They offer ten minutes on the public computer without a card. You scribble down addresses and phone numbers on the call cards and leave.
There’s a place. Three roommates. All female. It’s your best hope.
Gladys is the ‘landlord’. She owns the walk-up and lives on the top floor. She’s fifty-eight and annoyed by it. She’s suspicious as she warns you that they’re old ladies and they don’t put up with trouble. You promise none of that and count out the down payment. She’s not as unsure then.
You shiver as she leaves you to your room. That’s the same reaction Andy would get when he flashed his card, or even just his name. You shut the door and put your bag on the lumpy mattress. It will do.
Later, you meet your other roommates. Raylene has tattoos up to her chin and recites scripture as easily as she makes a joke about her illicit past. She’s only forty-two, you can’t tell right? Amanda is older and quieter. She seems annoyed as she pours her cereal. You go back to your room.
The next day, you return to the library. You need proof of address for a card. Right.
You go back to the house. There’s mail on the floor as you step in. You pick it up and turn it over. You leave it on the table.
You look for a job on the glitchy flip phone. It’s useless. You lay in the room, doing nothing but thinking about everything. Too late to go back now. You threw it all away. Because…
Because you’re scared. Because even though you were living in the same place as him, you know nothing about who Andy Barber really was. What little you do know, couldn’t convince you to stay.
You find a job at shipping service kiosk. They had a sign up to apply online but when you tried to get a pic of the QR, the manager asked if you were interested. You said sure. He hired you on the spot.
You realise quick why it was so easy. There are less customers than loiterers. Those who hang around, lean into their high and sway dangerously towards the ground. You watch them, as nervous for them to collapse as to suddenly lurch at you instead of whatever it is they’re seeing in their heads.
You weren’t safe before but you’re not safe now. Did you do the right thing? Is saving yourself really that? Has there ever been better for you? Was Andy that?
As you head off from your third shift, you nearly shriek. You sigh and shake your head. The man in the suit isn’t him. You don’t know why you thought it would be. He can’t find you.
You drag your feet along the streets, lost in thought. You take out your phone to check the time only for your shoulder to jerk suddenly. A man wrenches on your purse strap as your phone clatters to the ground. It bounces across the pavement as you cling to your bag. Your accoster pulls back his elbow and hits you in the left eye socket.
You keep a hold of your purse as you cry out. He struggles with you as pedestrians hurry by, acting as if they can’t see you. He gives up and grabs the phone, running off into the stream of bystanders.
You pant on your knees and hug your bag under one arm. You shakily touch your cheek as you feel the skin tightening already. You keep your head down as you stand up. Not one person will look at you. No one asks if you’re okay.
You’re not.
You made a big mistake. It was easier to protect yourself from one man you knew than a thousand faceless men waiting for their moment. You hurry home and lock yourself in the room. You don’t cry. You just sit there as the bruise pulses and swells around your eye.
The next day, you put your wallet in your pocket and leave your purse at home. You get to the kiosk and roll open the gate. You’re on alert as you stand behind the counter and the plexiglass screen. It’s a paltry shield between you and the general public.
A customer comes in to send out a package. You print the label and tape it up. The complain about the price. You agree, it is expensive, but they’re welcome to try to post office instead. The take their tracking number and scoff a thank you.
You turn to put the parcel in the bin of expedited shipments. The bell rings as the next customer steps up. You’re right there, they can wait.
You turn and nearly fall backwards. It’s like you’ve been punched again. You stare at Andy through the scratched protective glass.
“Hey, I’m here to inquire after a lost package.” He says calmly, resting his fingertips on the lip of the counter.
Your lip trembles and you flick your lashes. You deflate and shake your head.
“Tracking number?” You prompt, staying away from the counter.
He stares at you. “Sweetheart…” His voice scrapes up his throat.
You stare at him. His brow furrows and he leans in. He puts his elbow on the counter and rests his palm on the glass.
“Who did that to you?”
You blink as your eyes tingle. You shrug. You look away. He doesn’t. You can feel him staring. He exhales.
“You know it’s time to come home, don’t you?” He says quietly.
You gulp.
“Sweetheart…” his voice hardens. “I don’t want to make you… but I will.”
You dip your chin down and flutter your lashes until the tears retreat. You lift your head slowly and look him in the eye. “I’m afraid if you can’t provide a tracking number, I can’t help you, sir.”
Summary: the daughter of a Baptist preacher is secretly running around and dating the famous Elias 'stack' Moore. They met due to her father running an integrated church. Her father would die and go right to heaven if he found out what his "pure" daughter was doing with Elias - not because the differences in race, but because Elias had been the one to corrupt his innocent little girl.
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, slight corruption kink, reader is a specific race for plot purposes, oral(F receiving), blasphemy, rough - ish sex, dirty talk, religion, forbidden love, secret relationship, slight choking.
MasterList ML2
The Delta settled into the kind of summer evening that carried the smell of warm earth and river water. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and the last streaks of orange faded behind the cotton fields. Elias "Stack" Moore leaned one elbow out the window of Elijah's borrowed Ford, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth as gravel crunched beneath the tires.
“Don't scratch my car” Smoke had warned.
Stack had answered with nothing more than a laugh. The truth was, he hadn't borrowed it for a joyride - not really. It had been seven long days. Seven days since he'd seen her smile. Seven days since he'd heard her laugh. Seven days was entirely too long.
Word traveled quickly through the neighborhoods of the Delta. By supper, somebody had mentioned pastor Bailey was leading a week-long revival in Tennessee. Elias didn't need to hear another word. It would certainly be rude to leave a young girl all by her lonesome for a week - now, wouldn't it? The smug basterd even couldn't stop himself from grinning as he zoomed past the little white church - “if only that preacher knew”
If only the preacher knew the man that singlehandedly corrupted his precious, sweet little girl, set in his pews every Sunday. Elias didn’t believe in sin - at least not the kind he preached about from the pulpit. He believed in the curve of a woman’s waist, the taste of cheap whiskey, and the thrill of doing exactly what he wasn't supposed to do.
Pastor Bailey was no fool, but there were things he didn't know - maybe that was for the best. The widowed pastor had arrived from Baltimore with his daughter years earlier with ideas that most folks around the Delta called dangerous. He preached that every soul stood equal before God. Black, white, poor, or rich. - It didn't matter. He believed that we were all gonna live together in peace when we got to heaven, so might as well learn together too.
His congregation reflected it too. People whispered and others threatened. The Klan certainly hadn't appreciated the message and above all the pastor possessed two qualities in abundance - faith and absolutely no fear. Everybody knew the bible on his desk was there to save anyone's soul if willing. They also knew the loaded shotgun within arm's reach was there to protect his congregation. His belief in the 2nd amendment was just as strong as the Klan’s twisted and disgusting mindset.
Smoke respected a man who practiced what he preached, especially when that preaching came backed by equal measures of scripture and shotgun steel. Pastor Bailey was a dangerous kind of holy man - soft-spoken, gentle-hearted, but with a spine of pure iron. He protected his flock like a mother bear, willing to trade scripture verses with bullets if necessary.
Truth be told, Elijah and Elias only started attending because Annie insisted. “Boy,” she'd told both twins, “the Lord's been good to you whether you admit it or not”
Elias had rolled his eyes the entire first service - hell, he would have fallen asleep if Annie hadn't smacked that flashly fedora off his thick skull. But he had remembered every second of that day anyway. The preacher had been halfway through a sermon about judgment when Elais' attention drifted.
Not to the pulpit, but to the second pew closet to the front - she was sitting beside Grace Chow of all people. She had that pink bible opened to Revelations like a good little girl.
She looked like an angel, her profile soft and innocent, simple pale blue dress and her hair pinned back. She listened like every word her father spoke mattered. Then she looked up and caught him staring. Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, Elias gave the most flirtatious wink he'd ever given to any woman. And instead of looking offended she'd blushed - actually blushed and gave him the cutest smile he'd ever seen. And that smile hadn't left him ever since.
If only the preacher knew Elias Moore had singlehandedly corrupted his daughter - Took her. virginity inside that very church no less.
The memory of it still made him grin like a fool - that stolen hour between Wednesday night Bible study and the late service, when he'd backed her against the choir loft the day she wore that prim little dress. He didn’t believe in blasphemies or purities, but he believed in the way her legs had wrapped around his waist and the way she’d bitten his shoulder to hold back her cries.
Goddamn, that girl had learned fast. He'd taught her how to touch him, how to take him deep, how to ride him until they were both shaking and desperate. She had learned that the things her daddy preached about as sinful - greed, gluttony, lust - felt an awful lot like heaven when Elias was the one administering them. He’d taught her where to press her fingers to make her back arch and that being a "good girl" didn't mean being silent.
The thought alone was enough to make Elias shift in his seat as he navigated the winding roads. Dust swirled around the crimson car as he pulled up to the Bailey house. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of purple and gold. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he stared at the front door.
That house was the definition of wholesome. The porch was swept clean, lace curtains in the windows, and a swing rocking gently in the evening breeze. It was the home of a God-fearing man and his beloved daughter, the absolute sanctuary of Southern propriety.
It was also the residence of Elias' personal addiction. He climbed out of the car and quietly shut the door. There was only a lamp glowing in the window. He stepped onto the porch and gave the screen door the gentlest knock he could manage. He heard the floorboards creak inside. His heart did that annoying little stutter it always did around this house, like some kind of twisted religious experience. He adjusted his collar - damn thing feeling too tight suddenly - and ran a hand over his jaw. He'd washed up. Smelled like Bay Rum cologne instead of the usual cigarette and Irish beer.
A moment later the door opened just enough for one bright e/c eye to peek through. “Elias” the whole door swung wide and her arms were around his neck. The sweetest greetings he's ever received. Not even Smoke was ever that happy to see him - and they were twins.
Elias caught her smoothly, one hand splaying out across her lower back as he pulled her flush against him. “Well, hell,” he murmured softly, nuzzling into her neck without a single care - thank the lord she didn't have neighbors. “Miss me, Baby?”
“course,” Y/n pulled back, but didn't break the connection. Her tiny hands curled into that burgundy vest that framed his body so well. “thought you gone and forgotten about me”
“Never happen, sweetheart.” Elias caught her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. His expression was shamelessly soft - a side of him absolutely nobody else got to see. Not Smoke, not Sammie, not Annie. Just her. “A man doesn't forget his obsession”
That word made her shiver - she liked being Elias' obsession. She liked being the only person who could make Elias Moore act like a lovesick fool, the only person who could make him knock politely instead of just letting himself in. She was the reason he washed the whiskey off his breath and ironed his shirt.
“Missed you,” she said and looked up at him with those sweet eyes like he hasn't ruined her billion times over. “You really drove all this way just to see me?”
“Every Mile,” Elias said, dipping his head to the side and pressing a soft kiss to her neck before slipping his hands into his pockets. He leaned against the doorframe casually, trying to play it cool - like he wasn't halfway across town to spend one night with her. “Your daddy leave?”
“this mornin' for Tennessee,” she smiled as those sweet little eyes took a quick scan up and down his body. It's scary to think how her mind works like his now.
His suit jacket was long gone and he was wearing that pale red dress shirt and burgundy suit vest over that muscular chest of his. He still had that red tie tucked in behind it, but it was loose at his neck. “He'll be gone all week” she said as her slim fingers loosely gripped his tie and pulled him closer by it.
He let her reel him in without an ounce of resistance, stepping across that sacred threshold like he owned the place. Her little hand fisted in his silk tie was the only leash he’d ever accept. “A whole week,” he murmured, smirking down at her. “Lord have mercy on my soul”
“Guess we'll be praying for forgiveness Sunday” she smirked.
“Don't hold your breath, baby,” Elias laughed low in his throat, moving his hands to grip her waist and kick the front door shut with his heel. The sound of the latch clicking felt heavier than a gavel strike. “If the Good Lord heard the things I’m planning to do to you all week, he’d strike me dead before I even made it to the amen”
Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of stubble - he hadn't shaved this morning. “Would you die happy?” She stared up at him with that sweetness that usually made him want to ruin her something fierce.
“Die happy? Baby, if I died with your name on my lips, I'd be the happiest sinner to ever cross that river” His hands tightened on her waist, lifting her effortlessly to sit on the dining room table. He stepped between her thighs, leaning down so his lips brushed against hers.
He kissed her slowly, reverently, treating that innocent mouth like the most holy thing in existence. The contradiction was lethal - a man dressed in expensive suits and danger, absolutely worshiping the preacher's daughter. His hands slid up her thighs under her skirt, ruining her decency before they even started. “My good girl,” He murmured against her mouth. “My sweet, wicked girl”
She sighed into his mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist to drag him impossibly closer. The heat of his big palms against her inner thighs was enough to make her head spin, completely bypassing any Sunday school lesson she’d ever learned. “Elias” she shuddered, fingers curling into his vest.
Elias tilted his head and deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers with that practiced, sinful skill that made her toes curl. He kissed her like a man starving, like a man who would burn the whole damn town to the ground if it meant he could keep tasting her.
His hands were already working their magic, sliding under her skirt with zero hesitation, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her panties. He wanted them gone. He wanted her bare and spread for him on this very table where her daddy said grace. The blasphemy of it made his cock throb painfully against his slacks.
“P-please... Elias” y/n said softly - begging.
There was something devastatingly beautiful about the preacher's daughter begging for sin right in the center of her father's dining room. “Shh, baby,” He soothed against your neck, hand sliding down to grip your thighs possessively. “Just let me take care of you, alright?” He whispered as he dropped to his knees between your thighs.
Elias hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, slowly dragging them down her legs and pressing a reverent kiss to the inside of her thigh as he tossed them aside onto the pristine rug. He looked up at her from his knees, resting his chin against her inner thigh, eyes dark and worshipful. “Open up for me, sweetheart”
It was the ultimate surrender - a sweet, innocent girl parting her legs for sin itself. Y/n leaned back on her hands, spreading her thighs obediently, exposing herself completely. Her daddy would have a coronary seeing his daughter bare on the table like this. Elias looked up at her like she was the altar and he was the man meant to worship.
“E-Elias”
“I know, baby,” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her inner thigh. “I know” His hands slid up her legs, spreading her wider as he leaned in and pressed his mouth against her center. The first lick was slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of heaven. His stubble grazed her sensitive skin, making her head tilt back as she let out pleasurable whine.
The sound made his cock twitch hard against his slacks - preacher's daughter whimpering like a sinner in his mouth. He used his thumbs to spread her open wider, exposing every delicate fold like he was studying scripture. His tongue dipped low first, tracing her perimeter before teasing the slit. He wasn't rushing. Never rushed with her. Every moan she gave was earned.
“Elias,” y/n shuddered, her hips arching as her fists curled into the collar of his shirt. “D-don't stop... Please don't stop”
Like he could ever stop once he had her taste on his tongue. Like he wouldn't burn in hell happily if it meant he could eat this sweet pussy all day. He groaned against her, the vibration making her gasp his name in prayer. He flattened his tongue and licked her slowly, thoroughly, worshipping her clit like a holy sacrament. Her legs shook helplessly, those pretty thighs trembling against his ears. This was his church, his altar, his religion - burying his face between the preacher's daughter's legs. He sucked gently, drawing a high, broken whine from her throat as her hips arched desperately and utterly ruined.
The vibrations of his groans hit her clit directly and made her back arch off the table. Stubborn little thing - she was already close and he could taste it, sweetening rapidly. His tongue worked her with the patience of a man who had nothing but time, nothing but this week to worship at her altar.
“I need to come,” y/n begged desperately. “P-please, I'm so close, Elias”
“Then come, baby” He could feel her tightening, her walls fluttering around his tongue as he pushed it deep inside her, fucking her with his mouth while his thumbs pressed against her clit. Preacher's daughter came apart like shattered glass, beautiful and desperate. He caught every tremor, every gasp, every moan that wasn't for God but for him.
He sat back on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning smugly as he watched her catch her breath. She looked utterly debauched - hair messed up, skirt hiked up, face flushed, mouth parted. He kissed her inner thighs gently before standing up between her spread legs. He unbuttoned his vest slowly, giving her access to his shirt buttons. “Unbutton me” he commanded softly.
Her fingers shook slightly as she obeyed, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling hands. He helped her push the fabric off his shoulders, revealing his chest - hard muscles, beautiful dark skin, and the faint scars that told stories that he could never bring himself to tell her.
But she traced every scar unconsciously - one across his ribs, another near his collarbone. Each one a testament to a life she'd never fully understood, but craved. He watched her face, letting her memorize every inch as his chest heaved slightly. Her fingers traced down to the V-line of his torso dipping into his slacks.
“B-bedroom,” her voice was breathlessly soft - desperate. Her soft gaze met him. “please”
He didn't need to be told twice. The way she looked at him - needy, desperate, wanting him like he was her personal salvation - made his cock ache. He gathered her up effortlessly, carrying her bridal style through her daddy's house. Up the stairs, past the family photos, past the Bible verses framed on walls, and into her bedroom.
Her room was exactly how he remembered - soft pink walls, lace curtains, smell of rose and mint - her daddy would be proud. His cock throbbed as he set her down on her bed, taking in the pretty details. Like the Bible on her nightstand with flowers pressed between pages and the teddy bear that rested against the bed frame.
“Elias...” y/n whispered. “P-please. Make love me, ruin me”
Those words - fuck. Something dark and possessive swelled in his chest at the vulnerability in her voice. This good girl wanted him to mark her up, wanted her daddy's perfect daughter fucked senseless in her bed.
“I always do” He murmured as his belt hit the floor with a clatter before kicking his slacks off, followed by his boxers, leaving him bare and heavy, his cock flushed and hard against his stomach. He crawled over her, palms on either side of her head. He lowered himself to press a heated kiss against her throat, right over her frantically beating pulse. Then he reached behind her back, finding the zipper of her dress and dragging it down with agonizing slowness. The fabric fell away, leaving her bare on her soft sheets. Only thing left was the small golden cross necklace resting between her breasts. He hovered over her, his cock throbbing against her stomach, trapping her in his shadow.
“Spread your legs, baby” He murmured against her neck, his voice rough with desire.
He watched her obey, his eyes darkened as he took in the sight - soft thighs parted, pink pussy glistening with arousal, innocent body ready for his sinful touch. He reached down, gripping his cock and rubbing the head against her wet folds, teasing her entrance.
“Elias, P-please!” she whined.
“Shh, baby... I got you” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her lips as he slowly pushed inside her. Her walls clenched around him immediately - tight, hot, perfect. He groaned into her mouth as he filled her inch by inch until he was seated deep inside. “Fuck…”
“Oh, God. Don't ever stop” She moaned, biting her lip as her nails made little crescents into his back. He started to move slowly, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in deeply, grinding his hips against her clit. He watched her face, committing every soft whimper, every flutter of her eyelashes to memory.
“I'll fuck you every day until your father finds out. Until he knows his precious daughter is taking a black man's cock like a whore” Elias snapped his hips this time, his body slamming hers with increased ferocity.
The blasphemy of it made her gasp - his words were filthy, wrong, sinful. But her body betrayed her, clenching harder around him. He hit that spot inside her that made her toes curl, grinding against it deliberately.
“And you know what he'll say, huh?” He fucked her faster now, making the bed creak. “He'll say, 'My babygirl is lost - she's fuckin’ the devil.' And you know what I'll say?” He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.
“I'll tell him his daughter found a better salvation,” He slammed into her particularly hard, making her cry out his name. His hand wrapped around her throat - not squeezing, just holding, claiming. “A salvation that actually satisfies her. I'll make you scream my name instead of praying to heaven”
His cock hit that spot again, making her vision blur. He angled his hips to grind ruthlessly against that spot, watching her eyes roll back. Her pussy fluttered violently around him, sucking him in deeper. “Only thing listenin’ to you is me,” He moved faster, driving into her with sinful precision, ruining her for anyone else. “Who makes you feel this good?”
“You!” she choked out, her back arching violently off the mattress as her nails clawed down his back. “feels so good”
The bed creaked and moaned in protest as he hiked her thigh higher up his hip and fucked her harder, unable to hold back anymore. He was defiling the pastor's baby girl in her own bed, using her body to worship at his own personal altar of lust. “Come for me, baby” He demanded hoarsely, grinding against her clit.
He rolled his hips sharply against that sensitive spot inside her, forcing the orgasm out of her violently. Her entire body seized, back bowing off the mattress as she screamed his name, her walls clamping down around him like a vice. He fucked her through it, whispering filthy praises, ruining her completely on her floral sheets.
Elias groaned as her tight heat milked him, triggering his own release. He swiftly pulled out, emptying his load all over her plush thighs with a guttural curse that would make her father faint. He collapsed over her, both of them panting heavily, his sweaty forehead pressed against hers. “That's my good girl”
Her chest heaved, heart hammering against her ribs. She was ruined - absolutely ruined. Her father's daughter, coming on a sinner while her Bible sat five inches from her hand. She looked at Elias - sweat glistening on his dark skin, cock still half-hard and leaking onto her thighs, looking like the devil himself.
He leaned down, capturing her swollen lips in a messy, dirty kiss, stealing the air right from her lungs. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his dark eyes boring into hers - possessive, unrepentant. “God ain't watching you now, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the cross around her neck. “I am”
“will you protect me always?” she whispered.
“Until my dying breath,” He swore without hesitation. “I’ll worship you, and kill anyone who ever touches you.” He brushed her nose with his. “You’re mine, baby. Not God’s. Mine”
He pulled away to look at her, his gaze softening as he took in her flushed face and sated body. He slowly cleaned her up with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket, wiping away the evidence of their release. When he was done, he pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest as he lay back on the twin sized bed that was barely big enough for the both of them.
His hand rubbed circles on her back. He felt like a criminal in a sanctuary - his very presence a blasphemy against everything in this room. Yet he couldn't deny the weight of her body against his. This woman. This girl who should've been praying to a God and not a man like him. And somehow - some way - she loved him.
The only sounds in the house were the ticking of the clock and the final cracks of a fire that was mere minutes from dying out. Tommy was sitting in the armchair, his fourth cigarette of the night hanging from his lips and almost finished. You should have been home by now. You had promised him. It was close to 1 am, you promised you would be home and in his arms by midnight at the absolute latest, earlier if the bar you were going to had shit drinks.
Tommy tried to soothe the anger in his chest. The slight regret at not demanding you just stay at the Garrison with him and the boys. But you had begged him for this, begging him to let you go out with Polly and Lizzie to the new bar they had told you about. And Tommy said yes. And even then, he only said yes because you were riding him in his office. As much as he hated to admit it, you had him wrapped around your little finger. He would burn the world just to make you happy. But right now, he just wanted you home and safe. He should have known better than to let his bright and kind sweetheart into the world. Getting drunk until 1 in the morning.
The creak of the front door dragged him from his thoughts. He jumped up, practically running to the hallway.
‘What fuckin time do you-’ he stopped short, taking in the sight of you. You were half bent over, unbuckling your shoes and staring up at him with wide eyes. Fear danced through your body in shakes. Your jaw was red and swelling, a bruise already making it’s way across your delicate skin. Make-up smeared, red lipstick across your cheeks, and he wasn’t all too sure if it was blood. You hair was a mess, the headband you had left wearing was missing, as someone had tried to grab a fistful of your hair.
Your purse was hanging open, your coat haphazardly pulled over your shoulders, but beneath, Tommy could see your dress was torn at the shoulders, your stockings ripped, and your knees covered in gashes. You let out a shaky breath, running your tongue across your lips and swallowing.
‘What happened?’ Tommy finally spoke, his anger at you for staying out so late dissipating, moving towards whoever dared touch you. You didn’t speak, but looked down and tried to unbuckle your shoes. Despite how much you fiddled with it, your shaky hands wouldn’t unbuckle the shoe.
‘Love.’ Tommy said quietly, reaching out to touch your shoulder. As soon as he did, you lurched backwards, your back hitting the door so hard it almost made the wall shake.
‘I-I’m sorry…’ you whispered, fat tears falling down your cheeks. ‘I-I’m so sorry, Tommy.’ you began to babble through the tears, ‘I tried to stop them, I really did. I-I…’ You broke into sobs, sliding down the door as your legs couldn’t hold you up anymore.
Tommy stepped forward, dropping to his knees in front of you.
‘Love, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’, he whispered, still hearing you mutter a chorus of ‘sorry’ in between the sobs. He had no idea why you were apologising; his heart broke at the thought that you blamed yourself for this.
Slowly, he moved forward, gathering you into his arms. You clung to him, the sobs only getting worse as the smell of his cologne hit you. Tommy didn’t move far, shifting so that he could pull you into his lap and lean against the wall as he held you tightly, your body still shaking through the sobs. He held you there in almost silence, his hands holding you tightly, his lips pressing kisses to your head and hushing you gently until the sobs stopped.
It was only once he was sure you had stopped crying that he began to move. He didn’t say anything, and your throat was too hoarse from crying to speak. Tommy carried you into the sitting room and placed you in his chair, right in front of the dying fire. Turning away from you, he knelt on the floor and added more wood and stoked it until he roared back to life, the warmth covering your body.
You didn’t know what to say to him, your mind only replaying what had happened and how you would come home and Tommy would be mad, be infuriated and blame you for everything.
‘He’ll never want to touch you again after we’re finished with ya. Nothing but a Peaky Blinder whore.’
The words echoed in your mind of what the stranger said, and more tears silently fell down your cheeks. Tommy didn’t say anything; he stayed on the floor and reached for your feet, easily undoing the buckles you had just been struggling with. Tommy was methodical, his mind already conjuring up a hundred different scenarios to find out who touched you and make sure they would never be found again. But right now, his focus needed to be on you. Calming you and making sure you knew it wasn’t your fault. Tommy worked slowly, taking the coat from your shoulders and replacing it with one of his own jackets, his scene infusing your body and for the first time since you had come home, he heard you take a relaxing breath. Deeply. Slowly.
As if testing the waters, Tommy gently reached up your thigh to the hem of your dress; it was torn, with the top of your stocking peeking through. You stared down at his hands, not saying a word, but you had stopped shaking. When you didn’t stop him, he slowly unclipped each stocking and rolled them down your legs, throwing the useless garments into the fire.
‘I don’t need you to tell me what happened right now,’ he whispered, finally standing. Your eyes followed him, leaning back into the chair and finally relaxing, as if you knew you were safe.
‘But I will need to know.’ he spoke quietly, his tone final, and disappeared into the bathroom. You gripped the lapels of his coat, pulling them closer to you as if the jacket would swallow you whole. You would have to tell him. Even if you didn’t want to ever think about it again.
Within minutes Tommy was back, holding a bowl of water with a rag over the edge, and a hairbrush under his arm. Setting the bowl and brush on the table, he dipped the rag and slowly cleared the blood from your knees. He leaned up, his fingers delicately working along your jaw to cup your cheek on the side that wasn’t bruised. The rag was warm against your face, and Tommy’s fingers were so gentle across your skin that you couldn’t help but close your eyes.
‘I was walking home from the Floosy Bar.’ your lips moved on their own, keeping your eyes closed and leaning into Tommy’s hand. ‘They came out of an alleyway. I didn’t see their faces.’ The wet rag left your skin, but Tommy’s hand on your cheek never left.
‘I tried to fight them… I swear…’ you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes again.
‘Shhh…’ Tommy cooed, ‘it’s okay, you’re safe here. Did they do anything to you?’
‘No!’ you answered quickly, your eyes snapping open. ‘They touched me, but I managed to get away before they could do anything, Tommy, I swear.’ You threw out the words quickly, sitting up in the chair despite the screaming of your muscles to stay still. The sudden thought of Tommy throwing you out onto the streets if he even thought someone had done something more then touch you entered your mind.
‘Calm down, love.’ his tone was surprisingly gentle, one hand pushing you back down into the plush chair, the other grabbing the hairbrush.
‘Do you remember what street you were on?’ he asked, you nodded, whispering the street name as Tommy slowly pulled the brush through your hair, picking out the knots and brushing it out of your face.
‘I’m really sorry, Tommy. I shouldn’t have let them near me.’ you whispered, your body starting to drag as it gave up the fight to stay tense.
Tommy felt his chest clench. You blamed yourself for this. As if you had gone up to the men and offered them your body.
‘I’ll have none of that,’ he eventually spoke, abandoning the hairbrush and standing. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ he spoke quickly, but the tone sounded like he was scolding a child. ‘I’ll deal with this tomorrow. For now, you need to rest.’ Before you could argue, he gathered you up into his arms and lifted you. dropping into the seat himself with you in his lap. His jacket covered you like a blanket, the fire keeping you both warm as he manoeuvred you into a position you normally would when you sat here together: legs across his lap, face tucked into his neck.
The position was soothing, everything that as Thomas Shelby surrounding you. Keeping you safe. One hand rested on your bare thigh, rubbing gently in circles on the skin there, his other hand around your waist, keeping you firmly against him. A silent promise of safety.
It was only a few hours before you were awake again, but this time, you were in a bed. His jacket was still wrapped around your shoulders, but your dress had been replaced with a nightgown, a pair of Tommy’s socks on your feet to keep you warm. You hear the murmur of voices downstairs, all speaking in hushed tones. Well, as hushed as the Shelby family could get. Your muscles ached, but you pushed yourself out of bed, putting your arms through the sleeves of Tommy’s jacket as if it were a dressing gown. As soon as you put weight on your left foot, you hissed, falling back onto the bed. Pushing down the sock, you saw that your ankle was red and inflamed.
Holding onto the wall for support, you limped out of the bedroom and slowly made your way downstairs to the sitting room.
‘Y/N!’ Lizzie’s voice was the first to find you, quickly followed by her body covering yours in a tight hug. ‘I knew we should never have let her walk home alone,’ she snapped over her shoulder.
‘Let’er breath, Lizzie.’ Polly’s voice cut through the room, making Lizzie take a step back. It was then you looked around, seeing your living room more full than it had ever been before. Polly sat on the couch, with a space next to her where you assumed Lizzie had been sitting. Dotted around the room were all the Shelby brothers, and a few of the men you had seen working for Tommy but couldn’t name. Tommy was stood at the fireplace, the fire long died after last night. There was a smoky haze in the room as they all smoked. Tommy nodded to his armchair, signalling you to sit down. He jaw twitched when he saw you limp over to the chair, adding it to the list of reasons he would kill whoever did this.
Polly noticed too, as soon as you sat down, she was up, grabbing a pillow from the couch and putting it on the coffee table between you, signalling for you to put your foot on it.
‘Right. Who we killin’?’ Arthur’s voice was gruff, filled with venom as he looked down at you, someone he cared for like a sister.
‘Find ‘em first.’ Tommy spoke, taking a drag of his cigarette. ‘I want them in the Garrison. Begging. First.’ he threw out the orders, all of the men nodding in agreement.
‘Let’s fucking go.’ Arthur grinned, being the first to exit the room. The others gave you a curt nod before following, the room emptying slowly until it was only you, Tommy, Lizzie and Polly left.
Tommy dropped to one knee in front of your chair, and your eyes scanned his face. You wanted to reach out to him, to fall into his arms and cry with renewed tears and beg for forgiveness. But you didn’t.
‘Lizzie and Polly are gonna sit with you until I come back. Polly’s got a lovely remedy for those bruises. You’ll be right as reign in no time.’ he stood quickly, leaving the room without another word.
You sat in silence, unsure of what to say, what to do. But Polly was already moving, grabbing the bag that you hadn’t even noticed on the floor next to her and pulling out jars and bottles.
‘That bastard did a nasty one on ya.’ Polly spoke, examining your bruised jaw carefully. ‘Not to worry, we’ll get it sorted.’
You didn’t have a clue what Polly was going as he grabbed a jar and opened it, a foul stench filling the air enough for you to scrunch your face up, and quickly un-scrunch it due to pain.
‘It smells horrid, but it’s a miracle worker.’ Lizzie assured you as Polly began to rub the gel-like substance on your jaw. Lizzie was right, it had the most foul odour you’ve ever smelt, but the second it touched your skin, it soothed the ache instantly. She did the same for your ankle and your practically sighed in relief as the soothing balm.
‘You fought well.’ Polly commented, looking down at your ankle, ‘Now we let the boys take care of things.’
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
Beginnings had an irritating flaw. They never, in fact, started from scratch.
There was an almost childish illusion in the word restart, as though life were a blank sheet waiting for fresh, untouched ink. Yet reality was a scrawled-upon paper. Because you, no matter how hard you tried, could never truly leave everything behind. The body retains the weight and memory retains the trace. There will always be a fragment of what once was stuck to the soles of your shoes, accompanying every new step. And that, Eleanor realized as she stared into the vanity mirror, was the true problem.
The problem with returning to Birmingham was not genuinely encountering the past again. It was discovering that it had been waiting all along.
Her past had not disappeared; it stood there, static, with the very same sharp blue eyes, the same heavy silences, and the same broken promises, waiting for her at the exact millimeter where she had tried to sever the knots. Thomas had built another life, had an entire future brightening before him, yet, even so, the essence of what they had shared had not moved. It remained there, staying intact with the chronic patience of things that are eternal.
There was a painful irony in all of it, a mismatch that suffocated Eleanor’s chest. During her years in Paris, she devoutly believed she was moving forward. She thought that every choreographed step, every new performance, and every line of applause in France drew her further from the soot of Birmingham. Yet setting foot upon the gray streets once more was all it took for a sense of lag to overpower her. The city had rushed ahead. People had changed, her family’s business had nearly collapsed, marriages had taken place, new lives had been brought forth. The world around her seemed to have advanced a century, leaving her with the distinct and bitter impression that, while building a successful career abroad, she had been left behind. In absolute contrast to this frantic movement of the city came the terrifying echo that her deepest wounds remained untouched. Time had moved for everyone, yet the past still held her place, demanding that she return to occupy her post of pain.
This duality laid bare the fact that there existed versions of ourselves that only survived in certain places, nourished by the atmosphere and the people surrounding us. Paris knew the ballerina. The untouchable woman, shrouded in tulle and mystery, the principal dancer who enchanted the Opera’s audience with smooth, precise movements, millimetrically calculated to hide any trace of human fragility. In France, she was art. Yet Birmingham... Birmingham ignored the French poses and the aristocratic haughtiness. The city insisted on searching for the girl who had departed six years before with frightened eyes and empty hands. The gray cobblestone ground seemed to demand the return of the Eleanor who belonged to the imposing mansions of the elite, but also to the secrets and clandestine whispers she tried to conceal.
She wanted to believe that, by leaving, she had chosen her own life. And she believed it for six years. Yet, in a way, the lack would always accompany her. It mattered not whether she stood upon the most glorious stage in Europe or in a converted warehouse at the heart of English misery; she would always be visited by the anguishes of the choices she did not make. By the roads she decided not to tread. And of this, Eleanor knew all too well. Every “what if” of her trajectory seemed to possess a face and a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes.
Eleanor wondered, with a silent bitterness, if she had done the right thing at every major crossroads of her existence. The “no” she had spoken to Thomas Shelby six years ago, in that empty hallway, still echoed within the walls of her mind as though it had been uttered yesterday. She had chosen to save herself, refusing to be merely another piece within his ambition, yet the price of that choice seemed to charge far too high an interest now. After all, had all of that been her salvation, or the beginning of a disguised exile? Had she conquered freedom and glory, or merely an elegant escape?
Doubt was a persistent creature, whispering in the dark, asking if independence on French soil had been worth the solitude that came in the package. She had spent six years undoing the ties of Birmingham, only to realize that the primary knot had perhaps never loosened.
Yet the doubts were no longer confined to the ghost of Thomas. They now crawled through her most recent decisions, demanding an immediate price for every surrender. Looking back, Eleanor questioned whether it had been right to pack her trunks and abandon the French company, to give up international stages of prestige only to bury herself in that city once more. Elliot’s urgency, their father’s illness, and the Montagues’ financial desperation had pushed her into an abyss she had sworn never to leap into again. Yielding to her brother’s pressure, swallowing her own pride to sign that corporate marriage contract disguised as charity... it all felt like a terrible, agonizing self-sabotage. She had left the only life where she was truly mistress of herself to become a bargaining chip in the hands of others, swallowing the bitter sensation that her choices, in the end, were never entirely her own.
Now, analyzing her own situation before the mirror, the lines between right and wrong seemed completely blurred by the city’s smoke. There was no longer the clarity of Paris, only the fog of Birmingham. The contract was signed and destiny, mapped out. For the first time in six years, she would step onto a stage where no one expected applause. And for the first time, she would not know precisely which choreography to dance to survive this new beginning.
As if things were not going wrong enough already, she could not even manage to fix the hair bun she had done by herself every single day for six years. Perhaps it was a warning not to proceed with it. They say life always sends certain signals disguised as intuition. Yet she had already signed the contract; giving up would only sink her family deeper. And she could not do that.
Eleanor drew a deep breath and removed the bobby pins from her hair, letting the strands fall over her shoulders. She picked up the brush from the vanity and brought it to her head, pulling her hair with a rigidity that almost hurt her scalp. As she secured the pins, the ancient anguish throbbing within her chest, she rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror.
— You are being pathetic. Simply do what must be done, you have survived far worse, — she said to herself, absorbing the harshness of her own words as she observed the hair bun firmly in its proper place.
Eleanor rose and walked over to the wardrobe where her shoes were stored. She picked up her soft ballet slippers and stuffed them into her canvas bag, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the room.
As she crossed the hallway toward the stairs, she encountered Martha coming up with a breakfast tray.
— Good morning, Eleanor, — Martha smiled, stopping in the corridor facing her. — The breakfast table is already set.
— Good morning. All I need today is that very strong coffee and that strawberry jam. Is this for my father? — she asked, pointing toward the silver tray. — Let me take it.
— Will the young mistress not be late? It is your first day…
Eleanor arched an eyebrow, and Martha swallowed hard, fearful that she had said something she ought not to have.
— Elliot happened to mention the job…
— No, Martha. Do not worry, I have time, — Eleanor extended her arms to take the tray. — I will carry his coffee to him.
— Very well, — the housekeeper handed over the tray, yet did not step away. She leaned in to check if everything was indeed there, then pointed toward the pills. — You need to give him the pills first, they are for his heart.
— Leave it to me.
With the poise and precision that years of ballet had granted her, Eleanor walked down the long corridor holding the tray with ease. Upon reaching the bedroom door, she turned sideways, pushing the wood open with her hip. Ever since her father’s heart attack, the door was never left locked. Especially when he was alone.
He was already awake when she entered. His eyes were scanning the room, as if already waiting for Martha, yet his face illuminated and a smile escaped his lips when his daughter appeared. Eleanor walked over near the bed and set the tray and her bag upon the sideboard, approaching her father, who was still lying down.
— Good morning, Father, — she adjusted a few pillows at the headboard so he could lean back, helping him sit up immediately after.
— Good morning, my dear. You didn't need to bring my coffee, I do not wish to give you trouble.
Before answering, she walked over to the windows and drew the curtains open, allowing the bedroom to be illuminated by the sunlight.
— It is no trouble at all, Father, — she replied, bringing the tray and setting it on the edge of the bed. She picked up the glass of water and the pills, one in each hand, and handed them to the man. — Drink all the water. It helps the blood circulate better.
— Who would have thought that one day you would be the one giving me orders, — he said with a faint laugh, drinking the water and swallowing the medicine right after.
Eleanor laughed.
— Is today your first day?
— It is… — her voice seemed to lock for a few moments, and she smiled, attempting to disguise it. — By the looks of it, Elliot has already told everyone.
— He told me last night. Your brother was happy for you.
— Of course he was.
— Are you not?
The question caught Eleanor off guard. She did not answer. Instead, she straightened her spine, as she did every time she was nervous, and handed the cup of coffee to her father.
— Eleanor?
— I am, Father. Of course I am happy.
He observed her over the rim of the porcelain cup. His eyes, though tired, still retained the sharpness of someone who knew every micro-expression of his daughter. He set the cup upon the saucer with a soft clink and extended a trembling hand, touching Eleanor’s rigid fingers.
— You didn't need to abandon your life.
— I didn't abandon it, — Eleanor replied promptly, sustaining her father’s gaze with a firmness that bordered on obstinacy, using her pride as a shield. — I chose to stay and work at the Institute. You know I do nothing I do not wish to do.
— Your mother was a teacher too, you know? Of piano. She gave lessons to my sister; that was how we met.
Eleanor averted her gaze to the window for a brief second, allowing the mention of her mother to soothe the tense vibration that had settled within the room.
— I didn't know she had given lessons.
— She was the finest pianist in Birmingham, — he smiled, genuine pride illuminating his face, — just as you are the finest ballerina and will be the finest teacher. I suppose it is a trait of the women in this family. Being the best at whatever they decide to do.
— I do not know if it will be quite like that, but I shall exert myself, — Eleanor responded, a fine irony returning to outline her lips. — Ballet demands a certain rigidity to teach; I do not know if the girls of Small Heath are prepared for it. There is a considerable chance my pupils will hate me and I shall end up dismissed on my very first day. Yet I made a point of warning Thomas’s wife — the phrase passed through her throat like a shard of glass, yet she maintained an impeccable posture — how dance truly works. I do not intend to soften the floor for anyone.
Her father’s smile faded gradually, replaced by a somber expression, his brow furrowed with the old disdain the local aristocracy held for the new owners of power.
— That gipsy… — he muttered, his voice heavy with bitterness. — He truly managed to conquer an entire city. Now everyone must bow to him and to that family.
Eleanor felt her jaw lock instantly. The weight of everything she had sacrificed the day before — the sealed letter to Paris, her pride thrown to the ground in front of Elliot, the confrontation in the Shelby Company office — surged like a warm wave. She looked at her father with a cutting glint in her brown eyes.
— Indeed, Father. Are you happy to have a daughter employed by the Shelbys? — she fired back, the words laden with irony. — I suppose not even you would have imagined this six years ago, not in your worst nightmares, when I was merely Ada’s friend… — her teeth clenched tightly. She knew perfectly well it had never been merely that, and that her connection to them had gone far beyond her friendship with Ada — and had no relation whatsoever to the rest of the family.
Her father stared at her, her sharp tone bruising his pride.
— Do not speak like that, Eleanor.
— And do not speak of Thomas, or any of the others, in that derogatory tone, — she countered immediately, her voice soft, yet firm enough to sever any attempt at interruption. She straightened herself, the elegance of a ballerina transforming into rigid armor. — I did not care for it six years ago, and I continue not to care for it today. Even more so now, Father, when their signatures are the sole reason we still hold the right to drink coffee from this expensive porcelain. They saved our family from bankruptcy with an exclusive coal contract. So, please... measure your tone.
The man sustained his daughter’s gaze for long, tense seconds. The mention of the exclusive coal contract brought no surprise to his face; as patriarch, he was perfectly aware of the ruin surrounding them. What wounded his pride was not the fact itself, but the raw cruelty with which Eleanor threw that reality onto the table.
He let out a heavy sigh, his weary chest rising and falling beneath his fine silk pajamas.
— I know precisely what that signature represents, Eleanor, — he said, his voice low, stripped of its former bitterness, leaving only exhaustion. — I know that the coal from our mines will now feed every factory, every foundry, and every fireplace the Shelbys control. I spent a lifetime dictating the rules on this side of the city, and to see the tables turn to the point where we require their exclusivity to avoid bankruptcy... it is not easy for a man in my position. Yet you are right. It is not for me to bite the hand that sustains what remains of our roof.
Eleanor felt her defensive anger drain from her chest, replaced by that familiar melancholy that had accompanied her since setting foot in Birmingham. Seeing her father yield, accepting the pragmatism of survival and their dependence on the Shelby Company without slamming a fist upon the table, was the definitive sign that the golden age of the Montagues had changed forever.
— I didn’t wish to sound cruel, Father, — she confessed, stepping a little closer to the bed and gathering the empty cup and saucer. — Yet we must be practical. They now dictate the tempo of Birmingham. If I must give lessons at that Institute to ensure our mines remain operational, I shall do so with the finest posture Paris has taught me.
Her father nodded slowly, resting his head back onto the pillow, his eyes fixed upon the elaborate ceiling of the room.
— Merely take care, my dear, — he murmured, his voice nearly vanishing as the fatigue of sitting began to take effect. — Thomas Shelby gives nothing away for free. If he agreed to close this monopoly to use only our coal, it is because he already knows precisely what he wishes to extract from us in return. And I fear the price will be far higher than a few dance lessons.
Eleanor did not answer. She merely adjusted the blanket over his legs with a gentle touch, turned her back, and walked toward the door with the tray in her hands. Her father’s words echoed like a prophecy she herself had already deciphered in the dark of her bedroom. She opened the door with her elbow and stepped into the corridor, knowing that, from that minute onward, the clock was already ticking against her.
The taxi pulled up before the building at exactly nine forty-five. Eleanor stepped out of the vehicle with her spine perfectly aligned, yet, the instant her shoes touched the cobblestones of Small Heath, she felt the air shift. The smell of soot mixed with the lime of the building’s freshly painted walls invaded her nostrils, a definitive warning that the world of glamour and French accents had been left on the other side of the ocean. Before her, the Grace Shelby Institute rose with its red brick walls in the very heart of Peaky Blinders territory.
As she crossed the double iron doors, the rattle of the latch seemed to sound far too loud. The moment Eleanor stepped into the lobby, her bag pressed close to her body as she attempted to act with naturalness, the rhythm of the environment sutilmente altered. Two women organizing stacks of registration forms interrupted their conversation; a man carrying a toolbox checked his step, and even the lady in charge of cleaning slowed the movement of her mop upon the damp floor. The gazes held no overt hostility, but rather a silent, heavy, and vigilant curiosity. The first day of work was only just beginning, and it already carried a heavy and uncomfortable atmosphere.
Eleanor felt her stomach contract. She tried to keep her step firm, her shoulders locked in the flawless posture her body had memorized years ago, yet the sensation of psychological inadequacy was suffocating. It was the discomfort of perceiving oneself as a foreign body invading a perfectly regulated ecosystem. Every inch of that building, from the smell of fresh paint to the reverent silence of the employees, exhaled the Shelby surname. It belonged to them. It was funded by their whiskey, their betting, and their blood. Standing there, wearing an elegance that clashed with the rawness of the neighborhood, made her feel like an impostor occupying a space meticulously molded for another reality. She was not from there; she was merely a Montague under contract, a concession of prestige that the local dynasty had purchased to ornament their community projects.
Normality there seemed a one-way street. The lobby of the Grace Shelby Institute carried a solid and modern prominence, a structure born after the complete demolition of the old, rotten brick tenements that had previously occupied that lot in Small Heath. The high ceiling, supported by robust cast-iron beams painted a dark shade of graphite, gave an almost solemn amplitude to the room, where the echo of any whisper seemed to float before vanishing. The walls displayed an elegant combination of new, perfectly aligned red bricks and columns of light plaster, exhaling a lingering aroma of lime, fresh varnish, and beeswax. The floor had been paved with large slabs of polished gray slate, so clean that the pale reflection of daylight, filtered through the immense arched windows of flat glass, drew geometric lines upon the ground. In the center of the hall, a reception desk of solid mahogany with gleaming brass details divided the space with authority, while double doors with clear glass panes led the gaze directly toward private rooms, isolating the refinement of that flawless construction from the dust of the street.
— Good morning, — Eleanor’s voice came out trembling, laden with an anxiety that caused her stomach to burn.
The employees did not respond. Somewhat lost, still in the center of the lobby, Eleanor scanned the room with her eyes, attempting to find some place where she might take refuge. Yet as she spun her body, a tall silhouette blocked her view of the end of the hallway.
Thomas Shelby stood there. He wore his habitual dark overcoat, his hands tucked into his pockets, and his blue eyes fixed upon her from the very moment she had crossed the hall.
This must be a joke, Eleanor thought, the thought echoing sharp and bitter in her mind. The anxious burning rose up her throat, yet she did not falter. He offered a smile, as though he knew precisely what he was doing.
— Good morning, Miss Montague, — Thomas said, his voice in that low, drawn-out tone, almost a whisper that cut through the room. — My wife intended to come in person to welcome you on your first day, yet the morning sickness of pregnancy kept her in bed this morning. I came to represent her.
My wife. There was something in the tone of his voice as he uttered it that made Eleanor want to laugh. Not because it was amusing, but because it felt far too ironic. How could he call another woman his wife with such naturalness when he had practically begged for her six years ago?
And there was something in the way Eleanor averted her gaze every time Thomas spoke of Grace that gave him a sadistic sting of pleasure to say it. Not out of pride in his own marriage or because it was the reality, but because the discomfort was blatant upon her face, and that was the physical proof that, despite the distance and the time, Eleanor Montague still cared.
Eleanor raised her chin imperceptibly, offering him a corner smile that carried the exact dose of a fine, contained irony. Her voice came out soft, devoid of any fanfare that might feed the gossip of the corridor.
— An unexpected kindness, Thomas. I am flattered you restructured your appointments, — she commented, the polite tone concealing the blade of her words. She stopped two paces from him, sustaining his gaze. — I recall you mentioning yesterday that your schedule was far too occupied to waste time on ballet lessons. I am glad to learn the Shelby Company gave you a respite so you could exercise the duties of receptionist at the Institute.
Thomas did not move a single muscle of his face in response to the jab. He merely withdrew one hand from his pocket and indicated the corridor behind him with a measured gesture.
— There are things that demand direct supervision, Miss Montague. I came to ensure you had everything you require for your first day.
Eleanor did not reply. She brushed past him, entering the long corridor and turning her back to him. Thomas followed closely behind, walking calmly, with no need to overtake her.
— The piano was tuned yesterday afternoon, and the floor of the room was cleaned this morning.
The two stopped before the glass door which bore a hanging sign: Dance Room. Eleanor turned to look at him one final time before speaking:
— Excellent. Then your work here is finished, — she kept her tone perfectly under control, though her brown eyes held a cutting rigidity. — I know precisely what to do on the inside of that door. And, as we discussed yesterday, I prefer that the business on the outside does not interfere with the tempo of my lessons.
Thomas stared at her for a long second, the intensity of his blue gaze testing her boundaries. There was a dense subtext hovering between them. Eleanor felt that at any moment he would say something to destabilize her, yet he spoke nothing. He remained in silence, observing her, as though studying her every micro-expression.
Before the silence could become impassable, the sound of swift footsteps coming from one of the inner rooms shattered the rigidity of the corridor. Ada emerged into the opening, wearing a dark coat and carrying in her arms a generous bouquet of white tulips, whose perfume immediately competed with the scent of plaster and paint in the lobby.
— Eleanor! — Ada exclaimed, with a warm smile that seemed to bring a breath of oxygen into the environment. She approached with long strides, extending the bouquet toward her friend. — Damn it. I was organizing the sewing rooms in the back and missed your entrance. Look, these are for you.
Eleanor blinked, momentarily disarmed by the gesture, and held the bunch of flowers. The wrapping paper bore a small note written in a round, neat handwriting, with Grace’s signature: “May your first day be the beginning of something beautiful. Thank you for being here, Eleanor.”
Eleanor’s stomach churned. She looked down at the perfect white petals of the tulips, feeling the weight of that kindness crush her chest. If Grace were a cold, calculating shrew, or an arrogant wife who wished merely to flaunt power, it would be infinitely easier to deal with the situation. But no. Grace truly cared about the Institute; she genuinely wanted those lessons there and saw in Eleanor an admirable artist, not a bargaining chip. And perceiving the purity of that consideration caused an overwhelming, painful wave of guilt to surge up Eleanor’s throat, rendering her breathing difficult to regulate.
Feeling the weight of the bouquet in her arms, Eleanor raised her eyes slowly and met Thomas’s gaze.
They exchanged a silent gaze over Grace’s flowers. Thomas observed the Montague’s reaction, his analytical blue eyes catching the exact fraction of a second in which her ironic facade crumbled beneath the weight of remorse. He knew what his wife’s kindness caused within Eleanor. He knew that Grace’s innocence was the cruelest trap of all for her pride. Yet there was no triumph upon his face. On the contrary, his jaw clenched, knowing that the bouquet had struck her without intent, but the ricochet of the blow wounded them both in equal measure.
— Grace made a point that I bring them myself, said Thomas wouldn't take proper care of them, — Ada continued, oblivious to the static electricity cutting through the space between the two. — She was devastated that she couldn't come. But she made me promise I would help you with whatever you needed today.
— Yes... they are beautiful, Ada. Please, thank her for me, — Eleanor managed to reply, her voice coming out a little lower, her Paris pose subtly fragmented by the note in her hands.
— But enough small talk in the corridor. Come, I want to show you the official dance room.
Ada took a step forward, passing between her brother and her friend, turning the knob and pushing the door open. Eleanor followed her, yet the sound of firm footsteps close behind indicated they were not alone. Thomas entered right after, removing his cap with a slow movement, his blue eyes already scanning the perimeter of the studio.
The room was, in fact, impressive. The space was wide and airy, bathed in the dull Birmingham light that entered through three large arched windows. The scent of new wood exhaled from the perfectly waxed oak floor, polished until it gleamed. Fixed with millimetric precision along the side walls, the ballet barres displayed the smooth texture of treated wood. At the back, an immense mirror covered the entire length of the wall, sharply reflecting the three silhouettes. In one of the corners rested an imposing black grand piano, its wood glistening under the daylight. It was a flawless studio, one that would easily rival the rehearsal rooms of expensive companies.
Ada walked to the center of the hall, looking around with open arms.
— What do you think? Grace fought with the contractors three times because of this floor. She insisted it needed to be the smoothest wood on the market so as not to hurt anyone’s feet.
Eleanor approached the barre, sliding her fingers across the oak surface. The cold touch made her skin prickle.
Before she could answer her friend, Thomas took a few steps, stopping exactly in the center of the studio. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror at the back and, slowly, turned his body to face Eleanor. There was a glint of defiance in his pupils.
— Is everything as you expected, Miss Montague? — he asked.
The question floated through the wide hall with a soft echo. His voice was polite, the tone of a zealous administrator before a prestigious employee. Yet Eleanor caught the subterranean strike at once. She knew he was not speaking of the quality of the wood, the barres, or the piano. He was testing the span of her endurance. He was asking if that reality—the smoke of Small Heath beating against the clean windows, his wife’s charity dictating the course of her days, and the leash of the contract binding the Montagues—was the scenery she expected to find.
Eleanor sustained his gaze, forcing a flawless smile upon her lips and adjusting her posture with the haughtiness of someone who had already trodden the most demanding stages in the world.
— Better than I imagined, — she replied, her voice perfectly linear.
— Heavens, what unnecessary formality, Tommy, — Ada rolled her eyes while shaking her head. — You have known her for years.
— Here, I am merely an employee, Ada.
The phrase kept echoing inside Eleanor’s mind. Here, I am merely an employee. What a ridiculous choice of words. As though out there, she were anything more than that.
— I am glad to hear it is better than imagined, — Thomas ignored his sister, taking a slow step in Eleanor’s direction, keeping his hands behind his back. — We exerted ourselves so the environment would remain faithful to a ballet studio. I hope it feels as familiar as possible to you. We know how important comfort and security are for someone who has spent so much time away from home.
— Comfort is a matter of perspective, Thomas, — she countered promptly, her tone sweet, yet her brown eyes fixed upon him. — But the studio is excellent. The structure is solid enough to withstand any kind of pressure.
Thomas tilted his head millimetrically, absorbing the reply without being shaken. He took another step, halting at a distance where Eleanor could catch the subtle scent of tobacco he exhaled.
Ada, who was observing the grand piano in the corner, looked at the two with a slightly impressed expression.
— My, I am relieved that everything is perfect! — Ada commented, smiling between her brother and her friend. — I was afraid something might go wrong and the first lesson would have to be postponed.
Thomas looked at his sister and then returned his blue eyes to Eleanor. He remained in silence for a second far too long, a silence that seemed to read every line of fatigue and doubt she had tried to conceal beneath her light makeup. Then he took a step back, reclaiming the formal distance and resetting his cap over his brow with a calm movement.
— The girls arrive shortly, — he limited himself to saying, his voice returning to the protocol tone he used with the Institute’s employees. He looked at Ada and then gave a courteous nod of his head to Eleanor. — Have a good day of work, Miss Montague. May your first rehearsal be as productive as our business affairs.
— I am certain it shall be, — she responded, sustaining her chin high.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit. The sound of his firm footsteps echoed across the oak floor until the studio door closed with a definitive click.
Eleanor released her breath and then faced her friend, her eyes slightly wide.
— My God, I am so nervous! I do not know if I can truly do this.
— Of course you can, — Ada said, stepping closer and placing her hand upon her shoulder with a deep affection. — Those girls who are about to walk through that door... they have never seen anything like what you have to teach. Forget any negative thoughts. Do it for them. And do it for yourself.
Eleanor looked at her own reflection in the mirror. The ballerina of Paris was still there, hidden beneath the light green dress. She nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in her throat.
— Right, — Ada said, clapping her hands with enthusiasm, breaking the silence. — Let us put these flowers in water before your little pupils begin kicking the doors down.
Ada helped Eleanor place the bouquet of white tulips in a glass vase atop the grand piano and, immediately after, bid her farewell with a warm wave, rejoicing in leaving her to organize the space. When the door closed, the studio plunged into a brief silence. Eleanor stood alone with her own reflection in the immense mirror, the perfume of Grace’s flowers floating in the clean air.
Eleanor undressed, revealing the tight black leotard against her body and the black tights. She opened her canvas bag and pulled out the wrap skirt in a shade of antique rose; the fluid fabric draped her body with lightness, falling just above her knees. Next, she took her soft ballet slippers of the same color and slipped them on. There, she was the pure definition of dance: long lines, an irreproachable posture, and her feet protected by the supple leather slippers. She drew a deep breath, testing the oak floor with a light pressure on the balls of her feet, attempting to banish the fog Thomas had left within her thoughts.
Yet the silence did not last long. The sound of small footsteps rushing down the corridor and the murmur of high, anxious voices announced that the time for the lesson had arrived. The door opened slowly, revealing a group of about ten girls in front of Ada, who smiled enthusiastically. They were around six years of age.
Upon seeing them enter in a line, timid and wide-eyed, Eleanor felt her heart skip a beat. Looking at those round little faces, at cheeks flushed by the cold of Small Heath and hair bound in clumsy braids, an unexpected and painfully familiar wave of tenderness surged through her chest. If destiny had drawn different lines, if the choices had been other... a nameless absence danced within Eleanor’s mind, yet she swallowed the knot in her throat and forced a genuine smile, lowering herself millimetrically to be closer to their height.
The girls wore no ballet attire. They were dressed in their ordinary, everyday clothes: simple wool dresses, skirts of thick, patched cotton, and frayed cardigans their mothers had buttoned up to the neck to protect them from the biting morning wind. On their feet, there were no ballet slippers; they were all in socks, mostly of thick, dark wool, ready to slide upon that unfamiliar floor. They stared at Eleanor with a mixture of awe and wonder, fascinated by the perfectly fitted leotard, the elegant silhouette, and the aura of mystery the new teacher exhaled. It felt as though they had just seen a fairy appear in the middle of Small Heath.
— Good morning, girls, — Eleanor said, her voice sounding soft and musical in the wide hall. — You may come closer, there is no need to be afraid. My name is Eleanor Montague.
One of the little girls, who had freckles scattered across her nose and a slightly loose braid, took a step forward, staring fixedly at Eleanor’s slippers.
— Are you the lady who used to dance on real stages? Where there are colored lights? — the girl asked, her voice in a timid whisper.
Eleanor felt the corners of her lips rise in a welcoming smile, disarmed by the pure innocence of childhood that Small Heath rarely managed to preserve.
— Yes, I am, — she replied, crouching down completely before them, resting her hands upon her knees. — I used to dance in France, in a very grand theater. But now I have come here because I want to teach you to dance like true ballerinas as well. What do you think?
The girls exchanged glances and, immediately, the ice broke. A chorus of excited whispers and toothless smiles filled the room. They took to her instantly, captivated not only by the prestige surrounding her, but by the unexpected sweetness with which that so elegant woman treated them. There was none of the disdain the elite customarily directed toward the children of that part of the city; there was respect and even a sudden affection.
— Right, let us begin near the mirror, — Eleanor guided, rising with the fluid lightness that was natural to her. — I want you all to form a line and look at your own reflection.
The first rehearsal began with basic steps. Eleanor walked among them, demonstrating the first position of the feet and the correct curvature of the arms, while the fabric of her own skirt moved with the wind of her steps. Nevertheless, ballet demanded a coordination that those six-year-old bodies, wearing heavy winter clothes and sliding in socks, still struggled to comprehend.
— How old are you, ma'am? — the curious question arose out of nowhere, while a blonde little girl observed Eleanor’s skillful movement with her feet. The timid compliment followed immediately, leaving her chubby cheeks flushed. — You look like a princess.
— I am twenty-five, — she answered. Eleanor approached the pupil, crouching by her side, and indicated the reflection in the glass with her chin. — And you are the one who looks like a princess. See for yourself.
At the left end of the line, the little freckled girl—whom Eleanor soon discovered was named Mabel—was trying desperately to imitate the movement. She attempted to bring her heels together in the first position and raise her arms in a semicircle, yet her wool socks slipped slightly on the waxed oak, causing her legs to falter. Mabel lost her balance and nearly tripped over her own knitted coat. The girl’s little face began to turn red with frustration and her eyes welled with tears, her tiny lips trembling, ready to cry upon realizing she was the only one who could not secure the step.
Eleanor noticed immediately. Instead of drawing the room’s attention or demonstrating the severe rigidity she had received from her masters in France, she walked calmly to the corner of the studio. She knelt upon the perfectly polished floor beside Mabel, feeling the cold touch of the wood against her knees.
— It is quite all right, Mabel, — Eleanor whispered, her voice sounding like a solace, surprising herself.
Delicately, she extended her hands and held the girl’s small, trembling hand. The texture of the childish skin, so soft and warm, caused Eleanor’s fingers to relax. With a gentle touch, she helped Mabel find her point of balance, guiding the girl’s arms upward until they formed the perfect frame above her head. Then, with her other hand, she millimetrically corrected the position of the little feet covered by the wool socks, aligning the heels with infinite patience so she would no longer slip.
— Look there in the mirror, — Eleanor requested, tilting her head close to Mabel’s. — See how beautiful you look now. You see? You did it!
Mabel looked at the reflection, her tears drying instantly as a radiant smile illuminated her face. She looked up at Eleanor, her eyes shining with a deep, pure, and devout gratitude.
— Ballet is not about making it perfect right from the start, darling, — Eleanor continued, wiping away the trace of a tear on the girl’s cheek with her thumb, allowing herself for a second to feel the warmth of that childhood. — It is about trying a little bit every day. And I will be here to help you.
Mabel nodded vigorously, reclaiming her confidence, and Eleanor rose slowly, feeling a strange and beautiful lightness settle beneath her skin.
The rest of the lesson flowed like music. Eleanor conducted the little ones through the first exercises with absolute dedication, correcting each one with light touches, timely praise, and a sweetness that transformed the environment. There, surrounded by those simple clothes, colored wool socks, and childish laughter, Eleanor found a refuge.
For the first time in six years, she stood upon a stage without the applause of an aristocratic audience in Paris. Yet, looking at the happy little faces of those girls dancing around her, she realized that this new wooden floor might perhaps offer her something the Opera had never been capable of giving: a piece of peace in the midst of her own hell.
Thomas’s driver awaited him, smoking as he leaned against the fender of the car parked on the side street of the Grace Shelby Institute, ready to take him to the Shelby Company. When his master appeared, he threw the cigarette butt to the ground and extinguished it with the sole of his polished shoe.
Thomas entered the car without uttering a word, keeping his mind in an unsettled silence. His fingers tightened around the brim of his cap on the back seat with an unnecessary force, attempting to quell the urgency rising through his chest as he stared down at his own hands, thinking of Eleanor.
He knew that at that exact moment, she was inside that brightly painted room, standing before the immense mirror, doing what she loved.
Doing what had made her leave and abandon him. Dancing and repeating the very same steps that were the reason he had been forsaken. Because that was precisely what she had done: she had abandoned him. Fled from him after declaring she loved him. She preferred to dance.
As the driver turned the corner onto the main avenue, Thomas turned his head slightly backward, watching the building he had ordered erected grow smaller with every passing second.
— Stop, — he commanded, shattering the silence within the vehicle and startling the driver. — Stop the car.
— What? Mr. Shelby…
— Are you deaf? Stop the fucking car. I am getting out.
The driver obeyed, reducing speed as he pulled up to the curb. Thomas stepped down from the vehicle, slamming the door hard behind him. He adjusted the cap upon his head and spun on his heel, walking with swift steps and in absolute silence back toward the building he had just left.
Thomas did not enter through the main door. He walked to the side of the Institute and opened the iron door that led to the long corridor housing the private rooms. He had memorized every shortcut in that building; after all, he had approved the blueprints. He halted before the glass door of the dance room. It was made of frosted glass in the center, yet the edges were of clear, impeccably clean glass. He stayed there, in the shadows of the dimly lit hallway, adjusted the brim of his cap, and peered through the transparent gap.
What he saw caused the breath to lock within his lungs.
The truth was that he had never actually seen Eleanor be a ballerina. Six years ago, when discretion was the absolute rule between them, he could not fully immerse himself in the world of that girl from the Birmingham elite. That—which he now saw with stark clarity—had been an intimacy stolen from him. A part of Eleanor he was never permitted to access, and which he would discover was everything to her.
That sight was a blow to his pride. She had changed, and now he saw it. That obstinate girl with whom he had shared secrets, clandestine whispers, and a promise that ended up broken, no longer existed. Yet his mind, six years later, still seemed to insist upon the image of Eleanor frozen in that youth.
Only that woman on the other side of the glass... the woman commanding that entire room with a magnetic authority was a complete stranger to him.
Eleanor was without the green dress and the black high-heeled shoes. She was stripped of any armor she had worn to face him in the corridor. She wore only the black leotard and the fluid pink skirt that moved like water around her legs. She was not merely beautiful; she was light. The impact upon Thomas was far deeper, almost violent. The precision with which she moved her body, the natural haughtiness, and the absolute confidence with which she led the studio denoted years of a disciplined suffering he had not witnessed. She now inspired those girls. She praised, corrected with firmness, and dictated the rhythm of the place with a simple snap of her fingers. Thomas felt his stomach churn as he processed the reality: he had lost six whole years of her life. He had missed the transformation of the girl into the woman who now dominated the space with breathtaking ease.
Suddenly, Eleanor walked to the center of the waxed oak and, with a calm movement, removed her leather slippers. She stood barefoot.
Thomas fixed his eyes upon her bare feet touching the wooden floor. That sight through the glass dragged his mind straight back into the past, to a raw intimacy, devoid of pride. It recalled vulnerability. It recalled the late nights when defenses crumbled and they were merely two young people attempting to find a safe harbor in one another. Seeing her skin against the bare wood of that place was a painful contrast to the coldness she exhibited outside.
His eyes drifted to her shoes discarded in the corner of the room, remembering how, hours earlier, she had crossed that hall in them, perfectly mistress of herself. That was not the girl he had allowed to leave. Paris had sculpted her, had granted her a pride he had not witnessed. He realized, with a violent pang in his chest, that Eleanor had grown in a world where he did not exist. He could not touch the history she had built in those six years, he could not touch the mind of that woman, and worst of all, he could not touch the lightness of that smile she distributed so easily to the girls, yet which vanished the instant he walked into the room.
As the group of girls attempted to imitate the final step, stumbling over their own everyday shoes and clothes, one of them halted in place. Out of breath, her childish curiosity overcoming her fatigue, the girl looked up and blurted out:
— Does your husband like it when you dance?
Eleanor looked at her for a few seconds, her body still accompanying the gentle rhythm of the music in the background as she processed the question. Then, she tilted her head to the side before answering:
— I am not married, Mabel.
Behind the glass, the sound of the music arrived muffled, yet Eleanor’s reply felt far too clear. Thomas remained motionless. That line never crossed weighed heavily upon the room; he could have been the man in that question. He would have possessed the right to see her dance every day, to be a part of that routine. Yet reality was the silence of that room. She had left for Paris because, at the time, what he offered seemed not to suffice. Now, listening to Eleanor’s clean denial to the little girl, there remained only the uncomfortable glimpse of that alternate life. A life that did not exist because neither of them knew how to yield.
Eleanor returned her attention to the mirror. Her bare feet slid with millimetric perfection as she executed a movement, tracing an invisible line through the air. Upon finishing, she paused before the girls and then smiled once more.
It was a genuine smile.
Thomas’s jaw locked. Eleanor away from him seemed... at peace. There was none of the defensive rigidity, the cutting sarcasm, or the electric tension that always sparked whenever his blue eyes crossed her brown ones. Near the children, she breathed. And that bothered Thomas in a way he could scarcely manage. The perception that his proximity was what brought the fog to Eleanor’s eyes was a steep price his ego exacted in silence.
The image of that room, bathed in light and the promise of a future for those girls, brought to Thomas’s mind the face of Grace. His wife, pregnant, responsible for his happiness, who had envisioned that place with a naive sweetness, wishing to save Small Heath with white tulips and music. Yet it was Eleanor who stood before him, barefoot upon the oak floor. Thomas sustained his gaze, his face impenetrable. There was no regret in having encouraged her to occupy that place; her presence there, now, seemed to satisfy the Thomas of six years ago. And that sensation, so gratifying, was all that mattered during those long minutes. Even so, seeing Grace’s dream serve as the scenery for Eleanor brought an uncomfortable noise to the room. It was a calculation far too subtle, one he preferred not to rationalize.
Inside, the classical music continued to play, and the girls attempted to imitate the steps—which appeared so natural to Eleanor—with fascination in their eyes. One of the pupils stopped abruptly and approached the teacher, clutching the fabric of the skirt with her small fingers.
— Is your skirt a real ballerina’s skirt? — she asked, causing Eleanor to stop and look down at her.
— It is, my dear. Do you like it?
The girl nodded, her eyes shining. Eleanor crouched swiftly, placing herself in front of the pupils and inspecting the simple clothes and wool socks they wore.
— Girls, let me ask you something, — Eleanor’s voice came out calm, yet with an intonation indicating she already knew the answer. — Do you have leotards at home? Or ballet slippers tucked away?
The little girls exchanged confused glances and shook their heads in negation. Eleanor sighed lightly, a crease of worry appearing between her brows as she looked at the little feet covered in wool.
— I see... that is a small problem, — she murmured, almost to herself, keeping her tone soft so as not to frighten the little ones. — The oak is far too smooth. In socks, you will continue to slip, and the heavy clothes prevent me from observing your posture. But I shall resolve this; I will find a way.
Behind the door, Thomas Shelby took a step back, moving away from the glass to avoid the risk of being seen by the reflection. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his overcoat, his blue eyes still guarding the image of the barefoot ballerina.
He did not need to hear the rest of the conversation. As he walked down the corridor toward the second floor of the Institute, his mind was already operating with the surgical swiftness of business. He would send a telegram straight to the suppliers in London. He would order ten, twenty, thirty complete sets of black leotards and genuine leather slippers of the finest sizes for six-year-old children. He would ensure that nothing was lacking in that room.
Not out of Grace’s charity, nor for the girls of Small Heath. But because he needed to keep Eleanor Montague dancing in that studio, beneath his roof, under his eyes, even if watching that new version of her hurt more than any bullet he had ever taken.
The rehearsal was already more than halfway through when the vibrant energy of those six-year-old legs began to yield to fatigue and the smooth studio floor. The girls, still in their wool socks, were beginning to sit along the corners of the oak, pulling their cardigans close to their bodies.
Eleanor, noticing the tempo slow down, clapped her hands twice with a soft touch, the sound echoing sweetly through the hall.
— Very well, girls. Let us take a break so you may rest a little and catch your breath, — she announced, with a welcoming smile.
Immediately, the studio transformed into a whirlwind of small canvas bags being opened. The girls scattered across the floor: some pulled out small pieces of bread with jam wrapped in brown paper to eat, while others, encouraged by the playful activities Grace’s foundation promoted, fetched drawing pads and colored crayons to draw, lying on their stomachs upon the polished wood.
One of the girls approached her, holding a package in her hands that smelled deliciously of strawberry.
— Can a ballerina eat cake?
Eleanor laughed at the question, pitching her spine forward and resting her hands upon her knees covered by the tights.
— Yes, she can, my dear. If you do not eat, you will have no energy to dance.
Taking advantage of the interval, Eleanor walked over to the grand piano, and as she extended her hand to reach for her water bottle, the group of more curious girls surrounded her right there, following the other pupil and sitting down at her bare feet. It was then that the questions fired off, without filter.
— Miss Montague! — a dark-haired girl with her front teeth missing tugged lightly at the fabric of her pink skirt. — Who taught you to dance so beautifully? Was it a queen?
Eleanor released a melodious laugh, lowering herself slightly.
— No, it was not a queen, my dear. I learned a great deal here in Birmingham, yet it was very strict teachers at a very grand school in France who taught me to do it so beautifully.
— Do you know how to do a pirouette? One of those where you spin so fast the skirt turns into a disc? — another girl asked, her eyes wide.
— Indeed I do. In our next lesson, I shall show you an entire sequence. All right?
It was at that precise moment, while responding to the agitation of the little ones, that a familiar and violent shiver surged up Eleanor’s spine. A persistent sensation of heat upon her skin, the uncomfortable weight of a scrutiny that instantly triggered her defenses. The rhythm of her heart gave a lurch, and her brown eyes, led by an uncertain hunch, cut across the hall toward the frosted glass of the room's door.
She felt she was being watched, a persistent intuition that brought to mind a specific pair of blue eyes—the only ones capable of unsettling her in such a manner. Yet, when her gaze finally fixed upon the glass, the corridor stood completely empty. There was no shape, no shadow, nor any sign that someone had been there seconds prior. She swallowed hard, staring into nothingness, unsure if it had merely been the echo of the past playing a trick on her mind. Forcing herself to breathe, she undone the knot in her throat and returned her attention to the girls.
Mabel, the freckle-nosed little girl, took advantage of the brief instant of silence to tilt her head and blurt out the question with the most cutting innocence in the world:
— Miss Montague... do you have children?
The studio seemed to lose all sound completely. Time, for one terrible second, froze.
She remembered Grace. Her prominent belly beneath the light silk dress. Thomas’s hands smoothing over that womb with a caution one would never expect from a man like him.
Eleanor’s posture stiffened, the air growing thin within her lungs. She swallowed hard and felt the ancient wound slice open in a fine, painful cut, yet the relentless discipline of ballet operated as her mechanical miracle. She kept the smile upon her lips—a smaller smile, slightly paler, yet still tender.
— No, Mabel... — Eleanor’s voice came out a little lower, an echo that scraped the back of her throat. — I have no children.
She rose slowly, needing to reestablish physical distance so the weakness would not seep through her eyes. She clapped her hands again, calling them all back for the final ten minutes of simple arm exercises, concluding the first day with a formal révérence.
When the lesson finally ended and the girls began to put on their heavy winter shoes and gather their belongings, Eleanor remained standing near the piano, drawing a deep breath, feeling physical exhaustion finally exact the price for the morning's tension.
It was then that the little girl who had spent the entire break focused on the crayons walked up to her in silence. Her wool socks slid softly before coming to a halt right before Eleanor. With flushed cheeks, the child held out a slightly crumpled piece of paper.
— This is for you, Miss Montague, — the girl said, displaying a proud smile.
Eleanor’s gaze softened, disarmed by the gesture. She accepted the paper, unfolding it with care.
— Oh, thank you, my dear. Let me see...
She looked at the childish stroke drawn forcefully in crayon. In the center of the drawing, painted with a pink and black stroke that attempted to imitate the leotard, stood the prominent figure of Eleanor. Around her, several smaller stick figures represented the pupils in colored socks. The studio was there, rendered in crooked lines.
Yet Eleanor’s stomach churned completely when her eyes moved to the right edge of the paper.
Set apart from the rest of the group, drawn right in the gap representing the studio entrance, was a tall figure, painted entirely in black and dark gray crayon. Upon the head of that shadowy figure, the girl had drawn a very distinctly marked geometric rectangle: a flat cap. He stood positioned precisely behind the door frame, static, watching the scene.
Eleanor’s blood ran cold. She attempted to keep her voice perfectly linear, yet the paper trembled imperceptibly between her fingers. She pointed toward the dark stroke in the corner of the sheet and looked at the girl.
— What a beautiful drawing, my love... but who is he? — she asked, pointing toward the man in the cap.
The little girl blinked her pure eyes, oblivious to the gravity that had settled upon her teacher’s expression, and answered with the most devastating naturalness in the world:
— It is the man who kept watching you dance, Miss Montague. He was right there at the door, very quiet. He kept watching the whole time and then he went away.
The child turned her back, running to join the other pupils with the lightness of someone who had merely made an innocent record of the day.
Eleanor remained motionless in the center of the hall. She looked down at the paper in her hands once more. The revelation fell upon her like a direct strike to her pride: Thomas Shelby had been there. He had seen her without the armor of Paris, had seen the vulnerability of her bare feet upon the floor, and worst of all, had seen her smile with the lightness he was no longer capable of extracting from her. And the child did not even know who he was; to the little girl, he was merely a shadow in a cap watching in the dark.
— Right, girls, — she announced, her voice regaining its firm cadence, though a little more contained. — Your mothers must already be waiting in the lobby. You may gather your bags and walk in a line, all right?
The command dissolved the room’s trance in the blink of an eye. The sound of hurried steps and childish chatter echoed across the oak floor as the girls ran to the corner, gathering coats, shoes, and small colorful bags. One by one, they crossed the glass door toward the corridor, filling the building with a noisy and joyful farewell that gradually drifted away.
One of them, however, did not follow the flow. Mabel remained standing near the barre, observing the movement with her arms hanging at her sides. When silence finally settled back into the space, the little one walked slowly to the center of the hall. Her ordinary shoes made a soft sound against the waxed wood. She stopped a few paces from Eleanor, looked up with those curious eyes, and pressed the straps of her little bag against her chest, awaiting the proper moment to speak.
— Will you come back tomorrow? — the little one asked, breaking the silence of the empty room.
— I will. I shall be waiting for you right here, — Eleanor answered with a tender smile, lowering herself slightly to be at her height.
Before Eleanor could rise, Mabel took a step forward and, on a swift impulse, wrapped her small arms around the teacher’s bare legs, hiding her face against her stomach for a long, tight moment. The sudden gesture disarmed Eleanor, who rested her hand lightly upon the girl’s hair.
Mabel pulled away slowly, looking up with a childish seriousness that tightened Eleanor’s chest.
— How good. I thought you were going away like the other teacher. Are you going to stay here forever?
The question floated in the air, echoing off those walls in a way Mabel would never comprehend. Eleanor sustained her pupil’s gaze for a second longer than intended, with the promise of “forever” weighing tons against everything surrounding her there. She swallowed hard, forcing a light tone as she tucked a strand of hair behind the girl’s ear:
— I shall stay for as long as necessary, Mabel. Now go, your mother must be waiting.
Mabel nodded with a quick wave and ran toward the exit, her shoes beating hurriedly against the wood until her silhouette vanished down the corridor. The sound of the heavy door closing isolated the hall in absolute silence. She released the breath she had not realized she was holding and lowered her gaze, returning her attention to the slightly crumpled sheet of paper she still held.
Eleanor pressed the drawing against her chest, her eyes fixed upon the now closed door, feeling that, in Birmingham, every glass wall was merely one more pair of Thomas Shelby’s eyes ensuring she would never escape him.
The sound of Eleanor’s high-heeled shoes echoed rhythmically against the gray slate slabs of the lobby. She had left the dance room for a few minutes to fill her water bottle at the brass filter located near the mahogany counter. She wore the green dress once more, over her leotard and wrap skirt. The fluid silk piece, with a cut that subtly hugged her silhouette and flowed in clean lines, highlighted her flawless posture as she walked. The color brought a vividness that contrasted with the gray sobriety of Small Heath, its fabric capturing the pale light from the arched windows with her every movement.
She was about to screw the cap back onto the bottle when the sound of the heavy front door opening caught her attention.
Michael Gray entered the Institute wearing a modern, tailored suit, carrying that silent confidence of someone who knew precisely what he was seeking. When his eyes crossed the lobby and met Eleanor, he slowed his pace, permitting himself a pause to absorb the sight of the green dress before a contained smile, yet laden with intent, appeared upon his lips.
He walked in her direction with his hands in his trouser pockets, stopping at a distance that marked the exact boundary between gallantry and provocation.
— Good morning, Teacher Montague, — he said, his voice soft, his eyes shining with a genuine interest as they traveled down the details of the dress before returning to her face.
Eleanor sustained his gaze, raising her chin millimetrically. She rested the bottle against the mahogany counter, crossing her arms with a relaxed elegance that disarmed any formality.
— Good morning, Michael Gray, — she responded, allowing a calm smile to outline her lips. — Have you come to submit your resume for the backstage assistant position?
Michael released a low laugh, leaning his body slightly forward, closing the distance between them just enough for the flirtation to hang suspended in the air of the empty lobby.
— Is the position still open? — he asked, arching an eyebrow, his tone of voice laden with a polished audacity. — Because I am very interested in occupying it. I assure you I am excellent at following instructions.
Eleanor narrowed her brown eyes, amused by the swiftness with which he accepted the game. There was a lightness in Michael’s presence that operated as an antidote to the heavy fog Thomas always left behind.
— I shall be a rather demanding boss, Michael. I do not tolerate tardiness and I demand absolute perfection, — she countered, her voice soft, yet perfectly firm. She took half a step toward him, challenging his proximity. — I do not know if you are prepared for the tempo of my studio.
Michael held her step, his smile widening at the corners of his lips as he withdrew one hand from his pocket to subtly adjust the lapel of his own suit, keeping his eyes fixed upon hers.
— I deal with the business of all of England for the largest gangster in the city, Eleanor. I believe I can manage a demanding boss, — he returned, his tone dropping into a deeper pitch, nearly a secret shared between the two of them. The mention of Thomas caused a throb in the ballerina's head. — Particularly if the boss in question knows how to reward hard wor—
— Michael! — Ada’s voice echoed through the lobby, interrupting his sentence before its conclusion.
The Shelby woman appeared through the side door of the reception with a stack of papers in her hands, shattering the subtle magnetism that had held the two so close. She carried an amused smile upon her lips and narrowed eyes, capturing in that very instant their posture and the nature of the conversation she had just severed.
— What a surprise to see you here at the Institute, — Ada greeted her cousin, approaching with calm steps.
Michael composed himself with the swiftness of someone adept at disguising intentions, though he did not retreat a single millimeter from where he stood.
— Hello, Ada. I came for the accounts payable reports, — he explained, yet his eyes immediately drifted back to Eleanor, with an intensity that made it perfectly clear what his true motive was for being there.
Ada looked from Michael to Eleanor, her eyebrows arched in an expression of pure, conspiratorial mockery. She knew precisely what was taking place and took delight in the notion.
— The accounts payable report, I see... — she let slip, her tone laden with irony, holding back a laugh.
— I manage all accounts associated with the Shelby Company, Ada, — Michael countered with a protocol seriousness that only rendered the scene more comical. — Therefore, I must verify that everything is in order with the calculations for this building.
— Naturally, I believe you entirely, — Ada returned at once, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one leg, adopting a distinctly provocative posture. — I merely find it amusing that you decided to do so today, for the very first time since we inaugurated the place.
Michael subtly adjusted the lapel of his jacket, maintaining his pose.
— Thomas always carries the files to the company building, yet this time he did not. So I came to retrieve them.
Ada did not buy the excuse for a single second. She turned her gaze toward her friend, who remained with arms crossed, observing the clash of the cousins with a contained smile and eyes gleaming with amusement. Eleanor was finding humor in the theatricality, and Ada made a point of giving the situation a gentle push.
— I shall go fetch them for you, Michael, — she said, turning toward the stairs and winking conspiratorially at Eleanor, securing a few more minutes of privacy for the two. — No need to go upstairs. Stay right there.
As soon as Ada’s footsteps faded upon the wooden steps of the staircase, silence settled once more in the lobby. Yet it was not the suffocating silence Eleanor was accustomed to; it was a light stillness, filled with a distinct expectation.
Michael took a step to the side, approaching the mahogany counter where Eleanor rested her water bottle. He was in no hurry. He glanced toward the glass doors in the corridor before returning his eyes to her.
— They seemed disciplined, — he began, his voice soft, breaking the ice with a natural composure. — The little girls I saw leaving earlier. Are they all your pupils?
Eleanor relaxed her arms, resting one hand upon the edge of the counter. A contained smile appeared upon her lips at the sight of his interest.
— Indeed they are. The first group of the week, — she answered, observing his clean profile and the flawless cut of his suit. — Most of them had never had any contact with ballet prior to today.
Michael nodded slowly, turning his body to face her directly. He crossed his arms, allowing his brown eyes to fix firmly upon hers. There was a handsome seriousness in his expression now.
— And tell me something... — he lowered his tone of voice, rendering the question almost solemn. — Do you believe any of them will be as great as you are in ballet? That they too might conquer France?
Eleanor held her breath for a second. The question caught her off guard, not through audacity, but through reverence. There was no irony in Michael’s tone, no trace of the mockery typical of the men of Small Heath. He had used the word great not to refer to the magnitude of the Shelby enterprises or the territory of the Peaky Blinders, but to her career. He was enshrining her journey.
— Ballet is a very specific path, Michael, — she explained, choosing her words slowly, feeling her chest warm subtly upon touching the subject. — It demands a surrender most people are not prepared to give. It is not merely talent. It is a kind of... obsession. Yet if they dedicate themselves, they shall be as good as I am.
Michael leaned his body slightly forward, closing the distance between them in a subtle manner, demonstrating that every word issuing from her lips possessed his absolute attention.
— An obsession of how many hours a day? — he asked, with a genuine curiosity gleaming in his eyes. — How many hours did you train in Paris to reach such a level?
Eleanor stared at him in silence for a brief moment, processing the weight of that question. How many hours a day.
That was a silent jolt within her mind. No one in Birmingham ever asked that. To her father, ballet had been an expensive rebelliousness; to Thomas, it was the reason she had abandoned him, a bitter rivalry against his world. No one there understood effort unless blood, coal, or money were involved. Yet Michael... was looking beyond. He saw the artist. He saw the sweat, the sacrifice, and the dedication that existed behind that flawless posture and the fluid movement of the green dress. He had become the first person, in years, capable of perceiving the part of Eleanor she loved most in herself.
— Six hours, — she answered, her voice coming out a little softer, disarming her defenses. — Sometimes eight, when we were in performance season at the Opera.
— Eight hours a day, — Michael repeated softly, impressed. A corner smile, laden with admiration, outlined his lips. — It is the entire shift of a foundry worker in the factories. Yet performed with an elegance they could never achieve.
He took another step, his proximity now bringing back the warmth of the flirtation, yet anchored in a respect she had not experienced in a very long time.
— You truly belong to another world, Eleanor Montague, — he whispered, his eyes gleaming with the promise of the night awaiting them.
Eleanor felt the magnetism of that phrase and released a low laugh, a genuine amusement rising through her throat. She narrowed her brown eyes, regaining control of the game of seduction.
— I believe you are attempting to impress me, Mr. Gray. And employing rather refined tactics, I must add.
— I am merely stating the obvious, — he returned in the same tone, his eyes fixed upon hers, without retreating a single millimeter. — And attempting to ensure that I am your partner for the dance tomorrow evening.
— In Paris, gentlemen rehearsed for weeks to possess such a privilege, — she countered, her tone flawlessly polished and provocative. — Leading a ballerina demands firmness, Michael. Ensure you know precisely where you step when you come to fetch me tomorrow at eight.
— Here it is, Mr. Efficiency, — Ada announced, appearing around the bend of the corridor with a considerably high stack of leather folders and expense reports in her arms.
She walked up to the two with a subtle smirk, clearly aware she had interrupted something good by the way Michael cleared his throat and adjusted his posture in a swift reflex. Ada dumped the heavy bundle of papers directly against her cousin’s chest, forcing him to catch the stack with a dull thud before a few sheets nearly slipped free.
— The accounts payable for this building, Small Heath, Boston, and wherever else you wish to invent to justify your presence at the Institute, — Ada teased, dusting her hands off imaginarily upon her skirts and casting a conspiratorial glance at Eleanor, who merely observed the scene with her water bottle in hand and amusement plain in her eyes. — Happy reading, Michael.
Michael adjusted the considerable stack of reports against his chest, using his chin for a second to pin one of the leather folders that threatened to slide. He looked at Ada with a falsely outraged expression, yet his eyes soon sought Eleanor’s over the thick bundle of papers. There was a silent promise gleaming in those brown pupils, an absolute certainty of something that was only just beginning.
— Your hospitality is always touching, Ada, — Michael ironized, his soft voice reclaiming the corporate tone of someone who knew precisely how to comport himself. He took a step back, giving a subtle nod of his head to the two of them. — Ladies, have an excellent day of work. I trust the numbers shall align.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the grand wrought-iron doors of the lobby. The sound of his leather shoes echoed rhythmically across the slate slabs until the heavy latch clicked shut, isolating the Institute once more from the outside world.
Eleanor and Ada remained motionless, their eyes fixed upon the glass of the facade as Michael’s silhouette crossed the Small Heath pavement and vanished into the gray morning fog. The silence that settled lasted no longer than three seconds.
Ada turned slowly toward her friend. She crossed her arms over her dark coat, shifted her weight onto one leg, and narrowed her eyes, sustaining a massive smile that was beginning to tug at the corners of her mouth.
— “Leading a ballerina demands firmness, Michael”? — Ada repeated the phrase, imitating Eleanor’s velvety tone with comical perfection. She released a muffled laugh, shaking her head. — For God’s sake, Eleanor Montague. Tell me that means what I think it means and that I have just witnessed the beginning of something very interesting.
Eleanor held her breath for a moment. The flawless posture ballet imposed upon her seemed to yield subtly; she relaxed her shoulders, looking down at the water bottle in her hands before facing her friend. The warmth she felt rising to her cheeks was no longer from the physical exertion of the rehearsal.
— It means what you are thinking, Ada, — Eleanor confessed, her voice coming out a little lower, abashed. — I have a date. With your cousin. Tomorrow evening.
— Oh, my God! — Ada took a step forward and seized Eleanor’s forearms, releasing a contained squeal of excitement that echoed off the high, solemn ceiling of the lobby. The austere composure she customarily maintained at work crumbled in a second. — Finally! I knew this was going to happen. Michael is going to become insufferable with pride, yet I do not mind in the slightest.
Ada released her friend’s arms and began to gesticulate, her eyes shining with a purely genuine energy.
— Yet wait. We must focus on what matters now. What are you going to wear? Have you thought of the dress? It must be something that completely destroys whatever remnant of good sense that young man still possesses.
Eleanor widened her brown eyes, the reality of the engagement crashing down upon her shoulders. She looked down, inspecting her own green dress and the fluidity of the silk, then raised her eyes to the vastness of the empty hall, a pang of genuine panic mingling with the amusement bubbling within her chest.
— Oh, my God, Ada... I have not the slightest idea! — she brought her free hand to her forehead, releasing a loud, disarmed laugh. — My Paris clothes are far too formal for Birmingham, they look made for the Opera, and everything I left in my old wardrobe seems... old. From another life. I have nothing suited for a date at eight in the evening with a businessman.
She paused, glancing at the clock upon the lobby wall, calculating the time she still had left.
— You know what? I shall make use of my lunch break. I will run to the city center and attempt to purchase something for this date. Then I shall return straight here to finish organizing a few things in the rehearsal room.
— A shopping mission during lunch hour? I give my absolute support, — Ada decreed, lacing her arm firmly through Eleanor’s and pulling her back toward the side corridor of the rehearsal rooms, their heels striking the floor in unison.
Eleanor permitted herself to be led, yet paused for a second at the mouth of the corridor, looking at Ada with an incredulous smile upon her lips.
— Heavens, look at the two of us, — Eleanor murmured, shaking her head while laughter still vibrated in her throat. — We look like two teenagers in a school corridor, gossiping in secret about the boys from church. Acting like this right in the middle of our workplace.
— And where is the harm in that? — Ada countered immediately, squeezing her friend’s arm with affection and letting out a conspiratorial laugh. — God knows we deserve five minutes of futility and gossip in this gray city. If we do not laugh at these things, we shall go mad with the routine. Now come, you are going to tell me word for word what he said to you while I was upstairs hunting down those reports before you leave.
Minutes later, Ada was organizing the last registration forms on the reception desk, the sound of thick paper sliding between her fingers bringing a bureaucratic calm to the lobby following the whirlwind of the morning. She was about to put away the fountain pen when the sound of firm, deliberate footsteps echoed down the side corridor.
She raised her eyes and saw Thomas walking in her direction.
He was already wearing his dark overcoat, his shoulders slightly arched under the weight of the fabric. He carried an unlit cigarette between his fingers and his usual impenetrable expression, though his blue eyes subtly searched the opening of the hallway leading to the dance rooms. The silence emanating from there seemed to disquiet him.
Thomas came to a halt before the desk where his sister stood. He did not light the cigarette; he merely rotated it mechanically between his thumb and index finger, a rare tic revealing that his mind was running faster than customary.
— Heavens, Thomas. You startled me, — Ada said, bringing one hand to her chest before returning her attention to the papers. — I did not know you were still here. Were you not supposed to be at the Shelby Company settling the export contracts?
— Business can wait half an hour, Ada, — he replied. His voice was linear, devoid of any haste, almost far too casual for Thomas Shelby’s standards of urgency. He rested his knuckles against the mahogany counter, his eyes fixed upon the desk. — Has Eleanor left?
Ada continued tapping the sheets of paper against the wood of the desk to align them, answering without giving much weight to her brother’s tone.
— She has. She left about twenty minutes ago. She went shopping for her date.
Thomas halted the movement of his fingers. The cigarette stopped rotating.
The silence that settled over the reception lasted merely a second, yet it was enough for the air to feel suddenly denser, like the atmosphere preceding a storm. His blue eyes abandoned the desk and fixed upon his sister with a cutting intensity, his brow furrowing the slightest millimeter beneath the brim of his felt cap.
— What date? — his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. A tone of cold authority mingled with a sudden, uncomfortable rigidity in his posture.
Ada stopped what she was doing in time to capture that shift. She perceived the weight of the atmosphere; she knew her brother far too well to ignore when his composure morphed into a threat. She swallowed hard, his eyes demanding an answer that slipped from her nearly unbidden:
— ...With Michael.
Thomas did not move a single muscle, yet his jaw locked in a noticeable fashion, a hard line etching itself beneath the skin of his face.
The mention of his cousin’s name ignited a dangerous, almost glassy glint in his icy pupils. Eleanor had returned to Birmingham because of her father’s ruin and illness, yet her presence there, moving through the very corridors he inhabited, had seemed predictable under his control. Knowing that Michael was advancing into that space, crossing an invisible line Thomas maintained in silence, caused an immediate short-circuit in his opaque expression.
— Michael was meant to be taking care of the accounts today, — Thomas said, his voice coming out even lower, almost drawn out, yet carrying a cutting weight. — I was unaware he had time for dates.
— Well, it appears he made time, — Ada commented, attempting to ease the tension that seemed to saturate the new brick walls. — Yet Eleanor said she would return later to finish organizing a few things in her room, should you need to speak with her, you need only wait.
Thomas averted his gaze from his sister, staring at the opposite wall of the lobby. In his mind, the image of the white tulips Grace had sent collided head-on with the knowledge that Eleanor had just departed to prepare for his cousin. The silent contradiction of it all weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
He returned the cigarette to his waistcoat pocket in a mechanical movement, a dry gesture that put an end to any pretense of indifference.
— Very well, — was all he said, his voice sharp and stripped of any manageable emotion.
Ada watched her brother adjust his cap with a quick touch to the brim. She gathered her own bag, eager to cut through the ice Thomas had left in the room.
— Well, I must be off in any case. Karl’s nanny is leaving shortly, and I promised I would not be late today. Goodbye, Tommy.
Thomas did not answer with words. He merely gave a brief, rigid nod of his head toward his sister, spun on his heel, and walked toward the side staircase leading to the administrative offices. His steps, which were usually silent, struck the gray slate slabs of the Institute with unnecessary force, echoing through the lobby like a silent warning of the magnitude of the trouble Michael had just invited upon himself.
Upon entering the room, he did not turn on the lights. Thomas walked over to the frosted glass window, resting both hands upon the dark wood sill as he observed the noisy movement of Small Heath below. His fingers tightened around the brim of the cap he now held, his knuckles turning white from the force of the grip.
The bitter truth eroding Thomas’s chest was that, despite all he controlled in Birmingham, that woman who had just crossed the lobby to teach in his Institute was beyond his reach. There existed a distance forged of six years of silence and a pride that now functioned as an invisible barrier between the two. Eleanor was no longer the adolescent who kept his secrets in dark corners; she had returned mistress of herself, protected by an elegance he could not simply lay claim to.
Yet Michael was free to try. And the mere mention of that possibility caused Thomas’s blood to run hot.
His cousin carried no ring upon his finger, bore not the weight of that unfinished history, and possessed the audacity of a young man who believed he could simply lead her. A deep, cutting irritation surged up Thomas’s spine. The fact that Eleanor had accepted struck a deep blow to his pride. She had gone to purchase a beautiful garment. She would smile for Michael. She would be light with him.
He closed his eyes for a brief second, and the image of Eleanor in the green dress invaded his mind with a painful clarity. The cut of the silk that hugged her silhouette, the contrast of that vivid color... she had chosen that piece to be seen.
And now it would be Michael who would see her by candlelight. It would be Michael who possessed the right to reach out and touch the exposed skin of her back, to catch the perfume he knew so well, to hold her waist during a dance and share in her smiles. The thought of another man, especially one of his own blood, occupying that space caused a spasm of fury at the base of his stomach. His teeth ground together, his jaw rigid to the point of aching.
Thomas released his breath slowly through his nostrils, forcing his heartbeat to slow down. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the smoke from the factory chimneys outside.
That was a warning of danger.
Michael was the future of the family’s enterprise, far too valuable to the Shelby Company. Young and ambitious, yet completely ignorant of what Eleanor Montague was capable of doing. She had already taken everything Thomas possessed in the past—his cleanest promises—and vanished into the world without looking back, leaving only the void in Birmingham. A businessman could not permit a distraction of such magnitude to destabilize the most vital link in an expanding empire. It was a matter of damage control. Someone needed to intervene before the young man was ruined by a whim of Paris.
Thomas set the cap down upon the desk and retrieved a cigarette, finally lighting it. The red ember glowed in the dim light as he drew deeply, his eyes fixed upon the door. He was going nowhere.
The metallic sound of the main door, on the ground floor below, interrupted the building’s silence. Thomas approached the window that overlooked the first floor. Eleanor had returned. Her firm, decided footsteps echoed through the empty lobby, and he could watch her cross the corridor.
Thomas placed the cap upon his head, opened the door, and descended the steps without haste. Every step of his was calculated, yet there was a dark internal urgency dictating the tempo. The Institute’s silence was dense, broken only by the rhythmic beat of his own pocket watch and his shoe against the floor. Everything he would do next would be for Michael. It had to be.
He pushed open the door of the dance room without knocking. Eleanor was with her back to the entrance, near the grand piano. She was organizing some sheet music upon the instrument’s wooden lid, right beside Grace’s vase of tulips. Upon hearing the sound of the door, she did not start; she merely rotated her body slowly, and her brown eyes met his with the customary barrier of coldness.
— I forgot that the Shelbys possess not the habit of knocking before entering, — she began, her voice flowing with a clean cadence, devoid of the Birmingham rush. — The Institute is already closed, Thomas. I only returned to organize the girls’ material for tomorrow.
Thomas halted a few meters from her. He removed the felt cap, keeping it firm between his hands, his long fingers caressing the gray brim in an almost imperceptible manner. His blue eyes, cold as the winter of 1919, swept over her silhouette, detaining themselves for a millisecond at the neckline of the green dress before rising to her face.
— I received word that you are going out tomorrow evening.
Eleanor released a huffed laugh, a sound short and destitute of any real humor. She turned sideways, tapping the stack of sheet music against the piano wood to align them, the dry impact echoing in the empty room. Then, she crossed her arms, adopting her defensive posture.
— Ada possesses a tragically large mouth. And yes, I am. I was unaware that the terms of the contract for my family’s coal mines included a curfew clause for me or a report of my social life for the company’s chairman.
— It has nothing to do with coal, Eleanor.
Her name came out low, nearly a breath. It was the first time he had pronounced it aloud since she had set foot back in Birmingham, and the sound seemed to vibrate in the space between the two. Thomas took a slow step in her direction. His eyes narrowed subtly.
— It has to do with Michael. You are not going to that date. I came here to ensure you understand that he cannot afford to have this kind of distraction right now.
— I beg your pardon? — Her chin rose instantly, Paris polish cracking to yield space to genuine indignation. She took a step forward, closing the distance he was attempting to control. — Have you gone completely mad, Thomas? Who do you think you are to dictate what I do once I set foot outside this door?
— I am saying this for Michael’s sake. For his career, — he uttered. His voice dropped to an even lower, deliberate, and almost didactic tone, the cadence he employed to close business with dangerous men in smoke-filled rooms. — Michael is young. He has just assumed control of crucial accounts for the company. He is handling sums he has never seen in his life, with men who do not forgive the slightest misstep. His moment at the Shelby Company is pivotal, Eleanor.
— And what does a date with me have to do with his ability to sum numbers? — she countered, narrowing her eyes, her lips tightening into a tense line. She could perceive the lie behind his eyes, and the audacity of such cynicism enraged her.
— Everything, — Thomas continued. He took another step, invading her personal space until Eleanor could see the tension in his jaw and the unusual rigidity in his broad shoulders. The scent of tobacco and rain that always accompanied him now dominated the air around her. — You are a distraction. A sophisticated distraction, arriving from Paris with a baggage Michael lacks the maturity to manage. He is easily impressed. If he begins losing sleep thinking of dates, he will make errors in the reports. And errors committed by Michael cost my family dearly.
— So you have never gone out with any woman while working? — she fired back, her tone rising in a cutting provocation. — I thought the Shelbys were adept at doing two things at once, you see? Mixing business and pleasure. Or does this rule of distraction apply only when the control is not held in your hands?
Thomas halted his step. The provocation struck its mark with surgical precision. He slowly raised his chin, his face transforming into a stone mask that revealed nothing, yet his fingers tightened around the felt of his cap with a force that nearly deformed the piece. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur devoid of any warmth, yet one that caused the air in the room to freeze:
— I know precisely where to direct my attention, Eleanor. Michael does not. If he looks at you too long, he forgets to look at the ledger books. And at the Shelby Company, a wrong number costs lives.
She sustained his gaze, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Neither receded a single centimeter. In the tense silence that ensued, the ticking of Thomas’s pocket watch seemed to mark the countdown of a bomb both knew would explode, sooner or later.
— For Michael.... — she whispered, slowly shaking her head. A smile of pure derision, bitter and sharp, appeared upon her lips. — Are you attempting to convince me of that, or yourself? You are unbelievable, Thomas Shelby. You truly manage to construct an entire lie and don this cloak of a zealous leader merely to avoid admitting what is taking place here.
— It is the reality of business, Eleanor.
His voice came out low, yet his fingers tightened around the brim of his cap with such force that the felt yielded under the pressure. Thomas attempted, with every ounce of his willpower, to focus on the logic of his own excuse so as not to reach out and shorten the distance separating them. Yet his discipline failed for a millisecond when his gaze slid to the contour of her neck, where her pulse beat fast and warm against her skin.
— I protect my men. I protect my cousin’s focus, — he continued, his voice slightly rasper. — Cancel the dinner. Say your father has taken a turn for the worse, invent whatever excuse you wish. For the sake of the company’s stability. For Michael’s sake.
— Stop saying his name! — Eleanor cut in, her voice rising a tone, her ballerina’s polish transforming into a raw and disarmed fury. She took two swift steps, shattering any social distance, halting inches from him. The proximity was such that she could feel the heat emanating from his body beneath the heavy overcoat. — You do not give a damn about Michael’s focus, Thomas. You are not doing this for him, and we both know it. You are doing this because you cannot bear the thought of me being in this city and not being under your absolute control. You cannot bear to see that I might have a life, a smile... or be with anyone other than you!
Thomas swallowed hard. His chest rose in a rigid motion. Eleanor’s breath, warm, swift, and slightly erratic, struck against the curve of his neck, disarming the icy air of the room.
— You do not understand, Eleanor, — he said, his voice growing denser, the control he so boasted of beginning to leak through the cracks. — You do not belong to this family.
She laughed. It was a sharp sound, nearly hysterical, echoing off the empty walls of the dance room.
— I thought that had been precisely the problem six years ago.
The mention of the past acted as a trigger. Thomas took half a step forward, a physical invasion so sudden it forced Eleanor to recede a centimeter, feeling the wood of the grand piano against her back. Her perfume, something floral and clean, struck him head-on, mingling with the persistent scent of cold tobacco that saturated his clothes.
— Michael does not know you, Eleanor, — Thomas whispered, his voice growing raspier, the corporate armor failing under the pressure of the truth he attempted to bury at all costs. — He does not know who you are.
— I introduced myself.
— Do not be ironic, — he countered, his blue eyes sparking in the dim light. — That is not what I meant.
— And do you know me, Thomas? — she confronted him, her brown eyes suddenly welling with rage and an ancient heartache that his proximity caused to burn with full force. — I am no longer that girl from six years ago. That adolescent who accepted your whispers in the dark died in Paris. I have changed. I have built my own life, and it pains you to see that I no longer need you.
Thomas sustained the blow without averting his gaze. The mention of the whispers in the dark seemed to resonate in the empty room.
— Michael may bear another surname, Eleanor, yet that does not alter who he is, — he said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper that scraped against the icy atmosphere. — He is family.
— And now you have resolved to protect the Shelby women? — she countered, with a short laugh completely devoid of humor, hatred gleaming in her pupils.
Thomas did not answer immediately. He kept his eyes fixed upon her, his body taut, tracking every micro-expression upon Eleanor’s face like a predator unsure whether to advance or retreat. His hands, still holding the cap at hip level, trembled slightly against the gray felt brim, the sole visible sign of the violent battle raging behind his blue eyes.
— You vanished once, Eleanor, — he weaponized the past against her, his blue eyes fixing upon hers with an almost physical intensity. — Do not do that to him. Do not enter his life if you are to disappear again.
— Did you come here to speak of Michael... or of me? — she cut in. Her voice was soft, yet sharp as a blade, exposing his final line of defense.
Eleanor averted her face for a second. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she attempted to reclaim air from that suffocating proximity, before turning back to face him with all the strength she had remaining.
— Yet it is amusing... — she continued, her voice trembling with frustration, her eyes gleaming with the purest resentment. — You spent six years without asking where I was. Without sending a single letter to learn if I was alive in France. And now you are concerned with who is to dine with me? — She took a subtle step to the side, breaking the defense and keeping her chin raised high. — I am going out with Michael.
The sentence was a decree of independence, every syllable pronounced with a measured firmness that echoed through the hall.
— No.
The word issued from Thomas’s mouth before he could filter it.
It was a dry snap, devoid of any business varnish, familial excuse, or political calculation. Merely a "No," possessive and authoritative, that seemed to freeze the damp air between the two.
The silence that settled afterward was absolute and suffocating.
Thomas continued to stare at her, yet the stone mask of his face cracked. His own eyes betrayed the physical shock of having allowed that word to escape; he had been caught red-handed by his own impulse. For the first time in years, Thomas Shelby possessed no ready answer, no strategic exit, nor any rational excuse. The instinct of possession and the desperation of losing her again stood exposed right there, stripped of any defense, in the middle of his wife’s charity room. He opened his mouth, yet the words simply would not come.
— You spent ten minutes hiding behind your cousin, — she said, her voice trembling with frustration, distilling a longing that mingled with hatred for still feeling that humiliating attraction. — Yet the truth is we are not speaking of him. We are speaking of us. We are speaking of the fact that you cannot bear to see me move on. We are speaking of six years ago, Thomas. And you forfeited the right to care about whom I go out with the moment you allowed me to leave.
— I did not let you leave because I wanted to, Eleanor, — he countered.
His voice finally came through, yet it sounded hoarse, harsh, completely stripped of the habitual authority of the Peaky Blinders' leader. Thomas took a swift step toward her and, in an impatient movement, tossed his cap onto the piano lid without so much as looking where it would land. The control he so prized was slipping between his fingers like sand.
— You made your choice in that house. You packed your bags and left for Paris.
— And what did you expect me to do? — she fired back, turning to face him directly, her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into the skin of her hands. — Stay here to be controlled by you? To be just another wife spending her days praying for her husband to return home without a scratch?
Her brown eyes drifted from his for a second, sweeping through the room's twilight. Eleanor swallowed hard as her gaze hovered over the piano and, with a trembling gesture, pointed toward the vase of tulips upon the wood. Her voice cracked imperceptibly for the first time:
— Grace sent me flowers today. She was sweet, she was genuine... And you put me in here, in the middle of her dream, merely so you can watch me through the glass of the door? That is sick, Thomas.
— I did not plan the bankruptcy of the Montagues, Eleanor, — he confessed.
His tone dropped into a low register, almost an intimate, defensive murmur he would never employ with anyone else in Birmingham.
— The coal mine contract was legitimate business. Elliot came to me.
— Yet you did not accept it because you are a good person who merely wished to help. You accepted it because you knew the price I would have to pay, — she countered, approaching him once more, closing the gap until electric tension sparked in the air between their bodies. — You knew that one day I would return.
He halted, his jaw locking in a noticeable manner. The raw possessiveness and accumulated resentment finally mingled within his words, stripping him of any disguise.
— If you believed the price to save your family was far too steep... why did you sign the contract? — his voice held a challenging edge.
— You practically cornered me, — she replied.
Eleanor’s voice attempted, desperately, to regain the cold composure she had brought back from France, yet the disguise crumbled before the frantic pace at which her chest rose and fell. She swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in her throat.
— Yet that matters no longer. My hours at the Institute ended thirty minutes ago, and what I do outside that door belongs neither to you nor to the Shelby Company. You possess no right whatsoever to tell me whom to see.
— Is that so? — he challenged.
He approached, closing the distance until the shared air grew scarce. Thomas’s voice was now so low it reduced to a warm, dangerous, and damp whisper against her lips.
— No, — she sustained, though the sound came out nearly as a sigh.
Her chest pressed against his. The space separating them simply ceased to exist. The latent rage, the accumulated frustration of six years of silence, and the contained desire collided in the heavy air of the dance room.
Before she could recede, Thomas’s right hand rose and gripped the curve of her hip. His fingers tightened into the fine fabric of the green dress with a possessive, firm, and desperate strength—a physical mark Eleanor made no attempt to push away. On the contrary, she leaned millimetrically in his direction.
They were so close that the room's twilight seemed to close in around them both. Their lips nearly brushed with every gasp of air; Eleanor’s feverish breath was consumed by his in a torturous cycle. It was the pure hatred of still wanting each other so fiercely, the humiliation of realizing that time had healed absolutely nothing.
Thomas tilted his face slightly. His lips grazed hers—not a kiss yet, but a slow trail of heat, a painful promise testing the boundary of sanity for them both. Merely a millimeter remained. A fraction of a second before the kiss that would shatter every barrier and justification they had constructed while apart. His mouth pressed softly against the corner of hers, eliciting a trembling sigh from Eleanor.
In the outer corridor, the dull thud of a metal bucket striking the stone floor echoed through the empty structure of the building, followed by the dragging sound of heavy footsteps.
They broke apart abruptly, as though an abyss had opened beneath their feet. Both were entirely out of breath, their hearts beating violently, their chests rising and falling in an erratic tempo. They stared at one another with a profound hatred—a hatred directed not at each other, but at themselves, for having lost control in so pathetic a manner, for still feeling this way, and for being incapable of overcoming the past.
Eleanor shoved Thomas’s chest with both hands, stepping away from him as if she had touched red-hot iron. Her hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands falling over her breathless face. Her brown eyes were wide, gleaming with the absolute panic of what had nearly transpired right there—beneath the roof of the Institute that bore, in gold lettering upon the facade, the name of his wife.
With trembling hands, she attempted to brush the hair from her face, while her other hand adjusted her dress with swift, restless movements, trying to reclaim a dignity that had already evaporated.
— This will not happen again, — she said in a trembling whisper, which she attempted to coat with firmness.
— Is that what you are going to tell yourself? — Thomas countered.
His voice was extremely hoarse, nearly a scraped whisper. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath his jacket as he fought to gather the fragments of the control that had just been shattered across the floor of that room. Thomas cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers for a second while adjusting his overcoat with abrupt, dry, and defensive movements. He drew in a sharp breath and faced her once more, the icy mask attempting to rebuild itself over his rigid features.
— You ought to cancel that date.
— And you ought to be at home, Thomas. With your wife.
— Do not confuse matters, Eleanor.
— You have already confused them for the both of us, — she countered. Her voice was finally reclaiming its firm cadence, though the heartache still vibrated, warm and painful, beneath the surface.
— This has nothing to do with Grace, — he hissed. His teeth were clenched, his jaw rigid as stone, his eyes fixed upon her as though attempting to silence her by sheer force of gaze.
— It does, — Eleanor answered. Her voice was soft, cold, and definitive.
She turned toward the piano, retrieved her canvas bag and shopping parcel, her movements now deliberate and precise, as if gathering her own pieces from the floor. She walked toward the studio exit, yet paused before touching the brass handle, looking at him over her shoulder one final time.
— Because everything you are doing here... you ought to be doing there.
Thomas did not answer. He remained precisely where he stood, a dark and motionless silhouette against the room’s twilight, the shadows seeming to prowl around his broad shoulders.
Eleanor sustained his silence for a second, her chin held high. She required no answer from him; Thomas’s silence was already his greatest confession. With her hand upon the handle, she delivered the first decisive strike, stripping him of whatever authority still remained:
— If you wish the date to be canceled, go to Michael’s accounting desk and order it, — she challenged, her eyes fixed upon his, gleaming with a bitter courage. — Tell him you cannot sleep knowing another man shall touch the woman you once wished to marry.
She turned toward the door, yet looked back at him once more, making a brief pause. Silence fell heavy, almost physical, between the two of them before she delivered the coup de grâce:
— Is your marriage everything you hoped for? — she began, turning the brass handle, her voice dangerously soft as she took a slow step to the side to open the door. — Actually, there is no need to answer. If it were, Thomas... you would not be standing here right now.
The door of the dance room opened and clicked shut with a soft latch. Thomas Shelby remained motionless. His chest rose and fell in a heavy breath he no longer needed to conceal. There, in the sepulchral silence that remained, he lowered his gaze to his own hand—the very hand that, minutes prior, had gripped Eleanor’s waist with a desperation nearly uncontrollable—and realized that, at no point during that conversation, had he managed to lie to himself.
He loved Grace. He loved the clean life they were building, the light his wife represented, and the child on the way. Yet what he felt for Eleanor was visceral, an untamable darkness embedded in his very veins.
And what caused his blood to boil was absolute, sheer impotence.
Eleanor was everything he could no longer touch. Because of Grace. Because of six years of distance. Because of the life that had proceeded relentlessly for them both while they were apart. The boundary had been drawn by his own choices, and the frustration of realizing that the empire he had built served not to return her to his arms was driving him mad from within.
His blue eyes fixed upon the piano. More specifically, upon the pristine vase of white tulips Grace had sent. The embodiment of the perfect life that now seemed to suffocate him.
A primitive, blind rage took hold of his body. Unthinking, driven solely by the violent instinct of his own frustration, he swept his arm across the wooden lid and sent the vase crashing off the piano.
The crash of crystal shattering against the floor was deafening. Water, soil, and white petals scattered across the dark boards, ruining the peace and the untouched scenery of the Institute.
Thomas stepped over the shards of glass, the crunching sound breaking the room’s echo, and retrieved his felt cap. He adjusted his overcoat over his tense shoulders. He would not order Michael to cancel the evening. He would swallow his own pride and allow the date to happen.
Yet, much like the destroyed crystal beneath his boots, his control had shattered completely. And Thomas Shelby was not the kind of man who respected boundaries for long.
Summary: The road trip was supposed to be with your best friend. Instead, you're stuck driving 500km with Jungkook—her infuriating older brother and the one person you love arguing with.
Genre: Enemies to Lovers • Road Trip Romance • Smut
Pairing: Jungkook × Reader
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content • Strong Language • Sexual Tension • Rough Scenes • Mild Angst • Fingering
You and your best friend had been talking about this music festival for months. The only downside? It was nearly 500 kilometers away.
Instead of taking a train or booking a flight, the two of you had agreed on something much more exciting—a road trip.
Just the two of you.
A whole weekend filled with loud music, overpriced gas station snacks, singing at the top of your lungs.
At least, that had been the plan.
You carried the last cooler out of the house, carefully placing it into the trunk of your car next to your already packed duffel bag.
"Perfect," you mumbled, shutting the trunk with a satisfied grin.
Your phone suddenly buzzed in your pocket.
The caller ID made you smile.
Mina ❤️
"Hey, I'm just about to head over to your place."
Silence.
"...Y/N."
The smile on your face slowly faded. "You sound way too serious."
"I know... and I'm really, really sorry."
Your stomach dropped. "What happened?"
You heard her sigh on the other end. "My manager just called. One of my coworkers called in sick, and they need me to cover the entire weekend."
You frowned. "What? No. Tell them you already have plans."
"I tried."
"And?"
"They basically told me it wasn't optional."
You closed your eyes, rubbing your forehead."You've got to be kidding me."
"I wish I was."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
"So..." you muttered. "I guess I'm going alone."
"Actually..." Mina hesitated. "I already found someone to take my place."
You froze. "...What?"
"I didn't want you driving all that way by yourself."
"Mina."
"So... I asked my brother."
Your grip on the phone tightened. "...Which brother?" She had 2 brothers.
"...Jungkook."
You stared at your driveway. "Mina."
"He already agreed!"
"Mina."
"He should be there any minute now."
Your eye twitched. "I would literally rather drive five hundred kilometers alone than spend a weekend trapped in a car with your brother."
A nervous laugh echoed through the speaker. "Yeah... he kind of said the same thing about you."
Before you could answer, the sound of a car pulling into your driveway made you slowly look up.
A black SUV rolled to a stop in front of your house. The driver's door opened.
Jungkook.
Hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, looking just as unimpressed as you felt.
You stood there for a second, completely frozen, hoping this was some kind of joke. It wasn't. Jungkook shut the driver's door behind him, slinging a backpack over one shoulder before glancing at you with the same indifferent expression he always wore around you.
A frustrated sigh escaped your lips.
Of all the people Mina could have asked, it had to be him.
You and Jungkook had never gotten along. Ever since the day you met him, every conversation somehow turned into an argument. One sarcastic remark always led to another until one of you walked away annoyed. You couldn't remember a single interaction that hadn't ended with at least one eye roll, a scoff, or a muttered insult.
Which was exactly why none of this made any sense.
Why had he agreed?
He disliked you just as much as you disliked him.
You marched across the driveway until only a few steps separated you, crossing your arms tightly over your chest.
"I'm not getting in a car with you."
Jungkook barely reacted. His eyes briefly met yours before he looked past you at the packed trunk. "Hello to you too."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Your jaw clenched. "No way in hell am I spending an entire weekend trapped with you."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and somehow that irritated you even more.
"Trust me," he said calmly, "it wasn't exactly my first choice either."
"Then why are you here?"
He shrugged as if it wasn't worth discussing. "Mina asked."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
You let out a humorless laugh, throwing your hands in the air. "Unbelievable."
He watched your little outburst without saying a word, almost amused by how quickly you were losing your patience.
"You could've just said no."
"And leave my sister worrying about you driving five hundred kilometers alone?" He raised an eyebrow.
"I would've been perfectly fine."
"I'm sure you would've."
The hint of disbelief in his voice made your blood boil.
"I don't need you to babysit me."
"And I don't remember offering."
Silence settled between you, thick enough to cut with a knife. You glared at him while he simply stared back, unfazed as always. Somehow that calm expression of his was more infuriating than if he had argued back.
Your phone buzzed again.
Mina. You answered immediately.
"Tell me you came to your senses and sent him home."
Instead, all you heard was your best friend's guilty sigh.
"Mina," you said through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of your nose as you turned your back to Jungkook. "Tell me this isn't actually happening."
"I know, I know," she sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. "Please don't be mad."
"Oh, I'm way past mad."
"I just... I didn't want you driving all that way by yourself."
"I would've survived."
"I know you would've," she replied softly, "but I'd spend the entire weekend worrying. At least with Jungkook there, I know you'll be safe."
You glanced over your shoulder.
Jungkook hadn't interrupted once. He simply stood beside his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, giving you the space to finish the call.
"Mina, you know I can't stand him."
"I know."
"And he can't stand me."
"I know."
"We argue about literally everything."
"I know."
"Then why would you do this to us?"
A quiet laugh escaped her before she immediately caught herself. "I'm sorry."
You let out a long, exhausted breath, closing your eyes for a moment. The silence stretched between the two of you until Mina spoke again, her voice noticeably smaller. "..Please?"
You'd known Mina long enough to recognize when she genuinely felt bad, and right now she sounded absolutely miserable.
Your shoulders slowly dropped. "You owe me."
"I know."
"If this weekend ends with one of us getting arrested, I'm blaming you."
She laughed, relief flooding her voice. "I'll take full responsibility."
You shook your head, unable to suppress the small smile threatening to appear. "You're unbelievable."
"I love you too."
"Yeah, yeah."
After ending the call, you stared at your phone for another second before slipping it back into your pocket.
This was, without question, the worst idea Mina had ever had.
With a defeated sigh, you grabbed the handle of your suitcase and dragged it toward Jungkook's SUV.
He watched you approach without saying anything, though one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.
"I wouldn't smile if I were you," you muttered, stopping beside the trunk. You shot him a glare sharp enough to kill.
He simply reached for your suitcase. "I've got it."
"I can carry my own bag."
"I'm aware."
"Then don't touch it."
Ignoring your protest entirely, he lifted it into the trunk with effortless ease before closing it.
Jungkook leaned against the car for a second before looking at you. "Ready?"
You looked from him to the passenger seat, then back again.
A whole weekend. Five hundred kilometers. One car.
You had a feeling this was going to be the longest—and most exhausting—weekend of your life.
The first twenty minutes passed in complete silence. The only sounds filling the car were the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rush of passing traffic as other vehicles sped by. The highway stretched endlessly ahead, disappearing into the horizon beneath a cloudless sky.
You rested your elbow against the door, absentmindedly watching the scenery blur past the window. Fields, bridges, exit signs—it all looked the same after a while.
You stole a glance at Jungkook. One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped lightly against his thigh to a rhythm only he seemed to hear. His gaze never left the road, his expression calm and unreadable.
With a quiet sigh, you reached toward the dashboard and switched on the radio.
Music instantly filled the car.
A pop song. You wrinkled your nose. "No."
A country song. "Absolutely not."
Heavy metal. You grimaced. "Seriously?"
Station after station, your finger continued pressing the button, giving each song barely two seconds before dismissing it.
A soft scoff escaped Jungkook, though he kept his eyes fixed on the road. "You always this picky?"
You ignored him and skipped another station.
A love song. "Ew."
Just as your thumb reached for the button again, a warm hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist.
The unexpected contact made your breath catch.
Without looking away from the road, Jungkook gently but firmly pushed your hand away from the radio.
"Leave it." His voice was calm, almost lazy, but carried enough authority to make you pause.
You slowly turned your head, staring at him in disbelief before looking down at where his hand still rested against yours. "So now you get to decide what we listen to?"
"I get to decide that we actually listen to something before you skip it after two seconds."
"I knew you had terrible taste."
"And I knew you had no patience."
You folded your arms across your chest, leaning back into the passenger seat with an exaggerated huff. "This song is awful."
Jungkook merely allowed the smallest hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.
"You know," he said after a moment, "for someone who didn't want to come with me, you seem awfully comfortable acting like you own the passenger seat."
You let out a dry laugh. "And for someone who supposedly didn't want to come either... you're smiling way too much."
"I smile when I'm entertained."
"And what's entertaining?"
He finally glanced at you for the briefest second. "You."
That single word lingered in the air far longer than either of you expected.
Silence settled over the car once again, heavier than before. Neither of you made another attempt to speak, almost as if an unspoken agreement had been made. You turned your attention back to the window, pretending to be fascinated by the endless stretch of highway rushing past. Beside you, Jungkook remained focused on the road.
You were determined to ignore him.
And judging by his complete lack of interest in starting another argument, he seemed equally determined to ignore you.
At least, that's what it looked like.
Every now and then, almost against your own will, your eyes drifted toward him. Just a quick glance. Nothing more. The way the sunlight filtered through the windshield, catching the dark strands of his hair. The relaxed grip he had on the steering wheel. The quiet concentration written across his face.
The moment your gaze lingered a second too long, he glanced in your direction. Your eyes snapped back to the window.
There was something strangely unsettling about sharing such a confined space with someone for hours. You became hyperaware of every movement he made—the subtle shift of his shoulders, the quiet sigh that escaped him, the way he adjusted his hand on the steering wheel. It was impossible not to notice him.
You looked over once more, only to find his eyes already on you. Then he looked back at the road as though nothing had happened.
You frowned.
"If you're going to keep staring," you muttered, still looking out the window, "at least try to be subtle."
A brief chuckle escaped him. "I was about to say the exact same thing to you."
You turned your head, narrowing your eyes. "I wasn't staring."
"No?" One brow arched ever so slightly. "Then why do you keep looking at me?"
"I was checking if your eyes were still on the road."
"Mhm."
"They were."
"Good to know."
You scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he replied with the faintest hint of amusement in his voice, "you've looked at me at least six times in the last ten minutes."
Heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it. "I have not."
"You have." His lips curled into a smug smile.
You tore your gaze away from him before he could notice the faint warmth creeping into your cheeks. It was ridiculous, really. You'd known Jungkook for years—through Mina, family dinners, birthdays, and countless occasions where your paths had inevitably crossed. If there was one thing you had never denied, even to yourself, it was that he was attractive. Painfully so. The kind of attractive people couldn't help but stare at. Dark eyes, effortless confidence, an annoyingly pretty smile.
Unfortunately, his personality had always managed to overshadow all of that.
Or at least, that's what you liked to tell yourself.
His arrogance, his sarcastic remarks, the way he always seemed to know exactly which buttons to push—it was enough to make you forget every objectively attractive thing about him within seconds. He had an infuriating talent for getting under your skin, and somehow that had become the only thing you associated him with.
Still...
Being trapped in a car with him for hours made it surprisingly difficult to ignore the details you usually overlooked. The way the sunlight caught the soft strands of his dark hair whenever the car passed beneath an opening in the trees. The veins running along his forearm as his hand rested casually on the steering wheel. Even the quiet concentration on his face as he drove was... annoyingly attractive.
You frowned at yourself.
Get it together.
Maybe that was exactly why the two of you had never gotten along. Every conversation somehow turned into a competition. It didn't matter how harmless it started—within minutes, one sarcastic comment would lead to another until the two of you were arguing over something completely ridiculous. Neither of you ever backed down. Neither of you ever admitted defeat.
"You know," you said, absentmindedly tracing your finger along the edge of the window, "for someone who claims to be bored, you're awfully invested in counting how many times I look at you."
Jungkook's grip shifted on the steering wheel. "You were making it easy."
You turned to him with an incredulous expression. "So now it's my fault?"
"I didn't say that."
"You did."
A quiet sigh escaped him, one that sounded suspiciously close to amusement.
"See?" he said. "This."
"What?"
"This is exactly why talking to you is exhausting."
You stared at him. "Talking to me is exhausting?"
He finally glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. "Did I stutter?"
A disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. "That's rich coming from someone whose personality consists of being annoyingly arrogant."
"I'm not arrogant."
"You absolutely are."
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're stubborn."
You folded your arms across your chest. "I'm not."
Jungkook looked at you for a brief moment before the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
You clicked your tongue in annoyance, turning away ore he could see the reluctant smile threatening to appear.
"I hate you."
His answer came without hesitation. "I know."
"...Good."
"Good."
The tension inside the SUV had become almost tangible, stretching between the two of you like a wire pulled too tight. Every glance lingered a little too long, every sarcastic remark carried a little more weight than it should have. There wasn't a single conversation the two of you could have without it ending in an argument. It was almost impressive.
Mina had once jokingly compared the two of you to magnets with the wrong poles—destined to push each other away no matter how close you got.
She wasn't wrong.
You couldn't stand the way Jungkook always had an answer for everything. The infuriating calmness in his voice. The confidence that bordered on cockiness. The stupid little smirk that appeared whenever he knew he'd gotten under your skin.
And judging by the way he occasionally glanced in your direction before looking away again, the feeling seemed entirely mutual.
Neither of you understood the other. Neither of you particularly wanted to.
Yet somehow, after barely two hours on the road, you already knew one thing for certain.
Five hundred kilometers had never sounded so painfully long.
The highway had grown noticeably quieter by the time the fuel warning light flickered onto the dashboard. The digital clock read 9:53 p.m., and exhaustion had begun to settle over both of you. Even your arguments had lost some of their fire, replaced by tired sighs and the occasional sarcastic remark.
Without saying a word, Jungkook steered the SUV toward the next gas station and parked beside an empty pump. He switched off the engine before unbuckling his seatbelt.
"We need gas," he said, glancing at the fuel gauge. Then his eyes met yours for the first time in several minutes. "Look for a motel while I fill up. I'm not driving all night."
You nodded, already unlocking your phone. "Fine."
Jungkook stepped out, letting the door fall shut behind him, leaving you alone with nothing but the glow of your screen.
You opened several booking apps, your thumb scrolling through one accommodation after another. Most were either fully booked or outrageously expensive. The few affordable ones had ratings bad enough to make you question whether you'd wake up with all your belongings still there.
After a few more minutes, one listing finally caught your attention.
"...You've got to be kidding me."
Only one room remaining.
You stared at the screen for a long second before rubbing your temples.
Out of every possible scenario, this had to happen.
The passenger door opened, pulling you from your thoughts. Jungkook slid back into the driver's seat, setting a small plastic bag on the center console before fastening his seatbelt.
"Find anything?" he asked as he started the engine.
"...Yeah."
He glanced at you briefly. "Well?"
You hesitated. "There's a motel about an hour from here."
"Sounds good."
"...There's only one room left."
For the first time in a while, he actually looked at you. "So?"
You blinked. "So?"
"Yeah."
You stared at him in disbelief. "Jungkook, there's one room."
"I heard you."
"...Meaning we'd have to share it."
He shrugged as though you had just informed him it might rain tomorrow. "And?"
"And?" you repeated, almost laughing. "That's your response?"
He pulled out of the gas station and merged back onto the highway. "I don't see the issue."
You looked at him as though he'd completely lost his mind. "I do."
"It's one night."
"One night in the same room."
Another shrug. "If it bothers you that much, I'll sleep on the floor."
You frowned.
"I've slept in worse places." His answer was so casual it almost irritated you more than if he'd argued back.
"You really don't care?"
"No."
You let out an exasperated sigh, leaning back against your seat. "This is literally my worst-case scenario."
A quiet chuckle escaped him. "I figured."
"I was looking forward to having at least one place where I didn't have to look at your face."
He smirked without taking his eyes off the road. "That's a shame."
"And don't think sleeping on the floor suddenly makes you some kind of gentleman."
"I wasn't trying to." His calmness only made your frustration worse.
With an irritated huff, you folded your arms across your chest and looked out the window again.
One more hour until you would be forced to spend the night in the same motel room as the one person you could barely tolerate.
This weekend just kept getting better.
You buried yourself in your own frustration, stubbornly staring out the passenger window as the headlights carved through the darkness ahead. The thought of sharing a motel room with Jungkook replayed in your head over and over again, each time sounding worse than the last.
Just as you were mentally preparing yourself for what would undoubtedly be the most uncomfortable night of your life, Jungkook cleared his throat.
"Oh," he said casually, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. "I almost forgot."
You didn't bother looking at him. "What now?"
"I brought you something."
Your brows knitted together. Slowly, you turned your head. "What?"
Without another word, he reached for the plastic bag resting between the seats and pulled out a familiar can before placing it carefully in the cup holder beside you.
Your favorite energy drink.
Then came a bag of your favorite chips. And finally, the chocolate bar you always bought whenever you stopped at a convenience store.
You stared at the small pile in silence, your mind taking a second longer than usual to process what you were looking at. "...What is this?"
"I told you," Jungkook replied simply. "I brought you something."
You blinked. "I... didn't ask you to."
"I know."
"Then why did you buy it?"
He shrugged, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. "You forgot to." His answer caught you completely off guard.
"You noticed?"
"You were too busy looking for a motel."
A quiet silence followed. Your gaze drifted back down to the snacks.
He had bought your favorites.
"How did you even know these are my favorites?"
This time, Jungkook actually glanced at you before returning his attention to the road. "You always buy them."
"I do?"
"Every time Mina drags us into a convenience store. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jungkook's mouth.
You shook your head, trying to suppress the small smile threatening to betray you. "I still think you're annoying."
For the first time since the trip had begun, the corners of your lips lifted ever so slightly.
Long enough for Jungkook to catch it.
You couldn't explain why, but the gesture stayed with you.
It wasn't the snacks themselves. It was the fact that he had remembered. Somewhere between years of sarcastic remarks, eye rolls, and endless arguments, Jungkook had somehow noticed the little things about you—the same way you had absentmindedly remembered his favorite banana milk.
The realization unsettled you more than you cared to admit.
Your fingers curled around the cold can of your energy drink as you stared at it for a moment before quietly opening it. The familiar hiss broke the silence inside the car, followed by a small sip.
"...Thanks," you said, your voice noticeably softer than before.
Jungkook kept his eyes on the road.
Another brief silence settled between you.
"I just..." You looked down at the can in your hands. "I wasn't expecting that."
He shrugged lightly. "It wasn't a big deal."
But somehow it felt like one.
"So..." he said, his tone unusually relaxed. "Which artist are you looking forward to seeing the most?"
You blinked, surprised by the genuine question.
"The Rose," you answered without hesitation. "I've wanted to see them live for years."
He nodded thoughtfully. "They're good."
You looked at him. "You know them?"
He gave you a sideways glance. "What? You think I only listen to gym playlists?"
A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "I kind of did."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
You smiled faintly, shaking your head. "What about you?"
He thought for a second. "Probably DPR Ian."
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"I honestly didn't expect that."
He laughed again, this time without a sarcastic remark to follow.
The conversation continued surprisingly naturally after that. You talked about previous concerts, embarrassing festival experiences, terrible food at music venues, and the absurd prices of merchandise. Every now and then one of you would tease the other, but it never escalated into one of your usual arguments. There were no sharp remarks, no need to prove who was right, no stubborn refusal to let the other finish a sentence.
It was... nice.
An hour later, the glowing neon sign of the motel finally appeared at the side of the road.
Jungkook pulled into the nearly empty parking lot before switching off the engine. "We're here."
You glanced outside. The building had definitely seen better days. The faded sign buzzed quietly above the reception office, and the pale red lights along the balconies flickered every few seconds. It wasn't exactly inviting, but after nearly 4 hours on the road, you doubted either of you cared anymore.
Inside the reception, check-in took less than five minutes. The elderly receptionist handed Jungkook a single keycard with a polite smile. "Room twelve. End of the hallway."
You exchanged a quick glance with Jungkook.
One room.
The room wasn't luxurious by any means, but clean enough for one night. A queen-sized bed occupied most of the space, a small wooden nightstand stood between the bed and the wall, and an old television hung opposite it. Near the window sat a tiny round table with two mismatched chairs, while a narrow door led into a surprisingly tidy bathroom. The wallpaper looked slightly faded, and the air carried the faint scent of fresh linen mixed with industrial cleaner, but after a full day of driving, it felt more than acceptable.
You slowly set your bag beside the bed before turning to Jungkook.
Neither of you said a word.
Your eyes moved from the bed to him.
And suddenly, the peaceful drive during the last hour didn't seem nearly as important anymore.
You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him.
"I... I'm going to change," you mumbled, reaching for your overnight bag. "I'm not sleeping in jeans."
Jungkook, who had just set his backpack down beside the wall, gave a small nod. "Go ahead."
Without another word, you disappeared into the bathroom, quietly locking the door behind you.
The moment you were alone, you let out a long, exhausted breath. Your palms rested against the edge of the sink as you stared at your own reflection.
The cool bathroom light only emphasized how tired you looked. Your hair was slightly messy from hours in the car, and there were faint signs of exhaustion beneath your eyes.
You inhaled slowly...
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot forming in your stomach. It wasn't fear—far from it. It was simply the awkwardness of the situation. You and Jungkook could barely survive a ten-minute conversation without arguing.
Now you were expected to share a room.
"Fantastic," you muttered under your breath.
After changing into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of comfortable shorts, you splashed some cold water on your face before finally unlocking the door.
You stepped into the room and immediately froze.
Jungkook stood a few feet away with his back facing you, apparently in the middle of changing his shirt.
Broad shoulders. Defined muscles stretching beneath warm skin. Dark ink traced across his arm and continued over his shoulder blade. The tattoos caught your attention before you could stop yourself, intricate against the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
Your breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
Oh... God.
Every coherent thought vanished from your mind.
You had always known Jungkook was painfully attractive.
Your eyes lingered a second longer than they should have.
"You're staring." His voice broke through your thoughts so suddenly that you nearly jumped.
Before you could deny it, Jungkook turned around, one eyebrow raised as he met your gaze. There wasn't any mockery in his expression—just the faintest hint of amusement.
Heat instantly rushed to your face. "I wasn't staring," you replied far too quickly.
His lips curved into a subtle smile. "No?"
"No."
He folded his shirt over one shoulder, clearly unconvinced. "You've been standing there for at least ten seconds."
"I was..." You searched desperately for an excuse, your eyes flicking anywhere but directly at him. "...thinking."
"About my back?"
You groaned, covering your face with one hand. "Can you not make this worse?"
A quiet laugh escaped him. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. Then Jungkook reached for a clean T-shirt lying on the bed and slipped it on without another comment.
He had caught you looking.
And judging by the amused smile he wore as he sat down on the edge of the bed...
He wasn't going to let you forget it anytime soon.
You climbed into bed without another word, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders as you settled onto the far edge of the mattress. Every movement felt oddly calculated, as if getting too comfortable would somehow make the situation even more real.
Across the room, Jungkook grabbed one of the spare blankets from the closet and spread it across the carpet before placing a pillow beneath his head.
Just like he'd said he would. He simply made himself comfortable—or at least, he tried to.
The room fell silent.
The only sound was the quiet hum of the old air conditioner struggling against the summer heat.
You stared at the ceiling, hands folded beneath the blanket, but sleep refused to come.
His broad shoulders. The defined muscles across his back. The dark tattoos on his arm.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Seriously?
Of all the things your brain could replay, it had chosen that.
A quiet rustling pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced toward the floor.
Jungkook shifted onto his side before letting out a low sigh.
A minute later, he turned again. The blanket crinkled beneath him every time he moved.
Apparently, the floor wasn't nearly as comfortable as he'd made it sound.
He stretched one arm beneath his head, adjusted the pillow, then quietly muttered something under his breath before rolling onto his back again.
You watched him for another moment.
A small knot of guilt settled in your chest.
You weren't heartless.
Another few minutes passed.
You finally let out a quiet breath. "...Jungkook."
His movements stopped. "Hm?"
You hesitated, almost regretting opening your mouth. "...Come up here before you throw your back out."
He slowly lifted his head to look at you. "Are you sure?"
You nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Yeah."
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought sharing a room was already your worst nightmare."
"It still is."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Then what changed?"
You sat up with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm trying to be a decent human being."
He chuckled softly. "That's new."
You shot him a look. "Don't make me change my mind."
"I'm getting up."
He pushed himself off the floor and walked over to the other side of the bed while you immediately reached for every spare pillow you could find.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching with clear amusement.
One by one, you stacked the pillows down the center of the mattress, carefully creating a ridiculously uneven barrier between your side and his.
You took one last pillow and squeezed it into the gap with a satisfied nod. "There."
Jungkook stared at your creation for several seconds before letting out an unexpected laugh. "You are such a child."
"It's called setting boundaries."
He climbed into bed anyway, careful not to disturb your masterpiece. "I wasn't planning on invading your side."
"Good." You couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at your lips.
Jungkook settled onto his back, folding one arm behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling. "You know," he said after a moment, "that wall isn't going to stop me if I decide to cross."
You turned your head so quickly you nearly knocked one of the pillows over. "What?"
A grin spread across his face. "I'm kidding."
You glared at him. "You're not funny."
"I thought it was."
"Go to sleep."
"Yes, ma'am."
You rolled your eyes before turning onto your side, facing away from him.
The room fell quiet once more.
You lay there in the heavy silence, the makeshift pillow wall a flimsy shield against the growing awareness of him. The air felt thicker now, charged with the kind of tension that made your skin prickle. Despite your best efforts, your mind kept replaying fragments of the evening—the way his muscles had flexed under the dim light, the dark ink trailing down his skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, annoyed at your own weakness.
A low, amused hum broke the quiet. Jungkook shifted onto his side, the mattress dipping under his weight as he faced the barrier. His voice cut through the darkness, smooth but edged with that signature arrogance.
"You know," he said, his tone lazy yet pointed, "I saw the way you were staring at me earlier. When you came out of the bathroom. Couldn't keep your eyes off my back... or lower." He let out a soft, mocking chuckle. "What was it, exactly? The tattoos? Or were you imagining what else was hiding under those sweatpants?"
Your eyes snapped open, heat rushing to your face in a fierce blend of embarrassment and indignation. Your heart stuttered, then raced, a confusing knot of irritation twisting in your chest. How dare he call you out like that—especially when you’d been trying so hard to forget it yourself?
"You’re delusional," you shot back, your voice sharper than intended, though it wavered slightly. You turned toward the pillows, glaring at the shadowed outline of his face. "I wasn’t staring. And even if I glanced, it was only because you were taking up half the room like the arrogant prick you are."
Jungkook’s grin was audible in his reply, low and provocative. "Liar. Your eyes lingered. I felt it." He reached out, his fingers lightly tracing the top of one pillow as if testing its stability. The casual movement sent an unwelcome spark through you, your body betraying your words with a subtle flush of warmth. "It’s cute how you’re pretending you hate every second of this. But that little pause you had... tells me otherwise."
You sat up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, the blanket slipping down your shoulders. Frustration simmered beneath your skin, mingling with an unwanted flicker of heat low in your stomach. Part of you wanted to shove the entire pillow wall onto him. Another part—the traitorous one—wondered what would happen if you didn’t.
"Don’t flatter yourself," you muttered, though your gaze involuntarily traced the strong line of his shoulder visible above the pillows. "I still can’t stand you. This doesn’t change anything. You’re still the same insufferable jerk who drives me insane."
He laughed quietly, the sound rich and annoyingly attractive in the dark. "Yeah? Then why’s your voice shaking?" Jungkook’s eyes locked onto yours through the narrow gap, dark and intense, holding a challenge that made your pulse thunder. "Keep telling yourself that. But I bet if I knocked this pathetic wall down right now, you wouldn’t stop me as fast as you’d like."
The words hung between you, thick with suggestion. Your breath hitched, a confusing rush of anger and reluctant desire warring inside you. You hated how your body reacted—skin tingling, thighs pressing together instinctively—while your mind screamed at you to push back.
"Try it," you challenged softly, your tone defiant even as heat pooled deeper. "And I’ll make sure you regret it."
Jungkook’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t move closer. Instead, he settled back against his pillow, watching you with that maddening mix of amusement. "We’ll see about that."
The room fell quiet again, but the peace was gone. Tension crackled in the air, the pillow barrier suddenly feeling far too insignificant against the pull of emotions neither of you wanted to name.
The tension in the room had grown almost unbearable, thick and electric, pressing down on your chest like a physical weight. Every breath felt heavier, the air between you charged with something dangerous and unspoken. The pillow wall, once a childish declaration of boundaries, now seemed laughably fragile—a pathetic attempt to hold back the inevitable.
You lay rigid on your side, staring at the shadowed ceiling, but your mind refused to quiet. Every inch of you was hyper-aware of him: the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth radiating across the divide, the low, mocking timbre of his voice still echoing in your ears. God, you wanted to forget it all—the arguments, the resentment, the years of mutual irritation. You wanted to reach out, tear the pillows away, and let the storm break. But you hesitated, fingers clutching the blanket as if it could anchor you.
"Still pretending?" Jungkook murmured after a long silence, his voice low and rough, laced with that infuriating smugness. He shifted closer to the barrier, the mattress creaking softly under him. "I can practically hear you thinking over there. What's it going to take for you to admit you're curious?"
You turned sharply toward the pillows, heart pounding furiously against your ribs. Anger flared hot and familiar, a shield you desperately needed. "Curious? About you?" you snapped, though your voice came out breathier than you intended, betraying the heat pooling low in your belly. "Don't make me laugh. You're the last person I'd ever want like that. Arrogant, self-absorbed—"
"Yet you couldn't stop staring," he interrupted, cutting through your tirade with effortless precision. A soft chuckle followed, dark and velvety. "Your eyes were practically devouring me earlier. Tell me, did you like what you saw? Because I sure as hell noticed."
The words sent a fresh wave of embarrassment crashing over you, mingling with a traitorous spark of desire that made your thighs press together instinctively. You hated him for it—for seeing through you so easily, for making your body react when your mind screamed to push him away. Everything inside you was screaming for him right now: the ache building between your legs, the way your skin flushed with need, the overwhelming urge to rip that ridiculous wall down and feel his hands on you.
"Shut up," you hissed, sitting up abruptly and hugging your knees to your chest. Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted one of the pillows, reinforcing the barrier even as you longed to destroy it. "This doesn't change anything. I still can't stand you. You're infuriating, Jungkook. Always have been."
He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight slipping through the curtains. The smirk on his lips was visible even in the dimness, but there was something hungrier beneath it now, a tension mirroring your own. "Yeah? Then why are you breathing like that?" he asked, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Why haven't you told me to fuck off and sleep on the floor again?"
You opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat. The atmosphere refused to shift, no matter how much you tried to cling to the familiar comfort of arguments. The charged silence wrapped around you both, heavy with unspoken want, making every small movement feel intimate and loaded.
"I... I should," you whispered finally, frustration and longing twisting together in your chest. Your gaze lingered on the strong column of his neck, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders.
Jungkook watched you intently, his own breathing uneven now. "But you won't," he said softly, almost like a dare. "Because deep down, you feel it too. And it's driving you crazy."
The tension stretched tighter, almost unbearable, the air thick with possibility and resentment. Neither of you moved to break the wall, but the mood between you had irrevocably changed—heated, restless, and impossible to ignore.
Your heart hammered relentlessly, a chaotic rhythm of resentment and raw, unwanted desire. You wanted to hate him—needed to—but your body betrayed you at every turn, aching in ways that left you dizzy and frustrated.
Jungkook’s eyes never left yours through the narrow gap in the pillows. Slowly, deliberately, he sat up fully, the mattress shifting under his weight. Without a word, he reached out and began pushing the pillows aside, one by one, his movements calm but insistent. The barrier you had so carefully built crumbled between you, exposing the small space that suddenly felt far too intimate.
“What are you doing?” you whispered sharply, though you made no move to stop him. Your voice trembled with a mix of defiance and anticipation.
“Getting tired of this game,” he murmured, sliding closer until his body hovered near yours. The heat from his skin radiated against you, intoxicating and dangerous. He leaned in, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint moonlight, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “You’ve been fighting this all night… but I saw how you looked at me. Bet you’re already wet just thinking about it, aren’t you?”
His low, filthy words sent a violent shiver racing down your spine. Heat flooded your core, sharp and insistent, making your thighs clench involuntarily. You hated how easily he unraveled you, how his voice—husky and confident—made your breath hitch and your mind spiral.
“Jungkook…” you protested weakly, but the sound came out more like a plea. Your hands fisted the blanket, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer.
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your ear as he brushed his lips lightly along the sensitive skin just below it. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered, his voice dropping even lower, dripping with sin. “I bet if I slipped my hand between those pretty thighs right now, I’d find you soaked for me. All that attitude, and your body’s begging for my cock.”
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips, equal parts fury and overwhelming need. Your cheeks burned, your pulse thundered in your ears, and every inch of you felt electrified. You hated him—God, you still hated him—but the ache between your legs had become unbearable, a throbbing emptiness that screamed for relief.
“I can’t stand you,” you gasped, even as your body leaned toward him, traitorous and desperate.
“I know,” he breathed against your ear, nipping lightly at your lobe. “But you want this anyway. Say it.”
The last of your resistance shattered. With a frustrated, needy sound, you turned your head and finally gave in. Jungkook didn’t hesitate. His hand cupped the back of your neck, firm and possessive, as he captured your mouth in a searing kiss.
The kiss was anything but gentle—hungry, demanding, and laced with all the pent-up irritation and desire that had been building between you. His lips moved against yours with bruising intensity, tongue sweeping in to claim you as his free hand slid down your side, gripping your hip and pulling you flush against his hard body. You moaned softly into his mouth, fingers tangling in his shirt, torn between digging your nails in and melting completely.
His kiss deepening as he pressed you back against the mattress, his weight settling over you in a way that made your head spun.
Jungkook’s mouth moved against yours with deliberate hunger, his tongue teasing and claiming until your head spun. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, dark eyes burning into yours with a mixture of irritation and raw desire.
Without breaking eye contact, he pushed your shirt higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room. His large hand cupped one breast, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive nipple until it hardened under his touch. He leaned down, warm breath ghosting across your skin before his tongue flicked out, circling the peak with torturous patience.
You arched into him, a soft, reluctant moan slipping from your lips. “Jungkook…” The name came out half-warning, half-plea.
He hummed against your skin, then closed his mouth around the nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder, alternating between slow, sensual licks and sharp little bites that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His fingers found your other nipple, rolling and pinching it with just enough pressure to make your thighs press together, seeking relief.
“You’re so sensitive here,” he murmured against your breast, voice low and rough. “Bet I could make you come just from this if I wanted to.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. The conflicting emotions swirled inside you—frustration, hatred, and a deep, aching need that refused to be ignored.
His hand began its descent, sliding down your stomach with deliberate slowness. He slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, fingers gliding over your soaked folds. A low groan escaped him.
“Fuck… you’re dripping,” he whispered hotly against your ear as one thick finger traced your entrance. “All this arguing and your body’s been aching for me the whole time.”
You bit your lip hard, refusing to answer, but your hips rolled forward instinctively. He pushed one finger inside you slowly, savoring the way your walls clenched around him. He curled it gently, stroking that sensitive spot with maddening precision while his thumb found your clit and began slow, teasing circles.
The sensation built gradually, wave after wave of heat spreading through your body. You moaned softly, hips moving in time with his hand as he added a second finger, stretching you open.
“Look at you,” he breathed, lips brushing your ear again. “Riding my fingers."
The filthy words made you clench harder around him. Your breathing grew ragged, pleasure coiling tighter in your belly. He kept the pace slow and deep, drawing it out until your thighs began to tremble.
When your orgasm finally washed over you, it was intense and shattering. You cried out, back arching as your walls pulsed around his fingers. He didn’t stop until every last tremor had faded, watching your face with dark satisfaction.
Before you could fully recover, Jungkook moved lower, pulling your pants and underwear completely off. He settled between your thighs, spreading them wide. His tongue replaced his fingers, licking a long, slow stripe up your center. You gasped sharply, fingers gripping the sheets.
He took his time—lapping at your folds, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucking it gently into his mouth. Every stroke was deliberate, every flick designed to drive you higher. He groaned against you, the vibrations sending fresh sparks through your overstimulated body.
“fuck,” you whimpered, one hand fisting his hair.
He pinned your hips down with strong hands, holding you in place as he devoured you with slow, devastating focus. Another orgasm built gradually, deeper this time, until it crashed over you in powerful waves. You came with a broken moan, thighs shaking around his head.
Jungkook didn’t give you time to recover. He stripped quickly, his cock hard and heavy, then flipped you onto your hands and knees. He gripped your hips hard and thrust into you in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
“Fuck— so tight,” he groaned, voice rough.
The sudden fullness was overwhelming. He felt impossibly deep, stretching you perfectly. He started thrusting hard and deep, hips slamming against your ass with every stroke. The angle allowed him to hit that sensitive spot relentlessly, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body.
“Take it,” he snarled, one hand fisting your hair and pulling your head back. “Take every fucking inch like the stubborn little brat you are.”
You pushed back against him, meeting his brutal thrusts with equal force, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing loudly in the room. The hate and desire mixed into something explosive. Every harsh thrust sent you higher, your moans growing louder and more desperate.
He reached around and rubbed your clit roughly, pushing you toward the edge again. “Come on my cock. Let me feel how much you need this even though you can’t stand me.”
You came hard, walls clenching violently around him as stars burst behind your eyes. Jungkook growled in satisfaction but didn’t slow down.
He pulled out, turned you onto your side, and spooned behind you. Lifting your top leg high, he slid back inside you, the new angle letting him sink even deeper. His thrusts were slower but incredibly powerful, grinding against you with every stroke. One hand wrapped around your throat lightly, the other squeezing your breast as he fucked you with possessive intensity.
The position made every thrust feel intimate and devastating. Pleasure built slowly but intensely until you came again, trembling in his arms.
Jungkook stood and pulled you up. He pressed you against the wall, lifted one of your legs around his waist, and drove back into you with a single brutal thrust. The new position forced him impossibly deep. He fucked you hard against the wall, hips snapping forward with raw power, the cool surface contrasting sharply with the heat of his body.
“Such a good little slut for me,” he groaned, pounding into you mercilessly. “Taking my cock so well even though you can't stand me. Say it— tell me how much you love hating this.”
“Can't stand you,” you gasped between moans, nails digging into his shoulders. “I still fucking can't stand you”
Your words only seemed to spur him on. He fucked you harder, deeper, until another orgasm ripped through you.
Finally, he carried you to the armchair and sat down, pulling you on top. You sank onto his thick cock slowly, feeling every inch stretch you open again. Bracing your hands on his chest, you began riding him with fierce, rolling movements—grinding down hard, taking him as deep as possible.
Jungkook’s hands gripped your ass tightly, guiding your movements as he thrust up to meet you. “Ride me.” he demanded, voice strained with pleasure.
You moved faster, bouncing on his cock with desperate intensity. He slapped your ass sharply, the sting pushing you even closer to the edge. His dirty words never stopped—praising how tight you were, how wet you were, how perfectly you took him.
When your final orgasm hit, it was devastating. You clenched around him hard, moaning his name as waves of blinding pleasure crashed over you. Jungkook followed right after, burying himself deep and coming with a guttural groan, filling you completely.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat. The intense mix of hatred and overwhelming pleasure left you trembling. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the weight of everything still unresolved between you.
Neither of you spoke for a long time
You remained collapsed against Jungkook’s chest, your breathing slowly returning to normal. His heart thundered beneath your cheek, strong and steady, while his arms stayed loosely wrapped around your waist. The room smelled of sweat, sex, and the faint trace of summer heat still lingering in the air. For several long minutes, neither of you moved or spoke. The silence felt heavier than any argument you’d ever had.
Reality began to creep back in, cold and unsettling. This was Jungkook—the man who had driven you insane for years. The arrogant, infuriating person you swore you couldn’t stand. And yet, here you were, still joined with him, your body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure you had never expected to feel with him.
You shifted slightly, intending to pull away, but his arms tightened for a brief moment before he let you go. You climbed off his lap on unsteady legs and reached for your discarded clothes, suddenly hyper-aware of your nakedness. Jungkook watched you in silence, his dark eyes unreadable as he slowly sat up straighter in the armchair.
The tension that had exploded between you earlier now settled into something quieter, more dangerous. A fragile kind of vulnerability neither of you knew how to handle.
You pulled your shirt over your head and finally found the courage to look at him. “This… this doesn’t change anything,” you said softly, though the words felt hollow even to your own ears.
Jungkook let out a low, tired chuckle, running a hand through his messy hair. He stood up slowly and stepped closer. “Yeah?" His voice was rough, but there was no real mockery in it this time—just a quiet intensity that made your stomach flutter.
You swallowed hard, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean it, Jungkook. This was… a mistake. A really intense, stupid mistake.”
He stopped just inches away from you, close enough that you could feel the heat still radiating from his skin. His gaze searched your face, lingering on your swollen lips and flushed cheeks. For once, the usual arrogance had softened into something more genuine, almost uncertain.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “But you weren’t exactly pushing me away. And I sure as hell wasn’t imagining how perfectly you fit around me.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “Hate me all you want tomorrow. But right now… stop pretending this didn’t happen.”
Your heart twisted painfully. Part of you wanted to lash out, to rebuild the walls higher than before. Another part—the part still trembling from his touch—wanted to lean into him and forget everything else.
You looked away, biting your lip. “What happens now?”
Jungkook exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek before he dropped his hand. “That’s up to you. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t want this. Want you.” His voice lowered. “Even if you drive me fucking crazy.”
The confession hung between you, raw and honest in a way that terrified you. You met his eyes again, seeing the same storm of emotions reflected back at you—frustration, desire, and the terrifying possibility of something more.
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you stepped forward and rested your forehead against his chest for a brief moment, breathing him in. Jungkook’s arms came around you carefully, not possessive this time, but almost protective.
Neither of you knew what tomorrow would bring. The hatred was still there, simmering beneath the surface. But for tonight, in the quiet aftermath of everything you had shattered and rebuilt between you, it felt strangely okay to just exist in this fragile, complicated peace.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered against your hair, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to the top of your head. “We can go back to hating each other in the morning… if you still want to.”
You let out a shaky breath, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips despite everything.
⟶ SUMMARY: you wake up!
⟶ TW: none, i think? let me know though!
⟶ NOTE: please add yourself to my taglist doc below <3 thank you for all the love on this so far!
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nov 16 2026
Pleasant dreams flowed into a pleasant morning as Yoongi woke up much earlier than he was used to and felt better than he had in ages. He spent some time by himself before his phone was bombarded with calls and texts from the group chat with the boys asking how he was doing, how you were, and their plans to visit you. He quickly replied to let them know of his plans for the day: getting flowers and staying with you.
He glanced out the window and saw the sun making its way up against a blanket of blue sky and scattered white clouds. The weather was beautiful. You would love it. He took that as a sign that today would be a good day. Of course, he wasn’t expecting any changes to your condition, considering he hadn’t gotten any phone calls from the hospital yet, but it’s been nearly 5 days since your accident, and the doctors had told him you’d wake up within the week. These past couple of days have been filled with a rollercoaster of emotions and turmoil. He thought it might make him feel more at ease to sit next to you, even if you weren’t awake.
On his way to the hospital, he stopped by the flower shop you often went to. The one next to the park with the yellow bench and planters full of colorful flowers that you liked so much. The woman at the front recognizes you immediately.
“Mr. Min Yoongi? How can we help you today?” She asks, immediately standing up straight at your presence.
“I’m just here to get some flowers.” He replies nonchalantly.
She runs around the counter to stand in front of him.
“Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”
“No, not really—wait a second, those flowers there. I’d like a bouquet of those.” He says, pointing to the bunches of white and baby blue flowers behind her.
She turns to see what he was pointing to. “Ah, the hydrangeas and bluebells. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll put it together for you.”
He saw her go around the many shelves of flowers to what he assumed was the shop's back inventory and didn’t see her come out until about 10 minutes later. In her hands was a beautiful bouquet of white hydrangeas and bluebells with white baby’s-breath flowers. His eyes softened. The sight was familiar to him. It was just like the flowers that surrounded you when he first saw you at the studio shoot.
“That would be 30,000 won.” She handed the bouquet to him and smiled.
He handed her 40,000 won, murmured his thanks, and left. Once out of the shop, he was hit by the bright sunlight and couldn’t help but look over to the park. Kids were running around while their parents watched them on picnic blankets. He imagined the two of you sitting down on the yellow bench, watching your child run around the park as they owned it. Warm and sunny days like this reminded him of you.
He spends only a few moments admiring the scenery of people enjoying the weather before he makes his way back to his car and to the hospital. When he arrives at your room, nothing has changed except that your skin has regained a bit of its color and your bruises have begun to yellow.
Yoongi sets the flowers down on the side table, and he moves the chair from against the wall to the side of your bed so he can sit right next to you. His heart almost stops when he sees your face. It looks like the nurses changed the bandage on your head, as it was noticeably lighter, but he could still see a bit of blood seeping through. The bruises on your arms and everywhere alarm him, but he knows that you’re okay and you’re healing. That is enough for him. It’s enough to know that you were alive and that you were going to be fine.
His eyes trail down to your flat stomach, and he lets it linger for a long time. Eventually, he takes your hand in his, slowly and tenderly interlacing your fingers together. He takes a long, deep breath. Two months ago, he would have never imagined that this is where he would be right now. Two months ago, both of you had walked away from your marriage, and Yoongi honestly thought that you two might never have crossed paths again, despite his thoughts drifting to you more often than they should have for someone who was your ex-husband. Now, two months later, you were divorced and pregnant with his child.
His eyes continue to stare at your stomach, still flat and showing no signs of carrying a life, and he resists the urge to caress it. You weren’t conscious, and even if you were, would you allow your ex-husband—who you most likely hated— to feel up your stomach like that? No, probably not.
And that’s when he felt a twitch in his hand. He was sure he was imagining it, but he looked down to see your fingers moving, just barely. His first reaction was shock, then anxiety. He didn’t know what to do, and the shock of your movement paralyzed him. It was only when he felt another movement—a squeeze, and stronger this time—that he felt the need to press the call button to alarm the nurses and doctors. He would have run out to get your clinical staff, but he couldn’t bear to let your hand go. You were moving, which meant you might be waking up.
The moments pass quickly and slowly at the same time. Yoongi felt as if his body was buzzing with anxious energy, but everything else around him seemed slow. The doctors barely made in time to see your eyes slowly flutter open. You groan with a broken voice and try to lift up your hand, but a heavy weight keeps it to your side. Yoongi looked at your face, baby hairs sticking to your forehead, and looked down at your still interlaced fingers. You blinked your eyes multiple times. The light was too bright to take in all at once. Yoongi squeezed your hand at the relief he felt in seeing you wake up.
“Y/n, how are you feeling, baby?” He couldn’t help the pet name that came out of his mouth. You looked so vulnerable and fragile that it came out on instinct. He moved closer and softly brushed your baby hairs back.
Yoongi waited for a reply, but heard none. Before he could speak up again, the doctor came up next to him.
“Mrs. Kim? Can you see us? Hear us?” he asked.
You nodded slowly, wincing at the pain in and on your head. The light was so bright it was hard to fully open your eyes. You opted to just squint slowly.
“Where m’I?” You attempt to speak out, but it comes out broken and croaky.
Yoongi is glad to hear your voice, to hear you talk for the first time in so long.
“You’re in the hospital right now, you were in a car accident, but you’re okay now, baby. How are you feeling?” He asked, interrupting what the doctor was going to say.
You craned your head towards his voice, blinking furiously with your eyebrows furrowed. Confusion marred your features. Yoongi was afraid you would finally realize he was here with you and kick him out at any chance. He was scared that you were going to kick him out of your life before he could ever see the baby that you had made together, but this fear of his could never have prepared him for the next words to come out of your mouth.
Summary: You thought meeting your idol by chance was the craziest thing that could ever happen… until he became your boyfriend and casually handed you an NDA to protect all of his ridiculous little secrets. From chaotic ticket wars to jealousy over his own members, dating Jeon Jungkook turns out to be a lot less glamorous—and a lot more adorable than you ever imagined. Sometimes, the biggest BTS secret isn't backstage… it's how hopelessly in love he is.
Status: Three-shot | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3.1 | Part 3.2 | Bonus
Pairing: Idol!Jungkook x ARMY!Reader
Word Count: 1.1k~ | Full: 19.3k~
Genre: Idol!AU, Fluff
Rated: PG
Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Slice of Life, BTS Concert Tickets
Posting Date: July 19, 2026
SCC: Ko-fi ☕️ ・ Taglist 📝
Honestly, you lost. After days of arguing with Jungkook about concert tickets, backstage access, and all the different versions of "I don't want special treatment," you finally gave in. Not because Jungkook forced you. But because one night, he came to your apartment wearing an expression that was far too serious.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"I want to ask you something."
"What?"
"Please."
"..."
"...Just this once."
"Kook..."
"I want my girlfriend to come to my concert."
You still tried to refuse. "I can buy my own ticket next time."
"I know."
"I don't want to be treated differently."
"I know."
"But..."
Jungkook gently held both of your hands. "...I just want you to be there."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Can I just sit with everyone else?"
"You can."
"No backstage?"
Jungkook immediately shook his head. "No."
"Why?"
"Because..."
He let out a long sigh. "...I won't be able to relax."
You laughed. "I'm not going to disappear."
"I know."
"I'm not going to bother anyone either."
"I know."
"Then why are you still worried?"
Jungkook stayed quiet for a few seconds. "...Because you're ARMY."
"..."
"...and I know my hyungs."
You immediately laughed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"...Jin hyung is funny."
"True."
"Hoseok hyung is friendly."
"True."
"Namjoon hyung is smart."
"True."
"Yoongi hyung is cool."
"True."
"Anyway..."
He sighed.
"...I don't like it."
"Are you jealous of your own members?"
"...A little."
"A little?"
"...Quite a bit."
Concert day finally arrived. Somehow, Jungkook looked even more nervous than you. Before you left, he even called you.
"Are you ready?"
"Yeah."
"Did you eat?"
"Yeah."
"Don't forget your pass."
"I won't."
"The manager will pick you up."
"Okay."
"Don't go anywhere."
"I won't."
"Are you even listening to me?"
You laughed softly.
"I am, Jeon Jungkook."
"...I'm serious."
"So am I."
The concert was incredible. Even though you already knew Jungkook as your boyfriend, the moment the lights went out and the seven of them walked onto the stage... you still froze. Your heart was pounding. Before you even realized it, you were cheering along with tens of thousands of other ARMYs.
Jungkook happened to glance in your direction from the stage and almost laughed.
His girlfriend. His actual girlfriend. Cheering for BTS just like every other ARMY.
When the concert ended, the manager approached you.
"Y/N-ssi?"
"Yes?"
"We're heading backstage now."
"Oh, okay."
The moment you got there, Jungkook was already waiting. He was still wearing his stage outfit. His hair was slightly damp with sweat. And the very first thing he did wasn't hug you. He looked around.
"You didn't talk to anyone, right?"
You blinked. "Huh?"
"You didn't, right?"
"Not yet."
Jungkook nodded in relief. "Good."
"Kook..."
"Hm?"
"You're weird."
"That's a compliment."
Before the two of you could talk any longer, a very familiar voice called out.
"Yah!"
Both you and Jungkook turned around. Seokjin was walking over with a huge smile on his face.
"Y/N?"
You immediately bowed politely. "Hello."
Jin smiled warmly. "Wow, so you finally made it."
You had barely opened your mouth to answer when Jungkook suddenly stepped in front of you. "Oh, hyung."
"Hm?"
"The manager said we have to go."
Jin frowned. "Who?"
"The manager."
"Which one?"
"...The manager."
Jin looked around. "There's no one here."
"...There was."
"Where?"
"...He was here a second ago."
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. Jin narrowed his eyes.
"Yah!"
"Hm?"
"Are you jealous?"
"What?"
"Are you afraid I'm going to talk to your girlfriend?"
"What are you talking about, hyung?"
Jin burst out laughing.
"Wow."
"What?"
"That's bad."
"What's bad?"
"You."
Jin looked at you and whispered, "He's been asking me about you all day."
You blinked. "Asking what?"
"'Hyung, are you going to meet Y/N later?'"
"'Hyung, don't tease Y/N.'"
"'Hyung, don't talk to Y/N for too long.'"
Jungkook's face instantly turned red.
"HYUNG!"
Jin laughed proudly.
"Caught you."
You looked at Jungkook. "...Is that true?"
"...No."
Jin immediately nodded. "It is."
"...Hyung."
"It is."
You started laughing while Jungkook could only let out a long sigh. Not long after that, the manager actually showed up.
"Jungkook-ah, we have to go."
Jungkook immediately nodded. "Okay."
Then he looked at you.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"Let's go."
You looked over at the other members who were still talking.
"Wait, let me say goodbye first..."
"No."
"Huh?"
"You can do that later."
"Kook..."
"Come on."
He even took your hand and led you away.
From behind you, Jin shouted,
"YAH!"
Jungkook pretended not to hear him.
"YAH, JEON JUNGKOOK!"
Still pretending not to hear.
"YOUR GIRLFRIEND WANTS TO SAY GOODBYE!"
"I'LL DO IT FOR HER!"
Jin laughed loudly.
"That's so possessive!"
The entire walk to the car, you could barely stop laughing. As soon as the car door closed and it started moving, the atmosphere suddenly became quiet. You just sat there staring at Jungkook.
He stared back.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Then he started getting nervous.
"...What?"
You kept looking at him.
"..."
"Baby?"
"..."
"Did I do something wrong?"
You didn't answer.
"Are you mad?"
"..."
"I rushed you out too quickly, didn't I?"
"..."
"I'm sorry."
You finally laughed softly.
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"You're cute."
"Huh?"
"You were jealous of Jinnie."
"I'm not."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You wouldn't even let me talk to him."
"That's..."
"Were you afraid I'd change my bias?"
Jungkook went quiet.
"...A little."
"A little?"
"..."
"Kook."
"...Quite a bit."
You laughed so hard your shoulders shook. Jungkook could only look at you helplessly.
"I know you're happy that I'm close with your hyungs."
"Yeah."
"I know you trust them."
"Yeah."
"Then why?"
Jungkook let out a long sigh before resting his head on your shoulder. "...I don't know either."
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"...I'm already your girlfriend."
"Yeah."
"I've already met your family."
"Yeah."
"I was even backstage."
"Yeah."
"You're still afraid I'll change my bias?"
Jungkook stayed quiet for a long time before mumbling so softly you almost couldn't hear him.
"...Jin hyung looked handsome today."
You burst into laughter.
"JEON JUNGKOOK!"
"I'm serious!"
"That's your hyung!"
"I know!"
"You're jealous of your own hyung!"
"I don't even know why!"
You couldn't stop laughing. Meanwhile, Jungkook just wrapped his arms around you and let out a defeated sigh.
"...Baby."
"Hm?"
"Next time there's a concert..."
"What?"
"...Can you just look at me?"
You smiled brightly. "Okay."
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
Jungkook looked relieved. Until a few seconds later, you innocently added,
"...But Jinnie really was cute today."
The car, which had been quiet just moments before, instantly filled with the sound of Jeon Jungkook protesting and regretting his decision to bring his girlfriend backstage for the very first time. Up front, the manager could only shake his head with a smile. It seemed that ARMY wasn't the one who needed to worry about a bias wrecker after the concert. It was Jeon Jungkook.
Summary: You thought meeting your idol by chance was the craziest thing that could ever happen… until he became your boyfriend and casually handed you an NDA to protect all of his ridiculous little secrets. From chaotic ticket wars to jealousy over his own members, dating Jeon Jungkook turns out to be a lot less glamorous—and a lot more adorable than you ever imagined. Sometimes, the biggest BTS secret isn't backstage… it's how hopelessly in love he is.
Status: Three-shot | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3.1 | Part 3.2 | Bonus
Pairing: Idol!Jungkook x ARMY!Reader
Word Count: 1.6k~ | Full: 19.3k~
Genre: Idol!AU, Fluff
Rated: PG
Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Slice of Life, BTS Concert Tickets
Posting Date: July 10, 2026
SCC: Ko-fi ☕️ ・ Taglist 📝
After those words left Jungkook's mouth, the living room fell silent again. The TV was still on, but neither of you was really paying attention to whatever was playing. You kept staring at Jungkook with an expression you couldn't quite explain, while Jungkook looked far too calm for someone who had just announced that he was no longer taking his girlfriend backstage at a BTS concert simply because her bias happened to be his own hyung.
You blinked once.
Twice.
"...Really?"
Jungkook nodded.
"Yeah."
"...You're really not taking me anymore?"
"Yeah."
"...Because of Jinnie?"
Jungkook immediately corrected you.
"Jin hyung."
"Yeah, Jin."
"Yeah."
You kept staring at him.
For some reason, part of you wanted to laugh. Another part of you genuinely wanted to figure out whether Jeon Jungkook was joking or not.
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah."
"...Really serious?"
"Yeah."
You let out a long sigh.
"...Are you jealous?"
Jungkook didn't answer right away. He simply leaned back against the couch and crossed his arms over his chest.
"...A little."
You immediately laughed.
"A little?"
"Yeah."
"That's not a little."
"It is."
"You're canceling the backstage invitation."
"Yeah."
"That's a lot."
"It's a little."
You honestly didn't know what to do anymore.
After a year together, you knew Jungkook's personality pretty well. He was competitive. Extremely competitive. Whether it was simple games, sports, cooking, or little things that didn't even make sense.
And now… Apparently, he was competitive with his own BTS members too.
Honestly… You found it a little adorable. Very adorable, actually. But seeing how completely serious Jungkook looked made you do your best to hold back your laughter.
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"I'm just a fan."
"Yeah."
"Just a fan."
"Yeah."
"Just a bias."
"Yeah."
"Just someone I like."
"Yeah."
Jungkook nodded several times.
"That's exactly the problem."
You frowned.
"Huh?"
"That's how it starts."
"...How does it starts?"
"Yeah."
You suddenly had a bad feeling.
Jungkook sat up straighter. He genuinely looked like someone explaining a carefully thought-out theory.
"First, you're just a fan."
"..."
"Then you'll go to the concert."
"..."
"You'll see Jin hyung on stage."
"..."
"You know what Jin hyung is like during concerts."
You stayed quiet. Jungkook nodded to himself.
"Exactly."
"Kook..."
"Wait."
He held up a hand.
"You see Jin hyung."
"..."
"You like him even more."
"..."
"Then you're waiting backstage."
"..."
"Then the concert ends."
"..."
"Then Jin hyung comes off the stage."
"..."
"Then you two meet."
"..."
"Then you stare at each other."
"..."
You genuinely couldn't believe where this conversation was going. Jungkook kept going.
"Then Jin hyung sees you."
"..."
"And then he thinks..."
"Kook."
"Wait."
"..."
“Wow, this girl is pretty.”
"Kook."
“She's nice too.”
"Kook."
“She's easy to talk to.”
"Kook."
“She's cute too.”
"KOOK!"
"...Then Jin hyung falls for you."
You froze.
"...Huh?"
"Yeah."
"Then you fall for him too."
"..."
"Then you two start talking."
"..."
"Then you get close."
"..."
"And then..."
Jungkook paused for a few seconds.
"...You leave me."
The room suddenly fell silent. You just stared at Jungkook. Jungkook stared back at you. A few seconds passed. Then...
"...Do you realize how weird you are?"
Jungkook looked offended.
"That makes sense."
"It does not make sense."
"It does."
"It doesn't."
"It could happen."
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"What kind of story is that?"
"It's a possibility."
"It's a hallucination."
"It's preparation."
You really couldn't hold back your laughter anymore.
Jeon Jungkook.
The man who could stand in front of tens of thousands of people on stage without a hint of fear. The man with unbelievable confidence. The same man who was now completely convinced that his girlfriend was going to leave him for Kim Seokjin just because she saw a BTS concert.
"You're weird."
"I'm realistic."
"You're weird."
"I'm being careful."
"You're weird."
"I'm protecting our relationship."
You shook your head, laughing.
"I'm tired."
You stood up from the couch. "I'm going to bed."
But you'd barely taken one step before your hand was gently pulled back.
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"Let go."
"No."
"Kook."
"No."
You turned around. Jungkook was still sitting on the couch, holding onto your hand.
"Come here."
"Kook."
"Come here."
Before you could protest again, he gently pulled you closer. A second later… You were sitting on his lap. Instinctively, you grabbed onto his shoulders to keep your balance.
"Kook!"
"Hm?"
"You scared me."
"Sorry."
"...You did that on purpose."
"...A little."
You let out a long sigh. The two of you were much too close now. You could clearly see the way Jungkook was looking at your face. His hand slowly reached up to fix a few strands of your hair that had gotten messy.
His movements were slow. Careful. Incredibly gentle.
Honestly… Your heart started beating a little faster.
Even after a year together, Jungkook could still make you nervous with simple little gestures like that.
He tucked your hair behind your ear. Then he looked at you for a few seconds.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"I'm serious."
You smiled softly.
"I know."
"I don't want that."
You started laughing again. Jungkook immediately pouted.
"You're laughing."
"Yeah."
"I'm worried."
"Yeah."
"And you're laughing."
"Yeah."
"Y/N."
"Hm?"
"I'm serious."
Seeing how genuinely upset he looked slowly made your laughter fade. You carefully lifted a hand. Then gently cupped his cheek. Jungkook immediately fell quiet.
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"Do you know..."
"What?"
"...Who do I love?"
Jungkook didn't answer right away.
"You."
"Yeah."
"You."
"Yeah."
"Not Jin hyung?"
You laughed softly. "No."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Not your bias?"
"That's different."
"How is it different?"
You stroked his cheek again.
"A bias is a bias."
"Hm."
"An idol is an idol."
"Hm."
"But the person I love..."
You looked at his still slightly pouting face.
"...the person whose messages I wait for every day..."
"..."
"...the person who makes me laugh..."
"..."
"...the person who shows up just to have dinner with me..."
"..."
"...the person who comes up with weird theories about me running away with Jinnie..."
"Jin hyung."
You couldn't hold back your laughter again.
"Yeah, Jin hyung."
"..."
"...that's you."
Jungkook stayed quiet. Completely quiet. You smiled at the expression on his face.
"You're the one I chose too."
"..."
"You're the one I'm dating."
"..."
"You're the one I walk home with after work."
"..."
"And the person I love..."
You gently stroked his cheek one more time.
"...is still you."
For a few seconds, Jungkook didn't say anything. Then, slowly… The tension in his shoulders finally eased. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against yours.
"...Really?"
You smiled. "Really."
"...You're not going to leave me for Jin hyung?"
You laughed softly. "No."
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
Jungkook let out a long sigh, as if he had just survived the biggest crisis of his life. Then he hugged you gently. Very gently.
"...Thank goodness."
You frowned. "Thank goodness for what?"
"...I was worried."
"Worried about what now?"
Jungkook lifted his head. His expression was still serious, even though his arms didn't loosen around you in the slightest.
"...I was scared I'd end up competing with Seokjin hyung."
You couldn't hold back your laughter anymore.
"You're so weird."
"I'm just being careful."
"That's called being weird."
"That's called loving you."
You shook your head with a small smile. Jungkook was still pouting a little, as if he felt his concerns hadn't been taken seriously at all.
"You're laughing at me."
"Because you're cute."
"I was being serious."
"Yeah, seriously cute."
Jungkook let out a tiny sigh.
"Look."
"What?"
"I'm still pouting."
You studied his face for a few seconds. "...You really are."
"Hm."
"How did that happen?"
"Because someone kept laughing at me."
"Oh."
"Oh."
You couldn't stop smiling. Slowly, you lifted your hands and gently cupped his cheeks.
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"Are you still sulking?"
"...A little."
"A little?"
"...Maybe a lot."
You giggled softly. Then, without saying another word, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. It was over in an instant. Just like that.
Jungkook blinked.
You pulled back slightly and watched his reaction. His pout was still there. But… The corners of his lips had started to curl up just a little.
"You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"That's a smile."
"It's not."
"That's definitely a smile."
"It's... almost a smile."
You chuckled.
"There, you're not sulking anymore."
Jungkook thought about it for a few seconds. "...Not yet."
"Huh?"
"That was only one."
You stared at him in confusion.
"So?"
"...It wasn't enough."
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"...Are you asking for another one?"
Jungkook gave a small nod.
"Yeah."
"You're clingy."
"Yeah."
"Aren't you embarrassed?"
"No."
"I thought you were trying to be mature."
"...Grown-ups can ask for things too."
You really couldn't stop laughing.
"Come on."
"Come on what?"
"...One more."
"Kook."
"Just one more."
You shook your head with a smile before giving him another quick peck. The moment you pulled away, Jungkook looked satisfied… ...for about two seconds.
"Hm."
"What now?"
"...I think that still wasn't enough."
"Kook."
"One more?"
"Kook."
"The last one."
"You're lying."
"...Yeah."
"So you were planning to keep asking?"
"Yeah."
"Don't you ever get tired?"
"No."
All you could do was laugh as you lightly patted his shoulder.
"You."
"What?"
"You're so spoiled."
Jungkook grinned widely this time. His pout had completely disappeared.
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"...Because I like it when you're the one making me feel better."
You shook your head, unable to hide your smile. Meanwhile, Jungkook pulled you back into his arms.
"...In that case..."
"Hm?"
"...Don't replace me with anyone else, okay?"
You smiled and rested your forehead against his. "I won't."
"...Not even Seokjin hyung?"
You laughed so hard your shoulders shook.
"Not even Seokjin."
"Thank goodness."
"Feeling better now?"
"...Yeah."
"...Really?"
Jungkook smiled softly.
"...Really."
A moment of silence passed.
Then...
"...But if I start overthinking again tomorrow, can I ask for another kiss?"
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"Were you just looking for an excuse all along?"
"...Maybe a little."
And seeing the small smile that had finally found its way onto his face, you realized something. Sometimes, making Jeon Jungkook stop pouting didn't take a long explanation. He just needed a little reassurance... and to be spoiled a little too.
← Part 3.1 | Bonus →
✨EARLY ACCESS✨ | Read the next part before everyone else on my Ko-fi ☕️
Summary: You thought meeting your idol by chance was the craziest thing that could ever happen… until he became your boyfriend and casually handed you an NDA to protect all of his ridiculous little secrets. From chaotic ticket wars to jealousy over his own members, dating Jeon Jungkook turns out to be a lot less glamorous—and a lot more adorable than you ever imagined. Sometimes, the biggest BTS secret isn't backstage… it's how hopelessly in love he is.
Status: Three-shot | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3.1 | Part 3.2 | Bonus
Pairing: Idol!Jungkook x ARMY!Reader
Word Count: 6.7k~ | Full: 19.3k~
Genre: Idol!AU, Fluff
Rated: PG
Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Slice of Life, BTS Concert Tickets
Posting Date: July 7, 2026
SCC: Ko-fi ☕️ ・ Taglist 📝
That night, your apartment finally became quiet again. After having dinner together and spending some time in the living room, you still had to finish a few work tasks that had suddenly come up right before a deadline. Jungkook had originally kept you company at the dining table, managing to stay there for almost half an hour while chatting about random things and occasionally wandering into the kitchen to grab snacks. But little by little, he started getting bored. Eventually, without saying much, he stood up, kissed the top of your head for a brief moment, and walked toward the bedroom.
"I'm heading to bed first, okay?"
"Hm."
"You'll come later?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
It was that simple.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, little moments like that had become perfectly normal for the two of you.
You stayed focused on your laptop. Every now and then, you could hear footsteps coming from the bedroom, drawers opening and closing, and the sounds of someone apparently looking for something. You didn't think much of it. Jungkook had plenty of strange habits. Sometimes he'd suddenly start looking for a charger that was already in his hand. Sometimes he'd look for his phone while using the flashlight on that very same phone.
Almost an hour later, you finally finished your work. You shut your laptop, stretched your sore shoulders, and slowly made your way to the bedroom. The only light left on was the small bedside lamp in the corner of the room. Jungkook was already lying on the bed in his favorite black pajamas. His hair was slightly messy, and he looked incredibly comfortable under the blanket.
The moment he saw you walk in, his expression changed. Without saying a word, he opened his arms wide. A habit. The two of you had never even talked about it. Whenever one of you got to the bedroom first, the other would automatically receive a hug.
You smiled softly. "What?"
"Hurry."
"You're like a little kid."
"Hurry."
Eventually, you gave in and climbed onto the bed. The moment you got close enough, Jungkook's arms casually wrapped around your waist. Your head naturally rested against his chest while he pulled the blanket over both of you.
"There."
"There what?"
"Now it's complete."
You could only laugh quietly. Sometimes, you truly didn't understand the way his mind worked.
A few seconds later, Jungkook reached over to the bedside table and picked something up. A folder. You turned toward him immediately.
"...Jungkook."
"Hm?"
"Don't tell me that's..."
You closed your eyes for a few seconds.
"I made some revisions."
"You made revisions?"
"Yeah."
"You made a new NDA?"
"Yeah."
You genuinely didn't know whether to laugh or sigh. Just a few days ago, he'd created the strangest NDA you'd ever seen. You had honestly thought his temporary lawyer project was over.
Apparently not.
Jungkook handed you the papers with an expression that was far too serious. "Please read them."
"You typed it again?"
"...No."
You looked down at the papers.
Handwriting.
The entire thing was handwritten in Jungkook's fairly neat writing, although a few letters leaned slightly to one side, and some sections looked as though they'd been erased and rewritten.
You started laughing. "You wrote this yourself?"
"Yeah."
"All of it?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Jungkook gave a small shrug.
"Huh?"
"Dating you is fun."
You stopped reading and looked at him. "Fun?"
"Yeah."
His hand was still gently rubbing your waist like always. Jungkook smiled softly as he looked up at the bedroom ceiling.
"You never ask for anything weird."
"Hm."
"You scold me if I eat late."
"Hm."
"You tell me to get some rest."
"Hm."
"You nag me if I forget to bring a jacket."
"Hm."
"You even turned down concert tickets."
You laughed.
"You're bringing that up again."
"Yeah."
"I'm tired of hearing about it."
"But I like talking about it."
There was a brief pause. Jungkook looked like he was thinking before he continued.
"I'm comfortable."
A small smile slowly appeared on your face.
"I never feel like I have to be Jungkook from BTS when I'm with you."
His arms tightened around you just a little more. "I can just be Jungkook."
You didn't answer right away. Instead, you looked back down at the papers in your hands, secretly smiling to yourself.
"Go on, keep reading."
"Yes, Mr. Lawyer."
You started reading through the updated version of the NDA. Most of it was just as strange as before. Not allowed to reveal the number of black hoodies. Not allowed to reveal his habit of forgetting where he leaves things. Not allowed to tell anyone that Jeon Jungkook sometimes eats instant noodles in the middle of the night.
Then your eyes stopped on a brand-new clause.
If the second party leaves Jeon Jungkook without a clear reason, the second party will be required to pay damages totaling $775,000,000,000.
You read it once.
Then twice.
Then three times.
"..."
Jungkook stayed quiet. You started counting the zeros.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The longer you counted, the more your brows furrowed. Your head unconsciously tilted to one side.
Jungkook, who had been watching your expression the entire time, bit his lip to keep himself from smiling.
"What's wrong?"
"..."
"Baby?"
"..."
"Y/N?"
You were still counting.
"This..."
"Hm?"
"...that's a lot of zeros."
"Yeah."
"Are you sure you wrote this correctly?"
"Yeah."
"It kind of looks like..."
You counted again.
"...this doesn't seem like a random number."
Jungkook stayed quiet.
You slowly turned to him. "...Where did you get this number?"
For a few seconds, he didn't answer. Then, with the most serious expression imaginable, he said,
"I did research."
"...What?"
"I did research."
"What exactly did you research?"
"The national debt."
You blinked. "...Huh?"
"South Korea's foreign debt."
The room suddenly went silent. "I Googled it."
"..."
"I looked it up."
"..."
"I checked the number."
"..."
"I rounded it up a little."
It took several seconds for your brain to process what he'd just told you. Then… You completely lost it. Not a small laugh. Not a giggle. You laughed so hard your whole body shook, and you had to hold your stomach. Jungkook started laughing too when he saw your reaction.
"You..."
You could barely speak.
"You..."
"Yeah?"
"You're weird."
"I know."
"You seriously looked up South Korea's national debt?!"
"Yeah."
"And then you put it in the NDA?!"
"Yeah."
"YOU WANT ME TO PAY OFF SOUTH KOREA'S NATIONAL DEBT IF I BREAK UP WITH YOU?!"
"Yeah."
"I'M JUST AN ORDINARY OFFICE WORKER!"
"That's true."
"I CAN'T EVEN AFFORD AN APARTMENT IN GANGNAM!"
"That's true."
"YOU WANT ME TO PAY SEVEN HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE BILLION DOLLARS?!"
"Yeah."
"ARE YOU EVEN NORMAL?!"
Jungkook finally couldn't hold back his laughter anymore. He buried his face against your shoulder.
"I did the math."
"YOU DID THE MATH?!"
"Yeah."
"What ELSE did you calculate?!"
"If you paid a hundred dollars a month..."
You immediately covered your face.
"Don't tell me..."
"...it would take quite a while."
"JUNGKOOK!"
He laughed even harder.
"Don't you feel sorry for me?!"
"I was being nice."
"NICE HOW?!"
"I didn't charge interest."
This time, you were completely speechless.
You could only stare at the man beside you, laughing to himself in satisfaction. The same man who had seriously looked up South Korea's foreign debt just to use it as a breakup penalty in a handwritten NDA.
It was weird. Very weird.
But as your laughter slowly faded, you realized something. Jungkook didn't actually care about the number. His arms had never left your waist. His head was still resting against your shoulder. And while you were still shaking your head in disbelief over the contents of the NDA, he quietly mumbled in a much softer voice.
"Honestly..."
"Hm?"
"...I just don't want you to leave."
You turned to look at him.
"The national debt thing was just a joke."
"I know."
"I don't need seven hundred seventy-five billion dollars."
"I don't have that kind of money anyway."
Jungkook laughed softly.
"...I just want you to stay here."
You looked at the ridiculous number on the paper again, then at Jungkook's slightly embarrassed smile. Suddenly, everything made sense. Because apparently, in Jeon Jungkook's mind, the most logical way to say don't leave me was to make his ordinary office-worker girlfriend responsible for paying off South Korea's foreign debt.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Your laughter still hadn't completely faded even several minutes after Jungkook admitted that the number in the NDA had been taken from South Korea's foreign debt. The paper was still in your hands, while Jungkook continued to hold your waist as casually as if asking his girlfriend to pay off hundreds of billions of dollars was a perfectly normal thing to do. The bedside lamp in the corner of the room made everything feel warm, and for a little while, the two of you simply sat there in silence, occasionally laughing as you remembered the conversation you'd just had.
You looked at the ridiculous number again. The longer you stared at it, the less sense it made. You even tried counting the zeros one more time, hoping you'd misread it earlier because you were too sleepy. Jungkook, who had been watching your expression the entire time, smiled to himself. He seemed to be enjoying every second of watching you struggle to understand his logic.
"You're still counting?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"How an ordinary office worker is supposed to pay off South Korea's national debt."
Jungkook bit his lip, trying not to laugh.
"Hm."
"Hm what?"
"I already have a solution."
You turned toward him immediately.
"A solution?"
"Yeah."
"You're lowering the penalty?"
"...No."
"JUNGKOOK."
"But it's easier."
You immediately became suspicious.
After getting to know him, you'd learn that every time Jungkook said he had a solution, it usually meant a brand-new problem was about to appear.
"So what's the solution?"
Jungkook stayed quiet for a few seconds. He looked like he was genuinely thinking, as though he were putting together a very important business proposal.
"You can pay in installments."
You blinked. "...Huh?"
"You can."
"How?"
"You just can."
"You want me to pay off seven hundred seventy-five billion dollars in installments?"
"Yeah."
"With what?"
Jungkook looked at you for a few seconds. That little smile slowly returned to his face.
"With kisses."
The room suddenly fell silent.
"..."
"..."
"...Jeon Jungkook."
"Hm?"
"Are you normal?"
"I think so."
"You're serious?"
"Yeah."
You looked at the NDA in your hands. Then at Jungkook. Then back at the paper.
"Kisses?"
"Yeah."
"Is that a new form of payment?"
"Yeah."
"Since when?"
"I invented it."
You genuinely had no idea what to do with the man sitting in front of you.
A few minutes ago, he'd suddenly become an economics expert by researching the national debt. Now he'd somehow created an entirely new payment system.
"How much?"
"Hm?"
"How much is one kiss worth?"
Jungkook actually looked like he was giving it some serious thought.
"...Ten dollars."
You stared at him.
"TEN DOLLARS?"
"Yeah."
"Why is it so cheap?"
"Cheap?"
"Yeah!"
"Why are you saying it's cheap?"
You quickly started doing the math.
"Wait."
"Hm?"
"If it's ten dollars..."
"Yeah."
"...then I'd have to kiss you..."
You stopped counting.
Jungkook waited.
"...a ridiculous number of times."
"Yeah."
"A ridiculous number of times."
"Yeah."
Slowly, you looked up.
"...You did this on purpose, didn't you?"
Jungkook finally gave up trying to hide his smile.
"...A little."
"You made sure I'd never finish paying it off."
"...Maybe."
"You're cheating."
"I know."
You started calculating again. For some reason, your brain was genuinely trying to find a way to pay off the debt.
Jungkook stayed quiet, gently rubbing your waist as he watched your increasingly serious expression.
"What if..."
"Hm?"
"...ten kisses a day."
"Yeah."
"That's a hundred dollars."
"Yeah."
"..."
"..."
"...I don't think I'd ever finish."
Jungkook gave a small nod.
"Yeah."
"A hundred kisses a day?"
"Yeah."
"...it would still take forever."
"Yeah."
You burst out laughing again. "Jeon Jungkook."
"Hm?"
"You did this on purpose, didn't you?"
"I told you already."
"You don't want me to leave."
This time, Jungkook wasn't joking. "Yeah."
The answer was so simple that you stopped laughing. He took the NDA from your hands and carefully folded it before placing it on the bedside table. Then he wrapped his arms around you again.
"I did the math."
"You calculated something else?"
"Yeah."
"What are you even doing?"
"I got curious."
"Curious about what?"
"If one kiss is worth ten dollars..."
"Hm."
"...I don't think you'd ever finish paying it off, even when we're old."
You let out a long sigh. "That was your goal, wasn't it?"
Jungkook pretended to think about it. "...Maybe."
"You."
"Because if it's never paid off..."
He paused for a moment.
"...then you'll have to keep making payments."
You started laughing again. "And then?"
"Then you'll have to see me."
"Hm."
"Then you'll have to kiss me."
"Hm."
"Then you'll have to make another payment tomorrow."
"Hm."
"The day after that too."
"Hm."
"Next week too."
"Hm."
"Next year too."
You looked at him and shook your head. "You really created a payment system just so I could never break up with you, didn't you?"
Jungkook smiled shyly. "...Yeah."
There was something about that answer that made your chest feel warm. This was all ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
No normal person would create a handwritten NDA with penalties based on a country's national debt and then allow repayment through kisses.
But this was Jungkook.
And the longer you knew him, the more you realized that the way he showed his affection was often a little unusual.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"Do you want to start making payments?"
You laughed softly.
"Right now?"
"Yeah."
"You're in such a hurry."
"The debt is huge."
"Are you afraid of going bankrupt?"
"I'm afraid you'll run away."
The answer was so honest that you couldn't think of anything to say.
Jungkook simply looked at you with a small smile. His gaze was much softer than it had been while he was joking around a few minutes ago.
"If we start today..."
"Hm?"
"...maybe someday you'll finish paying it off."
You slowly shook your head.
"Never."
"Why?"
"The math doesn't make any sense."
"That's true."
"We could grow old and still not finish."
"That's true."
"We could become grandparents and still not pay it off."
"That's true."
"You did this on purpose."
"Yeah."
In the end, you laughed and rested your head against his shoulder.
Jungkook laughed softly too and hugged you a little tighter. It seemed that, from the very beginning, there had never been any intention of letting that debt be paid off.
Because in Jeon Jungkook's mind, one kiss was worth only ten dollars. Which meant there would be millions of payments left to make. Millions of reasons to stay close to each other. Millions of reasons to keep coming home to the same person every night.
And while you quietly calculated once again just how impossible it would be to pay off that ridiculous amount, Jungkook simply mumbled above your head in a satisfied voice that made you laugh all over again.
"It's okay if you never pay it off."
"Hm?"
"...because that means you'll still have to be my debtor, even when we're old."
You looked up at him in disbelief. "Jeon Jungkook."
"Hm?"
"You know something?"
"What?"
"...You're incredibly weird."
Jungkook grinned, not offended in the slightest.
"Yeah."
"Weird."
"Yeah."
"But I'm not complaining."
His smile immediately softened.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because..."
His hand gently found yours again.
"...if my calculations are right, that debt is never going to end. Which means, no matter how much time passes, you'll never have a reason to leave me."
And for the first time that night, you realized that maybe Jungkook had never really cared about the seven hundred seventy-five billion dollars in the first place.
What he'd wanted from the beginning was just one simple thing. To create an excuse that was ridiculous enough, sweet enough, and impossible enough… So that even decades from now, the two of you could still lie in the same bed, laughing together and joking that today's installment payment still hadn't been made.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You were still convinced that Jeon Jungkook was the most unpredictable person you had ever known.
At first, the two of you were just sitting comfortably on your bed, leaning against the headboard while enjoying a night that finally felt peaceful after a long day. The only light in the room came from the small lamp on the nightstand, dim enough to make everything feel cozy, while the soft rain outside the window made Seoul seem quieter than usual. Jungkook had been silent for a while, but somehow, Jungkook being quiet always made you suspicious.
"What?" you finally asked.
"Hm?"
"You've been staring at me."
"I'm allowed to look at my girlfriend, aren't I?"
You rolled your eyes with a small laugh. "Sure. But don't smile like that."
"Smile like what?"
"That."
Jungkook only smiled even wider. The hand that had been resting on the bed slowly reached for yours, playing with your fingers one by one for no particular reason. It was a little habit of his. Sometimes when he was tired, sometimes when he was thinking, and sometimes... when he wanted something.
You narrowed your eyes.
"...What do you want?"
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
Jungkook pretended to look shocked. "How am I lying?"
"There's no way you'd be this sweet if you didn't want something."
He let out a quiet laugh. His shoulders shook slightly before he shamelessly moved closer until his head rested against your shoulder. A few seconds passed without either of you saying anything. There was only the sound of the rain and the occasional soft breath escaping Jungkook.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"...Can I ask for something?"
You immediately laughed.
"I knew it."
"What?"
"I knew you wanted something."
"No."
"You do."
"A little."
"A little what?"
"Just... a little."
You deliberately let the silence hang. Jungkook, getting no answer, started gently rubbing your arm before resting his chin on your shoulder, wearing an expression that was far too adorable for someone who looked so charismatic on stage.
"You're just going to stay quiet?"
"I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to say it."
Jungkook let out a long sigh as though he was facing the biggest challenge of his life.
"...I want to be spoiled."
You blinked.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Why do you sound like a little kid?"
"Because I am."
You couldn't hold back your laughter. Hearing you laugh only made Jungkook smile in satisfaction. To him, making you laugh was always a small achievement worth celebrating. He snuggled even closer, hiding his face against your shoulder as he mumbled something on purpose.
"What?"
"...Nothing."
"What?"
"...I want my share of attention."
You turned to him immediately.
"Huh?"
"How come your work gets all the attention?"
"Oh, so my work is your competition now?"
"Yeah."
"You're jealous of my laptop?"
"Yeah."
You laughed even harder, clutching his arm. Jungkook, feeling like he wasn't being taken seriously, pouted, and his little sulking expression only made him even more adorable.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"Don't laugh."
"It's funny."
"I'm serious."
"It doesn't look like it."
"I am serious."
You shook your head before gently running your fingers through his messy hair. Jungkook immediately went quiet. He was always like that. No matter how mischievous he was being, a few gentle strokes through his hair were enough to calm him down like a kitten finally getting the attention it wanted.
A few moments later, he spoke again.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I was thinking earlier."
"What were you thinking about this time?"
"I give special performances pretty often."
You immediately had a bad feeling.
"...Jungkook."
"Hm?"
"Don't continue."
"Why?"
"I don't think that's covered in the NDA."
It took Jungkook two whole seconds before he burst into laughter. His laugh filled the room, and he even had to hold his forehead.
"Did you seriously just say that?"
"Yeah."
"Our NDA is that detailed?"
"I don't know."
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"You're cute."
"You too."
He slowly shook his head with a smile. His gaze softened, and the playful atmosphere gradually turned into something warmer. Jungkook moved closer, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face before placing a quick kiss on your forehead.
"I'm just happy."
"Happy about what?"
"That we can finally be like this."
"Like what?"
"Quiet."
"Hm."
"Not rushing anywhere."
"Hm."
"Just you and me."
You smiled softly. He was right. Out of all the extraordinary things that had happened since that accidental meeting in that little country, maybe moments like this were the most precious. There were no cameras. No schedules. No concerts or work. Just the two of you, joking around until late at night, making each other laugh, and enjoying the simple kind of togetherness that once felt like nothing more than a dream.
Jungkook reached for your hand once again, gently intertwining his fingers with yours as he smiled softly.
"You know?"
"Hm?"
"I still feel lucky."
"Why?"
"...Because the ARMY who used to run away every time she saw me..."
He paused for a second, watching the smile slowly appear on your face.
"...has now become the person who makes me want to come home the most."
And that night, the jokes about the NDA, Jungkook's adorable sulking, and the quiet laughter the two of you shared slowly faded into a long conversation that only two people could understand—two people who never imagined that a short vacation could bring them this far.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
After the whole NDA incident and all the little chaos Jungkook somehow always managed to create, your lives gradually returned to normal. Looking back, a year together had gone by surprisingly fast. The two of you had been through so much. From that strange first meeting in a quiet little country, to falling asleep on video calls, surviving long distance, your move to Korea, and eventually settling into a relationship that was as simple as having dinner together and fighting over the TV remote.
That evening was supposed to be simple too.
You and Jungkook were sitting on the couch at his place. The TV was on, but neither of you was really paying attention to whatever was playing. Jungkook had his head resting on your lap while scrolling through his phone, while you were busy reading funny comments on social media.
Every now and then, one of you would show the other something.
"Look."
"Hm?"
"Funny."
"Oh, yeah."
Then the two of you would fall quiet again.
Silences like that had become completely normal. They weren't awkward. Neither of you felt the need to fill every moment with conversation. You were simply enjoying each other's company.
Then, out of nowhere, Jungkook set his phone down on his chest and looked up at you.
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"Can you be honest with me?"
You didn't even look up from your phone.
"Sure."
"Promise?"
"Yeah."
"You can't lie."
Only then did you turn to look at him. "Why are you being so serious?"
"I'm not serious."
"You're serious."
"A little."
You immediately laughed.
Jungkook was like that sometimes. He would suddenly ask something that sounded incredibly important, only for it to turn out a few minutes later that he just wanted to know why you liked fried chicken more than pizza.
"What?"
Jungkook stayed quiet for a few seconds.
"...Who's your bias, actually?"
You blinked. "Huh?"
"Bias."
"In BTS?"
"Yeah."
Your brain immediately started working at full speed.
Danger.
This was a trap.
You had known Jeon Jungkook long enough to recognize certain expressions on his face. Right now, he looks relaxed. Too relaxed. His smile was small, and even his gaze seemed casual. That was exactly what made you even more suspicious. This was a trap.
"You."
The answer came out way too quickly.
Jungkook frowned. "Me?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Why did you answer so fast?"
"...Because it's you."
Jungkook kept staring at you. "You're lying, aren't you?"
"I'm not lying."
"Baby."
"Hm?"
"I'm not going to act like a little kid."
You were already starting to not believe him.
"Yeah."
"I just want to know."
"Yeah."
"Really."
"Yeah."
"We've been together for a year."
"Yeah."
Jungkook smiled a little.
"...I'm just curious."
You stayed quiet.
Jungkook watched your face for a few seconds. Then something in his expression changed. He let out a quiet sigh.
"Fine."
"Hm?"
"I was just asking."
"..."
"We've been together for this long."
"..."
"And you still keep secrets from me."
His voice didn't sound upset. If anything, it sounded a little disappointing. And somehow, that was even more dangerous. You immediately felt guilty.
The truth was, you weren't trying to lie. You just knew what Jungkook was like. He was confident. Extremely confident. But strangely enough, sometimes he could get jealous over things that didn't make any sense. Even of his own members. And you didn't want to make him overthink.
Jungkook was sitting up properly now. He picked up his water bottle and pretended to focus on opening it.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
"..."
"I'm not forcing you."
"..."
"I just thought we'd been together long enough to tell each other things."
You let out a quiet sigh.
"It's not that I don't want to tell you."
"Hm?"
"It's just..."
"It's just what?"
"...I'm scared."
Jungkook laughed softly.
"Scared of what?"
"You'll sulk."
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not going to sulk."
"You sure?"
"I'm an adult."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
"...You won't get mad?"
"No."
"...You won't sulk?"
"No."
"...You won't get jealous?"
"...No."
You took a deep breath.
"...Jinnie."
The room suddenly went quiet.
Jungkook blinked once.
Twice.
"Oh."
That was it.
"Oh."
You nodded.
"Yeah."
"Oh."
It was strange. Too calm. And somehow, that made you relax.
Jungkook looked down for a second so you wouldn't see his expression.
Honestly… He'd suspected it for a long time.
The first time he'd introduced you to the other members, everything had gone smoothly. You could chat comfortably with Namjoon. You laughed easily with Hoseok. You even warmed up to Jimin and Taehyung surprisingly quickly.
But then Jin showed up… And you went quiet. Not because you didn't like him.
If anything… You were too quiet.
Whenever Jin spoke to you, you would only nod a little. Whenever he cracked a joke, you would smile and lower your head. Even after the meeting was over, Jungkook had caught you taking a few deep breaths to yourself.
Jungkook remembered all of it. And Jungkook also knew one undeniable fact.
Kim Seokjin was dangerous.
He was handsome.
Very handsome.
Charismatic.
And strangely enough, he was never afraid to show his goofy side.
Jungkook had been suspicious for a long time. Unfortunately… That night, his suspicions were confirmed.
But he smiled. "Oh."
You immediately started feeling relieved.
"See?"
"Hm?"
"You're not mad?"
Jungkook laughed softly. "Why would I be mad?"
"Good point."
"Hm."
He leaned back against the couch. "...I'm just curious."
"Curious about what?"
"...Why Jin hyung?"
At that point, you genuinely felt safe. Jungkook looked completely fine.
He didn't seem jealous.
He didn't seem upset.
He didn't seem sulky.
You even found yourself smiling. "I don't know."
"Hm?"
"...He's handsome."
Jungkook nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
"...He's charismatic."
"Yeah."
"...And..."
You paused to think.
"...He's never afraid to show his silly side."
Jungkook nodded again.
"Yeah."
"...I like people who can be serious but funny at the same time."
"Hm."
"...And he's caring."
"Hm."
"...When he laughs, everyone else ends up laughing too."
"Hm."
"...I also like the way he takes care of the other members."
"Hm."
"...And..."
You smiled to yourself.
"...The way he smiles..."
Jungkook kept nodding.
"Hm."
"...Ugh..."
"What?"
"...How do I explain it..."
You actually started laughing to yourself.
"...I was pretty hopelessly gone for him back then."
Jungkook didn't answer.
You were still busy remembering all the little moments that had made Jin your bias in the first place.
"...And when he jokes around..."
"..."
"...And he's actually shy but acts all confident..."
"..."
"...And when he sings..."
"..."
"...And his visuals..."
You suddenly stopped talking. Because something felt off. The room had become way too quiet. You turned your head. Jungkook was still sitting exactly where he had been.
But...
He wasn't smiling anymore.
Not at all.
You froze.
Oh.
No.
This was a trap.
Jungkook looked at you for a few seconds.
"...So it's Jin hyung."
You immediately panicked.
"Babe—"
"...So it's Jin hyung."
"That's not what I—"
"Oh."
He slowly stood up.
"Kook..."
"Oh, now it makes sense."
"What makes sense?"
"No wonder you were so quiet when I introduced you."
"Kook."
"No wonder you kept smiling."
"Kook."
"No wonder you looked shy."
"Kook."
Jungkook gave a small nod.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay."
"You're sulking."
"I'm not."
"That's sulking."
"I'm not."
"That's definitely sulking."
Jungkook picked up his water bottle and walked toward the kitchen.
His voice sounded incredibly calm.
"...Fine."
"Kook."
"Hm?"
"...Are you mad?"
"No."
"You're mad."
"I'm not mad."
"You promised you wouldn't sulk."
"I'm not sulking."
"...Really?"
"Yeah."
"..."
"...It's just..."
"Just what?"
Jungkook slowly looked back at you. He was smiling. But his eyes absolutely weren't.
"...I'm not taking you backstage anymore."
You froze.
"Huh?"
"Yeah."
"What?!"
"I'm not."
"Why?!"
Jungkook casually shrugged. "...You don't have to come watch our concert."
"JEON JUNGKOOK."
"I'm serious."
"How are you serious?!"
"Because..."
He let out a long sigh, as though he'd just realized something incredibly important.
"...Jin hyung is dangerous during concerts."
"Kook..."
"...I just realized that."
"Kook..."
"...I think it's safer if you stay home."
"Kook!"
"...I don't want to come home after the concert and have my girlfriend tell me..."
He looked at you with the most serious expression you'd ever seen.
"Baby... Jin hyung's smile is actually even more handsome in real life than on screen."
And for the first time since you started dating… You realized something. Jeon Jungkook wasn't just jealous. He could get jealous of Kim Seokjin too. Maybe… Especially Kim Seokjin.
← Part 2 | Part 3.2 →
Author Notes: Hi, everyone! I'm so sorry, but I had to split this story into 2 parts because it wouldn't let me post it all in one. I'll most likely upload the rest tomorrow or the day after. As always, thank you so much to everyone who continues to read and support my stories. A special thank you to those of you who leave comments and reblog this story. It truly means so much to me. I genuinely enjoy reading every single message and replying to your kind words. I hope you all stay happy, and I'll see you again in the next part! 🤍
summary: looking for a decent job, you stumbled upon jungkook’s job posting on instagram, what could go wrong?
warnings: playfuldom!jungkook x fem reader, explicit sexual content, clit rubbing, pussy eating, edging, spitting, degradation, dirty talk, multiple positions, detailed smut, jk is very playful in a degrading way, oral sex, camera sex, pussy slapping, choking, praising, usage of slut, cum eating, marking, multiple orgasms, rough sex, crying, overstimulation, fingering, nipple spitting, penetrative sex, creampie.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂˚₊┈┈୨୧┈┈‧₊˚⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂
“How about being a barista again? There’s a job opening at Moonlit Cafe down the street,” Hari suggested while you sat hunched over your laptop, endlessly browsing through job postings.
You were still a student, graduating next year with bills clawing at your throat. When college started, you wanted independence so badly it ached beneath your skin. An apartment near the university...your own keys, your own groceries and your own life.
Your parents had offered to cover everything without hesitation, gentle and loving as always, but guilt settled heavily in your chest whenever you thought about it. They were already paying your tuition fees. You wanted them to live comfortably too, without worrying about whether their daughter had enough money for rent or food. So you smiled and told them not to worry, drained your savings account for the apartment, and picked up multiple part-time jobs just to prove to yourself that you could survive on your own.
And for a while, you did.
The first two years of college went smoothly enough. You found decent jobs, saved enough money to live comfortably, and even bought yourself a flat-screen TV after months of careful budgeting. Your days blurred into exhausting routines—classes in the morning, shifts at the coffee shop at night, and weekends spent organizing shelves as a bookstore assistant.
You were tired all the time, but it was a satisfying kind of tired. The kind that made you feel accomplished.
Until the coffee shop let you go.
Budget cuts, they said apologetically, avoiding your eyes while handing you the notice. Part-time workers were the first to go.
You still had the bookstore job, but the pay barely stretched far enough to cover groceries, let alone rent, electricity, and university expenses. Asking your parents for help would’ve been easy...too easy—but stubbornness rooted itself deep inside you. There were thousands of job postings online. Surely one of them would take you.
Only they never called back.
Two months had passed, and your savings were bleeding out faster than you could stop them. Every day followed the same suffocating routine: school, assignments, cheap instant dinners, and hours of doom-scrolling through applications until your vision blurred from the brightness of your screen.
You groaned quietly, rubbing your tired eyes before glancing over at Hari, who sat cross-legged beside you on the couch with a milk tea in hand. She had shown up at your apartment earlier carrying takeout bags and your favorite boba, worry written plainly across her face after noticing how little you’d been eating lately.
“I already applied there,” you muttered with a pout, dragging your gaze back to the laptop. “But they want someone full-time.”
Hari sighed dramatically, setting her drink down on the coffee table. “You seriously need to rest. You’ve been staring at that thing for hours.”
Before you could protest, she grabbed your boba and pushed it into your hands. The cold plastic pressed against your palms pleasantly.
“Drink,” she ordered. “And let me do the scrolling before you spiral into another existential crisis.”
A laugh bubbled out of her as she pulled the laptop from your lap, and despite the anxiety twisting endlessly inside your chest, you felt your shoulders loosen just a little.
You pouted lightly, sipping your boba while Hari busied herself with your laptop. Your brows slowly furrowed when you noticed her opening tab after tab with alarming confidence.
“Why are you on Facebook?” you asked with a quiet chuckle, watching her click somewhere else before another page loaded. “And now Twitter? Instagram too?”
Hari rolled her eyes dramatically, her face illuminated by the screen’s pale glow. “Because the jobs on LinkedIn are painfully boring,” she scoffed. “There are tons of part-time job offers on social media. I swear I saw one yesterday.”
She narrowed her eyes at the laptop suspiciously, scrolling with the intensity of a detective solving a murder case.
A laugh escaped you as you leaned against her shoulder, chewing on the tapioca pearls you had missed more than you cared to admit. You’d been saving every spare dollar lately, cutting out small comforts one by one until even buying boba started to feel irresponsible.
“But you don’t even know if those are legit,” you pointed out, tilting your head at her. “The sites I applied to are safer from scams and stuff.”
“I know,” Hari replied instantly. “That’s why we’re looking for jobs with a pay-first policy if it’s online.” She clicked onto another account before adding casually, “And if it’s onsite, we’ll bring a gun in case things go wrong or something.”
You burst out laughing at that, nearly choking on your drink.
“Hari!”
“What?” she laughed too, grinning shamelessly. “I’m just being prepared.”
You shook your head at her usual nonsense, warmth blooming faintly in your chest despite the stress that had been suffocating you for weeks now. Hari always had a way of dragging you out of your own head, even if only for a little while.
The apartment suddenly felt less heavy with her around.
You were honestly relieved that semester break had finally arrived. One whole month without classes, no early morning lectures, no deadlines and no professors piling work onto your shoulders.
But instead of resting like a normal person, you had thrown yourself deeper into job hunting.
Hari hated that.
As your closest friend, she had spent the last week trying to convince you to take a break—to go shopping with the girls, take an out-of-town trip, do literally anything that didn’t involve staring at job applications until three in the morning.
You declined every single invitation.
Your friends understood your situation, but they also thought you were driving yourself insane. Which, honestly...you probably were.
That was exactly why Hari showed up tonight carrying your favorite food and overpriced boba tea, determined to drag you away from your spiral. She kept trying to tempt you into going on a girls’ trip with them, insisting that one weekend away wouldn’t kill you.
But every time you thought about relaxing, all you could picture were your bills piling quietly on the kitchen counter. So instead, you stayed curled up on the couch beside her, stubbornly searching for a job you desperately needed.
Hari was beginning to look almost as desperate as you. Maybe not for herself, but for you—for the way your shoulders had slowly grown heavier these past few months, for the exhaustion permanently shadowing your eyes. She wanted you to land a job already so you could finally breathe again without worrying about rent and unpaid bills swallowing you whole.
Which was exactly why she was now doom-scrolling through Twitter with frightening determination.
“I really don’t think you’re gonna find a job there,” you muttered skeptically, watching her open an alarming amount of random threads. “Most of those look like scams.”
“Wait, wait—look at this!”
Hari suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you closer to the screen, quickly setting her milk tea down beside her like she was preparing for something serious.
Her eyes widened.
“Okay, this one actually looks promising.”
You leaned in slightly as she read aloud.
mnijungkook on ig posted: i’m looking for someone who can take insanely good videos and photos [of me]. i’ll somehow figure out the equipment myself..! please somehow reach out to me! lol, looking for someone to film for me, seriously. and if you’re good at editing too? let’s go on tour together
“There are so many likes and retweets,” Hari said immediately, already opening another tab to search for the original Instagram post. “This has to be legit.”
The second you recognized the username, you nearly choked on your drink.
Laughter burst out of you uncontrollably, your shoulders shaking as you clutched the cup tighter. Hari blinked at you in confusion while your eyes watered from laughing too hard.
“Hari,” you wheezed out, “That’s Jungkook.”
She stared blankly. “Huh? The boss?”
Another laugh escaped you.
Hari genuinely knew almost nothing about K-pop or Korean artists in general, and moments like this always reminded you just how different the two of you were.
Meanwhile, you had once been painfully obsessed.
You used to stay up until dawn watching livestreams, memorizing lyrics, collecting photocards you definitely couldn’t afford, and keeping up with every tiny update posted online. Back then, being a fan felt like a second full-time job.
But life eventually became busier.
School consumed your mornings, work consumed your nights, and somewhere in between surviving deadlines and paying bills, your fangirl phase quietly faded into the background. You still listened to their music almost daily, still smiled whenever one of their songs shuffled into your playlist, but you no longer kept up with every post or appearance the way you once did.
You guessed you had simply grown up.
Even so, seeing Jungkook casually asking for a videographer and editor on Instagram felt surreal enough to make you laugh all over again.
Not updated enough to know that Jungkook was apparently posting job offers on Instagram now. Or that he was even on tour.
“No,” you laughed, shaking your head as you finally calmed down a little. “That’s Jungkook. From BTS. They’re, like… insanely famous, Hari. This is probably some kind of joke or publicity thing.”
Hari’s brows knitted together in confusion before realization slowly dawned across her face. She clicked onto the Instagram profile, eyes widening at the blue verification check and the terrifying number of followers sitting beneath his username.
Nearly thirty million.
“Ohhh, BTS,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Wait—I think I’ve seen him before.” She squinted at one of the photos. “Wasn’t he in a Calvin Klein ad or something?”
You snorted. “Yeah. That’s him.”
Honestly, you expected her to laugh it off after realizing who posted it. Maybe call the idea ridiculous and move on to another job listing.
Instead, Hari clicked onto his Instagram story again with alarming seriousness.
“That means…” she trailed off.
“It’s probably a joke,” you interrupted immediately.
“This is good pay,” she said at the exact same time, eyes practically glittering now.
Before you could stop her, she pressed the reply button beneath the story.
Your lips parted slightly. You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was being serious or completely delusional right now...probably both. But either way, you let her continue typing because there was absolutely no chance Jungkook himself would ever see it.
He probably received thousands of messages every minute. Millions, even.
The thought alone felt ridiculous.
“Whatever,” you muttered with a helpless chuckle, giving up entirely. “I’m heating up the rice bowl.”
Hari waved you off distractedly, already multitasking between your laptop and her phone like this had suddenly become her personal mission.
You shook your head fondly before standing from the couch, grabbing the takeout container she bought earlier. The apartment filled with the quiet hum of the microwave a moment later, warm light spilling across the tiny kitchen while Hari continued aggressively applying for a job that definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent was never going to happen.
-
You woke up to the shrill sound of your alarm, already preparing yourself for another long day of job hunting.
Hari went home late last night after spending an absurd amount of time DMing Jungkook and scrolling through social media for more “opportunities,” as she called them. Somewhere between laughing at ridiculous job listings and sharing takeout on your couch, the two of you ended up watching an old Disney movie to help you relax.
She still tried convincing you to go on the girls’ out-of-town trip. You still refused.
No matter how badly you wanted a break, your priorities were painfully clear right now. You needed stability first. A stable paycheck and a stable life. Then maybe you could afford to breathe.
After showering, you made yourself a decent cup of coffee and opened your laptop with a tired sigh, mentally preparing to send out another batch of applications that probably wouldn’t get answered.
Then your phone buzzed beside you. An Instagram notification lit up the screen.
You snorted softly to yourself. “This must be Jungkook,” you joked under your breath, absentmindedly opening the app.
What the fuck.
Your heart nearly stopped when you saw the message sitting in your inbox. The coffee suddenly tasted bitter in your mouth.
What the actual fuck?
“Hari!” you practically shrieked the second she answered your call. “Fuck! I don’t even edit videos! I only know basic stuff! I can’t even record properly without my hands shaking!”
You paced around your apartment while panicking into the phone, one hand gripping your hair as you reread the messages over and over again in disbelief.
Sometime after you went to the kitchen last night, Hari had apparently taken it upon herself to completely ruin your life.
She sent Jungkook your entire curriculum vitae.
Not only that—she also wrote and attached a full cover letter explaining why he should hire you.
The realization alone nearly made you pass out.
And when you discovered she had changed your insta profile picture into a formal-looking one while you weren’t paying attention?
You almost laughed and cried at the same time.
It genuinely looked like you had desperately prepared for this opportunity your entire life.
Your eyes skimmed through the cover letter again, horror slowly mixing with something embarrassingly emotional. Hari had written your entire backstory in there—about struggling financially, balancing school and work, trying to stay independent despite everything.
And then she started lying. Blatantly.
Apparently, according to Hari, you were “highly skilled in video editing” with “experience in cinematography.”
Cinematography my ass.
“Hehe… well,” Hari giggled shamelessly through the phone, completely unbothered by your spiraling. Noise echoed behind her, voices and music blending together enough for you to realize she was already with the girls on their trip. “You have to fake a few things to get accepted sometimes, right?”
“Ugh, I can’t do this!” you cried dramatically, pacing back and forth around your apartment while gripping your phone tightly. “I literally don’t know anything about filming! And what if he sues me for faking my skills? He’s famous and influential, Hari!”
Your eyes darted back toward your laptop sitting open on the table, Jungkook’s message glowing on the screen like a ticking time bomb ready to ruin your entire life.
Hari only laughed harder through the call.
“Girl, just try!” she said between giggles. “Watch a tutorial on YouTube or something. Besides…” her tone suddenly turned suspiciously persuasive, “It’s really good pay.”
“Hari!” you screamed again, horrified.
“God, I still can’t believe he actually replied to you,” she continued teasingly. “You must’ve impressed him with your amazing cinematography skills.”
You groaned so loudly you nearly scared yourself.
The worst part was that she wasn’t wrong about the pay.
Your eyes had nearly bulged out of your skull when you saw the amount attached to the offer. There were so many zeros that your brain genuinely short-circuited for a moment.
That was exactly why you couldn’t let it go.
Out of everyone who probably replied to his story, Jungkook somehow answered you.
You. The probability alone felt absurd.
Thousands of people would kill for this opportunity right now, and meanwhile you were pacing around your apartment like you were preparing for a court trial instead of a job offer.
At first, the teenage fangirl buried deep inside you nearly exploded from excitement. The situation dragged you back to years ago—staying up until four in the morning streaming music videos, binge-watching funny compilations, memorizing choreography you could never actually dance, spending money you absolutely shouldn’t have spent on albums and photocards.
Back then, BTS had practically consumed your life. But time passed.
Somewhere between work shifts, college deadlines, and trying to survive adulthood, you slowly stopped keeping up with them. You still listened to the music, of course, but you no longer knew where they were, what they were doing, or how much they had changed over the years.
Curiosity eventually got the better of you. So you stalked Jungkook’s Instagram a little.
And oh.
Oh, he had changed.
A full sleeve of tattoos now wrapped around his right arm, dark ink decorating skin that used to be bare. Silver piercings glinted against his face in ways that somehow suited him unfairly well. His frame had broadened too, shoulders stronger, body lean and built with the kind of maturity that made him almost unrecognizable from the boy you remembered.
You were used to soft brown hair, oversized hoodies, black skinny jeans, clean arms, and those wide doe-like eyes that made the entire internet lose their minds.
Now he looked mature, more dangerous somehow.
A man instead of a boy. And annoyingly enough, it looked really good on him.
“Fuck,” you muttered to yourself, finally realizing you’d been staring at a motorcycle video he posted for far too long.
You immediately locked your phone and pressed it dramatically against your forehead.
“I cannot fangirl right now or I’m seriously gonna lose it.”
Hari kept telling you to just go for it. “You literally have a whole month off from school,” she argued over the phone while you spiraled for the hundredth time. “This is basically the perfect sideline job.”
Sideline job. As if working for Jungkook of BTS was equivalent to tutoring kids after class.
Your stomach twisted anxiously as you stared at the message again. Every second that passed made you feel like the opportunity was slipping farther away. With the amount of people probably flooding his inbox right now, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t change his mind the moment someone actually qualified replied to him.
Your eyes skimmed over his message again, pulse quickening embarrassingly fast.
mnijungkook: hey, i saw your cv ㅎㅎ you really didn’t have to explain everything, but i’m glad you did. i can tell you’re being genuine about this. even without samples, the way you talked about cinematography/editing made me feel like you actually care about it and pay attention to details. sometimes that matters more to me than someone trying too hard to look “professional”
also i get the whole semester break thing. a month is still enough time to try something fun and see if we work well together
don’t stress too much about equipment either because i barely know what i’m doing there yet lol
for payment, don’t worry. if you end up coming with me, i’ll make sure you’re paid well — probably around $20-30k usd for the month depending on the schedule + travel and hotel covered.
send me your contact info? we can talk more properly :))
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I am not passionate about cinematography,” you nearly whimpered to yourself, dropping your face into your hands. “To hell with cinematography.”
The amount of lies in Hari’s cover letter was genuinely evil.
And now Jungkook thought you were some hidden creative genius with an artistic eye and a deep love for filmmaking when in reality you barely knew how to stabilize a phone camera.
You felt sick.
But then your eyes drifted back to the payment offer. Twenty to thirty thousand dollars. Travel covered. Hotels covered. Your bank account practically screamed at you to shut up and take the opportunity.
So with trembling fingers and the overwhelming sensation that you were actively ruining your own life, you began typing a reply. A reply that dug your grave even deeper.
You agreed with him...agreed that you were a “good editor.”
You added your contact details while simultaneously praying that YouTube tutorials could somehow transform you into a professional videographer overnight.
Your fingers hovered above the send button before you forced yourself to press it.
You: thank you so much for even considering me :D i really do believe i’m a good editor, especially when it comes to making things feel natural and cinematic instead of overdone.
i’d genuinely love to work for you if you’ll have me. i’m willing to learn fast, adjust to whatever style you want, and work hard during the whole month of my semester break.
my contact details are below, thank you so much!
The message was sent instantly.
You stared at the screen in silence afterward, horror slowly settling into every inch of your body.
Yeah. You were doomed.
-
“Wow, what the hell.” Your eyes widened the second you stepped into the hotel room Jungkook had booked for you.
The past few days had moved so fast it almost gave you whiplash. After you sent your contact details, Jungkook immediately messaged you about schedules, filming dates, locations, and travel arrangements as if hiring strangers from Instagram was a completely normal thing for him to do.
Everything had already been prepared before you could even panic properly.
Your plane ticket? Booked.
Hotel room? Paid for.
Transportation? Arranged.
Food allowance? Included.
All you had to do was pack your bags and somehow learn how to film and edit professionally before embarrassing yourself on an international scale.
Easy.
“I am so spoiled,” you muttered in disbelief, slowly stepping farther into the room. It was huge.
Bigger than huge, honestly. The hotel suite looked almost the size of your apartment back home, warm lighting spilling across polished floors and neatly arranged furniture that looked far too expensive for you to even breathe near.
Then your attention landed on the large table sitting near the windows. And your soul nearly left your body.
Equipment. So much fucking equipment.
Two massive black cameras rested neatly beside a smaller handheld one. There was an iPad, a laptop, tripods, microphones, chargers, lighting equipment, and cables so intimidating they looked like they belonged inside a spaceship instead of a filming setup.
Your luggage slipped from your fingers onto the floor with a dull thud as you walked toward the table cautiously, like the devices might explode if you touched them incorrectly.
Your eyes widened even more.
For the past several days, you have been desperately teaching yourself how to edit videos and film cinematic shots. Watching tutorials until sunrise. Memorizing transitions. Learning random camera terms you barely understood.
But you had been practicing with your phone. Your fucking phone.
Meanwhile these cameras looked expensive enough to pay your rent for the next ten years.
You carefully picked one up with both hands, terrified you’d somehow damage it through sheer incompetence alone.
Honestly, you were still shocked Jungkook never asked for samples of your work.
If he had, your career would’ve ended immediately.
The only thing you could’ve shown him was a mediocre CapCut edit with dramatic black-and-white filters slapped over it to make it look “cinematic.”
You groaned loudly, dropping your forehead against the edge of the table.
“Oh my God,” you whispered into the expensive wood. “I’m actually a fraud.”
You nearly lost balance holding the enormous camera in your hands, quickly tightening your grip before your entire future shattered onto the hotel floor in high definition. “Woah, this is heavy.”
Your eyes stayed locked on the equipment nervously as you adjusted the strap around your wrist, trying your best to look like someone who actually knew what they were doing. Because if Jungkook realized how painfully inexperienced you were, he might personally send you back to your country on the next available flight.
You wouldn’t even blame him. The past few nights had been brutal.
You barely slept at all, surviving almost entirely on instant noodles, caffeine, and pure fear while desperately teaching yourself editing techniques through YouTube tutorials. Your laptop had become an extension of your body at this point, constantly running sample footage you filmed around your apartment just so you could practice transitions, lighting adjustments, stabilization, and color grading.
You even studied Jungkook’s editing style specifically.
The pacing of his vlogs, the soft cinematic filters, the random zoom-ins and the casual, natural feeling of the clips.
You analyzed everything like your life depended on it because technically, your rent kind of did. You were getting paid for this...a ridiculous amount, too.
And there was absolutely no way you could afford getting exposed now.
“Okay…” you muttered slowly while fiddling with the camera settings. “This is kinda… easy?”
You said it more like a question than a statement. Still, you forced yourself to keep going.
You searched up tutorials for the exact camera model, watched setup guides, practiced adjusting focus and lighting, and filmed random clips around the room like an aspiring film student fighting for survival.
At some point, you even started taking artistic shots of your coffee cup near the hotel window. For practice, obviously.
Tomorrow was your first official filming day.
According to the schedule Jungkook emailed you earlier, you’d be accompanying him to a golf activity before the concert. He wanted behind-the-scenes footage for the fans—small moments throughout the day, casual interactions, preparations before performing.
And apparently that was only the beginning. Over the next few days, you’d also be filming soundchecks, backstage moments, errands, workouts, rehearsals, and random snippets of his daily routine while on tour.
Basically, your entire existence now revolves around documenting Jungkook’s life aesthetically.
No pressure.
You used his latest vlog as your main reference while practicing, pausing every few seconds to study angles and editing choices carefully. Honestly, the style itself wasn’t impossible to recreate. It leaned more natural than overly polished, which helped calm your nerves slightly.
The problem was you, you weren’t skilled.
And the more you thought about his expectations, the more your stomach twisted itself into knots.
But backing out wasn’t an option anymore.
So instead of panicking yourself into quitting, you threw every ounce of energy into learning.
Like you were preparing for the Olympics instead of secretly faking your way into being Jungkook’s videographer.
You almost had a heart attack when your phone suddenly buzzed while you were testing the cameras.
The heavy device nearly slipped straight out of your hands as Jungkook’s name flashed across the screen.
Your pulse instantly skyrocketed.
Jungkook: hey, i left all the equipment on the table in your hotel room because i had to leave early for rehearsal. camera batteries are charging already, memory cards are inside the small black case, and i think i accidentally tangled all the wires together so… good luck with that honestly ㅎㅎ
there’s also a pass hanging on the chair for backstage access. don’t lose it or my manager’s gonna kill me lol
take your time checking everything first before we head out tomorrow. and if anything’s confusing just call me :))
You stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary, a smile unconsciously pulling at your lips.
His personality somehow translated perfectly even through text messages alone—easygoing, playful, ridiculously approachable despite being one of the biggest celebrities in the world.
It reminded you exactly why he used to be your ultimate bias years ago. There was something naturally charming about him.
You quickly typed a reply before you could overthink it too much.
You: yes! i am checking them out hehe.. the batteries are currently charging, the cards are safe, and i’m currently fighting for my life trying to untangle these wires hahaha
good luck with rehearsal!! see you tomorrow!
The second you pressed send, immediate regret flooded your body. You stared at your message in horror.
Why did I sound like that?
Your cheeks burned violently as you reread the multiple “hehe’s” and unnecessary laughter typed into the conversation like a teenager texting her crush for the first time.
You physically covered your face with your hands.
“Oh my God,” you groaned into your palms. It wasn’t like you were trying to flirt.
Or maybe… just a little bit.
Which honestly made the situation infinitely worse.
You used to be an incredibly dedicated ARMY once upon a time, and frankly...this entire situation was making your heart malfunction.
Working for Jungkook, texting Jungkook and meeting Jungkook.
It all felt unreal in the most dangerous way possible.
But you forced yourself to set the fangirl part aside before it completely consumed you. You needed to stay professional, calm and composed.
Otherwise, you were genuinely convinced you’d suffer a stroke before filming a single decent piece of content for him.
So instead of spiraling, you spent the entire night practicing.
Testing the cameras, learning the settings...adjusting lighting.
Checking the microphones repeatedly to make sure the audio sounded clean.
You edited random sample clips until your eyes burned from exhaustion, determined to familiarize yourself with the equipment enough to at least fake confidence tomorrow.
And somehow, by pure fear-driven determination alone, morning arrived faster than expected.
You woke up early to practice filming one last time before leaving, moving around the hotel room with nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin. You were oddly dedicated now...almost desperate—to prove that hiring you wasn’t a mistake.
After showering, you dressed carefully in clothes that screamed “professional videographer” despite the fact that you absolutely were not one.
A black long-sleeved polo, dark slacks and black shoes. You even tied your hair back neatly, staring at yourself in the mirror afterward like you were about to infiltrate the FBI instead of filming golf content.
A knock sounded at your hotel door.
“Good day, Ms. Y/N. Are you ready?”
You immediately straightened up before opening it, greeted by one of the bodyguards Jungkook assigned to escort you. His black shades reflected your visibly nervous expression back at you.
“Yes,” you answered quickly, trying to sound more confident than you felt.
Before leaving, you double-checked everything one last time—the batteries, memory cards, laptop, chargers—making sure nothing important was missing before following the bodyguard downstairs.
Outside, a sleek black car waited for you.
Your heartbeat quickened the moment you stepped inside.
You were scheduled to arrive an hour earlier than Jungkook so you could prepare the equipment and set everything up properly before filming started. Which meant you had an entire hour alone to panic in peace.
The ride itself was painfully quiet. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the car while city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Your hands rested stiffly over your bag, fingers nervously tapping against the expensive camera inside while your thoughts spiraled endlessly.
You swallowed hard. “I can do this,” you whispered quietly to yourself.
Though honestly, you sounded unconvinced. The moment the golf course entrance came into view, your stomach twisted so violently you almost gagged.
Oh God. This was actually happening.
The bodyguard escorted you inside shortly after, guiding you toward the smaller private golf area before leaving you alone to prepare your setup.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
You slowly placed the equipment down, inhaling deeply as the morning breeze brushed against your face. The golf course stretched beautifully beneath the early sunlight, calm and expensive and intimidating all at once.
And somewhere in the middle of unpacking tripods with trembling hands, one horrifying realization settled heavily into your chest.
Soon, Jungkook was going to arrive.
You looked around quietly, taking in the golf course while trying to calm the violent beating of your heart.
The place felt tucked away from the rest of the world somehow—small, peaceful, almost unreal in its stillness. Unlike the massive championship courses you usually saw online, this one felt more intimate. The holes were laid out closer together across smooth fairways trimmed so perfectly they looked like green velvet beneath the morning sun.
Small sand bunkers curved around the landscape, soft hills rolling gently beneath clean white flags planted in the distance.
No screaming crowds, no cameras flashing endlessly...just the distant rustling of trees, the muted hum of golf carts somewhere farther away, and every now and then, the satisfying thunk of a golf club striking a ball cleanly through the air.
Though, it would’ve been relaxing if you weren’t moments away from throwing up from anxiety.
Your hands were already sweaty as you unpacked the equipment carefully, trying not to look like you had absolutely no clue what you were doing. You adjusted the camera repeatedly, searching for decent angles while silently thanking every higher power possible that there weren’t many people around.
Only a few locals occupied the course, minding their own business.
Good.
Less witnesses for your downfall.
You became so focused on testing camera movements and practicing steady shots that you completely failed to notice someone approaching behind you.
It wasn’t until you angled the camera upward during practice that your soul nearly exited your body.
Jungkook stood directly in frame, smiling right into the lens. Your heart stopped.
“Hi,” he greeted warmly, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced at the camera in your hands. “Looks like you’re having fun already.”
A black sports bag rested beside your equipment now, meaning he must’ve walked over while you were too busy pretending to be a professional filmmaker to notice.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my God—”
You almost tripped over your own feet while hurriedly lowering the camera, panic rushing through your body all at once.
“I was just, um—checking the angles,” you explained nervously, mentally cursing yourself for sounding so awkward. “Nice to meet you! I’m Y/N.”
You quickly wiped your damp palms against your slacks before offering your hand to him politely.
Up close, he somehow looked even more unreal. Tall, broad-shouldered, with beautiful tattoos curling around his arm, silver piercings catching the sunlight softly whenever he smiled.
And unfortunately for your sanity, he was even more handsome in person. The kind of handsome that made it difficult to think properly when he looked at you for too long.
He chuckled softly before taking your hand in his.
Your brain short-circuited immediately.
Dressed in a fitted white polo shirt and black Nike shorts, a black cap resting low over his dark hair in a way that somehow made him look both ridiculously expensive and effortlessly casual at the same time.
The shirt did absolutely nothing to hide how built he was.
You could see the outline of his muscles beneath the fabric every time he moved, his shoulders broad enough to almost completely block the sunlight from where you stood.
“Hello,” he said warmly, shaking your hand once. “I’m Jungkook. Nice to meet you too.” Your cheeks instantly burned.
Seeing him through a screen was one thing. Seeing him in person felt entirely different.
He was so much more charismatic up close it almost irritated you. His bunny teeth peeked out whenever he smiled, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners while he spoke in that easy, friendly tone that made it impossible not to relax around him.
His entire aura felt bright somehow...and dangerously charming.
You were absolutely screwed.
“I’ll leave the filming techniques up to you,” he continued casually, walking over toward the cooler nearby. “Feel free to film me however you want. No pressure.”
No pressure.
As if your nervous system wasn’t already collapsing in on itself.
He grabbed a cold bottle of water before offering another one toward you naturally, like this entire situation wasn’t surreal at all.
“Thank you,” you answered quickly, taking the bottle before immediately setting it aside again. “Uh—I’ll start filming now!”
You lifted the camera again with almost aggressive determination, eager to gather as much footage as possible. More clips meant more editing options later. More editing options meant a smaller chance of exposing yourself as a complete fraud.
Jungkook raised an amused brow at your sudden seriousness, his gaze briefly traveled over your outfit before returning to your face.
“You sure?” he asked lightly. “You don’t wanna eat first? I still have to stretch and stuff anyway.”
You shook your head immediately. “Nope.”
Your grip tightened around the camera slightly. “I wanna include behind-the-scenes snippets too, so…” you explained, trying your best to sound professional despite your racing heart. “This would actually be good footage.”
The determination in your voice made Jungkook smile again. And for some reason, that tiny look of approval made your stomach flip harder than it should have.
Jungkook chuckled softly. “Alright,” he said easily. “Just tell me if you need specific details or angles.”
Then he walked toward the side of the golf course to begin stretching.
You immediately followed after him with the camera clutched in your hands exactly the way you practiced all night, quickly pressing record before your nerves could stop you.
At first, things seemed to be going surprisingly well. You filmed everything.
His warm-ups were slow, deliberate...like he was already in control of everything around him.
The way he adjusted his gloves with quiet precision. The subtle flex of his arms as he set up his iron, muscles shifting beneath fabric like something effortless and practiced. The clean, confident swing of the club cutting through air before striking the ball with a sharp, satisfying sound. The soft crunch of grass beneath his shoes as he shifted his stance, grounding himself between each shot.
Then the stillness between it all.
Him sitting down beneath the shade, momentarily retreating from the sun. Him lifting a bottle of water to his lips, throat moving as he drank, the back of his hand brushing sweat away from his neck without much thought.
You practically documented his entire existence.
At one point, you even almost followed him toward the restroom before your brain caught up with your body at the last second.
You genuinely thought you were doing an amazing job.
From your perspective, more footage meant more options later during editing. You didn’t want to miss a single moment that could potentially look cinematic or useful.
But from Jungkook’s perspective… It was a little concerning.
At first, he simply watched quietly. He noticed the small mistakes immediately—the way you held the camera too stiffly sometimes, the awkward adjustments of the lens, the shaky transitions between movements.
Still, he tried convincing himself that maybe you were just getting comfortable with the equipment. Maybe you simply needed time.
But as the day continued, realization slowly settled in. Especially when he caught you aggressively zooming into completely unnecessary details before quickly rotating the lens too fast, creating footage that would probably look dizzying when played back.
Beginner.
The word settled into his thoughts almost instantly. You followed him everywhere with unwavering focus, constantly checking the framing, adjusting settings, filming from different angles even when your hands visibly started struggling beneath the camera’s weight.
By the time he returned from the restroom later that afternoon, he paused slightly at the sight of you near the equipment table.
You were rotating your shoulders carefully with a tired grimace, trying to ease the soreness from carrying the camera all day. Sweat clung lightly against your forehead beneath the heat of the sun, and your fingers looked faintly red from gripping the equipment for hours.
Still, the moment you noticed him approaching again, you instinctively reached for the camera.
“I think you have enough footage for today,” Jungkook said quietly before you could pick it up again.
His voice carried something firmer now. Your hands froze mid-motion.
You blinked at him in confusion. “Huh?” you asked, adjusting your grip on the camera. “But you’re not done yet.”
He was still in the middle of playing. There were still shots left, more footage you could take, more angles you could practice.
But instead of continuing, Jungkook simply placed the iron back onto the rack with a quiet sigh.
Something about his body language had changed. Subtle, but noticeable.
The playful brightness from earlier dimmed slightly, exhaustion settling into the slope of his shoulders as he rubbed the back of his neck.
And suddenly, anxiety crept beneath your skin.
Was he disappointed?
The answer was yes. Not angry…but disappointed enough to realize the truth little by little throughout the day.
You don’t have any clue on what you were doing.
The way you handled the camera, the inconsistent framing, the random zoom-ins, the awkward adjustments every few seconds—it was painfully obvious that you were inexperienced.
And for a brief moment, ugly thoughts crossed his mind despite himself.
He trusted you.
Even without polished sample reels or impressive portfolios, he still chose to trust you. Your cover letter had been painfully sincere, especially the part about wanting independence. Wanting to do things on your own so you wouldn’t burden your parents, wanting to make them proud and wanting to stand on your own feet.
A lot of people sent him impressive applications. High-quality edits, cinematic videos and professional portfolios crafted carefully to catch his attention. Thousands of direct messages flooded his account constantly, most of them blending together into meaningless noise after a while.
But yours stood out somehow.
Maybe it was the formal profile picture that made him laugh- looked strangely earnest among the endless stream of unserious messages. Maybe it was the desperation hidden between your carefully written sentences. Or maybe it was simply because your letter resonated with him more than he expected it to.
He understood that kind of desperation.
That overwhelming need to prove yourself to the world.
He had been independent from a young age too, forced to grow up far earlier than most people ever had to. He knew what it felt like to carry pressure so heavy it started shaping the person you became.
But still—
Maybe you lied just to get close to him.
Maybe you wanted the money.
Maybe you were just another person trying to take advantage of him somehow.
God knew he had already met far too many people like that.
But every time those thoughts surfaced, they disappeared almost instantly the second he looked at you again.
Because you were trying so hard.
The determination written across your face all day felt painfully genuine, from the way you followed him around with aching arms to the sweat gathering near your forehead while you forced yourself to keep filming despite your obvious exhaustion.
You looked less like a manipulative opportunist and more like someone desperately trying not to fail.
Still, disappointment lingered quietly beneath his ribs. A dull ache he couldn’t quite shake away no matter how sincere you looked trying to impress him.
And instead of sending you home immediately, another thought slowly crept into his mind.
Something dangerous and mean.
Something dirty enough to make his pulse slow.
He wanted to punish you for it.
Not enough to truly hurt you—never that...but enough to make you understand exactly what happened when you lied to him. Enough to leave you breathless beneath the weight of his attention, overwhelmed by the consequences of trying to fool him so boldly.
Jungkook had always been competitive for a reason.
He hated losing, hated being made a fool of.
And now that you had managed to slip past his guard so easily, there was no way he was letting you walk away untouched by it.
Oh, he was going to have so much fun with you.
“I wanna film something,” he finally said instead, voice quieter now. More serious.
Your breath caught slightly at the sudden change in tone. The warmth from earlier had faded into something calmer.
“Oh,” you answered softly, momentarily caught off guard. “Okay! What kind of content?”
You quickly stood up and began fixing the equipment into your bags, noticing him grab his car keys from beside his sports bag.
“You’ll see,” he said simply, before turning toward the exit.
Your own brows furrowed in confusion. The schedule he sent clearly stated golf content for today.
Still, you followed him quietly anyway. When he told you to ride with him instead of the escort vehicle, your confusion deepened even more, though you didn’t question it aloud. Maybe he wanted driving footage or some cinematic clips for the vlog.
That had to be it.
Your heart thumped nervously as you climbed into his car beside him, immediately noticing how sleek and absurdly expensive the interior looked. The soft scent of fresh mint lingered in the air, clean and comforting somehow.
The realization that you were sitting inside Jungkook’s car with Jungkook himself nearly made your soul leave your body.
Your hands instinctively reached toward the camera bag.
“No,” Jungkook chuckled softly the moment he noticed. “You’re not gonna film here, pretty girl.”
Pretty girl.
Your entire brain stopped functioning. Heat rushed violently into your cheeks as you slowly pulled your hands away from the bag.
“Oh,” you answered weakly. “Okay…”
You bit your lip afterward, turning slightly toward the window to hide your expression while curiosity twisted tighter inside your chest.
Where exactly was he taking you?
The moment you saw the familiar hotel building come into view through the windshield, confusion settled deeper into your chest.
You followed Jungkook quietly through the lobby, nerves buzzing beneath your skin with every step.
He had gone strangely quiet after golf. Still calm, still composed—but not as bright as before. The easy smiles disappeared, replaced by something heavier lingering beneath his expression, and it made your stomach tighten painfully.
“Uhm…” you started carefully while standing beside him inside the elevator. “Are you gonna get a few more cameras or something?”
The elevator doors slid shut. Jungkook glanced at you briefly, his doe eyes half-lidded in a way that made your throat suddenly feel dry.
“Take a guess.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. Something about his tone made nervousness crawl violently through your body. And when the elevator finally opened onto your floor, Jungkook grabbed your wrist without warning.
You gasped softly, he dragged you out impatiently, long strides carrying the two of you quickly down the hallway toward your hotel room. His grip wasn’t painful, but firm enough to make your pulse race uncontrollably beneath your skin.
By the time you stopped in front of your door, your mind was already spiraling. Jungkook looked down at you expectantly, his pupils dilated, still holding your wrist while waiting for you to unlock the room.
Did he figure it out? The thought struck so hard your chest physically tightened.
Your fingers trembled slightly while pulling out the keycard. Guilt flooded your system all at once, thick and suffocating.
You were scared.
Scared he’d yell at you. Scared he’d confiscate the equipment. Scared he’d have you booked on the next flight home before you even had a chance to explain yourself.
Completely unaware of the way his dark, playful mind worked. Completely unaware of how badly he wanted to punish you.
“Jungkook, I—”
But the words died immediately when he walked past you instead.
He took the camera bag from your hands and moved straight toward the table, pulling out the camera you used earlier before checking the rest of the equipment you left behind.
You blinked in confusion. Huh?
Jungkook grabbed another camera calmly before setting up one of the tripods with practiced ease. The way his fingers moved across the equipment was fast and precise, adjusting settings effortlessly while rotating the camera into position like second nature. His shoulders flexed beneath the white polo each time he lifted the tripod, veins bulging faintly along his tattooed forearms while he fixed the lighting behind it.
Your lips parted slightly without meaning to. He looked ridiculously good doing something as simple as setting up cameras.
“W-What are you doing?” you stammered, confused.
Jungkook glanced back at you over his shoulder while tightening something near the tripod head.
“Sit on the bed for me.”
Your stomach flipped violently. “H-Huh? I mean okay,” you answered quietly, swallowing hard before slowly moving toward the bed.
You sat carefully near the edge while watching him continue adjusting the setup.
With one hand alone, Jungkook lifted the heavy tripod effortlessly and positioned it directly in front of the bed, angling the camera downward toward where you sat.
The veins along his arms flexed again beneath the strain.
Your throat went completely dry. The room suddenly felt much smaller than before.
Hotter too.
You watched silently as he grabbed another tripod, this time placing it to the right side of the bed. Both cameras pointed directly at you now. And for some reason, the sight made your heartbeat pound harder than ever before.
He looked through the camera lens carefully, head tilting slightly as he adjusted the angle. “Lay down on the bed.”
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “What—”
“Lay down.” he commanded sharply.
This time, his tone came out firmer. Leaving absolutely no room for argument.
And somehow, the way he looked at you through the camera lens sent a sharp shiver crawling down your spine.
To your own horror, excitement slowly started mixing with the fear curling inside your stomach.
You almost wanted to slap yourself for it.
You swallowed hard before slowly slipping your shoes off, awkwardly climbing farther onto the bed until your back rested against the headboard.
Every movement suddenly felt painfully self-aware beneath the cameras pointed directly at you.
Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek thoughtfully while studying the frame through the viewfinder, eventually stepping forward again to move the tripod closer.
Before you could shift yourself lower against the mattress, he suddenly walked toward you instead. Your breath hitched the second he crouched down in front of you holding the clip-on microphone.
He leaned in close enough for you to catch the faint scent of mint lingering on him.
“You forgot these earlier,” he said lightly, though there was something mocking beneath the softness of his voice now.
“Oh,” you answered weakly. “Uhm… I was in a rush, so…” Your cheeks burned instantly from embarrassment.
Of course you forgot the microphones!
Jungkook raised a brow slowly. “You were in a rush?” he repeated with a quiet chuckle before standing back up again.
Then he walked toward the table and grabbed the smaller digital camcorder, casually aiming it toward you.
The amount of cameras pointed at you now made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Instinctively, you tried sitting up straighter, but Jungkook stopped you immediately.
“Stay still,” he said calmly. “I wanna test the cameras.”
“Test the cameras?”
“I think you need a little demo, baby.” Your heartbeat stopped. “You weren’t doing a very good job earlier.” The teasing mockery in his tone hit you like a truck.
And suddenly everything crashed down at once. Your eyes widened in horror.
Fuck. He knew.
Heat rushed violently into your face and neck, humiliation crawling across your entire body so intensely it almost hurt. Your chest tightened painfully while tears burned behind your eyes before you could stop them.
You looked away instinctively, shame flooding every inch of you.
God, this was so embarrassing.
“J-Jungkook, please,” you stammered quickly, panic slipping into your voice. “I’m not trying to scam you or anything, it’s just that—”
He stepped closer until his knees brushed against the edge of the bed.
And somehow, that almost satisfied look on his face made your stomach twist even more.
You looked so shy...like a poor little thing unknowingly walking straight into his hands.
His gaze lingered on you with dangerous amusement, as though you had already become his favorite test subject for the cameras.
Dark lazy eyes dragged slowly across your body, taking their time, shamelessly roaming over every inch of you while his imagination sparked vividly to life. You could almost see the thoughts forming behind his eyes—every filthy thing he wanted to do to you, every position he wanted to bend you into, every sound he wanted to force out of your mouth while the cameras kept recording.
And somehow, what excited him even more was the thought of filming it all. Editing it afterward. Watching you fall apart for him frame by frame.
“Shh,” he murmured softly. “It’s okay.”
Your watery eyes lifted toward him immediately. “I’ll teach you how to film, hmm?” he said mockingly.
“W-What?” Your lips parted in disbelief.
Jungkook tilted his head slightly, dark eyes fixed on yours with an unreadable expression.
“Gonna show you the right angles, baby,” he cooed. “What do you think?” He smiled without humor.
The contrast made you shiver. “B-But…”
“Will you cooperate with me?” he asked, voice smooth and almost condescending, like he was speaking to a child. His fingers tapped lightly against one of the cameras beside him. “We wouldn’t want these cameras to go to waste, would we?”
Your throat tightened. Part of you wanted to disappear completely. To book the next flight home, apologize profusely, and somehow repay every expense he wasted on you.
But another part of you—the younger version buried deep inside your chest, the girl who once stayed up all night watching his videos and smiling at her screen—couldn’t let go of this moment.
Because despite everything, Jungkook still hadn’t thrown you out.
He wasn’t yelling at you.
He was giving you another chance.
And maybe that meant you still had an opportunity to prove yourself.
Thousands of people probably wanted your position right now. Yet somehow, he was still here. Patient enough to teach you himself.
Completely unaware of how dangerous that patience actually was.
Because the lessons Jungkook had in mind were nothing like the ones you were expecting.
So slowly, you nodded.
Hope flickered weakly beneath your embarrassment while your thoughts tangled themselves around one desperate need: to impress him somehow.
“Okay,” you whispered nervously. “I—I learn fast when someone’s teaching me and…”
Jungkook raised a thick brow at you. “Pretty girl’s a fast learner, huh?”
Your cheeks immediately reddened again. You nodded shyly despite the obvious teasing in his tone, unconsciously pouting a little from embarrassment.
His eyes went down to your lips, eyes darkening. “Can you count the cameras for me?” he asked a bit impatiently.
You glanced around quickly toward the setup.
The two cameras mounted on tripods.
The camcorder in his hand.
“There’s three,” you answered softly.
Jungkook chuckled under his breath. “Good job, baby.” he slowly lifted the camcorder higher, zooming the lens closer toward your face.
“Now look here.”
You shyly looked into the camera lens, your cheeks dusted with pink beneath the warm lights.
The way Jungkook stared at you through the camcorder made you shrink into yourself slightly, suddenly aware of every little movement you made on the bed.
He tilted his head slowly. “So pretty.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Heat crawled up your neck as you shifted uncomfortably against the mattress, fingers curling slightly into the sheets. The entire situation suddenly felt strangely intimate, and for a second your thoughts drifted somewhere dangerous before you quickly forced yourself to focus again.
This is just a demo! He’s teaching you.
“Open the first few buttons of your top,” he said, voice quieter now as he continued looking at you through the camcorder.
Your eyes widened instantly.
Did I hear that right?
“W-What?” you nearly choked out, pulse quickening embarrassingly fast despite how badly this entire situation could end for you.
And somehow, against all logic, excitement started curling through your stomach.
“Need you to cooperate, baby,” he answered smoothly. “Come on, do a nice show for me.”
The teasing edge in his tone made your stomach twist nervously.
You hesitated for a moment before slowly bringing your shaky fingers toward your top, feeling painfully aware of the cameras pointed at you from different angles.
Jungkook watched carefully through the lens, adjusting the focus ring slightly while observing the framing.
“That’s it.” he encouraged.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, fingers trembling as you slowly undid the first few buttons of your blouse. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, burning the tips of your ears as the reality of the situation settled deeper beneath your skin.
He’s filming a sex tape.
You were so fucking stupid because instead of panicking properly, instead of running or completely losing your mind, you were following him blindly. Worse...you were getting excited.
Fuck, you should’ve been crashing out right now.
But the way he looked at you— God.
It felt like he wanted to devour you whole. His dark eyes dragged over every inch of exposed skin with quiet hunger, liquid heat pulsed embarrassingly between the gap of your thighs before you could stop it.
“Open your eyes baby, stare at the camera.” he said firmly, an obvious edge underneath it.
You slowly opened your eyes. Your cheeks were already burning, breath uneven as you finished unbuttoning the last one, revealing just enough of your chest to make your thoughts scatter. The camera lens felt heavier now, more invasive, like it was watching you breathe, waiting for you to make the wrong move.
“Hmm…touch your breasts baby, give it a nice squeeze for me.” he whispered, still holding the camcorder, directing it with the ease of someone who knew exactly what every angle captured.
Completely under his control, you obeyed, your hands moving hesitantly at first before you held yourself through the fabric, giving a light squeeze that made your breath hitch. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to stay steady, trying to keep your eyes locked on the camera like he told you, even as your vision softened at the edges and your body betrayed your focus.
The room felt smaller now. You were getting so wet.
Jungkook let out a low groan, eyes still fixed through the lens.
“Remove your top, wanna see your pretty nipples.”
Your ears burned red at the filthy undertone. With shaky hands, you slowly pulled your top off, revealing the white lace bra beneath. The delicate fabric hugged the soft swell of your breasts perfectly, and the moment Jungkook’s eyes settled on them through the camera lens, another wave of heat rushed through your body.
You slowly tugged at the first strap, then the second, freeing your breasts as your nipples hardened, flushed and sensitive against the cool air.
“That’s it,” he instructed, voice steady. “Roll those pretty nipples for me.”
You obeyed, pinching them gently before rolling them between your fingers. Your lips parted at the rush of sensation that followed, breath catching as your panties got more stickier with your arousal.
When your gaze dropped, you noticed the strain in his black shorts—the obvious tent pressing against the fabric. A shiver ran down your spine at the realization that despite his composed, professional expression as he filmed you, he wasn’t unaffected.
He groaned, zooming in on how you were rolling and pinching your nipples, his cock throbbing at the sight, precum leaking from its mushroom tip.
“Bring your hand to your mouth,” he ordered, directing the camera at your face. “Now, spit on it.”
You whimpered. Like a good girl, you gathered your saliva and spat thickly onto your palms, showing it to him after.
He bit his lower lip, his cock getting so hard from your submissiveness. “Good girl, now rub it on your nipples—make it nice and wet for me,” he rasped.
You rubbed the spit on your breast, the warm, sticky fluid on your nipples feeling so raw and dirty, spreading the saliva messily as he watched you through the lens with hooded eyes.
You were getting so horny, the dirty act turning you on so much that you could feel your panties sticking to your core.
“Look at you,” he chuckled, slowly reaching toward you. “I bet you’re so wet right now.”
You looked so pretty—your neatly done hair now slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from all the things he’d been instructing you to do, pebbled nipples glistening under the camera lights. Your legs trembled slightly, aching to be touched, your lips parting every now and then as your breath turned uneven, eyes hazy and unfocused.
The sight made Jungkook’s cock throb painfully hard.
His pretty little doll.
He handed you the camcorder. “Hold this, baby. Show them who’s making you this wet.”
With shaky hands and glossy eyes, you took the camera and tried to point it toward him, your eyes rolling back when he removed his white polo shirt and black shorts, leaving him in his gray Calvin Klein boxers.
You whimpered as you could see the outline of his huge cock, precum leaking at the tip, wetting the center of the cloth.
“Your angle is wrong,” he raised a brow, noticing how your shaky hands were failing a bit at holding the camera properly.
You panicked. “I’m sorry,” you rushed out, trying to straighten it, ignoring the painful pulses between your legs—your body begging to be touched.
He chuckled, leaning over you. “It’s okay, baby. That’s why we have another camera.”
His hands came up to your cheeks, gently holding and angling your face to the right so you could look toward the second camera set up by the side of the bed. “I bet you’d look so good getting fucked from that angle,” he whispered.
His grip on your cheeks tightened slightly, squishing them just enough as the camera captured everything—the way your eyes fluttered, the way your nipples hardened under his gaze, the way your legs shifted restlessly, searching for any kind of friction.
You gasped loudly when his free hand went down to cup your pussy through your pants, your eyes rolling back as he felt the wetness through the fabric.
“Fuck, let me see how wet you are, yeah?”
With one hand, he unzipped your pants, pulling them down in one forceful motion while his other hand remained on your cheeks, keeping your gaze fixed on the camera. Your other hand trembled as it tried to capture what he was doing below.
“Capture this, baby,” he breathed, guiding your hand holding the camcorder to angle it downward, towards your wet pussy.
You almost dropped the camera when he suddenly slapped your cunt, your panties nearly see-through from how wet they were with your arousal.
“Jungkook~” you whimpered.
He sat up and held both of your legs, spreading them wider until your ankles were almost on either side of the bed.
“You’re so wet, I can see your cute little slit through your panties baby.” He chuckled, leaning down and hollowing his cheeks to spit right above your clothed clit, making it even messier.
You whimpered, your toes curling at the sensation, gripping the camcorder tightly as you felt him crouch down, spreading his spit over your panties. His warm tongue then licked along your pussy through the fabric, slotting between your folds, the wet material pressing inside your slit.
“Make sure the camera can see how good I’m gonna eat this pussy.” He whispered while looking at you, flipping your panties to the side and groaning when he saw how wet and pink you were, his jaw slackening as he took almost your whole pussy into his warm mouth.
It was so wet and messy, and you could see him through the mini screen of the camcorder, maintaining direct eye contact with the lens while eating you out, making sure to pull back your hood so the camera could capture how his lips would wrapped around your swollen clit.
He suctioned around it, spreading more spit, sucking as if his life depended on it, then moved down to gather your juices before sliding his hot tongue inside you, coaxing more from you. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, showing you how he drank every bit of your wetness.
“That feels so g-good.” You moaned, trying to zoom in on how his tongue played with your folds.
He hummed, the vibrations making you twitch in pleasure.
“Yeah? This feels good?” he asked, sucking harshly on your clit as your eyes rolled back, your release building up fast. Your pussy throbbed, your clit growing more sensitive with every passing second.
“I’m gonna-’’
You moaned loudly when he buried his face deeper, never letting go of your throbbing clit, his head moving from side to side as he groaned low against you. When he finally let go of your clit, you gasped as he gathered a thick amount of saliva, hollowing his cheeks to spit harshly down on you, then leaning back in with his tongue out to spread it in slow, kitten-like licks.
When he looked up again at the lens, you exploded, your orgasm so intense you could feel your pussy pulsating so hard you almost saw stars.
‘’Stop, please!” You whined, overstimulated as he kept licking your cunt, your legs shaking from the oversensitivity.
His chin and nose were soaked, his lips slightly red and pouty, his dark locks messy, and his pupils dilated. You gasped when he suddenly removed his boxers; his cock was hard and pretty, curving slightly upward, decorated with thick veins and a red, swollen mushroom tip.
Jungkook took the camera and angled it towards you, wide glossy eyes looking up at him weakly.
“Say… thank you for making me cum, Jungkook.” He breathed, his other hand gripping his cock as he spread the precum along his shaft.
“Thank you for m-making me cum, Jungkook.” You croaked, your legs still trembling from your intense orgasm.
He smiled proudly. “My smart girl, very good at following instructions,” he praised, placing the camcorder down beside you and angling it so it could capture how his mouth leaned down to suck your nipples, while his free hand squeezed and rolled the other bud between his fingers.
“Jungkook—” you moaned as his tongue twirled and sucked around your breast, just like he had done to your clit—messy and pouty with saliva.
He bit your nipple playfully, earning a soft whimper from you, his tattooed hand reaching down to cup your swollen pussy.
You gasped when he inserted his middle finger, your walls tightening around the intrusion.
“You’re so tight and warm.” He murmured against your nipple, letting it go with a soft pop before moving to suck on the other one.
You whimpered, your pussy growing wetter from the way he sucked and played with your nipples, the pad of his middle finger brushing against your spongy spot, making you writhe in pleasure.
“Please- too much.” You moaned, his middle finger going so deep that his knuckles were hitting your ass, his finger curling in a “come here” motion inside you, rubbing your spot deliciously as your tight hole produced more juices, the feeling of your previous release being pushed inside you making you tremble.
He let go of your nipple and leaned in immediately, pouty lips capturing yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, messy and demanding, tangling with yours as the kiss deepened and turned overwhelming.
At the same time, his other hand moved up to your throat, fingers wrapping gently around the column of your neck, giving it a light squeeze as he held you in place.
Your lips parted in response, and he took the opportunity to push his tongue deeper, exploring every corner of your mouth, sucking on your tongue and swallowing your whines and protests.
His hard cock pressed against your inner thigh, impossibly close to your wet pussy, grinding lightly as he shifted. You could feel his precum, warm and slick, and the firm pressure of his mushroom tip against your skin made you bite back a shaky breath, a mix of pleasure and nerves twisting together inside you.
Your walls tightened around his finger, making it almost impossible for him to move it from how tightly your pussy gripped him.
He groaned, biting your lip and nudging your thighs wider with his legs, inserting another finger and making you gasp from the mix of pain and pleasure. He swallowed your moans, almost bruising your tongue from the way he was kissing you, the air in your lungs growing limited every time he squeezed your throat.
“Shh, behave for the camera.” he whispered, his thumb caressing your throat while his middle and ring fingers rubbed your spongy spot in slow circles.
Tears fell from your eyes, the overstimulation and edging making you cry from pain. You had already come, but you wanted to cum again so badly, your pussy aching and throbbing for another release, his fingers brushing your g-spot in a teasing, ticklish way, making you shake and move your legs in protest.
“Let me cum again, please, please…” you pleaded, fat tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.
He gripped your throat a little tighter, making you gasp for air. “Aww, you wanna come again?” he cooed.
You nodded desperately, moving your hips to meet his fingers. “Yes, please.”
He chuckled at you. “So polite.” he said, lazily grabbing the camcorder from the side and angling it down towards your spent pussy. “Spread wide, baby.”
You immediately held your ankles, making yourself completely open for him, desperate for release, your body aching from denied pleasure.
He angled the camera at your twitching hole, filming how your wetness dripped down the sheets. He held his hard cock, spitting down onto his shaft and pumping it a few times before angling himself towards your wet cunt.
You gasped loudly when his blunt head entered your hole, biting your lip harshly at the foreign intrusion, the stretch nearly overwhelming you from his swollen mushroom tip alone.
“So big…” you whimpered, holding your ankles tightly as a new wave of tears gathered in your eyes.
Your breath hitched, trembling as you tried to adjust, the sensation stealing every coherent thought from your mind.
Jungkook cursed under his breath, zooming in on your wet cunt to capture how your walls were sucking him in.
“Your pussy looks so good on camera baby, so tight and pretty.” He grunted, pushing halfway in and earning a loud moan from you.
His bangs stuck to his forehead, his lip ring catching the light as he bit down on his lower lip. His broad chest rose and fell heavily, veins tracing along his neck, flushed and taut with effort. Even like this, he held the camera with unnerving steadiness, like nothing about the moment could shake his focus.
So steady and professional at producing sex tapes.
When he bottomed out, you almost fainted, the stretch overwhelming—painful yet intoxicating—as he pressed fully against you. His balls settled deep, his pelvis flush with yours, the soft trim of hair brushing your clit each time he rolled his hips.
He groaned harshly. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, his jaw clenching as your walls enveloped him.
“Relax, baby—you’re gripping me,” he groaned weakly, this time angling the camera toward your face.
You whimpered, trying to cover your face with your small hands, but he caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head. His sudden hard thrusts made your body bounce slightly with every movement, leaving you breathless.
“Don’t be shy, baby—show your pretty face to the camera,” he drawled lazily, angling it towards your flushed expression.
“Show them how good I’m making you feel.” He grunted, rolling his hips against you. The curve of his cock hitting your g-spot perfectly, buried so deep that he barely pulled out at all—only circling his hips, grinding in a way that made it feel like he wanted to push even further. The sensation drew a sharp arch through your back.
His gaze stayed locked on you through the screen, lips parted, breath uneven—like he was caught between control and losing it. The way your pussy gripped him made his cock throb, his expression darkening with something possessive and unspoken.
“Look at you, whimpering like a pretty little slut.” he said in a condescending tone.
“I-I’m not a slut.” You pouted, your walls tightening around him at his degrading tone.
He raised a brow. “Oh really? You think a lot of people won’t agree once I upload this?”
Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your flushed face as his thrusts turned harsher and sloppier, the rhythm giving away how close he was getting. You were almost impressed that he was still managing to keep the camera steady.
“N-No, you are not gonna do that,” you panicked, your eyes wide and glossy, your small hands trying to push the camera away.
He grunted, his cock throbbing as he felt your pussy tighten around him. He shifted just enough to avoid the camera when you reached for it, tightening his grip around both your wrists so you couldn’t move.
“You like that, huh? Come on, pretty—let me film you properly.” He snapped his hips harder, angling the lens toward you while your bodies met in sharp, rhythmic collisions.
The friction made your breath hitch, your clit brushing against his pubic hair in a way that sent jolts of pleasure racing through your body. His grip tightened around the camcorder, breathing uneven as he watched you come apart through the screen, completely drunk on the sounds you were making for him.
“Moan louder.” he commanded.
You moaned loudly, your chest rising and falling as his harsh movements made your body react against him. His eyes rolled back slightly from the way you kept pulsating around him, every drag sending him deeper into overstimulation.
He bit his lip. “My dirty girl, getting fucked on film.” he rasped.
Then, abruptly, he let go of the camcorder and set it aside.
A soft sound escaped him as he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Before you could fully register it, he was already moving you—pulling your body forward and repositioning you in front of him.
He settled behind you, guiding you into place so that you were now facing the cameras on the tripod, your body fully on display while his broad chest and hard cock pressed close from behind.
“You see those two cameras baby?’’ he whispered behind your ear, spreading your legs wide.
“Yes.” you replied weakly.
You gasped loudly when he entered you from behind, your body settling against his lap as his thighs kept your legs spread wide, positioning you so the camera could clearly capture the way he entered you.
“Smile for them baby, need some footage from this angle.’’ He cooed softly, thrusting his hips upward while his other arm circled around your waist to keep you steady.
You moaned, trembling so badly when you saw how the lights caught both of your bodies—the glittering sheen of sweat, your smudged makeup, and his tattooed colored arms all captured in high definition under the harsh glow.
"My pretty pretty girl, should I post this? show them how I fuck?" he murmured against your skin before pressing a kiss to your cheek, his tongue brushing lightly over the dampness left behind by your earlier tears.
The tenderness of it contrasted so badly with the hunger in his voice that it made your breath hitch. His hand cradled your face carefully, thumb stroking beneath your eye as though he was soothing you and provoking you at the same time, and the way he looked at you through half-lidded eyes made heat rush straight to your chest.
He suddenly grabbed the clip-on mic from your necklace, your eyes widening as you realized he was angling it downward—towards where his cock met your pussy.
“Need to test the mic baby, let the viewers hear how much of a nasty slut you are.”
The mic was so close that every sound was picked up clearly—the wet, obscene squelches echoing as he pushed and pulled inside you, the way he dragged against your tight heat sounding even more intense through the recording. The noise alone felt almost sinful in how loud and wet it was.
“I bet they can hear how tight your pussy is.” he grunted, putting the mic closer to your cunt.
He could feel how slick everything had become, wetting his balls each time he pushed, your arousal makes each movement messier.
“Gonna cum, oh gosh.” You moaned, your body growing hypersensitive as your clit throbbed with the pressure of an approaching orgasm.
He grabbed both of your cheeks when he noticed your head starting to fall back from pleasure, forcing you to look straight at the camera in front of you. “Be a good girl and look at the lens, don’t want my content to be bad quality.’’
His other hand clipped the mic back onto your necklace before sliding down again, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your orgasm edged closer and closer.
“Cum for me baby, show them your cute little juices.”
Your legs were shaking when you finally reached your orgasm, your clit throbbing so intensely, your limbs giving out as your body hit its peak. Your swollen bud pulsed uncontrollably in fast, erratic heart beats, your walls clenching around his cock as he was still thrusting inside you.
Your eyes rolled back into your head when you felt your orgasm stretch further from his deep thrusts, his mushroom tip brushing against your g-spot and dragging you straight into another wave. You came again, consecutively, your body twitching as overstimulation took over, your legs instinctively trying to close.
"J-Jungkook I can't anymore."
Jungkook forced your legs to stay open, his index and middle fingers spreading your pussy lips apart for the camera, showing how your clit pulsed beneath the warm lights while his cock remained buried deep inside you.
''Mhm.. spit on your clit baby, make it extra wet before I use you." he whispered.
You squirmed, obediently leaning down as his fingers kept you spread open. With trembling breaths, you gathered saliva on your tongue before letting it drip down onto your clit, both cameras capturing the filthy sight in sharp detail.
A low curse slipped past Jungkook’s lips at the view, his grip tightening instinctively as he watched you, completely consumed by the way you willingly put yourself on display for him.
He quickly flipped your body down to chase his own pleasure, entering you again and sloppily thrusting into your wet used walls, pushing your cum deeper and deeper inside you. You were so weak, your heart still racing as you weakly reached for the camcorder to film him.
When he saw what you were doing, he groaned harshly, his grip on your hips tightening so hard it bordered on bruising as he held you down.
“My smart girl, you learned well huh?” He praised you, thrusting fast and hard, the camcorder shaking in your grip as you tried to capture his deep strokes.
"Your little brain functioning well with my cock deep inside you.'' he muttered darkly, thumb brushing against your cheek as he watched your expression unravel for him.
“A-Am I doing a good job?” you asked softly, biting your lip as you adjusted the camera to capture his face this time.
He let out a low growl in response, movements losing their rhythm slightly as pleasure started pulling him apart at the edges. “Uh-huh,” he breathed heavily. “You can be my personal little porn star. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
A loud moan escaped you at the thought, heat rushing instantly to your cheeks as you tightened your grip on the camcorder, suddenly far too eager to keep filming him.
“Gonna fuck you anytime I want,” he breathed, dilated eyes locked on you through the lens. “Film it however I like.”
With a harsh final thrust, he came inside you, grunting as he pushed through the last of it, staying buried as he finished, his body still tense with the release. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, warm cum spilling and pooling, some of it leaking out and staining the sheets beneath you while he stayed balls deep.
The camcorder slipped from your grip, forgotten as you breathed heavily beneath him. You were completely spent, still sensitive as his hips gave a few slow, instinctive movements, as if trying to push his cum deeper despite his softening cock.
“Jungkook?” you asked weakly, fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft ruffles of his hair.
“Hmm?” he hummed against your neck, lips pressing lazy kisses there, his cock still buried deep inside you. The red recording lights on the cameras kept blinking steadily in the background.
“A-Are you really gonna post this?” you bit your lip, glancing back at the two large cameras perched on the tripod.
Jungkook let out a quiet chuckle, teeth grazing your skin in a teasing bite. “Mhm. I still need to edit it though.”
“Jungkook!” you squealed, panicking again.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and sharp with need, still carrying that lingering haze of desire. “Do you even know how to edit?” he asked, eyes squinting in playful doubt.
Your eyes widened. “I can edit,” you insisted quickly. “I learned a few things… I kinda know the basics.” Your voice softened at the end, almost uncertain.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he slowly pulled out, earning a shaky breath from you before he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“Hmm. Okay…” he murmured softly, lifting the camcorder slightly between you. “Edit this video for me, then.”
“What, r-really?” you blinked, surprised that he was letting you work for him.
“Uh-huh,” he said casually. “Then we’ll see if I have to keep you or not.”
You pouted instantly at that, but he was already shifting away from you, looking at the camcorder and checking the footage with the ease of someone far too experienced at this.
The screen’s glow reflected faintly against his handsome face as he replayed a few clips, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Even now, completely relaxed, he somehow still looked annoyingly professional.
“Okay…” you mumbled softly, a little disappointment slipping into your voice before you could hide it.
He noticed immediately.
A smirk pulled at his lips as he lifted the camcorder slightly, teasing you with it. “Make sure you include your pretty moans, baby,” he drawled. “Or else we’ll have to retake this again.”
He stood up then, completely unbothered, removing the cameras from their tripods like the decision had already been made long before you realized it.
Summary: Daemon Targaryen never wanted an arranged marriage, especially not to a Baratheon bride. Cold and distant from the very beginning, he leaves his young wife to navigate Dragonstone alone. But on the night she reveals the heartbreaking truth her father hid from everyone, Daemon realizes she has spent her life surviving cruelty disguised as family.
Determined to become the first person to truly protect her, Daemon vows that no one, not her father, not her jealous sisters, not anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, will ever hurt his wife again.
Warnings: Arranged marriage • References to past sexual assault • Emotional and familial abuse • Hurt/Comfort • Protective Daemon • Healing from trauma • Happy ending • She/Her Reader
note: thank you so much for reading my daemon one shot :) I wrote this one forever ago and you can tell by the writing style lol
masterlist
One shot
Daemon Targaryen had not wanted another political marriage.
He had wanted freedom.
A dragon was never meant to wear chains.
Yet here he stood beneath the vaulted ceilings of Storm’s End’s sept, dressed in black and crimson, listening as a septon bound him to Lord Baratheon’s youngest daughter.
To you.
Pretty.
Soft spoken.
Far too young for the venomous court that surrounded him.
You smiled at him after your vows.
He did not smile back.
⸻
The journey to Dragonstone was quiet.
You tried.
Gods, how you tried.
You asked about Caraxes.
About flying.
About King’s Landing.
About Valyria.
Daemon answered with one word replies, if he answered at all.
Eventually…
You stopped asking.
He noticed.
He simply told himself it made the journey quieter.
⸻
Marriage was no different.
Daemon slept in his own chambers more often than not.
He attended council.
He trained.
He flew.
He disappeared for hours at a time.
Whenever servants mentioned his young wife wandering Dragonstone alone, he shrugged.
She would learn.
Everyone did.
⸻
One evening, he found you sitting alone on the beach.
The tide curled around your slippers.
Your skirts were soaked to the knee.
“You’ll catch cold.”
You startled.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You weren’t listening.”
“No.”
Your voice was small.
“I wasn’t.”
He looked toward the sea.
“You should return inside.”
You nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
No complaint.
No argument.
Just obedience.
It reminded him uncomfortably of frightened animals.
⸻
The servants adored you.
That should have annoyed him.
Instead…
It puzzled him.
You thanked everyone by name.
Helped elderly maids carry linens.
Remembered birthdays.
Spent afternoons reading to children whose parents worked in the kitchens.
One dragonkeeper told Daemon quietly,
“Her Grace cries when she thinks no one is looking.”
Daemon frowned.
“And?”
The old man hesitated.
“I only thought… perhaps someone should know.”
⸻
The night everything changed should have been their wedding night.
Instead, it happened nearly a fortnight after the ceremony.
Daemon entered your shared chambers intending, finally, to fulfill his duties as a husband.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing your gown.
The moment you saw him, every color drained from your face.
Your hands began shaking.
Daemon stopped.
“You look as though I mean to execute you.”
Silence.
He took another step.
You flinched.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough for a man who had spent his life watching battlefields to recognize genuine fear.
He did not move again.
“…Has someone hurt you?”
Tears immediately filled your eyes.
“No.”
A lie.
An obvious one.
Daemon had heard better lies from drunken squires.
He lowered his voice.
“Tell me.”
You stared at the floor.
“My father lied.”
Daemon frowned.
“About what?”
Another long silence.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it,
“I am not… what he promised.”
Understanding came slowly.
Then all at once.
He remembered Lord Baratheon boasting during negotiations.
“My daughter is untouched. A proper bride for a prince.”
Daemon’s stomach twisted.
He looked at you.
Really looked.
You weren’t frightened of him.
You were frightened of disappointing him.
“My lord…”
Your fingers twisted tightly together.
“I did not know how to tell you.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks.
“My father said no man would want me if they knew.”
Daemon felt something cold settle inside him.
“Who?”
You closed your eyes.
“I cannot.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
He knelt in front of you.
Not as a prince.
Not as a dragon.
Simply so you wouldn’t have to look up at him.
“You are safe.”
The words broke you.
You covered your face as sobs escaped despite your obvious attempts to remain quiet.
Daemon waited.
He had never been particularly patient.
Tonight…
He found he could be.
Eventually, your breathing steadied.
“It was years ago.”
You whispered into your hands.
“My father blamed me.”
Daemon’s jaw clenched.
“He said speaking of it would shame our House.”
Each sentence sharpened his anger.
“My sisters laughed.”
Another blade.
“They said no prince would keep me if he knew.”
The room became terribly quiet.
Daemon stood.
Walked toward the fire.
For one terrible moment, you thought he meant to leave.
Instead, he stood with his back to you.
Trying very hard not to let his rage consume the chamber.
When he finally spoke, his voice was frighteningly calm.
“What are your sisters’ names?”
You blinked.
“…Why?”
“So I know whom never to welcome beneath my roof.”
You stared.
Daemon turned.
His violet eyes were harder than dragonstone.
“You believed I would cast you aside because someone committed violence against you?”
You lowered your gaze.
“My father said—”
“I do not care what your father said.”
His voice softened.
“You were a child.”
A tear slipped free.
“You did nothing.”
Another.
“I am sorry.”
Daemon frowned.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“For not being what you deserved.”
He crossed the room before thinking.
Slowly.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
When you didn’t, he reached up and gently brushed a tear from your cheek.
“I deserved honesty.”
His thumb rested lightly against your skin.
“And you have given me that.”
You searched his face.
“You… are not angry?”
“I am.”
Your shoulders fell.
“But not with you.”
⸻
A raven left Dragonstone before dawn.
Its destination:
Storm’s End.
Its message was painfully brief.
You will not set foot on Dragonstone without my invitation. If you attempt to reclaim or threaten my wife, I will answer as a dragon, not as a son-by-marriage.
—Prince Daemon Targaryen
⸻
When Lord Baratheon arrived anyway two weeks later, furious and demanding his daughter be returned for “correction,” Daemon met him in the courtyard.
You watched from a balcony, hidden behind stone pillars.
“My daughter belongs to House Baratheon.”
Daemon smiled.
“No.”
Lord Baratheon stiffened.
“She belongs to me.”
“No.”
Daemon took one deliberate step closer.
“She belongs to herself.”
The older lord scoffed.
“You’ve grown sentimental.”
“I’ve grown protective.”
Your father sneered.
“She’s weak.”
Daemon laughed.
“You mistake kindness for weakness.”
The prince’s smile vanished.
“I do not.”
Silence fell across the courtyard.
“If you ever raise your voice to my wife again…”
Daemon rested a hand on Dark Sister.
“…pray Caraxes kills you before I do.”
Your father’s confidence finally cracked.
⸻
Your sisters were worse.
They sent letters.
Cruel ones.
They mocked your marriage.
Claimed Daemon would tire of pretending.
Called you damaged.
Broken.
Pathetic.
Daemon found one before you did.
He read it once.
Then tossed it into the fire.
You walked in moments later.
“What was that?”
“Nothing worth reading.”
“It was from home?”
“It was from people who mistake cruelty for wit.”
You looked strangely disappointed.
“They’re still my sisters.”
Daemon walked over to you.
“They failed to be that long before I met you.”
⸻
Slowly…
Life changed.
Daemon still wasn’t particularly gentle with the world.
He still frightened courtiers.
Still argued with kings.
Still laughed during tournaments.
But never with you.
He began inviting you on dragon rides.
At first, you refused.
“I’ve never flown.”
“Then you’ll remember your first time.”
“I’m frightened.”
“So was I.”
“You?”
He smiled faintly.
“Do not tell anyone.”
The first flight changed everything.
You laughed.
Really laughed.
Wind tangled your hair.
Your hands gripped his waist.
When Caraxes landed, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
“I understand now.”
“What?”
“Why you disappear into the sky.”
Daemon looked at you for a long moment.
“So do I.”
⸻
Months passed.
One evening you found him sitting beside the fireplace reading.
“You’ll ruin your eyes.”
He looked up.
“I’ve been told dragons see well in the dark.”
You sat beside him.
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Eventually, you whispered,
“Why are you kind to me?”
Daemon closed his book.
“Because no one else was.”
You shook your head.
“You barely knew me.”
“I know enough.”
“What if I disappoint you one day?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“You are expecting our marriage to fail because you have known too many people who failed you.”
Your eyes filled.
Daemon reached for your hand.
This time, you took his without fear.
“I cannot promise I will always be easy.”
He smiled crookedly.
“I have never wanted easy.”
“I still have nightmares.”
“Wake me.”
“I cry sometimes.”
“I’ve noticed.”
You laughed softly through your tears.
“I am still learning how to feel safe.”
Daemon lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“Then we shall learn together.”
⸻
Years later, the court would whisper that Prince Daemon Targaryen loved only dragonfire, battle, and ambition.
They were wrong.
Because every evening, before darkness settled over Dragonstone, the Rogue Prince could be found walking the cliffs with his wife.
Always with one hand resting lightly against the small of her back.
Never because he thought she belonged to him.
Only because he wanted her to know that if she ever looked over her shoulder—
Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. See part 1 here. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.
a/n: Sorry it took me 2 weeks, here's a longer chapter, enjoy!
The truce, once struck, held.
The days that followed had a dreamlike quality to them, as if the storm that had raged on your third night had washed the animosity clean between you and Daemon. He was still Daemon: imperious, maddening, prone to making decisions with the casual arrogance, but there was a difference now. A mindfulness. He caught himself mid-sentence more than once, reeling back a sharp comment or a unilateral declaration. He asked your opinion on things. Small things, mostly: what time you wanted to eat, whether you preferred the beach or the pool, which excursion the boys might enjoy, but the asking itself felt monumental.
He touched you constantly. His hands were always on you. A palm pressed to the small of your back as you brushed your teeth. Fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder while you read on the balcony. His thigh pressed against yours under the breakfast table, a warm pressure that made it difficult to focus on your coffee. In the hotel room, with the boys safely occupied at the kids' club or asleep in the adjoining room, he was insatiable.
Mornings were spent tangled in sheets that smelled of salt and sex, afternoons where he'd pull you into the bathroom with a wicked glint in his eye and a finger pressed to his lips, evenings where he'd undress you with the same focused intensity he brought to boardroom negotiations, murmuring filthy promises against your skin until you forgot your own name.
"You're trying to fuck me into forgetting about the divorce," you accused him on the fifth morning, your voice still breathless, your legs still tangled with his.
Daemon propped himself on one elbow and looked down at you with an expression of pure, unrepentant satisfaction. "Is it working?"
"No."
"Then I'll have to try harder." He dipped his head to press a kiss to the hollow of your throat. "I'm a very determined man."
"Determined. Stubborn. Pathologically incapable of accepting defeat."
"They're also reasons you fell in love with me."
"Debatable."
But you were smiling, and he saw it.
"Give me a chance," he said quietly, all traces of teasing gone. "A real chance. That's all I'm asking."
You traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip, feeling the rasp of stubble, the warmth of his skin. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Physically."
"Daemon."
"I know. I know you're still thinking about it. I know nothing is settled." He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. "But you're still here. In our bed. Letting me touch you. That's more than I deserve."
"It really is."
"I know." Another kiss, this time to your wrist. "I'm going to earn it. Every day. I'm going to earn you back."
The sincerity in his voice made your eyes sting. You blinked rapidly and pulled your hand free, swatting his shoulder with more affection than force. "You're getting sentimental in your old age."
"I'm getting smart in my old age. There's a difference."
"Is that what we're calling forty-three now? Old age?"
"Ancient. Decrepit. Practically in my dotage." He rolled on top of you, pinning you to the mattress with his weight, and grinned down at you with all the charm that had made you say yes to a second date years ago. "You'll have to take care of me in my declining years. Push my wheelchair. Feed me soup."
"I'll hire someone to do it."
"Wicked woman." He kissed you. "My wicked woman."
The days slipped by like beads on a string. Mornings at the beach, the boys shrieking with delight as Daemon tossed them into the waves, his laughter carrying across the water. Afternoons by the pool, Viserys napping in the shade while Aegon practiced his swimming with determination he inherited from both his parents. Evenings on the terrace, watching the sun sink in a blaze of orange and gold while the boys ate gelato and Daemon's hand rested on your thigh beneath the table.
It was, you had to admit, the closest thing to a real family vacation you'd had in years. Maybe ever. Daemon's feud with Alicent simmered on the back burner, contained to occasional sharp glances across the dinner table and one tense exchange about the resort's wine selection that was so aggressively polite it made Rhaenyra choke on her water.
Viserys the elder was in his element, presiding over meals like a benevolent king surveying his domain. Rhaenyra's boys ran wild with Aegon and little Viserys, a pack of children terrorizing the resort staff with the impunity of the very rich and very cute. Even Laenor seemed more relaxed, spending long hours on the water with the resort's sailing instructor while Rhaenyra read novels under an umbrella and pretended not to notice.
"See?" Daemon murmured in your ear on the sixth night, as you walked back to your suite with a sleeping Viserys drooping against his shoulder. "This is what it could be like. All the time."
"You mean you not picking fights with your sister-in-law?"
"I mean us. Together. A family."
You looked at Aegon, walking ahead of you with the particular swagger he'd picked up from his father, his silver hair still damp. "It's been a good week."
"It's been a perfect week."
"Perfect is a strong word."
"Perfect for us." He shifted Viserys to his other shoulder, freeing his hand to reach for yours. "I know we still have things to work through. I know I have a lot to make up for. But this..." He squeezed your fingers. "This is real. This is what I want. What I've always wanted, even when I was too much of an idiot to show it."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because he was right, it had been a good week, maybe even a perfect one, but you'd been here before. The cycle of tension and release, distance and reconciliation. Daemon's charm was a powerful force, and you'd spent years learning to be skeptical of it.
But you were still here. Still in his bed. Still letting him hold your hand.
What did that say about you?
The seventh day dawned bright and cloudless. You woke to find Daemon already awake, propped against the headboard with his tablet, scrolling through emails with a faint frown.
"Work?" you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.
"The Ashford deal. Viserys wants me to present to the board when we get back." He set the tablet aside and turned to you, his frown dissolving into something softer. "Good morning."
"Morning." You stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles from the previous night's activities. "What time is it?"
"Early. The boys are still asleep." His hand found your hip beneath the sheets. "We have time."
"We have time for what, exactly?"
His smile was answer enough.
Later, you joined the rest of the family for brunch on the terrace. The long table was laden with fresh fruit, pastries, silver chafing dishes full of eggs, smoked fish and other delicacies you'd learned to take for granted during your marriage to a Targaryen.
Rhaenyra was already seated, nursing a mimosa with the air of a woman who had been up since dawn with three energetic children. Laenor was beside her, looking slightly greenish. Too much port the night before, if you had to guess. Viserys was at the head of the table, deep in conversation with one of his advisors who had flown in for some reason you couldn't be bothered to inquire about.
And Alicent was watching you.
You felt her gaze before you saw it, that particular prickling awareness of being observed. She was seated at Viserys' right hand, her posture impeccable, her auburn hair swept back in an elegant chignon. Her dress was pale green. Her expression was pleasant, perfectly composed, the mask of a woman who had spent years learning to hide her true feelings behind a veneer of graciousness.
But her eyes were cold.
You'd grown accustomed to Alicent's subtle hostility over the years. It was one of the constants of Targaryen family gatherings, like Viserys' long-winded toasts or the way Rhaenyra's children always managed to break something valuable. Alicent had never liked you, you'd accepted that early on, but her dislike had always been of the passive-aggressive variety. Pointed questions about your career that were really comments about your lack of family connections. Compliments that were actually insults, delivered with such sweetness that you couldn't call them out without looking paranoid and rude. The kind of low-grade, deniable hostility that wore you down over time without ever giving you a clear target to push back against.
So when you took your seat and Alicent smiled at you with that particular tightness around her eyes, you braced yourself for whatever was coming.
"Good morning," Alicent said, her voice as smooth as honey. "You look well-rested. I'm glad someone is sleeping well on this trip."
"Thank you," you said cautiously. "The beds are very comfortable."
"I wouldn't know. I've been up since five dealing with a situation in the Hong Kong office." She sighed delicately, as if the weight of international business was a personal cross she bore with saintly patience. "But I suppose you wouldn't have to worry about that sort of thing, would you? Daemon handles all the difficult matters, I'm sure."
It was a small barb, almost invisible. You felt it prick anyway.
"Daemon handles the business side of things," you agreed, keeping your voice even. "I have my own work to keep me busy."
"Of course. Your little consultancy. How is that going, by the way? I remember you had some difficulties last year with funding."
The difficulties she was referring to had been a temporary cash flow issue, resolved within a month, that you'd mentioned in passing at a family dinner nearly eighteen months ago. That she remembered it now, and chose to bring it up, was not an accident.
"It's going very well, thank you," you said. "We've expanded the team and taken on several new clients. I'm actually considering opening a second office."
"How ambitious." Alicent's smile didn't waver. "It must be nice, having the freedom to pursue your own interests. Some of us have to devote ourselves to family obligations."
The implication was clear: you were selfish. Neglectful. A mother who prioritized her career over her children, her independence over her husband's needs. Never mind that Daemon had always supported your work, that he'd been the one to encourage you to start your consultancy in the first place. Never mind that Alicent herself had built a career out of managing her husband's business interests, that she spent more time in boardrooms than you ever had. The rules were different for her, apparently.
Or maybe the rules were different because she resented the choice she'd made or been forced to make, and couldn't stand to see you thriving outside the gilded cage she'd been locked into.
"Family obligations are important," you said, reaching for a pastry with a steadiness you didn't quite feel. "But I've always believed that children benefit from seeing their parents pursue their passions. Aegon and Viserys know that their mother values her work. I think that's a good thing."
"Mm." Alicent's hum was noncommittal. "Although I imagine it's easier to pursue one's passions when one has the Targaryen name and resources to fall back on. Your consultancy doesn't have to succeed, does it? It's more of a...hobby. A charming little project."
The word 'hobby' landed like a slap. You felt heat rise to your cheeks and forced yourself to take a slow breath before responding.
"My consultancy supports employees and their families," you said, your voice cooler now. "It generates significant revenue. It's hardly a hobby."
"Oh, I didn't mean to offend." Alicent's eyes widened with practiced innocence. "I only meant that you have the luxury of taking risks. Not all of us are so fortunate. Some of us have to think about the family's reputation, the family's legacy. We can't all afford to be so...independent."
The word hung in the air, dripping with disdain. Independent. As if your autonomy was a character flaw. As if the fact that you'd built something of your own, outside the Targaryen empire, was somehow shameful.
You opened your mouth to respond. to say what, you weren't sure, but Daemon's hand closed over yours beneath the table, stopping you.
"Speaking of the family's reputation," he said, his voice carrying that particular edge that always preceded blood in the water, "I heard the most interesting thing about your father's latest venture, Alicent. The shipping company? The one that just happened to receive a very generous contract from Targaryen Holdings?"
Alicent's mask flickered, just for a moment. "My father's business dealings are hardly appropriate brunch conversation."
"No? I find them fascinating. The timing, especially. How long was it between Otto acquiring his stake and the contract being awarded? Three weeks? Four?" Daemon smiled maliciously. "You must be very proud. It's not every day a minor shipping concern gets that kind of opportunity. Nepotism is such an ugly word, but in this case, one might argue it's the only word that fits."
"Daemon," Viserys said warningly from the head of the table.
"I'm just making conversation, brother. Alicent was so interested in my wife's work, I thought she might want to discuss her own family's business practices." He picked up his coffee cup with the air of a man without a care in the world. "Fair's fair, after all."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Rhaenyra was studying the bottom of her mimosa glass with intense concentration. Laenor had suddenly discovered a fascinating cloud formation on the horizon. Even the children, sensing the tension, had gone quiet.
Alicent's gaze flicked from Daemon to you, and hatred passed behind her eyes.
"Of course," she said, her voice so tight it was nearly a whisper. "Fair is fair."
She didn't speak to you for the rest of brunch.
"You didn't have to do that," you said later, when you were back in the suite, the boys occupied with their tablets, the door to the bedroom closed. "I can fight my own battles."
Daemon was standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders tense. "I know you can."
"Then why did you?"
He turned. The mask was gone now and what remained was a fury so pure it was almost beautiful. "Because she had no right. No right to speak to you that way. To dismiss your work, your accomplishments, as if they meant nothing. As if you were nothing."
"She's been doing it for years. It's nothing new."
"Then I should have stopped her years ago." He crossed the room, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. "I've let too many things slide. I've been too wrapped up in my own battles to notice the ones you've been fighting alone. But I notice now. And I'm not going to let anyone...anyone...treat you with disrespect. Not Alicent. Not my brother. Not the whole bloody board of directors."
"Daemon..."
"She called your work a hobby. A hobby." He spat the word like a curse. "You have a doctorate. You built a business from the ground up. You've published papers in journals she couldn't even spell the names of. And she sits there with her stolen influence and her father's schemes and dares to condescend to you?"
"I'm used to it."
"You shouldn't have to be." His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips. "You are worth ten of her. A hundred. You are brilliant and fierce and so bloody stubborn it drives me mad, and I will not stand by while some social-climbing hypocrite tries to make you feel small."
Your throat was tight. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to antagonize her."
"That was before she came after you." His eyes were blazing. "The truce extends to business. It does not extend to my wife's dignity. Or my children's mother. Or my family's honor." He kissed you hard and fast. "She wants to play these games, she can play them with me. But she will not use you as her punching bag. Not anymore."
You should have argued. You should have reminded him that making enemies of Alicent would only make things harder, that the family politics were already precarious enough, that you didn't need him fighting your battles for you.
But he was looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion, and you were so tired of being the bigger person, of swallowing insults and smiling through passive-aggressive digs.
"Fine," you said. "But if you're going to defend my honor, at least try not to start a corporate civil war in the process."
"I make no promises."
"Daemon."
"I make limited promises. Very limited. Barely any promises at all." He pulled back, his expression shifting from fury to calculating. "Besides, she started it. I'm just...finishing it."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." He kissed your forehead. "Now. I believe we have a few hours before dinner, the boys are occupied, and I seem to recall making you a promise this morning about what I was going to do to you the moment we had privacy."
"You're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
Against your better judgment, you felt your lips twitch toward a smile. "Maybe."
"Good." His hands slid down to your hips, pulling you against him. "Because I meant what I said. Every word. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I've been an idiot not to show it. But that changes now. Starting with Alicent, and continuing with anyone else who thinks they can treat you as less than what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Magnificent," he murmured against your lips. "Absolutely bloody magnificent."
The eighth day brought tension.
You noticed it first at breakfast, when Alicent's eyes swept over you with a new expression, not the usual cold disdain but calculating. As if yesterday's exchange had shifted something fundamental, and she was reassessing her approach.
You braced yourself for more passive-aggressive comments, more honeyed insults dressed up as concern. But Alicent was perfectly polite. Almost too polite. She asked about the boys, complimented your sundress, even inquired about your consultancy with what appeared to be genuine interest.
It was unsettling.
"She's plotting something," Rhaenyra murmured, appearing at your elbow as you watched the children splash in the pool. "I know that look. She gets it right before she makes a move."
"What kind of move?"
"I don't know. But be careful." Rhaenyra's violet eyes, so like Daemon's, were serious. "Alicent doesn't lose gracefully. And Daemon humiliated her at brunch. She won't forget that."
"I didn't ask him to do that."
"I know. But it doesn't matter. In her mind, you're a package deal." Rhaenyra sighed. "It's exhausting, isn't it? The constant maneuvering. The endless drama. Sometimes I think I should just take the boys and Laenor and move to a remote island somewhere. No Targaryens allowed."
"Would Harwin be allowed?"
"He's an honorary Targaryen by now. He's earned it. But he'd also be the first to agree to the no-Targaryens rule." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Be careful," she repeated. "And tell Daemon to be careful too. He thinks he's untouchable, but Alicent has been building her power base for years. She's not as weak as he wants to believe."
The storm broke on the ninth day.
You'd known it was coming but you hadn't expected it to happen at a family luncheon, in front of a dozen people, with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of the ocean in the background.
It started innocently enough. Viserys made some comment about the family's legacy, about the importance of unity and tradition. Alicent had nodded along, her expression one of perfect wifely agreement.
"Of course, legacy means different things to different people," she said, her voice carrying that particular sweetness that always preceded something unpleasant. "For some of us, it's about duty and sacrifice. For others..." She let the sentence trail off, her gaze flicking to you.
Daemon's hand tightened on his wine glass. "For others?"
"Oh, I don't mean anything by it. Only that some people come to this family with a different understanding of what it means to be a Targaryen." She smiled at you. "No offense, my dear. I'm sure your background has given you a unique perspective. Your parents were hard workers, weren't they? So admirable. So...humble."
The word 'humble' was delivered with the same inflection she might have used for 'contagious.'
"It's true," you said, keeping your voice level. "They valued education and hard work. I'm very proud of them."
"Oh, as you should be. It's just that some families have a different kind of history. The Hightowers, for instance, have been serving the realm, metaphorically speaking, for generations. It's a different kind of upbringing. A different set of expectations."
Daemon opened his mouth, but you put your hand on his arm, stopping him. This was your battle. You'd let him fight it yesterday, but today was different. Today, Alicent had crossed a line she didn't even seem to realize was there.
"You're right," you said, and something in your tone made the entire table go quiet. "Our upbringings were different. My parents taught me that a person's worth comes from their character and their actions, not from their name or their ancestors. They taught me to judge people by what they do, not by what family they were born into."
Alicent's smile flickered. "I didn't mean..."
"And you're also right that I came to this family as an outsider. I didn't grow up with wealth or privilege. Everything I have, I earned. My education, my career, my reputation." You leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. "So when I speak about legacy, I'm not talking about inheriting something from people who died centuries ago. I'm talking about building something. Creating something. Leaving something behind that's actually yours."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Alicent's face had gone very still. You'd hit a nerve, maybe the nerve. Because for all her talk of legacy and tradition, what had Alicent actually built? She'd married into power. She'd leveraged her father's connections. She'd maneuvered and schemed and positioned herself, but at the end of the day, her influence was borrowed. Secondhand. Dependent entirely on her husband's willingness to indulge her.
You, on the other hand, had built something real. Something that would exist even if you walked away from the Targaryen name tomorrow.
And she knew it.
"Well," Viserys said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I think we can all agree that family is important, in all its forms. Perhaps we should move on to dessert."
Daemon cornered you in the hallway outside the restroom ten minutes later.
"That," he said, backing you against the wall with a look that was equal parts pride and hunger, "was the most attractive thing I have ever seen."
"I probably shouldn't have said it."
"You absolutely should have said it. You should say it again. Louder. I want to record it and play it at the next board meeting." His hands were on your waist, his body pressing against yours in a way that was decidedly inappropriate for a public hallway. "The look on her face. Gods. I'm going to remember that look for the rest of my life."
"Daemon, someone could walk by."
"Let them." He kissed your neck. "Let them see. Let them all see. My wife, the Hightower-slayer. My brilliant, terrifying, magnificent wife."
"I didn't slay her. I just pointed out the obvious."
"You gutted her. With words. In front of everyone." He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with awe. "Do you know how long I've been trying to do that? Years. Decades. And you managed it in thirty seconds."
"She started it."
"She did. And you finished it." He kissed you properly then, deep and thorough, his hands tightening on your waist. "I have never wanted you more than I do right now."
"Daemon!"
"Say we'll leave early. Say we'll go back to the room and I can show you exactly how much I appreciate you."
"People are waiting for dessert."
"Sod dessert." His voice dropped to a murmur against your ear. "Come with me. Please."
The 'please' did it. it was the last day of the vacation anyway.
The realtor, a nervous woman named Patricia with a helmet of honey-blonde hair, fumbled with the lockbox on the iron gate. You watched her with the placid, predatory patience of a well-fed cat, your arm linked through Daemon’s. His bespoke charcoal suit was a bastion of brutalist elegance against the quaint, tree-lined street of Queen Visenya's Hill. He had promised you he'd agree to moving away from Targaryen ancestral manor and now he was fulfilling it.
“Now, this is a classic Federal-style townhouse,” Patricia chirped, finally conquering the lock. “Original crown moldings, a chef’s kitchen, and four bedrooms on the upper floors. The lower level has a separate entrance, perfect for live-in staff, a nanny suite, or a very private home office.”
Daemon hummed. “A very private home office,” he murmured, his lips near your temple. “Think of the nefarious plotting I could get up to.”
“You can plot nefariously in any room, darling. You once orchestrated a hostile takeover of a biotech firm from our en-suite water closet,” you reminded him, your tone one of fond reminiscence.
The interior was a study in desperate neutrality; walls painted a shade of beige so profoundly bland it felt aggressive. “Kill-me-now greige,” you diagnosed quietly. Patricia’s smile tightened, but she soldiered on, leading you through a parlor with a fireplace that she promised was “original to the 1840s.”
Daemon ran a finger over the mantle, inspected the pad of his fingertip for dust, and found none. He gave a single, slow blink of approval. “Acceptable bone structure,” he declared. “Nothing a therapeutic dose of color and the removal of that light fixture couldn’t cure.” He gestured with his chin toward a chandelier that looked like a tumbleweed had gotten into a fight with a box of crystals. “It looks like something Alicent Hightower would choose if she was suddenly possessed by the spirit of a disco ball.”
A snort escaped you before you could stop it. “Don’t be so unkind to disco balls. They, at least, have a purpose. I heard she’s redoing the Hightower’s vacation house in the Summer Isles using only shades of ‘seafoam’ and ‘driftwood.’ The entire place will look like a memorial for a dead mermaid.”
“A tacky dead mermaid,” Daemon amended. “With a penchant for jute rugs.”
Patricia, wisely, said nothing, just gestured toward the grand staircase. As you ascended, you continued your post-mortem of your social circle. The realtor’s hushed commentary about “natural light” and “updated plumbing” was just the backing track to your own, far more entertaining conversation.
“I think the Laenor situation is settled, by the way,” Daemon said as he opened a closet door on the landing, peered inside, and shut it. “He’s bought a villa, as far from Corlys’ shipping empire as physically possible.”
“Good for him,” you said, and meant it. “The only interesting thing about the Velaryons was always their money, and even that’s managed with a kind of tedious nobility. Speaking of tedious nobility, did you see the engagement announcement from Jason Lannister? Fifth time’s the charm, apparently. The fiancée’s photo looked like a hostage situation.”
“Every photo with a Lannister is a hostage situation,” Daemon replied smoothly, his hand finding the small of your back and guiding you into the primary suite. It was a grand room with a bow window overlooking a walled garden. “Better,” he stated. It was the highest praise he’d given a room all week.
“And…the children?” Patricia finally ventured, sensing an opening. “The two secondary bedrooms on this floor are wonderfully proportioned for young boys. Lots of closet space.”
You exchanged a look with Daemon, a silent, private conversation spoken in the minute language of long-term, slightly-bitchy intimacy. He raised an eyebrow; you gave a microscopic shrug. It was your call.
“Toys,” you said, turning back to Patricia, your diamonds flashing in the afternoon sun. “Not children. The bedrooms will be for their toys.”
Patricia’s mouth opened and closed. “I…toys?”
“Yes. Our sons, Aegon and Viserys, have a very serious collection of miniature dragon figurines that require their own climate-controlled habitat,” you explained, as if discussing a minor Picasso collection. “And the younger one has developed an obsession with building train sets that, according to our current nanny, are achieving ‘sentience.’ They need space to sprawl. The children merely camp out with them.”
Daemon drifted toward the window, looking down at the garden, but you knew he was listening, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The memory of your early, more volatile days was an old, familiar ghost. He’d proposed after three months, a fierce, sudden, and wholly terrifying event involving a vintage ring, his grandmother’s, not the one from the Royce fiasco, and a declaration that you’d “ruined him for sensible conversation.” You’d made him wait three years, a purgatory he’d endured with ill grace and extravagant, guilt-inducing gifts. You’d needed proof that the Daemon Targaryen who was a walking PR disaster, with one annulment for “unconsummated barrenness” and a broken-off engagement to a girl barely out of college, was not the same man who now looked at you like you’d personally hung the moon beside his credit rating. The birth of Aegon, and then Viserys eleven months later, had been your final, non-negotiable statement.
“This is a separate floor for staff, you said?” you called to Patricia, already gliding out of the room to inspect the lower level. Daemon followed, a silent, supportive storm cloud at your shoulder. The stairs led to a compact, smartly designed apartment with its own kitchenette, a bedroom, a small living area, and a private street entrance.
“Perfect for a maid and Carwyn,” Daemon murmured, referring to his ancient, ill-tempered butler who had been with the family since before his birth, or at least since Jaehaerys' administration. “He can polish the silver and plot my brother’s ruin in total isolation.”
You walked through the small, empty rooms, your heels clicking a decisive rhythm on the hardwood. No more penthouse you were currently staying at after hastily moving out of the manor. No more elevator rides with the tiresome Mrs. Redwyne from 14B, who wanted to circulate yet another petition about the contentious football field. No more forced pleasantries with the HOA president whose name you refused to learn. Here, you could have Greta, your terrifying maid, ensconced on the ground floor, a silent guardian against intruders and door-to-door solicitors. Here, your world would be self-contained, vertical, and utterly under your own control.
You stopped in the center of the empty living area and turned to face your husband. The afternoon light caught the silver-gold of his hair, the sharp, aristocratic planes of his face that time and fatherhood had only made more severe and, annoyingly, more attractive.
“Well?” he asked.
You looked from the polished nickel of the kitchen faucet to the clean, unblemished lines of the walls. It was a blank canvas, a fortress of potential. You thought of Alicent’s doomed seafoam nightmare. You thought of the Velaryons’ gilded, boring perfection. This could be yours, a monument to your own exacting, impeccable taste.
“We’ll gut the kitchen, of course,” you said, a slow, razor-sharp smile spreading across your face. “And I want the entire primary suite soundproofed. For Aegon’s violin practice.”
Daemon’s answering smile was a flash of pure, wicked delight. He turned to the realtor, who had clearly witnessed more than she’d bargained for. “Patricia, darling,” he purred, pulling his checkbook from his inside pocket with a practiced flourish. “Let’s not be tedious about the asking price. We have a football-field-free future to secure, and I’m suddenly desperate to get home and make a generous donation to the local homeowners’ association that strictly forbids recreational centers.”
Patricia, to her credit, had the good sense to look mildly terrified when Daemon produced his checkbook. It was leather-bound, monogrammed with his initials in silver, and it had the same effect on real estate agents that a bloodied steak had on a shark. Her pupils dilated. Her breathing shallowed. She was already calculating her commission, mentally redecorating her own little condo in a palette that wasn't "despair and deferred maintenance."
You, however, placed a perfectly manicured hand on your husband's wrist. The hand that held the checkbook. The hand that was attached to the man who had, on your third date, tried to buy you a minor league baseball team because you'd offhandedly mentioned the mascot was "marginally amusing."
"Darling," you said, your voice a silk-wrapped ice pick. "We are not making an offer on the first acceptable property. What would that say about us?"
Daemon paused, his pen hovering over the check. "That we are decisive, impeccably tasteful, and terrifyingly efficient?"
"That we're desperate," you corrected, plucking the pen from his fingers. "And we are never desperate. We are the opposite of desperate. We are the people other people are desperate to impress. Patricia," you added, turning to the realtor, who flinched as if you'd pointed a weapon at her, "we'll be in touch. We have others to see."
"Others?" Patricia's voice cracked. "I wasn't aware there were others on the schedule."
"There are now," Daemon said, tucking his checkbook back into his jacket with the air of a man who had just been denied a small but satisfying murder. "We'll require something with more…character. This has good bones, but it's been sanitized within an inch of its life. I felt like I was touring a mausoleum designed by a committee of accountants."
"A mausoleum with excellent natural light," you added, because you were not a monster. "Thank you for that. Do send us the updated listings by end of day. And Patricia? The next property we see should not look as though it's been staged by someone whose only reference for interior design is a catalog for people who've given up on joy."
Patricia nodded, a jerky, marionette-like motion, and you swept out of the townhouse with Daemon's hand resting on the small of your back, his thumb tracing small circles against the silk of your blouse. Behind you, you heard her exhale for what sounded like the first time in an hour.
"That was cruel," Daemon murmured as you descended the front steps to the waiting car, a sleek black Mercedes that your younger son had christened "the Batmobile" and which Carwyn, Daemon's butler, maintained with a religious fervor usually reserved for holy relics. "I liked it very much. You're magnificent when you're withholding."
"I'm always magnificent," you said, sliding into the leather interior. "Sometimes I'm just magnificent in more obvious ways."
The partition between the front and back seats was already raised. By the time Daemon settled beside you, Carwyn was pulling smoothly into traffic, his ancient, liver-spotted hands steady on the wheel. He had been with the Targaryen family since before Daemon was born, a cadaverous Welshman with the disposition of a rainy funeral and the unshakeable loyalty of a man who had seen everything and judged all of it harshly.
"Home, sir? Madam?" Carwyn's voice crackled through the intercom.
"For now," Daemon said. "We'll be going out again. My wife has decided we need to see 'others.'"
A pause. Then: "Very good, sir. Shall I prepare a list of suitable alternatives, or will Madam be handling the selection personally?"
"The latter, Carwyn," you said. "But your discretion is, as always, appreciated."
"Of course, Madam." The intercom clicked off, and you could practically hear the old man's silent approval. Carwyn had been skeptical of you at first, back when you were merely the woman who had somehow convinced the most notoriously unmarriageable Targaryen to wait three years for an answer. He had watched you with the gimlet eye of a palace guard assessing a potential assassin. But you had won him over eventually, partly through your treatment of Daemon, which was affectionate but never indulgent, and partly through your treatment of the household staff, which was demanding but never cruel. The maid, Greta, had once confided that Carwyn considered you "the best of the lot," which, given that the previous contenders included a woman Daemon had literally fled on horseback during their wedding night (or so family legend claimed) and a university student he'd been engaged to for approximately fifteen minutes before she came to her senses, was not as high a bar as it sounded.
"Tell me about the others," Daemon said, his hand finding your knee. His wedding band glinted in the afternoon light, a simple platinum circle.
You pulled out your phone, scrolling through the listings Patricia had sent over the previous week. The townhouse on Queen Visenya's Hill had been promising. Secluded entrance, staff quarters on a separate floor, no shared walls with neighbors who wanted to discuss "community initiatives" and "resident input." But it had been too…finished. Too eager to please. You wanted a project, something you could shape into a weapon pointed directly at the heart of everyone who had ever doubted you.
"There's a converted carriage house near Baelor's Sept," you said, reading off your phone. "Four bedrooms, original exposed brick, a courtyard garden that's completely invisible from the street."
"Too small," Daemon said immediately. "Where would we put the dragons? The collection. Aegon's figurines. Viserys' trains. They need space to breathe. The nanny says the train set has started developing a rudimentary signaling system. She's afraid it'll unionise."
You snorted, a most unladylike sound that you would never have permitted in front of anyone but Daemon. "The day Viserys' trains unionise is the day we're officially failing as parents. He's four. He should be teaching them the value of hierarchical authority, not collective bargaining."
"I'll have a word with him. 'Son,'" Daemon intoned, deepening his voice to a parody of paternal gravitas, "'while I applaud your initiative in creating a miniature worker's cooperative, I must remind you that the Targaryens have always been management, never labour. Your great-great-grandfather didn't conquer seven kingdoms just so you could negotiate with a Thomas the Tank Engine.'"
"Thomas is management," you pointed out. "He's the face of the operation. Sir Topham Hatt is clearly the owner of the means of production."
"Gods, I love you." Daemon said it the way other people commented on the weather: matter-of-fact, slightly bored, utterly sincere. "You're the only person I've ever met who can make Marxist analysis of children's television sound like pillow talk."
"Flatterer." You leaned into him, your shoulder pressing against his. The car hummed beneath you, carrying you through streets lined with cherry trees that were just beginning to think about blooming. Spring in the capital was tentative, suspicious, winter always threatening to come roaring back like an unwelcome relative who'd forgotten their medication. But today was warm enough, bright enough, that you could almost believe the season was sincere.
"What about the other Federal-style?" Daemon asked. "The one with the ballroom?"
"The ballroom that the previous owners converted into a home theater," you said, making a face. "With reclining seats upholstered in what appeared to be the skin of a murdered Muppet. No. I refuse to inherit someone else's crimes against taste."
"It could be restored."
"It could be exorcised, which is what it would require. I'm fairly certain the ghost of Jim Henson would haunt us. And he'd be right to."
The car slowed, turning into the underground garage of the building. The penthouse took up an entire floor, a sprawling glass-and-steel aerie with views and the sort of security that required retinal scans and a man named Dimitri who had, according to Daemon, "a very particular set of skills." You had loved it once, had reveled in the sheer improbable luxury of it, the way you could stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows and feel like you owned the city. But that was before Mrs. Redwyne. Before the football field debate. Before you'd realized that living in a building with other people meant occasionally having to acknowledge that other people existed.
Carwyn parked the Mercedes in its designated spot, next to Daemon's Aston Martin (weekend car) and your Range Rover (mom car, though you refused to call it that, preferring "tactical transport for the heirs"). The elevator ride to the penthouse was swift and silent.
"We're home!" Daemon called out, his voice echoing through the open-plan living space. "Alert the media. Prepare the fatted calf."
There was a patter of small feet, and then a blur of silver-blond hair launched itself at Daemon's legs. "Daddy!" Aegon, already possessed of his father's talent for dramatic entrances, wrapped himself around Daemon's knees with the tenacity of a barnacle. "Did you buy a house? Did you buy a house with a pool? Viserys said you wouldn't buy a house with a pool because pools are 'an insurance nightmare,' but I told him he doesn't know what he's talking about because he's only four."
"Viserys said what?" You exchanged a look with Daemon over Aegon's head. "Who taught him the phrase 'insurance nightmare'?"
"Carwyn," Aegon said promptly, betraying the butler without a second thought. "He said it when I asked if we could get a trampoline. He said trampolines are an insurance nightmare and also an orthopedic one, and then he said something in Welsh that I'm pretty sure was a swear."
"Carwyn!" Daemon bellowed, but there was no heat in it. "Stop teaching our children to be risk-averse!"
From somewhere deeper in the penthouse, a dry voice drifted back: "Someone must, sir. It certainly won't be you."
"What does that mean?" Aegon asked.
"Nothing you need to repeat in front of your grandmother," Daemon said.
You left them to their father-son bonding and went in search of your younger child, finding Viserys in the playroom, surrounded by what could only be described as a transportation infrastructure project of staggering ambition. Train tracks looped and spiraled across every available surface, climbing over furniture and disappearing into tunnels made of picture books. In the center of it all sat Viserys, a chubby four-year-old with the concentrated frown of a dictator reviewing his five-year plan.
"Mama," he said, not looking up from the complicated switching mechanism he was manipulating. "The Number 7 express is running behind schedule. There's been a derailment near the crayon box."
"Casualties?" you asked, stepping carefully over a bridge that appeared to be constructed from Duplo blocks and sheer willpower.
"Minimal. But the passengers are becoming restless." He finally looked up, his violet eyes, Daemon's eyes, exactly Daemon's eyes, solemn and slightly accusatory. "You were gone a long time. Did you buy a house?"
"We're considering our options," you said, lowering yourself onto a tufted ottoman that had somehow escaped the train takeover. "There was a promising townhouse, but it wasn't quite right."
"Did it have a yard?"
"A small garden. And a separate floor for Greta and Carwyn."
Viserys considered this. "So they wouldn't have to ride in the elevator with the football lady anymore?"
"The football lady," you repeated, making a mental note to have another conversation with Carwyn about appropriate topics of discussion with preschoolers. "Yes, that was part of the appeal."
"Good," Viserys said, with the finality of a judge handing down a verdict. "She was very loud. She said the football field would 'build community,' but I don't want community. I want trains."
"My sweet boy," you said, reaching out to smooth his silver-blond hair. "You have no idea how much I agree with you."
An hour later, the children had been bathed (by Greta, who accomplished this task with the efficiency of a military operation and the warmth of a glacier), fed (by Carwyn, who believed that children's palates should be educated early and who had taught both boys to appreciate a proper Welsh rarebit), and tucked into their respective beds with their respective menageries of stuffed animals. You had changed out of your house-hunting ensemble, a Dior blazer, tailored trousers, the pearls Daemon had given you on your wedding day, and into softer clothes, a cashmere lounge set that made your skin look luminous. Daemon, similarly divested of his armor, was sprawled on the sectional in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a tablet in the other.
"Patricia sent more listings," he said as you settled beside him. "She's very eager. It's slightly pathetic."
"It's entirely pathetic but I respect the hustle." You took the tablet from him, scrolling through the properties. They all blurred together after a while: red brick, white columns, gourmet kitchens with islands the size of small countries, primary suites with walk-in closets that could house a family of four. You'd seen so many versions of the same house that they'd started to feel interchangeable, like a chorus line of acceptable-but-uninspiring options. "Nothing," you said after a moment, setting the tablet aside. "They're all so…done. Finished. Ready for someone to move in and immediately start planning their next dinner party for people they secretly hate."
"That's exactly what we would do," Daemon pointed out.
"Yes, but we'd do it in a space we'd made our own. These houses belong to other people's taste. Other people's choices. I don't want to live in someone else's mistake."
Daemon was silent for a moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass. The ice clinked softly, the only sound besides the distant hum of the city outside. "You know," he said finally, "when you talk about other people's mistakes, you get a particular look. It's the same look you got when we first met. At that party. Do you remember?"
Of course you remembered. The party had been hosted by a friend of a friend of a lab partner, someone whose name you'd forgotten before the evening was over, a blur of expensive canapés and people with their noses turned up. You'd been invited as a congratulatory gesture, a nod to your recent defense, a chance to "network" in a world so far removed from academia that it might as well have been another planet. You'd worn a dress you'd bought on clearance and shoes that pinched, and you'd spent the first hour hovering near the bar, nursing a glass of wine and wondering how quickly you could escape without seeming rude.
And then Daemon Targaryen had materialized at your elbow, fresh from the wreckage of his engagement to Laena Velaryon, a scandal that had been dissected in every society page and gossip blog for months. He'd looked like a portrait of aristocratic ruin: devastatingly handsome, impeccably dressed, and radiating the kind of danger that sensible women spent their lives learning to avoid.
"You're the only person here who looks as miserable as I feel," he'd said. "Shall we be miserable together, or would you prefer to maintain a respectful distance from the evening's designated pariah?"
"I don't know," you'd said, surprising yourself with your own audacity. "Are you actually a pariah, or are you just playing one for the attention?"
He'd laughed, a sound that seemed to catch him off guard as much as it did you. "Both, probably. I excel at both."
"I've heard that about you."
"All terrible things, I hope."
"Terrible and numerous." You'd taken a sip of your wine, regarding him over the rim of the glass. "They say you left your first wife on your wedding night. Fled on horseback. Very gothic."
"An exaggeration. I left the morning after. And it was a motorcycle, not a horse. More modern. More dignified."
"And the fiancée? Laena Velaryon?"
Pain had flickered behind his eyes, either out of anger or damage, not shame. "Laena," he'd said carefully, "is a lovely girl who realized, about six weeks into our engagement, that she didn't actually want to marry a decade older man who was still technically married to someone else. It was a moment of clarity that I wish I'd had first. It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble."
"How magnanimous of you."
"Is it? I thought I was being honest. I'm told that's not my strong suit."
"It's not," you'd agreed. "But you're doing all right so far."
He'd looked at you then carefully. "You just finished your doctorate, I've heard," he'd said.
"Last week. Hence the party. Hence the wine. Hence my imminent escape."
"Don't escape yet," he'd said, and his voice had dropped, lower and more intimate, the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted but who, in this moment, was asking rather than demanding. "Stay. Be miserable with me. I promise I'll make it worth your while."
And he had. Not that night, you'd excused yourself after another hour, refusing his offer of a ride home, refusing his offer of dinner the following evening, refusing everything until you'd had time to look him up properly and catalogue every single one of his romantic disasters.
A quick annulment from a wife he'd barely touched. A string of affairs with women whose names you recognized from magazine covers. An engagement to a twenty-year-old that had imploded so spectacularly that the tabloids were still running retrospectives. By any rational measure, Daemon Targaryen was the worst possible choice for a woman who had just spent years earning a degree that proved she was excellent at making good decisions.
But he'd called. And texted. And sent flowers, not the generic roses you'd expected, but a bizarre and charming arrangement of succulents and air plants that had arrived with a card reading, "These seemed more your speed. Low-maintenance. Self-sufficient. Impossible to kill. -D." You'd put them on your desk and found yourself smiling every time you looked at them.
He'd taken you to dinner three weeks later to an exclusive restaurant. You'd ordered the tasting menu and argued about politics, and he'd listened when you talked about your research, asking questions that proved he'd actually been paying attention. By the end of the night, you'd revised your assessment of him from "dangerous" to "dangerous but interesting," which was, you realized in retrospect, the first step on a very slippery slope.
"Of course I remember," you said now, in the living room of the penthouse you were preparing to leave. "You were wearing a Tom Ford suit and an expression of existential ennui. I thought you were the most ridiculous person I'd ever met."
"Really?"
"Now I know for a fact you're the most ridiculous person I've ever met. I have more evidence."
He set his whiskey down on the side table, turning to face you with the focus that had, over the years, become as familiar as your own heartbeat. "What was it?" he asked. "What finally convinced you? Three years is a long time to keep a man waiting. I'm not complaining," he added quickly. "I'm curious. I've always been curious."
You considered the question. There were a dozen answers you could give: the way he'd shown up at your apartment at 3 AM when you'd texted him about a breakthrough in your research, bearing champagne and a remarkably coherent understanding of the topic. The way he'd defended you against a condescending colleague at a university function, his voice so cold and cutting that the man had actually backed away. The way he'd introduced you to his family, with the words, "This is the woman I'm going to marry. Try not to be an arse about it." (Viserys Sr., to his credit, had not been an arse, though he had asked you some pointed questions about your intentions toward his "disastrous brother.")
But the truth was simpler, stranger, and harder to explain.
"It was the succulents," you said.
Daemon blinked. "The succulents."
"The ones you sent after we met. The ones with the card that said I was impossible to kill." You smiled and bumped his shoulder with your forehead. "Everyone else who'd ever pursued me had treated me like something fragile. A hothouse flower that needed to be handled with care. You were the first person who looked at me and saw someone who could survive just about anything. Including you."
Daemon reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His palm was warm, his grip firm but gentle. "You were right," he said. "You did survive me. You survived my family, my reputation, my first marriage, my disastrous engagement, three years of me asking you to marry me at increasingly inconvenient moments..."
"The proposal after my first conference was a low point."
"I stand by it. You were brilliant. I was overwhelmed. It seemed like the appropriate response."
"My committee didn't think so."
"Your committee was composed of small-minded academics who wouldn't know a grand romantic gesture if it bit them on their collective tenure." He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
"You were trying to make a point."
"The point was that I was losing my mind," Daemon said. "The point was that I had never, in my entire life, wanted anything the way I wanted you. Not the company, not the money, not the respect of my family, none of it. I would have burned it all down if you'd asked me to. I still would."
"I know," you said softly. "That's why I married you. Not because of the rings, the proposals or the dramatic declarations."
The next morning was gray and drizzly, the cherry blossoms drooping under the weight of the rain. You woke to the sound of Aegon singing, loudly and off-key, what appeared to be a song about dragons and pancakes, and to the sight of Daemon sprawled beside you, his hair mussed against the pillowcase, his face softer in sleep than it ever was in waking. You allowed yourself a moment to look at him. Then you prodded him in the ribs.
"Wake up. We have another house to see at ten."
He groaned, rolling away from you. "Cancel it. I've decided we're living here forever. We'll soundproof the walls, barricade the doors, and pretend the rest of humanity doesn't exist."
"We can't. Mrs. Redwyne is circulating another petition. This time it's about the recycling bins."
"Those recycling bins are the bane of my existence," Daemon muttered into his pillow. "Last week she cornered me in the lobby to discuss whether we should switch to a single-stream system. I've never been so bored in my life. I've been to tax seminars that were more engaging."
"Which is exactly why we're looking at townhouses. If we have our own property, the only person we have to discuss recycling with is Carwyn, and he's already made his position clear."
"What is his position?"
"He believes that anyone who can't be bothered to separate their glass from their plastic deserves the societal collapse that will inevitably follow."
Daemon lifted his head from the pillow, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You know, when I hired him, I thought I was getting a butler. I didn't realize I was getting a Welsh prophet of environmental doom."
"You got both. It was a two-for-one deal." You swung your legs out of bed, your feet finding the heated floor, a luxury you would miss, you had to admit, when you finally left the penthouse. "Get up. Get dressed. We're meeting Patricia at ten, and I refuse to be late. It makes us seem pompous."
By the time you descended to the garage, you were dressed and armored in a forest green coat, your hair swept back in a low knot that had taken Greta exactly four minutes to execute but looked like it had required a team of professionals. Daemon had chosen a slate gray suit with a vest, because he believed that real estate agents, like opposing counsel and minor nobility, should be intimidated by one's tailoring choices.
Carwyn had the Mercedes idling at the entrance, his face as expressionless as ever but his eyes alert. "Good morning, Madam. Sir. The young masters are with Greta, learning writing grammar. She believes they should be able to conjugate verbs already."
"Northern efficiency," Daemon said, sliding into the backseat. "It's terrifying and I respect it."
The drive was uneventful, the rain washing out the city. Patricia was waiting outside the property, a townhouse on a quiet street lined with magnolias just beginning to bud. She had traded her helmet-like hairstyle for an updo that looked slightly less lacquered, and she was clutching a tablet.
"Good morning!" she chirped, her professional cheerfulness strained at the edges. "This is a unique property. It's been on the market for a few months because the owners did a very… specific renovation. But I think it might suit your needs perfectly."
"Specific?" you repeated, one eyebrow rising. "Define specific."
Patricia's smile flickered. "Perhaps it's best if I let you see for yourself."
The interior of the townhouse was, you had to admit, unlike anything you'd seen in your weeks of searching. The previous owners had apparently decided that what a historic property needed was a complete transformation into what you could only describe as "Tuscan villa meets nightclub." The walls were covered in Venetian plaster in shades of gold and terracotta. The floors were a dizzying pattern of marble tiles. And the light fixtures, dear Gods, the light fixtures, were wrought iron monstrosities that looked like they'd been salvaged from a medieval dungeon and then bedazzled by a particularly aggressive craft enthusiast.
"Oh my," Daemon breathed. "It's like someone weaponized bad taste."
"The kitchen," Patricia said weakly, "has been featured in several design magazines."
"For what?" you asked. "As a cautionary tale?"
The kitchen, when you reached it, was somehow worse than you'd imagined. The cabinets were a distressed orange that reminded you of nothing so much as a decaying pumpkin. The backsplash was a mosaic of tiny tiles in colors that had no business being adjacent to one another. And the center island, a massive slab of what appeared to be actual boulders mortared together, looked less like a cooking surface and more like an altar where ancient civilizations had performed unspeakable rituals.
"At least the appliances are new," Patricia offered, her voice small.
"The appliances," Daemon said, opening the refrigerator, "are the only things in this room that don't make me want to file a police report. What were the owners thinking? What were their influences? Was it a dare?"
"The owners," you said, tapping at your phone, "appear to be a couple who met while working on a reality television show about home renovations. They started their own design firm. Their motto is 'Your Home, Unleashed.'"
"I don't want my home unleashed. I want my home leashed. Muzzled. Possibly sedated."
But as you moved through the rest of the house, something strange began to happen. Beneath the truly horrific decorating choices, you started to see the bones of the property. The layout was excellent: a formal living room and dining room on the main floor, a library and family room on the second, bedrooms on the third and fourth, and crucially, a full basement apartment with its own entrance that could easily be converted into quarters for Greta and Carwyn. The windows were original and beautifully maintained. The floors, hidden under mosaic tile, were solid hardwood. And there was a roof deck with views that would be absolutely stunning if you were standing on something other than what appeared to be a shade of green that didn't exist in nature.
"We'd have to gut the entire thing," you said, standing in the primary suite, which was painted a shade of purple so aggressive it seemed to vibrate. "Every surface. Every fixture. Every single trace of the previous owners removed and exorcised."
Daemon, who had been inspecting a closet that was lined with leopard-print wallpaper, turned to look at you. "You're interested."
"I'm intrigued. There's a difference."
"There's always a difference with you." He crossed the room to stand beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. "But you see it, don't you? What it could be."
You did. Stripped of its faux nightmare, the house would be glorious: a showcase of restrained elegance, a monument to good taste, a private enclave where no neighbor could ever ask you about football fields or recycling protocols or community initiatives. You could already picture the library, walls lined with built-in shelves, a fireplace that actually worked, comfortable chairs that didn't look like they'd been stolen from a Cheesecake Factory. You could picture the children's rooms, the train tracks spreading across hardwood floors, the dragon figurines arrayed on custom shelving. You could picture the staff quarters, Greta's austere efficiency and Carwyn's dry disapproval contained on their own floor, close enough to summon but separate enough to ignore.
"The asking price is too high," you said, your voice cool and businesslike. "It's been on the market for months. The renovation costs alone would be astronomical. No one in their right mind would pay what they're asking."
Patricia, who had been hovering in the doorway with the air of a witness to a car crash, perked up. "The sellers are…motivated. They've already purchased a property in Lys. Something about wanting to be closer to a 'creative community' that 'embraces their vision.'"
"I'm sure they'll find the brothel architectures very welcoming," Daemon said. "Make an offer. Ten percent below asking, with a sixty-day close and a contingency that they take every single light fixture with them."
"Every single one?" Patricia asked, looking at the wrought iron-and-crystal monstrosity dangling from the ceiling. "What about the one in the foyer? It's…it's a statement piece."
"It's a statement that should never have been made," you said. "They can take the furniture, too. And the mosaic backsplash. And whatever that thing is in the powder room." You'd found a sculpture in the downstairs bathroom that you were fairly certain was meant to be a mermaid. "In fact, add a clause that any surface that can't be painted over must be removed at their expense. We're buying the bones, not the butchery."
That evening, you gathered the family in the penthouse's formal dining room, which, despite its name, was used primarily for pizza and negotiations, to discuss the potential move. Aegon and Viserys sat in their booster seats, their hair still damp from their baths, their faces attentive in the way of children who sensed that important things were being discussed and might, if they played their cards right, result in presents.
"We found a house," Daemon announced, his tone the same one he used for board meetings. "It needs a lot of work, but it has good bones and a garden and a separate apartment for Carwyn."
"Will the apartment have a kitchen?" Viserys asked, because of course that was his first question. "Carwyn says he misses cooking on a real stove. He says the induction cooktop in the penthouse is 'an abomination before Gods and men.'"
"I'm sure he did," you said. "And yes, the apartment will have a gas range and a full kitchen and a door that locks so Carwyn has somewhere to escape from all of you."
"He doesn't want to escape from us," Aegon said, with the wounded dignity of a child who considered himself universally beloved. "He said we're the least terrible children he's ever worked for."
"That's the nicest thing Carwyn has ever said about anyone," Daemon observed. "When I was your age, he called me a 'malevolent imp' and told my father I needed to be sent to military school."
"Would you have liked military school?" Aegon asked, his eyes wide.
"Absolutely not. I would have been expelled within a week. Probably for insubordination. Possibly for arson." Daemon's expression grew misty. "It would have been fun."
The children, sensing that the conversation was veering into territory that might result in them being sent to bed without dessert, refocused their attention on the more practical aspects of the move. Would they have to share a room? (No. And in fact, the new house would have a special room for the dragons and a special room for the trains, which sent Viserys into a state of such profound joy that he actually stopped moving for a full thirty seconds.) Would they still have a park nearby? (Yes, but a private garden that was more selective about its visitors, which made perfect sense to both children.) Would Mrs. Redwyne be there?
"No," you said with quiet ferocity. "Mrs. Redwyne will not be there. There will be no Mrs. Redwyne. There will be no petitions, no HOA meetings, no one who wants to discuss the relative merits of turf versus natural grass. There will only be us, in our townhouse, with our staff, our possessions and our absolute refusal to engage with anyone who doesn't meet our exacting standards."
The children exchanged a look. Then Aegon shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Can we have dessert now?"
Once the children were asleep and the penthouse was quiet, you stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city. It glittered in the darkness, a constellation of lights and lives and people who were not you, who did not share your taste or your standards or your profound desire to be left alone with the family you had chosen and the man you had, against all odds and better judgment, decided to trust.
Daemon's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Silver for your thoughts," he murmured.
"They're worth considerably more than a silver."
"A thousand silver, then. A million. My entire liquid net worth and the Aston Martin."
You leaned back against him, allowing yourself the rare luxury of relaxation. "Nothing. I was thinking about the party again. The night we met."
Part 3: coming soon...
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.
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A/N: This is the final chapter! It felt like a proper ending to the story, even though there’s a lot left unsaid. But that’ll be for you to imagine, and make the ending you like :)
An entire month had passed since the day Davin abandoned Y/N in Long Island. He currently lived in a small house in Cork with some friends, yet the guilt continued to torment him daily.
Seated on the floor of his small, cluttered living room in Cork, he leaned his head against the wall, staring blankly ahead. The guilt was consuming him. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night, and it was killing him.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by a series of knocks on the front door, which he assumed were from one of his friends.
However, upon opening the door, he was met with a sharp slap across his face. From Y/N. She didn’t even let him recover as she spoke in a raised tone, “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? You should be ashamed, you dick!”
The sting of her slap lingered on his cheek. He was momentarily taken aback, struggling to process that she was actually standing before him.
Tears welled in her eyes as she searched his expression, her voice still laced with anger, “What? Nothing to say? Not even a fucking apology?”
His expression remained frozen in disbelief before the reality of the situation dawned on him. He exhaled deeply, raising a hand to rub the reddened skin of his cheek.
“You really came all the way here to slap me?” he asked, releasing a short huff.
A tear trickled down her cheek as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, I fucking did. Well I- I’m not staying in Long Island anymore but…yes I came here to slap you! You deserve it!”
She let out a heavy sigh, her gaze dropping as more tears fell. “What the fuck, Davin? How could you just…leave me like that…” she murmured, the pain unmistakable in her tone.
His heart clenched at her whisper, his jaw tightening. He hated seeing her cry, especially because of him. His hands balled into fists before he abruptly reached out and pulled her into the house by her wrist. “Shut up for a second.” he said roughly as he closed the door behind them.
Y/N yanked her wrist away from his hold, glancing back at him. “Don’t touch me, Davin!” she shouted when Davin suddenly cupped her face in his hands, drawing her into a desperate kiss. For a brief moment, she surrendered to the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut. But then she remembered why she was here in the first place, and she forcefully pushed him away.
“Don’t.”
A sharp pang of hurt pierced his heart as she rejected him. The feeling only intensified as he observed her expression, the pain and anger in her eyes causing guilt to settle heavily in his stomach.
He took a deep breath before speaking, his voice hoarse, “Can I at least explain myself?”
She knew that she should to refuse him, that he didn’t deserve a chance to explain, yet she found herself unable to do so.
“Fine…” she agreed.
He couldn't help the slight flicker of relief that coursed through him. The fact that she was in his house, willing to listen despite the way he had left things, it was something.
He ran his fingers through his hair, searching for the right words. “Okay uh, sit down…” he said, gesturing towards the couch.
Y/N cautiously approached the couch, clearing away some of his friends' discarded beer bottles from the cushions before settling down.
Davin rubbed the back of his neck as he walked over and took a seat next to her. He avoided her gaze, staring at his feet instead.
“Look, I know I fucked up. I panicked, alright? The thought of being a father terrified me.” he began, his voice thick with emotion.
She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “So you just decided to leave me? Without a goodbye? No note? You left me alone when I needed you most, Davin! I was terrified too!”
He clenched his jaw at her words, his hands forming fists in his lap. He knew he was a coward. However, at that moment, fear had clouded his judgment.
He turned to face her, his expression a blend of guilt and frustration. “I know, okay?! I’m a fucking coward! I’d be a shit father anyway…” he replied, frustration lacing his tone.
She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as she spoke in a quiet, pained voice, “We could’ve figured something out…anything…but you left me to deal with this all on my own.” She brushed away a tear that had fallen down her cheek before continuing, “And I don’t think you’d be a shit father…but you were definitely a shit boyfriend, leaving me like that.”
He winced at her words, feeling the weight of the pain he had caused her. He knew that he should’ve stayed, that he should’ve tried to work something out. Instead, he chose the cowardly way out.
With a bitter scoff, his voice filled with self-loathing, he admitted, “I was a shitty boyfriend, probably the shittiest of them all. I know.”
Y/N sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands resting in her lap once more. “I think you’d make a great father. But I understand that you’re not ready. I just wished things turned out differently.”
With that, she stood up, wiping away the last of her tears.
His entire body tensed when she stood up. He yearned to reach out and take her hand to prevent her from leaving, but he restrained himself.
“I’m ready now.” he confessed quietly. “I was an idiot. But I still love you, Y/N…and our baby…”
She scoffed and shook her head, the pain in her heart still too raw. “Don’t say that when you don’t mean it, Davin.” she retorted, turning to walk towards the front door.
He shot up from his seat, his heart rate spiking. “Jesus Christ, will you just listen for a minute?!”
His tone caused her to flinch as she turned to meet his gaze. Davin's eyes searched hers, seeking the right words. He took a few cautious steps towards her, speaking gently, “You may think I don’t mean it, but I do. I want you. And I want this baby. I know it seems impossible…but I can do this. I want to do this with you.”
He took a deep breath in, his voice almost desperate, “Please…please don’t go, Y/N…”
She released a shaky sigh, her eyes darting between his. “How do I know you won’t just…leave again one day?”
He felt a pang of guilt in his chest hearing her question, fully aware of the pain he had caused her. Carefully, Davin took another step closer to her, his expression earnest. “I won't. I swear, I won't do it again. I made a mistake and I regret it every day.”
He reached out, gently taking her hand in his.
“Please, just give me another chance…”
Tears welled up in her eyes once more, her voice trembling slightly as she replied, “I swear Davin if you break my heart again I’ll kill you.”
A smirk formed on his lips at her words, a glimmer of amusement shining in his eyes. The fact that she was willing to give him another chance, despite his actions, filled his heart with hope. He let out a short huff, a small smile appearing on his lips as he gave her hand a squeeze.
“Then I better behave, mhm? Can't have our kid grow up without a father…”
She rolled her eyes at his remark, yet for the first time since arriving at his doorstep, a faint smile graced her lips.
His own smile widened as he noticed the small smile on Y/N’s face. He raised his other hand to gently cup her cheek, his thumb softly gliding over her delicate skin. “There's the smile I fell in love with…” he murmured tenderly. He'd missed making her smile more than he realized.
Davin’s words only caused her smile to grow, and without hesitation she leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft yet loving kiss.
Y/N had no idea what their future held, but knowing that Davin would be part of it was more than enough to comfort her.
The next day at work, the small chance that she might be pregnant lingered in Y/N’s mind. She was certain they had used protection each time. She had blamed the nausea on the alcohol, but the possibility of it being something else frightened her more than she was willing to acknowledge.
As she walked back to her dorm that evening, she passed a small pharmacy. Pausing at the entrance, she gazed into the store, feeling unsure. She wanted to confirm her suspicions, yet she dreaded discovering what she feared.
After standing in front of the door for a minute, she decided to enter anyway. She began to browse the aisles quietly, pretending she wasn’t searching for anything specific.
Once she reached the aisle with baby products, she spotted the shelf filled with pregnancy tests. There were numerous options, far too many. She had no idea which one to choose. She knew that buying a cheaper test might give an inaccurate result, but the more accurate ones were way too expensive.
Splitting the way, she got one that was both cheap and accurate enough.
Y/N’s heart raced as she made her way back to her dorm, the small bag in her hand feeling heavier than it was.
Upon reaching the building, she headed directly to her dorm, not bothering to check up on Davin. Not yet.
After unlocking her door, she moved straight to the bathroom and removed the test from its packaging. While her eyes scanned the instructions, a few knocks echoed on her door.
Davin stood outside her door, frowning as he listened to the silence within. It was unusual for her to ignore him like this. He knocked again, this time with more force.
“Luv? I know you're in there…open up for me, will ya?”
Eventually, Y/N opened the door, her expression betraying nothing of the turmoil in her mind. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you…what’s up?” she questioned innocently.
“I just wanted to check up on you. Are you feeling any better today?” he asked, leaning against the door frame with a gentle smile.
She nodded slowly, returning the smile. “Uh yeah, yeah I guess I’m feeling a bit better. Not a lot but…a bit…”
He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he observed her intently. She wasn’t fooling him. He could sense that there was something else going on. His voice softened as he spoke again, “Good…that's good.”
He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Mind if I come in?”
She glanced back into the room before returning her gaze to him. “I- I do actually. I’m sorry. It’s just- it’s been a hard day and all I want to do is get in bed and go to sleep.” she replied, her voice wavering ever so slightly.
Her tone confirmed his suspicions. Something was definitely wrong. He kept his gaze on her, forcing a casual expression back onto his face. He raised an eyebrow, pretending as if she hadn’t just turned him away for the first time since they met.
“Ah…well, alright then. Guess I'll leave you to it.”
Y/N nodded slowly, forcing a soft smile and gentle tone, “Goodnight, Davin.”
He lingered for a brief moment, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wished to reach out and grab her. But instead, he forced himself to step back. “Night, luv.” he responded, his voice tight with unexpressed emotions as he turned and walked away.
She exhaled deeply as she closed the door, standing still for a few seconds. She hated sending him away, but she had no choice. Slowly, she made her way back into the bathroom, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the test.
Following the instructions carefully, she made sure she did every little step correctly before placing the test on the sink. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting.
The minutes dragged on, feeling like hours, as her thoughts raced in multiple directions. She flinched when the alarm she’d set went off, her heart racing even faster than before. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, she picked up the test and turned it over.
The moment those two lines came into view, Y/N dropped the test and stepped back. Her breath caught in her throat, and tears began to form in her eyes.
Everything felt surreal, as if she was trapped in a nightmare. This was the last thing she needed in her life, and she knew Davin wouldn’t be happy about this either. The thought of telling him terrified her beyond measure. She had no idea how to share such significant news with someone.
She was not ready to tell him, not at this moment. She would simply have to wait for the appropriate time.
With a restless mind, she went to bed, attempting to find rest despite the multitude of thoughts and concerns overwhelming her.
Davin also struggled to find sleep that night. He was unable to dismiss the sense that something was off, that she was hiding something from him. It wasn't like her to shut him out.
He turned restlessly in bed, replaying every little thing she had said or done in search of any hints. He knew she was keeping something from him, he just didn't know what. With a sigh of frustration, he pressed his face into his pillow.
Y/N had been avoiding Davin for several days. She didn’t mean to make him worry or shut him out, yet each time she thought about telling him, she felt a surge of panic. Nevertheless, Davin had reached his limit.
One evening, he waited outside the building, smoking a cigarette. His mind was whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He couldn’t understand why she was avoiding him. It was so unlike her, and it was tearing him apart.
When he noticed her approaching the building, he pushed himself away from the wall. The cigarette remained between his fingers as he took a deep drag, his eyes locked onto hers. “Y/N.” he called out sharply, no teasing or playfulness. Just pure frustration.
She stopped in her tracks, meeting his gaze. “Davin…” she whispered.
He closed the gap between them with several long strides. His jaw was clenched, his expression tense as he loomed over her.
“You've been avoiding me.” he stated bluntly, his eyes scanning her face.
Searching his gaze, she swallowed hard before replying quietly, “I- I’ve been busy, Dav.”
He scoffed at her weak excuse, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He wasn't buying it. “Bullshit.”
His gaze remained fixed on hers, studying her intently. After taking another drag from his cigarette, he spoke in a firm tone, “You know damn well you've been avoiding me. You shut me out, you won't tell me what’s going on. I'm sick of it.”
She inhaled deeply, her breath unsteady, and glanced at his cigarette. “Can I?”
Davin’s eyes followed hers until they landed on the cigarette. And despite his anger, a smirk appeared on his face at her request. He extended it towards her, a silent agreement.
Taking a deep drag, Y/N allowed the smoke to warm her body before exhaling slowly.
“Fuck, I needed that…”
“Yeah? Well, I need answers.” he pressed, his tone softening a bit. Although his anger lingered, it was now mixed with concern.
She nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the cigarette in her fingers as she responded, “Yeah, I know. You deserve answers. I’ve been wanting to tell you something, Dav…”
His stern demeanor softened slightly at her words, and his shoulders eased a little. He could sense that whatever she was about to say was important.
He took the cigarette back from her, taking another drag. “Then why haven't you?” he asked in a quiet yet firm voice.
Y/N let out a shaky breath, meeting his gaze again. “I was scared. I still am.”
His jaw tightened at her confession. Concern replaced much of his anger, transforming his expression.
“Scared? Scared of what, luv?”
He stepped closer, reaching for her hand. Y/N looked down at their joined hands, releasing a deep sigh. She knew she had no choice but to tell him now. “Can we go to my room? Or yours? Just…not here…”
His gaze softened even more at her request, the final traces of anger melting away. He gently squeezed her hand, his touch warm and comforting.
“Yeah, of course we can.” he replied while carefully guiding her into the building and towards his dorm, keeping her close as if he was afraid she would bolt.
Once she entered his dorm, she settled on the edge of his bed, staring at her hands resting in her lap.
Davin shut the door behind them, observing her closely. With his hands tucked in his pockets, he attempted to give her some space, yet he found himself lingering nearby.
“Alright…what is it you want to tell me?”
Y/N took a deep breath in, closing her eyes as she whispered the words, “I’m pregnant.”
Davin went completely still, his eyes widening as her revelation struck him. For a brief moment, time seemed to freeze as he stared at her in disbelief.
Eventually, he found his voice, “You're joking, right?”
She slowly shook her head, unable to meet his eyes just yet. She knew he didn’t want this, neither of them did. They were too young, she was set to leave in a month, and he was far from ready to become a father.
He took several short, unsteady breaths as he struggled to grasp the reality of the situation. “No. No, we used protection.” he asserted, attempting to reject the truth.
“I don’t know how it happened either, Davin. I thought so too…”
He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to maintain his composure. However, beneath his calm exterior, his thoughts raced with a flood of emotions. That was when he recalled their very first night together. They were both drunk, and his overwhelming desire for her caused the thought of using protection to never even cross his mind.
“Fuck…” he cursed under his breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, pacing back and forth. He was fighting every emotion threatening to consume his mind. Anger, fear, confusion, everything.
Y/N kept her gaze on her hands, releasing a shaky sigh. Tears blurred her vision, falling onto her lap.
Davin suddenly stopped pacing, his eyes locking onto her. A tightness gripped his chest at the sight of her tears, yet his mind was still a turmoil of emotions. Anger and frustration overwhelmed him, and he found himself unable to restrain his words.
“Stop crying, Y/N! It isn’t going to help!”
She flinched at his harsh tone, lifting her head to meet his gaze. “Davin pleas-“ she began, but he interrupted her.
“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! Do you know what this means? I don’t want this!” he yelled, unable to contain himself.
She fell silent, gazing into his eyes for a brief moment before taking a trembling breath and rising to her feet. Without a word, she made her way out of his dorm, shutting the door behind her.
Davin exhaled sharply as she walked away, his body tensing at the sound of the door clicking shut. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the door.
Then, all at once, his anger transformed into something entirely different. Regret.
Throughout the night, Davin found himself unable to sleep. He felt an urge to check on Y/N, yet another part of him was scared of that confrontation. The more he thought about it, the more his anxiety intensified. Eventually, this led him to make a hasty and stupid decision. He had to leave Long Island.
Without thinking any further, he grabbed a duffel bag and started throwing clothes into it, his movements quick and frantic. He didn't even take the time look around his dorm for anything he might have missed.
In a matter of minutes, he had packed everything he needed. He slung the bag over his shoulder, not bothering to take a final glance around as he exited the room.
A/n a short little something bc whenever he gets all stern and bossy my knees turn to jelly oops sorry not sorry, thomas, my love.
warnings: not canon. alluding to smut but no smut. minors dni. language. tommy x bee.
Late winter, 1921, Arrow House
Tommy was pacing.
Steam practically billowing out of his ears.
Bee wasn't hearing a word.
"You can't just fucking go out by yourself anymore, Bee! I know you see the best in people, and I love that about you, darling, I really do, but you could've been hurt-"
Bee crossed and uncrossed her legs, watching her husband pace in front of her. He stopped every now and then to face her head-on and wag his finger at her, blue eyes blazing.
He wasn't mad. Not really. Insanely worried would better fit the bill.
He'd dropped to his knees in front of where she was sitting on the couch and had taken her hands in his. "My love, do you know what would happen to me if something happened to you?" he asked. When Bee couldn't answer, he rose to his feet again, and huffed, exasperated.
"No going out alone anymore, understand?" he barked. A smile crossed Bee's cheeks as she blushed, eyes glassy and heavy. "Why're you looking at me like that?"
"Can't help it, Thomas," Bee smiled sheepishly. "I love when you get all protective and stern. Wagging that finger at me," she bit her bottom lip.
Tommy sighed, exasperation building. With his hands on his hips, he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, regain his composure before he looked at her and lost it again.
"Darling, this is serious," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I know it is, Thomas. I told you I was sorry. That I won't do it again," she said, voice innocent, eyes wide. "But this makes me want you."
He opened his eyes to look at her and fought back a groan. "I'm reading you the riot act and all you can think about is how it's turning you on?" He dragged a hand down his face.
Bee shrugged. "I'm sorry, lovey," she blushed again.
The tension in Tommy's shoulders snapped.
He moved to sit down next to her on the couch. "Come here, my perfect girl," he tilted her face towards his to kiss her. "How do you do this to me?" he asked after she pulled away, both of them breathless and clinging to the others clothes. "I was furious at you sixty seconds ago, and now I can't fucking think of anything but how much I adore you."
Bee leaned in to press another kiss to his lips. "Take me upstairs, Mr. Shelby?" she asked sweetly.
"Only if you promise to not go out alone anymore," he said, only half-joking.
"I promise, Thomas," she said, sealing the promise with another kiss.
She squealed as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her off to their room.
A/n: tommy x bee. tommy's besotted. admits things about his family. bee meets the shelbys.
please heed the warnings below. do not proceed if you are uncomfortable with any of these warnings. you are responsible for your own media consumption.
warnings: not canon, language, mentions of childhood physical abuse, parental neglect, death, depression, references of postpartum depression, alcoholism, mentions/references of tommy's mothers suicide, sexual themes. minors, DNI.
It was a beautiful, sunny May morning in London, a warm breeze blowing in from the open window as Bee woke up in Tommy’s arms. She smiled, memories from the night before flooding her mind. She had one day off at the book shop in between days she had to work and convinced Tommy to come see her instead of her making the trek to Birmingham via train. She was very persuasive.
She stretched, her movements gently waking Tommy up. He let out a big breath before smiling at her, teetering on the edge of her small bed. “Morning, handsome,” she grinned.
“Darling, would you mind,” he rasped, voice laced with sleep. “Moving over a little, I’m about to fall into the floor and crash through into the neighbors below you,” he chuckled as she moved back on the bed, smiling at him.
She looked at her watch on her nightstand and noticed the time–she had to get ready soon. “I have to get up,” she groaned, stretching again.
Tommy sighed, rolling on top of her. “Darling,” he whispered, pushing some hair back out of her eyes. “Just quit and let me take care of you,” he said, lips ghosting over hers.
Amusement flashed through her eyes. “That would be rather improper, Mr. Shelby,” she told him, fingers carding through his hair.
“And this is proper?” he asked, wiggling his hips against hers, earning a laughing shriek from her.
“No!” she giggled. “No it certainly isn’t, Thomas!”
“I don’t want to be away from you,” he told her, kissing her tenderly.
“Thomas, I can’t let you just take care of me. We’ve only been courting for a little while,” she protested. “And I have yet to meet your family. What if they don’t like me and you decide you can’t be with someone who your family can’t stand?” she asked, tone half-teasing, half-serious.
Tommy sighed. This had been something he’d been trying to avoid. Not that he didn’t want his family to meet her, or for her to meet them. But she was different. Kind. Gentle. His family was brash. Loud. Sometimes bloody embarrassing.
“Eventually, you’ll be with me in Birmingham. When we’re married. You’ll see plenty of them then,” he deflected, smiling against her skin.
“When we’re married, hm?” she asked with a giggle. “You say it like it’s already settled,” she smiled, draping a leg across his hip.
“It is,” he rasped, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“You’ll get absolutely nothing done when we’re married,” she mused. “Your productivity will go right down the drain.”
“Mm, it will,” he agreed, moving to kiss her collarbones.
“I will be a distraction,” she said.
“A beautiful one,” he told her, moving to press open mouthed kisses to her breasts.
“I think I’ll drive you crazy when I get bored,” she continued as he moved to kiss her hip bones.
“You drive me crazy even when occupied,” he rasped, fingers digging into her hips.
“Thomas, are you serious? You want to marry me one day?” she asked, looking at him through her lashes.
A sweet smile crossed his lips. “I’m always serious.”
When he had thoroughly satiated his appetite for Bee for the morning, he finally let her get out of bed to get ready for the day.
He watched her bustle around her room and get dressed while he smoked. He was pleased to see her pull a dress he’d bought her on and asked for his help to button it. He obliged, pained when she drifted away from him too quickly to go sit at her vanity and brush her hair out.
When she was finally finished she stood to kiss him before she left. “Darling,” he said, catching her by the wrist. “I have to get back to Birmingham. Business, you know,” he told her, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, forcing himself to get up. “I’ll see you on Saturday though,” he promised, throwing her a wink.
“Will you think about letting me meet your family? Please, Thomas?” she asked, leaning over him, hands on his thighs.
“Yes, I’ll think about it,” he leaned forward to kiss her again. “I promise.”
~
That evening, Tommy sat in the snug of the Garrison with his family. Whiskey, cards, cigarettes and laughter was on the menu for the evening. Arthur, John and Tommy were playing, whilst Ada tried to show Finn the ropes. Polly chuckled, watching them all repeatedly swing back and forth between winning and losing.
Arthur got a twinkle in his eye, eyeing Tommy, focused on his hand of cards. He had a boyish way of looking when he was concentrating that made Arthur remember his little brother as he once was.
But Tommy was a man now, and the love bite he was desperately trying to keep hidden beneath his collar was evidence enough of that.
“So uh–Tommy,” Arthur started, causing Tommy’s eyes to pull up to meet his. “Who’s the girl?” he asked, a smile creeping across his face.
John chuckled from his corner of the snug, a smirk a mile wide spreading on his face. “Yeah, who is she, Tom?” John asked, exhaling cigar smoke.
Tommy fought the flush that was creeping up his cheeks. “Tommy’s got a girl?” Ada asked, eyes lighting up.
“Of course he does, where do you think he’s been running off to twice a week?” Polly asked, a smile on her face. “Spending half his wages on train fare to get to London.”
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Tommy mumbled.
“Come on, Tom!” Arthur jeered, elbowing Tommy in the ribs.
“She’s–she’s a girl I met in London,” he confessed, not meeting their eyes, pretending to focus on his cards.
“The girl whose suitor you blinded?” Ada asked.
He sighed. “Yes, that one.”
“Was that a part of the deal?” Polly asked in jest.
“There was no deal,” he mumbled. “I tricked her somehow into–putting up with me.”
“Gypsy fucking magic,” John mumbled, smirking at his brother.
“Gypsy fucking magic indeed to get a London girl to fall in love with Tommy,” Ada joked.
“She’s too good for me,” Tommy admitted, knocking back the rest of his whiskey.
An awkward silence fell over the room. “She can’t be,” Arthur said, that smirk on his face. Tommy shot him a questioning look. “She left ‘ya that love bite, eh?”
Tommy’s cheeks flushed bright red.
“So you’re sleeping with her, then?” Polly asked. “Surely hope you’re being careful, Thomas,” a warning glance was in her eyes.
“Fucks sake, Pol,” Tommy grumbled, ears turning pink as he reached for the whiskey bottle, earning chuckles from the rest of the room.
“Careful of what?” Finn asked, eyes wide.
“Careful to not make a baby, that’s what,” John said. “Be in a fuckin’ house full of kids like me,” he rolled his eyes.
“There are ways to prevent that, you know, John. The biggest one of which begins with you?” Ada teased.
“Ah, fuck off,” John waved her off, taking the whiskey bottle from Tommy, who now had a full glass.
“We want to meet her, Tommy,” Ada said.
“Yeah, she wants to meet you all, too,” Tommy said, tone dripping with annoyance.
“Thomas! If you intend on continuing to fuck this poor creature, I think we ought to know who she is. Especially if you keep spending money on good restaurants and clubs in London,” Polly said. “And train fare!” she added.
“And that suite at the Midland,” Arthur added, earning a warning look from Tommy.
“Are you afraid we’ll scare her off, Tom?” John asked.
“Yes I fucking am. She’s–she’s fucking perfect, and I’m not and one day she’ll see it and run away. I know it, I’m just–just waiting.” Tommy grumbled, slamming his cards down on the table.
Another uncomfortable silence fell over the group as he got up to leave.
~
Later that evening, Tommy called Bee when he knew she would be home from her shift at the book shop. “Hello, Darling,” he rasped, voice thick with whiskey and smoke.
“Hello,” she sleepily drawled on the other end of the line. Her flatmate and friend Betty had answered the phone initially, sending a wave of panic through Tommy that she didn’t want to talk to him. “I don’t want to talk for long,” she said quietly. “Betty has been waiting for a phone call all evening.”
“I won’t be long,” he said.
“You sound tired, Love,” she said.
Tommy’s heart bloomed with love. Her gentle ways of observation, her affection made him weak in the knees. She noticed everything, and rarely let anything slide.
“Long day,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me this morning, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t deny you anything, gorgeous,” he said. “Can you come to dinner tomorrow? With my family?”
She smiled. “Yes. Will you come to collect me?” she asked.
He thought of his schedule for the next day. Nothing that couldn't be rearranged. “Yes. I’ll come get you in the afternoon. Pack a bag,” he ordered.
“Yes, Sir,” she breathed into the phone.
He groaned again. “Fucking hell, woman,” she giggled on the other end of the line. “You know what that does to me.”
“Mhm,” she said, too cheerily for his liking. “That’s why I said it.”
“Terrible. Terrible, awful woman you are,” he groaned, lust overtaking his senses.
“You’ll see me and have your way tomorrow evening, I am sure of it,” she told him. “Okay, I’ve got to free up the line now, love. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Alright, Darling. I love you,” he said gently.
“I love you, Thomas.”
~
Tommy and Bee burst into the Watery Lane house far too long past dinnertime for Polly’s liking. Tommy had gotten er–distracted–on the way back to Birmingham.
Everyone turned to look at them. John smirked. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, she’s gorgeous,” he said turning to the group, who was equally as enamored, watching Tommy take her coat, hanging it up with his on the hooks along the wall. He took her bag, setting it down on the chair, straightening his waistcoat, smiling gently at her. He felt his family's eyes on them.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly, guiding her by the elbow to the dining room, where his family sat, empty chairs between Ada and Arthur for Bee and Tommy.
She blushed as they walked. Tommy sighed, Bee being sized up by everyone around the table. “Everyone, this is Bee Sutton,” Tommy breathed. “My uh-my woman,” he smiled awkwardly.
“Welcome,” Polly smiled. “Please, sit. Tommy, your plates are in the oven staying warm. We ate a while ago,” she pursed her lips.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Bee smiled nervously, sitting next to Ada, smoothing her skirt as Tommy went for their plates.
“I’m sure we know why,” John smirked from the other side of the table. Polly kicked him under the table. “What?”
Bee’s cheeks flushed pink when Tommy returned with their plates. “Thank you, love,” she smiled softly at him as he set it down in front of her. He sat down next to her.
“Tell us about yourself, Bee. Do you work?” Polly asked.
Bee smoothed a napkin across her lap. “Yes, I work at a book shop,” she smiled softly.
“Funny, I didn’t think Tommy could read,” John quipped.
Tommy glared at John. “That’s wonderful,” Polly smiled. “How long have you been seeing each other?”
Bee looked at Tommy, who smiled softly. “Few months,” Bee nudged Tommy’s knee with hers under the table. “Four months,” he corrected, smile widening.
“Forgive my question, but, how old are you, dear?” Polly asked, sipping a cup of tea.
“Just turned nineteen,” Bee answered.
Everyone’s eyebrows shot up. “This is why I didn’t want to do this,” Tommy said, almost to himself, shifting in his seat, itching to leave already.
Bee moved her hand to Tommy’s thigh under the table and he settled, the tension in his jaw still present.
“Sorry, Tom,” Arthur mumbled.
The table fell to an awkward, heavy silence. “Thank you for dinner,” Bee smiled, finishing the last of the food on her plate.
“You’re welcome,” Polly replied flatly, eyes raking over Bee with apprehension. “Tommy, we’re planning to play cards. Care to join us?”
“No,” Tommy grumbled, pushing his plate back. “We’re tired,” he said, standing up. “Come on, darling,” he held his hand out for Bee, who smiled apologetically at his family and stood up, taking his hand.
“Tommy, at least let us get to know her,” Polly scolded. Tommy looked at Bee, who gave him a sympathetic smile. He sat back down. Polly lit a cigarette, smirking. “Thomas tells us you’re from London. Have family in Paris. Aristocrats, even.”
Bee smiled apprehensively. “Yes. My great grandmother is a dowager viscountess of a large estate in the country outside of Kent,” she began. John and Arthur fought back laughter, Tommy bristling beside Bee, reaching for her hand under the table. “The estate will go to some distant cousin after she passes, as none of us have continued to marry into aristocracy,” she explained.
“Lose all that money, and for what?” Arthur asked, sipping his whiskey.
“Love,” Bee replied simply, eyes fierce and lips in a tight line.
“You think love conquers all?” Polly asked, eyebrows raised.
Bee swallowed, feeling rather silly, sitting in this small, modest home with people who largely had nothing for most of their lives, telling them that love was all they needed. That money, privilege, meant little compared to love.
“I think love helps things a great deal,” Bee replied, suddenly feeling very unsure of herself.
“Yeah, well, love and money wouldn’t be so bad, either,” John scoffed, exhaling cigar smoke.
“What does your father do?” Polly asked.
“He’s an investment banker in London,” Bee answered, not wanting to meet any of their eyes.
“God, Tom, these people just swim in money, ey?” Arthur shook his head.
“And does your family ever give any of the money to people who really need it?” Ada asked, piping up finally.
Bee worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Yes. We donate to churches, to orphanages, to factory workers' families who have been killed in their line of work,” she said.
“Why do you work?” Polly asked.
“I wanted to go to university,” Bee admitted. “But father and mother wouldn’t hear of it. They wanted me to be married by the time I turned twenty-one, and university would’ve interfered with their plan. I wanted to be out on my own for a bit before marriage.”
“Looks like our ole Tom here fits right into the plan, hm?” Arthur teased, elbowing Tommy in the ribs.
“Yes, he fits quite perfectly,” Bee agreed, smiling at him gently.
“Surprised a proper young woman like yourself would subject herself to being bedded before marriage by a Gypsy gangster,” Ada added, a wicked smirk on her face.
Tommy’s ears flashed pink as his family chuckled. He squeezed Bee’s hand under the table, a silent apology for their interrogation, their assumptions, their crudness.
“Gypsy gangster or not, I’ve enjoyed being bedded by him,” Bee replied, reaching for the bottle of whiskey, filling Tommy’s glass and taking a drink. “Thoroughly.”
The table went quiet for a moment, surprised by her blunt response.
“Well, as long as you're, uh, enjoying yourself-” John started.
“I am. Now deal the bloody hand and let’s play,” she snapped with a vicious smile.
Tommy’s chest swelled with something akin to pride.
~
A few hours later, Tommy and Bee bid the family goodbye, after a few rounds of cards and a bottle of whiskey later.
He led her up the stairs, the family laughing behind them, a little drunk. He led her to the small room at the end of the hallway. “This it?” she asked, smiling sweetly at him.
His heart turned molten in his chest. “Yes,” he held the door open for her. She stepped inside. He closed the door quietly behind them. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Are you alright, love?” she asked as he sat next to her.
He sighed. “I’m sorry for the interrogation,” he told her, looking down at the floor.
“Thomas,” she said gently, her hand moving his face, guiding him to look at her. “I choose you. They’re a part of you,” she said sweetly, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I know we come from different worlds,” she straddled his waist, skirt rucking up her thighs. “But you’re joining my world, and I yours.”
She kissed him for a minute, his hands running up and down her spine, feeling her, holding her, as if she’d disappear if he let her go.
“I realize my family has money, but no love. No real love. My parents, they’re together because of a sense of duty. Honor. Not because they can’t keep off one another. I think the fantasy of an all-consuming love ended with my grandparents. Only lasted for a generation. But- your family-”
Tommy cut her off, shaking his head. “Darling,” he swallowed. “We were poor. In every way a family could be. We had no money, and we had no love,” Tommy sighed, eyes searching hers. “My father was a drunk. Hated us sometimes. Hated that he became a father, I think. Hated that he had four fucking mouths to feed, on top of his and my mums. Hated being settled. But Mum wanted a better life for us. Mum and dad were always under threat of arrest for not being settled. For us not being in school as much as we should’ve been, because we hadn't settled,” Tommy took a deep breath, chest shaking with the memories of his childhood.
“We settled and Dad got worse. He hated Mum for making him settle. Hated us for being the reason. He would come home, drunk and violent and beat us. I always tried to deflect, take the worst of it. Didn’t want John or Ada to have a broken nose, broken arm, black eyes,” he admitted. “Arthur would always hide. He’d escape to some girl's house,” Tears welled in Bee’s eyes. “Mum got sick. Black moods. Didn’t get out of bed for days sometimes. We had to do everything. Cook, clean. Try and find little odd jobs to do in between school so we’d have money for things when the money Dad brought would run out. Dad would be gone for weeks. He’d come back and have his way with Mum and act like nothing was wrong. But,” he shook his head. “Nothing was ever good. Then she had Finn and the black moods got worse. She never held Finn. I was nineteen when he was born and I can remember Ada and I taking turns waking up with him. Mum never did.”
“Oh, Thomas,” Bee said softly, tears streaming down her face now.
“And one day we woke up and she was gone. Charlie Strong found her in the cut. Like my granddad died,” Tommy told her. “We didn’t really know what love looked like. Good love. To us, love was Dad coming back every few weeks to drop Mum some money. Fucking her and then leaving again. To us, love was protecting each other from Dad’s anger and Mum’s sadness. So, we didn’t have money or love, darling. Not in the way you did. We just had each other.”
“Thomas,” Bee brushed his hair back from his forehead, tears still streaming down her face. “You have love now. Love that doesn't hurt. Love that’s kind and soft.”
“And I’ll never let it go,” he breathed, laying back on the bed, her following atop him.
~
The family downstairs all sat around the table still, nursing cups of tea or whiskey, hearing the steady thump of the bedframe against the wall upstairs.
Ada smirked, Polly mended a skirt and John and Arthur didn’t look at anyone. Finn, puzzled, asked, “What’s going on? Is Bee okay?” he asked, as they heard a sharp cry, followed by a muffled one, Tommy’s hand over her mouth.
“She’s wonderful, actually,” Ada giggled, Polly smacking her arm. “What? She is! You hear her?”
“Yes, I hear her. The neighbors hear her, no doubt,” Polly sneered. “Finn, go to bed. It’s late.”
“It’s loud-”
“Go to bed!” Polly shouted.
Finn scurried to his room.
“Never seen him look at someone like that,” Polly mumbled. The thumping increased in speed before it slowed, and then stopped.
“Thank God,” Arthur shifted in his chair, sighing. The noise started again. “Nevermind.”
John rose from his seat. “I gotta go, I can’t listen to that noise all night.”
“Can I come with you, John-boy?” Arthur asked.
“Yeah, come on.”
“You think he’s happy, Pol?” Ada asked.
Polly exhaled smoke. “It’s the most I’ve seen him smile in a long time,” she nearly whispered, the creaking of the bedframe finally stopping above them. “Which is why it makes me so nervous.”
~
The next morning, Tommy came down the stairs, stiff from sleeping in a narrow bed with Bee.
Polly eyed him as he poured a cup of tea. “Get any sleep?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Tommy nodded. “I sleep when I’m with her.”
“That’s surprising, considering how much noise you both made,” Polly smarted back. Tommy rolled his eyes, sitting down at the table next to Polly. Polly eyed the clock. 6:19. “Does the princess keep normal waking hours, or does she get up when she pleases?”
Tommy sighed, exasperated. “Yes, she’ll wake up when she wakes up.”
“This’ll never work, Thomas,” Polly sneered. “She’s far too different. She has no idea what sort of life she’ll be living. She has no idea about us.”
“Yeah, well, I told her. She’s lived in a beautiful bubble of love and happiness and wealth all her life, and I burst it last night when I told her how my father was a drunk and beat us, and how our mother killed herself and left us to deal with him, and then without him. So, she’s aware of how different we are,” Tommy snapped.
Polly ran her tongue over her teeth. “I hope she brings you a great deal of happiness, Thomas.”
“She does,” Tommy nodded. “Pol, I need you to accept her.”
Polly scoffed. “Tommy Shelby doesn’t need anything. You’ve made that very clear since you’ve been home.”
Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Pol, you’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a Mum. I’m not asking for your approval, or your permission. I just need you to try and accept that I somehow, by some Gypsy fucking magic, some good fucking luck, have convinced that sweet creature up there to put up with me. And I plan to marry her,” Polly’s smirk faded. “And she’s gonna need you, Pol.”
“Oh, god. You’re serious,” her brow furrowed.
“She’s not just another girl. Not just another whore. From the moment I saw her, Pol, I knew she was it for me,” he took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop fucking hammering in his chest. “She makes everything in my head go quiet and I can’t stop wanting to touch her, to feel her, to know she’s real. Not just a ghost, not just something that’s come along to taunt me with what I could have, if I was a better man. I love her, Pol.”
“You’re really in for it, Tommy Shelby,” Polly shook her head. “Love has always been the one thing that makes a man as sharp and as smart as you blind and stupid,” Tommy looked down at his hands, the tea now cooled in his cup. “But you deserve something good for once. I hope she sticks around for your sake.”
A/N: ok this is the cute idea I had about Tommy and his babies. Not gonna lie got kinda emotional writing it. it's so fluffy lol
warnings: not canon, fluff. major fluff. like tooth rotting fluff. a part of my tommy and his darling wife au. enjoy <3
also im a huge fan of a good slowed down & verbed song and i think taylor swifts enchanted goes pretty good with this.
I take no credit for the gif, I just think this is how he would look during Peter's speech. <3
You had finally finished a phone conversation with your mother. A long, arduous conversation about how vitally important getting the right tutor for Peter was.
You, of course, understood the levity of Peter receiving an education, and after much discussion between you and your husband, you'd had to relent and let your husband have his way: the children would be educated at home by a private tutor.
Peter was five, and Katherine had just turned two. Thomas had interviewed several more than qualified candidates for the position, but none seemed to suit your husbands unreasonably high standards.
"Thomas, love," you'd tried talking to him one evening. "No one will be perfect--"
He cut you off. "We need to get as close to perfect as we can, my Darling. He needs the finest education."
You roll your eyes. "Which he would get if he were to go to a private school. You could have twenty-four hour protection there if you wanted."
He ground his teeth together, jaw locked tight. "My decision is final." And that had been that.
When you exited the home office and found the halls oddly quiet, you assumed that Thomas had let Frances go to bed, and you remembered that Sara had asked for the evening off. You walked down the hallway towards the faint sound of voices in the library.
You could hear Katherine and Peter giggling, and you had to wonder what they could be giggling about. Your mind rushed to they had gotten into something while Tommy had his back turned for a minute, but when you pushed the door to the library open slightly, you were pleasantly surprised with what you saw.
Thomas was seated on the floor with the children, his legs crossed, in just his undershirt and suit pants, suspenders hanging down to his waist, dress shirt folded neatly over the back of the sofa. He had a deck of cards in front of them, and they were selecting random cards from the deck.
Thomas would close his eyes as they plucked cards from the deck, holding them in their small hands, giggling as Tommy raised his eyebrows, eyes still shut. "Daddy, what card do I have?" Peter asked.
Tommy made a contemplative face before saying, "Mm, it's a three of hearts," and Peter let out a little shriek.
"He's magic, Katherine!" Peter laughed, showing the two of them his card, which was a three of hearts.
Thomas repeated this trick with Katherine, who asked for her brothers help in knowing how many spades were on her card. And your husband correctly guessed again, an eight of spades.
"Okay, okay, children," Tommy said, pulling them both by the legs close to him, as they giggled, their bottoms dragging on the carpet. "Let me tell you a story, about a witch!" they giggled as he pulled them into his sides.
He positioned them facing the fireplace, their backs against the bottom of the sofa, curling into their father. Your heart began to melt in your chest as he began telling them a fairytale about a witch who cast a spell on an unknowing peasant boy, and they fell in love.
"Ew, love!" Peter wrinkled his nose.
"Aah, my boy," Tommy said, "One day you will love love, as I do." he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your sons head.
"Like you love mother?" Peter said, ice blue eyes looking up at his father.
"Yes," Tommy said, a soft smile on his face. "Like I love mother."
You leaned against the door slightly, causing it to creak open, their attention shifting to your position in the doorway. "Mama!" Katherine said, eyes lighting up despite her sleepiness.
You blushed under Tommy's loving gaze. "Hi, sweet pea," you coo, walking towards where they sat on the floor. "You're sleepy, hm?" you asked her, sitting next to them in front of the fire.
"Can we sleep with you tonight, Mama?" Katherine asked, her dark eyes looking up at you.
You glance at Tommy for a minute, who shoots you a look. He loved his children more than life, but loathed when they slept in bed with the two of you. They slept in such precarious positions, and he felt as though he couldn't move all night for fear of waking them. And they always slept in the middle of you two, which didn't allow him the opportunity to pull you close whenever he wanted.
"Not tonight, lovebug," you tell her, as she shuffles over to you, sitting in your lap, head against your chest. "Maybe we can all have a cuddle in the morning, hm?"
"Okay." her little voice said, dejected. You shoot your husband a pitiful look, to which he shakes his head softly, a smile playing on his lips.
"Alright, shall we take you off to bed?" you ask.
"I'll put Peter to bed," Tommy tells you, as your son begins to doze off, head in his fathers lap, warm from the fire.
You take Katherine up the steps to her bedroom. You'd just had it painted a light yellow color, making the room sunny day or night. You helped her out of her dress and shoes and into her nightgown. She had just begun sleeping in her "big girl bed", and was very proud of herself for sleeping all through the night the last few nights without waking you or Sara due to being scared.
You had tucked her in and were reaching for her favorite stuffed toy, a little stuffed horse Tommy had gotten her for her first birthday. She'd carried it with her everywhere since, and she couldn't sleep without it now.
"Goodnight, horsey," you said softly, tucking the stuffed toy in with her, under her arm. "Goodnight, sweet girl," you tell her, kissing her forehead.
"'Night 'night, Mama." she said breathily, eyes fluttering closed.
You switched off the lights in her room before closing the door softly and padding down the hallway to your room, where Tommy was waiting for you.
He sat in the chair by the window, smoking, eyeing the horses in the fields on the side of the house. You came up alongside him, a hand on his shoulder. "Hello, my love." he said, voice deep with fatigue.
"Hello, handsome," you tell him, reaching down and pressing a kiss to his temple. He smiles slightly, turning towards you. He holds his arms open, a signal for you to sit with him. You sit on his lap and his arms circle around you. He breathes deeply, he's happy.
"You're such a good father," you tell him, nuzzling your face in his neck, pressing a kiss where your lips land.
He sighed. "I try, my love."
Fatherhood had not come naturally to Tommy, much to his dismay. He admired how you had taken to being a mother, and tried to mimic your behaviors with the children. Sometimes he succeed, but most times he struggled. Struggled with staving off his selfishness, his need to have things his way or no way. Struggled to be patient with his children, who were still learning how to express themselves and learning how to process emotion.
He wanted his children to have better than he did, and already they had much better circumstances than he and his siblings did when they were his age. They had parents who were crazy about one another, a beautiful home, food on the table and clothes on their backs. Anything they wanted, he would go to the ends of the earth to get. But he wanted to be there. And with his work, it was often difficult to be there.
He knew Polly did the best she could with five children to raise, none of them being her own, and he was forever grateful for her and her sacrifices she made, but he knew that nothing would ever replace the presence of the parent.
"Your story tonight was lovely," you tell him, smiling against his neck as he rubbed soothing circles into your back.
"It was a true story," he said, stubbing his cigarette out.
"Oh?" you ask, sitting up and looking at him.
"Our children don't know their mother is an enchantress," he said, a naughty smile crossing his features. "A witch," he whispered, cupping the back of your neck with his hands, moving your face close to his. "Who put her love spell on me," he smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Made me fall so desperately in love with her," he breathed, kissing you again. "Why me, I'll never know."
You smile at him, tears in your eyes. "Thomas Shelby," you breathe. "I love you."
He smiled softly, his eyes heavy with sleep and love. "I love you," he stands up, carrying you in his arms to the bed. "Madly," he kisses your neck. "Desperately," your collarbones. "Irrevocably," the tops of your breasts. "Besotted," he tugs at the neckline of your dress. "With you, my love."
1950
It was Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Shelby's thirtieth wedding anniversary party. A grand affair for everyone involved. Tommy held his brides hand under the table, looking out at his family. This family that they had created. Their eldest son, Peter, and his wife, Sophie sat with their first two grandsons, Oliver and Thomas, a namesake.
Kate sat with her fiancé, Isabel and William sat near their nephews, entertaining them with crayons and paper. And Claire and Anthony sat with their friends who they were allowed to invite, in hopes they would sit still for dinner at least before the dancing began. His heart swelled with pride.
Peter stood up, walking to the front of the ballroom they had rented for the occasion, standing in front of the microphone.
He cleared his throat. "If I could have everyone's attention for a moment, please," he said, the ballroom falling quiet except for the sound of silverware on plates. "I told my mother I wouldn't make her cry, but I can't really keep my promise on this one, Mother," he smiles at his mother, who already looks at him with tears in her eyes. "Father, don't hurt me for making mother cry," Peter jokes, and Tommy laughs, squeezing his brides hand, beaming proudly at his eldest son. The crowd chuckled, all knowing the repercussions of making Mrs. Shelby upset. "When I was five, I remember my father telling Kate and I a story of a witch who put a spell on a poor peasant boy," Peters mother closes her eyes, reliving that memory from so long ago in her minds eye. "And they fell madly in love from that spell," he took a breath. "At the time I thought it was gross, the idea of love, the idea of this feeling that overtakes every part of you. My father told me one day I would love, love as much as he does. And it wasn't until I was older that I realized it was a retelling of their love story," the audience let out a unanimous, "aw", making Tommy blush and his wife laugh, shaking her head. "But, what I came up here to thank my parents for, more than anything they've done for all of us," he paused, looking at his parents. "Is showing us the power of love. The power of having that sort of soul-shattering love on your side through all of life's valleys and peaks. I've seen my parents, throughout my twenty-eight years of life, pull each other from the valleys and love the other back to life. They have instilled in all of their children the power of marrying for love, over honor and duty," he smiles at his siblings. "And allowing that love to be the driving force of all they do. They have led their family for thirty years with love and respect, honor, and excellence, and for their example of irrevocable and unending love, I am forever in their debt. Happy anniversary, you lovesick fools!" Peter said, raising his champagne flute in a toast to his parents, who were both teary eyed at the head of their table. "We love you, Mom and Dad."
And through his life, that moment, that night, was the second night in Thomas' life that he truly felt an overwhelming feeling of, I did the right thing with my life. Coming in second only to the day his life changed forever, when he married the love of his life.
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